by Jane Davitt
Peter watched time slow and stretch as the transformation rippled over Jamie, starting with his hands that, when they smacked against the ground, were hooves attached to graceful, powerful legs.
"A stag,” he said aloud, watching the brown skin darken a shade as it changed to smooth, dense hair, and antlers spring from Jamie's head, branching out and ending in points, sharp and strong. “Of course..."
*What else?* said Jamie, his voice clear inside Peter's head even as the stag nickered softly and pawed at the ground. *Come on, lad.*
Peter picked up the bag of clothing and followed Jamie over to a boulder, climbing up on it and scrambling, a little awkwardly, onto Jamie's back. There was nothing to hold onto, and the shape of the stag's back was subtly different from the horses he was used to riding, but as Jamie set off at a steady walk, Peter gripped with his knees and managed to stay in place, the bag balanced in front of him.
I've got the scent of the trail, Jamie said. I'm going to go a little faster.
With no more warning than that, Jamie sprang forward, tossing his head, leaving Peter yelping and just managing to get his arms around the stag's neck.
You're choking me, Jamie complained, but there was no hiding his exhilaration. Peter sighed. He'd had people describe—or try to—what it was like to transform, and although they usually ended up staring into space with a look of dreamy contentment on their faces, he'd gathered that it was quite the experience.
And one he'd never know.
"How far away is the castle?” he shouted over the rush of wind.
Four miles, Jamie replied. And the trail's arrow-straight, curse him. My bloody family. I'd sooner it'd been strangers.
Peter fell silent after that, most of his attention on clinging to the back of the stag, jolted painfully because Jamie was cantering now. With a small part of his mind he was working at the puzzle of the thief, discarding theories that were growing steadily wilder and less likely as he tried to balance motive with opportunity and failed.
Had someone been watching Jamie's cottage and seen him hide the pouch? Or was it the Luck that had been tracked? And, given Jamie's open animosity towards the clan and his belief that he'd be chosen, had the clan acted to prevent Jamie's plan from coming to pass? Peter couldn't help feeling some sympathy for them, but not much. Jamie had told him how Jamie's mother had been ostracized when she'd fallen in love with the castle gardener whose cottage lay just outside the clan lands. She'd died ten years earlier, without a single member of her family attending her deathbed or her funeral, and Jamie, barely twenty, had abandoned his studies and moved back into the long-abandoned cottage, bound and determined to be a visible thorn in the clan's side.
Peter had no wish to see the castle fall, but he could see why Jamie would want to.
The trees began to thin and Jamie slowed to a trot and then a walk, tossing his antlers restlessly as he stared at the castle walls, mellow gray and thick with ivy, the brown vines winding around the stone.
Get down, Jamie said abruptly. It's in there. The trail ends here.
Peter slid down and stepped aside, staggering as the ground heaved beneath him. The muscles in his thighs ached, and a branch had slashed a gouge across his forehead, but they'd reached the castle far quicker than they could have managed walking in the snow, checking the trail by sight alone. As Jamie changed back to human form Peter took a quick look at his watch. Eleven, with sunset early at this time of the year; no later than four, most likely. Five hours wasn't long, but it might be long enough.
If the gem was in the castle ... if Jamie could convince his family that once handed over, he'd touch it ... Peter sighed. He wasn't even sure of that last part. Jamie's anger at the theft didn't necessarily mean that he'd given up his plan, after all. Just wanted to be the one to pull the trigger.
"If you get it back—"
"When,” Jamie corrected him, reaching for his clothing. “God, my feet are freezing!"
"You're standing in snow,” Peter said reasonably. “When you get it back, then; what will you do?"
"You swore,” Jamie said warningly.
"I know!” Peter snapped. “I'm just asking. Will you still—"
"I don't want to discuss it,” Jamie said shortly, fastening his jeans and shoving his bare, wet feet into his boots without bothering to charm them dry.
"If you'll just let me—"
Jamie swung around, his eyes hard. “No! Leave it, will you?” He dragged a sweater over his head and began to walk toward the castle.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you're a complete, fucking pain in the arse?” Peter muttered as he followed.
"Aye,” Jamie said. “Quite a few people. Want me to add you to the list, or was that by way of being rhetorical?"
"I don't want to discuss it,” Peter said, taking very little satisfaction in sniping at Jamie but needing to do something to relieve his feelings.
Jamie sighed. “When this day ends, remind me to apologize for whatever it is that I've done or said to upset you, but right now I don't have time, Peter."
The castle doors loomed in front of them, dark wood, forbidding and closed.
"I don't want an apology,” Peter said. “And when this day ends, you won't have time to do anything but run as fast as you can, on two legs or four."
"From the hounds?” Jamie asked, sounding unconcerned. “I outran them once; I can do it again. And like you said, I doubt they'd take orders from anyone but me, so you needn't be worrying."
"Oh, so you'll use your position as Head when it suits you?” Peter said coldly. “And if you must know I was thinking of your Aunt Dolores."
Jamie gave a snort of laughter and then stopped in his tracks. The doors were opening and a figure, small at this distance but still recognizable, stepped out.
"Mr. Callum!” Peter said incredulously.
"Hmm?” Jamie said. “You're acquainted with my Uncle Alistair then, are you?"
Peter grabbed Jamie's arm, his thoughts in chaos. “Yes, he's my employer; I told you. Jamie, wait a moment, there's something wrong."
"You didn't say his first name,” Jamie said, “and even then, I doubt I'd have known exactly who you meant; I've seventeen uncles.” Jamie didn't sound as if he counted them amongst his blessings.
"Yes, well,” Peter said distractedly. “Look, this doesn't make sense."
Jamie sighed. “Aye, it does; they've got me here so that they can appeal to my better nature or some such; I've made no secret of my feelings, after all. Well, it won't work. In fact, I've a mind to go home now I know the Luck's not with strangers. Let it stay here and be buried in the rubble with the whole boiling lot of them."
Ahead of them, Mr. Callum gestured imperatively, and Jamie bit his lip. “Och,” he muttered. “Might as well tell him it wasn't your fault, I suppose."
"He knows,” Peter said as Jamie began to walk away.
"What?” Jamie turned, a frown on his face.
It was so simple that Peter couldn't believe that it'd taken him so long to grasp it. “The compass; I set it using the co-ordinates he gave me; he sent me to you, not to the castle. You said yourself that there was no need for me to fly; why didn't he just bring it himself as he planned on coming here?"
"That doesn't make sense,” Jamie said. “Give me the Luck? He'd not risk it!"
"He knew that you wouldn't destroy it before dawn,” Peter said slowly. “And perhaps he hoped that with it in your grasp you'd change your mind; I'm not sure. I just know that this is a trap of some sort."
"Then we'll spring it,” Jamie said.
"No!” Peter exclaimed, but Jamie shook his head stubbornly and carried on walking towards the castle, leaving Peter no choice but to follow him.
As they drew level with the castle door, Mr. Callum stepped forward to greet them, an acidic smile on his face.
"Ah, Peter,” he said. “Took your time getting here, didn't you?” His gaze went to Jamie. “James."
"Uncle Alistair,” Jamie said stiffly.
"What is all this?” Jamie demanded, his face darkening. “I've come for the Luck, and well you know it, so have done with your foolishness."
"Come to take your inheritance, have you?” Alistair Callum asked, his pale eyes hooded.
Peter felt the tension in the air and glanced up to see a dozen faces staring down at them from the windows of the castle.
"That's not at issue,” Jamie replied. “I'm the Head of the Clan now, for my sins, and the Luck is mine to dispose of; what I do with it is for me to decide, but I'll not have my hand forced."
"Stubborn as your mother,” Alistair Callum sneered.
Jamie stepped closer and folded his arms. “You'll not talk of her,” he said. “You don't have the right."
"And you don't have the right to destroy us all out of spite,” Alistair said dourly. “Aye, we treated her ill and it's regretting it we are now that you've been chosen, but that's past and gone. It's over, laddie. Take the Luck as your duty bids you, and most likely in two weeks you can pass it on.” His voice dropped to a persuasive lilt. “Come now, Jamie, my boy. I have it safe, never fear; you've but to touch it, no more."
"You should have told me that you were going deaf, uncle,” Jamie said. “I'd have spoken a wee bit louder when I told you I'd not be forced into anything."
"Mr. Callum,” Peter said. “I must insist that you explain yourself."
"Not now, Peter,” said his employer without sparing him a glance. “You've played your part well, and I'll see to it that you're rewarded, but this is Clan business."
"What?” Peter began, but Jamie's face was darkening with suspicion. “Jamie! I didn't—this wasn't—"
"Och, don't go thinking that the lad's betrayed you,” Alistair said, with a chuckle disturbingly like his nephew's. “He's innocent as a new-born babe—well, after last night, maybe innocent's not quite the right word, but he was a pawn, not a player.” He nodded at Peter. “There; don't go making me to be the villain; I could have let him think you false, and I didn't, so show your gratitude."
"You disgusting, conniving bastard!” Jamie said, his voice rising. “Grateful to you? What cause has he to be grateful? You could have killed him sending him out in that storm, and all for what?"
Alistair smirked. “Well, to get you here, for one, but you'll see, laddie. You'll see."
A flicker of movement caught Peter's eye, and he squinted up at one of the windows and then gasped as something came flying toward them, hissing through the air. “Jamie!” He hurled himself at Jamie's back, bringing them both down in a tumbled heap. The arrow clattered harmlessly to the ground in front of Alistair, who bent and picked it up, turning it in his hand.
"You're very quick off the mark, young man,” Alistair observed as Peter struggled to his feet. “But that was quite unnecessary.” Alistair smiled. “You see, that arrow wasn't meant for Jamie."
"No?” Jamie growled, standing up and glaring at the windows as if he was daring anyone else to take a shot. “Someone else besides me doesn't like you overmuch, uncle?"
"Very likely,” Alistair replied. “But it wasn't aimed at me, either."
The slash of the arrowhead across the back of his hand took Peter quite by surprise. Foolish of him, he supposed, but one really couldn't put Mr. Callum in the role of assassin somehow. Not even when one's head was beginning to spin and one had fallen to one's knees...
"What have you done to him?” Jamie sounded anguished, which was rather sweet, Peter thought, staring up at the two figures above him.
"Poison, of course,” Mr. Callum said. His tongue flickered out from between his lips, longer than it should have been, and forked. “My own venom, so only I can cure him. Which I will as soon as you touch the Luck."
Something deep-red, blood-red sparkled in Mr. Callum's hand. It was important that Jamie not touch that. Peter held to that belief as he doubled over, fire and ice competing to race through his blood to his heart.
"Peter, you must transform. You must.” Gray eyes were wide and anxious, right there for Peter to fall into, drown inside, find peace ... “The poison won't go with you and when you transform back—"
"He can't, you silly boy; do you think I'd have chosen this method if he could?"
"You can, Peter; please? For me? Please?"
Jamie saying ‘please’ ... Peter got to his feet and stood there swaying, willing the change. He felt it hovering, there within his grasp, oddly close now that he was dying. He could feel the weight of feathers, the embrace of the air, thin and sweet.
And then it slipped from him because he was falling again, falling into darkness and he couldn't, still couldn't.
Summerson.
He turned his face up to the sunlight and took from it what little strength it had—not much, not in winter—and then snatched the Luck from Mr. Callum's hand, intending to throw it high and far.
It slipped from his numb fingers, skittering across the ice coating the courtyard, and Peter moaned, sinking to his knees, and then, as he lost all feeling in his legs, to his stomach.
The last thing he saw, as his eyes closed with a finality he couldn't fight, was a strong brown hand scooping up the garnet and hiding its fire as it curled into a fist.***
Peter woke in a sea of pink and whimpered.
"It's horrendous, isn't it?” Jamie said cheerfully, walking through the door with a tray in his hands, his accent making ‘horrendous’ twice as long as it needed to be. “Amanda seems to have gone in for pink; wait until you see the bathroom.” He set the tray down on a bedside table and sat down on the bed, grimacing at the slippery rose satin spread.
Peter swallowed and then closed his eyes, lying back and wishing he'd had time to sort through his thoughts before having to deal with Jamie.
"Peter? Are you still in pain?"
There was too much concern in Jamie's voice for Peter to ignore. “I feel fine,” he said, summoning up a smile as bright and as false as Jamie's had been. “I take it I've been cured?"
Jamie nodded slowly. “Aye. You slept the clock around, but you shouldn't feel any ill effects."
There was a faint throb from his hand, but when Peter glanced down at it, he saw no more than a faint, red line.
"Good,” he said. “Then if you'll just tell me where my clothes are, and call me a taxi, I'll be on my way."
He wasn't sure what he expected Jamie's reaction to his request to be. He just knew that the artificiality of the conversation was making his stomach twist. Anger, he would have been able to understand, but this? No.
There was silence, and then Jamie stared down at the bedspread and began to pick at a loose thread in it. “Oh,” Jamie said quietly. “I wasn't expecting you—well, I can see why you'd not want to stay here, although I swear to you that you're in no danger, but I was hoping—"
"I want to go."
"Why?” Jamie looked up as he said it, his gray eyes searching Peter's face. Jamie was already too close; Peter could have touched Jamie's leg or hand, by doing no more than shift his own hand an inch or two, and to have his gaze drawn to Jamie's face was too much.
"I'm sorry; am I a prisoner here?” Peter kept his voice cool and light. “Because I've spent quite enough time in the wilds; I'd really like to be getting back to civilization. I don't suppose I have a job, but—"
"You haven't been fired, if that's what's troubling you,” Jamie said shortly. “Not but what I'd think twice about working under Uncle Alistair if I were you."
Peter didn't even have to think once. It didn't matter. He could find work. Looking like he did, people would always give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he was powerful. And because they believed that, they tended to ignore any evidence to the contrary.
Which was why Scott Perlham always cheated at golf when he played Peter; he thought he wouldn't be able to win any other way.
"That's really not your concern, is it?"
; "Are you going to stop this any time soon?” Jamie asked.
"I'm sorry?” Polite bemusement was an easy expression to attach to his face; a good one to hide behind.
"Your mouth's saying nothing worth listening to and your mind's screaming at me,” Jamie said bluntly. He winced, rubbing his fingers across his eyes. “Giving me one hell of a headache, if you must know."
"It is?” Peter said involuntarily.
"Aye,” Jamie said. “It is. I've not known you long, Peter, but I've known you well, and you know me; d'you really think I'll be letting you walk away from me?"
"You have no choice,” Peter insisted.
"I asked you why you were going and you haven't answered me,” Jamie said. “Last time you were naked in my bed, you were honest with me. I'd be inclined to blame all the pink, but I'm too busy blaming myself to take the easy way out."
"Blaming—I don't understand."
Jamie glared at him, which was more what Peter had expected. “I almost got you killed! You can't have forgotten, lad; it was only yesterday."
"Your uncle did that,” Peter corrected him. “You're the one who saved me.” He swallowed. “I should—I should—"
"Thank me and I'll not be answerable for the consequences,” Jamie interrupted. “I don't know what's going through your head—well, I do, but it's not making any fucking sense—but why in hell would I be angry with you?"
"Because I'm in your bed?” Peter said. “Your bed. The Head of the Clan's bed. In a castle that seems to be still standing?"
"Och, that.” Jamie flushed. “Aye, well. For two weeks I suppose I can live with it. And you can't be thinking I'd rather you dead for the sake of fourteen nights sleeping in a rose garden."
"And if you get chosen again, you'll carry out your threat?” Peter asked.
"No."
"Why?"
"Oh, you get to ask the ‘why’ questions and get answers, do you?” Jamie enquired. “Well, you'll find out soon enough, and I don't want any secrets between us; my uncle made me swear I'd not do it before he saved you."
"I see,” Peter said. “I'd like that taxi now, please."
"You can have a fleet of them if you'll just tell me what's bothering you."