My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  The dark shape rose from the ground. He was on his feet. Hannah moved in front of Deidra.

  "You," he said, his voice low and men­acing. Stephen but not Stephen. "What did you do to me?"

  Deidra was confused, too. How could he see anything in this darkness? She couldn't make out any more of him than a darker shape in the darkness. But he apparently saw and recognized Hannah.

  "Stay back, Stephen," Hannah said. "Someone is returning with something that will make you feel better."

  "You did this to me," he growled furi­ously. "Make it stop. Now1." His breathing was loud and deep as he continued to advance. "What is that behind you? It smells sweet—oh God, I can almost taste it."

  Deidra's chest squeezed like a fist, and she grabbed the back of Hannah's shirt in panic. The longing and hunger in his voice unnerved her. That was not her Ste­phen.

  "Stephen," Hannah said, her voice full of authority, "that is not for you."

  And suddenly he was right there beside them. Deidra had not seen him move, had heard nothing. Startled, she sucked in a gasp and stumbled backward, dragging Hannah along with her.

  Hands grasped at her and Deidra fought, pushing and slapping. In the fire­light she saw fangs, animal-white and sharp. Hannah’s body stood between them, blocking his access. Deidra put her hand up, shoving his chin away, trying to keep his fangs as far from her flesh as pos­sible, but she knew that he would over­power Hannah and then kill her.

  And then his hands were gone. Deidra fell onto her backside and scrabbled back­ward like a crab.

  Stephen and Hannah stood in the fire­light. Her arm was out between them, as graceful as a swans neck, her fore and middle finger pointing to a spot between his eyes.

  "Do not move," Hannah commanded. Deidra did not know whom she spoke to—her or Stephen—but she froze.

  Stephen did not move either. He stood, stonelike, his face strained and pale, his eyes fixed on Hannah. Deidra gasped. His face. It was marred by dried blood and a red wound, but it was no longer ruined.

  Deidra's eyes scanned the trees, her mind going out to the animals, looking for information on her uncle. She had avoided contact with them, her mind shy­ing away; Drake needed to kill one, and she couldn't in good conscience lead the prey to him, though that would likely happen anyway once they sensed her.

  Drake was coming. The animals had all fled, smelling the hunter, but he had cap­tured something, and it was alive and in pain. It wanted her help.

  She heard footsteps, then Drake burst into the clearing, a red fawn draped across his arms like a child.

  It lifted its head toward Deidra. She blocked it’s thoughts, just as she used to before this mess. There was nothing to be done for it.

  "Bloody hell," Drake muttered, his gaze on Stephen. He approached slowly. "What's wrong with him?"

  "Take the fawn, Stephen," Hannah said, ignoring Drake's question.

  Stephen reached out and took it from Drake.

  Hannah dropped her hand, her shoul­ders sagging, and Stephen blinked, looking around as if he'd just woken from a dream. His eyes scanned them all, regis­tering no recognition. Then his gaze dropped downward to the dying animal in his arms. His face distorted into a rave­nous snarl.

  He fell to his knees, burying his face in the fawn’s neck. Deidra turned her face away, hand clamped over her mouth. She was sickened beyond belief. Her stomach heaved, and she was glad she had not eaten anything. But the animal felt almost nothing—a moment of fear, some mild pain, then its mind dulled, as if clouded with drink.

  Drake’s hand rested on Deidra's shoul­der. "How are you, Dee-dee? Did he hurt you!”

  Deidra shook her head, unable to remove her hand from her mouth. No, she was not hurt—not in any way that could be seen with the human eye, at least. Her heart felt battered, possibly damaged. This was not the Stephen she had fallen in love with. She didn't know what this was—a predator, an ani­mal—but it frightened and disgusted her.

  "This is only temporary," Hannah said, joining them outside the firelight.

  "What the hell is wrong with him?"

  Drake asked in a loud, angry whisper. "He's like a beast, inhuman. That is not normal."

  "His blood has been drained; he must replenish it. So long as he feeds regularly, he is no different from me. A baobhan sith only becomes feral when they do not feed."

  Feral. A word used for animals gone wild. Animals that must be killed.

  "There is much for him to learn and understand." Hannah rubbed a hand across her eyes. "Is there a safe place we can go?"

  Drake nodded, distracted. His frowning gaze was fixed on Stephen. "When can he travel?"

  "When he's finished he'll be disoriented, but he should be able to ride a horse." Hannah's gaze scanned Drake from head to toe and apparently found him lacking. "Better than you, no doubt."

  "Does he know who we are?" Deidra asked tentatively.

  "He knows who I am," Hannah said. "You both he probably recognizes, but is confused.. .cannot find a name to match the faces. Fash not, it will all come back eventually. He was dead, after all."

  Deidra tore her gaze away from Ste­phen to look at Hannah. "This happened to you once?"

  "It was a very long time ago." She stud­ied Deidra's expression. "Can you love him this way?"

  It was a bald question, one Deidra did not have an answer for. She opened her mouth and closed it. She turned and looked at the man hunched near the fire, drinking animal blood. The fawn was dead now. It had been a painless death. Stephen had somehow drugged the ani­mal as he'd fed on it. Deidra looked back at Hannah's knowing eyes, then at her uncle, who averted his gaze to the ground.

  "I know not," she finally admitted. Hannah let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Well, at least you're honest." Deidra's throat tightened.

  Hannah tilted her head to the side. "You regret I did this? Because I can kill him. Now is the best time. After tonight he only grows more powerful."

  Deidra shook her head vigorously. "No, no, that's not what I want."

  Hannah still studied her, as if gauging the validity of that statement, then her eyes shifted behind Deidra. And there he is," she said softly.

  Deidra turned. Stephen sat beside the fire. It limned his face in black and red, the blood-black smudges on his mouth. He stared down at the fawn he had just mauled. He dropped it, as if it had burned him, and stared at his bloody hands. He stood abruptly, leaning back on his heels and straightening- It was a fluid move­ment, something that Stephen’s back never would have allowed him to do.

  Deidra's mouth hinged open. Stephen seemed to realize this at the same time she did, because one of his hands went to his back.

  "Stephen," Deidra gasped, coming to her feet and taking a step toward him. "Your back—it's healed."

  He turned, his eyes scanning the three of them. He showed no signs of recogni­tion until his eyes rested on Hannah, and then they narrowed. He held his bloody hands out to her.

  "What the hell have you done to me?"

  "You wanted this." Hannah's voice changed when she spoke to him; it became firm, commanding- A master addressing a servant.

  He shook his head. "I don't remember that."

  Hannah stood and smiled, as if he was a forgetful child. "Well, Stephen, you do not remember much, do you?"

  His eyes moved to the side as he searched his mind. After a moment his gaze moved to Deidra. "I know you."

  Deidra's hand went to her neck, her heart fluttering. Aye!”' she said softly. "You do."

  His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he took a deep breath and looked down at his hands again. "I need to wash."

  Drake came to life from his silent and motionless state. He stood. "Come with me. There is a bum not far."

  Drake glanced at Hannah, one brow raised in question.

  She inclined her head. "He is safe. For now."

  Chapter 16

  Stephen followed the bearded, black-haired man away from the camp­site. The women watched him silently
as he passed. He felt strange and exposed in his current condition, drenched as he was in blood. It sickened him, and at the same time the taste of it was still in his mouth, warm and delicious.

  His mind was fuzzy, a fog he couldn't quite sift through. There were hazy images. The woman with the black curly hair and large blue eyes. A dog. A tall man with a hammer. The memory of pain flashed through him, throbbing in his hand.

  He lifted his hand. It was covered with blood, but not his own. It was whole and functional. He bent each finger to test it. Red marks marred the skin, but they were old and healed. And yet the mem­ory of excruciating pain spiking through his hand was fresh. He dropped his arm and looked around. The man had led him to a bum.

  The bearded man stood beside it watching Stephen cautiously.

  Stephen felt as if he should know the man, and yet he could not locate a mem­ory associated with him. But it was there. Somehow he just knew. Like a curtain he could pull back and all would be revealed.. .except he couldn't find the curtain. He knelt beside the bum and scrubbed his hands in the water, plunging them into the soft sand and pebbles along the bottom and using that to scrub the blood off. When his hands were clean, he did the same to his face.

  He sat back on his heels and looked upward, blinking the water from his eyes like tears. He was so confused. The one thing he was sure of was that he was what had changed. Everything around him had stayed the same. He also knew that he was stronger than he had ever felt. And that he had been crippled before. He had lived a useless life; he had been weak and angry. Now he was whole and strong.

  He felt good. Amazing. And that wom­an...the black curls, the beautiful eyes, they excited him. He’d wanted to taste her, drink her blood. That was wrong. He knew that now, but such a thing had not even entered his mind before. He’d been so hungry. It had been unlike any hunger he could ever remember. As if his stom­ach had shriveled into a currant, dry as ash. It had hurt, so that all He’d been able to think of had been easing the pain.

  He took a deep breath and looked up at the man beside him.

  The man had never taken his eyes off him. He was watchful, curious. His hand rested on the dirk at his waist. "You look well, Stephen."

  Stephen said nothing. His gaze turned to the water.

  The man tapped his fingers on his dirk hilt. "Do you know who I am?"

  Stephen shrugged. "I know I should."

  "My name is Drake MacKay. And aye, you do know me. Very well."

  That sounded right to Stephen. He nodded slowly. "The woman, the one with the curls..." He touched his hair when he said the last. "I know her very well, too."

  Aye," Drake said. His voice was low and full of meaning, making Stephen wonder if she was perhaps his wife. That felt right, too. He wanted to ask, but that somehow seemed disrespectful. If she was his wife, surely he would know that on some level.

  Drake said, "She is my niece. Her name is Deidra." He watched Stephen closely, then said, "She is a witch."

  Stephen nodded meditatively. “Aye... and she is hunted."

  Drake snorted. "You will both be hunted when they get a look at you."

  Stephen looked up at him quizzically.

  Drake slapped him on the shoulder. "You died, man."

  Stephen searched his memory, but he had no recollection of dying. Of course, he had no recollection of much of anything.

  Drake laughed. "Och, aye, man. You are a witch, too. The walking dead."

  Stephen got to his feet, surprised by this information. This, of all the things that had occurred tonight, felt wrong.

  Drake turned and walked back toward the fire glinting faintly through the trees.

  "Fash not on it. You're in good company

  Luthias left the coastal village immedi­ately after the witch had called upon her hell beasts to trample him. Running away with his tail between his legs had not been his first instinct. His nature was to stay and fight, to regroup. But He’d remembered the thunder and the animals and the broken bodies of two of his men, and He’d decided that here, so far from his resources, was not the proper place or time to take another stand.

  So he retreated. She had merely won a skirmish. God would never let such a creature win the war. This was only a test of Luthias's resolve, and he would not fail. The decisive battle was yet to come. He had preparations to make.

  This time he took witnesses—villagers. They had not wanted to come. They'd been argumentative, complaining about crops and livestock and other responsibil­ities they'd felt were more pressing than

  God’s calling, Luthias had managed to per­suade them by reminding them that he did the king and kirks work and if they were not cooperative, then both king and kirk would be informed. This had moti­vated them to set aside their obligations and travel with him.

  They traveled south. It took nearly a week, but Luthias had no choice—the nearest lowland city of sufficient size was Sterling, and he very much needed the aid of real Scots, not these Irish hybrids that wore women's skirts. He needed real God-fearing men, not bare-legged papists.

  In Sterling he sought out a kirk session to state his case. He was fortunate. The king was in one of his witch-hating peri­ods. King James had done several policy about-faces in the past decade, all of which had affected Luthias's fortunes. His fortune was currently on an upswing. And even better, the king was strongly anti-Highlander. He hated them. In fact, he insisted that the Highland chieftains' firstborn sons be sent to the lowlands or England for schooling so as not to be poi­soned by vulgar Highland ways.

  Luthias and his witnesses stated their case to the elders. Witches had infested the Highlands. It was anarchy. He needed reinforcements, and he needed to get to the root of the problem. Strathwick was a nest of evil and it was growing, spreading throughout the region.

  The root of the evil were the MacKays. Luthias then told them about the blood witch. Again, his witnesses were useful in testifying to the presence of a blood witch in their village, enumerating her attrib­utes and confirming that she was in league with the MacKays.

  It was then that Luthias made his most audacious and dangerous accusa­tion—that the head of the Strathwick MacKays was nothing less than a blood witch, as was his wife. And that they must be exterminated before spawning any more witches.

  This was not welcome news to the eld­ers. The MacKay was not a lord, but nei­ther was he a commoner. He was a land­owner who commanded many men. What was more, the king looked upon him favorably, in spite of his being a Highlander. His firstborn son was cur­rently at the English court in London, and it was said the king was fond of the boy because of his fair countenance.

  The elders murmured amongst them­selves for some time. When still they seemed undecided, Luthias drew his trump card. He brought the broken bod­ies of his men forward and showed them what the animals had done.

  The elders were moved.

  They issued a warrant for William MacKay and his daughter, Deidra. The elders stressed that a man of MacKays stature must be questioned by the king. Luthias was only to apprehend him. There would be no independent investi­gations.

  That was all Luthias needed to draw Deidra to him. With her lover broken, he suspected she was headed south anyway, bringing him to her home to have him healed. Though Luthias had told Deidra that Stephen Ross was dead, at the time he hadn't really known. It wasn't as if he'd had the opportunity to hold a spoon to his mouth. In fact, he doubted Stephen had actually died. He had seen men live through far worse than what he'd dealt Stephen Ross. If alive, he wouldn't be for long, and there was only one place where he could be made good as new. Strathwick.

  Chapter 17

  Drake led them all back to Creaghaven. They made the journey in record time, in spite of the fact that they took an easier, yet longer, path through the mountains. Stephen and Hannah could ride without stopping, showing no signs of fatigue. Deidra and Drake pushed themselves just to keep up with their grueling pace. They did not need to stop for the night, and Drake thought it best that they ju
st keep moving. They took short sleep breaks during the day but otherwise pressed for­ward.

  Deidra dreaded the baobhan siths' feed­ing time, dreaded seeing Stephen become feral again, but it never came. Neither Stephen nor Hannah ate anything at all on the journey, and they didn't seem worse for it. Perhaps they were not like humans and didn't require daily suste­nance. She didn't ask.

  She did not know if Stephen even remembered her. He recognized her, but that wasn't the same as remembering her. His behavior gave away nothing. He was quiet most of the time. He did not eat the food that Drake offered him. He did not talk except when necessary. And worse, he seemed to be avoiding her. She did find him watching her sometimes, but the sensation unnerved her, making her feel like an animal being stalked. Then she recalled how he'd tried to attack her, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds.

  She felt as if she’d lost him all over again. Now that he was a "whole man," she didn't matter...except as food. It was worse than what she'd feared. She wanted to be happy for him, because he was clearly cured. He was no cripple now. But it was difficult when he didn't seem to be the same person.

  When they arrived back at Creaghaven, Duke, Countess, and Blue were all there waiting for them. Deidra was relieved that they had found their way home. She’d told them all where to go, but even humans lost their way, and with domesti­cated animals it was not always certain they understood.

  The animals were all pleased to see them, but when Stephen called Duke to him, the dog tucked his tail between his legs and tried to slink away. This alarmed Deidra more than anything that had hap­pened since Stephen had woken. The dog was frightened. He knew it was his mas­ter that called to him, and yet his master smelled all wrong, like a predator. Ste­phen called the dog again, this time with steel command in his voice. The dog bel­ly-crawled to him and lay flat, nose to the ground, while Stephen patted him. Ste­phen stood to frown down at the dog, and Duke took the opportunity to run over to Deidra and press his head into her leg.