My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  He walked along the shoreline, inquir­ing, until he found a fisherman with a boat to rent.

  The man scratched at his head, tan and shiny, a sharp contrast to his face, which resembled a walnut. Ayuh," he said. "I hiv a skiff. Whot hiv ye for barter?'' He looked Stephen over dubiously, appar­ently thinking he couldn't have much worth trading in his single leather satchel.

  Stephen removed the leather purse from his waist and shook several coins out in his palm. "How is this?"

  The man's gray and wiry brows rose as he contemplated the coins. “Ayuh. That'll do."

  Stephen turned over the coins, and the fisherman led him to a small skiff.

  "Have a care!”' the man said. "The sea is angry today. Where are ye headed?"

  "To see the baobhan sith"

  The man drew back, eyes wide, as if Stephen had drawn his weapon.

  "You jest?" he hissed, voice low.

  "Nay, Does she not receive visitors?"

  The man barked an incredulous laugh. "Visitors? By God, no. Not unless they are not coming back." He wiped a hand over his mouth and looked around him at the other fishermen. He turned back to Ste­phen with a considering look. "Ye ken, yell not likely be coming back from there yourself."

  Stephen shrugged, climbing into the skiff and setting on the cross-boards gin­gerly. His back ached, protesting last night’s activities. Stephen wouldn't trade that ache for anything. It reminded him of how* he'd finally possessed Deidra. And soon enough the pain would be over forever.

  "Which island is it?" Stephen asked, looking out to the dozen islands both near and far in the distance.

  "That one." The man pointed to a small rocky island several miles away.

  Stephen stared at the tiny island, a peb­ble in the vast sea. He had a lot of rowing ahead of him.

  "Gude luck to ye!" The fisherman pushed Stephen’s skiff away from the shore. "But if ye meet with only foul luck, ye canna say I didna tell ye so. So I’ll not mourn ye."

  Stephen laughed softly. “Aye, well, it'll be my own fault."

  The fisherman stood on the shore and waved, grinning now, a blackened, crooked smile. “Aye, lad, that it will. That it will."

  The man’s behavior did not bolster Ste­phen's confidence, but he had come this far. He was not stopping now. If he didn't come back, maybe it was for the best. His life had been purposeless, aimless until Deidra had shown up at Braighde Pele with her stories of the blood witch. He didn't want to go back to that. He'd rather die.

  Deidra. The thought of his death after her warnings made him feel a little ill. He redoubled his efforts on the oars. The skiff cut through the water. The salt and damp clung to his lips and hair. Seals dipped and bobbed past his skiff, heading for an island farther out.

  His shoulders ached by the time he reached the little island. He dragged the skiff ashore and climbed the rocky slope. There were no trees on this island, only rocks and grass. At the top of the rise he was confronted with more rises...and a lamb.

  The black-faced lamb bleated at him and trotted away, up and over another rise. Stephen followed. As he climbed the rise, he grew aware of a sound that grew with each step he took. Bahhing and bleating. It waxed and waned with the wind, but nevertheless grew stronger.

  At the top of the next rise he looked down over a flock of woolly black-faced sheep, their horns curled like seashell ears. Past them was a house built into the hillside. The door was currently shut.

  The lamb he followed reached the bot­tom of the hill. Instead of joining the rest of the sheep, it disappeared into the hill­side.

  The hill Stephen currently stood on housed the stable. Stephen continued down the hill, twisting and stretching his aching back the whole way.

  The entrance to the stable was twice as wide as the door to the house. The fence was open so the sheep could come and go as they pleased. Stephen stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  It smelled musty inside, of hay and dirt and dung. The interior of the stable was much larger than it looked from the out­side. Two long troughs separated the room into halves. Near the back, scat­tered hay led to a large pile.

  The lamb had gone to this pile. A full-grown sheep lay there on her side, her distended stomach heaving with labored breaths. She was giving birth.

  Stephen crossed to her and knelt beside her, placing his hands on her belly. There was movement beneath his hands. The sheep raised her head slightly to briefly look at him, then rested it back in the hay.

  Odd business for a blood witch to be in.

  Or so he assumed. He didn't really know all that much about blood witches. He supposed they needed a source of income just as everyone else did.

  He straightened with a grunt and left the stable, crossing the open valley. The grazing sheep gave way for him, bleating their annoyance at his trespassing.

  When he stood in front of the door in the hill, he knocked sharply. "Hello! Is anybody there?"

  It would be a lie to say that he was unafraid. The little farm was not what he had expected, and it made him uneasy—that, combined with the lack of response from his knock. There was no door latch on the outside of the door. He pushed against it and knocked again, but there was no response.

  Stephen turned to survey the valley and sheep and stable, scratching at the whisk­ers on his jaw. He could sure use Deidra right now, to talk to these beasts. Maybe they knew something.

  He didn't fancy breaking the blood witch's door down. That would no doubt set them off on the wrong note. And besides, he thought, glancing back at the door, it looked pretty solid. It might do more damage to him than he could do to the door.

  With a sigh he continued his inspection of the island. He found nothing of note. There was another grassy hill behind the one with the door, and beyond that, sea.

  More islands were visible in the dis­tance. Stephen wondered if she had left for the day. But when he squinted up at the sun, he recalled that blood witches didn't fancy sunlight, and it was a bright day.

  He turned quickly back toward the hill. She was here—inside the hill-house. Mayhap she locked herself in and the sun out during the day. It did not behoove him to hammer at her door anymore. It might anger her. He returned to the stable.

  The sheep was straining now and blow­ing harshly through her nose. Stephen knelt beside her, hands spanning over her stomach again.

  He was no farm boy. He had been raised by his uncle, an earl, and treated as if He’d been his son, even though he had been conscious every day of his life, since his father had died, that he was not the son of an earl but the bastard son of a bastard living on charity. Nevertheless, he had not been expected to work in the stables. Stephen didn't know if the sheep was in distress or if her state was normal. It would certainly reflect well on him if the blood witch woke to find he had helped birth one of her lambs. He built the hay into a bed and lay near the sheep, to watch over her until the baobhan sith awakened.

  Deidra lay in bed for a long time after Ste­phen left, waiting. What she waited for she wasn't entirely certain. She knew all he wanted was to be "whole." But sud­denly she couldn't stop replaying the sto­ries from her childhood over and over again in her head. Blood witches were cunning, bloodthirsty. They enticed the unknowing, then ripped their throats out. How did you make a pact with an animal? If Deidra knew anything, she knew ani­mals, and one did not reason with blood­thirsty ones.

  At noon the ostler banged on the door, demanding that she either pay for another night or get out. She packed her things and left the inn, Duke at her heels. She couldn't sit here all day, not with these thoughts. She would go to the beach and wait.

  She took the long way, walking through the main village lane, searching for Ste­phen's distinctive limp and long blond hair among the other people milling through the streets, but he was not to be found. She sat by the water's edge, Duke at her side, and scanned the coastline, watching all the boats that came in with a hopeful heart, only to slump dejectedly when they did not contain
Stephen.

  She waited until night fell, but there was still no sign of Stephen. With a heavy heart, she stood. She might miss his return in the dark. Or he might not even return until morning, since rowing alone at night was risky.

  She returned to the inn to wait there. The ostler was busy talking to a tall, bald­ing man. Deidra's heart stopped. The ostler noticed her and pointed. The man turned, and her suspicion was confirmed.

  Luthias Forsyth.

  Duke sensed her fear at the sight of the man and hunkered low, snarling and barking. Luthias's eyes narrowed on Duke. With a gesture, men appeared beside her with raised clubs.

  Run, Duke, run! Deidra screamed in her mind. The dog spotted the men and heard her demand. He leaped back when the first club smashed down, barely escaping a crushing blow. He bounded out the door and raced away.

  The men grabbed her arms as Luthias approached. "Miss MacKay. Fancy meet­ing you here. And look at you, completely healed, as if your arm had never been broken."

  That wasn't entirely true. Her shoulder still ached from time to time, but it was much better. Instead of addressing this, she said, "You've been following me."

  Luthias smiled, hands steepled before him. "But of course. What came as a sur­prise to me is that you're here with a man.. .the same man who duped me into believing he was a witch hunter." He leaned in closer to her. "Where is he, Miss MacKay?"

  She yanked on her arms, fear bubbling up in her chest. Oh God, she shouldn't have returned. They would have thought that she and Stephen had left town and they would have followed; now they would wait around to trap Stephen.

  "Who?" she said, still struggling. "I don't know who you speak of. I travel alone."

  "Oh, come, Deidra, do you really think me stupid?" He waved a dismissive hand at her. "Never mind. We will find him and he will be tried as your accomplice."

  "My accomplice? I have no accomplice!"

  "He set you free when I had you in my hands," He curled his raised hand into a fist and shook it at her.

  Her heart squeezed in her chest as she shook her head frantically. "I don't ken what you're talking about."

  He motioned to several more men sta­tioned around the room. "Search the building and village for him. He might have seen us and is hiding. Have a care—the crippled man' was likely an act. He is probably much stronger and faster than he let’s on."

  He turned his gaze on Deidra. "Come with me, Miss MacKay. I have a few questions for you."

  He turned, walking deeper into the inn. Deidra's captors pushed her along after him. Deidra gave the ostler a pleading look as she was shoved past him, but he averted his eyes and turned away.

  She was all alone.

  Stephen slept the day away. He woke once and saw that the sheep had given birth to a lamb. He lay there in excruciat­ing pain for a while, staring at lamb and mother, breathing in the odor of hay and manure. He contemplated getting up, but instead he fell back asleep.

  When he woke again he sensed imme­diately that something had changed. He was not alone. But it wasn't the presence of animals he sensed. It was something else, something dangerous.

  It was dark; no light illuminated the stable. He blinked into the darkness, his heart thudding with fear and pain. His back felt as if a spike had been jammed into the base of it.

  Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he could make out shadowy fig­ures. A pale lump—the sheep and lamb; darker shadows in the center of the room—the troughs; and something very dark and dense just to his right.

  "Good evening," said a soft, feminine voice.

  The surprise snatched at his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push back the pain and remember why he was here. The pain, that was why.

  His heart beat overtime. "You are—you are the baobhan sith?"

  "You know that I am. Who are you?"

  "I am Stephen Ross. I came for your help."

  "Help?" She laughed softly. Her voice was rough, husky. "Not many come to me for help. And they are all disappointed."

  Stephen bit the inside of his lip as he forced himself to a sitting position. Her hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  "Stay. You are hurt. I am not a healer. I cannot fix this ailment. I've heard of some that might. The MacKays of Strath­wick. They might be able to help you."

  Stephen let out an incredulous breath, then laughed. The irony was such that laughing seemed the only alternative. The derisive humor bubbled upward and he laughed harder, wondering what Deidra would think when he told her. He laughed until it hurt his belly and back.

  When the pain finally dulled his humor, he sighed, resting his forehead on the floor.

  "You have humor," she mused. “And you're comely. Your body is strong." Her hand ran over his arm and shoulder. "Despite this.. .weakness."

  He tensed, the hair along his neck stiff­ening. He wanted to shrug her off but didn't dare.

  "You can see me?" he asked warily.

  She laughed now, a knowing, sensuous laugh, but she didn't answer. "Maybe I can help you, Stephen Ross. Come."

  "One moment, prithee," he said, and readied himself to make another attempt at standing. But before he could even try, she lifted him, effortlessly, it seemed, until he stood, then pressed his back against the wall.

  His eyes screwed shut and he let out a broken cry of pain.

  "Can you walk now?" she asked.

  He pressed the back of his head to the dirt and rock wall. No, not yet He shook his head. She waited, still supporting him with a fist wadded in his jack, pushing him against the wall.

  She was unnaturally strong.

  Stephen took a few deep breaths, then pushed at her hand. She released him and he slumped forward, remaining upright under his own power. “I’m fine.”

  "Good, follow me."

  He sensed rather than heard her move­ment away from him. He guessed that she was leaving the stable. This was con­firmed when he saw her silhouette stand­ing in the stables open doorway. Tall and shapely she stood, waiting. The breeze moved her hair that hung loose to her waist and the bottom of her thin dress.

  Stephen limped after her. He had lied—he wasn't fine. His back and legs were stiff with sharp spikes of pain radi­ating from his spine down the backs of his legs. Each step felt like a mallet driv­ing the spikes deeper into his hips.

  He joined her in the fresh night air and inhaled deeply to clear his head. In the moonlight she was beautiful. Red hair hung in a glistening waterfall over her shoulders and down her back. Large, dark eyes stared at him from an expressionless, heart-shaped face. Her skin was pale and fine, unmarked, and the dress she wore, made of gossamer or some such thin material, left little to the imagination. She was well made, too.

  They traversed the valley. She adjusted her speed so that she didn't get too far ahead of him. He wanted to fall to his knees and praise God when they made it to the open door at the other end of the field. She disappeared inside, and seconds later a candle was lit. He stood just inside the doorway and watched as she circled the room, lighting candles until the entire room was lit with a circle of them. She was clearly not lacking in luxuries.

  Despite being built into a hillside, it was a comfortable house. It appeared to be a single room, but Stephen couldn't be sure, as parts of it were in complete dark­ness beyond the candles. The floor was dirt and spread with rushes, and her can­dles were beeswax, not lard. A long table against the east wall held nothing but a salt cellar. An enormous curtained bed was at the far end of the room, and a stool sat to the west of the bed, with a tapestry loom before it. Not far beyond that was a chair with a blanket and a book on the seat.

  "So, Stephen Ross." The baobhan sith turned, blowing out the long thin flint match she used to light the candles. "What is it you believe I can do for you?"

  She was a beautiful woman. She approached him slowly, her steps meas­ured and flowing—gliding almost. When she stood an arms length away, he saw that her eyes were a deep green, her skin flawless.

  "
I have heard that you do magic in return for certain..." He rotated his hand at the wrist to indicate his inability to pin a good word on it and finally finished, "obligations"

  Her brows drew together in confusion. "Obligations? Magic? This is very strange. What sort of..." She waved her hand in an exaggerated parody of his fumble for words. "Obligations?"

  "The MacKays—it is said that a baob­han sith made them witches. Many gener­ations ago a MacKay came to a baobhan sith seeking aid. His son was dying. He made a pact with the blood witch. In return for his sons life she made him a witch, and it is carried in his line to this day."

  Her smile was small and condescend­ing. "I don't know of this pact you speak of, but I assure you, your story is man­gled."

  Stephen's mouth drew up into a tight smile. "I assure you. I have not made this story up. I know the MacKays, and they are witches."

  "I believe you, Stephen. Peace. But we are not demons. I am not Satan with whom you can sign a bloody contract."

  Stephen's brow arched and he glanced around the room. "Do you call on him, then?"

  She threw her head back and laughed. It was a full, throaty, feminine sound. "You are very amusing, Stephen. I shall like having you around."

  Her words sent a chill through him, especially when he recalled that she had lifted him from the ground with one hand and no effort. He did not want to stay around. He had plans.

  "Why am I amusing?"

  "You think I know Satan?" She pointed to her breast as she turned away from him. She crossed the room, hips swaying, and disappeared into the shadows.

  Stephen stood nervously, waiting. His back still hurt, but it wasn't so bad. He had some laudanum, but he would not take it when his situation was so uncer­tain.

  When she didn't reappear, he called, "Miss...er..He realized then that he had never gotten her name. "Baobhan sith?"