Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  He nodded and moved to the left before sitting down. He opened his menu, laid it across his plate, and picked up her left hand with his right. He shook it lightly, “Then ye’ll not be needing this, will ye?” She thought he was just teasing, but he rested their joined hands on the table, forgotten, while he bent over the menu and began reading.

  She acted as if it was a natural thing to do, as if they maintained physical contact all the time. As if they were just another couple touring the most romantic city in the world. But on the inside?

  On the inside, she was lying on a fainting couch, fanning herself and taking little sips of water to cool her blush.

  After the waiter delivered their coffees and took their order, Fisher leaned close. “Thoughtful bloke, isn’t he? Careful not to influence our mood in any way.” The joke faded immediately. He looked around the small room, though she doubted he saw anything. “Tell me of yer home, lass. We’ve spoken only of my life and yer sister. Where do ye go when ye leave tomorrow?”

  “Traverse City, Michigan. Fishermen love the place—and boaters—because of the Great Lakes. We’re right on a big bay. It’s like our own little ocean, really. In the summer, we have a custom called the Paddle for Pints. It’s like a pub crawl, but you paddle a kayak in between stops. It’s a riot.”

  “It sounds just the place,” he said, as if he really wished he could see it.

  The waiter brought menus and coffees. “We also have a special concoction for hangovers, if you are interested, monsieur.”

  Fisher laughed. “Only if you have a cure for falling in love, sir.” The guy didn’t even bother smiling before walking away again. “He seemed a wee nauseated. Do ye suppose it was something I said?”

  They laughed together and pretended he hadn’t mentioned love. It was going to be hard enough to say goodbye. And they couldn’t really have fallen in love in a day and a half. Not really.

  All right. Maybe just not him.

  The croissants were very nearly burned. The coffee was strong enough to melt a spoon, and the eggs yolks were hard and crumbly.

  “I wonder if the chef called in sick,” she said.

  Fisher grabbed her hand and held it, like he expected her to call the waiter over to complain. “Dinna send it back. It seems perfectly fitting for the day.” He released her hand and took another swig of coffee. “Mmn.”

  The waiter came back long enough to leave the check on the table. Fisher reached in his pouch and dropped a single coin on the table. It had a shiny silver ring around a gold center. The number two was easy to read.

  “I brought no coin into this world. I’ll take non out w’ me.” His eyes snapped up to meet her gaze, knowing he’d made a blunder.

  Martine smiled to assure him the barbed comment hadn’t hit her heart dead on. “So? What do you feel like doing today?”

  “Besides weeping, ye mean?” He rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. “I would like to see the water. Any water would do. Even the Seine.”

  It took them twenty minutes to get to a decidedly non-romantic bridge called Pont de l’Alma. It took another ten to walk to Pont Alexandre III, to where all the glory of the world had been relocated. The four corners of the bridge had massive square pillars with immense golden statues on top of them. A hurricane wouldn’t budge these suckers.

  To the north of the bridge was the Grand Palace and half a dozen structures in the distance that couldn’t have been built by or for average men. It was as if all the history of Paris converged in this intersection to prove that no city or country could have a story so important.

  “This place is a monument to monuments, I think.”

  “Oh, aye. And behold, the Eiffel Tower, for good measure.” He turned her shoulders until she faced south and west. The size, even from a distance, was nothing like she expected, even after all she’d seen.

  “Fisher?”

  “Aye?”

  She leaned her head back against his chest. “I’m not interested in the history of Paris today.”

  “Nor am I— Damn!”

  She turned to see what had caught his attention. On the east side of the bridge, beyond the traffic, another Scotsman stood with his hands on his hips, staring in their direction. It was creepy, and she instantly wondered if Fisher’s witch had dropped off another Highlander.

  “Give him a little wave, so he’ll go away,” she said quietly.

  “Oh, I’ll wave,” Fisher said, “but I fear he’ll not be leavin’…without me.”

  Fisher lifted his hand and signaled to Soni’s uncle that he had, indeed, noticed him. The man nodded, then inexplicably stepped into traffic. To Fisher’s surprise, not one driver honked at the man as he wove between the cars. It was as if they rolled in slow motion until the Highlander’s boots were safely on the west side of the bridge.

  “Fisher Rankine.” He offered his hand.

  “Aye. Wickham, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” The man turned to the lass. “Martine Platte, I presume?”

  She frowned, but took the offered hand. Wickham lifted it high and kissed the backs of her fingers, which made her forsake her frown for a blush and a smile. It was a gesture Fisher should have made a dozen times in the last day, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it.

  Her frown quickly returned however, and she clutched at Fisher’s hand and forearm. “You’re not here to get him, right? I mean, we’ve got hours still, don’t we?”

  In Fisher’s judgment, Wickham seemed relieved. “She understands all of what is happening here?”

  Martine spoke for herself. “I do.”

  Wickham nodded. “That makes this much simpler.”

  Fisher stomped a boot. “I will know why Soni did not come herself. She promised she would see me in two days’ time—”

  “There was an understanding, aye. Many promises were made. But hear me out. It was Soni who would have sent ye on. But since she’s not able to come, ye must…stay.”

  “Stay?” He and Martine spoke in unison.

  “Aye. Live yer life, Rankine, and welcome to it. Soni would have wanted it that way. She was ever a fool for love stories. It should not surprise ye that most of yer fellow spirits live on.”

  Every drop of blood in Fisher’s veins ceased moving. He could barely lift his voice above a whisper. “What do ye mean, was? Soni was ever a fool? What has happened to our wee witch? She promised she’d see me again, and she would have never broken that promise. To any of us.”

  “Weel, it seems as if Soni will be breaking a lot of promises.”

  “Is she ill again?”

  “No. She’s not ill. She’s…missing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fisher held Martine tight against him both to contain her excitement at hearing he could stay, and to discourage her interruptions while he tried to understand what had happened to Soncerae.

  Wickham seemed impatient to leave, but he understood how upset one of the 79 might be at hearing his news. “Not long ago, McLaren came to me and confessed that men have been coming to the battlefield at night. On and off. Searching for something, he reckoned. He hadn’t thought much of it, but after Soni fell ill, he’s been more aware of possible threats.

  “Since his report, we’ve not allowed her to be alone on the moor, when she comes to send her Highlanders away. There are even more precautions than she knows. I’d not wished to upset her by explaining. But the battlefield is surrounded by…Muirs…when she is doing her work.”

  “Witches, ye mean.”

  Wickham shrugged. “Those capable of protecting her, aye.”

  “But someone’s gotten to her in spite of it.”

  Wickham suddenly looked ill himself. “Aye. Someone has. And we mean to get her back…before it is too late.”

  There was something more the man didnae wish to say, but Fisher had to ask. “Do ye ken who has her?”

  Wickham straightened as if he’d been accused of something. “I’ll rule out nothing and no one. I’ll not go off on some
goose-chase and risk missing some clue.” He took a breath and relaxed his stance a bit. “I promise to remind her of her promises. She’ll find ye, no matter, once this business is done.”

  “And she’ll make him…move on?”

  He’d nearly forgotten Martine was there, and he gave her a squeeze to reassure her.

  “Nay, Miss Platte. The spell is broken. The price is paid, or soon will be, seeing the way ye cling to each other. He is free to live a normal life.” He glanced at Fisher’s hands. “Normal, I say. Don’t go playing with sharp hooks, will ye? Normal fingers do not heal so speedily. Nor will any other part of ye. Mind that.” He gave a little salute, then turned to go.

  “Wickham, wait!” Fisher dragged the lass along with him. “Ye’ll need help, I reckon.”

  Martine’s grasp tightened, but she said nothing.

  “I’ve got an army of Muirs, Fisherman.”

  “Oh, aye. And I ken some of them are but old women.”

  Wickham laughed. “Mind yer tongue, laddie, or it might shrivel up on ye. They don’t care to be called old.”

  “I simply point out that a pair of strong mortal arms would be helpful. For what if yer foe is mortal as well?”

  Wickham gestured to Martine. “Haven’t ye more important matters to tend to?”

  “Oh, aye. But she’ll love me all the more for missing me, will she not?”

  Martine pushed away from him. Tears picked their way down her cheeks. “Yeah, you should go and help find the girl. Obviously. But I’m not going to tell you to come back on your shield or anything. You come back whole and alive, you hear me?” She backed away. “I’ll be waiting in Traverse City.” She glared at Wickham. “That’s in Michigan. You make sure he gets there, okay?”

  “I will.” Wickham blew her a kiss, then laughed at Fisher as he stomped up to her and pulled her into his arms.

  “I will come for ye, Martine. Make no mistake.”

  She allowed him to kiss her, but quickly pushed him away. “Julia said there were other people that need my love now. I’ll just get started on that while I wait. You have a safe trip.” She gave his shoulders a squeeze, then retreated again, farther down the bridge.

  Wickham’s voice came from far behind. “Are ye certain ye wish to leave with me? Dare ye risk it?”

  Martine lifted an arm and waved, but she kept walking and didn’t look back.

  Again, Wickham shouted. “I will have yer decision, Highlander!”

  “I am coming with ye,” Fisher shouted back, then ran after the vexing woman.

  She had made good time and covered much ground, and it took him far too long to catch up to her. He pulled her into his arms once more, then turned his head while he caught his breath.

  “Listen to me well, Martine May Platte. Yer sister said it might be that there is only one person ye will love in yer life, and I’m here to tell ye, before the whole of Paris, that I intend to be that one. Any others will have to wait. Ye must promise to love no one until after I’ve secured my position.” He grabbed her ring finger and shook it between their faces. Comprenez?”

  She grinned, then suddenly frowned. “On one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “You explain to Wickham, on your way to Scotland, that you are a piss poor swordsman.”

  “I never said piss poor—”

  “Vow it.”

  He nodded. “I vow it.”

  “Then, oui monsieur. I’ll be waiting for you in Michigan.”

  Epilogue

  That winter was one of the strangest for the state of Michigan. The temperatures were mild, as was the snowfall in most places. It was almost as if the state expected an important visitor who might be wearing a kilt, whose knees might freeze if it got too cold.

  Maybe it was Martine’s fault for praying so hard—for any break that might make it easier for Fisher Rankine to come find her.

  Every morning she Googled for news stories in Scotland, hoping for some hint that a young kidnapped girl had been recovered. But every morning, she went off to work disappointed. All day long, she thought of reasons why nothing had been reported. After all, she didn’t even know what city to listen for. And witches probably avoided media attention no matter what they were up to.

  Right?

  Right.

  She was absolutely, positively certain he wasn’t dead. An experienced ghost would find some way to come haunt her, to at least show up in a mirror and tell her he wouldn’t be coming after all. So she didn’t even bother watching Scottish obituaries.

  There was no news about the battlefield at Culloden Moor, other than some folks who were up in arms because some idiots thought they should desecrate the war grave for the sake of a housing development. Were they blind? Could they not see that Scotland, as a country, was full of fields that would make lovely neighborhoods?

  It boggled her mind.

  Valentine’s Day came and went like usual. No one to exchange a handshake with, let alone a kiss. When she reached the end of the second month since she’d returned from Paris, she did anything she could to distract herself. Otherwise, she might have talked herself into giving up hope.

  She went to the local pet store to take a look around. She’d been considering buying a dog so she’d have someone to talk to besides people who weren’t around to hear her. Wishing for someone who could also talk back? Well, that just made her feel greedy.

  “What about a bird?”

  “Definitely not a bird,” a man said behind her.

  She froze, not daring to look. Was he there? Or was it her imagination? Was he a ghost? She didn’t want to know.

  She leaned forward and searched the small square parrot mirror to look behind her, but it was just a squiggled image of her face.

  “Come, now. My Martine is braver than that. Can outrun anyone, so I hear. Even if they race up three hundred steps.”

  She spun around so fast, she pummeled him with her arms. “Fisher!” She grabbed him around the neck and pulled him down to kiss her.

  “Careful now, lass. Inspect the animal before ye promise to take it home with ye.”

  She pulled back. “Animal?”

  He’d been joking to soften the shock, obviously. A fresh line of railroad tracks ran from his temple, across a cheekbone, and down to his jaw.

  She pulled him down again and tried to show him, with a very hard kiss, how glad she was to see him no matter what he looked like. “Oh, Fisher. What happened? Does it hurt? Did I hurt you?”

  He chuckled and pulled her arms from around his neck. “One question at a time, love. Aye, it still hurts a mite. No, ye didn’t cause me pain. And the rest is a long story. Ye’d best continue with yer inspection, then.” He straightened and stared straight ahead, waiting.

  He was taller than she’d remembered, maybe because he was standing so straight. He wore a dark jacket over a T-shirt, and jeans instead of his kilt.

  “Jeans? Very twenty-first century of you, Mr. Rankine.”

  “Aye,” he said. His shaking voice gave him away. He was as nervous as she was. A quick once over found no signs of other wounds, though there might be more.

  “I see you’re not immortal anymore.”

  “Just so,” he said.

  Someone gasped in the next aisle over, but she didn’t care, and went on with her inspection. “Tell me you didn’t cut your hair.”

  “Ponytail.” Now he was trying not to smile.

  “You still have the kilt? For…special occasions?”

  “Auch, aye. I am a Scotsman, after all.”

  Their eavesdropper gasped again.

  “Are there other wounds I should know about?”

  “A few to my heart, but nothing ye cannot heal.” His voice grew soft as he spoke, and his gaze came back to her. He opened his arms and she gingerly moved into the circle, then waited for him to do the squeezing this time.

  “Did you keep your promise?”

  “My vow? Aye, I admitted to Wickham that I had no talent with a swo
rd.”

  “So you didn’t cut yourself?”

  He scoffed, then relaxed when he saw she was joking. “But just because I do not use a blade doesnae mean my enemies did not.”

  “Tell me the danger is over.”

  He nodded. “The danger is over. And I promise to tell ye all about it soon enough. There is no rush, aye? I should think ye’d not want to wed a man with stitches all down his face.”

  “I’ve been waiting two months, Fisher.”

  “I ken it well, love. Haven’t I been waiting the same?”

  “If you think I’ll wait until you get your stitches out, you’re crazy.”

  He pulled her closer until his chin bumped her forehead. He tilted his head lower. His grin grew and when it reached his cut, he winced. “Fine, then. What must we do? Call the banns?”

  “I don’t know what that means, but we only have one call we have to make. To Aunt Penny.”

  “And then ye’ll be mine?”

  “And you’ll be mine, Mr. Rankine. All mine.”

  I hope you enjoyed Fisher and Martine’s story. Please return to the book’s product page and leave a quick review. Next to the stars, click on the words “customer reviews”, then scroll down until you see a box that reads “Write a customer review.” PLEASE DO NOT MENTION anything about Soni or her current dilemma.

  THE RECKONING, book #50 will be released in September. That book will change EVERYTHING, so you may want to get caught up on your ghosties before then.

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  Cheers!

  A note from the author

  Seriously?

  You thought I’d let you in on some secrets about Soncerae or Simon? Not a chance. There are too many surprises coming in The Reckoning, and I cannot trust myself not to give anything away.

  As for Fisher and Martine’s story, the setting of Paris was all too real for me. I travelled all over Europe with my French class after my Freshman year in college. I did some really dumb things, like sight-seeing in Paris alone, that taught me some really great lessons.