My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  "Whot?" he snapped. "I am here to see my uncle, Drake MacKay."

  The thick brows lowered. "Uncle, eh?" His head moved as he scanned her from head to toe. She didn't imagine he could see much more of her than she could of him. "Your name?"

  "Deidra MacKay."

  The window slammed shut, and Deidra was left to wait again.

  The exercise of travel had kept her warm, but now, waiting in the darkness, the chill seeped through her clothes. She shivered, running her hands up and down her arms.

  Drake had always been very different from her father, but He’d never been the "odd" one. No, that had been reserved for William MacKay, a witch. Drake had been born perfectly normal and nonmagical. But nevertheless he had not been able to escape the family's legacy of oddness. It had happened seven years ago, when his wife had died. It had been an unusual situation for many reasons—the first being that friends and family of the MacKays died infrequently. In fact, far less frequently than everyone else. They tended to live to ripe old ages, usually ail­ment free. Except Ceara.

  Drake had been distraught over his brother’s failure. So He’d taken her to a blood witch to make a pact. No one knew anything past that. Whatever had hap­pened, Ceara had died.

  Drake had not been the same after­ward. His visits had become infrequent and had finally stopped altogether. He’d retreated to this stronghold in the more remote area of the Highlands, and the rumors had flourished. Drake kept the dead body of his wife preserved in salt and he still searched for a cure. He was mad and didn't realize she was dead. He dressed her corpse and conversed with it. Deidra didn't believe the stories.

  A great amount of time passed while Deidra paced outside the gate, trying to stay warm and growing increasingly con­cerned. She was about to ring the bell again when the slide of the latch made her straighten. The door swung open with a creak.

  Her uncle filled the doorway, staring down at her as if she was a ghost.

  He had changed—so much so that she could only stare at him in astonishment. The first and most remarkable thing that she noted about his appearance was his beard—full and lush and black, it hung down his chest in a tangled riot of curls.

  His hair had grown long too. He tied it at his nape, but locks of curls escaped to hang beside his face.

  They stared at each other for a long moment before Deidra broke the silence with a tentative, "Uncle Drake? Is that you!”

  He blinked as if coming out of a dream. "Deidra? What are you doing here?" His voice was rough and cracked when he spoke, as if he didn't do it very often.

  Deidra's mouth opened, but nothing came out. She didn't know where to start. Finally she said, "I'm in trouble."

  Drake stepped back and opened the door wider so Deidra could enter. She hurried in, the fear and watchfulness fall­ing away like a cloak. She felt safe for the first time in days.

  “Are you being followed?" he asked.

  “I know not.. .but I don't think so."

  He gestured to someone on the walls, and moments later a handful of men appeared. "Secure the perimeter around the castle."

  The wolf was still outside the castle. It had become alarmed at her entrance into the curtain walls. Deidra soothed it with her mind and urged it to go out on its own. She warned it about the men and told it to get far away from here. She didn't know if it obeyed.

  Drake led her into the keep. It was an old structure, built many years ago.

  Rather than fireplaces lining the walls like the more modem structures, fire pits ran up the center of the great hall, all of them currently cold.

  From the great hall he led her to a stair­case. They climbed to the next level. At the top of the stairs was a large room hung with colorful tapestries. Fur rugs covered the floor, and a fire blazed in a new stone fireplace, obviously built within the past decade.

  He sat at a long wooden table and ges­tured for her to do the same. She winced when she sat, and he asked sharply, "You are hurt?"

  "My shoulder. Dislocated. Stephen reset it.. .but it still hurts."

  Drake nodded and gestured to someone across the room. “A willow bark infusion, posthaste."

  The woman returned a few minutes later with a small pot and a cup. She poured the infusion for Deidra and handed her the cup. Deidra smiled grate­fully, wrapping her hands around the warm clay and sipping the healing bever­age.

  "So," he said when she was finally set­tled in the chair opposite him. "What sort of trouble are you in?"

  She recounted the whole story, begin­ning with Luthias sniffing around Strathwick and ending with her escape from the village.

  Drake listened pensively to her tale, combing some of the tangles from his beard with his fingers. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed a finger at her.

  "There is something else—something you left out."

  How could he know that? Her gaze dropped to her hands, wrapped around the cup. She feared it was all there any­way, all of her sins, written in her eyes. "I...I killed a boy."

  When he didn't respond, she looked up. His hand had paused in its combing.

  "You killed a boy? How did such a thing occur!”

  She swallowed, eyes downcast again, fixed on the empty bottom of the cup. "I am speaking to the animals again!”' Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “A wolf led me through the forest...helped me.. .protected me.. .then killed for me."

  “Ah..." The word was released on a breath of understanding. "You ordered the wolf to kill the boy."

  She shook her head vigorously. "No, never."

  "So the wolf killed the boy without your consent?"

  Her head jerked up, her mouth a thin line. "I did not give my consent, but I may as well have given the order."

  "But you didn't. And you wouldn't have, would you?"

  Her mouth grew tighter, harder. When she didn't answer him, he smiled grimly.

  "No, of course you wouldn't. You're not like me. I'd kill for much less."

  Deidra sat back in her chair, taken aback by his admission. He did not elab­orate.

  "Stop being a martyr and move past it. It wasn't your fault. Trial and error—this is the way of all learning, and you, my dear niece, are relearning your gift."

  "It's a life, not an error," she said through gritted teeth. "That boy is dead"

  Drake smiled back, his white teeth bared in his black beard. “Aye, and we are the MacKays; we play with life and death. That is what we do. So move past it, lass, or you will never make it in this world."

  Deidra's lips trembled with anger and guilt, but she said not another word.

  After a moment Drake exhaled a loud sigh. "We have two problems. Stephen Ross's safety and your nemesis, Luthias Forsyth. Assuming Stephen is as clever as I recall—"

  Deidra nodded confidently. He was very clever. "Oh, he is."

  Drake’s brow twitched before he con­tinued. "Then he is probably still safe and Luthias thinks they are the very best of friends." He looked skyward, fingers toy­ing with the hair beneath his bottom lip. "There is really only one thing to do. Luthias Forsyth must disappear. Forever."

  Deidra swallowed hard and nodded. He was right. She didn't relish the idea of murder, but in this case, if she didn't, he would kill her. And from the way he'd spoken, he no longer had any qualms about coming after her parents. He was a danger to all of them now.

  "What about this other notion—of the baobhan sith? Have you given up on it now that you're communing with beasts again?"

  Deidra sighed and shrugged. "I know not. Stephen is more determined than ever to find the blood witch."

  Drake frowned slightly. "What has that to do with you?"

  "Well, I...I...," she stuttered on for a moment before clamping her lips shut.

  He watched her patiently with raised brows.

  She exhaled impatiently through her nose and continued, "I don't see what a blood witch could possibly do for him."

  “A great deal," Drake said. "End his pain, for one. His back injury—he doesna fa
ke that for sympathy, Dee-dee." He leaned forward, dark blue eyes intense, mouth a grim line in his beard. Only her father and Drake had ever addressed her by that endearment, and she shrank a little in her chair, feeling like a child again. "Do you know what it's like to live alone, to suffer in silence because no one cares?"

  Deidra shook her head. "What are you saying? Many people care about Stephen.

  He is the one who chose to live a recluse, shut away from the love of—"

  "Love?" Drake’s voice rose angrily. "Pity is not the same thing. Do not confuse them."

  Pity. Deidra's brows lowered in confu­sion. They were clearly not speaking only of Stephen.

  "Who are you talking about, Uncle Drake? No one pities you. You choose to stay away."

  He sat back in his chair and looked to the side. "That's because no one under­stands. No one can ever understand until they live it."

  Deidra certainly didn't understand. He was comparing his situation to Stephen's, yet their situations were nothing alike.

  "How is becoming a blood-sucking night crawler a good alternative to being a cripple?"

  Drake’s mouth flattened. "It’s better than a half-life or no life at all."

  "So you think he should go to the baob­han sith and become one?"

  Drake turned back toward her, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing as the fight drained out of him. "I know not without talking to Stephen. But it matters not. It would not serve him. She will not help anyway."

  The breath left Deidra in a rush. "So the baobhan sith is real?" Drake hesitated a moment before shrugging. "I assume so. In truth, I saw no proof that she was a blood witch. But the surrounding villagers believed she was and left offerings to her."

  "Offerings?" Deidra frowned dubiously. "That sounds primitive. Why would they tolerate a witch in such a climate as ours? They could easily have her killed with no repercussions."

  Drake smiled. His gaze was fixed on something above and beyond her. “Aye, you’d think. But she has them scared. They said they'd tried it before and it had ended badly for the leaders of the revolt. So now they are obedient wee sheep."

  This worried Deidra. It was not safe for Stephen to travel so far and into such treacherous country. Especially if it was all for naught.

  "We should try to stop him!”' Deidra mumbled.

  Her uncle gazed at her, his brows drawn together in a perplexed frown. "Methinks, lass, you have more important things to worry about. For instance, how we're going to make Mr. Forsyth dis­appear."

  Deidra's cheeks flamed. She raised her chin and said, "Of course. I thought you had a plan already."

  "Well, nothing so solid as stone yet. We need your father. And mayhap Philip Kilpatrick. The earl of Kincreag would be useful too."

  Deidra shook her head. "There's no time for that."

  "Does your father even know you're here?"

  Deidra cast her gaze downward. She had tried very hard not to think of her father. She knew he was worried sick and probably angry that she had not trusted him. She did trust him, but she didn't want him involved with Luthias. She didn't want Luthias's obsession to encom­pass her father. But it was too late, and the only way to protect her father was to kill Luthias.

  "He doesn't know."

  Drake cursed under his breath and stood. "Well, we cannot do aught until we send him word and he arrives."

  "No." Deidra stood too, palms on the table. "Luthias wants him and Rose now, too. We must leave them out of it. I pray you."

  She saw the concern in her uncle’s eyes and knew she had won this round.

  He nodded thoughtfully. "Whatever we do, we will have to use you as bait."

  "Me?" Deidra sagged back in her chair, dread settling on her chest. "Why?"

  "Because he is obsessed with you. You are the elixir that frames his existence. He wants you badly enough to do some­thing foolish if he thinks it will gain your capture."

  He was correct, of course, though she hated to admit it. "So how do we do that? He doesn't travel alone anymore. He has guards, mercenaries. I don't know how many."

  Drake waved this away as insignificant. "I have men, too. I am not worried about his mercenaries. But we do need him somewhere remote. We do not want wit­nesses."

  Deidra felt unclean, sitting here plotting a man's death. But there seemed no other alternative. It was him or her, she reminded herself, so she must get past the guilt. It certainly didn't seem to faze her uncle. He looked thoughtful but not the least bit disturbed.

  The boy from the woods appeared in her mind, his face, trying to scream. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the image away, but it was burned in her mind. Maybe she deserved whatever Luthias Forsyth wished to do to her.

  Drake stood. "Come, you are tired, no doubt, and in need of a bath and a meal, and more willow bark tea. Once you are clean and fed and get some sleep, your mind will be clearer."

  Deidra sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. He was right. She hadn't slept well in weeks. Her shoulder did feel somewhat better, but sleeping in a com­fortable bed would speed the healing pro­cess more than anything else.

  She blearily followed her uncle as he led her through the keep. He deposited her in a small but comfortable room, and moments later a woman came in with soup and bread and fresh water to wash with.

  With a full belly and clean face and ears, she slid beneath the fur blankets and tried to sleep. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, her head hurt, but sleep eluded her. The boy...had his body been discovered? Did Luthias suspect it was her? Of course he did. And where was Stephen? Was he safe? Or was he paying for helping her with his life? How would she even know?

  She touched her mouth, remembering that last kiss and how she’d wanted to cling to him. She sent up a prayer. If there is a God and He listens to witches, please don't let that be our last kiss.

  Stephen had meant to follow Deidra the very next day. Unfortunately, all that exercise had done nothing for his back. It was stiff and aching, and when he woke that morning he could barely walk with­out knives of pain shooting down his thighs. There would be no travel for him today.

  No, his first priority was laudanum. He had given the last of his stash to Deidra when He’d reset her shoulder. Unfortu­nately, in a village such as this, there was none to be had, and with the healer gone, there was no one to treat him with the local fauna. In lieu of poppy juice, he usu­ally medicated with whisky, but he couldn't take the chance of acting fool­ishly and talking out of turn.

  There was precious little he could do but bear up and wait it out. He had expected some questions from Luthias about Deidra's disappearance, but losing the guard had been a stroke of brilliance on Stephen's part. Luthias had assumed her escape had been a product of magic or the guard's treachery. Either way, Stephen was in the clear.

  Stephen currently lodged at the baker's, paying a king's ransom for a heather mat­tress on the floor and as much bread and ale as he cared to eat. Luthias visited him there the next morning.

  With the help of the bakers wife, a rolled blanket was pushed beneath Stephen’s back so that he could sit. Duke reclined on the floor beside the bed, but when Luthias appeared, the dog got to his feet and trotted out.

  Luthias didn't seem to notice. He pulled up a stool and seemed uncharacteristically unaware of his surroundings. He rubbed his hands together, his lips a thin, harsh line, gray eyes darting about the room. His leg jigged nervously.

  "You say that the baobhan sith are capable of such rapid healing? What of the guard?"

  Stephen shrugged. "I know not. Perhaps she turned him into one."

  Luthias's head turned sharply as he pinned Stephen with a surprised look. "She can do that? Transform humans into blood witches?"

  Stephen nodded.

  “And does one then bow to her wishes? Become her slave?"

  "Slave?" Stephen considered this. Why not? He was creating this fiction as he went along anyway. Aye, though slave isn't exactly how I would term it. They have a will of their own
, but they see her as their creator and owe her a debt."

  Luthias's slate eyes slanted right and left with alarm. "She could create armies of blood witches, all under her command."

  Stephen watched him, trying not to reveal his unease. It seemed everything he said led Luthias to some unanticipated and very unhelpful conclusion. Luthias was becoming genuinely anxious, and in such a man, anxiety led to only one thing: action.

  Stephen had to get out of here.

  "No doubt she returned to her home, the seat of her power." He would send word to the MacKays, warn them to dis­pose of this nuisance of a human once and for all, while he found Deidra and went on to the blood witch.

  Luthias's gaze focused on something far away. His brows furrowed. "Mayhap not. She can surround herself with underlings and animals any time she pleases. She has no need to go home." He rubbed a hand over his face. "No, I don't believe she has gone far. My men are searching the sur­rounding wood. I will let you know if we find something."

  And he left. The man's obsession irri­tated Stephen. He would never give up. He would stalk Deidra until one of them was dead. Stephen would make sure it was Luthias.

  He prayed she was on her way to Drake's and would soon be safe. In fact, it surprised him to realize how fervently he wished for her safety. She had come to depend on him, and to someone like Ste­phen that meant a great deal. He would not fail her.

  He cursed his back and decided to hell with it—he was going anyway. This was too important. It couldn't wait on his damned back. He packed his things, mov­ing as fast as his pain would allow, and fetched Countess. He was beginning to think they would make it out of the vil­lage unharassed when the sound of pounding hooves made him draw rein and bring Countess around to see who followed.

  It was Luthias, with a handful of men behind him.

  Stephen mentally braced himself but gave the witch hunter a pleasant look. Duke, however, was not inclined to fake it. The dog lowered his front paws and barked incessantly at Luthias.