poor beasts, but…” He glances at Fand, who glowers at him.
“And Bec?” Fiachna asks, sensing my impatience, speaking on my behalf. “Her mother was of your clan?”
“If her mother was Aednat, aye,” Torin says. He looks at me and again his face is dark. “Aednat had six children. All turned. When she fell pregnant for the seventh time, years after she and her husband, Struan, had agreed not to try again, Struan was furious. He couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another child into the world and rearing it, only to have to kill it when it fell prey to the ravages of the moon.
“Aednat argued to keep the child. She thought she might be lucky this time, that the gods would never curse her seven times in a row. She was old, at an age when most women can no longer conceive. She thought it was a sign that this child was blessed, that it would be safe. Struan didn’t agree. Neither did the rest of us.”
“Some did!” Aideen interrupts bitterly, but says no more when Torin glares at her warningly.
“We decided to kill the child in the womb,” Torin continues gruffly. “That was Struan’s wish and we believed it was the right thing to do. Struan took Aednat off into the wilds, to do the deed in private. But none of us knew how much Aednat wanted the baby. She fought with Struan when they were alone. Stabbed him. I don’t think she meant to kill him, but—”
“My mother killed my father?” I almost scream.
“Aye,” Torin says, burning me with his stare. “She probably only intended to wound him, but she cut too deeply. He died and she fled. By the time we discovered his body, she was far away. We followed for a time, to avenge Struan’s murder, but lost her trail after a couple of days. We prayed for her death when we returned. I’m pleased to hear our prayers were answered.”
I rear myself back to curse him for saying such a mean thing, but Fiachna grabs my left arm and squeezes hard, warning me to be silent.
“Of course the girl’s not our business now,” Torin says heavily. “She’s of your clan, not ours, so we can’t tell you what to do with her. But she’s a cursed child, from a line of cursed children, and the spawn of a killer. She’s at the age when the moon usually works its wicked charms. If you let her live, the chances are strong that she’ll change into a beast like Fintan. If you want my advice—”
“We don’t,” Goll snaps.
“As you wish,” Torin concedes. “But when the moon is full, be wary of her.”
He falls silent. I’m panting hard, as if I’d been running, thinking of the kind, weary face of my mother, trying to picture her killing my father. Then I recall the boy-beast in the hut and imagine myself in his position. I wish now that the past had remained a secret!
“What about the demons?” Drust asks, maybe to change the subject to stop me brooding, or maybe because he has no interest in my history or Torin’s grim prediction. “Don’t they ever attack?”
“No,” Torin says.
“Even though you’re poorly defended and they could butcher you any time they pleased?”
Torin shrugs. “There were other families living near here. They’d been forced out of their tuatha for various reasons and settled in this wasteland. The demons killed them last year. We’ve seen the monsters pass from time to time and they’ve seen us. But they leave us alone.”
Drust nods. “Then it wasn’t a Fomorii your ancestors bred with. It was a true demon. Some of the Demonata fought alongside the Fomorii. Many demons don’t attack their own, especially if there are pure humans to kill. You’re kin to them, so they spare you—for now at least.”
“We’ve heard talk of the Demonata before,” Torin says. “Other druids—those we went to for help—spoke of them. They told us the curse was demonic and that was why they couldn’t help.” He leans forward. “I don’t suppose
Drust thinks about it a while, then says, “A demon master might be able to lift the curse. But I know of no human—druid, priestess or any other—who has the power to remove such a blood stain.”
“You mean the demons could cure us?” Fand says sharply.
“One of the more powerful masters, perhaps,” Drust says.
“Do you know where we can find one?”
Drust starts to respond, to tell them about Lord Loss. Then he stops and shakes his head. “The demon masters have not broken through to this world yet. When and if they do, they will be easy to locate. But I doubt if you will be able to convince them to help—by nature they are not inclined to be merciful.”
We stay talking a while longer. I ask questions about my mother and father, what they were like, how they spoke and lived. But Torin ignores my queries and speaks sharply whenever Aideen or Fand tries to answer, changing the conversation. I consider using magic on him, to make him tell me what I want to know, but Drust reads my thoughts and growls in my ear, “This is neither the time nor place for magic. Control yourself.”
When the MacGrigor have told us some more of their sad history and how they eke out a living here, Drust speaks of our quest, of the tunnel which has opened between the demon world and this, and his plan to close it. But he says nothing of how he hopes to pinpoint its location or why he’s leading us to the western coast—the end of the world.
When it’s time to sleep, we return to the two stone huts set aside for us and make ourselves comfortable. It’s been both a revealing and frustrating night for me—I’ve learnt some of my history but not all. There’s so much more Torin and the others could tell me, but Torin hates my mother for betraying the clan, killing her husband and deserting them. And, since she’s no longer here for him to hate, he hates me in her place. He’ll never tell me about her or allow the others to.
Before I lie down, I remember the conversation after the revelations about my past and ask Drust why he didn’t tell Torin about Lord Loss. “If they could find him, they might be able to persuade him to help,” I note— figuring, if I could play a part in curing them of their curse, they’d surely tell me more about my parents.
“Aye,” Drust says archly. “But all we know about Lord Loss is that he likes to follow
“But there are more of us than them,” I point out. “We’re stronger and better armed. You and I have magical powers. They couldn’t force us to stay.”
“Probably not,” Drust says. “But it’s safer not to take the risk. This way, they have no need to delay us and no conflict can come of it. The MacGrigor—or their descendants—will have to track down and petition a demon master another time.”
So saying, he rolls over and falls asleep, not even bothering to cast any masking spells, certain of our safety here in this bitterly charmed village of the damned.
THE SOURCE
I spend a few tortured hours thinking about my parents, Aednat and Struan, and the tragedy which separated them and brought me into the world. Torin called me a cursed child and he was right. I’m doubly cursed. The curse of my clan and the curse of being a killer’s daughter. Surely, of all the current MacGrigor crop, I must be the most likely to turn into a monster.
I worry about it for hours, imagining what it would be like to lose control of my mind, feel my body change, become a beast like the one I saw earlier. I thought death was the worst thing I had to fear but now I know better. With worries like these, I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep again. But eventually tiredness overcomes even my gravest fears and I drift off into a fitful sleep, one filled with dreams of wolf-girls and dead children.
I awake late in the morning. The others are already up but most have only risen within the last hour so I don’t feel too guilty for sleeping in.
I expect them to treat me differently now they know the truth of my background and the threat of what I might become. But it quickly becomes clear that they think of me no differently than they did yesterday. I suppose there’s too much else to worry about. After all, what’s one potential half-demon when judged against the hordes of genuine, fully-formed Demonata we might yet have to face?
Ronan and Lorcan have caught another hare, which Fiachna roasts on a spit. Along with the leftovers from the night before it provides us with a filling meal to start the day. Again we offer to share it with the MacGrigor, but again they refuse. They have too much pride to eat from another’s fire.
