My Immortal Protector

by Jen Holling

  William opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to stare at Stephen. "Like you."

  Stephen nodded.

  "No." William tried again to sit up, but Stephen held him down.

  "Do you think she would wish to live, knowing the cost was your life?"

  William’s lips curled. Blood coated his teeth. "Think you she would welcome a life such as yours?"

  "I love her," Stephen said.

  "No—you want her, but you care noth­ing for her own wishes. You are selfish, to make such a decision without her con­sent."

  Stephen’s heart squeezed, the truth of William’s words slipping like a blade between his ribs. His head dropped. He no longer knew what to do. He couldn't let her go...he loved her...and yet she would never forgive him if he allowed her father to kill himself healing her.

  But he couldn't let her go.

  He released William's shoulder. William slowly rolled onto his side, and Stephen slid his hands beneath William's arms, helping him to kneel before his daughter. Deidra coughed. Water poured from her mouth. Stephen moved around to her other side.

  "No—wait," Deidra rasped. Her voice was slurred from poppy juice. She blinked, but her eyes were hazy, as if she didn't really see them.

  Stephen took her cold hand in both of his, rubbing it briskly to warm it. "If he doesn't!”' he said, his voice thick, "you will die."

  Deidra stared up at her father, a vertical frown between her brows. Her gaze trav­eled over his face, to the blood that cov­ered his clothing and hers.

  "You are hurt!”' she said.

  "It's nothing," William said, then he coughed, thick and liquid. "It will heal."

  Her head moved slowly from side to side. "No, it won't.. .not if you do this."

  William ignored his daughter, resting his hand on her chest. Deidra weakly tried to push it away.

  Her desperate gaze turned to Stephen.

  "No!”' she said weakly. "I pray you, Ste­phen, do not let him do this."

  Stephen’s jaw tightened as he stared at father and daughter. It didn't have to be this way. Neither of them had to die. Deidra just had to accept a different kind of life.

  He grabbed William's wrist and pulled it off Deidra.

  "Damn it, Stephen, I will strike you down if you interfere."

  "You cannot strike a kitten down right now."

  William glared at him. He tried to pull his wrist away but slumped forward weakly.

  "Do you not hear her?" Stephen said.

  "She doesn't wish to trade her life for yours."

  "She is dying," William said. "I have lived my life. She has not yet begun hers."

  "Da, Stephen can save me."

  Stephen looked down at her, surprised to hear the words. Her gaze was on her father, though. "I will be like him." Her eyelids drifted closed, and Stephen felt her leaving them, felt her heart slowing. "I would be strong.. .like him."

  "Deidra?" William cried, clawing his way back toward her. "Deidra!" His voice cracked and broke. He took her face between his hands and stared into it. Then he raised his gaze to Stephen's. "Do it. Now."

  Stephen’s throat felt stuffed with sand. It was what he wanted, but not this way. He didn't know why she chose it—be­cause of her father or him. He stared down at her, wanting to do the right thing, the thing that would bring her the most happiness.

  "Do it," William ordered through clenched teeth. He grabbed the front of Stephen's leather jack. With a surprising show of strength, he pulled Stephen across Deidra's body so their faces were an inch apart. “Are you deaf, man? I heard her. She wants this." He released Stephen and collapsed again. "God's blood, man—I'll kill you. I vow it."

  William lay still. He was no longer of any use to either of them.

  For Stephen, there was only one thing left to do. He loved her. He would do anything for her, give her anything—even his own blood. He slid his hands beneath her back and raised her, cradling her in his arms. Her skin was cold and clammy. He pressed a kiss to her blue, lifeless lips, then bit into her neck and tasted her life.

  When Stephen finally emerged from the tent, the camp was deserted. All of Luth­ias's mercenaries had disappeared. Ste­phen tied William to a horse and cradled Deidra across his lap on his mount. He didn't know which way Luthias's men had escaped, but he thought it was best to lie low. He took William and Deidra deep into the wood, then laid them both in a pile of leaves to rest while he kept watch. His normally sharp senses were dulled, and he recognized the dullness—the poppy juice. It had been in Deidra's blood, and now her blood was a part of him. He lay beside her and gathered her close, holding her cold, lifeless body against him. She wouldn't wake until tomorrow night. He didn't know how he knew this, but he did. For tonight, she was dead and his heart grieved, even as it filled with hope and fear for what tomorrow night would bring.

  After several hours William began to stir.

  "Can you ride?" Stephen asked.

  William lifted his shirt and twisted to look at his side. He had been run through by a sword that had stabbed deep into his side. But the wound was closed now, the flesh knitting together. He was no doubt still in great pain, but he was also well on his way to a full recovery.

  William nodded wearily. His gaze moved to his daughter lying in the leaves beside Stephen. "She is...?"

  "Not yet, but she will be, tomorrow night."

  William’s mouth thinned, and he merely nodded again. They mounted and rode back toward Strathwick.

  The pink light of dawn gilded the mountains when they saw a party riding toward them. Black shadows against the mountains at first, it soon became clear it was Hannah and Drake with his men.

  "What the hell happened?" Drake demanded angrily when they were within shouting distance. His gaze locked on Deidra rocking with the horse against Stephen’s chest, and his eye widened. "Dee-dee—is she...?"

  "No," Stephen said.

  "Then what's wrong with her?"

  Stephen didn't know how to answer. So much had happened, and right now it was impossible for Stephen to condense it down into a brief summary that would explain why Deidra was dead, but not for long.

  "She did die," William said quietly. "But according to Stephen, she will be fine tonight."

  Drake looked from Stephen to Deidra, then rubbed the side of his hand across his mouth. "Now it's the both of them, eh?" He looked a little uneasy, and Ste­phen knew it was his distrust for Hannah that made him so,

  Drake's gaze darted to his brother. "You're hurt."

  William shrugged. "It is nothing now, I will be fine tomorrow."

  "What the hell happened?" Drake asked impatiently. "No rat ever appeared. We waited, watching for something, a bird, a titmouse, something, but it never came."

  "He gave her poppy juice," Stephen said. "She was half dead the whole time. Such a thing had not occurred to us."

  Drake’s brows rose in surprise. "Why would it? Clever bastard."

  “Aye, he was," Stephen said.

  "So he is dead?" Hannah asked, her per­ceptive eyes on Stephen.

  “Aye."

  Are you certain?" Drake asked. "I saw to it myself."

  Drake’s eyes narrowed. "How dead is he?"

  William appeared confused by the question, but Stephen knew what he was really asking. Was Luthias dead, or was he a blood witch?

  "He's dead," Stephen repeated.

  Drake exchanged a weighty look with Hannah and said, "I'll go and see for myself that he is truly a menace to us no longer."

  William sighed, placing a hand on Ste­phen's shoulder, as if he expected Ste­phen to be insulted. "I cannot imagine he lived through that. Stephen...well, Ste­phen was not gentle." William gave Ste­phen a grim but apologetic sidelong look. He looked tired.

  Stephen raised a hand to show he was not offended. "By all means, do whatever you feel is necessary."

  Drake inclined his head and tapped his horse’s sides. "We'll see you in a day or two." They rode on toward Luthias's camp. Stephen watched
them go. He didn't begrudge Drake his revenge. He understood it completely. But a part of him also thought the man pursued it with too much intensity.

  As they continued on toward Strath­wick, William stole glances at his daugh­ter, eyes bleak. It was true that currently Deidra was a corpse. Her dark curls cov­ered her eyes and her lips were bluish. She looked dead, and, until recently, in Stephen's world the dead did not come back. It frightened him to hold her cold, dead body. He prayed that he could make it happen, just as Hannah had sired him. As soon as the sun sank, he would find out.

  When Drake and Hannah finally found Luthias, it was not at all how they had expected. They had expected to infiltrate Luthias's camp and steal his body, but no clandestine schemes were necessary. They sighted the encampment from more than a mile away on the desolate moorland. It had been abandoned, leaving just an empty wagon, several smoldering fires, and a tent with a comer loose from its stake, flapping in the breeze.

  They entered the encampment cau­tiously, but there was no sign of life. It was empty.

  They dismounted and wandered about the camp, hands on sword hilts. Drake stopped outside the lone tent.

  "I smell death in there," Hannah whis­pered.

  Drake peered inside. A folding chair lay on its side, and a cold brazier was next to it. Bodies were scattered all over the floor of the tent.

  Drake motioned for his men to stay outside of the tent, and he and Hannah slipped inside. They inspected the bodies until they found Luthias sprawled on the ground, his neck bent awkwardly.

  Hannah circled the man on the ground and knelt beside him to examine his neck. Her hair was plaited into a thick copper rope that hung over her shoulder like a snake.

  "He's dead!”' she said, "and he will stay dead unless he tastes a baobhan siths blood."

  “As Stephen did?"

  She nodded. Aye."

  Drake drew in a deep breath and ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his beard. He didn't know what to do. The man was dead, no longer a threat to anyone. With his death, the hunt for the MacKays would end. Cer­tainly there might be another, but it was doubtful. In the past decade, Luthias had been the only one to trouble them.

  Trouble them. Too kind a phrase. Men­ace them, hunt them, terrorize them. He had been a plague. Mere death was too clean, too easy. Luthias Forsyth had spent his life murdering witches and the last twelve years making Deidra's life a living hell. Twice he'd tried to execute Drake's brother, William. Such a clean, painless death was too easy. It was unjust, unfair, a wrong not to be borne.

  He turned and pinned Hannah with a hard stare. "He deserves to know what it is to be the hunted." He nodded, his deci­sion made. "Do it."

  Hannah arched that perfect brow, giv­ing him her otherworldly ambiguous look. "You're certain? He will be powerful."

  “At night."

  She nodded slowly. “Aye, at night."

  "Then I will make sure he is hunted during the day and when finally he is burned alive, it will be with the sun blaz­ing overhead."

  She continued to stare at him. For a moment he thought he saw a hint of doubt flit across her face, but then it was gone and he wasn't sure he had seen it at all.

  And our agreement...?" she asked, her voice low and drawling. Aye, aye." He waved this away with irritation. He didn't want to think about that now. "I gave my word and it is good."

  "Very well then. He shall not receive his heavenly reward. He will be damned." She looked up at Drake, her mouth curved into a small smile as she ran her dirk across her wrist. "Like us."

  Chapter 22

  Stephen knelt beside Deidra's body, laid out in the forest her father said she had loved so much as a child. And he waited. William and Rose had wanted to accom­pany them and keep vigil, but Stephen hadn't allowed it. They didn't need to see her when she woke. Deidra wouldn't know them anyway.

  He'd remembered his own painful awakening and had come prepared. Wil­liam had sent out hunting parties and offered a reward to the first man to return with a live hart. Stephen had taken the winners catch and Deidra into the wood as the sun had sunk low in the sky. Now he waited for her to awaken.

  He watched her face as it changed from the pale marble of death. A small frown formed between her brows. He wasted no time drawing blood from the hart. As soon as her eyes fluttered open, she fell on it.

  His memories of his own awakening were vague and dreamlike, but he did remember that the only person He’d rec­ognized was Hannah, his sire. This gave him hope. He had sired Deidra, so though she would wake with few memories, she should remember him. He just didn't know how far that memory would extend. Would she remember that he loved her? Would she hate him because she now had to feed on her beloved ani­mals?

  He waited apprehensively until she raised her head and met his gaze. She stared at him for a long time, then looked around her. There was a blankness to her gaze, a confusion. He used a damp rag to clean her face. She allowed him to do this, her eyes fixing on him, a brilliant blue, like the sea.

  When he stepped away from her, she looked down at the hart on the ground and a frown marred her brow. She took a step away from the corpse, hands rising to cover her mouth.

  Stephen’s chest tightened uneasily. "Deidra?"

  She shook her head slowly, eyes still locked on the hart. "Oh God," she moaned. "I taste it...it’s blood...in my mouth."

  Stephen approached her, hands out. "Deidra, listen to me."

  She tore her gaze from the hart to look frantically around the forest. "I hear them.. .they're afraid of me." Her hands slid up into her hair and curled into fists. "Oh God—what am I? What have you done to me?"

  Stephen didn't know what to say, how to respond. She was not like him, or any­one else. She’d had a special bond with the animals, and now he'd made her a predator. Perhaps it would have been bet­ter to let her die. But his heart immedi­ately rejected that. No. She could learn to live with this. She would learn to live with it. He would help her.

  "Come here, love." He touched her arm, trying to draw her close.

  "No!" she screamed and fled into the woods.

  He hesitated. Perhaps he should let her alone. Then he remembered how con­fused and disoriented he had been after he’d awakened, and he raced after her.

  Deidra raced into the wood. The animals fled ahead of her, sensing her and fearing her. She wanted to scream at them not to fear her—that she would never hurt them, but that was not true. Had she not just supped on the blood of one? The thought should make her sick, but it didn't. The taste in her mouth was sweet and her belly was full, satiated. In her mind she was sick, wanting to tear out the memory, tear out her tongue.

  He chased her. Stephen. She knew him. He was responsible for what she'd become. As she raced through the trees, she became aware of her speed. She couldn't remember much from before she woke, but she knew instinctively that this was new. She was swift and nimble, like a hare, bounding. Joy filled her heart and she ran faster.

  Still he pursued. She could smell him. She could smell everything. It filled her, expanded her. The chase excited her and a smile pulled at her lips. The leaves rus­tled to her right and she turned. A white wolf burst from the bushes and raced beside her.

  She knew the wolf, remembered the wolf. And it spoke to her, as if she were one with it, a part of it. And that was new, too.

  She was so intent on the wolf that it surprised her when Stephen caught her. His arm slipped around her waist. She shrieked, but it was part laugh, part excitement because she was so alive. They went down, rolling onto the ground.

  He was saying her name, Deidra, Deidra. He sounded worried, so she pulled his mouth to her and kissed him. There was no hesitation in him; he sank down into her, between her thighs, his tongue finding hers.

  There was no gentleness in their kiss. It was rough and animal, and she welcomed it, tearing at his clothing. He pushed her skirts up, hands seeking and stroking, and she cried out, her body spasming even as he sank into her, stretchin
g her and filling her, going deeper than she thought pos­sible.

  Yes, she knew this man, knew this body that rocked against hers, making her cry out and claw at him.

  "You are mine," he growled against her ear, “forever.”

  “Aye," she panted, hips thrusting, thighs gripping him. Aye."

  And as the climax swept over her, she knew she loved him and that all that had been done had been done for love.

  Stephen lay in the leaves beside Deidra, gazing down at her. She was awake but didn't speak. She stared into the wood. Her clothing was torn. He had done that—but then she had torn his as well.

  The exposed skin of her shoulder was smooth and creamy and he couldn't resist; he had to lean over and kiss it.

  She rolled over to look up at him. "Ste­phen? What happened?"

  She knew his name. He pulled her close. "I believe we just made love."

  She gave him a long-suffering smirk. "Not that."

  “Ah, you mean before." He smiled, his heart lighter to see that she was no longer screaming, no longer miserable. "You were dead...but now you're alive. We're both alive and strong. No more pain. No more weakness."

  Her mouth curved upwards slightly and her eyes took on a faraway quality, seeing something beyond him, inside of herself.

  "Can you hear them still?" he asked softly, "The animals?"

  She bit her lip and nodded. “Aye.. .but it is different now.. I am no longer separate from them. I am one of them now."

  And he could see that this was pro­found for her. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she took it all in. And he understood that this transformation was so much more for her than it had been for him.

  She rolled onto her side, pressing her half-clad body up against his. He cupped her hips, pulling her close so she was pressed all along his body. It was heaven, having her like this.

  "I remember, at the end!”' she said, "wanting to give up. The only thing that stopped me was the memory of you."

  "You remember me? Everything?" he asked, still uncertain.

  She smiled. “Aye. Not everything.. .but I know your face as I know my own heart." She touched his face with her fingertips. He turned into her caress.