Chapter 8

Speal tethered the skiff to some rocks before she waded through the shallows, glancing around at Ronalsee's empty shores. To the north she saw the rotted remains of an old dock, likely built by the Norse to moor their longboats when they came to camp between mainland raids. Not far from it the ground had been leveled, and the remnants of stone fire pit circles still showed through the ground cover.

"Och, the place reeks," Dearg complained as she slogged out of the water. "Naught could live among so much mayweed and sea scum."

While working at the fish monger's stand at the docks in Aberdeen she'd grown accustomed to strong, unpleasant odors, so Speal hardly noticed the stench. The little shifter had always inserted herself into the pampered life of the wealthy young maidens she killed and replaced, where she likely hadn't had to tolerate the smell of her own sweat.

"They'd burn the weeds if they came to work or camp here during the warm seasons," Speal said as she climbed a hard-packed dune and stood to survey the small island's interior. "'Tis likely a place they visit in winter, when the fish swim down from the colder waters."

"Winter's over, Sister." Dearg joined her, shaking out the wet hems of her skirts before frowning at the solitary silhouette on the horizon. "That there, 'tis a Pritani standing stone. The savages gather round the thing when they hold rituals and such. 'Tis where they'd invite their gods so they might possess the lads of their tribe, and bestow on them dark powers."

"'Tis too large, and the tribes never came so far north." Speal nodded toward the monolith. "'Twas left by Mar for some purpose, I'll wager. Stay here and keep watch."

The trek to the standing stone took Speal most of an hour, due to the rocky ground and bogs that had formed between the shore and the spot. Along the way she looked for any sign of recent activity, but only came across some old burial markers, their carvings nearly scoured away by the elements. They, too, appeared to be Pritani, and made her wonder if the water elemental prince had fashioned them in that manner to disguise what they truly were.

A stained rock too large, flat and gleaming to be natural caught her eye, and Speal stopped to crouch and pull back the moss covering it. The carvings etched on the smooth face of the stone had been blackened by soot from a fire built atop them, or so she thought until she touched them. Instead the slickness of something like glass moved against her skin, and she imagined a young Pritani kneeling atop it as his blood spilled on the rock.

'Tis where they'd invite their gods so they might possess the lads of their tribe, and bestow on them dark powers.

She stood and kicked the moss back over the carvings, moving away from the thing with slow, cautious steps. Such places of power were said to hold the magic of the spells cast there, and the last thing she wished was to be ridden by a Pritani god intent on changing her.

Get on with what you came for.

As soon as Speal drew close to the standing stone her skin reacted again, but this time in the exact same way it did near Derdrui. That should have stopped her, yet she became oddly fascinated with the old monolith. The moment she stepped within reach of the carved stone the air around her began to shimmer with faint blue and green lights. The face of the thing, weathered exactly like the burial markers, took on a faint luster in the sun. When she took another step closer, the stone's surface lit up, showing waves and spirals that formed beautiful patterns.

'Tis my Fae blood the thing senses,Speal thought, fascinated. The magic, 'twouldnae appear before an ordinary mortal.

She wanted badly to reach out and touch the surface of the stone, but instead forced herself to take a step back. As she did her boot touched a flat stone, and suddenly she fell into a blackness so insidious she wondered if her life had ended. Then a column of blue-green water appeared, forming itself into the shape of a tall, handsome man.

What do you here, Therion-born?

Speal nearly sank to her knees before she realized that she had come face-to-face with her sovereign's dead lover, Prince Mar.

"I dinnae explain myself for spirits," she told him, trying to stand taller. "Begone with you."

You're like my sons, a halfling. Mar smiled as if she'd pleased him. Beware the vengeance you seek, for 'tis as much against you as me and mine.

She uttered a sour laugh. "Why should my princess wish to take revenge against those she's saved and protected? 'Twas a vicious fool like you sired and abandoned us. Derdrui only ever saved the Cait Sith."

I sired only sons, Halfling. The prince's expression grew sad. Often I wished for a daughter.

The darkness vanished, and Speal found herself standing in front of the stone again, as if the encounter had been entirely imagined. Perhaps it had been, she thought as she turned away and began to walk back to the shore. The light seemed much dimmer than it had when they'd arrived on the island, but clouds cloaked the sky now. She hadn't slept more than an hour since leaving Insii Orc, and the weight of her responsibilities as well as her deceptions had grown more onerous by the day.

Tomorrow, after the change, I shall put Teine in charge and rest.

She found Dearg curled up in a bed of moss, her young face so pale for a moment she thought she might be dead. Then she saw how the tips of her fingernails had grown pointed, and glanced at the horizon, where she caught a glimpse of the full moon between two clouds. Behind it the sky had already turned violet.

"Fack me." She grabbed the little Cait Sith, tossing her over her shoulder as she hurried to the skiff. Praying the wind would get them to the boat in time, she placed Dearg in the center of the small vessel before she pushed it out into the currents.

The change began halfway back to the vessel, but Fiacail had taught Speal how to resist it long enough to get to a place of safety. Dearg had never learned to hold back, so when the moonlight touched her body her black Therion fur began to sprout all over her flesh. She opened her eyes, the pupils of which shrank to slits, and screeched as she jumped up and stared around her.

"'Tis twilight," she said, staring at Speal as fangs elongated from her mouth. "We'll go mad and drown."

"You shall sit down and control your urges," she told her. "The boat, 'tis just there. We'll reach our sisters in time."

Tremors danced over her skin as the moonlight silvered them both, and the time of transformation arrived. The wind suddenly grew fierce, hurling the skiff the last stretch of water and then slamming it into the hull.

Speal grabbed Dearg by her neck and flung her up onto the rope ladder before climbing on behind her. As the little shifter screeched for help Teine and several others reached down for her, catching her taloned hands and pulling her over the railing. All was left for her to do was climb the last rungs, she thought, and then she would let go.

Or I may let go now, and drown.

Glancing down at the water that had swallowed up Fiacail made Speal's grip on the ropes loosen. She'd often thought about ending her miserable life, but her eldest sister had always sensed it, and used her love for the others to persuade her to remain. She was sorry for the other Cait Sith, and what they would likely suffer in service to Derdrui, but she'd grown so tired she couldn't remember why she should share in that.

"Sister."

Speal looked up to see Dearg, who had not yet completely transformed into her true form, holding out both arms over the railing. "Must I?"

"Aye, for Teine shall surely butcher me if you're gone from us." Something like love glowed in the little shifter's feline eyes. "If I may yet find reason for living, then so shall you."

Hearing one of Fia's favorite sayings coming from the blackened lips of her killer should have ended it all for Speal. Instead, it reminded her that no one would ever love her as her sisters did—even when that came from the most damaged, twisted shifter of them all.

As black fur rippled over her flesh, she reached up and took hold of Dearg's paws.

Nyall surprised themen on duty at the stronghold tower by appearing without notice, but as he'd expected they all stood watch in their proper positions, prepared as ever to sound an alarm if any enemy approached the island or the stronghold. Once he'd spoken with the duty chief, who reported nothing unusual of occurrence, he went back downstairs and made his way to the infirmary.

Duncan sat in front of an over-built fire, his tartan wrapped over his head and shoulders as he cradled a steaming brew in his hands. The misery evident on his face came from his mortal weakness, which caused him to suffer for a time the same pain as those he attended. To preserve his pride Nyall and the rest of the clan pretended to be unaware of his affliction.

As soon as he saw him the healer straightened and shrugged off the plaid, behaving as if nothing bothered him. "What now?"

"Mistress Parish cut her hand last night." He could see Duncan was in no condition to look in on Caroline, which meant he'd have to do it. "'Twasnae a grievous injury. Give me some healing salve and bandages, and I'll attend her."

"Why then didnae you come last night?" The healer rose, favoring one shoulder and hobbling a little. From his shelves he collected a small crock and a roll of clean linen, putting both in his hands. "If 'twere anyone else asking, I'd reckon them using such as an excuse so they might see the lady."

"She's no lady," Nyall said without thinking. "Mistress Parish doesnae wish us coddle her. I mean only give her what she needs keep the wound from festering."

"Ballocks you do." Duncan's dark eyes lit up with amusement. "Bid her wash the cut well with soap and water before you apply the salve. 'Tis best she keep the bandage loose."

That reminded him. "When Fletcher's wife wore Lady Joana's ring, she healed quickly, didnae she?"

"That wound on her head when first she came scabbed over within hours, aye." The healer frowned. "Lady Valerie's bruising after she arrived faded quite swiftly as well. You reckon the ring heals the wearer?"

"If the thing could do such, Lady Joana would yet live." Duncan's suggestion made him uneasy, however. "I shall look after the lady."

"If the wound festers, bring her here," the healer called after him.

Nyall thought of a hundred reasons to wait until morning before he saw Caroline again; his reaction to her admitting her refusal of Jamaran still shamed him. He knew it unseemly to go to her chamber, and yet there his feet took him without hesitation. As he stood before her door he imagined turning and walking away which, given his reactions to her, would be both wise and prudent. He would not further complicate his situation with her or the Finfolk commander by any means that could be so easily avoided.

"Hi, there." Caroline appeared at his side, a bundle of linen in her arms. "Looking for me?"

He stepped back from her. "Duncan sent some salve and bandages for your hand."

"Duncan did, huh?" Her lips curved as she opened the door. "Come in."

Nyall considered shoving the medical supplies at her and leaving, but he needed to see that her wound was healing first. Following her inside, he tried not to watch her as she placed the bundle on the bed. She had just bathed, judging by the dampness of her hair and sweet smell of her skin, and had dressed in a long tunic and trews that fit her better than the last set of garments she'd worn. His gaze shifted to the wet suit she'd hung on the drying rack by the window as he tried to distract himself, but then she gestured for him to follow her.

"It's easier to do this over here," she said, leading him to the bed, where she sat down and held out her hand in the lamp light.

Gathering himself, Nyall walked over and put down the supplies before he took hold of her wrist and inspected the cut. It had already scabbed over well, as if she had cut herself a week past instead of a day, and showed no signs of festering.

"It's fine," Caroline said, and eyed the crock of salve. "I don't want that on it, either. I don't know what's in it, but it stinks like old sneakers."

"Duncan makes salves that heal, no' perfume. 'Tis due to the yarrow, which helps healing." From her expression that wasn't going to sway her, and the cut did appear almost healed. "At least permit me bandage you."

"I'm going diving again tomorrow," she warned as he began winding the linen around her finger. "Lark needs some abalone shells for button making. Brochan needs more shellfish. I need not to go crazy and climb the walls."

Nyall knew only too well what she meant; he'd often experienced an overwhelming need to escape the stronghold just after Tiree's death. It disturbed him how much he wished he could go with her. He'd never resented his duties until this moment, but his desires meant nothing. Serving the clan had to come before what he wished to do.

"You shouldnae go alone." He took out his short knife to cut the bandage, and tucked the end under the edge to hold it. "I shall send a guard with you."

"I don't need guarding." She deliberately ducked her head to look into his eyes. "I won't bleed in the water, and if I see any sharks, I'll come ashore."

"'Tis likely you shallnae see the white-mouth until 'tis just upon you." As she jerked her hand out of his grasp his temper shredded. "Mistress Parish, you claim you ken the nature of such creatures, and how they may attack without warning or reason. 'Tis one hunting in our waters that killed and devoured at least one man and a dozen new lambs. Dinnae behave like some fool maiden."

Thunder resounded outside, as if warning him to remain calm.

"Right, because I'm a woman, and I can't think for myself with my lady brain. You know where the door is, Captain." She got off the bed, and when he caught her arm she looked down at his hand. "You really want to do this with me? I don't fight fair. Ask Shaw."

"Nor I." Nyall slid his hand from her elbow to her shoulder. "I ken what 'tis burning inside you, Caroline. I've carried the same for all my life. Only ken that willfulness, 'twillnae protect you in the sea. Nor shall your anger."

She bowed her head, her dark hair covering her face from his gaze, and then she leaned against him, her arms circling his waist. The wordless embrace startled him, and then sent a wave of lust through him so intense he thought he might drag her over to the bed, and tear off her garments. From the manner with which she pressed her hands against his back he suspected she wanted the same. Then she moved away from him, stiffly and slowly, as if it cost her to do so.

"I am angry, and stubborn, and I don't like being told what to do, especially by men," Caroline said, her voice dropping low. "Only I'm not stupid or reckless. I've been diving since I was a child, and I know how to take care of myself in the water. I've faced dozens of sharks over the years, and I know how to deal with them."

She wanted his trust, Nyall realized, before she gave him hers.

"Look at me." When she lifted her head he reached out to brush some dark strands from her cheek, and then pressed his fingers against the soft warmth of her skin. "'Tis my duty, telling others what they may or maynae do here. 'Tis but so I may protect the lives of all who dwell on the island. Dinnae take my words for more than such."

"So, that's it? You just want to keep me alive?" Her eyes widened as he bent his head and brushed a kiss on her mouth. "Captain."

"'Tis more I wish, Caroline. You drag at me with a glance. You're lovely beyond words." He sifted his fingers through her dark locks, relishing the silken slide against his skin. "I imagine reasons so I may see you, and speak with you, and touch you. A woman I've ken but two days. 'Tisnae the time for such, my lady. I'll wager you think the same."

She pressed her lips together, but then nodded.

"Agree that you'll no' swim out beyond the shallows, and speak with no Selseus but the commander," he suggested, releasing her and stepping back. "'Twill spare me much grief and great distraction."

"Jamaran is asking his king if I can visit their settlement." She folded her arms. "If Merrick gives me permission, I'm going. I don't need yours."

Nyall gave her a stiff nod. "He shall ever look after you well. Fair night."

"Captain," she said before he reached the door. "If this happens, I want you to come with us. I'm really only safe when I'm with both of you."

She could not have said anything more pleasing, or maddening, to him. "Aye, my lady."

From there Nyall went to the lists, drawing his sword as he stepped onto the hard-packed dirt. Three clansmen stood practicing throwing daggers at targets; all of them bowed, collected their blades and abruptly left.

As if I'm Shaw in a temper, Nyall thought as he marched toward the target posts.

He imagined the straw bundle tied to the first post he reached as the vicious partner who had abandoned Caroline to die in the sea. He could well envision such a spineless, worthless bastart whose greed for treasure outweighed the value of a woman's life. Like the raiders who killed for what they could pillage, he'd had no heart nor any reason to exist.

As Nyall struck the target, cutting it and the pole in two, dozens of bolts of lightning streaked overhead, turning the dark sky a ghostly white.

Shaw gathereda stack of wet driftwood, his touch drying and then setting flame to them so he could cook the two fish he'd caught. He'd likely use his tartan to drape some rocks higher on the shore to fashion a shelter for the night. He'd walked steadily since leaving Dun Ard, and knew he still had more than three-quarters of the island's shoreline yet to search. Two weeks rather than one would likely go by before he returned to the stronghold, unless he coaxed MacLeir into ferrying him to the mainland.

Aye, go where live thousands, that's the wiser course.

The damnable itching of his arm had finally subsided at noon, and while the darkness still roiled inside him the beast had stopped poking at his thoughts. Shaw liked to sleep under the stars, especially away from Dun Ard, and expected this night would be a peaceful one. He'd not had many of those since the women from the future had begun arriving on the island.

And now that dark one, with eyes that see through me.

Caroline Parish might look like a man's fevered dream, but she had recognized the truth of what he held inside him. His notice of her keenness had roused his beast like nothing else could, for beyond killing anything that moved, it wished to remain hidden. Shaw suspected it feared something connected to it being revealed, as from the moment Caroline had struck him, it slavered for the dark beauty's blood.

Why 'tis my fate, that I must serve as caldron for such a hideous stew?

He would never know the entire truth, and sometimes that plagued him more than the burden of the beast. When the tribe's shaman had brought him to the standing stone for their strange ritual, Shaw should have fought to the death to avoid being swallowed up by their dark magic. Yet he'd been only a lad, and assumed being inked was nothing more than being marked a slave. The prayers their shaman had offered up to their gods had seemed silly. Only when the fire they had built with bones had turned black atop the prayer stone did he realize what had come for him, and by then it had been too late. The shaman had dragged and then thrust him on his knees before the blackness. It had enveloped him, sinking into and becoming part of him.

Since then that nameless, featureless beast from the bone fire had dwelled inside him, as much a part of his heart as his own spirit.

Bitterly Shaw knew if he'd never been enslaved he might have become a different man, a better man. As a lad his brothers had ever teased him for his name, which Prince Mar had told him in Fae meant "wolf of the wood." He'd named him thus because even as a bairn he had been swift and silent, and his looks reminded Mar of Eilonwy's stunning beauty, something that his then mortal wife had tolerated. His sire hadn't realized then that Shaw's mortal affliction, which caused anything made of wood to burn when he touched it, would make a mockery of his name. His màthair had urged him not to take offense, for he had gifts the other lads envied.

Lasses shall ever chase after you for your beauty, my boy. Only take care, for 'tis your heart that matters, no' your face.

Since being freed from enslavement Shaw had hoped the curse that the tribe had inflicted on him would end, and he could prove that he deserved a place among the MacMar. It had taken centuries for him to accept that, like his Fae blood, the beast would always remain a part of him.

"What do you here, Chieftain?" a deep, familiar voice asked from the shadows.

He glanced over as Merrick walked out into the moonlight. For a moment he hated seeing the tall, golden-haired aquatic, for his beauty could be like the sun, even in darkness. Shaw knew he looked much the same, but beneath his prettiness lay a yawning abyss of the grotesque, unseen as yet by anyone...except, perhaps, Caroline Parish.

"I'm luring kings out from the safety of their palaces and personal guards," Shaw told him, keeping his resentment off his face. "'Twould seem I've much talent for such."

"Och, lad, I came here long before you. Indeed, I've been sent so I might wait on your arrival." The big male crouched down in front of his fire. "'Twould seem you've only lured a few sea trout—a puny pair at that. Need I teach you how you may better fish?"

He knew Nyall wouldn't have asked the king to come after him, and Fletcher had still been on the other side of the island when he'd left. That left one brother who harassed him almost as much as his facking arm.

"Duncan cannae keep his mouth shut," Shaw said, fisting his hands.

"He spoke with your laird, I expect. In truth, 'twas Connal asked me find and send you back. He worries, the lad." Merrick's blue-gold eyes caught the firelight and glittered as he looked over him. "You've no' cut the ink from your arm, and you seem clear-eyed tonight. Why, you've even spoken with a civil tongue, at least, what passes for one with you. Why plague you your brothers by scampering off?"

"I live for naught more," Shaw assured him.

The king made a musing sound. "I'll guess 'twas something with that hot-tempered dark wench caught up with my commander and your captain. She's a beauty, although I'm told her tongue, 'tis as sharp as a blade. Connal seems uneasy with her as well."

He hated that the other man could read him so easily.

"'Tis best I stay far from her for now." He didn't even like talking about the diver, so he quickly changed the subject. "You should go and pester Fletcher for news of Meg. I wonder if she's set her cap on one of those fine Mackay lads yet."

"I pray she has every morn and night," Merrick told him, sounding sincere. "For I can offer her naught but more pain. She's suffered enough on my account."

For a moment he envied the other man, whom he suspected had fallen in love with the fiery-haired chambermaid from the moment she'd arrived on Caladh. She'd been a child then, but even when she came into her maidenhood the king still avoided her for a time. Merrick's people had some taboo about red-haired females, and refused to let them join their kind. Atop that, Meg had no wish to be queen or live in the sea, and the king had already used his one chance to transform a mortal in order to save Jamaran's life. It seemed ridiculous that the two of them should give their hearts to each other, and yet they had without reservation.

Seeing them together made that plain to everyone, which was why Meg had chosen to leave Dun Ard and go to work on the other side of Caladh, which was as far as she could get away from Merrick and still remain on the island.

"Apologies," Shaw said. "I shouldnae add to your torment. You may tell my eldest brother I'm well, and shall return when I may again best serve him." That time might never come, but the king didn't need to know that much.

"Which 'tis the same as saying you're in trouble, eejit." Merrick's gaze shifted to his arm. "You've endured your Pritani affliction for centuries. Why now do you fight so desperately? What torments you? Surely no' the wench." As he started to shake his head he added, "I shallnae say a word, you've my vow."

The temptation to tell the king all grew almost overwhelming; keeping silent all this time had been almost as much a torment as resisting. Yet if Merrick knew exactly what lay inside Shaw, he would kill him this very night. As wise a course as that seemed, he wasn't yet ready to die—not when he suspected he could hold out a little longer.

Then, too, were the dreams that had come to him of late. He saw himself in a dozen strange seas, always near drowning before a golden-haired female merrow with strange eyes found him, and saved him. Indeed, she'd held him and kissed him like a lover before the beast poured out of him and took her instead. Night after night Shaw woke with the taste of that wench on his lips, as if she had in truth come to his bed. Yet if he spoke of such to Merrick, the king would think his mind slipping.

That left the only other concern that kept Shaw alive.

"When that facking bitch Derdrui finds Caladh, and she shall, I reckon, you and my brother shall need release the plague inside me. 'Tis enough to vanquish even a Fae enchantress as powerful as she." Shaw met the king's gaze, and let a little of the beast show in his eyes. "And any who stand in my way."

Merrick nearly recoiled before he caught himself. "You're a heartless bastart."

"Indeed, and a terror beyond your imagining," Shaw agreed. "The Pritani marched me into battle with them, until word spread of my arm, and their enemies ran at the very sight of me." He hated those memories even more than the blood-drenched ones. "Some caught between the tribe's lines fell on their blades rather than face me."

The king sighed. "Then you must do as you reckon best. For my part, I shall keep my word."

He checked the fish, and offered one to him. "Have some sea trout. 'Tis better cooked than raw."