by Renee Wildes
“I’ll do it myself.”
Finora’s jaw dropped. “I would not presume—”
“That, Daughter, is why I do it.” Griogair reached down and scooped up the limp form of the grey Were as if he weighed naught. Finora turned and led the way up the cliffside path, Storm and the black wolf in her wake. Griogair strode aside her. His men stayed behind to guard his skin, so he didn’t fall prey to the same fate as she. “You’ve never given in to self-pity. Always, you take what you’re given and make the most of it. I’m proud of you, Finora.”
Finora’s head spun. He acknowledged her as his offspring and he used the familiar name her dam had given her? “How fares my dam?”
“She’s well. You’ve a new little sibling, a she-pup. Your dam named her Aingeal.”
“I thank you for that news, Sire.” They reached the top of the cliff, and Finora stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait a moment, please.” She took off her shawl and tied it around his hips to cover him.
His eyes flashed. “Humanity doesn’t become you, Daughter.”
“’Tis not for myself, Sire. My children have been raised with human values. Humans don’t reveal their skin-forms to their children and I wish not to shock mine. Please?”
“Very well.”
The door flung open, and Braeca and Ioain dashed out to greet her, heedless of the weather. “Mama! Mama!” Ioain flung his arms around her legs.
“Come inside, both of you.” Finora shooed them inside like a couple of wayward chicks. Griogair had to duck under the doorframe. Finora shut the door behind Storm and the wolf. Both canids shook the water from their fur and dropped afore the fire.
“Where do you want this one?” Griogair asked.
Knowing he was a man, and injured, Finora couldn’t bring herself to just toss him on the rug, even though he was soaking wet. She turned to the black wolf. “Will he heal?”
He nodded, then dropped his head on his paws and closed his eyes.
“Lay him on my bed. I’ll show you.” She led the way into her room. Griogair waited whilst she grabbed an armful of drying towels and rubbed excess water from the grey fur. Then he laid the unconscious Were on the quilt. A window revealed a break in the clouds and a moonbeam pierced the night to bathe the Were’s injured leg. Cilaniestra must be satisfied with Her tithing this night. The storm dissipated.
Finora led Griogair back out into the main room where Ioain and Braeca stared wide-eyed at the black werewolf snoring by the fire. “Would you care for something to eat or drink afore you go?” she asked.
To her surprise, he settled into Bran’s chair. “Nay, I’d sit for a moment.” He eyed the children. “They’ve the look of our people save for the curls.” His nostrils flared as he took in their human scent. “Yet they aren’t.”
“Sir?” Braeca moved to stand afore him. “Why are you wearing Mama’s shawl? Where are your clothes?”
His eyes narrowed as she dared to meet his gaze. “This one has spirit—and vision.”
“Aye.” Finora swallowed, nervous. “Poppet, he lost his clothes in the sea. He helped Storm rescue the two wolves. I brought them here so they wouldn’t scare people.”
Ioain pointed to the black wolf. “Will he eat us, Mama?”
The Were raised his head at that, and Finora saw a glint of amusement in his silver eyes.
“Only if you don’t go get your nightclothes on and get into bed,” she replied.
“’Night, Mama.” Ioain dashed. Braeca rolled her eyes and strolled.
Finora turned to see one corner of Griogair’s mouth twitch.
“She’s much like her dam,” he stated.
“Stars, I hope not.” Finora shuddered at the thought.
He rose. “I must leave you now, Daughter. I’m glad you’re well, and your offspring. Remember you’re always welcome home.” He handed her the shawl and strode into the night.
Finora clutched her shawl and cried.
Chapter Three
Trystan awoke to sunlight blazing through a window. He struggled to drag open salt-encrusted lids. His eyes burned as he focused on that streaming light. Not a porthole—a real window. He lay in a four-poster bed that did not swing. His mouth felt as dry as the sand from the hold of the Sunrisen. His body screamed with thirst. But his leg no longer pained him. The nauseating smell of decaying flesh was gone. He held his breath as he reached beneath the quilt and ran his hand down the back of his thigh, relieved to find intact skin over muscle. The bandage was gone. He’d shifted under the full moon and healed.
He frowned. His memory returned in splintered fragments, like shards of broken pottery. He remembered Doc trying to convince him to permit surgery afore a storm hit, then bits of the tempest itself—an insane, raging beast of screaming wind and surging waves. The Sunrisen had shattered around him on jagged rocks. Men had scrambled about in the dark, trying to save their own skins. He relived freezing water closing in around him, over him, and shivered even now. Then the miraculous appearance of a dog built like a bear, the shadow of a fish with long green hair and the sharp stones of a shoreline digging into his skin.
He recalled a woman’s dark eyes in the moonlight. He stared at the colorful design that graced the white quilt covering him, vivid interlocking circles of red and blue, and took a deep breath. A woman’s bed. His body stirred. The pillows, the sheets were ripe with her rich, musky scent. There was no scent of a man at all. Where were Niadh and Ealga?
Where was he?
The door opened and a dark-haired woman strode into the sunlit room. Her scent hit him first—day over night, clean sunshine and the sharp briny tang of sea air over warm woman. The lethal sway of her hips got the attention of parts of him he’d nigh forgotten existed on the long celibate journey westward. She carried a pitcher and a cup, and smiled. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
His body hardened at her sultry voice. “Thirsty.” He stared into familiar brown eyes. The soft liquid eyes of a doe. Bedroom eyes. ’Twas her—the woman from last night. He’d not been dreaming.
She poured water into the cup and handed it to him, then set the pitcher on the bedside table aside a basin. “You must have swallowed some seawater last night. Drinking lots of fresh water will help.”
“Where am I?” He frowned at the rough, rusty edge to his voice and drank.
She poured him another. “You’re in Lighthaven, in Rhattany.” She sat down aside him, on the edge of the bed. “Do you remember anything from last night?”
“Bits an’ pieces.” Lighthaven. So the Sunrisen had made it after all, afore foundering on the rocks. “How many asides me?”
“Living or dead?”
He took another sip. Fresh, cold, with the tang of minerals, a tinge of iron. Never had plain water tasted so good. “Either. Both.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. His gaze locked on those plump lips. “I went down into the village to check. We lost four of the crew and two of the rowers you rescued after the corsair attack. Captain Reed, Mick and Doc are fine.”
“What o’ Giles an’ Toby?”
“Giles survived. I’m sorry, I don’t know who—”
“The cabin boy, Toby.”
“Oh.” The woman blinked. “He’s fine. He’s resting at Madame Jasmine’s, along with the rest of the crew who don’t have families here. The girls there spoil him rotten.”
Relief eased the tightness in his back.
She leaned over to rest the satiny inside of her wrist against his brow. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good news. With that leg I feared I’d find the worst this morning. But the moon did Her part, and your black-furred companion was right. You’re a fast healer.”
Trystan frowned. She knew? She knew what he was? She communicated with Niadh? Niadh survived? He glanced over at the doorway.
A bright silver eye peeked around the door. “Glad t’ see ye this morn’, too, laddie.”
“Where’s Ealga?”
“Shreddin’ a rabbit for breakfast. Sh
e’s as sick o’ fish as the rest o’ us.”
Trystan studied the woman, for the first time catching a sense of “Other” from her, along with a deep well of sadness, of desolation, she held locked up tight. ’Twas reminiscent of Niadh’s darker moments, the feeling of a Shifter caught in a single phase and unable to escape.
“But whilst mine was imposed, a punishment, hers was stolen. ’Twas no fault o’ hers.”
She placed cool fingertips against the pulse in his neck.
He scrubbed at his eyes. Delicate but work-roughened hands stopped him.
“It’s dried salt, from seawater. You’re covered in it. Don’t rub them. You might scratch your eyes. I’ve water heating for a bath.” She poured water into the basin, wrung out the wet cloth within and placed it over his eyes. “Here, this should help for now.”
Trystan wiped the gritty crust away and twisted to put the cloth back into the basin. He relaxed against the pillow, relieved. “It does. Thanks. What’s yer name, lass?”
“Finora. Yours?”
Finora. “Trystan. Me companion out there is Niadh.”
“Where are you from? Forgive me, but you don’t sound either Rhattan or Arcadian.”
“The mountains north o’ Arcadia.”
“Long way from home, mountain man.” Finora grasped the edge of the quilt and tugged it down to his waist.
He tensed as she bent down to lay her head on his chest. Sun and moon, her hair was soft. He held very still, so stiff he ached. “What’re ye—”
“Ssh.” She reached up to rest her fingers against his lips. “I’m just listening to your heart and lungs. Now be quiet and let me listen.”
She could lie there all day if she liked. Or slide her face farther down, wrap her lips around him and ease the discomfort… Of their own volition, his fingers threaded through the sable strands. They slid over his skin like silk. He wondered where she’d slept last night.
Too soon she rose. “Sounds good. No lingering effects from last night. Roll over.”
He frowned. How could he be so aroused and she be so oblivious? “What for?”
Finora rolled her eyes at him and fisted her hands on her hips. “Stars, you’re suspicious. I want to look at the wound.”
She was all business. Pity. “’Tis gone. There’s naught t’ see.”
“Don’t be such an old lady. Humor me.”
Mayhaps she preferred women. Now that’d be a shame. He did as she bade, felt cool air on his bare skin as the quilt was ripped away. Her hands slid down the length of his left thigh with thorough but quick efficiency afore she replaced the quilt. Trystan rolled over and captured her hand, curled his fingers around her wrist. “Naught else ye cared t’ ogle this morn’?”
She blushed. Awareness sparked in her eyes. Optimism stirred. Mayhaps she liked men after all. “Spoken like a man who’s been at sea too long,” she retorted. “For your information, I’m an old widowed mother of two and hardly a lass. You don’t have anything I’m not already well acquainted with, and if you’re looking to get ogled this morning you’re in the wrong house. Sounds like you could use Madame Jasmine’s. I’m sure they’d spoil you rotten, too.”
Trystan grimaced. “Sorra t’ disappoint ye but I dinna frequent whores.” He far preferred sexual encounters based on genuine attraction and liking to the simplicity of women who doled out their favors to all and sundry for the shine of hard coin.
But never afore had attraction flashed so immediate, so hot and fast.
She didn’t respond, but stood to go and pointed to the far corner. “The chamber pot’s there behind the curtain. I’ll go check on the water and bring the tub in. I washed your clothes last night and dried them by the hearth, then hung them outside. The sea air freshens clothes better than just drying them afore the fire.” She bustled out, leaving him to his thoughts.
Widowed. Not married. He wondered how long and filed the information away for later. So he was in Lighthaven, in Rhattany. He’d reached his destination, the first stop on his quest. He recalled Giles’ words about the so-called wizard in town. He’d be best served by speaking with the eldest residents in town. They’d be the most familiar with any old tales or rumors. He’d try to avoid the wizard’s notice. Shifters had good reason to steer clear of those that practiced sorcery. He took care of his body’s needs afore a knock at the door announced Finora’s return.
She dragged a large wooden tub that looked too small for him. But as one used to bathing in cold mountain streams, even in the dead of winter, a warm bath was too great a luxury to pass up—even if it looked like his knees would be up around his ears. “I still have to bring the water,” she said. Her gaze never left his face, never traveled down. She acted as though she worked around naked men all the time.
Nudity had never bothered Trystan, but her nonchalance made him blink. “I can help.”
She shook her head. “You have no clothes yet. I can’t have you running about in naught but your skin. Ioain’s due to wake at any moment.”
So she had noticed. “What d’ye plan t’ tell him o’ how his wolf now walks on two legs?” Trystan asked her. “I canna stay on four.”
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t talk to strangers—he’s too shy. Braeca knows how to keep secrets. No one in Lighthaven has seen your other form, and they can’t see Niadh’s, correct?”
Trystan shook his head. Niadh’s situation still stung.
“Then we’ve no cause for concern.” Finora smiled. “Be right back.”
She half-filled the tub with buckets of cold water, tempered it with boiling. Although the end result wasn’t hot, ’twas warm enough to relax. “Do you need help washing your back?”
Was she flirting with him? He wondered what she’d do should he say, “Nay, but ye can wash me front.” But he shook his head and she left him with rosemary and bay leaf scented soap, washrags and towels.
“I’ll be back with your clothes, and get breakfast ready. Have to fetch Braeca from school soon.”
When she brought in his plaid and shirt, Trystan washed and dressed. He was surprised to find his leather money pouch dried as well. Every coin was accounted for. He missed his weapons. He’d have to purchase more at the earliest opportunity. He hung the washrag over the back of the chair and the towel on an empty wall peg. Opening the bedroom door, he almost tripped over a small boy. Trystan crouched down and smiled. “Ye must be Ioain.”
The little boy’s eyes widened over the thumb in his mouth. He looked from Trystan to Niadh, who sat by the door. He took his thumb out of his mouth to point at Niadh. “Man?” Then he pointed at Trystan. “Woof?”
Trystan stilled. “Ye see us, laddie?”
Ioain nodded. He pointed to Niadh. “Woof. Man.” He searched Trystan’s eyes, his brow creasing with puzzlement as he cocked his head. “Man. Woof. Not woof?”
Finora turned, startled. “What do you see, Ioain?”
“Peepo.”
“He sees inside the truth o’ people,” Niadh said. “He sees a Were’s true nature.”
“He can see the true form o’ people,” Trystan relayed. “An’ Weres.”
Finora paled. “What do you see when you look at Mama?”
“Sea peepo. Man last night, too. Not wike fish girl. Not me. Not Bwaeca.”
Finora’s gaze caught Trystan’s. “The man who carried you here last night was my sire. We’re selkie, but Bran was human.”
“But the littles have the Sight,” Niadh commented.
Trystan wondered what a selkie was. “Where do they get the Sight from? ’Tis a rare talent in humans back home, but no’ unknown.”
“From me.” Finora rubbed her arms. “I feel weather changes, dream storms. I have a connection to the sea goddess Cilaniestra. I see people’s sea-deaths in my dreams. Braeca also sees storms in her dreams, but so far she’s spared the other. I thought it skipped Ioain.”
“No’ skipped, just different.” What a heavy burden t’ bear.
Ioain tugged on her skirt. “Ma
ma, I’m hungwy.”
“You can eat with Trystan.” Finora moved to the table to pour milk into a clay cup.
“Let me take care o’ the bathwater.” Trystan returned to the bedroom and lifted the tub.
“Don’t do that,” Finora protested. “It’s heavy.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her and grinned as she blushed.
“Where d’ye want me to dump it?”
“Just over the sea cliff,” she replied.
“Be right back.” Trystan hauled the tub outside. The Light and its cottage stood atop a grassy, windswept cliff. Far below, grey water foamed white as it thundered against jagged black rocks. He poured the bathwater out over the edge onto the rocks below and carried the tub back into the cottage. “Where does it go?”
She pointed to a hook on the far wall. He hung the empty tub up out of the way afore sitting in a chair opposite Ioain, who stared at him as he drank his milk.
“Thank you.” Finora set a plate afore him, filled with roasted potatoes and a hash of eggs, herbs, vegetables and cheese.
“Yer’re welcome, lass.” He watched her bristle at the word, and his lips twitched as he suppressed a chuckle. “Did ye eat anything?” he asked Niadh.
“Aye.”
Finora brought a plate of biscuits and a dish of butter. She split one for Ioain and slathered it with butter and honey. “What would you prefer to drink?” she asked Trystan.
“Water’s fine.” He took a bite of the egg hash. Different, but tasty.
She poured a cup for him and one for herself. He reached for a biscuit. The meal passed in silence but it wasn’t awkward. Trystan ate and watched Finora braid hemp in her corner chair.
Niadh’s ears pricked and Storm barked. A knock sounded at the door. Finora got up to open it. An old man stood there, cap in hand.
“Brung ye the new glass for the Light,” he stated.
Finora smiled. “So fast? That’s wonderful, Kastin! Come in.”
“Can I help ye bring it in?” Trystan asked.