by Siobhan Muir
Sarah stared at him for a few moments before she burst into tears once more. Frustration and dread beat at his mind, but he tried to shove them away and focus on the sobbing human female. What had upset her so much? And where in the Goddess’s name was Isabelle?
“Now, now, it cannot be that bad, surely,” he soothed sympathetically, despite the dread filling his guts. “What has gotten you in such a state?”
“It’s terrible!” she wailed as she used her apron to mop her eyes. “It’s my sister, Isabelle.”
“What about her?” The unease shrieked another warning.
“My father threw her out.”
“What? Whyfore?”
“Because he told her she was to be the next Virgin Sacrifice, and she said she couldn’t because she was nay longer a virgin.” Fury curled Sarah’s lip, and her brows lowered. “Then he called her a wanton whore like our mama and threw her out into the street!”
Jonarrion’s blood froze in his veins, and his face hardened like a piece of granite. By all that’s holy, what is wrong with these stupid humans? Isabelle did something any male would do to survive, and she’s castigated for her ingenuity and resourcefulness. Virginity wasn’t much of a prize in his opinion. Virgin wenches knew nothing of bedroom pursuits, often reacting in a timid and frightened fashion, and had to be coaxed to do anything. Just because human males couldn’t figure out when the females were fertile didn’t mean the lass didn’t know the father of the child she bore.
Sarah wept angry tears, and Jonarrion could barely contain his disgust at her father’s antics. So much for asking for Isabelle’s hand. He gritted his teeth and raised his gaze to Sarah’s face.
“Where did she go, Mistress Andersen?” His quiet voice couldn’t quite hide the building fury. They dared to throw his True Mate out into the cold because she refused to die for them? He balled his fists to keep from tearing apart the tavern.
“I don’t ken.” She drew back from him, aware of his menace. “She packed her things and left soon after. Father said he would spread the tale until the whole village knows of her wanton ways.”
Bloody fool!
“When was this?”
“Early this morn, just after dawn.”
And I slept right through it. Now she’s out there on her own and probably regretting her decision to lose her virginity.
Rage burned through his veins at the thought of the double standard male humans put on their females. Males lay with anything female and received congratulations from their brethren, while they required females to remain chaste. Should any of those randy males get to them, the females received blame and were ostracized. It made him want to bite someone.
Instead, he dug into his belt pouch for the amount of his stay at the tavern and slammed it down onto the bar. Sarah jumped and glanced up at his eyes, swallowing hard at his black expression.
“The balance of my stay.” He swung away, his anger fueling his elongating strides.
Jonarrion didn’t care if she collected the coins or not. He stomped his way up the steps to his room, his mind already calculating what he had to do and where he’d need to go first.
His True Mate! They’d thrown her out because she didn’t want to die for them and didn’t want the dubious pleasure of saving their miserable hides from a demon that would take their “sacrifice” and continue to plunder them. He wanted to slam a fist through the walls and roar out his fury.
Hold it together, boyo. The demon’s only winning if you destroy their wretched tavern and they come after you.
Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his plaid around him and buckled on his sword. Each deep inhalation cooled some of his rage, and his motions smoothed out until he felt safe facing humans again. He slung his knapsack over his shoulder and left the room, leaving the door ajar.
When Jonarrion reached the ground floor once more, both Sarah and the coins on the bar had disappeared. He stomped past the bar to the door and paused to track Isabelle’s path. How long ago had she left? He couldn’t allow her to wander by herself away from everything she knew, not with a demon running loose. He threw open the tavern door into the windy afternoon.
“Master Swift!”
He turned and looked back at Sarah Andersen as she hurried toward him, her face still full of tears and worry. She stopped before him and bit her bottom lip warily. Then she extended her hands and handed him several rosemary-mint soap cakes.
“Please, if you’re going after Isabelle, give her these.” Sarah raised her chin. “From me.”
“How do you know I’m going after her?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.
She gave him a flat look. “I may be a tavern wench, Master Swift, but I’m not daft. Tell Isabelle, if you will, that I love her and she’ll always be welcome at my hearth.”
He snorted with derision. “I got the impression you thought her a wanton whore.”
“Wheesht! I don’t hold with Joseph Andersen’s lies, and he shouldn’t talk. I may not have chosen the same, but I understand why Isabelle did as she did. Our sire never treated her right, and to send her to her death for this petty village is a waste of a good woman.”
“We’re agreed on that.” He deposited the soap cakes in his knapsack. “I’ll give her your message when I see her.”
“Please take care o’ her, Master Swift.”
Jonarrion eyed Sarah for a long moment, trying to decide if her words rang with sincerity. “I’ll do my best, Mistress Andersen.”
“Thank you. ‘Twill be lonely here with her gone. When I’m married and in Westerdale, she’ll have a place to find sanctuary.” Sarah looked at him with more tears in her eyes, these of hope and entreaty.
He bowed to her somewhat sardonically, but he nodded and pushed his way outside.
The village stirred despite the harsh wind flooding the streets with the stench of the demon. None of the humans seemed to notice, but most of them were muffled up against the cold. Jonarrion scanned the people around him, looking for Isabelle’s distinctive walk. He tried to detect her scent, but between the overwhelming demon-reek and the myriad unwashed humanity, he had difficulty picking it out.
Taking another deep breath, he settled his mind and tried to focus on Isabelle’s unique scent from the rest of the smells permeating the dreary late-winter dwelling. He almost missed it, but a faint scent of wild, earthy forest snaked from deeper in the village, and he followed it with a determined stride. The scent seemed “old,” as if she’d passed through many hours earlier. He growled in his throat and followed after her trail.
Jonarrion’s nose led him to the MacClanahan Bakery, the only place in the village banishing the demon-reek. The emotional scents surrounding the little building lightened his mood with contentment, satisfaction, and anticipation. Isabelle’s scent intensified, and relief flooded through him. Please, Goddess, let me find her here, safe and sound. Despite his prayer, his unease didn’t settle as he walked in the front door of the bakery.
A few people stood inside waiting to purchase bread and pastries while a couple of women sat at a little table and gossiped over tea and cakes. A petite woman with a French accent worked busily behind the counter. She’d braided her golden-blonde hair close to her head to keep it out of her blue eyes, though at this time of the day a few tendrils escaped the tight weave. Jonarrion caught a few narrow-eyed glances she sent the gossipers in between the customers she served, but when her eyes lit on him, they widened a little, and her mouth tightened. Isabelle’s scent underneath the yeasty bread smells swirled around the bakery.
The Frenchwoman finally finished with the others in front of him and turned to look him over carefully.
“What can I do for you, monsieur?” she asked politely, though her face held lines of sorrow and worry.
“Good day, Mistress MacClanahan. I am in need of flatbread for traveling. Have you any today?”
“Oui, monsieur, we do. How much would you like?”
“Enough for two travelers for a handful of days.” Jo
narrion reached into his belt pouch for the currency, noting her tension in the way she held her shoulders.
“Traveling soon, are you?” she asked sharply as she bent to pull out a tightly woven canvas sack.
“Aye, as soon as I’m able.” He nodded, curious about her sudden agitation. “Tell me”—now he lowered his voice so only the baker could hear him—“do you know Isabelle Andersen?”
The Frenchwoman’s face turned impassive, but she stood up and looked back at him warily.
“Who is asking after her?” She shot a quick look at the gossipers.
“My name is Jon Swift.”
A relieved smile flooded her features at his name, and he found himself grateful to be on the receiving end. Something about this little human suggested she’d be as difficult to deal with in her anger as an enraged demon.
“Ah, Monsieur Swift, it is a pleasure to meet you.” She leaned closer across the counter with a saucy wink. “I have heard of you from Isabelle. Perhaps you would come to our back door so I can give you the whole story, eh?” She gave the gossipers a significant look. Then she handed him his flatbread as if they’d just concluded a transaction.
“Thank you, Mistress MacClanahan.” Jonarrion raised his eyebrows, but nodded to her invitation.
“Good day, Monsieur Swift.”
He returned to the cold, blustery day, leaving the warm scents of contentment behind. Isabelle’s scent still lingered around the bakery as if she’d dallied there, but he saw no other sign of her. Jonarrion swept his gaze over the village as he turned and ambled to the path between the bakery and the building beside it. No one paid much attention to him, and he slid through the wind like a fine sword blade.
The howling wind covered the sound of his footsteps as he picked his way to the small, enclosed yard behind the bakery. Isabelle’s scent intensified as he entered the heather fence surrounding the open space. It caressed his senses like a velvet hand, and his heart clenched with the thought of his True Mate out in the cold, odiferous wind, alone and hurting. Anger rekindled at the cruelty of her family, but he stuffed it down as he approached the back door of the bakery.
When he knocked, a short, burly man with broad shoulders and wind-roughened cheeks opened the door. He had red hair covering his head and face, and eyes as blue as the Frenchwoman’s. His wide mouth held smile lines at the corners, but he wasn’t smiling now, and his sharp gaze assessed Jonarrion with piercing intelligence.
“Are you Jon Swift?” he asked in a voice like low, rumbling thunder.
“Aye.” Jonarrion stood in relaxed readiness, hoping he wouldn’t have to hurt Isabelle’s friends. “You must be MacClanahan.”
The redheaded giant nodded. “My wife, Marie, said you’d be comin’ by the back to talk about Isabelle. You can come in if you’re here to help. Otherwise, be off with you.”
“I’m here to find her.”
“Then you ken she’s missing?” MacClanahan asked as he stepped back.
“Missing?”
“Aye…you didn’t ken? Well, come in, then, and we’ll talk about it.”
Jonarrion’s earlier dread returned as he stepped into the warm kitchen, and he looked around, taking in the clean counters and pans. He sniffed subtly and caught Isabelle’s scent like a perfume of the finest quality. His concern for her overrode his lusty memories of his bonny lassie. A rough-hewn table in one corner had a stronger concentration of Isabelle’s scent than the rest of the room. He dropped his knapsack on one of the chairs, though he left his sword buckled over his shoulder.
“So, what’s this about Isabelle being missing?” he asked without preamble.
MacClanahan grimaced and opened his mouth to answer, but the petite woman from the front of the bakery bustled in, stealing his voice. She stood in front of Jonarrion, staring up at him with her fierce blue eyes and her arms akimbo. She studied him for a few moments without saying a word, her expression wary and considering. Jonarrion scented her emotions, concern and frustration at the forefront, and he hoped he hadn’t been the cause of them. She nodded sharply with what appeared to be approval after a few tense moments, and satisfaction filled her eyes.
“You are everything she described,” Marie said, humor suffusing her voice. “I can see why she would find you attractive. And you were kind to grant her request, no matter how strange. Those fools think she should be put to death for their petty lives, and now they are whispering about her being a witch!” Marie actually stamped her feet with her disgusted fury.
“She told you of me?” An odd feeling of happy flattery flooded through him! A little boy’s voice squealed joyfully in the back of his mind. She told her friends about me.
“Oh, aye, she and Marie are friends enough to share such things,” MacClanahan grumbled good-naturedly.
Marie smiled a secret smile. “She told me you make her heart flutter and her body shivery.”
Something broke in Jonarrion’s chest, and the urge to grin almost overpowered his better nature. By the Goddess, perhaps she senses our connection as well. However, he kept his grin to himself and nodded to Marie’s statement.
“Was she here this morning, then?”
“Aye, sat there and told us all about what happened this morn.” MacClanahan sighed heavily. “Her father’s a fool and a rutting prick, besides. We thought we had convinced her to stay with us, and she did for a time. She even helped keep up after the washing.” He gestured to the clean pans and counters of the kitchen.
“Then these two old biddies came into the bakery, gossiping about Isabelle and going on and on about how she is a witch and a wanton hussy!” Marie actually growled, and Jonarrion wondered if she had werewolf in her ancestry. “When I came back into the kitchen, Isabelle and all her things were gone. Except for this.”
Marie opened her hand and dropped a lacy handkerchief onto the table with a soft thunk as she sat down in the other chair. Jonarrion raised his eyebrows, and Marie nodded. He carefully unfolded the handkerchief and found a small pewter pendant with an intricate Celtic knot scribed on the face. He recognized it as a rune from the Fae’s ancient written language, and a tingle ran through his frame. Hellwinds, could it really be so simple? Jonarrion picked up the pendant, and the power of Fae zinged through his fingers and wound up his arm, filling his nose with the scent of wildflowers.
“She left it for us in thanks, I think. It was Merrin’s, her mother,” Marie said softly.
“Where did her mother get it?” Jonarrion looked up at the two humans with narrowed eyes. Did they have no idea what the pendant represented?
Marie looked surprised, and MacClanahan frowned harshly. “We don’t ken. I just remember Isabelle’s mum wearing it since Isabelle was born. Why? What is it?”
Jonarrion stared at the two people and considered what he should tell them. The pendant held the clan symbol of an ancient Fae family, though he didn’t know which one. Only the children of the family received such a pendant to show the other Fae and Elder Races the child’s ancestry. It also acted as a talisman to protect the child from those who would destroy them for their gifts. If it had belonged to Isabelle’s mother, she may not have known its significance. But what if it didn’t belong to the mother? What if Isabelle is the true owner?
Jonarrion’s mind raced through the implications. Was that why I wanted to claim her as my True Bonded Mate? And the humans wished to throw her to the demon. Fury built, along with his revelation. He had to find her before the demon did. Destroying a child of the Fae was second only to destroying a dragon on a demon’s to-do list.
“This is a clan symbol of the ancient Fae.” Jonarrion tilted the pendant so they could see it clearly. “It’s given to each child born to this clan. You say her mother wore it?”
“Aye.” MacClanahan shook his head in wonder. “Aye, just after Isabelle was born. I don’t ken where she got it, but she wore it every day until her death.” He frowned again. “Do you think it belonged to Isabelle in truth?”
“Aye, most likely
.” Jonarrion recalled the scents of wild forest and loch had become more pronounced after he made love to Isabelle.
“Och! I should have kenned it!” MacClanahan pounded his fist against a counter.
“Should have known what?” Jonarrion asked suspiciously.
MacClanahan shook his head and told him the story of Isabelle’s mother and the Fae male. Jonarrion suspected the pendant had been left for the child, but none of the humans understood its implications, and Isabelle’s parentage wasn’t questioned until later. Apparently the Fae male hadn’t returned to claim his child, and Isabelle suffered at the hands of her mother’s husband and the whole village.
“Does this mean Isabelle is half Fae? That her father isn’t Joseph Andersen?” Marie’s face glowed with excitement.
“Aye, that is exactly what it means.” Jonarrion closed his fist around the pendant, throbbing power tickling his palm. “She must have the pendant back. It’s meant to protect her from those who would seek to use or harm her before she has grown into her own abilities.”
“Why are you here, Monsieur Swift?” Marie’s expression had grown thoughtful. “Why would you care about Isabelle’s pendant? Surely you did all you needed to by taking her virginity.”
“You took Isabelle’s virginity?” MacClanahan barked, his expression thunderous.
“Calm yourself, mon ami,” Marie admonished, waving at her husband dismissively. “Isabelle wanted him to take it. She offered it to him so she would not be eligible for the Sacrifice.” Then she fixed her blue eyes on Jonarrion and cocked her head, making her look like a curious cat. “Why have you come after her? Is it possible you want more than just one night with our fair Isabelle?”
Jonarrion rarely shared his innermost feelings and thoughts with anyone, much less humans. However, he weighed the benefits of revealing them now. Marie and MacClanahan loved Isabelle and were very protective of her. They wouldn’t believe he’d fallen in love with her after only a few days, but perhaps they’d understand the need to court her. Jonarrion would love Isabelle as his True Bonded Mate until the Goddess called him to the spirit winds, and he’d prove it to her the next chance he got. But to do that, he needed her friends’ help.