Page 8 of Fletcher

Fiacail sat up, and pushed the tangle of hair back from her face. “The wee fiend’s returned?”

“Aye, and in fine mettle.” The big woman rubbed her eyes. “She stinks of druids, and looks as if she’s bathed in their blood. Och, she’s even taken on the form of one of their lads.”

That news brought Fiacail to her feet, for druids were the very last sort of mortal she wanted anywhere near her or her sisters. “She didnae bring any others here alive, did she?”

“I cannae say.” Speal folded her arms. “She’s retreated to that chamber she doesnae share with the others. I told you, I shallnae again brace that mad thing when she’s in a mood.” She hesitated before she added, “Take care with her, Fia. She truly scares me of late.”

Pulling on her bed robe, Fiacail shoved her feet in her slippers before hurrying down the hall to the sitting room, which Dearg had claimed for her exclusive use while staying at the house. The smell of blood and herbs made her grimace as she pulled open the door and looked inside.

On the floor before the hearth what appeared to be a very young druid sat casting very fresh knucklebones on the edge of his blood-stained robe. One arm hung slightly crooked at his side; a glaring reminder of their failure to vanquish the MacMar. The little Cait Sith stank of death.

“What did you?” Fiacail asked as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.

“I couldnae catch them all,” Dearg said, shifting into the form of a merchant’s daughter dressed in a fine gown. “Those yet living, they’ll track my scent, I reckon. We should leave Aberdeen for a time.”

“You attacked that druid settlement outside town?” As the small Cait Sith nodded, Fiacail bit back an oath. While the magic folk lived peaceful, non-violent lives, when properly provoked they would retaliate with their spells. Some of their enchantments were rumored powerful enough to end even the oldest immortals. “Why dinnae you simply slay the rest of us in the night? ’Twill save time.”

“I meant only speak with them.” Dearg shot to her feet, making her gingery curls bounce around her pouting face. “Those tree-loving bastarts attacked me first with their eejit spells. I ordered them cease, for ’twouldnae harm me, but did they listen? You ken my temper frays easily of late.” Her shoulders slumped, and she cast the knucklebones in the hearth. “Then ’twas all blood and screaming.”

Although she was adept at feigning innocence in all things, Fiacail knew her demented sister had likely intended to first question and then butcher the entire tribe. “Did you learn anything about the clan, at least?”

Dearg looked up with a sly grin. “Much, as happens, darling leader. The MacMar wrote their elders about returning a traveler from the future. I reckon ’twas the same sly-faced bubble-haired wench he took from us––the one drenched in Prince Mar’s magic.”

So she spoke the truth.

During the last moon they had tracked and captured an odd mortal female unlike any Fiacail had ever encountered. Valerie Baker had spoken in a clipped accent unlike any she’d ever heard, and looked as if she’d been fed on cream and honey all her life. She’d staunchly feigned ignorance of the MacMar, right up until the clan’s laird and a group of his warriors attacked the Cait Sith to rescue the captive. Then the treacherous mortal had run to Connal MacMar, and helped him escape by somehow using the dead prince’s magic.

Locating the island would finally appease the enchantress, Fiacail thought, and free the Cait Sith from her endless demands. “Did you learn how we may find Caladh in their memories?”

“Och, no. The message, ’twas sent by bird.” Dearg stuck out her lower lip. “No’ even the facking tree-lovers ken where the MacMar hide their island.”

“Think, Sister,” she urged. “Their tribe once took shelter there from the Romans. By now those druids rebirthed themselves. Surely the lad lived before now.”

The little Cait Sith shifted back into the lad’s form, and scrunched up his face. “Aye, but ’tis only his second life, and you ken how I despise male mortals.” She glanced up at Fiacail. “’Tis strange, for of late I cannae hold the memories of the others I’ve ended. They vanish soon after I make a fresh kill. ’Tisnae the same for you?”

“Bathe and ready yourself. The enchantress wishes sail today.” Fiacail kept her expression bland as she left her, but outside in the hall she had to brace a hand against the wall and breathe slow and deep to keep from retching.

Speal appeared, taking hold of her arm and guiding her back into the bed chamber.

“Sit,” she told her after pushing her into a chair, and poured some whiskey into a goblet before pressing it into her hand. “Sip this.”

Fiacail drank down the spirit in three gulps, and then looked up at her most dependable sister. “Why didnae you tell me?”

“When wish you ever hear such?” Speal countered, her voice soft with sympathy. “Well you ken Dearg’s mind, as ’tis been quietly rotting for centuries. You can hardly control her anymore. The time to act, ’twill soon come.”

For some Cait Sith long life became a curse instead of a gift, as time and constantly shifting somehow slowly eroded their sanity. The first sign, the loss of the mortal memories they had recently collected, afflicted those teetering on the brink of such madness. The next stage caused them to shift uncontrollably when under duress. In the end they lost their reason as well as their speech, and would hunt their own kind as well as attack any living thing that came near them.

To protect the rest of the Cait Sith, and prevent their existence from being exposed, Fiacail dispatched those afflicted with memory madness. Yet for all her stubborn willfulness and vicious temperament, Dearg had always been simple-minded, like a bairn, really. She’d been abandoned by their Fae sire and had spent centuries alone before Fiacail had found and tamed her, and still possessed a largely feral nature. The thought of ending the little fiend made her grab a bucket and empty her belly into it.

Speal knelt down beside her, holding her hair back and making soothing sounds.

“At sea,” Fiacail told her when she could finally speak without gagging.

Fletcher intercepted a chambermaid he knew to be Meg as she came out of the guest room carrying a basket with Lark’s gown. He couldn’t see the young woman’s face, but no other lass stood as tall, or possessed such a blatant shade of red hair. She also smelled of rose water, which he knew to be Meg’s favorite scent.

“Does Mistress Ambrose sleep now?” he asked her.

“She sits by the hearth.” The chambermaid glanced over her shoulder before she said in a lower voice, “She wishes needle and thread so she may sew on the gowns you brought her. I sorted through the pile, and see naught wrong with them.”