“Not beyond following her as you asked. She hunts more than is common, and certainly shows more skill for it than you'd usually find among women of her status. None of that nonsense with beaters or hounds. But beyond confirming that she does have a temper and she does—did—hate Guy, I never saw much cause to inspect her more carefully.”
“You’ve gotten close though. Smelled her?”
The fur around the wolf’s eye rose slightly, the lupine arching of an eyebrow. “Yes, I’ve smelled her. This body has a disgustingly overdeveloped sense of smell. I’ve smelled every object and person on the entire island —”
“And does she smell human?”
Another furry eyebrow arched, this time paired with a huff of breath through its nose at being interrupted. “She smells of rosemary. A lot of rosemary. So much rosemary, that to be anywhere near her has me sneezing for hours after.”
“But you don’t smell anything else, anything that would make you think she was something other, something not human?”
“No.”
Mac drummed his fingers on the table. “There’s something off about that woman. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“You mean your claw.”
The wolf gestured with its nose, pointedly eyeing his hand. He clenched his fingers into a fist, the urge to swipe out with his “claws” tingling in his muscle’s memory.
“If your nose is so keen, perhaps you could tell me why you can’t find Robin Hood?”
“The sidhe wears glamour more often than his own face—and he includes a new scent with every new glamour. He leaves no trail. Indeed, I’m not certain I would know which scent was truly his if I smelled it.” The wolf narrowed its amber eyes. “As well you should know.”
A scathing retort leapt to Mac’s tongue, but before he could let it fly, the wolf spoke again.
“How did Guy meet his end?”
The change in subject let some of the pressure off Mac’s anger, like the lid being lifted from a pot left too long over the fire. He straightened, pressing his fingertips lightly against the table’s surface.
“Marian killed him. Guy finally pushed her too far.”
The wolf waited silently for a long minute, but if it was waiting for Mac to offer any more information, it had a long wait.
The Cassidys paid their back taxes last week. Perhaps their sudden windfall has more to do with our green bandit than a bountiful harvest? He scribbled a brief note in the border of the map.
“Good fortune that you happened to be there when it happened.”
Mac frowned at the wolf, mentally backtracking to put that comment into context. “There was no fortune involved. I was there because I planned to be there. Guy had been salivating over that woman for years, always going on about getting her into his bed—and always with his usual lack of couth. It was only a matter of time before she killed him and it was easy enough to plant the idea in his mind that his efforts might bear fruit if he were to incorporate a legal angle. Of course since he lacked any connection to authority beyond myself, it was only natural that he would arrange for me to be on hand when he finally confronted her.”
“You set him up.”
“Yes.”
“And you just watched her shoot him. Our cousin.”
“Your attempt to shame me would have more weight if you had not said yourself on more than one occasion that Guy would be worth more to us dead than alive. Even as a wolf, he was no more than a glutton, eating indiscriminately according to his own sadistic whims. That farmer’s wife he went after was nearly the undoing of this entire family.”
The wolf neatly avoided his gaze by leaning forward to put its nose closer to the map. “More of your obsession with Robin Hood?”
“It is not an obsession.” Mac planted a hand on the wolf’s furred chest and shoved, curling his lip as it flailed and twisted its body in an attempt to regain its balance. Its efforts were unsuccessful and it hit the floor on its side, its breath leaving it in a great whoosh. “Robin Hood is symbolic of everything that is wrong with this county. Flitting about with his little band, taking and giving with no respect for law and order. Even his queen has given up trying to control him. He answers to no one.” He gripped the table again, metal claws digging fresh grooves into the wood. “Well, he will answer to me.”
“Been like this since you were a babe,” the wolf grumbled, scrambling to its feet and glaring balefully at Mac. “Always fancied yourself the boss of everyone. Your mother should have—”
A howl cut off the rest of the wolf’s complaint, a clear, sharp note that lingered in the air like a shard of moonlight. A bark followed. It was a signal, and both Mac and the wolf looked to the door.
“Another victim,” the wolf commented.
“Shut up and get out before you draw unwanted attention. The person he’s bringing now is human, so your fellow wolf will herd them here instead of escorting them, and a man running in panic from a wolf doesn’t need to find another one waiting in the sheriff’s cottage.” Mac fumbled with the contraption on his hand, unfastening the buckles in a hurry.
A low growl outside the doorway was followed with the sharp snap of jaws and a muffled grunt. Mac frowned, lifting his attention from the “glove” as a tall figure appeared in the doorway. It was a man with a flowing grey beard and skin as pinched as a walnut shell. The long, rune-carved staff he held in one hand marked him as a wizard, but Mac would have known him even without it. Stormy grey eyes shone with anger as he grunted at something behind him and half-fell into the room.
The wolf behind his new guest was as large as the silver one, but its fur was dark brown melding with pale amber. White fur coated its snout but for a brown stripe from its black nose to its forehead, and around its eyes was an even paler brown mask. Like the silver wolf, its fur was long and covered a body that was muscled, but obviously well fed. It bared its teeth at the old man, not so subtly herding him into the room.
Damn your eyes, a wizard is other, not human! The signal should have been a bark followed by a howl, it is not difficult.
“Casan, so kind of you to join me.” Burying his irritation with the wolf, Mac gestured to the chair beside the fireplace so recently vacated by the far darrig. “Please, won’t you sit down?”
“I will not.” The old wizard curled his lip at the plain wooden chair, his gaze lingering only a moment before sharing its disdain with the rest of the room. His nose wrinkled at the plain limestone walls, studying the stretch of rock between the unadorned trim and the leak-proof but weathered thrush roof. “Animal,” he muttered under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Mac held his fingers over the claw contraption, reconsidering his decision to put it away. “Did you say something? A comment on my humble abode perhaps?”
“I say animal and you think that I speak of your hovel?” The wizard flung out his arms and made a great show of straightening his thick velvet green robe with its golden trim and delicate embroidery. The gold caught the firelight, making it appear that flames had been woven into the rich fabric. “A wiser man might have assumed I was speaking of his habit of keeping the company of wolves. Or being a wolf, as might be your case.”
Every muscle in Mac’s body grew taut, pulling his face so tight it could hold no expression. “What did you say?”
The wizard waved a hand in the air, somehow managing to take in both Mac and the wolf hovering like a specter of death behind him. “I am a wizard, my dear boy. I know a curse when I feel one, and your little lupine companion here is most certainly cursed. I can only assume that your ease with the beast indicates familiarity with said curse, which would seem strange if you did not share it in some way. And then there’s the little toy in your hand. Missing your time under the pelt, are you?”
Mac’s lip rose, baring teeth too blunt to do him any real good. The room blurred as he dove forward, outstretched fingers reaching for the old fool’s throat, already feeling that withered skin against his palm.
Casan hunched over,
eyes shining like a fox’s gaze caught in a lantern’s beam. He waved his staff and screamed “Athraithe!”
Energy rippled over him and smooth brown fur erupted from his skin, flowing down his face and hands, his arms thinning under his billowy cloak. Horns rose from his skull, the beginnings of the rack of a great stag, Casan’s favorite form. His face bulged out, molding itself into a cervine snout.
Pale wolf jaws closed around his arm, already the slim leg of a deer. A scream flew from the wizard’s throat, garbled by the change wrenching his body into a new shape. He jerked at his arm, his body writhing as the transformation continued despite the wolf's crushing jaws.
The wolf hung on, its jaw as unforgiving as a hunter’s steel trap. The wizard’s spell flickered, the change momentarily halting, trapping him mid-shift. Mac had used the wolf’s attack well, taking the time to close the distance between Casan and himself. He swung his hand toward the wizard’s face, remembered he had no claws, and grabbed hold of his beard instead. The wolf released the bloody limb, yielding the prey over to Mac who twisted the grey strands, securing his hold as he punched the wizard's jaw. The wizard grunted, teeth clacking together as his body rocked back. Only Mac’s hold on his beard kept him upright.
“You will watch your tongue, old man.” Mac jerked at his beard, keeping the wizard off balance so he couldn’t regain his feet. “I recognize you. More than one of your human victims have come to me with outrageous reports of an old man by the river who somehow turned into a mighty stag while they waded across with their valuables. You stole what your victims dropped in their fright, but some of them didn’t run away. Some of them drowned in their fear. Tell me, did you follow the river downstream to pick the corpses clean of their gold, or do you content yourself with what you can scoop from the water?”
Casan’s body settled back into his human form, though his skin still rippled with the aftereffects of the spell. His grey eyes narrowed despite his fumbling to try and get his feet under him, and fury twisted his face into something less than human. “I take what I please as is my right. It is survival of the fittest in the forest—I would think you of all people would understand that.”
Mac snarled and punched the wizard in the face again. This time he released his beard, letting the old man sprawl on the floor in a tangle of limbs and the plentiful folds of his expensive robe. Three longs strides carried Mac to the fireplace and he snatched a ceramic jar from the mantle. The lid rattled as he removed it and set it back on the mantle, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the wizard lying dazed on the floor. The bitter scent of salt tickled his nose, almost made him sneeze as some of the fine powder wafted into the air. He scooped some into his hand and began making a circle around the fallen magic wielder.
The caramel and white wolf licked its bloody lips, its pale silver eyes following every twitch of the fallen wizard’s body. As the last of the salt circle was completed, it turned from the prisoner and trotted across the room to the corner. A crossbow hung on the wall, easily within the wolf’s reach when it rose to its hind quarters. It plucked the weapon from the hook with its jaws and carried it back to Mac.
The wizard blinked, one wrinkled hand rising to cradle his jaw as he sat up. It took him a moment to notice the salt circle, to register the crossbow in Mac’s hands as he loaded it. Hatred sparked in his eyes. “What do you want?”
The adrenaline racing through Mac’s system lent him a strength and vitality he hadn’t felt since his time in a wolf’s skin. He towered over his captive, relishing the authority, the control. “I want order.”
The wizard barked out a laugh as he rubbed his chin. “Is that all? Why not ask for the sun and moon to change places while you’re at it?”
The wizard’s derision slid off Mac like blood off a finely crafted blade. He bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “The curse you so carelessly remarked upon has weighed on my family for nine generations. For nine generations we have watched as two of our number were chosen every seven years, trapped in the bodies of wolves to live as beasts until the magic chose the next two. We retain the ability to speak—a cruel twist since to speak in that form would mean our death if any human overheard. Nine generations we have born this curse, and do you know why?”
“You pointed your crossbow at the wrong wizard?”
Casan ran his fingers over the runes of his staff, his eyes locked onto Mac’s with malicious intensity. The gesture was no doubt meant to be threatening, but they both knew Casan could work no magic while lying in the center of the salt circle. And even if he could, every creature in the forest knew the old wizard was rubbish with any magic beyond shifting. It was likely why he’d been reduced to thievery in the first place. Mac dismissed the empty threat, holding Casan’s gaze without flinching.
“We don’t know. No one knows. The wizard, or witch, or fey who cast the curse did not deign to tell us, didn’t feel the need to explain themselves, or justify the horrible thing they’d done—did not even reveal their identity. We don’t know why the curse started, we don’t know who cast it, and we don’t know when or if it will end.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” the wizard sneered.
Mac pointed the crossbow at him, caressing the trigger with the tip of one finger. “It will, if you do not adjust your tone.”
The old man pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes narrowing to slits. He glowered at Mac, but offered no further interruption.
“That’s the problem with magic users.” Mac tapped the trigger with feigned absent-mindedness, taking note of the way the skin at the wizard’s temples twitched with every tap. “You have too much power, and no one to hold you in check. You do as you please, damn the consequences to others. You chalk it all up to ‘survival of the fittest’ and go your merry way.” He quit tapping the trigger, holding the crossbow more firmly, pointing the weapon at Casan’s heart. “Well, someone has to hold you responsible for your actions, someone must make sure you pay for your crimes.”
The wizard jutted out his chin, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his staff. “And you are that person?”
“Yes.”
Casan shifted, then froze when the arrow followed the movement. “And you’ve decided to punish me, is that it?”
The bravado was still thick in his voice, but there were more lines forming around his eyes, creases that betrayed growing concern. Mac savored his fear, savored the knowledge that once again, a human had taken back some ground, a human had forced some other to face their crimes.
“I want to know about your encounter with Robin Hood. Where did you see him, and what do you know of him?”
The wizard glanced from the arrow's wicked point to Mac's cold eyes. “And if I help you? Will you release me?”
Mac smiled, a real smile this time. “Of course.”
Chapter Six
Marian woke with a scream. The sound echoed around her, bouncing off her bedroom walls until it seemed as though it came from outside, from somewhere or someone else. The raw pain in her throat was the only proof she had that the scream was hers, the fear, the anguish, all hers.
Her teeth tingled, her tongue coated with the memory of blood, the phantom feel of flesh clenched in her jaws. The scent of copper clung to her, a thick perfume that made her gag. Sweat glued wild red curls to her forehead and temples, her skin cold and clammy. She sat in her bed, red and gold brocaded sheets and blankets tangled about her legs like a hunter’s net, trapping her as her jaw had trapped…had trapped…
“It was a dream. It was a dream, a dream, a dream. It was just a dream. A dream, a dream, a dream…”
The words spilled from her lips like water from a cracked dam, unimpeded, uncontrolled. Heat flushed her cheeks even as a chill teased the rest of her face, the breeze through the open window beside her bed turning the sweat on her skin to icewater. She closed her eyes and started to take a deep breath, but closing her eyes only made the lingering images from her dream more vivid and she swallowed back another scream.
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Her mother and father. Not her biological parents, but the ones who had truly been there for her, saved her from certain death in the cold forest, taken her in, loved her, raised her. They lay on the ground, flesh torn, eyes blank and unseeing. Their blood covered the green grass, painted the emerald blades a shining crimson in the moonlight. It was their blood she tasted, their blood that covered her with imaginary slickness. She had chased them through the forest where they’d found her, she had caught them, she had…
Tears welled up in her eyes and she clawed at the blankets, fought to free herself from their constricting grasp. A sob bubbled up her throat and she locked her teeth together, set her jaw. She would not cry and she would not give in to hysterics.
Slowly she registered the sunlight bathing her bed, the contrast between that golden light and the cold silver moonlight of her dream.
“Morning.” She grabbed a handful of her hair, pulled hard until the pain helped her focus, helped her tear her thoughts from the nightmare and everything it meant. “Today is the day. He said he would come, he would be here, he would—”
A timid knock at her door stopped her rambling. Her heart leapt into her throat and she gripped her covers so tight her nails threatened to rend the fabric to shreds. He’s here.
“Lady Marian?”
The voice was hesitant, as if the speaker were loathe to wake Marian from her sleep. A female voice, so soft the door nearly muffled it entirely. But then, Marian had exceptional hearing.
Stiffening her spine, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and forced fresh air into her lungs. The scent of flowers wafting in her open window almost overcame the stale odor of her own sweat and the phantom scent of imagined blood. When she felt she could speak with a calm voice, she answered.
The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) Page 6