The inexplicable pull he felt toward her made him immediately suspicious. A beautiful damsel in distress left for them to stumble upon… She was the perfect bait. His jaw clenched as he recalled the lightning-like flash that had preceded her inexplicable presence here. Rage quickly flared in him. He would be damned if he fell for any of the Droch-draoidh’s tricks – damned if he allowed them to play to his desires at the cost of his clansmen’s lives.
“Easy there, brother!” Eògan cried in surprise when Taran reached down and gripped the girl by the throat.
Ailean’s expression darkened and muscles went rigid as Taran hoisted the frightened girl up by the neck and held her out at arms’ length. By sheer force of will, Ailean stood fast. He reached out and put a hand to Eògan’s chest. In response to Eògan’s infuriated look, he nodded and held up a hand signaling that they should trust Taran’s judgment and let this play out. Perhaps he had seen something they missed. You could never be too careful where the Droch-draoidh were concerned. Grudgingly, Eògan complied. It was not an easy thing for either of them to do as they watched the girl frantically attempt to fight off Taran’s hold on her.
“What do you want with us, witch?” Taran snarled as he bared teeth. “Come to catch us off guard and finish what your masters started? To prey on our mercy so you can slaughter us in our beds?”
The girl kicked and scratched and fought to be released. That was a difficult enough thing to witness, but when she forced her eyes open with a great deal of effort, Ailean and Eògan both curled their lips and looked away. The girl’s eyes had been burned out of their sockets.
They turned at the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls, surprised to see Ciaran, of all people, racing out into the vast chamber. When Ciaran’s gaze fell on Taran and the girl, he skidded to a halt and his expression turned to horror. Before they could begin to question why he was in such a state, his features twisted in fury.
“STOP!” Ciaran shouted with such urgency, it caused Taran to flinch and loosen his grip.
The girl drew in an awful, jagged breath. Ciaran shuddered at the sound of her suffering. Just listening to it caused him physical pain.
Drostan raced into the chamber, barely managing to stop in time to avoid colliding with Ciaran.
Taran watched in bewilderment as Ciaran approached, holding up his hands up pleadingly.
“Release her,” he demanded as he closed the distance between them. Every muscle in his body was tensed. “Do her no harm. Let her go.”
“She is likely a witch, and you would have me spare her life?” Taran scoffed before angrily declaring, “Take a look at yourself! Your very behavior all but confirms her guilt!”
Ciaran barely listened. All he could think of was getting her away from the threat and sparing her further injury. He felt the wolf in his blood rage and fight for control. His posture changed. His gaze turned violent as his eyes took on the telltale golden hue. “Do as I ask. Now, brother,” he urged in a deadly tone with the wolf plain in his voice.
Stunned by his brother’s completely uncharacteristic actions, Taran released his hold on the girl and let her fall to the floor. Ciaran immediately raced to her and dropped to his knees beside her.
Taran, Drostan, Ailean, and Eògan all exchanged deeply concerned looks as Ciaran spoke gently to the strange girl. To say his behavior was atypical was a drastic understatement. He never talked back to or stood up to Taran – not even once in the entire century they had been alive. He always deferred to his brother’s judgment. And he never took interest in women. He had barely given one a second glance since his making. Judging by his continued decision to apply his tribe’s mark of mourning to his left eye and scalp each day, he still grieved for his slain daughter and long-dead wife. The white paint served as a reminder that he was still haunted by his past, that his thoughts ever remained on what he had left behind.
“You are safe. No more harm shall come to you, I give my word. Steady now,” Ciaran soothed.
The girl recoiled from his touch at first, but quickly seemed to take comfort in his presence. Perhaps once she realized that he was not the one who harmed her, she let her guard down. Clearly relieved, she sobbed in a strange language and leaned into his touch. He fought back tears when she tried to look at him. She had been greatly wounded. Not just her burnt-out eyes, but her entire body showed evidence of battle and torture. He knew better than to suspect any of his brethren were to blame. This was unquestionably the work of the Droch-draoidh.
“What have those beasts done to you, dear, sweet girl?” he asked sorrowfully and brushed the hair back from her face. He studied what remained of her clothing. It was foreign in style and material. He had never in his long life seen garments like those she wore. “Where have you come from?” he asked. “Were you hiding here in the cave the whole time we fought and chased them away?”
She whimpered softly, sniffling as she shook her head, obviously too weary to speak.
“All right save your energy,” he said softly. “You need not speak. You have been through enough already. I have no wish to add to your burden.”
The girl attempted to speak in her unfamiliar language. She even gave a weak smile. He had to admire her spirit. Not many could attempt humor in her condition.
“I will need to have a look at these wounds and tend them. I cannot leave you as you are now,” he said quietly as looked over her arms and legs. “I hope you will not take my touch as threat. I take it you do not speak our language at all?”
The girl’s lack of a response was answer enough. He attempted several dialects seeking a common tongue with which to communicate, but she did not respond to any of them. He frowned severely, wondering just how far away her homeland was.
Despite not understanding his words, the girl was utterly relaxed in his presence. He was glad for it. She did not mind in the least when he began peeling away the tattered layers of her strange garments and surveying her many injuries. He took stock of them all, cataloguing what would be needed to aid her. They were at least two days’ travel from the nearest tribe that would welcome their kind, but it did not matter. He knew how to get what he needed from the surrounding forest.
Ciaran hailed from a long line of powerful witches, after all – not that it was common knowledge. Folk in these lands were fearful and suspicious of magic. His mortal tribe, however, had embraced it. After his mother’s death when he was just an infant, he had been raised by his grandmother. He spent his youth wandering his homeland, seeking out ingredients for her potions and spells. She taught him everything there was to know about herbs and roots – where to find them and their many uses. He smiled realizing that he had not thought back on those lessons in a mortal lifetime or more. His thoughts were usually far too dark for happy remembrances. It was a nice change to look back on something fondly.
The girl leaned into his hands as he continued his inspection. When he removed the tattered clothing from her shoulder and began checking a particularly deep wound for any debris, he discovered something wholly unexpected. The wound was closing. Healing right before his very eyes. Oh, and he could sense it now. The stronger she became, the more plainly he could feel the powerful wolf within her. His hands stilled as he gasped.
“You… are a wolf changeling?” he whispered in astonishment.
The girl spoke in reply, turning to face him and trying to look at him again. As she did, he watched in amazement as her eyes rapidly regenerated. She blinked repeatedly, and with each blink the blue and yellow of her irises became more vivid until, at last, they were perfectly clear. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.
Her gasp and exclamation told him that she was finally able to see him clearly. The look in her eyes was a bizarre mixture of recognition and alarm. As if he was who she was expecting to see – but not quite.
“What did you just say, brother?” Ailean asked curiously.
Ciaran opened his mouth to answer, but his attempt quickly derailed. The girl recoiled from his
brothers’ approach as if she was being attacked all over again. She did her best to hide away behind him. Her fear overwhelmed him. The wolf in him raged to her defense, growling in warning as he moved to shield her from harm. He barely registered the changes in his body – the talons and teeth that presented without thought.
“Steady there, brother!” Ailean pleaded as he held up his hands.
“No need to make a mess of anyone,” Eògan insisted. “No one is going to harm the girl.”
“Speak for yourselves!” Taran bellowed furiously as he cut around them. This had gone on long enough, he decided. He never should have allowed Ciaran within sight of this witch. “Do you not see the effect she is having on him after just a couple of moments? She has him under her spell already! He is doing her bidding! Threatening his own brothers!”
Ciaran turned slightly as she laid a hand on his back. It felt as if all the rage instantly drained from his body. He could sense that she had recovered from her fright. He marveled at her, at his need to defend her, at the way looking into her eyes seemed to clear away all the darkness from his mind.
“Step away from her now!” Taran snapped angrily, effectively drawing his attention. “She is bewitching you, brother. You are not yourself. Come away and let us put an end to this enchantress’ hold on you before she can do further harm.”
The girl let out a whimper that drew Ciaran’s attention back to her before his brother had finished his tirade. He frowned at the way she was staring at Taran – the wide-eyed fear and sadness in her gaze. She sobbed something under her breath and then, without warning, fainted.
18: Why We Fight
PRESENT DAY
It was the start of a long, cold night. The moon shone brightly in the cloudless sky, but it only illuminated the clan’s heavy dread and burgeoning despair. For some, frustration and rage were close to boiling over.
They had received word back from Sorcha, and it was utterly disheartening. She could not intervene. There was nothing She could do that would help. She assured that these events were fated and happening precisely as they must.
With a tenuous grip on his raw emotions and a growing disenchantment with the Moon Goddess he had always believed all-powerful, Taran continued staring at the cave mouth in the distance. Ciaran was seated beside him, unnervingly silent and still, looking haunted and utterly broken. He had not spoken a single word since conveying the feeling of separation from Skye. His eyes were affixed on the cave mouth, as well, but in a different way. Ciaran’s eyes were almost unblinking. Borderline catatonic.
Taran kept his arm wrapped around his brother’s shoulders protectively. Something in him was frightened by the look in his brother’s eyes – by the jarring, uncharacteristic stillness in him. It brought back memories of the years following their Making. The bone-deep grief that had plagued Ciaran, the way it had weighed upon him, weighed down every breath and step he took. The way he had seemed barely alive at all, nothing more than a shell of himself going through the motions of daily life.
Taran held on a bit tighter.
He chose to ignore the occasional, furtive glares that were directed his way by their clansmen. If any chose to voice their anger and lay blame upon him for Skye’s current predicament, Taran would put the offender easily back into their place. A part of him silently hoped that one of them would be foolhardy enough to speak their minds, though. That they would publicly blame him for failing to adequately protect their Queen. Tell him that this was all his fault for the centuries he spent mercilessly hunting down the Droch-draoidh. Insist that the least he could have done was ensure they were all slaughtered to prevent retaliation such as this…
The fight that would follow such brazen words would surely prove cathartic for Taran. Unfortunately, it would do little to soothe the part of him that felt deserving of their anger. While the rational side of him knew there was nothing more he could have done, it did not stop the undercurrent of guilt and rage.
He reminded himself of the horrors the Droch-draoidh had unleashed upon the world in the beginning, and the innumerable innocent lives that had been spared by his relentless pursuit of their kind. The truce had prevented him from warring with the fògaraich – it put no limits on him pursuing those responsible for such evil.
Originally, there had been five priests. They were the first of their kind – powerful sorcerers hellbent on expanding their dark power by any means. They captured countless mortals and warped them into a hierarchy of nightmarish creatures to serve their will. They had changed Brandubh and – in so doing – caused the creation of the entire fògarach breed.
During the first millennia, Taran and his men succeeded in killing four of the five original priests. Teàrlach was regrettably far more talented than the rest at staying hidden. If only Taran had managed to kill Teàrlach along with the rest of his horrid brethren, Skye would be safe right then… Taran did his best to shake off those thoughts and stay at the ready for whatever would come next.
The packs from the surrounding areas were converging on the site in the hopes that their presence might prove useful. For what, no one knew. Additional faoil were arriving every few minutes. Each stopped to greet Aiyana with the utmost respect and offer their thanks. Word had quickly spread of the mortal woman’s bravery and efforts to stand beside their Queen in battle. In the hopes that she might be able to sneak in and rescue Skye, Aiyana had even risked her life again to test whether she could still pass through the barrier. It had been a painful, injurious failure, but she had bandaged her hand and taken it in stride.
Several fires were lit as everyone milled around in tense silence. The sparse conversations that transpired were muted and somber. It felt like a funeral.
And Miko fucking hated it. He gritted his teeth to hold back a scream of frustration. He was beyond infuriated by the quiet acceptance of his clansmen, but the more he watched, the more he grudgingly understood. These were ancient beings. They were beasts, but also rational, seasoned warriors. They were no less frustrated or desperate than he was – they were simply more experienced in dealing with these emotions. They understood they had no options at the moment and had resigned themselves to the torment of waiting indefinitely for an opportunity to fight – be it to rescue their Queen or avenge her. Screaming, in-fighting, or otherwise venting would do them no good – they were saving all of their fury for their enemies.
After shifting back to human form, Miko had dressed on autopilot, pulling on the very first things he found in his bag. He went and sat with Aiyana and Elijah, the three of them using weapons cases as benches and a table while they serviced all of the guns. Still in shock, he failed to notice that he was severely underdressed for the cold until he felt a warm, oversized coat being draped over his shoulders. He looked up and found Ruarachan gazing down at him compassionately. The ancient gave him a nod of support, then patted his back and ruffled his hair before moving on. Miko nearly lost it. He had to take a few deep breaths to keep his emotions in check as he slid his arms into the coat and zipped it up. He returned his attention to the gun he had been cleaning and did his best to keep his hands steady. He had no idea if they would get to use these weapons again, but at least it was something they could do while they waited.
Elijah was seated beside him, methodically field stripping a rifle with practiced ease. The older faoil’s knee was pressed firmly against the side of Miko’s leg. Miko instinctively understood that Eli was not manspreading to be a prick. The contact was brotherly. It was a wordless means of offering support and comfort, a physical demonstration of their shared grief and fear for Skye, and a promise to stand with Miko in the coming fight.
Miko glanced around to monitor everyone’s current emotional states. Taran and Ciaran were seated nearby, both looking devastated and watching for any sign of Skye in the distance. When he looked in Aiyana’s direction, he found her eyes on him. She gave him a small, reassuring smile as she reassembled one of the pistols.
Another round of newly-arrived anc
ients approached then and greeted ‘Lady Aiyana.’
“The clan is forever in your debt for providing aid to our Queen,” one of them declared.
“Skye is more than just Queen, you know,” Miko reminded in a strained voice. Nearly every faoil turned their attention to him in response, curious to hear what he had to say. “She’s more than Taran’s mate and Ciaran’s BFFWB. More than Drostan’s pup and my Maker. More than a Goddess. More than some chosen ‘One.’ She’s our friend,” he stated firmly as Aiyana and Elijah nodded in agreement. “That’s why we fight for her. That’s why we’re not gonna give up hope.”
One of the ancients cast a pitying look at the three young ones so studiously prepping weapons and said quietly, “I’d heard the barrier is no longer permitting bullets to pass through…”
Aiyana laughed loudly at that. She did not bother looking up from her work as she declared confidently, “Yeah, well, this is SKYE we’re talking about. That chick is way too strong and stubborn to stay trapped for long. She’s both been there and done that. Sure, that big, gnarly-looking monster caught her off guard, but he’s lost the element of surprise now. Skye’s gonna come back up swinging – just you wait. She will find a way – any way – to bring that barrier down. And the second she does? We’ll be ready.”
To punctuate that statement, Aiyana slid a fresh high-capacity clip into place.
Taran took a steadying breath, extremely comforted by and thankful for the mortal woman’s confidence in the face of such terrible odds. Wherever Skye was and whatever she was enduring, she had a pack of loyal friends and family anxiously awaiting her return.
PAST – APPROXIMATELY 2,000 BC
When Skye regained consciousness, she kept her eyes closed and listened for a while trying to get a read on the situation. Ailean, Eògan, and Drostan were far off in the distance talking in hushed tones. She could hear dozens of other voices in the tunnels nearby, but they were evidently not permitted any closer to her.
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