by Annie Bellet
‘Whisky?’
‘Perfect.’
The Adair castle was busy. With winter fast approaching –and signs that it was going to be a long and bitter one – the entire Clan had retreated behind the walls. Rather than the petulant grumblings of a large group of people confined to a small space, however, everyone seemed happy.
‘Things are going well for you,’ Aifric commented, after passing yet another beaming Sidhe.
‘I’m a lucky guy.’ Gale motioned into a small room set into the side. ‘Come on. My study’s in here. We’ll get some peace and quiet. Your men can get some food in the kitchens. Beric will show them the way.’
Parting company from the others, Gale and Aifric went into the small book-lined room and settled on an old sofa covered in cracked red leather.
‘I’m surprised you’ve not been back to the Cruaich for a while,’ Aifric commented, once he had his whisky in hand.
Gale gave him a rueful glance. ‘It’s hard work there. I never get a moment to myself.’
‘Well, if you will go around saving helpless infants from evil demons, you can’t expect anything else.’
Gale rolled his eyes. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’
Aifric’s response was quiet. ‘Almost everyone was at the Cruaich that day. You were the only one who did anything.’
‘Coira did as much as me.’
‘She’s Adair now. You’re one and the same. It must be nice to be treated like a hero everywhere you go.’
Gale laughed. ‘Says the Steward. You’re the leader of all the Sidhe. You must get some perks.’
‘It’s a lot more complicated than it looks,’ Aifric sighed, running a hand through his hair. ‘The frustrating thing is that by the time my five years are up, I’ll only just be getting the hang of things.’ He put his glass down. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Gale raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’
‘I’m going to put forward a motion to extend the Steward’s term. It makes sense. I’ve only got another twelve months and then someone else is going to take over. There are still so many things that need to be taken care of.’
‘Why can’t the next Steward do that?’ Gale asked mildly.
‘Because they’ll spend the first three years learning the ropes and working the angles. We’ll go backwards about ten steps.’ Aifric leaned forward. ‘You know, I’ve been taking your suggestions about doing more for the Clan-less very seriously.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’m not sure that staying Steward for longer is the best course of action, however. There’s a term limit for a reason.’
Aifric frowned. ‘You know that your name will be top of the list for the next five years. Hell, you were almost voted in last time. Become Steward and you’ll spend all your time at the Cruaich instead of here with Coira. You’ll be a stranger to your own son.’
‘Actually, I’m told the baby will be a girl. It doesn’t matter though. I won’t accept the title. I have no inclination in that direction.’
‘You might not have a choice, Gale. Extending my term is going to do you a favour.’
‘But it’ll have repercussions for everyone else too. Not just now but in the future.’ Gale shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I realise you came here seeking my support but I can’t give it. Not for this.’
For a moment, Aifric’s face was blank. Then he broke into a smile. ‘You’re just too damned principled for your own good. When you’re seated on the Cruaich throne, I’ll remind of you that.’
Gale grinned. ‘I’ll step down as Chieftain of the Adair Clan before that happens.’ He drained his glass.
Changing the subject, Aifric regarded him curiously. ‘Your Gifts,’ he said slowly. ‘Have you used them lately?’
‘You’re asking about one Gift in particular, aren’t you? The soul-punching.’
Aifric nodded.
‘No. And I have no plans to use it. I’m not even sure I know how to. Most of the first time was a blur.’
‘It’s a lot of power.’
‘A lot of destructive power. I already have everything I could possibly want. I don’t need anything else.’
Aifric picked his glass back up again and raised it in the air. ‘To you.’
‘To us.’ Gale eyed the lack of contents in his own glass. ‘I’m going to need more whisky.’
***
Aifric and his merry band departed the next day. With a pounding head, Gale waved them off. Whisky was no longer his friend. Ten years ago, perhaps; even five years ago. Now he was just too damned old.
‘You’re looking a bit green around the gills,’ Coira teased.
He curved an arm round her waist. ‘I’m never drinking again. I might have to lie down and sleep it off.’
Coira touched her belly. ‘Do that. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.’
Gale’s eyes went wide. ‘It’s time.’
‘Not quite yet but I think she’s getting ready to make her move. And,’ she added with a dancing glint in her eyes, ‘Lily gave me some noster root yesterday. It’s meant to help things along. She’s gone out this morning to get more, just in case.’ She leaned her head against his shoulder.
‘Are you afraid?’
‘Of the pain? No.’ She gnawed on her lip. ‘I’m afraid for her though.’
‘Our daughter?’
‘We’re bringing her into a scary world.’
Gale smiled. ‘She’s an Adair. She’ll do fine.’
A few hours later, when he heard the first yell, he assumed that Coira had been right and her labour was beginning. The entire Clan would be galvanised into action; it was a long time since an Adair heir had been born. When there was a second scream filled with numbing terror, however, he knew that something was heartbreakingly wrong.
He sprang off the bed and ran, following the noise. He made it to the courtyard just in time to see Coira crumple. Blood blossomed at her chest, the shaft of an arrow was embedded at its centre. An inarticulate cry ripped from his throat. He rushed to her side, gathering her up in his arms. What the hell had happened? He pulled apart her blouse and stared at the wound.
‘Who did this, Coira?’ He pressed down hard and tried to stem the blood. Too afraid to pull the arrow out and cause more damage, he fumbled. Coira moaned. ‘Hang on,’ he said desperately, ‘just hang on.’
There was no one else in sight; the entire place was deserted. Hours ago, there had been people everywhere. Now it was like a ghost town.
‘Help!’ Gale shouted. ‘Help us!’
No-one came.
Coira moaned again. ‘Save her,’ she gasped. ‘Save our daughter.’
His throat closed up and he couldn’t speak.
Her hand, slick with blood, reached up and grabbed his. ‘Gale, you have to do this. We both know I’m not going to make it. Just save her. Look after her. She’s what counts now.’
He swallowed hard. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You’re going to be alright. I’m not going to let you leave me.’
Her body jerked, spasming as another wave of pain crashed through her. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
Tears blurred his vision. Why was he all alone? It didn’t make sense. He leaned down and listened for a heartbeat. It was faint – and failing. The pulse at Coira’s throat fluttered and went still. Gale froze.
Move, a voice inside his head urged. Move now.
He forced himself to his feet, ran and found his knife. There was no time left. Coira was gone but he could still save their daughter. He could still do what she’d asked of him. Whether her attackers were still here or not, he had to act.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He gagged at the first incision. He was no doctor and the cut was ragged and deep. He forced himself to breathe and tried again, taking more care.
There was no conscious thought now. It was as if something had taken over his body and possessed him. When he finally pulled his daughter from the body of his dead wife, there was almost nothing of the m
an called Gale left.
‘There he is.’
A heartbeat later pain ripped into his back. He fell backwards, the baby girl still clutched to his chest. As Gale Adair inhaled his last few breaths, his daughter breathed her first.
‘I told you he’d go looking for her. Tell the Fomori that their present worked. It was better than we could have hoped. They don’t need to worry about what lies in Gale Adair’s future. Not any more. The Adairs are no more.’
‘They’ll be pleased. The poison was fast. It’s a shame those two didn’t have breakfast, though. It would have gone easier on them if they had.’
‘Hangovers and pregnant women. Both are equally unpredictable.’
The voices swirled around Gale. They sounded as if they were coming from very far away. He struggled to hang on to each one; they were familiar but his brain was too fuzzy to focus.
The pain had gone now but he felt very, very cold.
‘What do we do with the child?’
‘Strangle it.’
Silence filled the courtyard. Then: ‘You do it then.’
There was a curse. ‘Give her to me.’
The bundle on Gale’s chest was lifted. The child cried, seeking out warmth. Gale tried to croak. He willed his hand to rise up but every limb felt leaden and heavy. If he could just bring his final Gift to the fore again, at least he’d have his revenge. But there wasn’t enough energy left inside him. He had nothing left to give.
‘We could keep her alive. As leverage. We’ll need something to keep the damned Fomori in check from now on.’
‘If she lives then so does Clan Adair.’
‘She’s just a girl. Besides, we can tell her whatever we want and she’ll believe it. Gale Adair was more powerful than any other Sidhe, living or dead. He possessed three Gifts, the last of which was soul-punching.’
The second voice sounded pleased. ‘He killed his own Clan. Every single last one of them. He thought he could be a hero but in the end he was nothing more than a genocidal maniac.’
‘Went crazy.’
There was a pause. Gale shuddered.
‘Do you think people will believe it?’
‘History belongs to the winners. In thirty years, no one will remember Gale Adair. Salt the ground and destroy all the evidence. Give the baby to the Bull. She’ll be alive but he won’t give a shit about her. It’s four years since Coira Ochterlony dumped him and he’s still sore about it. We can make up any story we want.’
Gale stared up at the sky. It was very dark. He wanted to say something. He wanted to scream bloody vengeance. His jaw worked but it all just too much. Seconds later everything went dark.
Find out what happens to Gale and Coira’s daughter in January 2016 when Gifted Thief, the first book in the Highland Magic series, will be released.
After teaching English literature in the UK, Japan and Malaysia, Helen Harper left behind the world of education following the worldwide success of her Blood Destiny series of books. Helen has always been a book lover, devouring science fiction and fantasy tales when she was a child growing up in Scotland. She currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia with far too many cats - not to mention the dragons, fairies, demons, wizards and vampires that seem to keep appearing from nowhere.
You can find out more - and learn how to get a FREE copy of Corrigan Fire - by visiting Helen's website: helenharper.co.uk
Contents May Have Shifted
Shawntelle Madison
Return to the Coveted universe in this zany short story featuring werewolf Natalya Stravinsky. Two werewolf shopkeepers in a mystical flea market encounter deadly merchandise that has no intention of being sold.
CHAPTER ONE
“Okay, either someone brought a sack lunch straight from hell or our janitor necromancer has a dead minion who followed him to work,” I snapped.
I scanned the expansive flea market, moving from one face in the crowd to the next. Not a single one of my four co-workers said a word. Just another early morning at The Bend of the River Flea Market, also known as The Bends to the locals in South Toms River, New Jersey. The human shoppers browsing our wares didn’t know about the supernatural world or the mystical objects that were sold on these shelves.
“It doesn’t smell that bad, Natalya,” a blonde next to me said.
I threw Erica Holden a raised eyebrow. As a werewolf like me, her nose worked just as well as mine did. Maybe the cloud of designer perfume around her kept the funk at bay, but I could damn well smell it. And it stank to high heaven.
Saturday mornings never fared well for me. At eight-thirty A.M., we had a sizable crowd hungry to rifle through the latest shipments to The Bends. My boss Bill should’ve been here complaining about the stench and ordering us to handle it. Naturally, the goblin was nowhere to be seen.
Looks like I got to have all the fun. As usual.
Since I couldn’t trust the cleanliness habits of my fellow employees, I followed the one thing I could: my nose, which led me through a set of wooden doors into the business office.
If I found one of the janitor’s zombie minions shuffling around the desks, he wasn’t going to get an invite to the company picnic this year.
The back office was empty. No Bill either.
Maybe my boss was hiding somewhere. Didn’t matter, I was on the hunt. Everything in the office was as I’d left it after the workday ended yesterday. The stack of invoices was in a perfect pile, the chairs arranged perfectly behind the desks. Even the merchandise we needed to prep for sale stood at attention.
Except for the old beige steamer trunk on the floor.
Other than the foul stench emanating from it, the faded trunk was a thing of beauty with polished brass hinges and intricate clamps. The edges were slightly marred from where perhaps a dockworker from the past had knocked it about. Under the fog of death, the saltiness of the sea still lingered.
I circled the luggage, noticing strange carvings along the back. They were so tiny the human eye would’ve assumed they were scratches and nicks. Nothing else seemed amiss.
Until that sucker shifted to the right. I peered over the side to look at the front again. Something poked out. A large finger, with a sharp talon and black and blue spots mottling the skin, tore a fist-sized hole through the leather near the seam. A four-fingered hand emerged.
What in the hell?
The necrotic fingers flexed along the edge, perhaps attempting to create a bigger hole. My nose twitched from the horrific scent. I hadn’t smelled anything that bad since my aunt Vera tossed out six-month-old cabbage that somehow hid in the back of her basement refrigerator.
I took a step back.
Another set of fingers crept through the gap the first hand had formed. Now I had two escapees. The first hand snaked out of the hole, revealing a long gray arm, the skin flaky and scaly. Together, they reached about until one of the hands found the lock along the front.
Then the trunk shook with a hard thump.
A third hand came out to join the first two. Were they attached to one body, or did I have multiple foes to face?
Hell to the no.
With a gentle push—this stuff wasn’t mine—I tipped over the trunk onto its side.
“Get back in there!” I grunted.
Another thump from inside the trunk knocked me on my ass. The concrete floor in this room wasn’t forgiving.
The trunk jerked to the left on the floor. I plucked the fire extinguisher off the far wall, ready to kick some ass.
Now, to be honest, this wasn’t the first magical mishap to go down at The Bends. Most problems though came from backfiring fairy wands to jock-itch-inducing jewelry.
Cruise trunks containing monsters trying to break out was madness at a whole new level. Poised over the gray arm, ready to knock that puppy back in, I bent back to do the yo-heave-ho when the customer service bell rang.
Under most circumstances—pretty much all of them—I scrambled like a werewolf caught butt-naked in human-form at dawn.
> Today, I had no choice but to ignore it. Damn it all to hell, I wasn’t the only warm-body working here.
Mid-swing that annoying shrill filled the air again.
Anxiety shot up my spine and smacked the back of my head.
Ignore it, Nat.
I hit the arm hard with the fire extinguisher, and the luggage jumped. The second hand swung at me, hard and fast, but I dodged with a jump to the right. My shift to the right pushed me toward the third hand, which slammed me against the wall. Office supplies on shelving rained down on me. More work for me to do, huh?
A growl formed in my chest. The wolf within urged me into a full-out fight. No more obsessive-compulsive tendencies for the day. No more high heels. To hell with my clean blouse and pencil skirt. I advanced on the trunk, grabbing the fire extinguisher on the way.
The shrill ring of the buzzer entered my haze.
Don’t answer it. Time to get medieval on the monster in the box.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I stormed out of the back office, fire extinguisher in hand, ready to knock out whoever thought it was fun idea to do an Irish Line Dance on the button, only to find a group of gaping nuns and a wide-eyed Erica.
“Oh, Jesus,” I whispered. I hid what I held behind my back.
“Indeed, Miss Stravinsky,” one sister, the shortest, chirped.
Erica plastered her charm on high with her debutante grin. “The Sisters of Divine Grace wanted the antique cross that came in two weeks ago.”
Ugh. If there was a hell for goblins, Bill had a first-class ticket. That antique cross was actually a broken T-shaped torture device from the Spanish Inquisition. “And?” I managed. The need to be polite was pivotal here. If you crossed the “SDG,” as they were known in South Toms River, their gang-like mentality would mean ruin and dirty looks during the Christmas season.
“We’d like the cross loaded into our truck please,” the woman said, her smile crisp and unwelcoming.
“Of course—” A loud crash from the back office made everyone look with concern behind me, but I didn’t miss a beat. “—we’ll have a staff member load it up for you once we process payment.”