Souls to Heal

by Tilly Wallace

  As the men related events and the war’s progress, the women took gold-edged plates from the dresser and laid out the table. Bread and cheese were fetched from the larder and a delicious smelling stew hauled from the range’s oven.

  Ianthe continued a barrage of questions as she worked to feed everyone. “And Aster and Hamish? I have not had a letter since she had young Rab three months ago.”

  Ewan smiled as he thought of their leader’s wife. “Incredibly busy, our dear Aster. Quite apart from helping Scoville decipher encrypted French communiqués and documenting Unnatural creatures, she also found time to present Hamish with an heir. Extraordinary woman. A man would have had his hands full undertaking just one of those tasks, but she juggles them all.”

  Ewan raised his glass to the absent member of their party, the woman who had set events in motion when she had entered their lives and changed them all.

  “To Aster,” Ianthe and Quinn said in unison.

  As conversation flowed, Ewan remained aware of Alice. The woman flitted around the room like a butterfly trying to find somewhere to land. Eventually, once the table was laid and the meal prepared, she could avoid them no longer. She pulled out a chair and sat a distance from the other three.

  Or was she simply staying out of arm’s reach? How sad that a woman knew to stay beyond the distance a man could lunge across a table. A pang stabbed through his chest as he remembered another woman, long ago, who had learned the same lesson.

  They ate in silence for a minute or two. The two men had ridden hard all day to reach the farm. Quinn had been determined to spend the night in his new home—or, more likely, determined to spend the night with a beautiful former courtesan rather than with Ewan. He tried not to take that personally. Once, men and women had clamoured to share his bed, but now he was a distinct second choice.

  “What happened, Ewan?” Ianthe asked in a quiet tone.

  He stared at his plate. He held his fork in his left hand. His traitorous right sat in his lap. Limp, the fingers curled into his palm. What he would give to be able to stretch out his fingers and relieve the constant ache in the tendons. Hard to believe that barely six months ago he had been fit and able bodied, charging full gallop into battle and shifting form effortlessly.

  Now, he was a cripple, trapped in one form with no future except living off the charity of others.

  “The Highland Wolves were deployed in Vitoria. We would gallop towards the French and stand in the saddle, shifting mid-jump to land amongst the enemy as wolves.” His gaze drifted to his wineglass, but he found no solution to the pain that haunted his every move within the contents. He found only his distorted reflection.

  “There was a French officer who smelt dead and who was, I believe, another type of Unnatural creature. He shot me with an ensorcelled silver bullet. Damn thing dropped me mid-leap. The silver tainted my blood and set me on fire from the inside. I was forced back into my human form just as a horse with its throat slit rolled over the top of me. The animal’s weight crushed my arm and torso.”

  “Oh.” Ianthe dropped her knife as her hand went to her chest, her gaze going from Ewan to Quinn. She was a woman passionate about horses, and the death of an equine would cut her as deeply as hearing of Ewan’s injuries.

  “There I was, naked and trapped under the dead horse, waiting for the French officer to finish the job.” He took another drink. Even relating the story made the pain flare anew through his bones as though his blood were alcohol and someone set a match to it.

  “Then what happened?” Ianthe leaned forward, her eyes wide.

  He toyed with leaving her in suspense, although the ending to his story was spoiled somewhat by the fact that he was narrating it. If he had died a valiant death, another would have told the tale.

  “Alick happened,” Quinn said. Laughter shone in his brown eyes.

  Ewan’s comrades were woven into the fabric of this story, his brothers by bonds stronger than mere blood. Through thick and thin, these men had remained fast at his side.

  “Alick.” Ewan raised his glass to the missing Scot and toasted his saviour. “The great brute is an ugly mix of Highlander, wolf, and Viking berserker. He has the fighting rage, and it is terrifying when it comes upon him in his wolf form. The Frenchie was about to fire a silver bullet into my head when a huge, insane, red wolf ploughed into him. The man who had been about to end my life suddenly found himself missing a vital piece of his anatomy and so failed in his task. For which I am forever grateful to Sergeant Ferguson.”

  “Alick tore the man’s head off,” Quinn whispered to a horrified Ianthe.

  Ewan stabbed a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. There was a debt Alick would never let him forget. His life was bound to the formidable Highlander. “I’m told Alick mowed down the enemy around me and kept them away until our soldiers could lift the dead horse off me and pull me out. I am ashamed to admit that I remember none of it. I had already lost my battle with consciousness and surrendered to nothingness. I woke up three days later in the field hospital to find Major Logan arguing with a surgeon who wanted to take my leg off.”

  “The field surgeons don’t understand Unnaturals or how we heal. I think the man wanted to cut Ewan up to see if he contained a wolf on the inside.” Quinn topped up their glasses.

  Alice ate like a bird and then scraped her plate into a bowl for the dog. She rested by the range, her shoulder leaning on the wall. Her gaze was on the dancing reds and oranges in the grate, but her head listed towards Ewan. She listened, even if she feigned disinterest.

  Quinn pushed his plate away and then grabbed a slice of fresh bread. “Silver is poison to the wolves. With the bullet lodged in his bone, Ewan is unable to heal properly. It didn’t help that the field hospitals are full of butchers. Idiots didn’t even understand the bones should be straight before they’re bound. Ewan’s arm should have been re-broken and reset straight.”

  Ianthe winced. Even Ewan found it hard to hear. The injuries hurt enough, but to discuss how he was incapacitated humiliated him. Wolves were strong and fierce, and now he was useless dog who would be a burden on his pack.

  The bored smile that concealed so much dropped over his face. “Well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

  Quinn gestured with his buttered bread. “Major Logan sent us back for the mages to study the damage to Ewan. We are to report to the Royal Arsenal after Christmas to see if they can discover a way to reverse the damage done by the silver and whatever spell the French wrote on the bullet.”

  “What of Lady Seraphina Miles? Could she not do anything to help?” Ianthe asked.

  Lady Miles was the most powerful mage in England, and along her with husband Sir Warren Miles, the eminent physician, they followed the army to be on hand to wield their particular skills.

  “Lady Miles and two other women have been struck down by a most curious malady themselves.” Ewan took another sip of wine. The French fought British magic with spells and weapons created by their mages. War created monstrosities that men could not imagine in times of peace.

  “She is ill?” Alice whispered.

  “They are dead,” Quinn said.

  Ianthe gasped. “No. Lady Miles fashioned the bullet that delivered justice to Hoth. Her husband must be bereft, and she will be a great loss to our mages.”

  Ewan ran a fingertip around the top of his glass. “Sir Warren is seeking a cure. It is rather taking all his time and energy as he consults with his wife.”

  “A cure for death?” Ianthe frowned and glanced to her lover.

  Quinn nodded. “That is the curious part. The hearts of all three women have stilled and yet they continue to talk and go about their day. However, decay eats at their bodies and they have developed a craving that is not to be mentioned in polite company. That is the reason the major gave for me to accompany Ewan. I am to go to Lady Miles’ London home and retrieve certain books she wants to consult.”

  Ianthe shuddered. “Well I have you until then, so
let us talk of more pleasant topics than a walking death. I assume you will travel to London together?”

  Ewan pushed his glass away. “Yes. Hamish generously allowed me time before I must face the London set and parade my disability for all to see, and the books Lady Miles wants are not overly urgent. I hoped to winter here if that was acceptable to you?”

  “Of course.” Ianthe reached across the table and gripped his left forearm. “You are always welcome here. What a grand Christmas we shall have with you both under this roof!”

  The wraith slipped out the door and disappeared, the silver terrier hard on her heels. Ianthe sighed at the other woman’s retreat.

  “How does she fare?” he asked, curious as to what time had done for the unfortunate creature.

  “She is healthier, but her mind . . .” Her voice trailed away as her gaze fixed on the closed door. “I cannot even imagine tearing my soul apart, and I wonder if the damage she did to escape Hoth is irreparable. She is protected here and she seems content, if a little wild.”

  Irreparable. Ewan knew what that was like.

  He, too, was irreparable.

  3

  Alice

  * * *

  Alice stroked Eilidh’s ears as she lay in bed and listened to birds roosting in the eave. It was one thing to decide upon a plan, but quite another to put it into effect. In one moment when a quizzical blue gaze had swept over her, she decided to turn her world upside down. The prey would become the predator.

  But how did one find the strength to stand up to one’s greatest fear? She needed to change from the pitiful victim of a monster to being a woman in command of her own destiny.

  The terrier had no answer to the questions swirling in Alice’s mind. The dog’s head lay on Alice’s stomach, a furry body flush against her hip. A soft sigh wheezed from between Eilidh’s jaws and Alice smiled. At least someone slept undisturbed by troubled thoughts. The arrival of the men created turmoil in her mind, as though someone had cracked the timbers holding back a dam, and the water swirled and rushed to escape.

  She turned her head to watch clouds glide over the surface of the moon outside her window. She always kept her curtains open. Some said that if the moonlight caressed you while you slumbered, it drove you mad. The word lunatic meant those touched by the moon. But Alice was already mad, and the silvery light held no fear for her. Nothing could be worse than the nightmare she had already endured. The moon seemed inviting by comparison, and she welcomed its subtle caress.

  The trace of mage power that flowed through her veins whispered that the presence of the men was a catalyst. No, not men. One particular man who hid his pain behind a bland smile. How did the others not see that his wounds were deeper than a silver bullet poisoning his blood? A man whose searing gaze stirred up a wind of change that would sweep over her and bring about a transformation.

  She didn’t have the sight like Ianthe. There was no clue to be found in her dreams as to what the wolves among them meant. She only had the tug, like the pull of a magnet to the compass needle. Her finding gift urged her that the wolf possessed something she sought.

  It didn’t seem possible that a wolf trapped in a man’s skin possessed something that would help her transform. She would need to trust her power and let it guide her. After all, the caterpillar had no inkling it would turn into a butterfly when it spun its cocoon. The little insect undertook its work on faith, trusting in the instinct that urged it on. Layer by layer, it encased its body in silken strands with no idea of the path that lay ahead.

  Alice wrapped her hand around the necklace at her throat—a wolf’s head made of silver and given to her by an ancient mage in Scotland. She had wondered what the trinket meant at the time, but the wise woman had only cackled about protection. To Alice it meant the spirit of Eilidh, who protected her slumber. But could the necklace be a token of a more literal wolf?

  She let out a sigh. Events would unfold in their own time. Alice would have to trust unseen forces and wait to see what magic wrapped around her.

  Whatever the season, life on the farm followed a routine. Alice rose early and padded barefoot down to the kitchen. First, she opened the door for Eilidh to dart outside, and then she fed the range to revive the fire. While the range heated, she started the bread. Once yeast and flour were combined, she pounded and kneaded in the quiet of the slumbering house. The supple dough was shaped and dropped into two tins, covered with a towel, and left to rise in front of the fire.

  Alice slipped on a pair of clogs and threw a shawl around her shoulders, tying the long ends around her waist to keep her warm against the cold blast outside. She walked across the yard to the barn, and Eilidh bounded from the taller grass to join her. Gentle snuffles and nickering came from within the barn as she pulled the doors open. She checked the horses, carted water to refill their buckets, and forked more hay into racks. As she finished, dawn crept over the horizon and painted the sky in soft oranges and gentle pinks.

  Time to place the bread in the oven and boil the kettle. Normally Ianthe would appear, and after breakfast they would walk out to the paddock with the yearlings and broodmares. Today, she suspected the other woman might be sleeping late—or possibly not sleeping at all, given the giggling and cries that had punctuated the night.

  Alice made breakfast and then finished the rest of her morning chores while the farmhouse lay silent. The porridge had just thickened when the door opened behind her.

  “I thought you would sleep late today, or are you in search of sustenance?” she called.

  “Sustenance. I am not one to lie abed without a compelling reason,” a deep voice answered.

  Alice dropped the spoon and turned to find Ewan Shaw staring at her. He leaned against the doorjamb, the epitome of morning elegance. Or was he resting against it because his leg pained him after descending the stairs? He wore pale breeches and polished Hessian boots. His cravat was already tied despite the early hour and tucked into a finely tailored waistcoat of navy blue. All trace of shadow had been removed from his freshly shaven face, and his black hair was damp and slicked back from his forehead.

  “Captain Shaw.” Her voice wavered and for a moment, her mind considered fleeing. Then she remembered her new resolve. No more fear. A transformation didn’t happen instantaneously; she needed to make tiny steps to bring it about. Facing this man was one such small step.

  She picked up the heavy spoon in case he came too close. “Breakfast is plain here, I am afraid. I can offer you porridge.”

  “Porridge is fine. Thank you.” He limped across the room and took a seat. The terrier sat at his heel, and lupine murmured to canine as Alice dished out a large bowl of steaming porridge.

  She pushed the pitcher of cream and a spoon towards him. He reached for it with his right hand, then it paused and dropped away. His left hand grabbed the handle instead and poured cream over the meal.

  “I don’t think we will see Ianthe and Quinn before noon. It has been a year and a half since they last saw each other.” He added a dollop of honey before picking up his spoon.

  Noon? What would she do with this man until then? The kitchen was large, and yet the mere act of him breathing seemed to wrap around her and sprout an intimacy as though they were squashed in a closet together playing sardines. She hoped after he had eaten his meal he would go sit in the parlour and perhaps read a book.

  Quite apart from his breathing, his gaze unsettled her. It reminded her that once she had been a woman that men had fought to possess. Now she was a broken thing, a shattered dish that should have been swept into the rubbish.

  With nothing else to do, she decided to dish up her own breakfast and fight her first battle—breakfast with a man without running from the room. She wished she had been born a powerful mage. She would whisper secret words and build a wall between them.

  She set her bowl on the table, down and across from the captain. Then she poured two cups of tea and slid one towards him. He murmured his thanks but kept his thoughts to himself
. They ate in silence and she avoided looking at him. She hurriedly finished eating and then rose and placed her dishes on the bench.

  “I could help wash up?” He gathered up his bowl and brought it over. The teacup rattled and listed to one side as he missed a step.

  “Leave them,” Alice said. Ianthe loved that dinner service. It wouldn’t do if he dropped one and smashed a plate on the unforgiving, hard floor. “Ianthe and Sarah will do them after they have eaten. I usually muck out the stalls now. You’ll find a few books in the parlour to keep you entertained.” She gestured across the hall.

  He leaned his hip on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. “If you could tolerate my company, I would like to assist. I have been idle for too long.”

  She wanted to scoff, to dismiss his help—but there was something in his eyes. A pang of need he couldn’t disguise. Alice knew what it was to be broken and pitied. She understood the need to do something, even if you did it badly.

  So instead of laughing, she nodded. No more fear, she whispered inside her head. “That would be appreciated. Thank you. Galahad can be something of a handful.”

  A heart-stopping smile graced Ewan’s handsome face. This was a man used to charming any woman with a quirk of his full lips and that piercing blue stare. It took no difficulty to imagine him as the predatory wolf, stalking the salons and ballrooms in London. Women probably bared their throats to his jaws.

  He took a woollen coat from the hooks by the door. “I don’t have Quinn’s touch with problematic stallions, I’m afraid. But I’m sure we’ll manage between the two of us.”

  They did manage, despite her reservations and the way her heart hammered against her chest as though it were building a barn inside her. His presence near her raised goose bumps along her flesh. What was it about him that unnerved her?

  Predator.

  The silver might inhibit his ability to shift form, but the lethal creature lurked under his skin. He appraised her, as though assessing his chances of running her down.