by Tim Baer
"Beastie!" she called. "Be careful! Dinna get hurt!"
In a flash, the two creatures were at each other's throats, snapping and snarling; fur, scales, and spittle flying every which way. Both slammed against her bed, knocking it over with a clatter, dumping Maeve to the floor.
Below her parents' door slammed open. "Maeve!" called her ma. "What in the blazes?"
"Ma!" called Maeve. "Me Beastie! He's defendin' me from—" Her voice was cut off as the two slammed into her bed again, pushing it against the girl's tiny body, knocking her over the side of the loft.
"Aaah!" screamed Maeve as she fell. The beastie stopped mid-snap at the scaly thing's throat and leapt over, catching her as she fell. Cradling her in its arms and legs, it pulled her to its chest, twisting in the air to land on its back. The air whooshed out of its lungs as it landed hard with a thud, but Maeve was safe.
A snarl from above brought her da's head up. He spotted the scaly thing as it came hurtling down at Maeve.
"Look out!" he called, snatching his daughter from the beastie's grasp. The scaled one landed on the beastie and began ripping at its throat in a savage manner. The beastie looked over at Maeve, tears in its eyes. The girl cowered in her da's arms, unable to keep from watching the damage being inflicted on her protector.
A flash of iron from one side, and the scaly thing was knocked back into the fireplace. Maeve looked up. Her ma was winding up another swing with her husband's iron axe.
"'Tis me house, an' no damnation is goin' to sully it!" she snarled, slamming the axe up into the muzzle of the scaly one. It split through the lower jaw, lodging in the roof of its foul mouth. It scrabbled at the handle with its front talons, trying to claw the axe out as Devlin handed his daughter to his wife. Grabbing the handle of the axe, he snapped it out of the thing's mouth, bringing it up and around in a quick arc, smashing down with a dull crunch onto the top of the creature's scaly head.
The scaly monster gave a horrible squeal of agony and fell into the ashes of the fireplace. Its back legs twitched a couple of times, then the carcass began to smoke. Within moments there was nothing left but a pile of foul-smelling offal and some smoldering embers.
"Devlin," whispered Adara. "What was it?"
"A demon, I be thinkin'" he said, his sides still heaving. He glanced down at the beastie. A large pool of blood was growing beneath it. It peered back up at him with green-brown eyes that were all too human.
"Ye," whispered Devlin as he knelt next to it. "Ye traded yer life for that o' me daughter." He cradled the beastie's head in his lap, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the ragged wounds around its throat. "For that I thank ye."
The beastie looked up at Devlin, then over at Maeve. It sighed, then closed its eyes. Devlin touched its neck for a moment before putting a hand in front of its nose. Glancing up at Adara he shook his head. Maeve began to wail.
***
'Twas a fair trade. Her life was more precious than me own. An' that be the truth o' the tellin'.
I still watch o'er her. She still sees me, but only in that fleetin' moment afore she fall asleep. Me eyes are still green-brown with flecks o' gold. Me hair is still soft, 'tis still long, but 'tis no longer black. Afeared o' me? Nay! Fear doth she lack! I am a beastie o' purity an' love. I know the word now t' name the feelin' I be feelin' for her, me dove! No longer a beastie what creates terror in the night, me hair is now white as that o' the dawn's early light.
I love her. I shall always protect her. That—that shall ne'er change. I am her steadfast guardian against the rest o' the frights what goes bump in the night!
About the Author
After wasting close to 30 years of his life on Wicca and a life of paganism, Tim came to know Messiah in 1998. Since then, he has done as much as possible to make up for those wasted years. A disabled US Navy Desert Storm veteran, he lives in Texas with his wife of almost 30 years, plus a pack of critters. He is currently working for a concrete company where he is busy playing in the mud with a big truck. When he is not at work, or at home busy pounding out more SciFi on his laptop, his time is taken up serving his cats, the LORD, his wife and his dogs—not quite in that order (but don't tell the cats).
Contrary to the evidence put forth in this picture, he does own a comb and a razor.
Follow him on his much neglected Blog, on Facebook, and on Twitter. Someday he does plan on putting up a public email address for those who wish to rant at him. But not today.