My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  Deidra leaned back in the chair with a contented sigh and looked skyward in thought. Truth be told, she was glad for a reason to sit and talk to someone about the baobhan sith. It wasn't as if she could tell anyone back home what she wished to do. But what did Stephen Ross care? And even if he wanted to, it was doubtful he could stop her.

  "Well, the most common tale sings of four young lads on a hunting trip. They shelter for the night in an abandoned cot­tage. They are sitting around the fire, talk­ing and singing, when one of them wishes for women to keep them company. Immediately women appear. They are beautiful women—" "like you?"

  Deidra’s mouth opened to respond neg­atively when she suddenly realized what He’d said to her. Her mouth snapped shut. His elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and his chin sat on his fist as he stared at her as if enraptured by her tale. Or by her.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Did he jest? She knew she was not beautiful. She had wild, unruly hair that she had given up on a long time ago. And as for her shape, she had none. She was small and unwoman­ly—straight as a lad. She was also consid­ered strange and unfriendly by most peo­ple.

  He was jesting...or drunk. Or both. Either way, she would not participate in the game.

  She forced herself to speak, shaking her head and swallowing convulsively. "No, no, of course not. They...they were womanly.. .with long flowing hair, and fine shapes...womanly shapes. And voices sweet as nightingales."

  He arched a blond brow as if he didn't believe her, but he said nothing.

  "So," she continued, tearing her gaze away from his rapt stare. Her voice became strange and uneven, difficult to squeeze through her constricted throat. "The men danced and sang with the beautiful women...but soon the dancing became lascivious and wild. Then sud­denly the women changed. Their eyes became catlike and they grew fangs and claws. They tore into the men, ripping out their throats and drinking their blood. One of the men was a papist and wore his rosary. The witch touched it and screamed an inhuman shriek. He took that opportunity to escape from her. She pursued and caught him. But he was canny this time and threatened her with the rosary, warding her off until morning.

  When the sun came up, the blood witch had disappeared!”'

  Stephen's servant appeared with a tray laden down with food and drinks. He set it on a table between their chairs.

  "The ale is mulled. Have some." Ste­phen waved at the tray.

  Deidra hesitated, then took the ale. She was hungry and thirsty. She drank deeply of the warm, spicy brew, then chose a bannock from the tray and bit into it, sighing deeply at the rich, warm taste.

  He smiled, but there was strain around his mouth. He leaned toward the tray slowly, like an old man, and took the bot­tle of whisky, grabbing the throat of it and falling back heavily in his chair.

  So he was still in pain. She hadn't been certain, as he looked well enough, but then again, he hadn't moved from the chair since she'd arrived.

  "You traveled all of this way," he said. “A woman, alone, because you thought I might be a blood witch. And yet, by your own description, they are evil, dangerous creatures." He drank whisky straight from the bottle and wiped a hand across his mouth. "You want something only a baob­han sith can give you. And it is extremely valuable to you. Indeed, it is so valuable you are willing to risk your life for it. If I were a baobhan sith, I would be ripping your lovely throat out right now, aye?"

  Deidra's hand crept to her neck. “Aye, I suppose so."

  "It seems...oh..." He raised a shoulder and looked skyward, as if searching for words. "Mayhap a trifle stupid? And here Id always believed you to be an intelli­gent lass."

  Deidra smiled ruefully. "You don't know me at all, and you certainly have no idea what I left behind. Maybe a baobhan sith would be welcome in comparison."

  He raised both brows thoughtfully and nodded. Aye, I hadn't considered such a thing, sheltered as you are by both the MacDonells and the MacKays. They love their own, cosset and dote on them. But you're still unhappy." He inhaled deeply, leaning to the side to contemplate her. "So you left something bad behind you. What if it followed you? Did you think for a moment that I don't want your trou­ble? Why do you bring it to me?"

  Deidra opened her mouth in protest, then snapped it shut. She supposed he had a point, and that had not occurred to her. "He didn't see me leave. I escaped without anyone's knowledge. Besides, he's after a witch...and you're obviously not one.

  Stephen nodded. "You're the animal whisperer, aye? I remember that."

  Deidra grimaced. "Not anymore. I stopped talking to them over a decade ago. Unfortunately, they haven't stopped talking to me."

  "So the animals still talk...you just stopped listening."

  "That's right."

  He studied her. "Interesting."

  Deidra shrugged. "Not really."

  "Clearly, someone back home finds it fascinating. They know you're still a witch and will not let it go."

  He was pretty sharp for a sot. She con­tinued to reevaluate whether or not he was actually drunk, but he kept pouring the whisky down his throat and slurring his words. It was very confusing.

  His gaze narrowed. "But why a baobhan sith? What can a blood witch do for you?"

  Deidra smiled without humor. "You'll never know, will you, since you know nothing about them."

  He smiled back, but his was full of mirth. "That's not entirely accurate, sweeting. I said I'd never heard of a baob­han sith, but once you explained what one was, I realized that of course I knew of them. I'd just heard them called other names."

  "Really." Deidra's lips flattened. She felt strangely irritated that he was not ignor­ant of blood witches. "Such as?"

  "On the Continent they are called strigoi. They are witches who died and came back to drink the blood of their families. Then there are the deargdul and deam­hain flhola in Eire. Bloodsuckers both, but not terribly threatening, since a pile of stones atop their grave keeps them put." He shrugged as if bored by the sub­ject. “And there are other names and sto­ries." He rubbed his fingers over the stub­ble beneath his lips. "But I had not heard of a baobhan sith before today. So...you believe these stories, aye?"

  Deidra hesitated. "I believe the story of the baobhan sith. Of these other creatures you tell of...the red thing and what­not... well, I know nothing of them and cannot say one way or the other."

  He kept rubbing at his lips, but she could see it was more to hide his smile than aught else. "But you have some proof of your bloodsucker, aye? Pray tell, if it pleases you."

  She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "What care you? You've already made up your mind that I am foolish and empty-headed."

  His hand dropped and his eyebrows flew up in astonishment. "What?"

  “Aye, I am no addlepate. I can see your smirk."

  "I am not smirking." He recomposed his face to grave seriousness. "I do not think you are foolish and empty-headed. You are clearly a thoughtful and intelligent woman. And I vow that I am truly, deeply curious about your quest."

  She didn't believe him. At least not entirely. She didn't think he cared one whit about baobhan siths or any other form of blood witch. However, he had to be rather lonely, sitting in his big room, drinking himself into a stupor and com­forting himself with whores. She sup­posed he wasn't quite ready to lose her company. And for some reason, she felt reluctant to retire just yet.

  "Very well." She sighed dramatically, as if it were much more trouble than it actu­ally was. "I know because my uncle Drake met a baobhan sith."

  Stephen frowned dubiously at her. "Drake, you say? I know Drake."

  "It is true. He did."

  Stephen's frown deepened. "Tell me."

  "You remember his wife, Ceara?" He nodded gravely.

  "She was very ill...like your back." Deidra lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze when speaking of his injury. She remembered how bitter Stephen had become when neither her father nor Rose had been able to heal his back. It had been a caustic dram to swallow.
After all, that's what the MacKays did. They healed with magic, and yet they'd done naught for him. It was sometimes that way. They could heal many things, but not every­thing. Preexisting conditions, such as a ruined back that had already mended incorrectly—such a thing could not be undone because it had already healed.

  The fact that it had healed wrong didn't make it any less healed.

  "I seem to remember Ceara being ill, not a cripple."

  Deidra glanced up. "No, she wasn't cripple, but still, there are ailments that are similar in the fact they cannot be healed. My father and Rose were able to help her temporarily, but it always returned. We suspected witchcraft but could find no evidence of that, even with Aunt Isobel and Aunt Gillian's help." She shook her head. "My parents did all they could. They healed her over and over…She is the reason they are both completely white haired. She was killing them. Finally, one

  day, she told them to stop."

  Stephen nodded thoughtfully but did not respond.

  "There is a story about how the MacK­ays got their magic. My great-great-great-grandsire made a pact with a blood witch. Uncle Drake thought maybe he could make a pact with a blood witch, just like our ancestor did." She shrugged. "But I guess it didn't work out, because Ceara died anyway and Uncle Drake has shut himself up in Creaghaven for years...just like you. People say you're a baobhan sith, because you close yourself up here. No one sees you...stories circu­late..." She gave him a sheepish smile. "Braighde Pele is on my way to Creagha­ven...so I thought I'd try."

  He smiled back, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry to disappoint. But I am just a man, and not even a whole one at that. If I were a baobhan sith, you wished to make a pact with me?"

  "I thought if the baobhan sith can give magic, mayhap it can take it away."

  “And your uncle's failure tells you noth­ing? Such as maybe there is no such thing as a baobhan sith? Or if there is, she doesn't grant wishes?"

  Deidra's lips thinned mutinously.

  "Why not go to your uncle? Find out what his experience with the blood witch was?”

  "Well, that is what I plan to do tomor­row."

  He propped his chin on his fist. "Well, I am glad for your mistake. Had you chosen another route, I would not have had the pleasure of your company this evening."

  Deidra tried to take a drink of mulled ale to hide the trembling of her lips, but her throat closed up and she coughed and sputtered. At the moment, she was glad, too.

  This was the Stephen Ross she remem­bered. The handsome charmer she’d been completely enamored of as a child. She found that she was not as immune as she had assumed she would be. She had a ter­rible time speaking to most men, but something about this evening, or about Stephen, had made it easy for her to talk.

  Until now. Her tongue knotted up again.

  She reminded herself that he was doing nothing more than making do with what he had available to him tonight. And now he was being flirtatious and charming in hopes that she would finish out the night giving him for sweet words what he would have paid coin for otherwise.

  It was rather insulting when she con­sidered it logically.

  She found her tongue again. She set her tankard down and stood. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I must start out early in the morning."

  He contemplated her from his seated position. His expression was enigmatic, strange, as if he found her the puzzling one. She squeezed her hands together to stop herself from wringing them. She wanted to say something but felt it was better for her to leave it at that. He must understand what she meant. She had made it clear that she was not here for his amusement.

  After a long moment he braced his hands on the arms of his chair. His face set into hard, uncompromising lines. Then he hauled himself up. The muscles stood out on his arms and his jaw grew rigid.

  He was even more formidable standing than he had been sitting. He stood nearly a head taller than her and twice as wide in breadth. His shirt still hung open, giving her an eyeful of tense, hard muscle. She swallowed and quickly averted her eyes to stop herself from staring.

  When he stood, he let out the breath He’d apparently been holding. "I'll show you to your room."

  He limped across the room. Deidra hes­itated, then followed.

  Outside his chambers, he led her down a corridor to a flight of steps. A lantern sat in a deep depression in the wall, giving them a dim, wavering light to see by. A rope banister was bolted into the stones. He took the stairs a bit slower, but still, Deidra was impressed with his mobility.

  "You get along quite well," she com­mented. "I'd imagined you bedridden or some such, not nearly so...mobile." And muscular. In her experience, cripples were often wizened and weak. Stephen looked quite robust.

  Aye, I suppose, for half a man."

  Bitterness edged his voice as he gripped the rope railing. She understood why muscle layered his arms and chest. He used his upper body to compensate for the weakness in his lower limbs.

  At the top of the stairs he paused, palm pressed against the wall. Deidra reined in the urge to place her hand on his back and ask if he needed her help. He wouldn't want it, she knew that.

  He recovered quickly and led her to a door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open, then stood aside so she could enter.

  It was a huge chamber. The enormous bed was the centerpiece, draped with silk curtains. Her eyes slid past the bed to seek out the windows. There were two, and the shutters were open, allowing the cool breeze in.

  "Will this be adequate?" he asked.

  She turned toward him, nodding. "Oh, aye. Its very nice. If I don't see you in the morning, I wish to give my thanks again, and to wish you well."

  He inclined his head. When he stood like that, tall and straight, it was hard to believe he was crippled, but then he turned and limped toward the door.

  "Good night, Deidra." He didn't look back as he shut the door behind him.

  As soon as he was gone, she rushed to the windows and closed the shutters up tight. The room was practically perfect. She turned a circle, pleased she was up so high. This was how her room was back home. She sometimes had problems with birds, but for the most part the height kept away any beasts that thought to trouble her.

  She collapsed on the bed and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, it was off to see her uncle. She hadn't seen him in years and wasn't relishing the confrontation. She didn't know what she would say to him and couldn't imagine how he would react.

  She was discouraged by her meeting with Stephen, but she reminded herself that his being a blood witch was nothing more than a rumor. The information she had on her uncle was more solid, as he had actually seen and spoken to a blood witch.

  Still, it was difficult to sustain real dis­appointment. Somehow, her evening with Stephen had left her with a pleasant warmth, as if she had finally met some­one who had somehow managed to see past the animal whisper to the woman beneath.

  Stephen returned to his drawing room, but didn't sit. Lounging in front of the fire with a bottle of whisky no longer held the same appeal as it had just a few hours earlier. He imagined Deidra in his tower room. Her slight, feminine body, the wild, wonderful curls, her large, clear blue eyes. He'd seen many beautiful women in his life, and she wasn't one of them. She was not homely—far from it—but she was not a beauty either. She was intriguing, adorable, delightful. She would leave in the morning, possibly before he was even out of bed, and he would not see her again. Maybe never.

  That was unacceptable.

  She had come to him, sought help from him, and now he regarded her with a sense of ownership and responsibility. Logically, he knew she was not his responsibility and would never be his in any manner. But it didn't diminish the feeling.

  Deidra MacKay had barged in and dis­rupted his uncomfortable but routine life. It was not a particularly happy life, but he managed. The monotony of it had lulled him into a sensation of being carried on a sea of inevitability, of fate. But not any­more. Deidra the animal charmer had sw
ept the cobwebs from his eyes and revealed how empty his life really was.

  He thought about the task she’d set for herself. Finding a baobhan sith. Upon initial examination it seemed absurd. But when he considered the matter more closely, it was not at all foolish. One would assume the stories of blood witches were naught but tales told to frighten children, but Stephen knew bet­ter. He had seen magic in his lifetime, in both his own family and his friends'. He'd grown up surrounded by witchcraft and magic, and it had never touched him. He'd remained immune.

  And he was sick to death of it. If there was such a thing as a baobhan sith and there were pacts to be made, by God he wanted his share of the magic for once. He was weary of being a cripple, weary of the pain. Even now it dug and twisted in his back, like a stake rammed deep. For years he'd feared they'd somehow left the bullet deep in his spine, but both Rose and William MacKay had assured him there was no bullet in there—merely a spine that had healed crooked, causing him to suffer endless agony.

  He snagged the neck of the whisky bot­tle and took several long swallows. It did little to dull the pain these days. He might be forced to resume taking the poppy juice. He hated the poppy juice—or, more aptly, he hated himself when taking it. The whisky didn't do him any favors either, but at least he could think straight when imbibing. When he took the poppy juice, he was not himself. His thoughts scattered and grew mud­died. Sometimes he would write things, and when he read them later, they were senseless babblings.

  He took the whisky to his bedchamber and called for a servant to ready him for bed. He could dress and groom himself, but a woman came in each night to work his back hard with her fingers and fists. It was blissful agony, exhausting him, but eventually it lessened the pain and usu­ally helped him sleep.

  Tonight it just hurt. Her hands were sharp little rocks, digging into his muscles and making the pain worse rather than better.

  "Stop!" he finally bellowed, frightening her so that she backed away, hands clasped under her chin.

  She was a big woman, with strong hands and arms, but she had an odd, fem­inine wilting-flower disposition com­pletely at odds with her stout physique.