Aye, I am a Fairy (The Fairies Saga Book 2)

by Dani Haviland

  A steady breeze—maybe real, maybe imagined—guided them, as if they were passing through a long straight tunnel with a fan at one end. James was glad it wasn’t painful. He didn’t know what to expect, but remembered the description of Sarah Pomeroy going through Stonehenge-type stones in the first Lisa Sinclaire book. This was nothing like that. But then again, these were ancient trees—living entities—and not mineral slabs. Maybe that made the difference.

  The air was still now, so they stopped walking. Leah turned toward him, slid into his arms, and held him close. “Did anything happen?” she asked, her face snuggled close to his chest. She pulled back a few inches and looked up at him. “It didn’t hurt. My stomach is in turmoil, but that’s nothing new.” She gave him an extra hug. “I know that in all of the Lost books, the characters traveled in time by going through standing stones like Stonehenge. They described it as agonizing, like being ripped apart, disorienting, and intensely painful.”

  James grinned. They were still thinking the same thoughts at the same time. Psychic, ironic, or merely coincidence, it didn’t matter. It was a comfortable feeling to be so in tune with another person. And now she was his wife, his mate, forever and ever.

  She smiled back at him and started speaking again, reflectively. “Maybe this was different because we went through a magnetic portal. I didn’t feel anything but a steady wind passing over me. But then again,” a frown suddenly appeared on her face, “maybe it didn’t work and we gave up everything for nothing.”

  “Well, first of all, we don’t know yet if it worked or not. I mean, trees now are pretty much like trees back then. Or maybe trees now are like trees will be where and when we just came from. We’ll know for certain when we meet other people. That, I’m sure, will happen eventually…unless we got zapped back to prehistoric times.”

  Leah inhaled sharply at his flip comment. He saw that he had unintentionally caused her at least a little distress. “Hey, that was a joke. But, regardless, even if it didn’t work, I still wouldn’t feel like I lost everything. Or even anything. I did gain a wife—and a fine woman she is.” He put the side of his index finger under her chin, brought it up, and bent down to kiss her in appreciation. “First one of the century,” he said. “Now, which direction shall we take?”

  Just at that moment, a cry of intense anger split the air, scattering the birds that had been hidden amongst the leaves and branches of the trees.

  “That way,” pointed James with his forehead. “That sounds like someone needs help.” He set his bag down quickly and took out the pistol. “Just in case,” he said, and stuffed it behind his back, underneath his belt. “Let’s go,” he added, and took off running, Leah close behind.

  ***Part Three

  Finding Mama

  ***49 Too Much Fighting

  The wilds of North Carolina

  August 17, 1781

  Captain Asshole tugged at the hem of his jacket, obsessively adjusting the dusty and ripped red coat as if he were preparing to meet the king. He twisted the kinks out of his neck to compose himself further, looked down, and his haughty smirk grew.

  It had taken three sleepless days to track him down—and one more to capture and subdue his pint-sized prey—but he finally had him. He strolled around his captive twice, eyes narrowed, giving him his best intimidating glare, his upper lip curled into a silent snarl. He stopped in front of the boy—just outside of striking distance—and squatted on his heels. His prisoner was wide-awake now, naked except for his breechclout and moccasins, securely bound with strips he had made from tearing apart the boy’s threadbare shirt.

  Cursing and wriggling as he tried to get free, the young half-breed was well-thrashed, but not spent. The captain watched and waited while the bare-chested boy struggled up to his knees, then chuckled and kicked him, shoving him against the ant-covered sweetgum tree.

  “Did you like bein’ able to give that war yell? Made you feel like a real man, eh? But you’re not a man, not for quite a few more years…that is, if you live that long.”

  Pah-toie! The boy spat in the face of the ragged and physically torn-up man who had kidnapped him from his father. “Yer dead meat!” he snarled.

  The captain wiped the spittle from his Y-scarred cheek, then poked the boy’s bare hip with the toe of his boot—not to hurt him, but to show dominance.

  “Well, I never had a boy, but I might just see how it is, you know? Fresh meat, either way, might feel the same.” He leaned in, his face just inches away from Wee Ian’s. “But whether it feels good to me or not, one thing’s for damned sure…” He snorted, ran his tongue over his stained and split upper lip, “I’ll make sure it doesn’t feel good to you.” He pulled back and ended his lecture with a closed-fisted punch, sending the pink calico-bound lad face first into the creek bed.

  Wee Ian rolled over and glared at him as he spit out pebbles and grit. “Weel, it’ll be the last thing ye do. I’ll make sure of that.”

  The sham British officer reached out, grabbed his captive by the wrist bindings, and dragged him face first out of the creek, through the coarse gravel and scrub. He flipped him over onto his back and laughed as the struggling irate man-child swore and squirmed, trying to free himself from his cloth handcuffs and shackles.

  His laughter grew to a roar; this was almost perfect. The more the boy wiggled and writhed, cursed and grunted, the more aroused he became. He untied the laces on his own pants and grabbed his cock, pulling on it in anticipation of a new form of sexual diversion. He leaned forward, wary, but still hoping to get close enough to the boy to rub his dick on the nubile body, to feel his hot, young flesh beneath him. Let the boy yell—no one would hear him. Besides, the screaming and resistance was the most exciting part.

  Ӂ ӁӁ

  James and Leah ran as fast as their lungs and new shoes could take them toward the source of the shouting—someone was definitely in trouble.

  The air was blue with the curses from either a young man or a woman. Some of the words were English, although strung together with a creative flourish and in a thick Scots accent. “Get your filthy hands offa me, ye mangy fox fornicator.”

  There was a pause—then a grunt. The livid person started anew. “That’ll be the last time ye have enough cock to hold in yer hand. I’ll carve it off, piece by piece, stuff the bits up yer nose, and cram yer balls down yer throat ‘til ye canna breathe.” Foreign words that sounded as if they would be just as colorful if translated followed the tirade. They were certainly said with as much fervor.

  Suddenly, there was a loud smack, a crunching sound, and then nothing.

  “That’ll teach you to mind your manners.” The captain had had enough foreplay. He was ready for action.

  James and Leah sensed a change in the conflict. The sudden silence, an uncomfortable stillness, was frightening. When they heard the man speak again, it was worse.

  “Ooh, such nice smooth skin you have there, boy. It’s just as pretty as a lass’s. Now, do you want it in the mouth or the ass first? Oh, you can’t speak for yourself with your head cracked up like that, can you?” he mocked in a sarcastic tone. “Well, too bad,” he added with a sinister laugh, “I wouldn’t be giving you a choice, anyway...”

  James and Leah repeatedly screamed, “Stop! Stop!” as they ran toward the man standing over the motionless, semi-nude child on the ground. Hopefully, he was only unconscious and not dead.

  The man in the tattered British officer’s uniform looked up at the shouts. He paused, seeing the two strangers rushing in from nowhere, shook his head in confusion, and yelled, “What the hell? Who are you?”

  The pair arrived at the site of the commotion, breathless from their frantic rescue run. They gasped, frozen in momentary shock at the drama they had just interrupted. Leah saw the soldier’s redcoat jacket and swore softly, “Oh, shit. We’re here and in a handbag.”

  James heard her, but didn’t respond. He, too, could see that this ugly, torn-up man was from the Revolutionary War era. He didn’t look l
ike a friendly, either, with his semi-clothed posture over the unconscious boy. His nose was puffy and red, and it looked as if the end of it had been bitten off. He was also missing his left ear, the result of a recent savage wound that hadn’t completely healed. It was red and infected, maroon streaks radiating away from where the ear used to be. James’s legs were shaking with the knowledge that he and Leah had just journeyed back 230 years in time, and were now interrupting the rape—or near rape—of a young, adolescent male.

  James ignored the uniformed man’s request to answer who he was. Instead, he said with as much wind and anger as he could muster, “Get away from the boy, NOW!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, muffin,” the captain replied coolly. “You see, I have this sweet little pistol here.” He whipped out a silver-toned single-shot pistol from behind his back. He turned it over in front of his face, admiring its luster while still keeping one eye on James. “Oh, and I keep it loaded, you see, just in case an idiot like you shows up and wants to spoil my fun. You wouldn’t want me to waste a bullet on you or your lady friend, now, would you?” He leaned sideways, trying to see behind James to get a better look at Leah.

  The captain’s eyes widened with shock and recognition at seeing her. “Who are you?” he asked. “And how’d you get here? I thought you were dead…” He suddenly realized he was showing confusion, so covered his weakness with impudence. “You’re a long way from home and all those babies, aren’t you? Oh, and it looks like you got yourself a new man, too,” nodding to James. “It didn’t take you long to get rid of that big sissy.”

  Captain Asshole took a step back and stroked his empty hand across unconscious Wee Ian’s bared fanny, the breechclout yanked aside. “Does this get you excited?” he asked James, ending the question with a perverted leer, his lips widening to a smile that revealed stained and rotten teeth. “There’s sweet meat on the other side, too. Nice, sweet…”

  James drew and aimed his revolver at the Captain, holding back his smile. He had just been given the upper hand. The degenerate’s pistol had a plug of dirt in the end of the barrel—if he pulled the trigger, it would backfire in his face. He, Leah, and the boy were safe.

  “I will admit that I’ve never killed a man before,” James said coolly, “but I’ve dispatched many an animal. I think you are about two clicks below animal grade, and so it will be of no consequence to remove you from this earthly plane. Now, get away from the boy or I. Will. Kill. You.” James spread out his last words for emphasis, but also to steady his hand, sighted in on the man who was less than 20 feet away.

  Captain Asshole snorted in defiance, squatted down, and grabbed the boy’s butt cheek.

  James flashed rage and squeezed the trigger in immediate, visceral response.

  It struck him before he could bring up his pistol. He felt a sharp, quick burn—like a hot ember on exposed skin—as the bullet struck him just above the clavicle. His gasp brought no breath. His esophagus had been blown apart and he had no airway left. His eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of blood still spurting from his gullet. He wouldn’t get out of this mess alive. No strength to run for cover nor wind for excuses. He was dead.

  James watched as the captain’s head wobbled on the remains of his neck. Its upright support lost; the heavy skull submitted to the pull of gravity and dropped forward, pulling the lifeless body with it, collapsing atop the boy.

  James quickly thrust his pistol through his belt, rushed over, and pushed the corpse off the child.

  The impact of the fallen body had awakened the boy with a start. Still face down and mistaking James for his assailant, he began anew with his foul words and furious kicking.

  James stumbled wordlessly as he backed away, out of range, as Leah screamed, “Leave him alone. He didn’t do it.”

  Hearing the urgent plea from a female’s voice, the boy stopped his thrashing, craned his neck around, and stared at the unknown woman who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She was pointing to a bloody corpse on the other side of him. He growled in recognition, then inhaled deeply, hawked up a big wad of phlegm, and spat it at the contorted face of his would-be molester, lying dead in the dirt.

  A string of words flew out of his mouth, none intelligible. He paused, then stared up at the man beside him—his rescuer—the questioning look of ‘Who are you and why are you here?’ evident without words.

  James pulled out the blade from his Leatherman multitool and held it flat in his palm to show him what he had. The boy accepted the gesture with a nod, rolled onto his back, and offered his bound ankles. James quickly sliced through the cloth. The boy scrambled upright, turned around, and nobly presented his bound wrists.

  “Do you speak English?” James asked, as he cut through the twisted cotton handcuffing. Both he and Leah had heard him speak it, but it was as good a question as any to start a conversation.

  Hands now free, the boy straightened out his breechclout and turned around. He looked at James, one eye narrowed in suspicion, then down at the strange pistol. His near-glare softened to a half-grin. This man was different. He could tell that he had nothing to do with those other men.

  “I speak it well enough.” He pulled back his shoulders, puffed out his skinny chest, and stood as tall as his youthful body could reach. “Thank ye fer comin’ to my rescue. I owe ye one. Now, I need to go find my da. This,” he kicked the contorted corpse in the ribs with his moccasined foot, “pile of shite trapped him and left him with three others to…to… Weel, I dinna ken what they were gonna do, but I’m sure they meant to kill him when they were done. Now, if ye’ll excuse me…” He nodded and turned, heading into the unknown to rescue his sire.

  “Wait! What’s your name?” asked James. “And can we help?”

  He stopped and called back. “The white man calls me Wee Ian, and if ye care to follow and can bring that wee cannon of yours, I willna send ye away. They’re this way. Jest follow the creek.” He pointed upstream, then resumed his swift pace.

  “I’m James and this is my wife, Leah,” he called after the boy, not knowing if his lame introduction was heard or not.

  James bent over, grabbed his bag, said “Let’s go,” and didn’t even ask whether she wanted to be involved in this mysterious mess or not. It was the right thing to do, and if he knew it, she did, too. Sometimes it was good to have a wife who was a mind reader.

  Wee Ian was young, strong, and unencumbered, so was soon far ahead of James and Leah, who were still burdened with their packs. After several minutes, James stopped to let Leah catch up. “Here, give me that,” he said, reaching for her backpack. “Remember, I’m the one with the broad shoulders. Sorry, I should have taken it before we left. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but wait just half a minute.” Leah reached around him and pulled the water bottle out of the side pocket of her pack, took two gulps, and offered it to him.

  He took a quick swig. “No more. You’ll get a cramp if you drink too much. Come on, let’s go.”

  Leah saluted him with the bottle, letting him know that she’d keep it with her. She gathered her skirts together and bundled as much as she could in the crook of her bent right arm. “Cursed long dresses,” she hissed, then took off running.

  They ran without stopping or talking, James leading the way, until it became too much for Leah. She slowed to a walk—she was getting an ache in her side and didn’t want to make a scene by throwing up or falling down, but still wanted to make forward progress. James turned around and noticed her clutching her side, so stopped and waited for her to catch up.

  Then he heard it. Now that he wasn’t running, he could hear the sounds of confrontation.

  “Put it down, and no one will get hurt.” The man’s voice sounded as if someone was reciting a line from an old western movie. No, the voice sounded like Billy’s…but the tone was just like a marshal calling out the bad guys in one of those old TV westerns.

  James grabbed her hand and pulled her to the shelter of a large sparkleberry bush. He recognized
it from Colleen’s book—tall bush, low hanging branches, perfect for a temporary hideout. “Stay here,” he said, and dropped both packs at her feet.

  He pulled the pistol from his belt and checked the safety, making sure it was still locked. “Stay here. Get your gun, too. Take the safety off and keep an eye out. But don’t shoot anyone. That was Marty talking. I’m going over there to see what’s going on. Wee Ian’s around here, I’m sure. I’m positive Marty’s not one of the men who took his father. He’s probably trying to help, and that’s why we’re supposed to be here. Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  “Yeah, well, so do you. I’m fine. Now, get out there,” she whispered hoarsely, “It’s show-time!” Leah puckered up, blew him a kiss, and then looked beyond him to the source of the disturbance.

  James bent low and did his best to move noiselessly toward the fracas. Wee Ian popped out from behind a bush, put a finger to his lips, and directed James ahead to the next vantage point.

  Marty’s voice boomed out, “I’m serious now. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll shoot if you don’t…” He stopped his threat at the same time as the sound of an involuntary yelp pierced the air.

  “Ha, ha, hah…” someone laughed menacingly.

  The cruel guffaw was quickly silenced by the crack of a gunshot.

  The bushes beside James rustled. He looked over and saw Wee Ian flying through them, totally disregarding stealth or discretion. He followed suit, pausing only long enough to take the safety off his gun.

  When he got there, Wee Ian was already astride the man—evidently his father—a skinny, broad-shouldered white man dressed as an Indian. The boy’s small hands quickly pulled the hatchet from the fallen man’s neck and tossed it into the trees.