by Hazel Hunter
Chapter Three
FROM THE EDGE of the remote highland village Danar watched the dissipating storm. Everything in him yearned to spread his concealed Sluath wings and soar up into the cold, wet clouds. It was how his kind moved through the mortal realm to cull human souls. He’d always relished the hunt, but here it no longer sustained him and his kind. Only in the underworld could they do as they wished with the humans they captured. Since becoming stranded in the mortal realm, he and his kind had to live as their prey did, hiding themselves in this plodding settlement.
Each day it grew more unbearable.
Two sentries trudged down from the ridges, their harsh, low voices drawing the big demon’s attention. Since being exiled, most of the Sluath bickered incessantly over the slightest disagreement.
“There’s no sport in hunting the mud-crawlers in the caves,” one said flatly. “The stone will not change, and they have no dark sight.”
“So they could not have sealed the last gate,” the second countered. “I told you, it was one of us.”
Some of the deamhanan still believed a traitor among them had sealed off every gate to the underworld. It seemed a nonsensical notion to Danar, as the traitor would also suffer the deprivations of being banished to the realm of humans. No, whoever had done this had acted out of hatred. Since mortal magic had been employed to barricade the gates, it would seem like the work of the five Pritani rebels who had escaped them.
Yet since fleeing the underworld the Mag Raith had become immortal, like the Sluath. That had never happened in all the millennia since the demons had begun hunting and enslaving humans. Before the rebels, no one had ever escaped the underworld.
Danar paused.
That wasn’t strictly true, but he had to cast his mind far back into the distant past.
“You seem troubled, deamhan,” a low, gloating voice said. “Might I provide aid in some manner?”
Danar glanced at the overly proud face of the tall, dark-haired druid who had joined him. Galan Aedth had willingly agreed to serve the Sluath, which betrayed much of his dark character. In return for his help, Prince Iolar had agreed to resurrect his dead mortal wife. The bargain hadn’t set well with the rest of the deamhanan, who despised mortals. The druid now had wings and some of the prince’s power, however, and his ability to reincarnate made his mortal soul virtually worthless to the Sluath.
Galan had adapted well to being Iolar’s mortal toady. This morning his gray eyes looked as chilly as ever, but the mortal betrayed his agitation by the dart of his gaze.
“You stink of failure, again,” Danar said mildly. “Lost more of your spies, have you? That won’t endear you to the prince.”
The druid’s mouth thinned. “The few yet capable of searching shall soon die of plague. We must capture and transform more.”
A shout from the guards made Danar turn to see a deamhan emerging from the fringe of the storm. His blackened, flailing wings barely kept him aloft. Danar snapped out orders to the guards to catch him. Despite their speed the injured scout fell to the ground, splattering the dirt with dark blood. Arrow shafts protruded from his withering torso, each emitting tell-tale wisps of smoke.
“He’s been shot with iron,” one of the guards muttered, backing away.
“I have eyes, you fool,” Danar told him as he knelt down beside the dying Sluath. “Serca, who attacked you?”
“Pritani rebel.” The demon writhed, clutching at the shaft sprouting from his neck. He tugged it out and choked out, “He took her. Your reader. She fell from… storm.”
“You saw the Mag Raith capture Nellie Quinn?” Danar demanded. “Which direction did he fly?”
Serca uttered a strangled sound, and then went still. As all Sluath did in death, he turned ashen and his body began to wrinkle and shrink in on itself. Danar rose and backed away from the corpse, the taste of the iron smoke souring his mouth.
Galan cautiously approached to inspect the remains. “I ken those arrows. The Mag Raith shaman did this.”
“Have this body burned,” Danar told him before he headed for the biggest cottage in the Sluath-controlled village.
Inside the wattle-and-daub walls Prince Iolar had used their mortal slaves to greatly improve his temporary abode. Bleached hides and furs covered the floor, and the walls had been painted white. A huge brazier in the center of the front room blazed with white fire atop golden coals. Two young females, both recently captured, knelt on either side of a raised platform hewn from the palest stone in the highlands. The mortals, their hands clasped tightly behind them, stared up at the magnificent figure perched atop an enormous, feather-stuffed cushion.
“My prince.” Danar bowed and waited to be addressed.
“Tell me you have reserved more females to entertain me,” Iolar said, sounding bored as he studied his gilded claw tips. “For these two will not last the night.”
Though the news brought by the dying scout might provoke the sullen prince’s wrath, Danar knew that holding it back would only make Iolar more furious later, especially as the flapper had been locked away with a particular prize.
“Serca saw Nellie Quinn fall from the storm,” he told the prince. “The rebel shaman, Edane, shot him with iron and took her. It would seem she did escape with the other females.”
“Your touch-reader still breathes?” Iolar shot to his feet, his agitation sending a whirl of snow through the cottage. “What about my fucking treasure?”
“I’ve told you all. The scout died before I could learn anything more.” Danar saw the fury growing in the prince’s eyes and quickly added, “The reader knew much about our magic. She has seen us use the storm portal for centuries, and she knew what you valued. Sending your treasure to a time and place that only she knew would be shrewd of her. I believe that’s the reason she came here rather than return to her era.”
“So, I was right. All this time it was that thieving slut.” Iolar grabbed one of the females by the hair and flung her across the cottage. She hit the wall, fell to the floor and whimpered. “Where is that idiot druid?”
“Here, my prince,” Galan said. He had obviously followed Danar to eavesdrop, but now came in and bowed. “It seems the Mag Raith have ended another of your men. Mayhap we should create more spies to aid in our search for the rebels.”
Danar held back a sigh as he stepped aside.
The prince kicked the brazier directly at the druid, showering him with its contents. Shimmering light engulfed Galan’s form as the white-flaming coals bounced off and rolled away to turn into scorched stones. Since Iolar had given the druid some of his power as well as wings, Galan had learned to protect his fragile mortal body.
The power would not last forever, however. Danar looked forward to that day with ever-growing eagerness.
“I don’t care about the rebels, you idiot,” Iolar shouted. “The conniving bitch who stole my treasure has come here. Send your spies to find Nellie Quinn.”
Chapter Four
EDANE STOOD WAITING outside the door of his chamber, wondering if he should insist on Nellie remaining in bed. On the chieftain’s advice he’d told her everything they knew about the Sluath, and what little Domnall and Jenna had recalled about their escape from the underworld. All he held back was revealing their immortality and their powers, which the chieftain thought should wait until they knew more about the lass.
“I’m not in my time anymore, am I?” had been Nellie’s only question. When he shook his head and told her she’d traveled back to the fourteenth century she seemed unsurprised. “Yeah, I figured. No cars or electric lights.”
Coaxing her to eat had been difficult. Her limbs appeared too thin, and she trembled a great deal, suggesting the Sluath had starved her. Yet after only a few spoons of oatmeal she’d declared herself full, and ready to meet his clan. She’d also asked for several things that mystified him, and had pouted a little after he’d told her they had no mirror, rouge or lipstick.
“Guess I’ll just have to look like an
old lady for now.” She held up the gown he’d brought, and pursed her lips. “Golly, and dress like one.”
“You cannae help but be fetching,” Edane said. “Even wrapped in wool.”
“Looking good is job number one.” For a moment she sounded uncertain, and then she squared her shoulders and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Shoo and let a girl get dolled up, will you?”
Listening to the sounds of her dressing now made Edane smile a little. She might have looked the lad from her back, but the memory of seeing her naked at arm’s length still made his blood run hot.
It had been too long since he’d felt the desire for a lover. Some unattached dru-widesses of the Moss Dapple had offered him sex now and then, but they’d reserved their affections for men of their own tribe. Knowing they were regarded as unsuitable as mates, Edane and his brothers rarely indulged in more than the briefest of trysts.
Now Edane couldn’t help recalling the beauty of Nellie’s high, small breasts, or speculating how perfectly they would fit against his palms. He’d never known a female with such a glowing bloom to her skin, as if she did nothing but laugh and smile. It matched perfectly the open bloom of her scent, like that of a glen speckled with wildflowers. The same warmth sheened her brown curls with gold, and glinted in the bronzed green of her eyes.
Yet for all her comeliness, Nellie’s unique character tugged at him with equal intensity. She seemed very different than Jenna and Rosealise, and not simply because she appeared younger and spoke in such a strange manner. Edane liked her easy laughter, her airy movements, and the quick, lively way she spoke. Small as she was, she reminded him more of a bird. With her coloring she might have been a woodlark cheerily warbling to greet the dawn.
Mayhap one morning she’ll wake in my arms.
The door behind him swing open, and Edane turned to see Nellie’s bright smile. His gaze fell to the gown, from which she’d ripped away the sleeves and some of the length. She’d also dampened her hair and arranged it in curls over her ears and a straight fringe that covered most of the bandage on her brow. She’d put on the slippers he’d borrowed from Rosealise, but tied them in a curious fashion with strips from the gown, knotting the linen over her instep and tying the ends in a bow.
“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll have to start signing autographs.” She stood on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his, and her breath warmed his mouth. “Thanks for waiting.”
The habit she made of kissing him unsettled Edane, but he assumed it was the custom of her time. He also enjoyed it too much to ask her to stop.
“I’m yours to command, my lady.”
“Then you’re every girl’s dream fella.” She stepped around him and took hold of his un-inked arm. “Come on, let’s do the hello-theres.”
Edane guessed she didn’t like the Sluath skinwork on his other arm. Jenna and Rosealise had felt the same just after escaping the underworld. Yet each time Nellie touched him he felt the ink on his skin react to her. The same had happened to Domnall and Jenna, and Mael and Rosealise, yet their brands matched. Edane’s looked nothing like Nellie’s.
He wanted her to be his lady, but Jenna had no more memory of the lass than he did. Since their skinwork differed they’d likely never met in the underworld. Yet taking charge of Nellie meant he would constantly be with her until she adjusted to her new life at Dun Chaill. Perhaps in time she would come to see him as a desirable mate.
Certainly, the kisses she lavished on him gave Edane some hope.
He walked with her to the great hall, where only Jenna and Domnall waited for them. Both looked welcoming, yet as they approached Nellie’s hold on his arm tightened.
“You’ve naught to fear,” he assured her before performing the introductions.
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Nellie bobbed a little to Domnall, and then saw the direction of the other woman’s gaze. “Say, sorry if I spoiled your rags, sister. Haven’t worn sleeves since I was a tot, see?” She extended her hand. “Hope we’ll be pals.”
“Of course.” Jenna smiled and clasped her hand for a moment. “We know you’ve been through a lot, and we want you to be comfortable here.”
“Danny—Edane—said we’re in Scotland. That’s the place on top of England where they play bagpipes, right?” As Jenna nodded Nellie laughed. “Well, what do you know. I’ve never been west of…ouch.” She touched her temple. “Jeepers, I just can’t shake this hangover.”
Edane heard a faint note of strain in her voice, and saw how her fingers trembled. “’Tis from a spell that compelled you to forget your past, my lady.”
“Dinnae force a recollection,” Domnall added, “for ‘twill only cause you pain.”
“Got enough of that from conking my head, Chief.” Nellie jerked her chin toward the trestle table they used for meals. “You boys build that?”
“Aye.” Edane guided her over and sat with her on one of the long benches. “When we came to the castle the hall stood empty. My brothers and I have since made all the furnishings.”
Something flickered through her eyes before they rounded. “Huh. So, where’s the rest of the clan?”
“Not far away,” Jenna said, exchanging a wry look with her husband. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at first.”
“Seven’s hardly a crush,” Nellie told her. “Now that I’m here, might as well let everyone have a good look at me.”
Chapter Five
AS CHIEFTAIN, DOMNALL should have presided over Nellie’s presentation to the clan, but he quietly handed off the task to Jenna. He could tell that his wife felt delighted to have another American at Dun Chaill, and wished to make the lass feel at ease. Standing back and watching Nellie speak to his men also gave Domnall the chance to observe reactions on both sides.
Although the American seemed to be as Edane had claimed, something about the lass did not suit her friendly behavior. Nellie’s strange remark in the great hall—Seven’s hardly a crush—also prodded his suspicions. She had known before meeting the rest of the clan how many of them lived at Dun Chaill.
Mayhap a fortunate guess.
Domnall didn’t believe in luck, however.
In his role as the clan’s seneschal Mael ranked second only to the chieftain, so Jenna first introduced him. As the largest of the Mag Raith he loomed over the little flapper, but Domnall noted again the ease in her expression. She seemed happy to meet his second, yet at the same time she drew back her feet, tensed and leaned forward, as if preparing to flee.
“’Tis a pleasure to have you with us, my lady.” With care Mael took the hand Nellie offered and bowed over it.
“Aren’t you just a man mountain?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him before smiling at his mate. “This gorgeous doll yours?”
Nothing in her voice indicated that Nellie felt nervous, but the chieftain saw a slight trembling of her skirt. Beneath it he’d wager her knees were shaking.
Mael grinned. “Aye, my wife and the clan’s housekeeper, Rosealise Dashlock Mag Raith.”
The flapper’s hand remained steady as she drew it back and regarded the other woman, perplexing Domnall.
What yet frightens her?
Rosealise offered a slightly cooler smile. Because her touch compelled others to do as she bid, she did not offer her hand. “How do you do, Miss Quinn?”
“Not too good with stone walls, Rosealise.” She rolled her eyes up toward her bandage, and then made a comical face. “Sorry to be so familiar, but that’s the ritziest name I ever heard, swear to gosh. Your mama must have known you’d be a dish.”
Mael’s wife murmured her thanks for the compliment and stepped to one side. Domnall noticed that she also began to watch Nellie closely. Since Rosealise had proven to be an excellent judge of character, he knew he could rely on her opinion if need be.
Jenna presented Broden next, who bowed politely but kept his distance. Domnall understood why. When Rosealise had come to them the trapper had mistaken her for a lover he’d known in the underworld, and had
nearly come to blows with Mael over her. He’d not make that mistake again.
“Welcome to Dun Chaill, my lady,” Broden said.
Nellie’s eyes narrowed rather than widened at the sound of his rasping voice. Yet her gaze grew limpid again as she looked over his handsome face before meeting his dark gaze.
“Edane told me you’re the clan’s best fisherman.” Her lips curved, and she gave him a pert wink. “I bet they see you and just jump out of the water to lay at your feet.”
Her joke made Broden break into a rare smile. “No’ quite, my lady.”
That left Kiaran, the clan’s falconer, who came to stand beside the trapper as Jenna introduced him. He didn’t smile but inclined his head, making his red-gold hair blaze as it caught a shaft of sunlight. “Mistress Quinn.”
Domnall couldn’t fathom why Kiaran offered no words of welcome, for as ever his expression gave away none of his thoughts.
Nellie didn’t seem to notice. “Hiya. What do you do for the clan?”
“Much.” He nodded toward the other women. “Lady Jenna’s our architect, and Lady Rosealise cares for the household. What work ken you?”
“I’m always trying to look good and stay out of trouble, pal.” She laughed as she held up her palms in a helpless gesture. “That’s about it.”
Dive, the kestrel perched on the falconer’s strong shoulder, suddenly flared out her wings and uttered a high-pitched screech.
“Hey, pretty thing,” the flapper cooed to the bird. As Kiaran stiffened, she said, “Bet you think I’m hinky for barging in on your family like this. Sorry about that. But I’m in a jam, and we girls got to stick together, don’t we?”
The little raptor cocked her head and folded her wings again as she trilled a series of softer sounds that Domnall had never heard the kestrel make for anyone but her master.
“Quiet, Dive,” Kiaran muttered, obviously annoyed.