My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  "You are saying that with the appear­ance of this woman"—Luthias pointed to Deidra—"all of your normally obedient and well-behaved creatures showed signs of dementia by racing after her."

  The woman nodded without even looking at Deidra. “Aye. When we finally rounded them all back up, they were out­side of the inn, as if waiting for her."

  "Were yours the only animals outside of the inn?"

  "Oh, no, sir. There were many. In fact, many found themselves there that day, rounding up beasts and bringing them

  Luthias nodded to the woman, and she scurried back to the benches. "What have you to say to that, Miss MacKay?"

  Deidra shrugged. "I didn't notice." Of course she had noticed. But she had no other explanation for the phenomenon other than the truth, and that, of course, would have been a bad thing to admit.

  "It's my fault," Stephen said.

  Luthias raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Yours?"

  “Aye...I rub bacon fat into my boots to keep the water out. The animals smell that and come running."

  Luthias's mouth compressed as if bored and annoyed. "I was not aware that chick­ens ate bacon."

  "Och, they do not, but I had a hole in my bag and bannock crumbs were falling out of it."

  Luthias gave him a long-suffering smile. "I see. Can you also explain why Mr. Keiths horses broke out of their stable to set up vigil beneath your window? Or why Mr. Elliots sheep were found sleep­ing outside the inn?"

  Deidra turned to look at the two men, who both nodded gravely.

  Stephen spread his hands. "Why when men cannot control their own animals does it become a case of witchcraft?"

  "Because, Mr. Ross, this is not an iso­lated event. This happens everywhere Miss MacKay goes. She speaks to the ani­mals, commands them, and they obey her."

  Not really. Deidra wished they would obey her now. Duke was not alone...she didn't know who was with him, but it was someone familiar, someone he felt safe with, and he didn't want to leave. And the horse was just stupid. Every time it tried to obey her and walk for­ward, it felt the wagon harnessed to its back and stopped, puzzled.

  What good was this gift if the animals were too stupid to be of use?

  Stephen had grown silent—no witty comeback to Luthias's latest accusation. Deidra looked over at him and saw him swaying on his feet. His skin had gone ashen. He dropped to his knees and then onto all fours. Deidra tried to drop down beside him, but the men grabbed her arms and held her back.

  Stephen’s breathing was loud and labored. Deidra felt her breath growing short, as if in sympathy. What would she do if he died? Her parents were not here to heal everyone. They didn't even know where she was now. Even if they searched for her, how would they guess she had come here? She had, in fact, never lost anyone close to her. Her mother had died during childbirth, so she had never known her. She didn't know if she could bear losing Stephen.

  Luthias unfolded his long body and cir­cled the table, eyeing Stephen warily. He placed a shoe on Stephen’s shoulder and pushed. Stephen’s arms and legs collapsed, and he fell to his side. Luthias knelt beside him and lifted an eyelid, peering into Stephen’s eyes. Stephen shook his head and weakly tried to push Luthias's hand away.

  Luthias rested his forearms on his knees. "Take them both to the back room. Secure her and keep a guard on her at all times." He stood. "Methinks this one is ready to confess."

  It was daylight by the time Drake reached the island. Good. He wanted her weak.

  He grabbed his ax out of the bottom of the skiff and jogged across the little island, memories of the last time he was here slamming through him. His wife, so frail and weak. His begging. That monsters cold refusal. And now this. She had not only denied Stephen but she’d also tried to kill him. To eat him. Drake wouldn't leave her for the witch hunters. She was his.

  The sheep bleated fearfully and stum­bled away as he raced through them, the black cloud of fury building each time his boots thudded on the rocky ground. He realized he was smiling, but there was no humor in his smile—just an angry baring of his teeth. When he reached her door, he didn't stop to knock; he swung the ax with a grunt of pleasure. It slammed into the wood with a satisfying clump, and wood chips flew.

  He hacked and hacked at the door until the boards busted inward. He kicked them until they cracked in, then reached his hand through the hole he'd made, feel­ing for the latch. A deafening blast sent him reeling away from the door. He yanked his hand out, scraping his arm. There was a new hole in the door.

  The bitch had a dag. Luckily she'd missed him. His fury mixed with excite­ment at the chase, and he started hacking at the door again with new vigor, staying well away from the exposed holes. She'd had plenty of time to reload, and since he doubted she planned to miss him this time, he made certain he hacked that door to pieces. It was easier than he'd imagined. His body was flooded with strength, like some mad berserker. All he wanted was to kill this creature that mur­dered his loved ones.

  When he felt as if the door was suffi­ciently weakened, he took several steps back and came at it at a run, shoulder first, head tucked. He barreled forward, crashing into the door. His momentum paused only momentarily as the door gave way and he crashed forward. The gun exploded again, deafening him. He fell to the ground and rolled, immediately coming to his feet, ax in one hand, dirk in the other.

  He scanned the room, doing a mental inventory of his body. He was pleased to note that she’d missed again. Part of the wall had been blasted out next to the door.

  He spotted her near the back of the room. She didn't look like a monster at all but like a terrified little girl. Long, red hair hung wild around her shoulders. She held a long-barreled dag in both hands; it hung in front of her gown, barrel drooping toward the ground. The gown snagged his attention, disturbing him. It was stained a rust color. Dried blood.

  She seemed pale and weak. She dropped to her knees, the dag thumping to the ground.

  Drake advanced cautiously. It was probably a ploy to gain his sympathy.

  "Get up."

  She stared up at him but didn't move. Her eyes seemed enormous, too big for her face.

  "What's the matter with you?" he growled.

  "Kill me." Her voice was empty, devoid of emotion. "I can't fight back. Just make sure you cut off my head and burn it. I do not want to come back to this life,"

  Was this supposed to elicit his sympa­thy? He wasn't stupid. "So you want to die now, aye? Likely story. Get up. Or I swear

  I'll make living painful."

  She stood slowly, her large green eyes unblinking. She left the dag on the ground.

  "Turn around and put your arms behind you."

  She did as he requested, going so far as to cross her wrists so he could tie them together with ease.

  He turned her back around and frowned down at her. She stared back, unblinking. The front of her gown was stained with dried blood. He pulled it away from her body and saw the hole in the material Stephen's dirk had made when he'd stabbed her. He peered through the hole and saw that the skin of her belly was marred—but not with a fresh wound. This wound looked as if it had happened weeks ago and was healing.

  He released her gown as if it had been on fire. When he met her gaze, a single fine red brow was arched.

  "I should kill you now!”' he said, his voice low as the anger welled in his heart again.

  "You'd better do it now, because come night, you won't be able to." She smiled, sly and unpleasant. “And I will not be so merciful this time."

  So she remembered him. He wondered if she had. He wasn't afraid of her. A per­son had to have a reason to live to fear for their life, and his reason was about to be served.

  He grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the door. She stumbled along after him. He noticed she didn't have any shoes on.

  "Where are your shoes?" "I don't wear them."

  He studied her placid expression. "Do you feel anything? Are you dead inside?"

  The smile she gave him was sl
ightly sad. "I feel everything—more than you could possibly comprehend."

  A snide remark slid to the end of his tongue but went no further. Something about the joyless curve of her lips stopped him. It immediately irritated him that he would feel any measure of sympa­thy at all for such a thing, so he dragged her out the door and down to the skiff with a bit more force than was necessary.

  He took extra precautions in the little boat, tying her hands to the plank she sat on so she couldn't attack him while he was rowing. She didn't fight him or speak at all.

  She watched him as he rowed, never taking her eyes off him, hardly even blinking.

  "What?" he finally barked, unnerved by her stare. “Are you cursing me?" "We will not make it." "What are you blathering about?" "We are too late already."

  Her words created a knot in his gut, but he kept rowing as if unfazed. "Too late for what?"

  "Your friend Stephen Ross. He has found trouble that he is not equipped to handle."

  Drake stopped rowing. "How do you know?"

  "His blood is my blood now. I hear his thoughts and he hears mine...well, the ones I want him to hear. He is in trouble. He and another."

  Deidra. Stephen and Deidra were in trouble. If anything happened to Deidra, her father would kill him. He had sent William word. Told him not to worry, that he would take care of Deidra and keep her safe.

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  She shrugged carelessly. "I know not. Our link is weak. He hasn't tasted my blood."

  Drake rowed harder, glaring at his pris­oner. Her words disgusted him. "You will fix this."

  "What am I supposed to do? I am weak. The sun saps my power."

  "I don't know!" he yelled, fury and despair exploding in his chest. "But this is your fault—all of it, ever since you killed my wife, and by God you will fix it or I will make you pay."

  Her green eyes narrowed. "You can't do—"

  "Do not even say it. Because blood witch or not, I will make you pay for destroying my life. I will extract it from your sorry, useless hide if I have to."

  Her mouth snapped shut. After a moment she sighed and shook her head. "I will help you, but you should know, I do nothing for free."

  The pressure crushing his heart eased. "I can pay you. I told you that before, and you didn't want my money."

  She smiled, slow and strangely satisfied. "Oh, it's not money I want."

  Chapter 15

  Stephen wasn't certain what was hap­pening to him, why he felt so oddly detached from his body and the events occurring around him. Loss of blood, loss of blood. His body had grown very cold. It was not a typical chill that one got from being out in the damp cold overlong, but a bone-deep cold, past shivering. Another blanket or a pair of warm wool hose would not remedy this. It was in his mar­row, chilling him from within. He'd fought to think clearly throughout the mock trial, but a fog had settled over his mind and He’d no longer been able to sift through it.

  One thing kept him going when the voice in his head urged him to give in to the lethargy threatening to overwhelm him: Deidra's presence. He was hyper aware of her in a way he'd never been before. Surely he imagined it, but it seemed so real. He could smell her, the musky scent of her skin, the blood that flowed beneath it. He could feel her, the heat from her body, though they didn't touch. And strangest of all, he could hear her. Not her voice, since she did not speak, but her breathing, her heart, pumping blood through her body.

  And he smelled her fear—a sharp scent, cold, unnatural sweat, the acceler­ated pumping of her heart. She needed him. He could not give in to this.

  They sat him in a chair. He was too weak to hold himself up for more than a few seconds, and he slumped forward, sliding onto the floor. His body crashed gracelessly. It should have hurt all over, but most especially his back. And yet it did not. He felt no pain, just a cold numb­ness.

  The men hoisted him up off the floor and replaced him in the chair. This time one man held him upright while the other wrapped a rope around his chest, securing him to the back of the chair. His head hung down, his chin resting on his chest. With enormous effort, he managed to raise it, his eyes seeking Deidra.

  She was across the small room. Two men held her arms. She stared back at him, her eyes enormous and wild, the color drained from her face.

  They started with his hands. His chair was dragged to a nearby table, where one of Luthias's thugs held his arm down. Luthias removed his robe and hung it on a peg near the door. He approached the table and chose a small hammer, suitable for crushing stones.

  "Mr. Ross," he said in a pleasant voice, tapping the hammer against his open palm. "Tell me, did you assist Deidra MacKay in escaping from my custody a sennight ago?"

  “Aye!”' Stephen said, unable to take his eyes off Deidra.

  She stood across the room, watching him. Her heartbeat increased, racing now, so that he feared for her. Her breathing had grown shallow. It amazed him that he could sense all of this. Visually she was alarming as well. Her eyes were large and round, but she didn't seem to be see­ing him. She looked light through him.

  And you did it under her command."

  Stephen shook his head. "No, I did it because it was the right thing to do. She is no witch."

  Luthias's eyes narrowed, his thin lips becoming thinner. But Stephen knew more, he saw so much more now, and Luthias was not displeased, though he'd have liked everyone to believe he was. Perhaps he even believed it on some level, but Stephen knew better. Luthias wanted to hurt Stephen and Deidra. He was glad Stephen was being difficult.

  The hammer came down, crushing Ste­phen's pinky. Stephen's detachment broke. It hurt. He cried out but quickly clenched his teeth closed, hissing through them. His smallest finger, and all the way up his hand, felt as if it had been ripped off, as if it were still being ripped off.

  "God." The curse tore out of him, long and drawn out and full of agony.

  Deidra's lips drew back, but no sound came from her. She only stared at Ste­phen's hand. His own anguish drowned out all the other things he had just been sensing, but he was aware that her heart skidded along even faster. She was having a hard time breathing.

  Luthias's voice came to him from far away. "I'll ask you again, Mr. Ross, did she command you to aid her?"

  Stephen took a deep breath, bracing himself. "No, she did not."

  The hammer came down again on his pinky—the same one. The crushing pain twisted his body, but this time he made not a sound, just bit at his lips as agony throbbed and stabbed through him. He was aware of nothing else now, could sense nothing except the black-red pain that blinded him, shutting out everything else.

  He waited for the intensity of the pain to subside, but it seemed to go on forever. His vision swam, refusing to focus. Slowly, after what seemed a very long time, the pain lessened incrementally.

  Luthias paced back and forth between Deidra and Stephen. When he noticed Stephen blinking blearily at him he asked, "Mr. Ross, are you in league with the dev­il?"

  "The devil, you say?" Stephen slurred. "I know not—do we have a pact, you and I?

  Because if so, then aye."

  Luthias narrowed his gaze on Stephen. A voice spoke in Stephen’s head, urging him to keep pricking at the witch hunter, infuriate him so that Luthias would just kill him. All that stopped him was Deidra. He wished he could spare her this. She slid down the wall, knees to her chin, enormous blue eyes staring at his blood­ied hand.

  Luthias moved in front of Stephen’s chair so that he could no longer see Deidra. Stephen closed his eyes and kept her in his mind. His head fell forward. So very tired.

  Luthias grabbed a wad of Stephen’s hair and yanked his head back. "Have you wit­nessed Deidra MacKay communing with animals?"

  Stephen bared his teeth. "No."

  Luthias hit him in the face with the hammer. Stephen’s head snapped back, pain spiking through his cheek to his nose and skull. He felt and heard the crack of his cheek. A dull ringing filled his head. He tried to think
, to remember what he was supposed to do next, but all he could think was defiance.

  "No!" he yelled again, through the pain blinding him, clouding all thoughts from his head. His voice sounded strange and thick.

  "Liar!" Luthias screamed, pulling harder on his hair.

  "No! No, no, no, no!"

  The hammer came down again, cutting off his garbled shouts, and again, hammer­ing coherent thought from his head until blissful nothingness finally superseded the pain.

  Breathing had grown impossible for Deidra. It was as if her chest had crum­bled inward, restricting the movement of internal organs. She wheezed, eyes fixed on the man in the chair. He hung to the side—the only thing keeping him upright were the ropes binding his torso to the back of the chair. Blood dripped from his fingertips to the ground. But that wasn't the only place leaking blood. It dripped from his face...or what should have been his face. Luthias had beaten it unrecognizable.

  Her hands gripped her throat, as she tried to suck in more air, but her vision clouded at the edges. The scene before her wavered and merged with another scene, an older scene, but one just as gruesome. Her father secured to a chair, his hand clamped into the penniwinks as Luthias crushed every bone in his hand. Blood flowed down the table, pooling on the floor beneath him...beside her. She had crouched on the floor behind her father's chair, hands over her ears, trying to block out his grunts of pain and Luth­ias's shouted questions. But when she would open her eyes, she saw it anyway, her father’s blood sliding across the floor. Growing into a puddle. Soon it would overtake her, drown her.

  Then she was back in the room with Stephen.

  Stephen was not her father. Stephen could not heal himself. She didn't want to struggle to breathe anymore, didn't want the burning throat and lungs. She wanted to be strong and brave, like her father and stepmother. And Stephen.

  Luthias stood to the side of Stephen, bloody hammer still gripped in his fist. He looked down at his handiwork then turned to Deidra, huddled on the ground, wheezing pitiably.