by Jen Holling
Another dog lay on the floor near the door, along with several cats and a bird.
Deidra knew there would have been even more if there hadn't been so many predators gathered in one place. The small ones hid.
The other animals reacted to Deidra's rousing, sitting up, tails wagging, approaching the bed. The bird, a small brown-and-yellow thing, chirped and bounced on the windowsill.
They usually wanted nothing more than to be close to her. It had pleased her as a child that they'd thought of her as some kind of mother god. It distressed her as an adult. Too frequently, she had to guard her thoughts because the animals would act on them without her making any requests at all.
Deidra knew there would have been even more if there hadn't been so many predators gathered in one place. The small ones hid.
The other animals reacted to Deidra's rousing, sitting up, tails wagging, approaching the bed. The bird, a small brown-and-yellow thing, chirped and bounced on the windowsill.
They usually wanted nothing more than to be close to her. It had pleased her as a child that they'd thought of her as some kind of mother god. It distressed her as an adult. Too frequently, she had to guard her thoughts because the animals would act on them without her making any requests at all.
phen vigorously rubbed his hand over the dogs ears and back.
"You look like hell, Dee!”' her uncle said, eyes narrowed on hers. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
Deidra's mouth flattened, irritated that her uncle had called attention to the dark half circles under her eyes. "I slept fine." Which was a lie. The animals had been in her head last night, all night. And then of course there had been the incident with Stephen. She had left him, aroused and hurt and confused—none of which had been conducive to sleep.
Stephen watched her but said not a single word. Her eyes met the question in his, then darted away. Being near him made her suddenly and excessively nervous. She took a piece of bread from the basket and tore off the crust.
"So, uhm...what are we going to do?" she asked, nibbling on the bread crust.
"I told you," Drake said. "We have to lure Luthias here or somewhere near, at least. Then kill him."
Stephen rubbed the back of his hand against his chin, and it rasped along the whiskers. The memory of those same whiskers chafing the sensitive skin of her face, of those hands slipping between her thighs, made her face flame, and she prayed he did not notice. She had to look away, down at her bread. She tore off several more pieces, but her stomach was too knotted to actually eat them.
Stephen said, "The witch hunter is obsessed with her. So long as he knows Deidra is here, he will come." He paused. "I can send him word that Id heard you came this way."
He was addressing her directly. She glanced up, found that pale blue gaze on her, and looked right back down at her bread.
She was grateful when Drake spoke—something nonthreatening to look at. "No, a letter is no good. Someone else might read it. It could get lost or left behind. If discovered, the finger could be pointed at either one of you—or both, if they know you are..." Drake’s brows raised, and he sat back in his chair. "Well, whatever the two of you are."
Deidra looked quickly between Drake and Stephen, stunned and embarrassed that her uncle had said such a thing. Stephen only watched her closely, his own face expressionless.
When Deidra could finally speak, she sputtered, "What do you mean? We are nothing...er, friends. That is all."
Her statement was met with silence from both men. She searched frantically for something to say, her mind dwelling on the interlude with Stephen last night, his mouth, his hands...hardly the marks of mere friendship.
Her uncle placed a hand over hers, stopping her frenzied bread shredding. "It's only a piece of bread, Dee, have mercy on it."
Deidra sat back in her chair, an idea occurring to her. "The animals. I could send animals to fetch him."
"Fetch him?" Stephen said dubiously. "Seems rather obvious. He's not stupid. And methinks he is not overfond of beasts, thanks to your tutelage."
Deidra shrugged. "Still, I think the animals can help. Perhaps I could send some to do something suspicious...such as watch him, follow him...but they would be conspicuous. Naturally, he would think it was my doing and follow the animals."
Stephen nodded appreciably. “Aye, she's right." His gaze turned to Drake. "What will you do when he's near?"
Ambush him and his men." Drake scratched at his chin, deep in his beard. After that, you'll have no more worries, m'dear." He patted Deidra's hand.
Deidra wanted to skip over that part in her mind and get to the part where he was no longer a thorn in her side.
Stephen slapped his hands on the table and stood. "Very good, then. It looks like all is in order here." He inclined his head to Drake. "Thank you for your hospitality. I hope you'll come to Braighde Pele one day so I can return the favor." He turned to Deidra. And it was good seeing you again—alive, that is. Prithee, listen to your uncle and try to stay that way."
His smile was completely and utterly false. Deidra searched his face, confused by this speech that appeared to be a good-bye.
"What...? Are you leaving?"
Aye. I vowed to see you again, to be certain of your safety. And I see you are in excellent hands. Its now time for me to be on my way."
He limped away from the table, Duke trotting beside him. Deidra stared after him, slack-jawed. She looked at her uncle, perplexed.
Drake watched her meditatively. "Didn't expect him to leave, eh?"
Deidra let out a confused breath. "Why would I? I thought he came to help."
Drake bit his bottom lip and shrugged. "Not much he can do, crippled as he is. I wager we'll manage without him."
A lump of indignant anger rose in Deidra's throat. "You'd be surprised at what he could do. I would not be alive right now if not for him."
"Hmmm" was all Drake said.
Deidra stewed for a moment, picking at her piece of bread before standing decisively and following Stephen. She found him in his chambers, stuffing his things into a leather sack.
"Why are you really leaving?" she asked.
He continued what he was doing without even looking at her. "I came for the blood witch, remember? I am a cripple. I'm of no use here."
"Drake says he doesn't believe the blood witch will even help you."
Stephen shrugged. "I'd like to find that out for myself."
"I thought we were going together."
"Was that why you snuck away in the middle of the night?" His face was bland, his stance slightly challenging.
She stepped toward him, fists clenched. "I was afraid. But I'm not anymore." Because of you. But she couldn't say it, not when he looked at her so uncaringly.
"Good. Then mayhap you'll step up and do what is necessary. Kill Luthias and stop running from yourself. For myself, I'm going to see a witch about my back, and I dinna intend to return half a man."
What did that mean? Her heart jumped a little at the implication. If the blood witch couldn't help him, would he return at all?
She reached for him. "Stephen, I know you hurt, but—"
He threw down the boot he held and said through clenched teeth, "My God, spare me your compassion and just leave me the hell alone!'
She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. He might as well have. It took her a moment to catch her breath from the shock and hurt of his words. His face was twisted, lip curled, brows lowered. It was as if he hated her, couldn't stand the sight of her.
She backed away, out of the room, and left him.
After getting directions from Drake, Stephen set out, heading north. Drake had been skeptical of Stephen's quest, warning him that the blood witch would not help him. But Stephen had no intention of giving up until he tested the theory for himself. Though he had not seen Ceara for himself before she'd died, it sounded as if something horrible had ailed her, and no doubt the baobhan sith had wanted nothing to do with plagues even a
witch could not cure. And besides, Drake was not known for his charm. No doubt he'd ordered charity at sword point and offended the blood witch. Stephen thought that with a bit of charm, he might have a better chance at convincing her.
He had nothing to lose. He'd already lost everything the day the bullet had lodged in his back. It had not been an accident. The man who'd shot him couldn't have cared less if he'd lived or died—he'd just wanted Stephen out of the way. Stephen had been protecting his best friend, Philip Kilpatrick. He had failed at protecting his friend that day, but his strong constitution had kept him alive long enough to send help and Philip survived.
But part of Stephen had died that day. His back had been ruined, and there had been nothing anyone could do to change that. Not for lack of trying, however. Stephen’s uncle was a powerful earl who had used his power and position to bring every healer of renown to Stephen’s bedside. But none had been able to help him. Not with witchcraft or with science.
Stephen had given up trying long ago. This was his last hope, and he couldn't think past it, couldn't let himself contemplate another failure.
And so he kept on, focused on his goal and nothing else.
The terrain only grew more difficult the farther north he traveled and the weather grew colder. He wore a plaid as the Highlanders did, wrapped around him and pinned to his shoulder, with woolen trews beneath. It helped to appear local, and besides, the Highlander style of dress suited their environment. It kept him very warm.
Small game was plentiful—badgers, squirrels, hare, deer. He managed to snare a hare with his latch, the small crossbow that hung from his saddle. He thought of Deidra as he skinned and cooked it, wondering if she was able to eat the creatures she communed with. It seemed rather morbid when he considered it that way—cannibalistic almost—and he nearly lost his appetite. But he needed his strength and didn't know when he might snare another, so he finished his meal, throwing the bones to Duke.
The next day he had to cross the mountains. He did not relish it, but at least he could go at his own pace and stop as needed. Attempting to go around the mountains would add days, maybe weeks, to his journey. He was muscling through the pain because it was necessary, but he knew there would come a point when he simply could not go on. He hoped to get to the blood witch before he reached that point.
He rode Countess as far as he could, then dismounted and led her up the treacherous slope. It was slow going, as there was no road or trail this way. He had to find their trail through the jagged rocks rising higher and higher. Duke led the way, running ahead for a while, then coming back to walk with Stephen for a short while before scouting ahead again.
On more occasions than he cared to count, Stephen found himself immobilized with pain while in a precarious position—pressed against a cliff side, or maneuvering around a jutting creag with a narrow lip of rock that dropped off in a sheer drop. He was beginning to wonder if this had been a really bad idea. Maybe he should have gone around the mountain—at least then he might make his destination alive.
Eventually he had to cut Countess loose and hope she would find her way home or back to Deidra, but the way was no longer safe for her. He looked back once to see that Countess was trying to follow. She had come to two jutting rocks, and the only way forward was between them—a tight squeeze for a man, but impossible for a horse. He tried to ignore the tug of guilt as her eyes followed him until he was out of sight. He wished for Deidra's gift then so that he could explain it all to her, but she probably wouldn't understand anyway.
He continued on foot, keeping an eye out for hares and other small game. Duke had run off ahead so long ago that Stephen was starting to worry that he had fallen or hurt himself. There was nothing he could do about it unless he actually came upon the dog.
He managed to shoot another hare on his downward descent. It continued to bound, arrow quivering from its ribs, disappearing between two sharp rocks stabbing upward through the ground. Stephen followed, peering around the stones. The hare had come to rest on the edge of a crevice in the rock. He stared at it, lips compressed with displeasure. There was no way to retrieve the hare except by circling the rim. If Duke had been here, he could have sent the dog to fetch the hare. He called out to the dog and waited, but Duke didn't come.
He held on to the sides of the rock as best he could, though there were no depressions or handholds, and slid around between them.
The hare had stopped moving. The sides of the rock were concave and slick from a small mountain stream that trickled down the mountain and emptied into the crevice, where it traveled onward.
Stephen stood beside the rock, listening to the soft bubble of water, considering how badly he wanted the hare. Wildlife had grown scarce now that he was in the mountains, and once he reached the bottom of the mountain there would be several miles of barren moorland. He needed this hare.
He unstrapped his satchel and sword from where they were buckled across his chest and tossed them to the ground.
He braced himself and edged along the narrow ledge, his back and palms pressed to the wall behind him. Slow and steady, he crept along the ledge until the hare was almost within reach.
When he was within arms length of the animal, he braced himself and bent his knees, crouching and reaching for the carcass. And just as he feared, his back seized as his fingers grasped the arrow jutting out. He clenched his teeth and froze. He kept his weight back against the stone behind him to keep from toppling into the crevice.
But he was strong. This was the reason he worked his body so hard, so that when necessary, he could muscle through any situation. He stayed there, head pressed hard against the stone, back twisted in anguish. He heard a far-off crack but couldn't think enough to care what it was.
He didn't know how long he stayed there, jagged knives impaling his back and holding him prisoner, but at some point the pain lessened and he thought he could move.
He opened his eyes and tried to straighten. A weight in his hand moved. He looked down. He had broken the arrow in his clenched fist. The hare, impaled on the arrow, dangled from the thin piece of bent wood that held the broken arrow together. Stephen only hoped it held until he made it to the other side of the crevice and safety.
In increments, he straightened, grunting and groaning until he stood again. He edged along the ledge, the hare jiggling each time he took a step. He was almost to the other side and safety when the thin strip of wood snapped and the hare fell. Stephen reached for it reflexively—a very bad move—throwing off his balance. His foot slipped on the slick rock and he was falling, slipping down the slope. He twisted, fingers scrabbling for a handhold, trying to catch himself through the pain, but he crashed to the bottom of the crevice, landing on his side and arm.
Though he was not unconscious, the pain from the fall did render him insensible for a time. It radiated through his body and down his legs. Sparks of light flashed behind his eyelids. His stomach lurched and he imagined that soon he would be laying in his own vomit.
Slowly, coherent thought returned and he feared he had done serious damage to his back again—perhaps broken it. And damned if those MacKay witches were too far away to help. Again. He laid his head against the damp stone and closed his eyes. If he lost the ability to move, then that was it for him. It was over. He gave up. He would just die here without a fight.
But eventually the twisting sword of pain diminished to a manageable throb, and he pushed himself up. His arms shook. The hare was an arms length away, but any supplies for skinning and cooking it were up at the top of the crevice in his satchel.
Gingerly, he climbed to his feet and peered upward at the eye of fading light above him.
The lip of the crevice didn't seem that far away. A normal man, with a normal, functioning back, should be able to climb out of the hole, albeit with difficulty.
Unfortunately Stephen was not normal, nor did he have a properly functioning back. Nevertheless, he had overcome bigger obstacles
than this.
He slid his hands all over the rock face in front of him, even standing on his tiptoes, searching for some kind of handhold. There was nothing. The walls bowled in all around him. He had fallen into a hole with nothing but a dead hare and a small puddle to keep him company.
Hands on his hips, he stared hard at the fading light above him. If he could just jump high enough, he could grab the lip of the crevice and pull himself up. Unfortunately, jumping was not something He’d been able to do for a very long while.
He prepared to try anyway, his heart speeding with anticipation of the pain to come, teeth clenching. He bent his knees and thrust upward, arms extending.
He felt it immediately in his back. Pain wrenched it, streaking down the backs of his thighs. His fingers brushed something, but he couldn't see or hear or make his fingers curl around it. He landed on his feet, but they collapsed beneath him, and he crashed to his knees.
The cold stone bit through the wool of his trews. Head lowered, he heard a rumbling sound, like a wounded animal, and realized it was him—moaning deep in his chest at the pain racking his back and thighs.
He didn't think anything would be able to bring him to his feet anytime soon. But he was wrong.
A voice called down to him, "Stephen? Are you down there?" It was both the sweetest sound he'd ever heard and poison to his heart.
He opened his eyes. Blocking the light was a riot of curls gilded to golden fire by the light behind them. The face was dark and shadowed. But he knew the voice, the hair, the curve of her face like he knew his own heart.
Deidra.
Chapter 10
Deidra knew her behavior was irresponsible and that Stephen might never forgive her. Still, it didn't matter—she would rather he be alive and angry with her than dead with foolish pride intact. Certain that something terrible would befall him, she had fretted nonstop since he had left. So as a precaution, she'd kept in contact with Countess and Duke. She had not liked the route he'd taken north, but as long as Countess had reported nothing amiss, Deidra had not become alarmed.