Murdoch seemed to be fighting a smile. “Indeed? What does Darg say about you?”
Isabella glanced at him and saw that he was fixed upon her answer. Her heart leapt at this sign of his interest. “Evidently my future is bound to a man lost in darkness. It seems most fanciful to me.”
To Isabella’s surprise, Murdoch paled.
Before she could ask, he reached for the lid of the trunk. “What is in the trunk that should not be there?” he demanded, his tone both terse and officious.
Isabella was startled by yet another change in his manner. Was he like Elizabeth and Moira to put faith in such tales? Isabella would not have believed it.
Unless Darg’s pronouncement mirrored Murdoch’s truth.
Aware of the passing time, Isabella worked through the trunk’s contents. “These are the adornments of our fallen comrades,” she said, removing the chalices and daggers and swords. Beneath them were a pair of helms and an assortment of tabards, the fabric in poor condition. “They are dressed for their great holy days,” she told Murdoch. “And at the bottom should be the silver for the Mass, the chalice for the wine and the platter for the bread.” She frowned as she felt the dark corners at the bottom of the trunk.
“What is it?” Murdoch demanded.
“The chalice is not here,” Isabella said, her concern rising as she checked the trunk again. “Kinfairlie possesses a chalice and plate of sterling silver, used for the mass only on high holy days.”
“It has not been seen for a while, then.”
“Not since Christmas morning,” Isabella sat back on her heels and stared at Murdoch. “It should be here, but it is gone.”
His blue gaze locked with hers. “Because the thief disguises his crime by stealing also from his own treasury?”
Isabella shook her head, unwilling to believe it. “Or because Kinfairlie too falls victim to the thief.”
“Ross,” Murdoch whispered but Isabella shook her head. It was impossible that Ross would do such a deed. She would have defended him hotly but had no chance.
For the door to the chapel creaked overhead.
They were no longer alone.
* * *
Murdoch froze at the sound of the portal opening, almost directly over their heads.
He had a glimpse of Isabella’s face as she gazed upwards, then she snuffed the candle and plunged them into darkness. The smell of the extinguished wick seemed too powerful to him, a sure sign that their presence would be revealed.
Indeed, he could see a tiny measure of morning’s light through the cracks between the boards that formed the floor of the chapel and the ceiling of the crypt. There was no way out of the space, save up the stairs to the door behind the altar – and from there, out the main portal of the chapel.
A shadow passed overhead, the boards creaking beneath a person’s weight.
It seemed to Murdoch that the person paused, as if aware that all was not right.
Perhaps smelling that snuffed candle.
A cold sweat broke on his brow. He was not only hunted and within the laird’s territory, but cornered. Would this be the end of it? Murdoch could not accept as much, though he did not have a plan to escape.
“Count to one hundred,” Isabella whispered against his ear, her voice so low that he could barely discern her words. She pressed a kiss against his neck, a hot kiss that sent a simmering heat through his body.
His knees weakened with the realization that once again, his Isabella came to his aid.
Then she was gone, leaving him in the darkness. He heard her footsteps as she crossed the crypt, then on the stairs. He saw her silhouette as she pushed open the door in the floor, remaining motionless himself all the while. She didn’t open it all the way, and he suspected that she meant to hide her location. Murdoch was not certain how she managed to squeeze through so narrow a gap, but she did. No sooner had her feet disappeared and the door been silently shut, then he heard her voice.
“Father Malachy!” she exclaimed, as if delighted to see the priest.
“My lady Isabella,” a man replied, his surprise undisguised. The floor boards creaked as he moved toward the altar and Isabella. “I did not see you there.”
“I was on my knees, Father, the better to pray.”
Murdoch bit back a smile at his lady’s lie.
The priest, he soon realized, knew Isabella well enough to be skeptical. “How uncommon to find you at your devotions so early,” he said. “I know you are one happier to remain warm abed.”
“Indeed, Father, but I could not do so on this day.”
Concern touched the priest’s voice. “Is there a matter troubling you, my lady?”
“I fear for the baker’s son. His cough does not improve as it should, and I do not possess Eleanor’s skill with healing. Siobhan is worried, too.” Isabella’s voice rose, no doubt deliberately. “And Eleanor herself is less than well. I could not compel her to visit the boy, nor could I have him brought him to her, lest she take his cough. Already the alewife’s daughter has begun to cough, and I fear my skill will not suffice.”
“It is a heavy burden you have assumed in this moment of Lady Eleanor’s illness,” the priest said, his manner calming. “I know that you will do your best, my lady, and that truly is all that any can expect.”
“But I fear it will not be enough!” Isabella’s voice rose in appeal. “Would you come and bless him, Father?”
“Of course! I should have done so sooner, but thought his condition improved.”
“I fear it is a false improvement, Father,” Isabella said darkly, “and that he will become more ill soon.”
“Then I shall bring God’s blessing to the boy.”
“We must go immediately, Father Malachy.”
“But...”
“Surely, you would not have the boy grow worse?”
Isabella’s footsteps sounded overhead and Murdoch guessed that she fairly ran to the chapel’s doors. The floor creaked overhead as the priest followed her and Murdoch watched their shadows pass overhead. Isabella continued to chatter in a way most uncharacteristic of her and Murdoch could only assume that she meant to keep the priest distracted from noting anything out of the usual.
When the silence claimed the church again, Murdoch began to count. The shadows seemed alive to him then, the darkness of the crypt so oppressive as to smother him. The skulls seemed to glow in their niches, laughing at him perhaps, and that anxiety claimed him anew.
He counted to twenty, then moved with purpose toward the stairs, still counting. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness but his breath came quickly.
Something moved behind him.
Murdoch spun, but the bones had not moved. There were no ghosts. He should have been safely alone.
Instead, he saw the pounded dirt floor shimmer before his eyes, seeming to be both solid and seething at the same time. He’d reached thirty, but counted more quickly beneath his breath as he stared at the floor. The dirt seemed to boil and to erupt, in a way that was more reminiscent of water than earth.
He rubbed his eyes and passed forty.
When he looked again, a crevasse had opened in the floor, a crevasse filled with writhing dark shapes. He could not help but look within the deeper darkness there, only to realize that it was a bed of black snakes, twisting over each other.
Fifty.
One large snake climbed the backs of the others and leapt out of the pit, slithering directly for him. Murdoch took a step back, stumbling on the bottom stair. He backed up the stairs, bumping his head against the wooden panel.
Sixty.
The snake continued toward him, targeting him with such accuracy that Murdoch felt his terror rise. He pulled his feet up beneath himself and fingered the hilt of his knife. If it came up the steps – and he could not imagine it could – he would kill it.
Seventy.
The snake seemed larger with proximity, larger and thicker and more powerful. It reached the steps and reared up, staring directly at
Murdoch. It opened its mouth and hissed. He pulled the knife but there was another shimmer.
And the Elphine Queen stood before him, amusement in her treacherous eyes.
Eighty.
“You cannot kill me, Murdoch,” she said. “I thought you knew.” She leaned over him, and he averted his gaze, knowing that one glimpse into her eyes would see him lost again. Her hand landed on his boot, her fingers sliding toward his knee. She gripped his thigh, the one that had been so injured and Murdoch again felt a prick of pain. “Have you chosen, my love?”
“I thought you could not tread upon sacred ground.”
She laughed. “All ground is sacred, my love, at least to me. The earth will never spurn me.” She gestured and he saw that the pit of snakes was gone, gone as surely as if it had never existed.
Ninety.
Even she seemed insubstantial, a vision wrought of mist and shadows. She smiled at him and kissed her fingertips, blowing him an embrace. “So, you have seen both futures. One in my realm and one with those who haunt this place. Which will you have?”
“Neither.”
“I do not offer that choice,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing.
He kept his gaze averted, his breathing as rapid as if he had been running.
“Fear not, Murdoch, when the moon is new, we will be together,” she murmured finally. “One way or the other.”
She faded from view, leaving Murdoch gasping on the steps. He was cold again, colder than he had ever been, cold almost to the point of paralysis. He lunged upward, opening the door in the floor with his shoulder and lurching into the chapel. He moved like a drunkard, his body unresponsive and heavy, and he feared that he was half-dead already.
He caught his breath at the portal, leaning back against it as he collected what was left of his wits. He peered through the crack between the double doors at Kinfairlie village, which was yet shadowed and quiet. He heard women at the well, which was out of his view and to his left. It mattered little. There was no time to waste. The longer he waited, the more witnesses there might be.
Murdoch slipped out the door and around the church.
He heard a woman shout at the sight of him and silently cursed every soul who went early for water. The hue and cry began immediately and he knew he could not make the village boundary unseen. He would not endanger Stewart, unless he had no choice.
There was a door open on his right, a kind of shed filled with shadows. Murdoch dove into the space, flinging himself to the darkest corner and backing into the wall. He could smell hay and manure and horseflesh. The women raced past in the alley beyond and he exhaled in relief when their voices faded.
He had just closed his eyes for a moment, when a lantern was swung before his face. The smith’s features appeared, lit from below like some unholy specter, and the man nodded with satisfaction. “The renegade from the woods, I assume,” he said in a low voice. His gaze dropped to Murdoch’s wrist as if he knew what he would see there. “Fear not. I will not reveal you.”
And he turned to his forge, breaking the kindling over his knee as he commenced to light the fire for the day. Murdoch exhaled a shaking breath and willed his body to calm.
“Why not?” he asked quietly, not truly believing the pledge.
The smith chuckled. “I cannot condemn a man who puts a horse’s welfare above his own safety.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes dark. “And I know enough of the Fae to recognize one they intend to claim. Has she seduced you yet?”
* * *
Chapter Nine
It was most curious.
Father Malachy returned to the chapel to prepare for morning mass, struggling to make sense of the lady Isabella’s behavior. He had never known her to be devout, and generally she came as late to services as could be contrived without earning anyone’s ire. She had been distressed, to be certain, although he could not imagine why she had been praying behind the altar table.
It was all most curious. Never mind that the son of the baker and his wife, Siobhan, was so obviously improved that the boy would scarce remain still to be blessed. His parents clearly thought it unnecessary that Father Malachy had made the journey to their abode.
It could be that the lady Isabella learned responsibility. It could be that she took her newfound skills as an apprentice healer most seriously and that this labor gave purpose to her days. Father Malachy could give credit to that notion and be glad of it, but still, something was amiss.
He might have put the matter out of his mind, had he not noticed that the new candle he had set out the night before had been lit. The wick was singed black and there was a hollow at the top where the wax had melted. Indeed, the wax was yet warm.
Father Malachy’s gaze fell to the door in the floor, the one that led to the crypt. On impulse, he lit the candle, opened the door and descended to the crypt. He crossed to the trunk of the chapel’s treasury and knew he smelled an extinguished wick.
The skeletons shared no testimony of whatever they had witnessed.
Father Malachy lifted the key from his belt, bent and unlocked the trunk. All was in disarray within it, most certainly not as he had left it. Fear struck him and he searched immediately for the most precious items in the treasury.
The silver chalice and platter used to serve communion on high holy days were gone.
Father Malachy frowned at the rumpled garments in the trunk and the small treasures left in disarray. There were only two keys to this trunk and one was in his hand. The other was in the possession of the Laird of Kinfairlie, and Father Malachy knew it was not left unguarded.
He fought against the obvious conclusion. He could not place such a theft at Lady Isabella’s door, for her heart was true. She must have been deceived by another. She must be aiding another, out of a false sense of justice.
Father Malachy had an idea who that villain might be, even before the women who had been gossiping at the well came to tell him of what they had seen.
* * *
Murdoch was astonished by the smith’s words. He could not believe that there was any other man who knew what he had endured – at least not one who yet lived among mortals. He eased out of the shadows, wanting to learn what the smith knew but not yet convinced to himself.
In any way.
“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
The smith spoke without moving his lips much, his attention apparently fixed upon the task of lighting the fire in his forge. “The Elphine Queen has a fondness for mortals. All the Fae do. They like to play with their prey before claiming them completely. I ask merely how much of you she has in her possession.”
“How do you know any of this?”
The smith smiled. “There is only one way a man could know such a tale to be truth, and it is not by hearing it at his gran’s knee.” He nodded at Murdoch’s ungloved hand. “I see her marks upon you and I know what they are.” He pushed up his own sleeves then, purportedly to keep them clear of the fire, but Murdoch saw the tracery of blue on his skin.
It had faded to a delicate network of lines, but the pattern was all too familiar.
“You see why I keep my sleeves long, even when I work,” the smith said, tugging them back down again. “It fades over time, but too slowly for my taste.”
“But she did not claim you.”
The smith shook his head. “I escaped her, but I cannot tell you how.”
“Why not?”
The smith almost smiled. “Because the feat that can release you must be done unwittingly, or it does not count. I can only tell you that you make progress.”
That was far from all that Murdoch wished to know. “Then tell me of your own ordeal? How long has it been?”
“Ten years.” The smith sighed. “My wife could not settle after my escape, so certain was she that the Elphine Queen would hunt me down and avenge herself.” He nodded toward a closed door, which Murdoch assumed led to his abode. “We moved annually, until we came to Kinfairlie, and here we have found some peace.�
�� He flicked a glance at Murdoch. “If she has lain with you, you are already lost.”
“She has not. I asked to be allowed to return home and she released me.”
“No. She gave you a reprieve. If she has not had you yet, she still means to do so.”
“I wish she would change her thinking.” Even as he uttered the words, Murdoch realized how foolish they sounded.
The smith gave him a look. “The Fae do not change their thinking. She does not release any mortal man from her court willingly.”
“So it is a trick. My sole chance is to unwittingly ensure my own release.”
The smith nodded.
Murdoch stared at the ground, irked.
The smith, meanwhile, left the forge, crossing the smithy with quick steps. He removed a wooden box from beneath the table where his tools were organized, looked left and right, then opened it swiftly. He hid the box again, and brought a swaddled item to Murdoch.
He unfurled the bundle of cloth, which held a small knife with a silver hilt. The hilt was worked with elaborate designs, swirls that were evocative of the marks on Murdoch’s flesh, and the blade gleamed. “Toledo steel,” the smith said, running an appreciative fingertip along the knife’s edge.
“The very best,” Murdoch said. “Stronger and sharper than any other.”
The smith nodded. “The steel is folded so many times and forged at such a high temperature, there are those who think it sorcery to make steel so fine.” He met Murdoch’s gaze as he offered him the blade. “Plunge it into the threshold of any establishment you enter, even if you do not think your host or hostess to be Fae. If they are, the steel will ensure that you can leave their abode alive.”
Murdoch was honored by the gift. “I thank you.”
“You cannot know what allies the Elphine Queen has. There are many stirrings in the land at night. It seems the veil is overly thin this year. Or maybe, she simply returns to this region and shows her strength. I cannot say.” The smith turned away, his expression revealing that he believed he had said too much.
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