“And yet communities are so isolated that one of the Fallen could be hiding within a day’s ride of Stirling,” Damien said. “Hunting in the country and recently in town. A girl here and there. A lost traveler. No one would connect them.”
“Until there became too many.”
“Which means their numbers are large enough that they need to take a noticeable amount.”
Diana said, “The Grigori could be moving into the towns because winter is coming. Not as many travelers in the mountains.”
“It’s possible.” He scratched the whiskers on his chin. “Let me sleep on it. Monroe, I’ll need whatever maps you have.”
“The scribe house here specializes in maps of the Highlands,” Monroe offered. “Their collection is excellent. I’ll find the information you need tomorrow.”
“We’ll need a small, swift group.” Damien stared into the fire, mulling over the terrain they’d be searching. “Monroe, get me five scribes not including yourself. I want endurance, not speed. No grumblers. At least one good game hunter and two good archers. Diana, I won’t be taking you, and don’t argue. One, you’ll be needed here at the scribe house to maintain discipline and watch the town. And two, this could take months, and I won’t have you birthing in the mountains.”
Diana narrowed her eyes but nodded. “Get my mate back to me by spring, Damien of Bohemia, or you’ll feel the edge of my sword. I won’t be birthing our babe alone either.”
※
Four months into the mission, Damien knew he wouldn’t make it back to Orkney by spring.
We have tracked the Grigori farther into the mountains, he wrote Sari, and we have killed as many as we could find. Human deaths are lessening as the winter drags on. The Highland trails become ever more impassable. We must find the Fallen before spring comes. His sons will be starving, and I do not want to imagine the terror they could bring. Many of the villages are isolated. They could wipe out entire communities before a report reached us.
Damien tried to write a letter to Sari each night—there was blessed little else to do when the nights were dripping and cold—but he had no way of sending them.
I try not to grow angry with my summons here. A week’s delay would have made little difference to the human population, but a week in your arms would have made me a far more contented soldier. Likely I fool myself to think a week would have made me any less reluctant to leave.
At night he often dreamed of the barley field where he had kissed her. He wandered in his mind, searching for her, but Sari was not yet his mate and Damien searched in vain.
※
“There. Just over the rise of that hill.”
“Are you sure?”
Damien wiped the water and a smear of mud from his eyes. “As sure as I am of anything in this place.”
Six months of winter in the Highlands had done nothing to make Damien familiar with the area. These were some of the most treacherous and inhospitable mountains he’d ever traveled. The snowfall was mild, but the near-constant rain made the mountain passes almost impossible for tracking. He no longer had any sense of direction other than north, west, and up. He, Monroe, and the Edinburgh scribes had gone north and west from Stirling, tracking each attack and abduction of humans they could find. This path had led them farther into the Highlands and away from anything Damien might have considered familiar.
They’d come across a small party of Grigori three nights before, lurking on the edge of a remote village, and they’d dispatched them. Their fear was the first clue that Damien and his fellow scribes might be on the right track to finding their angelic sire. The lack of any living humans was the other. Damien and Monroe tracked that pack of Grigori back to an even more remote mountain village where a crumbling ruin of a castle dominated a narrow valley.
When they reached the rise of the hill, they lay in the brush and watched. Damien called on the magic he’d scribed when he’d been young, heightening his vision in the early-evening light.
“Nothing,” Monroe whispered. “You?”
“Crofter’s huts and cottages in seemingly good repair,” Damien said. “But no cooking fires. No animals.”
“It’s deserted.”
“Or emptied.” Damien eyed the crumbling ruin. It was a small fortification with no flag flying. “Whose land is this?”
“MacNab? Probably MacGregor. I can’t say for certain.”
Damien rolled over and scooted back down the hill, his back sliding down the muddy ground. “Why here?”
Monroe followed him. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s isolated.”
“Maybe that’s all he wanted.”
Damien thought about the men they’d brought with them. Faraz, the best hunter in the group, tracked game deep into the mountains, and Monroe said the man often went roaming for months into the Highlands on his own. He was the most familiar with the terrain, though it was nowhere near his homeland.
“Let’s ask the hunter.”
Damien and Monroe jogged back to the small cave where their men had taken shelter. Faraz was feeding a smoky fire at the edge of the cave, just out of the falling mist.
“There’s a village in the valley,” Damien said.
Faraz cocked his head and thought. Then he ducked out of the cave and returned a few minutes later. “Yes. I was here last spring and it was not deserted, though the castle was.”
“Could the Fallen be here?”
Faraz shrugged. “I don’t feel that level of magic. Do you?”
“No, but he could easily be cloaking his power. If he is here, why?”
“There’s a game trail that runs down the east side of this valley that smuggler’s often use. It would give him access to the river and the lowlands but without attracting attention from some of the larger settlements. That could be it.”
Monroe folded his long legs and leaned against the cave wall. “I say we investigate the castle in the morning. Early. I’m ready to go home, Damien. If you make me miss the birth of my child, we’ll both be feeling Diana’s blades.”
“Morning,” Damien said. “And let us pray that we have finally cornered our quarry.”
※
The Grigori sentinels at the edge of the woods were their first clue. Faraz and Monroe silently took them out while Damien led the four other scribes through the deserted village and toward the ruined tower. Six months of hunting with these men had given him confidence in Monroe’s choice. They were hardy, silent warriors who followed orders well and were sure of hand and foot.
Monroe and Faraz circled back to them silently, and Damien sent his two archers away to take position and watch for any Grigori returning to the valley. Whatever soldiers they met inside they would have to take care of themselves.
They used hand signals to communicate, a common warrior’s language that had been taught to Damien before he could speak. He moved silently toward the tower, listening for any sound that would signal life.
There was nothing. No sheep bleated. No hog snorted. Not even the birds were calling in the early-morning rain. Their feet were silent as they approached the moss-covered ruin.
The hinges on the old oak door were rusted, but Monroe signaled that there was a window that might give access. The scribe boosted himself on the shoulders of his brothers and reached for the narrow window. He managed to squeeze through, then held his hand out for the next scribe. One by one, they made it through the tight opening without making a sound. Damien was the last to climb. For a moment he wondered how he would boost himself up the first few feet, until he heard one of his archers chirp from the bushes.
Stepping back, he let the man fire two arrows into the crumbling wall, then using them as footholds, he boosted himself up to the edge of the window and pulled himself in.
The stench of death hit him immediately.
The scribes were wrapping cloths around their mouths and trying not to gag at the smell. The window had dropped them into a small sentry room where bodies had been piled. From
the clothing, Damien guessed they were the men of the village. Old men and boys mostly. No women. The women would have been taken to the Fallen or saved for his Grigori spawn.
Grim eyed, the scribes spread through the first level, sneaking into a large hall where a dozen Grigori slept on straw mattresses. They had taken the winter stores from the village and used them for themselves. Animal bones were strewn on the floor, and furs were piled in alcoves where the Grigori were sleeping.
No bodies here, but Damien could almost taste the death in the room. One by one, Monroe and the other scribes spread out and silently slew the Grigori as they slept. Damien and Faraz moved farther in.
Finally a faint noise reached his ears.
Then another.
Groaning and panting.
Damien’s lip curled when he realized what he was hearing. Was it a Grigori taking his pleasure from one of the humans or the Fallen himself? He looked over at Faraz, the scribe’s face revealing the same disgust Damien felt. Fallen would enthrall a woman with power, then plant a child in her belly, not caring that the angelic spawn would drain her life even before she bore it. Women did not survive once they’d given birth to a Grigori child.
Damien and Faraz followed the noises to a tower at the back of the castle yard. They’d taken only a few steps into the open when the wind and rain came, lashing them and breaking the dead silence that lay over the valley. With a shout, Monroe ran out of the hall, two of his brothers at his sides.
“I think the stealth part of the mission is over, brother!” he shouted.
“Are the Grigori dead?”
“All we could find.”
A screaming voice echoed on the wind.
“Mikael’s blood spoils my air,” the voice said. “Begone, scribe, or meet your death.”
Damien halted for a second, observing his brothers and examining his mind. Other than a piercing pain from the screaming voice, his mind was not affected. His movements were not hindered. It was a Fallen, but not a powerful one.
Monroe nodded toward the tower. “Any other option?”
Damien shook his head and put his hand on the black heaven-forged blade at his side. “He knows we’re here. We go in force and pray he does not have many weapons.”
He caught movement from the corner of his eye. With the speed and skill of a spider, Faraz was scaling the outside of the tower, his boots kicked off and his toes and fingers clutching the rough stone. Within moments, he was at the top of the tower, peeking in then ducking his head back when a burst of fire shot out the narrow window.
Women screamed inside and the wind grew more violent. Faraz tried to climb down the side but fell the last twenty feet, landing on his back as his brothers gave a shout. Monroe and Damien ran to him.
“No Grigori,” Faraz said through gritted teeth. “I only saw women. No weapons that I could see but his fire. He looks intoxicated. Go now while he’s weak. I can’t move my legs.” A gasp as he tried to rise. “Brothers, I cannot move my legs.”
Cursing himself that he hadn’t found an Irina healer to make the trek with them, Damien said, “Monroe, stay with Faraz and do what you can.”
“No!” Faraz yelled. “The Fallen first. Then deal with me.”
“Brother—”
“Go. Kill the bastard and come back for me.”
Damien and Monroe did not hesitate another moment. They ran toward the door of the tower, calling their brothers to their back as Damien saw his two archers take up position, one on the wall of the castle, the other running to his fallen comrade.
They rushed up the tower, almost tripping over two human women with dead eyes and swollen bellies. Damien could not care for them. He had only one goal. Monroe ran ahead as all the scribes activated their talesm. Their bodies glowed with magic as the ancient runes lit with power. As one, their magic rose and filled the air with a smell not unlike lightning after a storm. Monroe was the first through the arched door. With a shout, he doubled over and rolled to the side just as two other scribes ducked low and entered the room.
“Where is Mikael’s blood?” the angel shouted, his voice filling the air. “I grow tired of weaklings.”
Damien came in low and braced himself for the wind. For once, the Scottish weather had been a boon. Though Monroe’s clothes smoked, they did not burn. No, they’d been soaked with damp for weeks. Damien drew his wet cloak around him and rose, hand at the heavenly blade at his side. He could not draw it until he had a clear angle on the Fallen’s neck. Any cut from the blade would be lethal for his brothers or himself so far from a ritual fire.
Two scribes were wrestling with the angel, who had shifted into an otherworldly eight-foot-tall monster. Light and fierce beauty poured off him, and he would not be wrestled down.
“Quick and dirty, brother!” Monroe barreled past him and into the Fallen’s legs, the three scribes finally managing to bring the angel to his knees. One of the brothers started screaming and blood streamed from his ears, but he did not let go. Damien leapt into the fray, keeping the heaven-forged blade at his waist, waiting for a clear target.
The tangle of scribes and angel rolled across the floor of the tower, fire shooting from the hands of the Fallen. Every time one of his brothers screamed, Damien felt it. But fighting an angel was dirty and taxing. They wrestled with the giant creature who continued to pierce them with what magic he had, which mostly consisted of fire and mental blades. Wind filled the tower, making even a scrap of cloth a weapon.
A clay bowl bashed Damien on the temple and he went down, but Monroe grabbed his arm and yanked him up.
“Now!” Damien saw four scribes, including one of his archers and a pale Faraz dragging himself on his elbows, holding the roaring angel down. Arrows littered the angel’s back and blood dripped from multiple gashes and wounds, but none of them would kill the creature. Only Damien could do that.
“Damien!”
He leapt on the back of the Fallen, adding his weight to the mass of scribes restraining the monster. Climbing up the back of the angel, he used his elbow to pummel the creature’s proud head.
“I will kill you, Mikael’s blood!” it yelled.
But it wouldn’t. Damien grabbed a handful of the angel’s golden hair and yanked up. Then he drew the black blade and stabbed it into its neck as the angel screamed and fire filled the room.
CHAPTER NINE
SARI watched the ships bob in the harbor in Kirkwall as Ingrid and her mate loaded the bags of grain. They wouldn’t need wheat by next year. The fields were already bursting with crops, though the season was early. She’d worked tirelessly all winter to prepare the ground, working two seasons of magic into one mild winter because she was desperate to keep her mind occupied and her body exhausted.
There had been no word from Damien in months, though Sari rode into Kirkwall with Ingrid every time she met the ship from Aberdeen. No word except that he and his brothers were hunting an angel in the Highlands and he would not be back before spring at the earliest.
It had been eight months since their night together. She cursed his memory. Searched for him in dreams. She missed him. She loved him. She was furious.
This is what I do. Do you understand? This is always what I will do.
Curse him.
Of course it was what he did. From the moment she’d seen him, she’d known Damien was a warrior. Known he was simply biding his time on the small island in the North Sea. Had that stopped her from falling in love with him? Of course not.
But she’d be damned if he left her behind again.
“We’re finished,” Ingrid said, climbing onto the front of the wagon. “Did you want to drive home?”
This is not my home.
“Unless you or Matthew wants to drive.”
“No.” Ingrid waved a hand as the wagon lurched and her large mate, Matthew, climbed in back. “Go ahead.”
With a quick flick of the reins, Sari nudged the team into motion, ignoring the stares of the humans at the docks. The Irina were sti
ll the subject of suspicion, and more and more they avoided going into the human villages without an Irin escort. It was starting to drive Sari mad. She felt like a child, but Einar was insisting. There had been no more incidents since Kirsten’s attack, but more than one singer felt uncomfortable around the humans. Sari couldn’t blame her sisters, but it was frustrating to feel as if other’s fear was hemming her in.
They drove back to the village and unloaded the grain. Sari decided to spend the day tending her own household garden. Weeding was a constant challenge. Earth magic was an equal opportunity fertilizer, which meant though her garden was lush and fruitful, the weeds were also attracted to her magic and grew quick and eager alongside her vegetables.
She took her evening meal in the longhouse with Henry. The friendly scribe was the only one who seemed to be able to put up with her sullen moods most nights.
Nights were the worst.
He chatted and told stories, even sang a few songs by the fire after they’d finished their meal. Henry poured her a mug of ale and sat at her side, throwing a brotherly arm around her shoulders and soothing her with his easy affection. The anxious energy that had been building since she’d met the ship in Kirkwall eased a little.
“Thank you, Henry.” She squeezed his hand and stared into the fire.
“I know it’s not the same,” Henry said. “But sister, come to me any time you have need.”
“It’s been eight months.”
“Little goes according to plan in battle,” Henry said. “Damien knows this better than anyone.”
“Which is why he said six to eight months when he left. He was being conservative. He would have tried to hunt this fallen before winter set in. Something is wrong.”
“If he had been injured, the watcher of Edinburgh would have written.”
“Unless he doesn’t know they are injured. The last letter I received said they were going into the Highlands.”
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