by Vivian Wood
Le Medcin rarely came to the human world. He presided over the world of spirits, those who had passed through the human world and continued on. It was easy enough for Mere Marie to contact a spirit, but to reach out from beyond the grave and communicate with a living being, Kith or no… the power needed was unthinkable.
“You came to me some time ago, seeking the power to seed a protectorate for the city,” Le Medcin said at last. His voice was an unearthly baritone, so deep that hearing it made Mere Marie shiver with a mixture of pleasure and fear.
She couldn’t stop watching his mouth as he spoke, his paper-thin flesh giving her glimpses of his teeth and jaws. His nose was there one moment, gone the next, revealing a gaping black hole for a few seconds, blinking in and out. It was like watching a very old movie, seeing the frames as they flickered by.
“Oui,” Mere Marie said, thinking it best to keep her answers brief.
“You may have it,” Le Medcin said. He paused, then grinned. For a moment, his skin on his head was completely gone, leaving him a skeleton. “On one condition.”
“Which would be?” Mere Marie asked, keeping her tone polite.
Le Medcin raised a bony hand and pointed at Mere Marie’s writing desk. Her ink pen rose, the tip touching down on a blank piece of stationery, and thick swirls of ink bloomed on the page. Twelve names, most unfamiliar to Mere Marie.
“You may have three from this list. Choose those in the most immediate need.” Le Medcin lowered his hand and pinned her with a gaze. The skeleton disappeared, flesh returning to his form, and Mere Marie was startled to find that Le Medcin had eyes green as emeralds. “You’ll choose wisely, I’m sure.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” Mere Marie said, bowing her head a few inches.
“I leave what you need to complete the ritual,” Le Medcin said, nodding his head at the corner of Mere Marie’s desk. To her astonishment, a thin leather-bound book, a large flat mirror, and an ornate silver dagger appeared on the desk. Her mouth opened to ask how could Le Medcin bring forth physical objects from the other side of the Veil, but she was too late.
With an impish wiggle of his fingers, Le Medcin simply vanished from the window. Mere Marie turned her head on impulse, but of course she already knew that the room was empty. She sucked in a deep breath, stepping over to her desk to examine the objects that Le Medcin had left her. She was nearly afraid to touch the inexplicably summoned items, a subtle reminder that though Mere Marie might run the Kith in the Vieux Carre, Le Medcin was infinitely more powerful.
She picked up the dagger first, gingerly turning it over. The hilt was smooth and unremarkable, except for its obvious age. The blade, though… every inch of the dagger’s blade was covered with dense, intricately etched whorls. Mere Marie felt that they were some kind of text, rather than merely a beautiful design, but it was hard to be certain.
Setting the dagger aside, she examined the book. It was bound in crisp black leather with bright gold filigree. Its spine was perfect and uncracked, as if it had never been opened, but Mere Marie’s senses told her that the book was much, much older than she herself. With the lightest touch she could manage, Mere Marie opened the book to the first page. Thin lines of ink blossomed there, forming two elegantly-scrawled words:
Mere Marie waited to see if the book had anything else to tell her, but it seemed that nothing more was forthcoming. It did seem that she now had a name for her warriors, though. She supposed that it would be a waste of time to wonder who had chosen that name, but it did suit her purposes perfectly.
Last, she turned to the mirror. She picked it up, her touch causing ripples to float across the surface. Frowning, she peered at the reflection.
Several scenes flashed in quick succession — Mere Marie as a human child, holding her mother’s hand and eating a piece of sorghum candy, her chubby cheeks working as she stared up at her mother. Mere Marie lighting a candle on an ancestor’s grave, hands shaking as she initiated her first solo contact with those beyond the Veil. Mere Marie in her current incarnation, examining herself in a full-length mirror after she’d completed the incantations that shed her human life and rendered her Kith, forever immortal and paranormal.
Back in her room, the mirror’s surface shimmered and went still, reflecting nothing more than her own surprised face. She had the strangest feeling that the mirror had been reading her, trying to understand her, and now it seemed to accept her ownership. Or possession, at least. She set the mirror down, her fingertips tingling where she’d held the thing.
“Ah,” she said, understanding. “To research the candidates. Very thoughtful.”
She picked up the list of names and focused on the first, then touched the mirror. Instantly a wealth of images sprung to life in the mirror’s surface. It took Mere Marie some minutes to realize that the mirror showed her images from both the past and the present, sometimes going hundreds of years back or more. Each man’s story unfolded before her at her command, each tugging at her heartstrings in a different way.
She immersed herself in the task for some time, whiling away the day’s earliest hours by trying to narrow down the list to a few candidates. The first one that caught her attention was a fierce, rugged 18th century Scottish Highlander. Mere Marie scried for him and was surprised to find that the intimidating name Rhys was pronounced Reece, easy enough. She watched him sparring with other soldiers near a massive castle, grinning and jesting as he worked up a sweat. Impossibly tall and broad, Rhys was pure muscle mixed with practiced grace, wielding his sword and shield with deadly precision. His close-cropped hair was a russet brown, but his full, unruly beard was a rich auburn that made his bright green eyes stand out like emerald beacons. He was beyond handsome, even to Mere Marie’s jaded senses, but it was his fiercely determined expression that made her want to know more. Mere Marie willed the mirror to show her his struggle, and her interest soon turned to something more like pity. The fierce warrior was in a bitter struggle with a fate from which he could not turn back, and his end was tragic indeed. A complete waste of such a fine fighter, in Mere Marie’s opinion.
Shaking her head, she moved on. A few names later, she came to a young magician by the name of Gabriel. Gabriel’s head of sable curls and midnight blue eyes were every bit as arresting as Rhys’s had been, though less rugged. Gabriel was tall and broad-shouldered, but more slimly built. There was an ethereal quality to him, perhaps a side effect of his magical inclinations. It took Mere Marie only a handful of minutes to skim Gabriel’s life story, and she ached for him. No one should have such an upbringing, nor such a swift and violent end to their life. He was also intelligent and graceful, and could no doubt be trained into an excellent swordsman.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, she continued down the list. All the men of Le Medcin’s choosing were compelling, though none rivaled Rhys or Gabriel until she reached the last.
“That can’t be right,” Mere Marie muttered to herself as she gazed in the mirror, then back at the list of names.
Aeric Drekkon. No, she hadn’t made an error. She watched the gorgeous dark blond Viking in the mirror’s reflection, her eyes widening. Could he truly be…
“Mercy…” she whispered aloud.
Rhys and Gabriel had made the final cut by their formidable physiques and heart-rending personal stories, but Aeric was a true treasure. Mere Marie was no fool. She would never pass on the opportunity to bring one such as he to her side. No protector could be more fierce, more brutal, more intelligent, more loyal.
At the end of her scrying, she sat back and considered Le Medcin’s words. Choose those in the most immediate need, he’d said. Mere Marie pulled out another piece of stationery and picked up her pen, hesitating for long moments before writing three names on the page.
Satisfied that she’d done as Le Medcin had asked, she tucked the full list of names inside the black book, thinking she might need it at a future date. Tomorrow, she would have to figure out how she was going to actually contact her three choices. Not to
mention bringing them here, which would be nearly as difficult as Le Medcin bringing objects through the Veil. Time travel was possible, but…
Sighing, Mere Marie set the problem aside for the morning. At the moment, she needed to find a safe place for the objects that Le Medcin had bestowed on her. The book she would keep close to hand, but the dagger and the mirror were teeming with power, and couldn’t be left lying around.
Worrying her lower lip, Mere Marie rose and went to her armoire, opening a drawer and shuffling things around until she found a well-worn length of black velvet. She turned to her desk once more, stacked the dagger atop the mirror, careful not to touch the mirror again as she wrapped both objects in the soft cloth. Once she was certain that they were neatly contained, she carried the bundle to the hall closet and buried it deep on the lowest shelf, under piles of linens. After a moment of hesitation, she fetched her key ring and locked the closet. Better safe than sorry.
When she returned to her bedroom, a dark shape slipped in the door before she wedged it shut. This one was a comfort, though; her familiar, silky midnight-black cat named Cairn. He jumped up onto her writing desk and sniffed the piece of stationery that Mere Marie had inscribed, cocking his head and shooting Mere Marie a curious look.
“Visitors at this hour?” Cairn said, his voice a soft, throaty rasp.
“Le Medcin, to be precise. He’s giving me the protectorate I requested,” Mere Marie announced. “But he isn’t making it easy for me, of course.”
Lifting his nose, Cairn gave a delicate sniff.
“It smells like scrying in here,” he said. “I didn’t know you had the talent.”
Mere Marie narrowed her gaze at the minor slight, but Cairn merely licked his paw and groomed himself, pretending to be unaware of his snark.
“I’ve been given a mirror for the purpose. To find the Guardians, I would think,” she said, picking up the list and pinning Cairn with a sharp glance. “And I’ll thank you to stay away from it.”
Cairn gave a gentle huff, but didn’t argue.
“What sort of Guardians has Le Medcin chosen for you?” Cairn asked, tail swaying.
“A nice variety. The first three I’ve selected are all shifters,” Mere Marie said, pursing her lips.
“Wolves?” Cairn asked. He was always full of questions, but Mere Marie rarely minded. Talking to Cairn often helped her work things through in her mind.
“Bears, actually,” she replied, feeling satisfied with her answer.
“Ah. Sensible. Bears are fierce protectors, after all. Though how you’ll make them get along, I don’t know,” Cairn said, a teasing smile on his face.
“I think Le Medcin left this book for just that purpose. A rule book, so to speak. I fill in the specifics, and bind them with a signature and an offering of blood.”
“How do you know that?” Cairn asked.
“There’s a ceremonial dagger. One assumes that the city’s new Gurdians won’t be sacrificing a virgin with it,” Mere Marie said. “At least I hope not.”
“They’re hard to find these days, anyway,” Cairn said, rising and stretching in the way that only cats can.
Mere Marie picked up the book once more and flipped to the second page, her lips lifting a hair when she saw that more words were forming on the page. The book began to lay out the terms of the Guardians’ commitment as it took shape in her mind. In short, the bargain offered the men relief from their circumstances in exchange for faithful and loyal service.
“Hmm. Interesting,” Mere Marie said. “The book is adding some terms of its own. It says that the Guardians are bound to me until such time as I release them, unless they find their fated mates.”
“Tricky, tricky,” Cairn tsked, his expression speculative. “You never know with shifters. Could be a hundred years. Could be tomorrow. One minute they’re eating a beignet, the next they’ve spotted their mate and they’re running off to seal the deal with a heck of a lot more than a kiss. Bears especially, there’s no controlling them once they’ve got something of their own to protect.”
“I didn’t know that you were such an expert on bear shifters,” Mere Marie said, lifting a brow. Her familiar roamed the Vieux Carre at will, mixing and mingling with all sorts. Mere Marie rarely left her house these days, preferring to leave the dangerous work to her many descendants and students. Certainly she didn’t regularly interact with gruff, aggressive bear shifters. Until now, that was.
“I get around,” Cairn said, leaping off the table and making his way to the door.
“Don’t go far,” Mere Marie warned. “We’ve work to do tomorrow.”
She leaned back in her seat, turning over in her mind an entire world of possibilities.
2
Chapter Two
Rhys
Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands — 1764
Rhys Macaulay used the toe of his boot to nudge a pile of loose dirt onto the still-smoldering campfire. It was early yet, the violet fingers of dawn still half an hour or more from breaking over the top of the hill that rose sharply next to their camp site. The Macaulay clan might be down and out, running for their lives, but they were still smart enough to hide their tracks well. They’d rode hard the day before, fleeing north, deeper into the Highlands. The second Rhys had spotted this little valley, he’d called a halt to the procession. Being bear shifters, the Macaulays were comfortable with nature and most even enjoyed sleeping rough. In better conditions, this night would have passed quite pleasantly. The two sides of the valley were steep, barely accommodating the horses, but the vale at the bottom was nice and flat and verdant, giving them an ideal place to hunker down.
Ideal, because approaching soldiers would have to make a good bit of noise if they wanted to clamber down into the valley and attack the Macaulays as they slept. Ideal, because two guards posted at the top of the hills to the east and the west were high up enough to survey the surrounding wilderness with ease. Ideal, too, because Rhys had driven the remaining hundred or so men, women, and children past all endurance in the last week, ripping them from the fabric of their lives as they fled Tighnabruaich, the only home most of them had ever known.
If Rhys had demanded it, his clan would have kept going until they dropped dead, but of course that would defeat the purpose of the entire mad flight. The Macaulays were tough, but even bears could only be pushed so hard before they crumbled. So this little valley had been the best choice for the Macaulays, but in a way the only choice. Rhys could only pray that the clan had outrun their pursuers by enough distance that they could risk staying put another night, because every member of their party was half-dead with exhaustion, down to the last man and horse.
Of course, they could not rest longer than another night, for Fuadach nan Gàidheal was upon them. The expulsion of the Gael. Greedy Scottish lairds, grown fat with their successes, had begun to look around themselves and seek out small communities that could be annexed to their lands with little trouble. Tighnabruaich was such a community, to Rhys’s unending shame. He’d been off fighting for the King, looking for adventure and glory; in the meanwhile, his father and younger brother had both passed away suddenly, leaving Tighnabruaich defenseless and disorganized. By the time Rhys had received a dispatch to return, the MacGregors next door had already attacked, taking a great deal of livestock and weapons and no few lives as well.
The biggest problem was that the MacGregors had been very clever in his destruction of the Macaulays. The MacGregors were wolf shifters, generally considered much more peaceful and friendly than bear shifters. Wolves were much more prevalent than bears in the shifter world, and bears tended to get a bad reputation. There were several popular stories that floated around the shifter world about vicious, aggressive bears that had attacked humans and other shifters without provocation. Because bears were so much rarer and kept to their own kind, the rumors were hard to combat.
The MacGregors had used the rumors to their benefit, spinning a clever narrative about the Macaulays beginning
a rivalry by stealing cattle and traversing MacGregor territory, things that Highlanders normally did. But the MacGregor laird had also spread lies about the Macaulays, leveraging the fears of the community by saying that some of the bears had attacked MacGregor children and abducted MacGregor women, that the Macaulays had committed these crimes and then lay in wait for MacGregor soldiers, slaughtering any small groups of wolves they found.
Sure, the Macaulays were territorial and stiff-spined, as were most shifters of any kind. And being bears, they were hot-headed and unafraid of confrontation. But rapists and child murderers they were certainly not. Nevertheless, the MacGregors had traveled for months before he began to attack, telling everyone who would listen about the Macaulays’ many crimes. The news of the Macaulays’ supposed misdeeds had reached Rhys’ ears even before word of his father and brother’s mysterious and suspicious deaths, and by the time Rhys obtained leave to return to the Highlands the whispers and lies had compounded to a maelstrom of conspiracies and outright demands for action to quell the Macaulays. Threats that the MacGregors were only too happy to fulfill.
When Rhys finally set foot on home soil, it was far too late. Upon arriving, he had less than three days to reacquaint himself with his people, make sense of the whole situation, and come to a decision about the fate of the whole clan. A Macaulay sympathizer in the MacGregor castle had sent word of an impending attack, intending to annihilate the entire the clan, leaving the lands open for the MacGregors’ taking.
