by K H Lemoyne
“Glad you made it in one piece.” Logan looked over his cousin for any outward signs of injury. Given Robert’s Navy background, he hadn’t expected to find any. However, the strained lines around his cousin’s eyes and mouth didn’t belong on a toughened former SEAL, much less one with superior magical strength and stamina.
Robert crossed his arms over his chest and nodded toward the girl. “How’s she doing?”
“I’m not certain. We have to get her out of this storm.”
“Hell, we’ll die of exposure if we don’t get somewhere warm and dry.” Robert braced a palm against the rock above Logan and turned back, examining the area.
Logan waited. Robert’s ability gathered data hidden from normal eyes.
“Am I to assume we’re heading into the light—again?” Robert asked. The lines of fatigue on his face eased and his mouth twitched at the corner.
Logan rolled his eyes and pushed away from his shelter with a nod. “Let’s go.”
Heads bent against the rain, they trudged, their pace driven by caution and the steep path up the slick hill face. The treacherous route shifted back and forth from tall, wet grass to slippery rock.
His original estimate put the cottage’s distance at a quarter of a mile. Now the stone façade seemed to grow smaller and appear farther away the longer they climbed. Windowless and topped with a thatched roof and no chimney, the exterior didn’t look promising. Where was the light coming from?
And there was a palpable tug toward the tiny building.
Clear of the final large rock, he slipped and caught himself on one knee. His fingers gripped the rock as a prickly sensation snaked up his back. Before he could move, a sharp point nicked his throat.
In a sideways glance, he caught the glint of steel.
“What’s your business here?”
Logan shifted his gaze toward the owner of the deep, rasping voice as he slid his hand higher, palming the child’s head and shielding her.
One short, but solid, old man stood before him, sword gripped in his fist. White hair plastered to his head, he challenged Logan with fierce eyes, urging him to make a wrong move. Logan didn’t doubt a mistake now would end his life. Practiced calm seeped through him and froze him in place.
“Logan.” Robert moved closer, but a sword blade from a second person motioned him silent. Robert sank to his knees beside Logan, hands raised in submission, attempting to defuse the aggression and shift the attention. His position on the ground made no difference. Robert was as deadly on his knees as he was on his feet. So was Logan, if his first priority wasn’t the child’s safety.
“There’s no need to hurt anybody.” Logan’s voice stayed calm and low. “We’re no threat.”
“Not for you to decide,” the older man barked.
Logan moved his second hand from the rock and cradled the makeshift sling.
“Hefin, there’s a child.” A sinful, sultry second voice drew Logan’s gaze. He moved back as she reached toward him, but the elder man’s sword stopped his movement. Slender, long fingers gently touched the sling. They covered Logan’s hand on the child’s head, then retreated. Beneath her hood, the outline of full, ruby lips and high cheekbones were visible. Recognition of his mystery woman from earlier sent a blaze through his body, despite the cold.
“Stay back from them, Briallen,” Hefin snapped. “They’re likely Vandals. Or scouts.”
Her hood fell back. Almond-shaped eyes widened, before her delicate brows drew together in puzzlement. “No, they are not.”
Ignoring the rain streaming down his face and the sword at his neck, Logan met her gaze. He gentled his tone, even as his brain whirled with the sudden appearance of his mystery woman. “The girl is very sick. She needs a dry, warm place, and medical attention.”
Briallen’s hand gently pushed aside the blade at Logan’s throat. “Hefin, there is no harm here.”
Then she touched the child’s cheek. Her eyes closed briefly, before they snapped back open. “Come with us, quickly.”
“Briallen?” A thin thread of caution wound beneath the old man’s words.
“No, Hefin, it’s not them.” Her voice broke with her next words. “But the child is deathly ill.”
Doubt and distrust flashed across the old man’s face, but he backed off and allowed Robert and Logan to stand.
“Hurry,” she urged, marking a path for them through the long grasses.
Logan didn’t wait for Hefin’s concurrence, but followed Briallen toward the cottage.
4
The mingled scents of rosemary, mint, and lavender filled Logan’s nostrils as he ducked through the doorway and followed Briallen into the cottage.
He stepped aside, and waited while Robert and Hefin moved past him. His position just inside the doorway allowed him a good vantage point for assessing their vulnerability. The interior spread high and wide, in contrast to the apparent small footprint of the cottage’s exterior. Beneath the thatched eaves, a vaulted ceiling housed thick support beams and an open loft. A fire pit dominated the center of the room. The well-lit corners and warmth were unrealistic for the rustic open space. Without a doubt, there was magic clearly at work here.
A stone collar four feet in diameter and two feet high and deep surrounded the fire’s flickering gold and amber flames. The stone surface was marble-smooth. The herbs he’d smelled hung from bundles tied to pegs on the overhead beams and along the stairway’s railing. Infused with a low-level magic, the cottage was more than comfortable. The open framework also hid nothing, eliminating his concerns of an ambush.
The three residents of the room remained a concern. Logan focused on their voices: words, inflection, subtle intent—easy to read in colors and textures since he was a child. Visible mantles of power shimmered around Briallen, the diminutive older woman at her side, and Hefin. Their powers, a projection of their souls, radiated in close bubbles around their bodies, incandescent and vibrant.
Hefin’s frozen glare of mistrust, his hand clenched around his sheathed sword, contrasted with the threads of blue and yellow surrounding him. Goodness and faith, protection and trust, clung to him like armor. The old woman vibrated in light shades of rich soil-brown and vivid green—ties to the earth and life. The nurture of man and beast wrapped around her like a second skin. Her brown glowed with such beauty, a vitality of transparent chocolate beyond his ability to interpret.
Briallen’s power, unlike the others, swirled around her. Golden sun flares snapped from her body, tipped in tiny varietals of the rainbow, as if her color and purpose were fluid and fleeting, tied to her vitality.
Logan blinked, and his normal vision returned, each person’s image reverting to flesh and clothing. He moved beside the fire and a pallet of blankets Briallen had arranged, yet waited for instruction as she whispered with the older woman.
The riot of silver-gray curls, long wool shawl, and slow gait depicted old age. However, her whiskey-brown eyes drilled into him with a tack-sharp clarity, assessing him for risk much in the same way he’d assessed the cottage. Her darted glances took in his and Robert’s drenched appearance, until her focus riveted on the child at his chest.
She spared no more time for anyone and shooed Briallen toward the blankets. “Get her out of that…” Another harsh look assessed the strips binding the child. “What a mess. And be quick about it.” Then she spun toward the shelves covering the far wall.
Logan knelt and fumbled at the sodden knots of fabric until he gave up and ripped the cloth. With help from Briallen, he extracted the girl and laid her on the blankets. The fire’s warmth reached him, but the child seemed unaffected. She twitched when he moved her away from his chest, her paper-thin eyelids fluttering without rhythm before they stopped.
The old woman snatched the sodden strips holding his sling together and pitched them into the fire.
“Filth not fit for her skin. Poor mite.” Her mouth pinched into a frown as she rubbed her fingers together and squatted beside the child. She skimme
d the child’s torso in a flurry and with more speed than Logan would have credited for her age. Every limb and joint endured a thorough check, from toes to head. Then she turned and nodded at Briallen. The wet shift covering the girl disappeared, replaced by a dry gown of soft cloth.
Logan swallowed back his reaction and slid a glance toward Robert. He and his cousins were comfortable with their skills, though they kept them hidden. Seemed they were no longer in the minority as people with magical powers.
He rubbed the child’s small feet until a slow pink flush seeped across her skin. Still, she didn’t move. Refusing defeat, he glanced at the elder woman for guidance. Instead, she sat back on her haunches and stared at him.
“If it’s not her blood on those rags, then it must be yours. You may call me Grainne.” She motioned him to a bench beside the table and waved again at Briallen. “Put the herb pot to steam beside her. The vapors will help her breathe.”
Grainne bypassed the table for a low wooden chest beneath the stairs. “I’ll get you men dry clothes, and you both can shed those rags.”
Logan glanced at Pheve’s foul coat and took a seat on the bench. Rags—too kind a word for threads held together by reek and germs. He glanced at Robert with a look of invitation to join him at the table. His cousin remained at the door, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest, his face void of emotion. His stance mimicked Hefin’s on the opposite side of the door.
Grainne rummaged in the chest, half her body missing from sight while piles of clothes beside the trunk grew. She turned back, her arms laden with chosen outfits, and her eyes narrowed. “Briallen, really?”
Logan swiveled and caught Briallen’s expression over his shoulder. Her delicate dark eyebrows rose, and she avoided looking at anyone as she smoothed an undetectable wrinkle from her leather pants.
“Where are our belongings?” Robert’s mouth twisted into a frown.
Logan started as he realized he wore dry pants, boots, and a loose white linen tunic instead of his own clothes. It didn’t escape his notice their new clothing matched the colors of their original ones. But he and Robert both had wallets and identification in their former clothes, and a quick pat down revealed no pockets or trace of their possessions.
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate fresh clothes,” he said dryly. “Though a heads-up is always nice.”
“It’s not like I left you naked.” She challenged him with hint of laughter, and he fought back a smile. He couldn’t perform her parlor tricks, but he wasn’t a neophyte or easily rattled. He’d wait for his turn.
“And our own clothes?” Robert pressed again, his voice terse, matching his stiff stance, though he didn’t move toward her.
“In the chest. Ready for when you leave.”
“So we’ll be allowed to leave.” Robert’s tone thickened with sarcasm, but his posture relaxed as he crossed his arms over his chest. Hefin gave a muffled harrumph and moved with his sword to the bench opposite the table from Logan.
“No one’s holding you here.” Grainne settled beside Logan with a bowl and strips of cloth. “Let me see your injury.”
“Don’t suppose she can make the cut disappear, too?” he asked.
Grainne gave a small huff. “Don’t be daft, lad. Now, take off your shirt and give me your name.”
“I’m Logan MacKenzie. Robert,” he gestured toward the door. “Is my cousin.”
He carefully pulled the shirt over his head to avoid more bloodstains and moved his arm, giving Grainne better access. While the cold seawater had briefly numbed the wound, that last simple movement reopened the gash. It now bled again in addition to the dull, throbbing ache. He glanced down. The slice from elbow to shoulder looked longer than he’d remembered.
“Cousins? Sliced you a deep cut, someone did.” Hefin’s rough voice held a twinge of appreciation.
Not wanting to bond over his injury, Logan remained silent. Grainne cleansed the wound, then reached for a smaller bowl covered with a wooden lid. The contents held an acrid-smelling, thick green paste. He considered the foul ooze and then stared at her in question. She stared straight back.
Fine. Odds were it wouldn’t kill him.
“The smell is fierce, but it will heal you clean,” Grainne said.
“Be a waste to die from such a mere flesh wound.” Hefin’s taunt seemed more of a test than the pungent paste. That the surly man even acknowledged Logan’s injury didn’t reassure him either.
“Just do it.” He gritted his teeth. As she lathered the paste on his skin, searing pain washed over his arm and doused him in an instant sweat. Then it grew worse. Boiling heat pulled at his muscles, dug deep into his bones like talons, and latched hold. He breathed through the swirl of nausea and wondered if death felt this bad. After what seemed an eternity, the torture dimmed to a dull, uncomfortable throbbing.
Grainne grunted, wrapped his wound in fresh bandages, and returned the foul paste to the shelves. Either his reaction pleased her, or she was relieved to be done with the eye-watering smell. He’d vote for option number two.
Finished being the center of attention, he turned back to the child and waited for even a faint rise in her chest. Briallen stroked the pale face and neck with a damp cloth, his own confirmation the child was still alive.
“Her fever is rising,” Briallen said. “How long has your child been sick?”
Logan stiffened. The time for the awkward conversation had finally rolled around. “We don’t know.”
His response won immediate eye contact from both women and a grumble from Hefin behind him. What the old man lacked in conversation skills he made up for in a multitude of guttural noises—all hostile. But he didn’t move from the table.
“She’s not my child,” Logan said, resigned for the backlash of his answer. Better to have the truth in the open. The temperature in the room dropped to an uncomfortable chill as three sets of eyes settled on him.
A slight scrape by the door indicated Robert had picked up the same hostile vibe.
“We witnessed two men attack the girl and a woman tending her. We tried to help, but were too late for the caretaker.” He fixed his gaze on the too-pale cheeks and light-brown curls. “We suspect she was their target, but we don’t know why.” It wasn’t the full truth, but at this point Logan wasn’t above a little lie of omission.
Hefin leaned forward, his sword suddenly positioned on the table before him, a hand span away. “What men?”
“Two. Our guess is that they rowed from the ship anchored on the isle’s northern side. If so, they’d taken the woman and child to the small isle offshore.” Robert relayed the details in an even, clipped tone, calm, cool efficiency freezing his expression.
Hefin scowled and waited, but Robert offered nothing else.
“You both were on the isle as well.” Hefin didn’t bother with Logan and homed in on Robert with a fresh ferocity. “Where are these men now?”
“No longer a problem,” Logan stated.
“Yet you took the child out in this storm?” Hefin’s voice boomed. Grainne tsk-tsked at him with a pointed glance toward the child.
“We didn’t have a choice,” Logan answered evenly. “There was a second rowboat of men headed for the island.”
Hefin grumbled and tapped his fingers on the table as he stared at Logan. “How did you pass through the shield?”
Lies or partial truths? Logan didn’t look at Robert. They’d known each other long enough to know each other’s thoughts. The ship, the men—all would head here when the storm cleared. If his and Robert’s mission was saving this child, they’d need allies.
“We pushed through the shield. I’m assuming they won’t be able to follow us?”
“No.” Hefin shook his head. Long wisps of salt-and-pepper hair shook from his eyebrows. “Their only entry is through the port of Iona. If they seek the child, that will buy her time. But you?” Hefin gripped his sword, a tight clasp on the hilt in one hand, as if considering potential enemies at his threshold. T
hen he pointed his finger at Logan. “A power capable of penetrating the shield will not go unnoticed by Laird Mackinnon’s seers and mages. They are on constant alert for new sources of power.”
“Perhaps not, with the safeguards you’ve applied.” Briallen had settled with the child’s head in her lap.
“How far do your wards extend?” Robert asked.
“From here to the beach line, where you landed.” Hand still fisted around the hilt of his sword, Hefin glared at the table as if coming to a decision. He gave Logan a fierce look and nodded to Robert. “I’ll show you my wards after the storm has passed. It’s possible the weather has distracted the seers’ efforts.”
Robert’s eyebrows rose as if questioning. Logan gave a slight shake of his head. He wasn’t ready to disclose their journey from another location. At least not until he spoke privately with Briallen. His vision of her predated their entry into this place, and he suspected she knew more than she’d offered. He’d ruled out time travel. This wasn’t a version, past or present, of their home. Their secrets would keep until he understood their situation better.
Grainne murmured her assent on the plan and gestured for him to put his shirt back on. Then she ladled a savory-smelling broth from a kettle on the far side of the hearth into bowls. “’Tis rare a MacKenzie visit so far from your own lands.”
Logan slid the shirt slowly back over his head, exaggerating the movement to buy him time. He linked his hands on the table and glanced at Briallen. He felt a debt to these people for their shelter, but he had no sensible answers. Not to mention he and Robert had likely brought the threat of the crewmen to these people’s door.
“We are a very long way from home, and this detour was…unexpected.” Truth. “I’d be surprised if a MacKenzie here would recognize us.” More truth. “We’ll stay long enough to seek answers our family needs and then return home.”
Briallen’s hands stopped, and she raised her head at his answer. He’d watched her throughout his whole response. She’d registered no surprise. Not even a blink.
