Her stomach knotted with excitement.
Perhaps it wasn’t death that awaited David on Skye . . . but life.
“Lord Duncallan, we have to turn around.”
“Was violence necessary?” Gray leaned, arms folded, against the doorframe to David’s bedchamber, his eyes hard as steel.
David shrugged. “I don’t know if it was necessary, but the bastard deserved it.”
“And what of our bid to win hearts and change minds?”
“Do you really think if I’d treated him with kindness and dignity that the slimy, worm-ridden sack of shit would suddenly change his opinion and love and trust a demon shifter? There are some people you can’t win over, Gray. Not with all your pretty words of alliance and common cause. They hate you because you’re not them. The end.” David’s rage turned in his chest like a blade, his mind aflame.
Gray pushed off the doorway, coming into the room, and eyed the maps spread out on a nearby desk. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?”
“Duncallan can take care of Miss Hawthorne. No harm will come to her.”
“You’re right about that. I’ll be there to make sure of it.”
“And if Corey’s men are as thick and as close as we suspect? You’ll never win through to Skye undetected.”
“They’re looking for the man on that broadsheet.” David jerked his head at the wrinkled piece of parchment on the bed. The wolf scented blood and the thrill of the hunt. Fangs extended, skin prickled and burned, and his heart drummed in his ears, but this time it was in anticipation of the shift. “I’ll win my way through.”
“And what then? What of your vision of her slaying and your death? Can you dismiss that so easily?”
Always reasonable. Always cool, calm, and collected. Gray was bloodless. Heartless. As remote as his godforsaken castle.
“Do you think this is easy?” David seethed. “What awaits me chills me to the bone, but doing nothing is a hundred times worse.” He looked to the window where twilight bleached the color from the far hills and transformed the trees to black shifting shapes against the gray sky. But above, the Mother hung fat and golden in the sky, her light spilling through the curtains to bathe him in her power. It was Silmith, the night of the full moon, and there would be no greater time to face Corey than when the wolf ran strongest. “Callista is my responsibility.”
“Liability, more like. She makes you vulnerable, David. She sidetracks you from your ultimate duty, which is to the clans.”
“Fuck the damn clans!” David wheeled on Gray. “Ever since Charleroi, ever since Beskin took his red-hot iron to my back and ripped my very mind apart with his weapons, I’ve been devoured by hate and rage and bitterness. Then I met Callista.” He tried dragging in a breath, but it was as if steel bands clamped his chest. His hands shook. “I won’t go back to that, Gray. Not for you or the clans. If you want me after, I’m yours. But I have to see her safe within Dunsgathaic first. A week is all I need.”
“You don’t have a week. You’ll need to dose yourself again or suffer for it before long.”
David closed his hands around the scars on his palm. As always, Gray was right. The first stirrings of illness tightened David’s muscles, and the lick of blue and silver flames hovered at the edges of his sight. The curse strengthened as the medicine ebbed from his weakened system. “The draught must wait. Callista cannot.”
“And what of your promise? You swore that if I did as you asked and sent her away, you would follow my orders.”
“I made a promise to her as well.”
“No, you lied to get what you wanted, which is all you’ve ever done, David. But no longer. You’re mine. I’ll send Lucan if that will ease your worry, but you stay here. I need you, Captain.”
David closed his eyes in silent apology before spinning on his heel, his fist catching Gray clean on the jaw with enough power behind the blow to crush a normal human’s skull. Caught off guard, Gray reeled backward, unable to stop the second punch that dropped him to the floor unconscious.
David dragged his friend into a chair and poured him a whisky for the pain that would come when he woke.
“Sorry, Major. You know I never took orders well.”
18
The inn consisted of one large drafty room downstairs and a few damp chambers above, while their grizzled, one-armed landlord MacDonald more closely resembled a sheep-stealing reaver than a jolly innkeeper, but the place was relatively dry and comparatively warm, attributes that couldn’t be overlooked as the weather turned foul and the roads vanished beneath an icy layer of white.
Callista could only stare out the window in disbelief, nerves jumping with impatience. Snow in June? Really?
“And here I thought Wales in January was frigid,” Lady Duncallan said, dragging her cloak around her shoulders and scooting her chair closer to the fire. “Scotland in June is ten times worse.”
“Do you suppose the roads will be clear by tomorrow?” Callista asked, peering through the swirl of snow beyond the glass.
“This is just a wee dusting, miss.” If MacDonald had been intimidating in a loud vulgar way, his wife’s honeyed smiles and flattering words were downright frightening. A gaunt, beak-nosed woman with a shock of white hair beneath a dirty mobcap, she smiled broadly enough to show her broken and blackened teeth. “Naught to worry your head over.”
“My father once told me Dunsgathaic was built over hot springs, and there are pools where one can bathe in water that never cools,” Katherine said, in an obvious attempt to draw Callista’s attention from the gale outside and the tension within. “I can’t wait until we reach the place. I’ll soak in one for at least a week.”
“You travel to the fortress of the Shadowy One?” Mrs. MacDonald asked with a simpering leer. “Now, what would such comely maids be seeking in such an unnatural place as that?”
“Miss Hawthorne has family among the holy sisters there,” Lady Duncallan offered.
“Does she? A strange and haunted place is the fortress there. Not safe for such pretty things. Full of spirits and devilry and old magic.” Her voice lowered, her eyes snapping as she warmed to her story. “The islanders steer clear of the place and even the fishermen avoid the coves below the cliffs for fear of the beautiful roanes and sinister kelpies, both able to drag a man down into the deep waters and send back only bones. Here.” The woman handed Callista a mug. “Have a cup of warm cider to calm your nerves. You’re white as the snow, lass.” She leaned in close. “White as death.”
Callista’s hand jerked, cider slopping onto her hand, hot against her skin. “What do you mean by that?”
Mrs. MacDonald tilted her head and rounded her shoulders in an obsequious simper. “I meant no offense, child. I’ve three daughters of my own and ten granddaughters. I know a body heartsick and a mind full of worry when I see one.” She offered another secret smile. “My cider will give you sweet dreams and when you wake, all will look better.”
“Or you’ll wake with a head like a bass drum and a stomach weak as jelly,” Lady Duncallan commented, a teasing twinkle in her eye as she sipped from her own drink.
“There, now. Rest yourself by the fire, and I’ll see to supper. I’ve some stew simmering and there’s cheese and ham and a bit of bread.” With a last darting look, the innkeeper’s wife passed into the kitchens.
“She reminds me of a maid I once employed,” Katherine whispered to Callista with a smile.
Callista took another swallow. The heavy sweet cinnamon and clove taste coated her tongue, but the heat loosened the hard press of worry in her gut. She made a turn about the room, sat, and picked up her book, but read only three words before she was up and back at the window.
