by K H Lemoyne
Logan fingered the binding of the book. “You could force the plant in the snow of winter.”
“Aye. The resistance would be strong, nature being what it is. The price extracted would drain me for a time.” She leaned forward. “Your resistance is different, as is your cousin’s. Your power’s tied to nature and something stronger, something much older. A primordial strength from here and beyond. I can see that much, but no more.”
He nodded, a little disappointed he couldn’t get more clarification. This might be the key to his limitations and fight for his family.
“The lass, her bloodline is also unique. The reason the mages haven’t found her, perhaps.” Grainne sat back. “You’ve seen her rare qualities.”
The woman was very astute. She’d watched him as he’d watched everyone else. “What keeps her beneath their scrutiny?”
“Don’t know for certain.” Grainne’s lips twisted with thought. “I originally suspected her ability to meld with those around her evened out her presence and blocked her from detection. Now I believe there’s more. Not being from here, she’s not intended to be part of this world. Her strength doesn’t register brightly to those who seek her.”
Her words, so sad, reflected her deep longing to absorb Bri forever into her family and her stark admission it would never happen.
“She loves you both.”
She gave him a quick shake of one finger. “I don’t need you to tell me her heart, lad. She’s as open to read as sunshine.”
“I didn’t—”
Another quick wave of her hand and she sent two more strawberries his way. “Life is too short. Don’t apologize for kindness. You protect her. She accepts you, as well.” Her finger waved in the air before her face, a sweep of figure eights and symbols he couldn’t decipher. “Your bloodline, the resistance of your powers to change, is unalterable. Still, there are exceptions in the world. Always exceptions for a greater purpose.”
Without a word, she stood and headed off into the tall green stalks of her garden. Logan wondered whether he knew more after their confusing discussion, or less.
Bri pulled her cloak closer around her. The sunlight had retreated behind the clouds and left the wind a brisk bite without warmth. She hurried to keep pace with the scrappy ten-year-old skipping and scuffing his feet on the trail in front of her.
“Colm, where’s your rush?”
“If I hurry, I can catch up with my da.”
“I wish you’d mentioned Quinlan’s attack when you delivered your mother’s bread this morning.”
“I did.”
She raised her brow and halted. “You most certainly did not. All you mentioned was a ship run aground.”
The boy slowed down and then scowled. “I forgot.”
“More likely you thought we’d take too much time asking questions, so you didn’t bother.”
Guilt flashed over his face before he ducked his head. “If we don’t hurry, I’ll miss out on hearing all the stories about how Quinlan was killed.”
Bri grimaced. Only a child could make an attack and death sound fun and exciting.
Halfway to his mother’s house, the boy had disclosed the crucial bit of information. Now, without Hefin or Logan knowing where she’d gone, practicality told her she should turn around and get them. Then again, Malcolm’s mother had requested she take the boy to his father at Quinlan’s house, and it wasn’t that far. Perhaps if she looked at the man’s wounds, she could rule out the suspicion leaching the warmth from her bones. If she was right, Hefin and the others needed to know.
“Your mother said he wasn’t dead.” Bri kept her voice calm, though not steady.
“The wounds are wicked.” Colm shrugged as she glared at him. “Da’s men said so when they helped Quinlan home. His two attackers were big and black. Evil creatures with fangs and long claws.” He made a swipe in the air with his curled fingers. When she didn’t laugh or play back he sullenly continued. “They got away, but my da’s going to find them and kill them.”
“Don’t you think you might have padded their story a bit?” She looked at the boy with what she hoped was strong skepticism and modest reprimand.
“Huh? Nay, parts of his flesh have shriveled. I heard one of the men say his skin is icy cold, but his wound looks like a burn.”
Colm stopped several yards away and gave her a brief look of frustration. No doubt, she slowed him down. At least he’d followed his mother’s command and stayed with her.
The clearing, and Quinlan’s cottage, appeared as they walked around the next bend, nestled in the middle of twelve other homes overlooking the loch. Men stood in small groups outside, stern looks on faces young and old.
Weeping from the cottage echoed in the air.
She quickly steered Colm to his father, Malcolm Senior. Deep in conversation with several other men, he didn’t notice them. “No way the bloody thing vanished.”
“Denis carved a clean strike with his sword. It won’t have survived.”
“The howl the thing let out wasn’t human, to be sure.”
“Poor Quinlan. With the mages lurking over him, his poor family is scared to Hades.”
One of the laird’s mages stood at the far edge of the group. Heads taller than the other men, dark as night and silent, the mage remained alone. Renowned for his clairaudient ability, a trait Bri had often considered convenient since she’d fare better knowing what others thought, he assessed everyone without the need for interaction or social niceties.
His gaze moved over her and passed on. She felt his interest linger on her, nonetheless.
With a brief nod of acknowledgment to Malcolm Senior, when he realized they stood beside him, she walked away and then ducked into Quinlan’s cottage.
She pushed through to make headway. Women from the nearby houses filled the room, comforting each other. They huddled in quiet, weeping bunches. Maeve, Quinlan’s wife, sat on a stool at the side of the table holding Quinlan. A damp rag hung from her hands, the pasty hue a sure match for the color of her face. Wide and stricken, her eyes stared unseeing at her husband’s body.
Bri cast a brief look toward the tiny female mage who applied soaked bandages on Quinlan’s chest and arms. Porcelain features and almond eyes stared too long at her, like a fox waiting for a rabbit to skitter—waiting on any sign of fear before pouncing.
Well, she didn’t have time for either mages or fear. She turned a shoulder to the mage and the others pinning down Quinlan’s twitching body. He was unconscious, yet barely alive. The mage continued as if the man were already a corpse.
Bri touched the wife’s shoulder. “Maeve.”
No response. Her fingers brushed across Maeve’s cheek, and the lashes fluttered. One swift gasp and the shock broke, replaced by a sob at the sight of her husband.
Bri pulled Maeve to her and turned, cutting off the view of the horrid sight. “Come with me, and we’ll get water.” She maneuvered Maeve through the crowd to the corner. It wasn’t a small cottage, but as the crowd of helpful neighbors kept growing, the space shrank along with fresh air.
Shelves flanking the corner’s walls, covered in earthenware crocks and delicate shapes of stones and seashells, keep people from gathering there, giving them privacy. At least the watchful eye of the mage didn’t reach them through the sea of people.
Well-meaning deliveries of wrapped breads and kettles of stews littered a small side table. None would help Maeve or her husband, but the crowd would eat well.
“Here, take a sip.” She pressed a cup of fresh water into Maeve’s hands and helped her drink. After a soft shudder, Maeve dropped her head onto Bri’s shoulder.
The contact made her work easier. Closing her eyes, she focused on capturing Maeve’s breath, the stuttered heartbeat, overworked by fear and loss. She bypassed the cresting thrum of voices in the room. Narrow spindles of gold unwound from within Bri’s mind. They swirled around Maeve’s body, connected in a gentle knot to Beatrix at her side and on to Alma. Between each person
, Bri wove the delicate cord, connecting every woman to Maeve, tethering her emotions and strength to each and all. A whole group of female courage, large enough to support one broken heart. For Quinlan’s wife would need their goodwill and strong shoulders when he failed.
And he would fail. Minions didn’t leave survivors.
She sucked back the negative thought and finished her careful design with delicate purpose. She’d ensured a bubble within the mesh, a looseness providing ease for each tie when it pulled.
With a deep inhale, she opened her eyes. The crowd parted for a second. The mage’s eyes riveted to her again, less thoughtful this time, now a more glistening threat. However, Hefin had long ago created a personal shield for Bri, ensuring her minor magical ability remained undetectable—even to the mages.
Bri smiled fiercely back at the mage and then squeezed Maeve’s shoulders. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”
Maeve patted her hand and lifted her head, looking around confused—as if only now taking in the crowd and activity. “You’ve been so kind to give me a few moments of peace, Briallen. Please give Grainne my best.”
“I’ll do that.” She rose and walked to the door, not bothering with a backward look at the mage or the table. She’d seen more than she wanted of the first, and the second would forever remain etched in her memories.
Quinlan’s long, deep gashes across his chest, with similar wounds on his arms from his attempts at defense, were all black and charred. No blood ran from them. The minion would have extracted his frustration by feeding. Silver striations wound outward from the heart. Lines that would fade by night when Quinlan passed, his heart and soul forfeit in the end.
The image of Quinlan meshed with what Logan had told her of his loved one’s suffering this same fate. And he’d endured this not once, but several times. Having seen the wounds and with full knowledge of the dangers, he’d still found his way to this island, to change his family’s fate—and hers.
Bri’s chest tightened. Once outside, she took a deep breath and waited for the crisp mustiness of fall leaves to dissolve her fear. It didn’t.
“Briallen, could I impose on you to walk Colm back to his mother on your way home? I’ll be gone until we track down Quinlan’s attacker, and despite his enthusiasm, Colm is still too young.”
“Of course. I’m heading back now.” She caught the tall mage’s stare over Malcolm’s shoulder. She sensed a warning in his expression. Perhaps she felt the same warning in each shadow after viewing Quinlan’s body. “Colm, let’s head back.”
“How long since Briallen passed this way?” Hefin asked.
Slender, tall, and dressed in a green and brown tunic and pants, the man leaning against the tree would have escaped Logan’s notice. However, at Hefin’s question, he stepped out into the fading sunlight on the path. Two more men stepped from the shadows behind him.
“The lass passed by hours ago with Malcolm’s boy. Hasn’t returned this way.”
“You certain?” Hefin edged closer. “No way she or the boy bypassed you lads?”
A faint grin split the man’s face. “The lass is quiet as a deer, but we’ve coverage between here and the cliff’s edge. And the lad has years before his clumsy feet don’t announce him twenty yards away.”
Robert bent toward Hefin. “How far is it to Quinlan and Maeve’s cottage?”
Hefin pursed his lips. “What is your worry?”
Logan flexed his fingers, seeking the handle of his sword, silently cursing as he remembered he and Robert had left their weapons in the cottage, thinking to return within minutes. “The crewman won’t leave witnesses. We need to catch up with her.”
“Malcolm will keep watch between the village and the cottage. Only leaving the coastline. Not a route she’d choose. Though she’s a fair fighter.” Hefin voice sounded less certain than his words.
“She’s unaware the ship holding our little girl hostage ran aground or that crewmen have been spotted on the island. The runner may have bypassed the village, considering it safe,” Robert said, voicing Logan’s concerns.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a group of cottages.
Hefin hailed men gathered around a central bonfire. Logan headed toward the home crammed with people.
When he ducked inside, he came to an abrupt halt. The modest space was overrun with females keeping a silent vigil around an unconscious man on the table in the middle of the room. One look swept back images, ones he’d thought safely tucked away, with painful clarity. Recognition of the harsh, black wounds and death pallor had him searching the room for Bri.
He glimpsed no shining black hair and bright-gray eyes, but a trace of her lingered everywhere, in golden bits, as if each woman held a small part of her. The sight confused him enough that it took him a moment before he registered a tug on his sleeve.
“Is Briallen here?” he asked of the fair-haired woman trying to get his attention. “Um, Miss…”
“I’m Alma. And Briallen left after she spoke with Quinlan’s wife, Maeve.” She gestured to a very pregnant woman with soft brown curls seated in the corner.
Maeve caught his eye as the woman beside her whispered in her ear.
He cut through the crowd and joined her before she struggled out of her chair. “I’m so sorry.” He glanced at the table, not sure what to add.
Fortunately, she didn’t expect more, and simply clenched his hand. He wished he had the ability to send her comfort. However, from the tiny gold vibration surrounding her, he gathered Bri had already taken care of her.
“You’re Briallen’s young man.”
Hmm. He hadn’t expected that. “I need to find her. Do you remember how long ago she left?”
“Not more than a few minutes.” She tugged on his hand until he squatted at her level, making their conversation more discreet.
“Before she left, she asked me if I remembered anything. I didn’t then, but—” She glanced at her husband’s body with a visible swallow. Logan squeezed her hand, and she looked back. “He said there were three of them. Devils. His exact words. Not men, devils.”
She’d whispered the words and flicked a pensive glance toward a stoic, petite, Asian-looking woman beside Quinlan’s body. “One of the laird’s mages. The other, the quiet one, is outside,” she replied to his unasked question.
Logan met the mage’s gaze. The flat yellow and lavender shimmer around her announced her ease with flaunting her powers. But she wasn’t healing Quinlan. If she was deluding these people, then her powers revolved around illusion instead of reality. Or another purpose she provided for the laird.
She was also the only woman in the room not tied to Maeve in Bri’s skein of protection. And while the mage’s colorful projection and her visible, coldly curious ego might be harnessed in the service of her laird, he didn’t care. He didn’t have time for anyone else’s priorities.
He brushed his hand over Maeve’s shoulder. “I’ll pass on what you’ve remembered.”
Maeve gave him a watery smile. He squeezed her hand again and left the cottage.
Hefin was deep in the middle of an animated conversation with the men at the fire, as Robert argued with another man over what sounded like a disagreement on the effectiveness of different blades.
Logan glanced at the man standing apart. Clearly, a second mage. There were both genders here. A marked difference from the distinction of male-only mages in Rhiamon’s dimension.
Dusk absorbed whatever colors distinguished the mage’s power, but he radiated a palpable strength. Not in the fashion of the mage in the cottage or the tremendous brawn Robert’s power provided. Instead, subtle ripples of energy lapped around Logan. He suspected at full force the impact could take apart and reassemble each of the cottages with nothing but a glance.
Powerful, dangerous strength. Curiously, the mage mask it.
Logan moved beside him and focused on the others by the fire. The mage gave no outward sign he noticed him, though they were the only one
s there.
“Have you learned much standing here, watching everyone, cataloging their every word?”
The man didn’t reply.
“You can fool these people into believing you don’t hear them, and become invisible here at the edge. I’m not buying it. If you have information about how to stop the beings that killed Quinlan, you owe it to these people to tell them.”
Ebony eyes turned toward Logan, reflecting the firelight in the distance. “He is not yet dead.”
“He will be. We both know it. Your friend won’t change Quinlan’s outcome.”
“It would be safer to be less observant, Makir. And less vocal. There are those here who would not have the sense to leave you alone.” Dark, intelligent eyes assessed him. “The woman—she is yours?”
The mage didn’t wait for Logan’s response but pointed to a narrow path between two cottages. “She followed the boy. You should hurry.”
“Robert,” Logan shouted and ran.
“Where the hell are you going?” Robert asked as reached him. Hefin caught up to them halfway down the path.
“Bri’s in trouble.”
Hefin grunted as they approached a cliff. “A foolish path to choose.”
“She’s after the boy.” Logan scrutinized the sheer path at the cliff’s edge, angling north toward Hefin’s lands. “Do other paths intersect with this one?”
Hefin frowned. “Aye, but this borders the shores of the wreck, with many locations for an ambush.”
“Do you need help?” A man’s voice boomed across the cliff face from the southern stretch of the path.
“Aye, Malcolm. We seek Briallen. The mage pointed us this way,” Hefin said. “Colm is with her.”
A clear shout broke over the crash of surf and whistle of wind. Logan was already running for the bend in the trail at the cliff’s edge.
“Colm,” shouted his father.
They hurried, pausing only as the path split into two, and the situation before them became visible. Logan’s blood ran cold at the scene.
