My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  She tapped her horse's side and rode along the top of the rise until she reached the road. A crossroad loomed in the dis­tance, marked with a huge blackened pile of rocks. The air smelled foul—like soot and burned meat. It reminded her of her dream from the night before. A spring wound tight behind her breastbone.

  As she rode closer, she realized the blackened pile was not rocks, as she’d first assumed. It had been kindling, piled high around a stake. The spring wound tighter, making her gasp to catch her breath.

  There had been a fire last night. The scent of it still burned her nostrils, though the smoke was long gone. And Countess had been right. The fire had been a dan­ger to her. What she didn't understand was how the horse had known about it.

  As Deidra passed the stake, a wind rose and blew across the tumbled, blackened wood, sending ashes spiraling through the air to clog her throat and burn her eyes. Her vision swam in and out as moisture built behind her eyes.

  The village had burned a witch last night. Her blackened skeleton was tied to the stake still. It seemed strange to Deidra that the witch's clothes and hair and skin had all burned away but the rope that had strapped her to the stake, though black­ened, still held fast, keeping her upright for all who passed to see. Her head tilted back, her bony jaw open in a silent scream.

  The spring in Deidra’s breast wound so tight that she feared it would burst. It squeezed her heart, made her struggle for air. Her stomach lurched as she rode past the horror, hating the sight but unable to avert her eyes.

  She reined her horse in, staring at the distant village with trepidation. Should she go around it? This was no safe place. But finally the urge to rest won out. How much trouble could she get in at the inn, asleep? She would not stay long.

  A somber atmosphere lay over the vil­lage like a thick fog. The people she passed on the street watched her with tight lips and grim eyes. Deidra felt as if everything about her screamed witch, even though she knew that was impos­sible.

  Food first, then sleep.

  She came to a common house that served ale and food, and she tethered her horse in front of it. A fire blazed in the center of the dwelling; long tables were situated around it. She sat at an empty one and was brought mulled ale and bar­ley stew as soon as she showed her coin. The brew was warm and the food felt good in her empty belly. She sighed deeply as she emptied her bowl and asked for more.

  Her server was a large woman, but kindly, and brought her a slice of dark bread with the next bowl and charged her nothing more. Deidra supposed she looked pathetic, small and thin and starv­ing.

  A dog wandered inside. Every rib showed through it’s scraggly brown fur. Its droopy ears cocked, and it scanned the room. Deidra thought of Duke, which reminded her of Stephen, and the spring in her breast, which had been loosening, wound tight again.

  She turned away. A moment later the dog appeared beside her, whimpering up at her. It laid it’s head on her thigh, and she jerked away. So it lay at her feet.

  She tried to ignore it, continuing to shovel down the last spoonfuls of stew. But in the end she sopped up the juice with her bread and dropped it on the ground without looking at the dog. She heard it swallow the bread in a single gulp.

  She sighed. She was a lodestone wherever she went, attracting any stray animal that happened to be wandering about.

  She was nearly finished with the rest of her bread when a shadow fell across the table, blocking out the firelight. Deidra looked up from her meal. Her heart jumped up into her throat, making her choke on the food she attempted to swal­low. She coughed and gasped, her eyes bulging and her legs tense with the instinct to run.

  "Deidra MacKay. Fancy meeting you here."

  At the sound of his voice, paralysis gripped her. She hadn't been truly alone with him without the protection of her family in twelve years, and it had been her dearest wish never to be again. But here she was, alone with Luthias Forsyth.

  She went dumb, unable to speak or move, only able to stare at him in hor­rified silence. How was it he was here, when she had left him at Strathwick?

  He seemed taller than she remem­bered. He hadn't been a young man when they'd first met, but neither had he been old. Frighteningly, he didn't appear to have aged a single day since that long-ago day when He’d tortured her father, then tried to burn him. He had less hair on either side of his shiny pate, and he was still tall and thin, but somehow he was not weak at all. He looked powerful and fearsome. He stared down at her with intense gray eyes that seemed to see straight to her soul.

  "What's the matter, Deidra? Cat got your tongue?" He looked down at the dog that lay patiently at her feet. "Or should I say dog?"

  Evil, evil man to say such a thing. But the reminder of all that was suddenly at stake galvanized her to action.

  She shook off the shocked stupor. "Of course not," she snapped.

  “Ah, she speaks. And what are you doing so far from home, Miss MacKay?"

  Deidra swallowed and tried to appear nonchalant. "Just passing through."

  "On your way to...?" His thin gray brows rose in question, wrinkling his high forehead.

  She wanted to tell him to stay out of her business, but she didn't dare anger him. Instead she said, "On my way to see my uncle."

  “All alone?" He drew back in scandal­ized shock. "It's dangerous for a woman to be traveling alone."

  "I can take care of myself better than most men."

  He smiled as if He’d caught her in a trap. "I can attest to that!"

  Her lips hardened, but she did not respond to his taunt. The dog at her feet whined but didn't otherwise move.

  Luthias tilted his head to study her. "Few fathers would allow their daughters to travel alone and unprotected. I do not believe your father is one of them."

  He was right, of course. William MacKay was probably frantic, wondering where his daughter was. In fact, he was probably searching for her. But Deidra didn't think it was wise to admit anything. Luthias obviously assumed she was alone and unprotected, but he didn't know, and she didn't intend to confirm his suspi­cions.

  When she didn't answer, he pulled out the bench opposite her and sat down, adjusting his immaculate black robe. He looked so out of place in this rustic com­mon house, surrounded by crude furni­ture and smoke from the lard lanterns. He was obviously not the common laborer that frequented this establishment, or even a villager. This was a city man, a lowlander with means.

  "How long will you be here?" he asked, his voice smooth and pleasant.

  Deidra swallowed, her mind racing ahead, trying to decide the best response to get him to leave her alone. She most assuredly did not want to remain in this village any longer than necessary, and yet leaving no longer felt safe. She would be all alone and unprotected. But to stay here was to also put herself in danger. This village had just burned a witch and now she understood why. Luthias was in town. If anything went amiss while she was here, fingers would point and Luthias would be more than happy to tie her to a stake.

  What continued to confuse her was how He’d managed to get here so quickly. When she’d left Strathwick, He’d been in the nearby village. He must have left when she had and come straight here. Had he come here because He’d known there had been a witch inhabiting this lit­tle hamlet? Or had he just lucked upon her?

  "Who was she?" Deidra asked, hoarse, as if she’d been screaming, but the screaming was only in her head.

  Luthias smoothed a finger over his eye­brow. "Who?"

  "The woman you burned last night," she hissed through clenched teeth.

  "Oh, her. She was a witch."

  And he dismissed a woman's life just like that. Just a witch. No name. Fear and anger mixed inside of Deidra to create something reckless.

  "By whose definition?" she pressed.

  His thin lips curved condescendingly.

  "Whose do you think, Deidra?" He shook his head, as if deeply disappointed in her. "Do you truly believe I am the one to make these laws? It is God’s law, enforced b
y the kirk and king."

  "The king lives in England now, and I have heard that there they do not burn witches so zealously."

  His smile became genuine. He leaned forward slightly. "We're not in England."

  Deidra started to stand, but he stopped her, placing his hand on her arm to hold her in place. The touch of his hand went through her like a knife, cold and repellant. She was too appalled to move away.

  "I have been waiting for this for a very long time."

  "Waiting for what?" she asked, her voice rising shrilly. A handful of villagers was scattered about the common house, but not one of them intervened. They all watched surreptitiously, none of them daring to stare openly. Luthias had obvi­ously put the fear of God’s cleansing fire into them.

  The dog sat up, whimpering and thumping its tail. Luthias shot it a narrow look. "Is this your hellhound? Will it try to rip my throat out?" He didn't look ter­ribly frightened by that possibility.

  "No—I know not. It's not my dog. I don't know what it wants."

  He snorted dubiously. "I have men ready to snap its neck if it so much as growls."

  Deidra’s throat tightened. She wanted to send the dog away, but she feared it would only become more protective if she finally acknowledged it.

  "What have you been waiting for? Why not just bum me and get it over with?" Deidra asked, successfully distracting his attention from the dog.

  "Surrounded by your MacKays, pro­tecting you? No, I had to bide my time and be patient. I knew God would even­tually reward me. He would not put me through such tests for no reason."

  Her stomach dipped. This was his reward? "Let me go." She tried to pull her arm away, but he held it flat on the table. He had her, away from family and aid, and he didn't mean to let her escape.

  Memories from a dozen years ago flooded her. Her father's hand clamped to a table as Luthias beat it with a mallet until it was a bloody pulp, the crack of bones, the gush of blood, the pain that distorted her father's face. Luthias had been righteous and excited while he'd tor­tured her father. He loved his work and believed in it.

  To her, he had been terrifying, mon­strous. Even though her father had healed completely, seeing him beaten in such a way had affected her. She'd had night­mares for a long time. Sometimes when she looked at her father, all she saw was a mangled hand, even though his was whole. She had thought the old wounds had healed, but she could see now they'd only scabbed over. And here was Luthias Forsyth, pick, pick, picking at the scab.

  Her breathing grew shallow. Her hand tightened into a fist. "What do you want?" she whispered, appalled at the whimper in her voice.

  "Justice," he said with no malice, only confidence and faith in his beliefs. Justice for the long-ago day when a mere eight-year-old had held him hostage with her magic. She had called the animals to rescue her and her father, but she had given them no direction. However, they had felt the intensity of her fear. They had seen her as a deity of sorts—a divine leader—and had been willing to kill and die for her. And that day they had done just that.

  It had sealed her fate with Luthias for­ever.

  Deidra wrenched away, yanking her arm from his grasp and stumbling back­ward. The bench toppled over, and she came down hard on her shoulder, knock­ing her head against the floor.

  She was momentarily dazed, but she was free.

  She rolled to her feet. He rushed around the table in pursuit. Deidra spun around to run the other way, but a man appeared at the door, arms crossed over his chest, blocking her way.

  Heart throbbing in her throat, she tried to dart to the side as Luthias snatched at her. The dog was there, standing beside her, hackles puffed out, making it appear twice it’s size. It growled, loud and menac­ing, lips peeled back to expose wicked, sharp teeth.

  Deidra reared back in surprise as it leaped at her. She flung her hands up to protect her face, but it flew past her, catching Luthias's arm between its jaws. Dog and man crashed to the floor.

  "No!" Deidra shrieked. In her panic she couldn't even remember how to speak to the dog so it would understand—she had not done it in so long, "No! Leave him alone!"

  Men appeared—the same men he had threatened her with earlier—and con­verged on the growling, slathering melee on the floor. They drew enormous knives from their belts and hacked at the dog-It yelped and went silent. No! The scream rose in Deidra's chest but did not pass her lips. She stared at the bloody, hairy mass on the floor, hands clamped over her mouth, muscles rigid with hor­ror. Why? Why? Why? She hadn't asked it to protect her. She hadn't wanted its help. Now it was dead and Luthias's belief in her wickedness had been validated.

  Luthias still sprawled on the ground, dusty robes askew and torn, face flushed. He looked at his arm, at the torn, blood­stained sleeve, and then back at Deidra. His brow lowered and his lips thinned into an uncompromising line.

  He got to his feet and straightened his robes, his dignity restored. "Take her into custody."

  His thugs grabbed her arms. She strug­gled to escape, though she knew it was futile. "What did I do? I didn't do any­thing!"

  "You set your hellhound on me. You tried to murder me through witchcraft."

  "It's not my dog! I've never seen him before today." She writhed and twisted, but it was no use. He was deaf to her pro­tests. The men dragged her from the common house and shoved her through the streets before tossing her unceremo­niously into a hole behind a large house.

  It was dark and damp in the hole. A grate was dropped over the top, creating a patchwork pattern of light on the ground. As her eyes adjusted, she realized she was in a cellar. Barrels lined the wall, and crates were stacked beside them. Deidra sat on a crate, shoulders slumped, and stared into the darkness.

  She had denied her magic for so long, for no other reason than to avoid this very situation she now found herself in. She couldn't quite comprehend how she'd managed, in spite of her very best efforts, to end up this way. Luthias was right. It must have been God’s plan for her all along. He was working through the witch hunter.

  A voice in her head taunted that she should never have left Stephen. But really, what could he have done to pre­vent this? He was a cripple. And besides, the true root of the thought was that she had never felt so alone in her entire life. And for a little while, with Stephen, she had not been alone. Though she had rejected his company, he had wanted hers. It hurt now to admit it, but she regretted leaving him, regretted her stub­born streak of independence. No, not independence. Isolation. She was no bet­ter than he was, walling herself off and driving away those who tried to tear down the walls.

  But those were selfish, self-pitying thoughts. Stephen was an innocent. Bet­ter he not get caught up in her mess. She was the witch. If she was to be punished for it, she must face it alone.

  Chapter 5

  Stephen was relieved to arrive at the vil­lage, even if the welcoming committee was a charred corpse strapped to a stake. He knew Deidra had come this way because he’d tracked her. He doubted she’d stopped anywhere for the night, so he looked for the telltale signs of fresh horse dung. And Duke was an excellent bloodhound, too, keeping him on track. He wondered what Deidra had thought when she’d seen the corpse at the cross­roads. Coming as she did from a family of witches, it must have been troubling. He wondered if her desire to sleep in a village had overridden her misgivings about the dead witch.

  Only one way to find out.

  The town was subdued as he entered on foot. It had been at least a mile since he’d been able to sit a horse. At the point where it had begun to feel as if a white-hot rod had been rammed up his spine, he’d dismounted to walk it out.

  Unfortunately, walking was only a tem­porary solution. He leaned heavily against Countess as he limped into the village. Jagged teeth had sunk into his spine and held there. Pain radiated down both legs.

  He tried to greet folks he passed on the dirt main street, but no one would meet his eyes. He stopped outside a cottage that was obviously inhabited by a tanner,
judging by the skins hung to dry all over the walls.

  A man stood before a skin stretched tight over two beams. He scraped rhyth­mically at it with a curved knife and was so engrossed in his work that Stephen had to clear his throat several times before the man turned.

  "I'm witch hunting, my friend, and was told there was a baobhan sith out this way."

  The man's brows drew together and his mouth snapped shut. After a moment he shook his head. "I know not of that mat­ter." Before Stephen could say another word, the man walked purposefully into his cottage and shut the door

  Stephen glanced around. There were few people out and about, and he decided that mayhap it wasn't the best time to be asking about witches, not with a burning still fresh in their minds. It might some­how be misinterpreted and go badly for him, and he was in no condition to be running for his life.

  He limped on, leaving the tanner's cot­tage behind. Farther down at the end of the dirt lane sat a long house with a sign out front depicting a crude drawing of a large cup with a white substance over­flowing the top. The alehouse. He would have more luck in there, he hoped.

  The murky interior stank of lard can­dles and barley stew. His belly cramped in response. He was hungry, but not for that. The pain in his back had managed to conceal his hunger, but now it would not be ignored.

  He slid onto a bench and grunted, head cradled in his hands as the tension ebbed and throbbed painfully out of his spine. He breathed in and out, slowly, and focused on the sensation and sound of his breathing. He sat that way, knuckles pressed into the hollows of his eyes, con­centrating on his breathing until the pain became manageable again.

  He raised his head. A stout, red-faced woman stood before him, hands on hips and hairy brows raised expectantly,

  "What's there to eat?"

  "Soup and ale."

  And that was it, he supposed, since she gave no further options.

  She trudged away, returning moments later with a big bowl of barley stew, a tankard of ale, and a crust of bread. The stew looked better than it smelled. He wanted to dive into it, but first he needed some answers.