Patrick's Promise

by JoMarie DeGioia

  Devlin’s body was as still as the old woman’s on the bed. If not for the slight rise and fall of his narrow chest, Patrick would think he didn’t even breathe.

  “Come, son,” Patrick said, his throat tight. “We’re going home.”

  He stood and carried Devlin out of the dirty cottage. He was taking his son back to the dell.

  Chapter 2

  As they neared the dell, night was nearly upon them. The boy hadn’t stirred, to Patrick’s relief. But, and far more disturbing, he hadn’t made a sound either. A stranger comes into the old woman’s cottage and takes him away and he has no reaction? His brother Luke’s son would have peppered him with questions for the whole of the hour’s walk until Patrick was ready to growl. But Devlin? There had been no sound, no sign of recognition or alarm, since Patrick had lifted him from the filthy pallet in the corner.

  Patrick had the opportunity to study his son as he walked. The boy had the look of a MacDonald, ‘twas true. But Patrick had no doubt that the twisted soul of a Banshee had left its mark on the child. Ah, he dared not think of what he condemned his son to on those long-ago encounters in the woods.

  Reared in the dirty little cottage with none but a witch to raise him was another sin, another curse brought about by Patrick’s lusts. His weaknesses. His arms tightened around the child and Patrick began to make an apology. When he saw nothing had changed on Devlin’s slack features, he closed his mouth.

  They came to the house at last, and Patrick nearly shouted with relief.

  “We’re home, Devlin,” he told his son.

  The child gave no indication that he either heard or understood. It was no surprise, that. Patrick placed him on his feet, holding tightly to one shoulder, and stilled before the front door.

  He could hear the familiar voices from within, his uncle and Sean discussing something or other and laughing with ease. That would change the instant they knew of Patrick’s perfidy. He would be forced to acknowledge his sin and the lies since, too.

  He placed his hand on the knob. Lord, give me strength, he prayed. Bracing himself for the coming disclosure, he opened the door and stepped inside.

  He urged Devlin in before him, and the boy stumbled before standing on shaking legs.

  Placing a hand on Devlin’s lank curls, Patrick attempted to gather strength. “Uncle.”

  Talk stopped around the table. All three people in the room turned to face Patrick and his son. Mrs. O’Grady gasped. Sean stared. Uncle Seamus blinked.

  Seamus was the first to recover. “’Tis about time, Patrick. We didn’t wait supper for ya’.” He placed his napkin beside his plate and stood.

  Patrick braced himself for the onslaught of questions, but Seamus simply ran his gaze over the child and asked, “And who be this little lad?”

  Devlin leaned against Patrick’s leg, but Patrick didn’t dare wish it was due to any connection the boy felt. Nay, it was no doubt fatigue that caused him to do so. Nevertheless, Patrick’s wish for his own strength turned into a need for his son to feel safe. It was amazing, this connection forged so quickly. More Banshee magic, no doubt.

  “This is Devlin,” Patrick said.

  The knowledge was there in his uncle’s green eyes, the conclusion he himself made upon seeing the boy. Seamus looked at Patrick then and gave a curt nod. Relief nearly caused Patrick to collapse against the doorway.

  “Mrs. O’Grady,” Seamus began, turning to the housekeeper. “Pray see to the boy? He looks like he could use a bath and a change of clothes.”

  The woman seemed to recover in the next moment. She clicked her tongue and wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye, Master Seamus. And I wager we have some of Bryce’s things for the mite to wear.”

  Patrick’s belly clenched. Bryce, Luke’s son. He was the same age as Devlin but the two children were as different as could be. Bryce was as bright as the sun while Devlin… Devlin was the moon shrouded in clouds.

  Patrick pushed that thought aside. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Grady.” He bent down to Devlin. “Devlin, you go with Mrs. O’Grady. She’ll see you clean and comfortable.”

  Again, no response came from his son. No blink, no murmur, no movement.

  “There, now,” the lady cooed, taking Devlin’s limp hand in hers. “We’ll have you right and tight in no time, laddie.”

  Devlin let the woman tug him along, stumbling behind as if he had no control of his little legs. His throat tight, Patrick watched until the pair disappeared down the hall toward his bedchamber.

  “Tell us, Patrick,” Seamus said.

  Patrick turned and sat at the table, burying his face in his hands. The time for lies was over, and relief nearly floored him. “The boy is mine.”

  “Nay!” Sean gasped.

  “Hush, Sean,” their uncle said. He sat across from Patrick. “’Tis true, he has the look of a MacDonald.”

  “But who, Patrick?” Sean asked. “Who is the boy’s mother?”

  Patrick knew there was nothing else for it. With trembling fingers he unbuttoned his shirt. The scar tingled as if it anticipated its reveal. He pulled down the left shoulder of his shirt and turned away from the table.

  “Look at the mark,” he said softly. “Surely that will tell you all of it.”

  No one said a word for a long time. Patrick glanced over his shoulder as his uncle reached toward him. Seamus at last dropped his hand on the table.

  “A Banshee, then,” he stated.

  “A Banshee,” Sean repeated in a low, awed voice. “But… the mark be on your shoulder, not your face.”

  Patrick nodded and pulled the fabric over his scar once more. According to legend, should a man accost a Banshee and force himself on her, she would leave a mark of five fingers on his face. But this was not assault. Time and time again she had called him to sin. And time and again he had indulged her. And himself.

  “I didn’t take advantage of her, Sean,” Patrick said. “It’s true she bewitched me, but I was willing.”

  Sean lowered his troubled eyes to his clenched hands resting on the table. Uncle Seamus leaned toward Patrick, his eyes reflecting the pain Patrick felt at the disclosure.

  “When did this happen, lad?” Seamus asked.

  “Four years ago, Uncle.”

  “Ah,” Seamus sighed. “In the time of my sickness. If I had been in my right mind, she couldn’t have taken such advantage.”

  “Nay, Uncle,” Patrick cut in. Now he understood Seamus’s expression. “Your mind was gone then, but even if you were whole and sound you couldn’t have kept me from going into the woods. From going to her.”

  His uncle nodded with obvious sorrow.

  “Where was the child all this time, brother?”

  A flash of recollection struck Patrick of the dark, dirty cottage and the indifferent care by an old witch. “An old crone had him, Sean. The Banshee’s aunt.”

  “He was raised by a Banshee?” Uncle Seamus asked.

  Patrick snorted. “Hardly. The boy slept on the floor like a dog.”

  Seamus straightened to his impressive height and gave a firm nod. “The boy is a MacDonald, Patrick. Your son. From this moment on, we’ll see he gets the proper care.”

  Patrick let out a breath. He took his uncle’s hand in his. “I thank you, Uncle. Though the Lord knows I can’t reach Devlin.”

  “He be fey,” Sean whispered. He straightened. “Oh! What of Brianna?”

  “Aye, Patrick,” their uncle said. “Luke’s Pixie might be able to reach through to the lad. She possesses strong magic.”

  Patrick nodded, and hope began to flutter in his chest. Back in that cottage on the other side of the woods he’d wondered about taking Devlin to Brianna. But to have his family bring up the suggestion gave him cautious hope.

  “Aye,” he said. “I’ll ask Brianna to see Devlin on the morrow.”

  A child’s scream came from the back of the house, from the direction of Patrick’s bedroom. His heart pounding, Patrick rushed into the chamber to find Devlin huddled
in a ball on the floor, his damp curls standing on end. He rocked and mumbled and stared straight ahead. Mrs. O’Grady stood beside the bed, her face as white as the sheet of toweling in her hand.

  “He was fine one moment, Master Patrick,” she rushed out. “I washed and dressed him. But when I put him on the bed he… he…”

  Patrick held up one hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. O’Grady. I’ll look after Devlin now.”

  She nodded and dabbed her eyes with the toweling. “Aye.” She walked to where Patrick’s uncle and brother stood in the hall. “There be nothing to him, poor mite. I’ll make some broth and see if he’ll eat.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Grady,” Patrick heard his uncle say. “Patrick?”

  Patrick turned and waved a hand at his uncle. “You needn’t trouble yourselves this night. I’ll see to the boy.”

  After a moment, the other two men left him to his confounding task. Patrick had no real notion of how to handle the boy, but this was his duty alone. His family willingly gave him their support tonight. He wouldn’t ask for more.

  Devlin was quiet now, though his slight body still trembled. He looked lost in Bryce’s clothes and Patrick’s heart clenched again. He placed his hand on Devlin’s bony shoulder, earning a flinch he felt to his soul.

  “Easy, Devlin,” he whispered. “Easy.”

  He gently lifted the boy and placed him on the bed. When the child didn’t fight him in that, he urged him onto his side and drew the clean soft blanket up to tuck beneath his little chin. Devlin shivered and burrowed into the bedding. Like an animal, Patrick thought with anger. Damn the old witch. And damn the bloody Banshee!

  “You won’t sleep on the floor again, Devlin,” he said softly. “You’ll have food and warmth and comfort.”

  And love, he longed to add. But there was no love left in Patrick’s wounded soul to give.

  He straightened, studying his son as he lowered the lamp in the room. He’d bring in a little bed for the boy in the morning. He would keep this small promise, at least.

  ***

  “Say it isn’t so, brother.”

  Patrick sighed and nodded to his older brother. “Aye, Luke. I have a son.”

  Luke crossed his arms and leaned against his workbench. “Sean says he’s not right.”

  Patrick laughed without humor and rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s putting a shine on it, I daresay. The boy needs help, Luke. Help I can’t give him.” He stifled a yawn. Lord, he’d gotten little sleep last night, worrying over his son. “Pray, let Brianna come see him?”

  “Aye,” Luke agreed. “She’s gifted with more than one power.”

  Again, hope began to bloom in Patrick’s chest. “I pray you’re right, brother. Devlin is…. Ah, it’s not his fault he’s the way he is.”

  “It’s not yours, either,” Luke countered.

  Patrick couldn’t correct Luke’s assertion. He shook his head. How would his brother understand that Patrick’s sin was the cause of all of this? That his weakness had led to Devlin and his troubles?

  “I have to get back to him,” Patrick said. “Pray, tell Brianna we’re waiting for her?”

  Luke grabbed Patrick’s arm as he walked past. “Devlin is a MacDonald, brother. He’s family. Our family. You can count on us.”

  Tears pricked at the back of Patrick’s eyes. He swiped at them, and then gave Luke a nod and left the workshop.

  As he walked toward the house, more than one person in the dell regarded him with open curiosity. And a wariness he’d never seen before. Their eyes were narrowed as they watched him walk past, their expressions hard.

  The blacksmith stepped out of his stall, wiping his smudged hands on the apron stretching across his middle.

  “MacDonald!” he called. He was the first to speak to Patrick outside of his family this morning.

  “O’Malley,” Patrick said in greeting.

  A dark look crossed the man’s face. “Heard tell ya’ have a changeling.”

  Patrick’s back stiffened. He wouldn’t spare the man a response. People in the dell knew well of magic, light and dark. Faeries had lived among them for centuries. Surely more than one person saw him carrying Devlin last night, then. And his resemblance to Patrick was no doubt seen in an instant. Well, he wouldn’t allow them to slight his son because of his mother’s darkness. Or his father’s sin. He walked on.

  He spied two young women who over the past few years let it be known they’d be open to any arrangement Patrick might propose. He’d never taken advantage of their offers, though. He hadn’t indulged his passions since the Banshee. And as they turned up their noses when he passed, he suspected he would never have to deflect their attentions again. He felt little loss there. Ever since bedding the Banshee he kept his passions in check.

  Their whispers reached him. Deliberately, he suspected. He heard the word “devil” and resisted the urge to wrap his fingers around their slender white necks. That these people whom he had known his whole life would all so easily condemn Devlin caused his anger to surge. His hands fisted at his sides.

  “Ho, MacDonald!” the butcher called.

  Patrick gave an impatient wave. No more. He continued on.

  As he neared the house he could hear a thumping sound coming from deep within. He entered, finding a worried Mrs. O’Grady in the drawing room.

  “Oh, I’m glad ya’ be home, Master Patrick,” she said.

  Again, a thump came from the back bedroom and they both turned toward the sound.

  “What is it, Mrs. O’Grady?” His heart started to pound as it had last night. “Is Devlin all right?”

  The woman’s brow furrowed. “He looks all right,” she stated. “But I can’t reach him.”

  Patrick ran to the room, finding a mess of linens and books and papers littering the floor. Devlin stood in one corner, banging his little body against the wall again and again.

  “Devlin!” Patrick shouted.

  The child gave no sign of response, just continued to crash himself into the wall. Patrick felt each impact himself.

  “He made this mess, Master Patrick,” Mrs. O’Grady said behind him. “Like a wild thing. And then he began to… to…”

  “It’s all right,” Patrick said. He stepped toward the child. Red marks already marred the fair skin of his arms and legs. “Devlin. Stop that.”

  The boy froze for a second, then began his self-abuse again. Patrick grabbed him, holding tight as the boy kicked and writhed in his arms. Devlin’s eyes were wild, as if lit by a fire Patrick could almost feel.

  “Easy, Devlin,” he soothed. “Easy, son.”

  In the next instant the boy went limp, scaring Patrick witless. He looked the child over, taking in the vacant eyes and the lack of expression, but could find no cause for the change.

  Patrick sat on the floor then, cradling the child in his lap. He rocked him the way he’d seen Luke soothe Bryce after some minor injury or other. He prayed the movement would soothe him.

  “Easy, Devlin,” he said again.

  Patrick dropped a kiss on the child’s silky curls, and the show of affection remarkably came natural to him. Devlin moved against him, slow and tentative. Burrowing against Patrick’s chest, the child let out a sigh and Patrick felt himself ease.

  “I’ll leave ya’, Master Patrick,” Mrs. O’Grady said.

  Patrick just nodded, holding his son close to his heart.

  “I want to help you, son,” he whispered. “Pray, tell me how to help you.”

  The child said nothing, just kept his face tight against Patrick’s chest. Patrick closed his eyes and felt one hot tear trickle from beneath his lashes. Never in his life had he felt so utterly helpless.

  Chapter 3

  “I can’t thank you enough, Brianna.”

  “Devlin is family, Patrick." Luke’s wife smiled as she walked into the living room. “As much as Bryce.”

  “That’s not what the people of the dell believe,” Patrick sneered, the anger still fresh. “Surely your ear
s caught the evil they’re spreading.”

  “Don’t let their words hurt you, Patrick.” Brianna placed her hands on her hips, lifting her chin with determination. “Or Devlin.”

  Patrick could almost feel the magic the Pixie possessed in her small frame. Positive energy radiated from her and lifted his own spirits.

  “Now where is my nephew?” she asked with a nod.

  Patrick showed her to his room, and to the little boy sitting like a statue in the corner.

  “He used to sleep on the floor,” he explained. “I found him there a few times last night and had to put him back up on the bed.”

  Brianna nodded again and stepped closer to Devlin. “What a beautiful boy, Patrick.” She glanced at Patrick and smiled softly. “He looks just like you.”

  She knelt before Devlin, arranging her skirts around her as she folded her hands in her lap. “Hello, Devlin. I’m your Aunt Brianna.”

  Patrick held his breath, praying for some response from his son. Brianna murmured something under her breath and her hair began to move by an unseen breeze. As she held up her hands and brought them closer together, Patrick saw a flash of blue arc between her palms. Brianna placed her hands near Devlin’s cheeks, pressing the blue current toward him until his little face was submerged in it. Devlin gave a start and fixed his gaze on Brianna’s. In the next instant Brianna jerked back from him, landing on her bottom.

  Alarmed, Patrick ran to her but she waved his concerns aside.

  “I’m all right,” she insisted. She pulled in a breath. “I can’t reach him, Patrick,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Devlin went back to staring at the floor, as still as a statue once more.

  “But you made a connection, Brianna,” Patrick said. “I saw it.”

  “Not with Devlin,” she said. “I couldn’t. Something is blocking his mind.”

  Patrick’s heart sank. “Banshee magic.”

  “Maybe.” Brianna ran a hand over her hair. “I… I don’t know. And I’m afraid to use stronger magic on him. He’s such a little thing.”

  Patrick spared his son another glance and nodded.