My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  He started to follow her into the dark shadows where she had disappeared when a cold wind stirred his hair from behind. He turned.

  She stood behind him with a tray laden with cheese, dried fruit, sweet meats, and nuts. He startled violently at the sight of her there. He had not even heard her approach.

  "Eat!”' she purred. "You must be hun­gry-"

  "Where were you?"

  She lifted the tray higher. "Fetching this for you." She brushed past him with the tray, set it down on the long table, then pulled out two chairs. He followed and sat down. After a seconds hesitation he began to eat greedily.

  "Why do I amuse you?" he asked again when she sat across from him.

  "Because you think I know Satan" She gave a silent, derisive laugh. "That I would even know him." She tilted her head to the side. "You have ingested all of the witch propaganda, have you not? All witches consort with the devil. What of the MacKays? Have you seen them com­mune with Old Nick?"

  "No. They are not evil."

  She sat up straighter, palms on the tabletop and brows raised. "But I am?"

  Stephen lifted a shoulder. "I don't know that yet, do I?"

  Her brows lowered and her mouth flat­tened. "What do you want? Hmm? What favor do you ask of me?"

  He could see he was not charming her. He tried to give her a winning smile with­out overdoing it. "I am willing to become a witch, if it will make me whole."

  She stared at him as if she expected him to say more. When he didn't, she frowned and gave a little shake of her head, as if confounded. "That's it? How does this benefit me?"

  Now Stephen was confused too. "What do you want? I thought you would name your price. Give me your terms."

  "What do you have that I would want?"

  "I am a wealthy man. I can give you lands or money."

  She spread her hands to indicate their surroundings. "I have a whole island...and what would I do with money?"

  Stephen ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Then you tell me. What do you want? If I don't have it, I can probably get it for you."

  She licked her bottom lip and surveyed him appraisingly. The way she looked at him, like a horse for sale, made him uneasy. He wondered if she would want him to lay with her. She was a beautiful woman, and normally the idea of being with someone like her would be a wel­come distraction, but not anymore.

  It felt...well...wrong. Such a thought seemed absurd on the surface, but when looked at deeper, it went back to Deidra. It felt like a betrayal. She was the one he wanted—not in some illicit affair, but as his wife.

  But he didn't want to be with her if he was only half a man. He would do any­thing to be whole again, and sleeping with a beautiful woman was a small price to pay.

  "The only thing I am lacking is a com­panion. I am alone on this island, except for the occasional weeping sacrifice the villagers send over. Halfwits, all of them, sent because they want to be rid of them." She laid a palm on her breast. "What am I to do with them? They are as useless to me as they are to them."

  Stephen asked, "So...what do you do with them?"

  Her slow, enigmatic smile made his throat tighten.

  "I cannot tell you that.. .at least not yet. So, what do you say?"

  "You want me to find you a compan­ion? What are you looking for?"

  Her look was condescending. He was not that dull; he knew who she wanted, but he didn't want to volunteer for the job.

  “A man.. .comely, intelligent, amusing, able to satisfy a woman." A perfectly shaped red brow arched suggestively. And just such a man is here, in my home, wanting something from me."

  Stephen's heart sped up. She was going to do it. She would grant him his wish if he would stay with her. He would never be with Deidra either way, it seemed. If he had to go on without her, he'd rather do it without the excruciating pain.

  "Before you make your decision," she said, leaning back slightly and giving him a view of her breasts—the thin material of her gown did not camouflage her jutting nipples the slightest bit, 'let me tell you a bit about what it means to be a baobhan sith" She reached across the table and chose a piece of cheese, turning it in her fingers while looking at it. "This cheese has no taste for me. When I eat it, it tastes like dust...just like everything else." She dropped it back on the tray with an air of disdain. "I can smell it bet­ter than you can smell. It smells delicious. And if I force myself to eat it, it gives me no sustenance. My body rejects it."

  Stephen shook his head. "Rejects it?"

  "I bock it up."

  Stephen picked up the cheese she’d dropped and examined it thoughtfully before popping it in his mouth. He shrugged. "Its not that good. Not worth the price of a good back."

  Her smile was small and wistful, her eyes far away. "That's what you think now, lad. But there might come a day when the crisp bite of a fresh apple in autumn seems an elixir of the gods. The memory more powerful than the love of a child or a good man." She opened her palms and looked down at them. “And right there, in your hands when child and man are both dust." Her eyes met his and her smile twisted ruefully. "Not that I would know about either."

  "If that's all there is to being a baobhan sith, then I willingly give it up."

  "No, that's not all there is...there is the matter of the sun."

  "The sun?" Stephen remembered the story Deidra had told him that first night she'd shown up at his home looking like a dustball. The beautiful women with voices like nightingales. They entranced men, then fell on them, ripping their throats out and drinking their blood. One man survived—because of a rosary and the sunlight. Stephen's belly tightened. It was night. He was suddenly thankful for the goodluck charm Deidra had given him before he'd left. He unhooked the front of his jack and casually scratched at his chest. The bulge of it in the pocket sewn into the inside of his jack brushed the back of his hand and reassured him.

  “Aye, the sun!”' she said. “A blood witch is very strong.. .the sun saps our strength, whereas the night fuels us. We are strong­est—and hungriest—when the moon is full."

  Stephen let out an internal sigh of relief that the moon was currently not full. All right. So that is why you locked yourself into your home during the day?"

  She smiled and nodded. Aye, I sleep during the day."

  "But you can go about during the day?"

  She inclined her head. “Aye, a baobhan sith can live amongst others...the great lords do well as baobhan siths. They drink and carouse all night, then merely seem incapacitated from the nights activities. No one thinks a thing about them lying abed all day. Women, however, don't do so well. They can seem invalids during the day, but at night, when they are strong and"—her eyes scanned him with increasing interest—"hungry, people get suspicious."

  Stephen stared back at her. "It seems a small price to pay for strength and whole­ness."

  "To be hunted? To live long after all you have loved has passed away? To subsist on nothing but living blood? To feed like an animal?" She shook her head. "You show your ignorance." She smiled and leaned across the table. "You think I am a fool, do you not? You think I will change you and then let you leave? You will be mine." She leaned back in the chair and shrugged nonchalantly. "You're mine either way. You will not leave this room without my blessing."

  "What do you mean, I'll be yours?"

  Her mouth curved into a smile. "Mine to do with as I wish." She touched her neck, trailing her fingers from neck to bosom. "My blood will be in you. You will be stronger, aye, but not as strong as me. Your mind will be mine."

  Stephen frowned at her. “And who do you belong to?"

  Her head tilted slightly. "You are clever." She nodded slowly. Aye, I had a sire once, but she is dead now, so I am released of her!”'

  Stephen contemplated what it meant. To be an animal that lusted for blood, but to be strong and pain free. This woman didn't seem animal-like. She retained thought and intellect and, judging by the loom and books, an interest in life. She wasn't some walking dead, a m
onster. But he would be bound to her. He would have to give up Deidra unless he killed this blood witch. He had thought that he didn't want to be with Deidra unless he was a whole man, but the thought of never being able to hold her again, or touch her...or even talk to her made his chest feel as shoveled out as an empty grave. He thought of the rest of his life stretching out before him without her. Empty, pointless.

  And suddenly, when it came down to the choice between his back and Deidra.. .he finally knew what he wanted more than anything else.

  But he was here and the blood witch was dangerous. He could keep her talking till morning, but he didn't know how many hours away dawn was. The island was small and he was slow. Even if he could get away he couldn't row back to the mainland in the dark.

  It didn't look good for him.

  "I see you are thinking a great deal, Ste­phen." She smiled. "I can see the cogs turning behind your eyes."

  "There is much to think about...such as how do you know you want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

  Both thin red brows rose nearly to her hairline. "Rest of my life? My goodness, that is not what I had in mind."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "Until I am bored of you."

  "That could take forever," he said with a smile.

  She laughed. "Oh, you have a high esti­mate of yourself. You will amuse me."

  "I certainly hope so." Stephen didn't think they could keep up this banter the whole night, so he decided the best way to stall for daylight was to ask her ques­tions. "Why all the sheep?"

  "I trade their wool for goods and money. And they are food as well."

  Stephen raised a brow. "Food? I didn't think you ate."

  "I do not eat their meat. I drink their blood. And I have guests, the people I trade with...you, that I feed. It is wise to have such things on hand."

  "I thought you drank human blood."

  Her lips curved again. "Blood is like wine...there are many flavors and qual­ities. The blood of a healthy child is like the finest Pinot Noir, whereas, say...a rat is vinegar—and then there is every variety in between. But they are all suste­nance, and we consume what is available and what is safe."

  "What about me?" Stephen asked. "What kind of wine would I be?"

  She tilted her head to examine him. "You're not an old man, but pain has taken its toll on you...you are healthy though, your body is strong, but I have never enjoyed biting through tough mus­cle... The poppy juice you drink and the whiskey you consume to dull the pain taint your blood. You're no better than an old wife's honey mead, methinks."

  That sounded promising. He apparently wasn't a very appetizing meal. Perhaps he would be safer if he just told her he'd changed his mind. Still, daylight was too far away to reveal that yet.

  "What do you think, Honey Mead?" She watched with a small, interested smile reminiscent of a cat toying with her meal.

  "I have a choice?"

  "One would assume your journey here represented a choice already made."

  "That was before I knew I could never leave."

  She pushed the curtain of red hair over her shoulder. “I never said you couldn't leave. In fact, I would very much like to leave this island. With a companion. Per­haps relocate to France, There are many baobhan siths there and no one suspects a thing. Or Rome."

  "I don't really want to leave Scotland."

  She shrugged. "Edinburgh, then." Stephen smiled. "Can I bring a lass I fancy?"

  She leaned forward with a wide smile and he saw a flash of them then—sharp incisors that gleamed in the candlelight. His innards shriveled at the sight, and he swallowed hard.

  "Only if you share!”' she whispered.

  Stephen stood. There was a lantern in the skiff. He could read the stars. He didn't particularly care. He had not thought this through properly. Or, more accurately, he had, but then he'd fallen in love with Deidra. Before her, such an offer would have been more than accept­able—but now, he'd rather die.

  "I think I'll be going," he said, backing toward the door, feeling the weight of the crucifix in his pocket.

  She didn't move, and her expression did not change. "Where will you go? It's the middle of the night and you're a cripple on an island."

  "I've sailed before. I can navigate by the stars."

  He reached the door and fumbled behind him for the latch. His hands were unsteady, so he turned to see what he was doing. He opened the door, and it immediately slammed shut in his face.

  Stephen whirled around. She was right there, palm on the door, holding it closed. He had heard nothing—not a single sound—and yet here she was. His heart thundered in his chest as he reached inside his jack.

  She caught his wrist. "What have you in there, Honey Mead, aye?"

  He tried to jerk his hand away, but she was strong, her grip like iron.

  "You didn't think I could just let you leave, did you?" She shook her head as if he was such a little fool. "So you could bring them back for me?"

  He brought his other hand up and grabbed her wrist, trying to pull her hand away. Her other hand snaked around behind him and grabbed his hair, pulling his head to the side.

  "You wouldn't really leave without giv­ing me a little taste, would you?" Her green eyes, so intense they nearly glowed, fixated on his bared neck. Her mouth opened, incisors sharp and gleaming. She was so unnaturally strong that she immo­bilized him. Her teeth sank into his neck and he groaned as pain seared him. She pressed her body against him, sucking at him.

  He didn't want this. He wanted Deidra. A fog clouded his mind as she sucked at him; his legs grew weak, as if drugged. He felt his body going limp. Soon he would be lost, her slave. He abandoned the idea of the crucifix and instead released her wrist and snapped his dirk from his belt. He jammed it into her stomach.

  Her scream was inhuman. She ripped her teeth from his neck and pushed him aside. Stephen slumped against the door, panting and scrambling for the crucifix. She stared down at the dirk hilt pro­truding from her stomach. Blood stained her gown, slick and wet, and dripped from her mouth.

  Her screaming stopped. "You thought this would stop me?" she asked, yanking the dirk from her body. She tossed it aside. "Now you've made me angry. I won't change you now, I'll just drain you dry and throw your body to the fish."

  She came at him again. He pulled the rosary out and held it before him. She reared back, lips curled and hissing.

  "Not evil, eh?" Stephen wheezed. His neck hurt, but his mind was starting to clear. "Not of the devil? Then why does this blind you?" He took a step forward and she stepped back, hands rising to ward him off.

  Stephen slowly began to back away. She stared at him, bloodied lips closed. He opened the door and limped into the darkness. Sheep bleated around him, and the wind blew across the grasses. He shivered, the cold cutting him bone-deep, unnatural.

  He drew the rosary beads over his head so the crucifix hung over his heart, and he limped across the island as fast as his crip­pled legs would take him. Too slow. He cursed his damn back for bringing him to this and now making escape impossible. She could just walk fast and catch him.

  Fortunately, she didn't even follow.

  He looked behind him constantly, blood roaring in his ears, but there was no pursuit.

  It wasn't until he was a safe distance from shore that he dared stop and light the lantern on the skiff. He stared back at the island but saw nothing. He lowered his head into his hands and let out the shuddering breath he'd been holding. God's blood, that had not gone well.

  Home. That's all he wanted anymore. To fetch Deidra and take her home.

  Chapter 13

  Drake stood in the shadows of a large fishing vessel, watching as Stephen rowed in slowly in the wee hours of the morn­ing. The sun had not risen, and only the earliest risers were out preparing their vessels for the morning catch. Stephen stopped rowing when he was about fifty feet from the shore; from there he just drifted.

  As Drake watched him drift, he became increas
ingly concerned. There was no movement from the slumped figure in the skiff. He ran around to the shoreline and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Stephen!"

  Stephen was illuminated by the lantern that hung on the stem of his boat; it cir­cled him like a halo. His head rose. Drake couldn't make out his face, but he ima­gined Stephen peering at him.

  "Stephen! It's Drake."

  It seemed as if the effort of looking at Drake was too much for Stephen and he began to sway. To Drake's horror, he swayed so far that he toppled to the side, splashing into the sea. Drake stared, dumbfounded for a heartbeat before rip­ping off his boots, throwing off his sword and dag, and diving into the water.

  He swam hard, his panic increasing when Stephen’s head didn't reappear. When Drake was close to the skiff, he dove beneath the surface. The water was too dark to see anything, but he reached in front of himself as he swam, feeling for Stephen until he touched wisps of hair. One more stroke and he grabbed the leather of Stephen's jack.

  He curled his fingers into it and kicked upward, dragging him along until they broke the surface. Drake took a gasping breath, pulling Stephen's head above the water, then immediately began swimming back to shore, one arm hooked around Stephen’s neck. He was dead weight, drag­ging at Drake.

  "God damn it, Stephen, wake up!" Drake ground out, a band of fear crushing his chest.

  They were nearly to the shore when Stephen coughed and sputtered, and the fear crushing Drake’s chest finally eased.

  "Get your feet under you," Drake said, struggling to stand himself without drop­ping Stephen into the thigh-high water.

  Stephen managed to stand, still cough­ing and leaning heavily on Drake’s shoul­der. They struggled the rest of the way to the rocky shore, where Drake lowered him to the ground. Stephen coughed and panted, blinking blearily.

  "What happened?"

  Stephen shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "I know not...how did you get here?"

  "I followed you and Deidra. Did you see the blood witch?"

  Stephen nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. Obviously it hadn't gone well.