chapter Eight
The witching hour fell before Daroch found himself at the doors of the MacKay keep. He beat on them with his staff. “Open up, MacKay,” he demanded.
A familiar, fair-haired man with the dimensions of a tree trunk threw open the heavy door and held Daroch at sword point. “You, Druid!” he accused.
“Yes. Brilliant deduction. Now get me yer Laird,” Daroch ordered.
The man sputtered before rushing him, sword aimed at his throat.
Daroch side-stepped his attack easily, and thunked him soundly between the shoulder blades with his staff, sending the man sprawling face-first into the dirt.
The man was likely still sore at the hours he’d spent as Daroch’s guest some weeks past. The curses that were spat from his mouth along with the mud validated the theory.
Perhaps guest was too kind a word.
Shrugging, Daroch slipped through the open door and slammed it closed, barring it against the angry MacKay steward and turned to find another sword held just as directly to his throat.
“Druid,” the soft, low voice of Rory MacKay held a lethal note Daroch instantly respected.
“Laird,” he returned the man’s greeting, meeting Rory’s deadly amber gaze with one of his own. “If I were ye, I’d look into finding more competent protection.”
“Lorne is one of the most capable, deadly warriors to see a battlefield.” Rory glanced at the door, but only for a moment, a look of resigned respect teasing good humor into his brawny features. “I imagine he’s still cross with ye for leaving him stranded when I sent him for ye.”
“Lower yer sword,” Daroch commanded slowly. He would not trade good—natured conversation with the man who may have murdered three innocent women.
Rory instantly sobered, stepping closer and narrowing his eyes, the dangerous tip of his weapon pressing against Daroch’s jugular with precision. “State yer business, Druid, before I run ye through.”
For a moment of pure male instinct, Daroch wanted to test the man. Rory’s name was heralded as one of the best warriors in the Highlands that didn’t claim to be Berserker or Shape shifter. Daroch rarely ventured out of his cave and he’d still heard of the man. They stood remarkably similar in height, and though Daroch’s shoulders and arms were wider, the Laird’s trunk was thicker.
“Why run me through, when ye can tie me up and set me on fire?” Daroch put a winter’s worth of chill in the words and watched as the Laird’s face transformed.
Rory lowered his sword as though it had become too heavy to lift. Shame and regret darkened his eyes and he turned away, treading the few steps to the council table to settle his bulk into the Chieftain’s chair.
“I thought I was a cold-hearted bastard,” Daroch advanced on him, shaking with the strength of his rage. “But three innocent lasses, burned alive. Do ye ken the pain of it? Have ye no compassion at all, no humanity? Why have the Banshees not reaped their vengeance?”
A hollow, wry sound escaped the Laird. “Believe me they tried, but the man responsible is already dead by my own order. I stole their vengeance from them, but not their lives.”
Daroch hit the table with his staff. “Doona lie to me! I vow I’ll see ye burn as they did. I can prove the bricks used to raze the washhouse to the ground came from this very castle.”
“Set to blaze by my twin brother, Angus, and his men.” Rory put his knuckles on the table and rose to his feet, bringing their faces flush. “All of whom are dead upon my command.”
Daroch searched the man for signs of deceit. His breath was steady, his eyes undilated and clear, the pulse thrumming in his temple slightly elevated, but none more than had been at Daroch’s threat. He spoke the truth.
Aggression sizzled in the air between them for a tense moment.
“Who are ye to storm my castle and accuse me of such atrocities? What business is it of yers?” Rory’s voice lowered to a more reasonable register, but his meaning was apparent.
“I’m—” Daroch paused. No one. He was nothing to these Banshees or to their Laird. If he truly was a smart man, he’d be relieved Kylah had finally left him alone and go about his business. But he couldn’t. The ghostly lass had reached her wee glow into his darkness and illuminated something he’d long forgotten he’d even possessed.
His heart.
“I’m buggered.” He sank into the chair behind him and tossed his head against the wooden back. He was so close. So close to reaping a vengeance of his own. He couldn’t afford a comely distraction like her. Not now. “Ye requested that I help eliminate a Banshee back when ye were tormented with them. How did ye end up ridding yerself of her?”
The Laird threw his bronze lion’s mane back and laughed so hard he fisted his hands in his blue and green plaid. “It’s quite the story,” he choked out between guffaws. “But the long and short of it is I married her.”
Daroch gaped. Perhaps the Laird had gone mad.
“Moved their mother and the entire lot next door for the time being.” Rory wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.
“Ye… jest?” Daroch asked dubiously.
“Serious as a Banshee’s curse.” The Laird still chuckled as he took his seat again and regarded Daroch over long, steepled fingers. “I’m assuming Kylah’s been yer unwelcome companion these past couple of days.”
Daroch nodded, squirming at the word unwelcome.
“Her mother’s been worried.”
“I thought ye were after some black magic by marrying the Frasier witch,” Daroch recalled. “How did ye end up married to a Banshee?”
“I had no idea Kathryn Frasier was a witch when we married. To be fair, both women tried to kill me,” he said good naturedly. “But Katriona couldna because I’ve already died once and came back so I was immune to her Banshee powers.”
“Ye’re An Dioladh,” Daroch observed.
“Aye. But Kathryn attempted to poison me on our wedding night and ended up poisoning herself. Katriona took advantage of an empty body and...” he waved his hand, as though that explained the rest.
Daroch gaped for a second time in as many minutes. “So Katriona is now Kathryn.”
“To everyone but her family.” Rory confirmed. “And ye now, though I canna ken why I told ye.”
“Do ye love her?” Daroch’s question surprised them both.
“Aye,” Rory’s lips curved into a secret smile. “I always have.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. “Kylah took the news of our marriage understandably hard, though, if ye’ll excuse my saying so, I doona understand why she sought ye out.”
Daroch ignored his question. “Kylah disapproves of yer marriage… because of who yer brother was?”
Any sign of good humor abandoned the Laird’s face as shadows encroached. “Because of what he did to her.”
“Ye mean, burning her and her family alive?”
The Laird’s eyes darkened and the skin around his lips turned white.
A sick, heavy dread landed in Daroch’s chest. “Tell me,” he breathed.
Rory winced. “What has she told ye?”
Daroch shook his head. “Nothing. I only know what I saw in the ruins. Her bones. The ashes… They never put her in the ground. She was just… left there. Bound and discarded.”
The Laird closed his eyes for a long moment, and when they opened again, the pain and shame in their depths shaped the dread in Daroch’s chest into a sharp, jagged point.
“I loved Katriona MacKay since I was a boy,” the Laird admitted. “And Angus he… he loved Kylah because she was such a beauty. But Angus didna love like a man should love. His love was possession, nay, oppression and dominance. He was a covetous, violent, and sick man.”
Daroch’s hand tightened on the birch staff until it was white. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. His mind refused the Laird’s words, shunning where they were about to take him.
“Kylah and her mother rejected his offer of marriage on numerous occasions, but once my father died and Angus became Laird, he offered one last time. Ordered it, more like.”
“Nay,” Daroch whispered.
Rory’s throat worked over a difficult swallow before he continued. “Upon receiving her rejection, he took his two closest friends with him to the washhouse. Only Kylah and her mother were home…
“Nay,” Daroch shook his head violently, rejecting what came next.
“From what I could tell, Angus and his men were there for an hour or so before Katriona and Kamdyn returned. Before… the fires were set. My wife told me she didna see anything, but they had Kylah and her mother in the back room with the forge and they made her mother watch while they—”
A roar crawled up Daroch’s throat and he surged upward, grabbing the heavy table and tipping it over, reveling in the sound of splintering wood.
Rory was also on his feet, hand at the hilt of his sword but surprisingly, the Laird made no move to stop him.
Daroch grasped the chair he’d been sitting on with both hands and hurled it at the stone wall. It shattered as though made of glass instead of oak.
“Angus was brutally slaughtered by the Berserker Laird, Connor MacLauchlan.” Rory insisted, putting a staying hand out. “They all were. They didna die… well.”
“Good!” Daroch barked. “I will curse their bones. I will submit their names to the Gods and mark the rest of my flesh to pay for their eternal suffering.”
Rory jaw worked over raw emotion and Daroch realized for the first time he truly spoke of the man’s brother. His twin. The Laird’s shame made sense now. And, though he pitied the man, he was glad to see it.
“Ye care for her,” Rory murmured.
The Laird’s statement stunned Daroch into silence. He looked at the destroyed table. The shattered chair. Down at his own trembling hands.
F*ck.
“They should have had their vengeance,” he growled.
“I know.” Rory put his hand on Daroch’s shoulder, his first human contact in a hundred years. Daroch didn’t shrug him off, but took a strange, surprising comfort in the gesture. “Angus is eternally burning in hell for what he’s done. But the pact is struck, and the two younger lasses will belong to the Banshee Queen come the Solstice. Unless there’s something ye can do.”
Daroch choked on his own impotence. “There is naught I can do unless the Queen breaks her pact first.” He let out an exhausted sigh, the entirety of his day catching up with him in a single moment.
Rory nodded in understanding and for an added first, Daroch had to fight another feeling he’d thought had deserted him a millennia ago.
Embarrassment.
“I’m… sorry about yer table.”
“It was my father’s table.” Rory shrugged, but his voice held a curious dark note. “Better suited to firewood anyway. It’s high time I crafted my own legacy as Laird of this clan.”
“Aye,” Daroch agreed and turned to the door, wondering if Lorne lurked behind it.
“Katriona is afraid to lose her sisters to the Fae,” Rory admitted.
Daroch turned to him, his intent deadly serious. “She should be.” He plunged into the night, which was empty of angry stewards or glowing, inquisitive Banshees. Looking around the dark streets of Durness, he noted the changes in the village since last he came. Roofs were newer, structures reinforced, and the energy of the place had changed from one of fear and strife to one of hope and careful optimism. Rory was a good man, a good Laird. Different than his brother had been.
A blue glow from the window of a cozy, thatched cottage caught his eye. Right next to the castle. Kylah’s home.
He had to see her.
Daroch found himself in front of the door before he remembered the strides it took to get there. He knocked louder than he should have this time of night.
“Who- who’s there?” a brittle voice inquired.
“The Druid. I need to see Kylah.”
Daroch jumped back when a wee young face burst from the sturdy wood of the closed door followed by slender shoulders. “What do you want with Kylah?” the young Banshee’s voice demanded with a shake of her strawberry curls.
“I need to speak with her,” he hedged.
“She’s not here, you may go.” The girl disappeared back behind the door.
Daroch frowned. Being dismissed felt… well he felt a little ashamed for how many times he’d uttered that command to Kylah. And with much less civility. He put his palm on the door. Then his forehead. “I-I put her bones in the ground.” He didn’t recognize the husky voice as his own. “Will ye tell her that? I removed the chains… and she rests next to her father.”
After a quiet moment, several latches released and the door swung inward. Instead of the young Banshee, a stooped creature draped in soft robes and furs appeared.
“You did what I could not bring myself to do.” A gnarled hand pushed the hood back from a face so disfigured by scars Rory could barely stand to look at it. Soft green eyes flooded with tears that rolled down ribbed, mangled cheeks. “I couldn’t make myself go back in that room.” She clutched at his robes as she fell to her knees, burying her face in them and sobbing. “And I hate myself for leaving her there!”
“Oh, mama.” The young Banshee drifted into the entry, hovering helplessly.
Daroch bled for the woman. He could not condemn her weakness. Not after what she’d suffered. He leaned his staff on the cottage and scooped the lady up, carrying her inside. The house was small but comfortable. A fire lay prepared, but not lit, in the large stone hearth. No lanterns glowed. The only light provided by the blue glow of the youngest MacKay sister.
“Kamdyn, is it?” he asked.
“Aye, ye can put her here.” She gestured to the large bed, likely brought down from the castle.
Daroch bent and set the frail woman down gently and covered her with a mountain of furs.
“I thank ye, Druid, for putting my wee one to rest.” the old woman touched the silt on his face, then brought a hand to her own face.
Daroch didn’t trust his voice, so he only nodded. Straightening, he looked around. “She’s really not here,” he noted with disappointment.
“Hasn’t been for days.” Worry glimmered in Kamdyn’s eyes. A familiar green turned aquamarine by her blue glow.
“She’s been with me,” he informed her.
The freckled nose wrinkled. “On purpose?”
A wry laugh wrung from his heavy chest. “No one’s more mystified by it than I. I made it abundantly clear her presence wasna wanted.”
Kamdyn smirked, wisdom beyond her years shone behind her pretty features. “Perhaps ‘tis why she sought you out. Everyone wants Kylah.” Her face fell. “Wanted, that is. Also, she may have been drawn to the pain and loneliness in your heart. For I think ‘tis what she needed to feel.”
Daroch found himself in front of the door, ready to flee from a harmless wee ghost. “What do ye know of my heart?” he thundered.
“Not a thing,” she admitted gently. “But we are Banshees. We’re drawn to sadness, anger, and loss. Thus is our nature.”
Daroch couldn’t think of a thing to say, so he turned from the young girl who saw too much and shut the door quietly behind him.
“Thank you, Druid, for what you did,” the wee Banshee called after him.
He didn’t turn to acknowledge her, but melted into the moonless highland night.