by Unknown
McKay was thrilled to be in his first castle. It reminded him of old movies and sword and sorcery films that would feature a dungeon. The place looked as if it would have one somewhere. Didn’t all castles have dungeons? Gillian was a fine guide. Accustomed to entertaining countless patrons, she was as skilled at patter as she was at pouring a drink back at The Pink Thistle. She also had a sense of pride about her community, even if she had a hard time staying in it for more than a few nights at celebrations like this one. Dwarfed by the Edinburgh Castle he had driven past on his first day in Scotland, this one was nonetheless so large he felt as if he were in some national museum. He had never seen so many portraits before.
“Look yah here,” she called. McKay joined her and she pointed to a painting within an elaborate frame. The subject l0ooked a lot like McKay, but the tartan was different. His bright red hair was longer than McKay’s, touching his shoulders and had a slight curl. “I’ve been thinking about this one ever since I pinned you up. It’s not like looking into a mirror, but you have to admit there’s a resemblance.”
“Who is he?” McKay asked. To his own eye the portrait reminded him more of the magazine cover that had featured his Grandfather Logan in a kilt. In truth, all three of them looked related.
“One of the Lairds,” she said quietly. “He was killed in 1719 at the Battle of Glenshiel. I was told the Spanish Armada was about to attack.” She looked around, making certain they were alone. “He was said to have Fairy blood and used his magic to raise a storm mighty enough that the Spanish fleet was crushed against the rocky shores. Bonnie Laird Jaime,” she nodded. “He was greatly admired.”
“Fairy blood, eh?” He wagged his eyebrows at her the way Jordon had at 35,000 feet.
“Fairy doesn’t mean gay in these parts,” she muttered.
“Oh, trust me,” he said, thinking of his time with Mahihkan when he was introduced to the Supernatural Community, “I’ve learned the world is a much bigger place than I believed and contains many wonders.” He smiled at her. “Plenty of room for fairies or a few werewolves.”
“Let’s just keep that to ourselves,” she advised. “The Lairds don’t like such discussions in their presence.” Nervously she pulled him away and they continued on their tour. They walked down a staircase and she led him further on. They were in front of a small room that seemed to have candles everywhere. They entered quietly, and it took a moment for McKay to realize he was holding his breath.
Gillian made a small noise. “My apologies, good Sir,” she said. McKay then saw there was a man seated on one of the benches in the front row. He was dressed as if he had walked out of one of the portraits. He stood up and McKay forgot to breathe again. He was long and lean and auburn haired. He looked as if he could be a spokesmodel for Dolce and Gabbana. “We knew not that yeh was here or we would not have disturbed you.” To McKay’s surprise she looked down at the toes of her shoes. He never suspected she could appear so demure.
Niall said nothing at first, looking intently at both of them. “Beautiful,” he said, “The both of you. Ah, Gillian, is it not? You grace us once more with your presence. When you moved away you broke the hearts of many men—and women.” Then he turned his attention to McKay and his smile widened. “But I don’t know you. You’re someone I would make a point of remembering. Come and sit beside me and tell me your name. I’m Niall.”
Obviously uncomfortable in his presence, Gillian nodded in respect and stepped forward with McKay close behind. “McKay,” he said, and Niall reached out to shake his hand. When they touched, the younger man felt a mild electric shock. It was not an unfamiliar feeling. He had experienced it a few times when making love to Mahihkan. He wondered if Niall might be a werewolf as well.
“And is this your first time at our Fest, or were you carried away as a wee changling child and are just now returning?”
“This is my first time in Scotland,” McKay explained. “I’m looking for my roots.”
“Ah,” said Niall, “no mistaking an American accent when it’s thick as yours. But by the look of you, you’re in the right place. Be welcome in our home, McKay.” He squeezed the American’s hand and held it for a moment before he let go.
“Ah,” thought McKay, “are all the good looking men in Scotland gay?” Aloud he said, “Thank you.”
The three all sat for a moment in silence while the candle flames flared around them. Niall felt as if he had made the only decision he could. His mother had been correct—a Pooka didn’t belong among civilized people. He glanced at the American. “This one,” he thought, “definitely belongs.” He leaned back and looked more relaxed. “It’s getting on—since you seem to be giving him the grand tour, go ahead and be about your business and then join us in the Great Hall. Such a pair you are, though I suspect that doesn’t describe your relationship.” He smiled and looked at McKay. “I insist the two of you sit by me so we can all admire you. Now I need to take care of some business of my own.” He stood and walked gracefully out of the door. Gillian dropped her docile appearance and took a deep breath.
“Does he always have that effect on people?” McKay asked, looking at the empty hallway.
“Aye,” she said. “He does on me and I’ve never been with a man. Nor wanted to be. But there’s just something about him that can’t be ignored.” She stood up and led McKay back up the stairs. In the back corner of the chapel a small black cat stepped forward. By the time the cat had leapt through the door it had become Rory again.
“And you told me I was welcome in your heart,” Rory whispered. “Am I so light a liking you’d bump me from your bed for a mere mortal?” He started upstairs. “Bah,” he said, “I can smell the damned Wulver even from here.” He stomped upwards. “Cross not a Pooka,” he told himself, “I’m tired of messing with males at this point.” He returned to Niall’s bedroom and pulled out his suitcase. A few minutes later, Maeve stepped into the Great Hall. She smiled in a predatory way. “Gillian is mine.”
She looked around and saw Kenna returning to the kitchen. She turned, smelling Niall behind her. “So it’s Maeve again,” he said quietly. “You told me when we first met you’d stay as long as both of us were happy. I assume from your appearance you’re no happier than I at the moment.”
“You deceived me,” she said icily. “Did you not recognize me as a raven perching above you when your dear mother praised Pookas everywhere? She called us thievin’ bastards.” She walked up and touched her forefinger above Niall’s heart. “She said I had the magic of a village hedge witch. Well, when it comes to Power I be not needing a gift of prophecy to know I’m about to be replaced by the American. Heed my words: look for the heat in that fiery red hair of his all you like but you’ll never once have the hot pleasure I could have given you.” She turned away and added, “I’ll take my things and find another room to free your bed.” She walked out of the Great Hall adding, “I’ll just go amuse myself with the girl.”
“Harm her not,” he said in a whisper, knowing the Pooka could still hear him.
“Oh, I intend her no harm,” she called. “Pure pleasure for the both of us.” Then she walked back in and said, “I am more man than you’ll ever be, more woman than you’ll ever have. Just remember how much I will be pleasing Gillian while you compare how better I was in bed than the boy you’ll be groping.” Then she was gone.
Niall slowly closed his mouth and forced himself still as his mother came in with a bouquet of flowers and set them on a table. “Mac,” she said, “what’s wrong—you look so troubled?”
“You’ve no idea,” he said and walked out.
Chapter Seven
“Gillian,” the Pooka called to her. She looked up at McKay, not recognizing the beautiful black-haired woman as part of the noble family. But it was not unusual for them to have relatives come for the Fest just as she had returned. She nodded to him and approached the woman. “Niall was telling me about you. Let us save a lot of time and be up front with each other. I’ll be far more ente
rtaining than any other woman you’ll find beneath this roof. I find a powerful attraction to you.” She stepped closer and said softly, “Mayhap you have some Sith blood in those fine veins.” Gillian sucked in her breath and then touched the ribbon covered braid in her hair.
“Yes,” Maeve said, “I knew you’re no fool. In my experience mortals who grow up serving the Daoine Sith know exactly what they’re doing.” She took another step towards Gillian, now close enough where she could feel her warmth. She could also smell the exquisite combination of fear and arousal coming from the mortal. “Might you be knowing the term Leannan Sith?”
Gillian looked surprised. “It’s from the legends—it means a Fairy Lover.”
“Aye,” she smiled. “And if you remember your childhood stories you’ll know what pleasure—and Power I can offer you.” She reached out and touched the small braid. “You won’t need this to be safe with me. I’m not one who will spill glamour into your eyes. You see me as I truly am and I’ll not deceive you. You grew up like all the others here—threatened into keeping The Secret. But I grant you permission to be free with me. I shall protect you.”
“What of McKay?”
Maeve stepped back. “I have no interest in that one. Niall has his own plans and needs but that’s not my concern or yours. Tell the American you’ll return to him after I’ve shown you where my room is and where I’ll be expecting you after dinner tonight. And tell him not the truth of what I am. That’s a privilege I grant to you and you alone.”
Gillian stood frozen while trying to make sense of what was happening. She had grown up among the Sith. She was both apart from and a part of this community. She was not prepared for The Secret to be spoken so directly by one of the Fair Folk. She nodded and stepped back feeling numb. She had fallen into a fairy tale.
Chapter Eight
As people began to take seats in the Great Hall, Maeve walked stiffly in front of Niall and Kenna, not acknowledging them as she continued on her way, entering the kitchen and then leaving to seek the woods. Niall had explained to his mother that he was no longer together with the Pooka. “And now he’s a woman?” Kenna shook her head. “And you wonder why people talk about you behind your back when it comes to relationships.”
They had just taken their seats when McKay and Gillian approached them. “The woman by his side is Kenna, his mother and Lady of the Castle,” she whispered. They respectfully drew close to the head table where the two royals were sitting. McKay’s world of modeling had taught him to recognize the touch of a scalpel or laser on a woman who appeared no older than her son. In this case she had none.
“My son told me to expect beauty in front of me,” she said graciously. “He didn’t prepare me for such perfection.” She stood up and unexpectedly touched McKay’s face and then Gillian’s. Her touch was light and unusually warm. Her eyes lingered a moment on the small braid in Gillian’s hair and she smiled. “Please,” she said, sitting down, “be seated on the other side of us and we’ll soon begin.” She turned back to Niall and said, “I agree. Do as you will.”
Gillian spent her time trying not to be too obvious in her search for Maeve. Beautiful as the Sith was, she did not think she could look without staring—and Maeve had a wicked enough streak that stares could lead to a scandal. Gillian was torn between wanting to see her again and announcing to the village her intentions of rushing back to the City. The Fair Folk could be very direct when it came to their wants, and this lovely lass wanted her. She felt a small ball of anxiety within her and suddenly realized Niall was speaking to them.
“Before you got here I was saying to Kenna you both look as if you should be on a stage. As Gillian knows, part of what we do at the Fest is to act out some of the older stories. We’d like the two of you to play the roles of Knight and Squire.” Gillian looked down into her lap and McKay’s mind raced about with the thought of having to act. Modeling was just hitting the right pose and holding it. Acting was something else entirely and he had little interest in it.
“Do I need to memorize lines?”
“Nay,” Kenna smiled. “We’ll provide the narration. You’ll just need to listen and mirror what we say. It should come as no surprise that as the Knight you’ll be using a sword.” Now McKay looked worried.
Gillian recognized the touch of fear in the American’s eyes. “Do you remember our talking about Morris Dancing? What do you be remembering most about the vids you said you saw on-line?”
“They kept jumping and trying to hit each other with sticks. They wore a lot of flowers and bright colors.”
“Aye,” she said. “But they act like children who copy what they saw their elders doing. In the full ceremony, the dancers don’t just hop around. They’re tracing certain patterns as they move. You’ll not be holding a stick, but a sword. It’s all symbolic. You’ll just need to match each strike you’ll be given with your own sword. You’ll catch each cuff of the sword four times and then you’ll pretend to be killed.”
“This isn’t sounding very festive.”
“This is all about renewing the fecundity of the World,” she said. “It was never about dancing around with sticks in silly clothes and then beggin’ for coins. The Swords are the male symbol. When the Knight is killed then the Lady comes forth and revives him with a magic potion from a sacred cup that represents the feminine. Then you’ll get up and take a bow. This is a harvest festival and now that the crops are gathered and the food animals slaughtered, the Fest begins a new year of fertility so the World turns again and all is renewed.”
Niall nodded. He thought, “But ‘tis a sad truth the ceremony no longer seems to revitalize our poor world, but only emphasizes its tarnish.” In an effort to try something new, since their old ways weren’t working, he had asked his mother permission to allow McKay and Gillian to take on the role of Knight and Squire. She had hesitated a moment on the idea of a woman portraying the Squire, but he reminded her Gillian was a woman of a special sort and it was the Twenty-First Century.
Aloud he added, “Just follow my lead, McKay. If it helps you to think of it as a dance then that’s fine. Watch when I come at you slowly with my sword and then you’ll take the other one of the ceremony and meet my every blow until the fourth one. Then you’ll let yours be knocked out of your hands and I’ll pretend to pierce you.”
“I can’t imagine what that’s supposed to symbolize,” McKay thought.
Throughout the dinner McKay continued to receive helpful tips and suggestions to improve his upcoming performance. Aunt Agnes and her husband came by with Riley to show their respect to Niall and Kenna as they took their own seats at another table.
As they finished with dessert and strong coffee, Niall invited McKay to join him in the garden to take a few minutes to practice their sword fight. McKay inhaled deeply, enjoying the mixture of scents in the pleasant darkness. The moon had not yet risen. Niall told him he’d be right back with the swords.
The Pooka watched all this in the form of a Raven again. When Niall went back inside the castle and McKay bent down to look more closely at some of the plants, Maeve duplicated Niall’s voice and called out: “Mount the horse, Sir Knight.”
McKay stood up and a black horse stepped in front of him. “Well, aren’t you beautiful?” He scratched the stallion’s ear with his strong hand. The Pooka pushed back at him affectionately. The animal bowed his head and then looked at his back, signaling his intent. “So you want me up there with no saddle? I had to do an ad campaign for Pendleton where I spent three days on horseback, just sitting on a blanket. I can do this.” He put his hands on the stallion’s back and pushed down, judging the horse’s reaction. Satisfied he gracefully jumped up, skillfully balancing himself as he swung one leg across the animal’s back.
“Mortals are so predictable,” the Pooka thought. He took off at full gallop while McKay yelled and tried to hold on as tightly as he could to the thick mane in front of him.
“Do you prefer being ridden or do you prefer to be the o
ne who barebacks?” Rory asked.
“What are you?” McKay asked, “A werehorse?”
“No!” McKay heard Niall yelling behind him. He turned and saw the taller man lift up a sword in both of his hands and strike them together to form a cross. When he did a purple bolt of lightning shot forth from the center of the cross. It struck the black horse, surrounding the Pooka and his rider. McKay’s vision was distorted from the weird energy. Everything he saw had a violet glow and he felt himself leaving the ground.
The horse said something McKay didn’t recognize and suddenly the purplish haze was gone and they were both falling back down to the earth. Before they struck the ground, McKay felt a man’s torso between his legs and then he was on top of the stranger.
Rory laughed. “Oh, my high and mighty Laird of the Manor,” he said sarcastically. “You told me not to harm Gillian but you said nothing about this one.”
“Were you taking him to ride into the river to drown him?” Niall was walking slowly towards them, still holding both swords. Purple sparks danced on their tips and McKay could feel the anger rolling off of the tall man.
“You listen to too many fairy tales,” Rory laughed softly, now kneeling behind McKay and placing his hands on the wide shoulders of the American. “I will admit I may have given a much needed bath to mortals in past days.” He leaned forward so his cheek was touching McKay’s. “But I’d never harm this one. He’s too pretty.” Rory stood up, keeping one hand possessively on McKay’s shoulder. “Just remember this—there were many things I could have done but I chose not to do. For once praise me for my restraint.”
“And what Pooka ever showed restraint?” By now the Sith was close enough to reach out and touch McKay. “Did he hurt you?”
“I didn’t fall very far. Besides, once you’ve been snarled at by a werewolf out of his mind in pain, a horse doesn’t exactly strike terror in your heart. It was like being attacked by a carousel. Hashtag yawn,” he smiled.