The portrait on the wall stopped him as if his boots were mired in stable muck. He reached out and touched the painting, afraid it would disintegrate. His mother and father, Tavis, Ian, Alana, all staring back at him from a lifetime ago. Two years, in his time.
The day was still etched in his memory, his mother nearly in tears because his father complained his shirt was choking him, and Faelan and his brothers wouldn’t stop squirming. They were already late for the games. Ian was sweet on a lass there, and Tavis was nursing a grudge against the warrior he’d let beat him in the caber toss the year before. The warriors were too strong to truly compete with local clans, but if they hadn’t participated, it would have drawn too much attention, so they tempered their strength. Although, Tavis had to be reminded from time to time.
Bree touched Faelan’s hand. “He looks like you,” she said, pointing at Tavis. “And that must be Alana. She does resemble the painting we saw. Is that you?” She pointed at a small laddie with mussed dark hair and an inquisitive face.
Faelan’s jaw tightened. “No, Liam.”
“Liam? He’s adorable—oh, look at this one. It has the four-leaf clover,” Bree said, distracted by another of Alana’s paintings, and Faelan was relieved he didn’t have to explain.
There were several paintings of his brothers, his parents, Nandor, many of them done by Alana.
“Why did she use a four-leaf clover?”
“One leaf for each of us. She said, as far as brothers went, she could’ve done worse.”
“You had a beautiful family.”
Had.
“You’re welcome to anything you see,” Sean said. He and Duncan had stopped as well. “The whole place is rightfully yours.”
Faelan would take the portrait. It was all he had left of his family. He looked at the old man waiting anxiously, eyes shining, and Duncan still looking suspicious, exactly how Tavis would, if he were alive. No, it wasn’t all. The portrait was paper and paint. Sean and Duncan and the others he hadn’t met, they were what remained of his family. Spirit, flesh, and blood.
Within the hour, there was a celebration fit for a king. Faelan met more relatives than he could remember names, and they were all talking at once, asking questions about how Bree found him and what would happen now. Children rushed to and fro, laughing, hiding under tables as young lassies giggled and the older ones sighed. Food appeared from nowhere, modern and traditional. He hoped the haggis and blood pudding hadn’t been prepared in his honor, since he’d never had a taste for either. He had gotten a good laugh when Brodie sneaked some onto Bree’s plate, and she’d turned white as sheep’s wool.
“Well, now, it appears I’m too late,” a sultry voice drawled. “The legend has already arrived.”
Faelan turned and saw a woman standing near the door. She was a bonny thing, if you liked redheads. Dressed all in black. Black shirt, black skirt—short skirt. Faelan could see the hilt of a
She had.
“Come in, lass. Don’t linger in the doorway.” Sean motioned for her to come forward. “Faelan, Bree, this is Sorcha, a cousin.” He leaned close to Faelan and whispered, “Gird your loins, lad.”
Sorcha gave him a long, slow look from top to bottom, and Faelan felt like he was being fondled from afar. She slinked across the room and stood motionless, staring at him, one eyebrow arched. “The Mighty Faelan, so I didn’t have to come get you after all?” She turned her head and gave an assessing, then dismissive, glance at Bree, who took a long sip of wine before setting it aside. A hand appeared from behind a bookcase, refilling her glass.
“What do you mean?” Faelan asked. When had women become so bold?
“I was coming to wake you,” Sorcha replied.
“You?” Duncan blurted out.
Sean stroked his chin. “The Council decided Sorcha should join Angus.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” Duncan asked, frowning.
“You were busy with that demon in Belfast,” Sean said.
“You would’ve gotten in the way, cousin.” Sorcha waved her hand as if Duncan was of no consequence.
“Why her?” he demanded.
“She’s dreamed of the key.”
“We’ve all dreamed of the key.” Duncan gave Sorcha a black glare, but she turned her back on Duncan, focusing on Faelan, who wished she’d look elsewhere. She was making him jittery.
“You should’ve told me it was her,” Duncan said, under his breath.
“Who’s Angus?” Faelan asked.
“The last one sent to look for the key.”
“A Seeker?” Bree asked, her words friendlier than her expression.
“No, a warrior,” Sean said.
“How could you wake me without the key?” Faelan asked Sorcha.
“I was going to find it, assuming Angus hadn’t already done so,” she said, a shadow crossing her face. “Like Sean said, I’ve dreamt of it.”
