Bec

“We’ll talk of that later,” Torin says, frowning at Ert. “For now you’re welcome. We won’t turn you away. However, we can’t feed you, so if you want to eat, you’ll have to hunt.” He squints at the sun. “I wouldn’t wait too long.”

The woman called Aideen points to a pair of huts near the wall, both in poor condition. “You can stay there,” she says. “You’ll be safe if you don’t wander.”

“We’ll call for you later,” the third woman—Dara—adds.

“Thank you,” I mutter when the men don’t respond.

“Our pleasure,” Aideen replies. She starts to turn away, then stops and stares at me. “Girl,” she commands, “come here.”

I step forward cautiously. Aideen reaches for me sharply and I draw back from her cracked nails, readying myself to bark a spell. She spreads her fingers to show she means no harm, then smiles crookedly. I stand still while she cups my chin and tilts my head back.

“What is it?” Torin asks.

“Her face…” Aideen murmurs, turning my chin towards Torin.

The man frowns. “She looks like… but she can’t… Girl! What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Bec,” I tell him. “I’m from the rath of the MacConn.”

“Are you of them?” Torin asks. “Is your mother of the clan?”

“My mother’s dead,” I answer softly. “Nobody knows who she was or where she came from. She died not long after I was born.”

“Aednat’s child!” Aideen gasps, her fingers tightening on my chin. “She must be!” I tingle with shock when she says that. The face of my mother forms quickly in my mind and for the first time ever I have a name to go with it.

“You knew my mother!” I cry.

“She was my sister,” Aideen croaks.

“Then this is where I’m from? This was where my mother lived?” When Aideen nods wonderingly my head spins and my heart leaps. “Why did she leave?” I yell. “What happened? Who was my father? Is he still alive? Do you—”

“Enough!” Torin interrupts. He’s glaring at me—the news that I’m of his people hasn’t pleased him. “We must think on this. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

Then he heads back inside the large stone hut, waving at the others to follow, leaving us to stare at one another uncertainly and make our way to the smaller huts to set up camp for the night.

My head’s still spinning. I’d almost forgotten about the spirit of my mother beckoning me west, and the notion that maybe she wanted to help me unlock the secrets of my past. Inside I never really believed I’d discover the truth about my family—it was a childish dream. Yet here I am, in the most unlikely of places, suddenly confronted with her name and the promise of my history.

Aednat. As soon as Aideen said it I knew it was my mother. Maybe it’s the magic that makes me sure, but I think I would have known even if it had happened before my new power blossomed. But her name is all I know. Who was she? Why did she live in this wilderness with the others? And why leave her family to bear me in loneliness and die so far from home?

I want to ask the questions now, find out the answers immediately. I want to rush to the large hut and demand the truth from Aideen and Torin. But this is their home, meagre as it is, and it would be disrespectful to speak out of turn. If their wish is for me to wait, then wait I must—no matter how frustrating that is.

Ronan and Lorcan hunt for food in the hours before sunset. Game is scarce in this rocky wilderness but the twins return with two hares, a crow and a cub fox. Fiachna, Bran and I pick berries and wild roots while they’re gone. It makes for a fine meal. There’s even some left over, which we offer to Fand when she comes to fetch us shortly after sunset.

“We have our own food,” she says curtly.

As we’re walking to the largest building, there’s a ferocious howl from one of the huts in poor repair. The warriors in our group draw their weapons immediately but Fand waves away their concerns. “It’s nothing,” she says.

“That was a demon,” Goll growls, not lowering his sword.

“No,” Fand says. “It was my brother.”

We stare at her with disbelief. She sighs, then strides towards the hut where the howl came from. We follow cautiously. At the entrance, Fand crouches and points within. We bend down beside her. Dim evening light shines through holes in the roof. In the weak glow we see an animal tied by a short length of rope to a rock in the middle of the hut. It’s human-shaped but covered in long thick hair, with claws and dark yellow eyes. It snarls when it sees us and tries to attack, but is held back by the rope.

“That’s your brother?” Goll asks suspiciously.

“His name is—was—Fintan,” Fand says.

“What happened to him?” I ask, staring uncomfortably at the yellow eyes. Disfigured as they are, they look disturbingly similar to mine. “Is he undead?”

“No.” Fand stands. “We’ll tell you in the main hut. Come.” When we hesitate, she manages a thin smile. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. Fintan and the others are tied up tight.”

“There are more like this?” Ronan says.

“Four.” Fand pauses and her expression darkens. “For now.” She goes to the largest hut and ducks inside. One last glance at the creature chained to the rock—it looks like a cross between a wolf and a man—then we follow, gripping our weapons tight, watching the shadows for any sign of other, unchained beasts.

It’s crowded inside the hut, with all five adults, the three children we saw earlier, two younger kids—one just a babe—and us. The MacGrigor are poorly dressed—most of the children are naked—and scrawny. Dirty hair, rough tattoos, cracked nails, bloodshot eyes.

“They’ve seen Fintan,” Fand says when we’re seated, after a few seconds of uneasy silence.

“Good,” Torin grunts. “That saves some time.” He collects his thoughts, glances at me, then tells us their sorry tale—my tale.

Several generations ago their ancestors bred with the Fomorii. They thought the semi-demons were going to conquer this land and threw in their lot with them. When the Fomorii were defeated, the MacGrigor were hunted down and executed as traitors. But some survived and went into hiding.

“Though if they’d known what was to come next, I think they’d have stayed and accepted death,” Torin says bitterly.

Some of the children of the human-Fomorii couplings were born deformed and demonic, and were immediately put to death. But most were human in appearance. These lived and grew, and for many years all was well.

“Then the changes began,” Torin sighs. “When children came of a certain age—usually on the cusp of adulthood—some transformed. It always happened around the time of a full moon. Their bodies twisted. Hair sprouted. Their teeth lengthened into fangs, their nails into claws. The change developed and worsened over three or four moons. By the end, they were wild, inhuman beasts, incapable of speech or recognition. Killers if left to wander free.”

The affected children were slain, while the others grew and had children of their own. They thought they were safe, that they’d survived the curse—but they were wrong. Some of the children of the survivors changed too, and their grandchildren, and those who came after.

“It strikes at random,” Torin says. “Sometimes four of five children of any generation will change, sometimes only two. But always a few. There’s never been a generation where none of the children turned.”

The family sought the help of priestesses and druids in later years, when their treachery had been forgotten and they were free to live among normal folk again. But no magician could lift the curse. So they struggled on, moving from one place to another whenever their dark secret was discovered, living as far away from other clans as possible, sometimes killing their beastly young, other times— as here—allowing them to live, in the hope they might one day change back or be cured by a powerful druid.

“It’s no sort of life,” Torin mutters, eyes distant, “waiting for our children to turn. Having to feed those who’ve fallen foul of the curse and look upon them as they are, remembering them as they were. I’d rather kill the