Editor's Choice Volume I - Slow summer Kisses, Kilts & kraken, Negotiating point

by Stacey Shannon, Spencer Pape Cindy, Giordano Adrienne

  The big redhead stared at her as if stricken. He was easily twice Alice’s weight and nearly twice her height, with bright blue eyes, much like those of their patient.

  His friend, even larger, and no more than thirty, elbowed him and bowed to the ladies. “We’ve come in search of our laird, who was carried off by the giant squid two days ago. We’ve been checking in villages and islands hither and yon before hearing rumors that he may be resting here.”

  “Aye.” The big one swallowed and bobbed his head. “That’s right. Magnus Findlay is his name. My nephew.”

  “He’s here,” Alice said. “But I’m afraid our news isn’t good.”

  “Is he dead?” His deep voice cracked on that last word.

  His dark-haired friend stared down at the floor, jaw twitching. “We thought he would be when the monster dragged him under and away. We’d hoped to find him, at least, and lay him to rest on Torkholm.”

  “No.” Alice stepped up and patted the redhead’s hands. “He isn’t dead, not yet anyway, but I’m afraid he’s not doing well.”

  “Best get him back to Torkholm quickly.” The dark-haired man took a step toward the sickroom. “Once he’s home, he’ll be fine.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m Doctor MacKay,” Geneva said loudly. “I think you need to prepare yourselves for the worst. Your laird may not survive the trip.”

  The younger man snorted. “Is that the best they can do here? A daft lass playing at doctoring?”

  “Leave her be, Quentin.” The redhead looked away from Alice, finally, and studied Geneva. “Are you a real physician, lass? With papers and all?”

  She drew herself up to her full five feet seven inches, but was still dwarfed by the two men. “I am.”

  “Can you help him, Doctor?” The entreaty in his voice nearly broke her heart. “Help us get him home alive?”

  “It was his wish,” Geneva said. “When he’s woken today, the only thing he’s asked is to go home. Have you a boat big enough to keep him warm and dry on the journey?”

  The dark one gave curt nod.

  Geneva ignored the rude one and looked to the older man. “Is there room for me on board?”

  “You’re not thinking of going with them?” Alice gave her a shocked glance. “Coming here unchaperoned is one thing, but traveling in a boat with three strange men?”

  “Five, with the crew,” the one called Quentin said.

  “I have to, Alice. If I go, to tend him during the voyage, he’s more likely to last long enough to see his home.” It had become important to her, to grant this one last request and if nothing else, to see this through to the end. Something about the man simply…drew her.

  “I suppose I must go along.” Alice crossed her arms over her bosom and glared at the redheaded man. “Is there room on this boat of yours for all of us?”

  “Aye, lass. You won’t take up more space than a new lamb, yourself. We’ll make room.”

  Alice’s rosy complexion flushed further, whether at being called lass, or being told she was small as a lamb. She poked him in the chest. “Now introduce yourselves properly, do you hear? Keep your voices down. We’ve an invalid in the house.”

  He flushed, his pink skin clashing with his orange hair. “Sorry, ma’am. Rannulf MacAuley, steward of Findlay Castle at your service. This young lout is Quentin Findlay, who manages the home farm and the fishing fleet for the laird.”

  “Pleased to meet you. My name is Mrs. MacDonald, and you’ve already met Doctor MacKay. Now, can I get you gentlemen something to drink while Doctor MacKay takes you in to see her patient?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but no.” MacAuley bowed his head to Alice and turned to Quentin. “Go tell Gordon to bring the boat around. Where’s the nearest dock to here, begging your pardon, ma’am, or a good place to anchor and send out a dory?”

  “We’ve our own small dock around the point,” Alice said. “Hamish can go with you to navigate. Geneva, how soon can Lord Findlay be readied to move?”

  “With a stretcher, or barring that, a stout door? Half an hour.” They’d need to get some clothing on him, perhaps give him a small dose of laudanum to prevent him from waking en route and injuring himself.

  “Aye, there’s a plank in the barn we used for Captain MacDonald, rest his soul,” Hamish said. “You’re sure you want to go, missus?”

  Alice nodded. “If Geneva is going, then I am too.”

  “Best pack a bag. The boat won’t travel after dark, so we won’t get you back until tomorrow.” MacAuley held out a hand to Hamish. “I’ll look after them. You have my word.”

  “See you do.” Hamish shook MacAuley’s hand and trudged toward the door, glowering over his shoulder at Quentin. “Come along. No dawdling.”

  Quentin stomped off after him and Geneva smothered a laugh.

  “May I see my nephew now?” Again, MacAuley asked Alice, not Geneva. They went into the sickroom, and MacAuley paled nearly to the shade of his nephew. “Holy Christ, I never thought to see him like this.”

  “I’m sorry.” Geneva took a small vial of laudanum from her bag and measured a modest dose in an eyedropper. “Can you hold him while I slip this in his mouth? I don’t want him to thrash on the trip.”

  “How did he come to be here, if you don’t mind me asking?” He held Magnus’s shoulders so Geneva could administer the medication.

  While they wrapped the patient in one of Hamish’s nightshirts and the kilt he’d been found in, Alice related the tale to MacAuley.

  “’Tis a good thirty miles or more across open seas that monster must have dragged him,” MacAuley said. “’Tis a miracle he survived at all. That was the biggest kraken we’ve seen yet. I thought we were all dead for sure.”

  “The largest?” Geneva set down the towel she’d been using to dry her hands and gawked. “You mean there have been more?”

  MacAuley nodded sadly. “They’ve been attacking Torkholm regular-like for almost a month now.”

  Geneva swallowed her panic. “I’ve got to teletext my father.”

  * * *

  Within the hour, she’d sent the teletext, and they boarded a steam-powered yacht for the Isle of Torkholm. Alice and Geneva took turns sitting in the small cabin with their patient, allowing each some time in the fresh air up on deck. The trip, heading into the prevailing winds, would take somewhere between three and four hours, she was told. The thus-far invisible Maggie sent along a basket with a cold supper, and Rannulf MacAuley promised to bring them back to Alice’s home first thing the following morning. Based on the way the older Highlander gazed at Alice as if she were an angel, he’d do everything in his power to make her happy. The only thing that made the dour Quentin smile was when Alice had turned over Lord Findlay’s sword. He held it as carefully as if it were a babe.

  Geneva sat on an overturned bucket on the deck, watching the island grow larger on the horizon. Smaller than Mull, or even Tiree, which they’d passed on the trip, it was still big enough to support a thriving village, a popular whisky distillery, numerous crofters and a lucrative fishing business.

  “It’s a nice village,” she said to Quentin, who stood beside her in the bow, his handsome face dour and disapproving as ever.

  “It was. Now half the buildings are damaged and any number of the boats reduced to splinters. We’ve lost twelve fishermen, and two innocent lasses who were just walking on the shore. Dozens more hurt. Cursed, is what we are.” It was the most words he’d strung together since they’d met.

  Here was her chance to find out what the islanders knew about the kraken. Unlike most modern, scientifically minded people, Geneva didn’t immediately discount the idea of a curse. Such things were certainly possible, if not particularly plausible. “Who would have—or even could have—cursed an entire clan?” That would be something the Order should know about.

  Quentin was silent for long moments. Finally he looked out over the water and shrugged. “Our fishermen have rivals on other islands.”

  “But fishing rivals
with the kind of power required to cast such a curse?”

  Another shrug. “The gods, then. Our laird may have angered them with his modern technology.”

  “You really think that’s likely?” Geneva wasn’t particularly religious, but whether one believed in the Church, or the old ways, this didn’t seem right. If the gods were against technology, London, even Edinburgh and Glasgow would be naught but smoking ruins.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “It’s happened before. Magnus’s great-grandsire was killed by just such a beast, not long after he brought the first steam boiler to heat the castle. Magick and science are not meant to mix.”

  “Ridiculous. The two mix very well indeed.” At least they did for the Order. Pondering his words, she looked away, examining the shoreline as it came into focus. It was a handsome village, or had been once, with brightly colored shops and houses set gaily side by side on the rise of a hill. Closer to the water, a warehouse and pier fronted a small harbor, and here, the damages were clear to see. Three out of four docks had been smashed and several buildings sported boarded windows or other hasty repairs. Fires had destroyed several buildings, clearly spreading from the shoreline into the village. “Dear Lord, you have been ravaged.”

  “Aye.” The snarl in his tone made it sound as if she was personally responsible for that.

  “I’m sorry.” Perhaps he’d lost someone in the attacks. That would account for his surliness. Maybe he didn’t like doctors—or lowlanders. She wasn’t going to be here long enough to worry about it. A kilt-clad, pugnacious islander held no appeal for her. Give her a polite, educated urbanite any day of the week.

  “Kraken!” The shriek from one of the crew snapped her out of her thoughts. They were only about a hundred yards from the one remaining pier. If there was a giant squid in the water, surely they could reach shore before it attacked.

  The engines puffed as the boat steamed toward the wharf. In the town, a bell began to toll, accompanied by shouts and running feet. All the men on the deck, including Quentin, rushed to the side away from Geneva, leaving her unable to see. One man readied the harpoon gun mounted in the stern while others drew out repeating rifles. Unwilling to leave her fate in their hands, Geneva snatched a more basic buffalo rifle and a box of bullets from the open munitions box. She was a better shot than her brother. If the Order admitted women, she might have enlisted instead of going into medicine.

  “Where is it?” She elbowed her way between Rannulf and one of the crewmen.

  Rannulf pointed.

  She saw no sign of the squid itself, just a triangular wake beginning a few hundred yards out and closing fast. With a sharp nod, she deftly loaded her rifle and braced the barrel on the gunwale.

  They were almost to the pier when the point of the wake rose from the water, some fifty feet from the boat. All hands fired, including someone on the turret-mounted harpoon gun. The squid, larger than any she’d ever expected to see, reared back at the barrage, but only for a moment before it resumed its forward charge. The pointed head stood higher than the decks and based on the shape, less than half of it was exposed. She reloaded and fired right above the waterline, pleased when her bullet struck with a spurt of blue blood.

  The kraken still approached, apparently undaunted by the numerous holes piercing its rubbery hide. They’d almost reached the pier now, and more men stood on the wharf firing at the beast. Geneva reloaded yet again, her movements clumsy as the water churned beneath them and the small craft rocked.

  A tentacle surged up out of the waves and crashed down on the gunwale, sending shards of teak flying in all directions. Geneva and Rannulf each rolled to the side, she hampered by her corset and petticoats. The man on her other side dropped his rifle and pulled a sword from his belt, hacking down on the tentacle that tangled in the fabric of her skirt. It thrashed, dislodging itself from her skirt, but slamming Geneva into a bulkhead as it flailed.

  Her ears rang as her head impacted the sturdy wooden structure, and the breath was knocked from her chest. The boat bumped onto something, shuddering, and she hoped to heaven it was the pier rather than the squid. Suddenly, another noise rang in her ears, over even the sound of gunfire. A war cry in Gaelic burst up from the cabin below a moment before the hatch slammed open and her patient, pale but wild-eyed, emerged, claymore in hand.

  With a frenzy of strength he shouldn’t have possessed, the man attacked the tentacle, and a second that crashed into the deck a few feet farther toward the bow. Though he shouldn’t even have been able to stand on his injured hip, he moved with a speed that had to be magickal and his presence seemed to inspire his clansmen, who fought that much harder.

  Geneva caught her breath and stood, reclaiming her rifle and finding a new vantage point from which to fire. More men fought with swords, now that the beast was upon them, but she didn’t have one, so a firearm would have to do. An eye showed right at the waterline beside the boat and she fired at that, hoping it would be more vulnerable.

  Someone on shore tied the boat to the pier, steadying it somewhat. Magnus leapt over the gunwale into the shallows and, with a mighty blow, skewered the beast in the other eye. The creature thrashed and sank, the tip of its head falling onto the beach and two bleeding tentacles floating limply on the surface.

  “Is it dead?” She dropped her gun and turned to Rannulf.

  He tipped his chin. “I think so.”

  Geneva turned to stare at Magnus, who staggered up onto the rocky shore beside the pier. He gave one last war cry and laid his sword on the ground before he collapsed.

  “How did he do that?” Geneva set down her rifle and ran toward the pier. Rannulf leapt over the rail and lifted her with him. Together they hurried to Magnus’s side.

  “’Tis this land. It gives him his strength.” Despite being well into his middle years, Rannulf still outpaced Geneva and reached Magnus first. With gentle hands, he checked his nephew for breath and nodded to Quentin who’d also passed Geneva. “Take his feet.”

  If they were anywhere but on a rocky shore, Geneva would have told them to leave the fallen man be. Instead she called over her shoulder, “Someone bring my medical bag,” and hurried to keep pace with the Highlanders. When they reached the road, it seemed like the entire village had clustered around them. She’d have been shoved away from the wagon the men laid Magnus in, if Rannulf hadn’t hauled her up with one meaty hand. Moments later, he did the same to Alice, who had caught up at some point. Rannulf pulled Alice down to the straw beside him while Geneva dropped to her knees and laid her head against Magnus’s chest.

  “He’s breathing, and his heartbeat is stronger than it was on Mull.” None of this was medically possible. The man ought to be dead. More than ever, she was sure magick was at work. “Rannulf, you said he draws strength from the island itself?”

  Quentin cursed. While everyone in Britain knew magick existed, most managed to go through their entire lives without encountering it face-to-face, and here on the fringes, the possibility of witch-burning still existed.

  Rannulf held up a hand. “They need to know. The doctor kens the ways of magick, don’t you, lass?”

  “I do.” Geneva pushed aside Magnus’s shirt and applied pressure to one of the wounds on his chest, the worst he’d reopened. “I can keep a secret, too. If the magick isn’t evil, you’ll get no trouble from me.” Of course she’d inform the Order. Keeping track of such things was part of its purpose.

  Rannulf tipped his head gravely. “Being here strengthens the laird. Being away weakens him. With luck, we’ve gotten him home in time.”

  “You mean he can never leave Torkholm?” How sad, to be trapped, able to see nothing of the world.

  Quentin growled under his breath. “None of your business. First thing in the morning, it’s back to Mull with the two of you and good riddance.”

  “He can leave, for a little while.” Rannulf cast Quentin a quelling glance. “A few hours to Tiree, or a half day of fishing, but he’s worn out when he returns.” Tire
e was the nearest inhabited island, perhaps an hour by boat according to the maps Geneva had studied.

  “Even here, he can die, can’t he?” She checked the wound beneath her hands, pleased that the bleeding had slowed. His skin still showed the ashen pallor of the critically injured.

  “Aye,” Rannulf said. “The power only does so much. He can take ill, or be killed outright in battle, same as any other man.”

  “Do you have a physician here on the island?” Others had been injured in the squid attacks, too. Did the island’s magick work for them? “What do the other residents do?”

  “We’ve healers.” Quentin’s glare burned like acid on the back of Geneva’s neck as she bent over her patient. “Better than any quack. We don’t need your kind here.”

  “Stubble it, lad.” This was obviously an old argument between the two men. “Your laird won’t thank you for chasing off the ladies who saved his hide. You think without care, he’d have survived until we found him?”

  “Sorry.”

  Geneva ignored the grumbled, grudging apology and caught her breath as they entered the bailey of a medieval castle at the top of the island’s central hill.

  Clearly, she’d stepped into a fairytale of local granite and blooming wildflowers, gaslights and well-oiled machinery side by side with architecture unchanged for centuries.

  Alice spoke the words caught in Geneva’s throat. “It’s beautiful.”

  Rannulf gave Alice a warm smile. “Aye. ’Tis home.”

  Chapter Three

  After she reset Magnus’s pelvis and restitched several of his wounds, Geneva left him under the watchful eye of a maid. Geneva and Alice followed Rannulf to a steam-powered lift that creaked and groaned its way back down to the great hall. A relic of the castle’s medieval origins, the giant stone-walled room was full of what must have been half the village. Long trestle tables were arranged in a U-shape, and in the center, a line of perhaps a dozen men and women sporting a variety of bandages waited, some standing, others on benches. The rest of the crowd, at least a hundred, gathered around the outside.