Chapel Orahamm's Blog, page 22

News Letter: January 2023

This is turning into a hot mess.

I had a separate blog running called A Raven in a Waistcoat while I tried to figure out if I was going to continue my Line & Substance Editing business. That blog was where I decided to post my books. Quite honestly, I hate formatting for paperback and ebook publishing. I find it downright stressful and highly unpleasant. It takes the fun out of just writing for me.

Well, with the crazy billionaire hissy fit that made me jump ship from the social media platform I liked using, I had to come to some realizations.

I was going along with peer pressure and making physical copies and ebook copies of my books because that was what I was being encouraged towards by well-meaning people.This did not, in fact, help me out. I just couldn’t sell them. Couldn’t even really get beta readers to read them; let’s be real here, I’m bad at marketing, and it is not a skill I have the time to devote to developing.I miss having friends, but I don’t miss social media anxiety.Which now means that I am reading so much more and returning back to my writing.

I would still love to professionally edit, but I’ve determined that I would feel much better working for a proper editing team in a publishing house where I know the script I’ve touched will go through another set of hands – a proofreader to be exact – because what I do is not an all-encompassing thing. I develop and line edit. I say, “no, you cannot have a red dragon; you already said it was purple three chapters ago; either fix that or this one.” The other skill I provide is looking at paragraph and sentence patterns and saying, “You’ve used was 144 times in five pages; let’s reduce that down to 30 instances of was and bring it out of passive voice, yes?” Those are things I enjoy doing.

However, with the failure of my business because of the social media thing, I don’t know how to obtain good clients that understand that I am not the end-all-be-all in getting their manuscript clean. This meant that those who would use my service may not have it ‘as polished’ as it could possibly be because they may not hire a proofreader to catch the spelling/grammar issues that I was not hired to address. That would reflect badly on their work and my work. This left me stressed out because I am the version of a perfectionist who understands their weakness but wants to make sure the client has the best possible product I can provide.

I decided, seeing as I was paying for the subscription on this website but no longer promoting my editing business, that I would use the website and domain to put my books up in the way I wrote them and intended for them to be read – in episodic instalments.

Probably not everyone’s cup of tea, but here you are.

So, the announcement for this month is that I’m trying to catch my publishing up to what it had been on the old website. I think 27 chapters on Subject 15, and 23 chapters of Polaris Skies are the two main ones I’m still working on uploading. Everything else is caught up. I did start releasing Subgalaxia this month too, so there is that one that will actually be on a release schedule.

If you’re new to my writing: Fyskar, Subject 15, Polaris Skies, and Subgalaxia are books 1-4 of Legend of the Bai; however, books 1-3 can be read in any order. I do have an ebook of Fyskar available for purchase on Kindle. It has some 100+ illustrations in it, so it is a large file, and that’s why it’s $8+. Sorry about that; nothing I can do about that cost because Amazon forces my hand. Anyways, I’m putting the text on here because beta readers and feedback and people just don’t seem to get my writing, but some do enjoy it.

Grant it, I am neurodivergent, and the people I have most often gotten positive responses from are also neurodivergent – so there is that heads up. The other people who have had positive responses are ones who watch a lot of anime. Quite a lot of my story formats are based in those themes.

What can you look forward to this month?

Well, large batch publishing on Polaris Skies, Fyskar, and Subject 15 as I try to catch it up to what I had already published.

I am actively working on chapters for Firefly Fish and had a recent breakthrough for a couple chapters on The Feather on My Scale. I’m still lost on where I want to take Skull Dansuer. If you’re enjoying Life of a Librarian, that one might take some time. I originally had 14 chapters written for it, but decided to re-write it, so the chapters that are live now are the rewrites, and I have to go back and take my time sorting through the adjustments.

I’ve been debating on doing audio-readings. There’s some function on this website to do “podcasts”, and I thought I could do readings of the stories so people can just listen to them. I’ve heard that was becoming a popular thing to do.

There is also a function on the website to set up a Stripe monthly subscription so that people could pay to read the stories, or I could do early posts on Patreon.

I mean, authors like to get paid. I want my stuff effectively free to read, because I feel guilty having people pay for my stuff if it is not grammatically perfect, and that is something they will never be unless I win some major money to actually hire some professionals. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t like tips or trinkets or some kindle books thrown my way.

Thoughts? Thoughts on audiobook/podcasts? Thoughts on ways to make a bit of dough on the side to keep paying for the blog/domain fees?

I do love positive comments on my writing. All authors do. It helps us know we aren’t just throwing our words into the void meaninglessly. Ego stroking is appreciated if monetary showering isn’t in the cards.

-cough-

Anyways.

Yeah, I don’t know what to write in newsletters. This is sort of a first attempt, so if you have suggestions of other things you would like to see in one of these so I can better prepare for February, I’d love to know.

Thanks,

Chapel

Fyskar: Ch 7

The house lay dark save for the banked fire. Eoin eased himself in through the door to be greeted by Seonaid and Fearchar cuddled on the floor in front of the hearth. They looked up at him and smiled as he entered. Eoin nodded a hello.

“A job well done, doc!” Fearchar untangled himself from his wife. Eoin ducked, the sudden outburst loud in the dark hours of early morning. Seonaid raised an eyebrow at her husband. Pulling herself off the ground, she shook out her skirts and resettled her apron. She retrieved a cup from the shelf and handed it to her husband. “I do believe a toast is in order.” He rooted around in the rafters and freed a jug tucked up under a tuft of thatch.

“The beer from Portree?” Seonaid took the proffered clay vessel and set it on the table.

“I think this calls fur somethin’ special.” Fearchar pulled down three mismatched tankards.

Eoin tried to wave them away. Fearchar placated,” I ken, doc, I ken. Ye dinnae have’a be such a worry. We’ll leave ye ta yer’s, but see here,” he handed over the filled cup, “it’s celebratory!”

The doctor stared at the tankard in his gloved hands, the swirling liquid in the firelight digging up dark memories that now lay too close to the surface. A scream split through the night. He glanced up, looking for the sound. Did you hear that?

Hear what? Seonaid set aside her cup to go to the door.

A scream? He realized, only after asking, that his memories were playing tricks. Too loud. Too cumbersome. The sooty pungent fire and the liquor and the night. He was worn thin and now his memories were more in his present than he was. Don’t worry. Just my imagination.

The husband and wife downed their cups. “Oh, that’s stiff!” Fearchar blew out, his chest hot from the dragan. Seonaid poured them another before motioning Fearchar to the bedroom. “Least I’ll have a warm bed t’night.” The man gleefully followed his beckoning wife.

Eoin’s shoulders eased with the click of the door behind them. He held the cup up to the firelight. A toast? More like a Wake I was never allowed to have. Unclasping his mask for the third time that evening, he raised the cup to his lips and savoured the robust, dark flavour. It was a touch more bitter than he would have liked, but it was a kind gesture from his hosts. The doctor  wrinkled his nose at the brew in thought. He downed the rest of it in one swift gulp, rather than leave the bitterness to put him off the gesture.

A job well done? I was never given the option of washing, of winding, of wailing. There was no plate of salt and earth. No bell-man. No watch set. No dance. So too shall the Daleroch fall from the tongue of man. No one to watch them, to wail for them, to see them over to the other side. He snorted as he toasted the room with his empty cup.

Eoin replaced the mask and secured it before deciding to seek out his bed near the fire. He stood, and his legs wobbled beneath him. The room tilted. His limbs tingled with lethargic warmth.

I’m either getting too old for these late nights, or the beers are becoming stouter in their age. He barely made it to his covers before slipping from consciousness.

An hour later, Fearchar and Seonaid peered out of their room. The man in the mask had passed out on the bed in a heap. “Now what?” Fearchar whispered to Seonaid.

“Now, let’s find out who this man really is. We massacred the entire Daleroch clan in one night and made it look like they died a’ Plague. He did. With three bottles of wine. We can only hope that no one knows it was us.” Seonaid rubbed at her arms.

“Dinnae ye worry, hen. Na’ one left that place save us ‘fore e’eryone died a’ ‘plague’. Na’ one’ll know it was us.” He pulled her shawl around her.

She drew in a steadying breath. “At the very least, I need to stoke the fire. Sending him off to sleep like that when he’s the one that takes care of it through the night has made for a cold house.” She took a tentative step toward the man in the plague mask.

“Dinnae ye worry.” Fearchar tiptoed to the fireplace and stacked a couple sticks and turfs up, waiting to see if the doctor would shift with the noise. The man lay like the dead. ” ‘e took a full dose n’ a ‘alf a’ that sleepin’ stuff he gives out. He should be out till mornin’.”

Seonaid approached her husband’s employer, pausing at every noise and movement in the room. Eoin was quite long, his form taking over the entire frame, one of his booted feet hanging down to scuff the floor. He hadn’t even had the dignity to take his cape off. She lifted her skirts and straddled him.

“Comfortable?” Fearchar, joining her at the doc’s makeshift bed and eased his fingers along the edge of his wife’s skirts. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at him. He kissed her cheek and left to retrieve one of their candles, lighting the wick from a fireplace coal. He lit one of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams and brought the candlestick over to her.

Leaning into the physician, Seonaid brushed the red hood back from his face. His hair gleamed a soft dove white in the light. She reached behind his head and fumbled with the latch to his mask.

Fearchar, noticing a glimmer of gold, raised one of the man’s hands up for inspection. There was a shine gleaming at the edge of his tall gloves. He pulled the soft leather, revealing a forged bracer the length of the doctor’s forearm. Embedded into it was a large aqua green gem and etchings of a marvellous pattern Fearchar had never encountered. The man’s forefinger and middle finger were stained blue to the upper knuckles, and his palm was streaked orange and yellow. Fearchar reached around his wife and peeled the other glove off to find a matching bracer as fine as the first.

Fearchar’s head went up at a whispered word from his wife. “Alfr,” she breathed at her first look at the man behind the mask. Pale skin showed no sign of age through wrinkles or liver spots. His white hair was a few shades lighter than his skin tone. His eyelashes, the same colour, were feathery in their fineness.

“What is she?” Fearchar asked, confused at the doctor’s appearance. He flinched when the cuffed wrist stiffened in his hand. Brilliant green eyes snapped open.

Eoin sucked in his breath, adrenaline and fear hammering through his system. Rolling and bucking, he fought to dislodge Seonaid and his handyman. Seonaid held on, refusing to budge. Eoin jerked away from Fearchar’s grip and shoved both of his hands onto bare skin closest to the heart – Seonaid’s chest and Fearchar’s neck.

Fearchar and Seonaid found themselves adrift in sudden darkness; wailings of terror and death deafened them. An eagle flew straight at them before spiralling off into the darkness. Smoke and the stench of burning corpses seared their sinuses. Their hearts raced painfully. Sweat broke out across their skin. Flashes of torture scored their minds. Deep voices shouted at the screams of terror. Witch, whore, warlock, devil, harlot were all insults thrown out at them as sharp stones.

“Stop! Please!” A soft tenor voice called out in the foreboding darkness. “Please, don’t!” It continued wailing. A gust of wind circled their legs. “Please, I beg you.” Tears ran down their faces in torrents. “Please, don’t kill me, please,” the voice begged.

They dropped to a solid black surface. 

“I won’t kill you! Where are you?” Fearchar groped for his wife in the pitch-black void.

The floor fell out from under them. They tumbled back into their bodies. Hearts racing and skipping painfully in their chest, cold chills burned across their shoulders and lungs.

The house came into focus. Seonaid shivered and sat back from Eoin’s face to cross her arms over her chest protectively. Fearchar pondered the trembling hand in front of him. Glittering green eyes glowed against pale skin. Tears tracked down into the doctor’s hairline. Eoin searched for his gloves. They were out of reach, having fallen under the table. He wiggled again, hoping Seonaid would move. Fearchar snapped up the gloves. Eoin’s mouth opened, a frustrated click and hiss escaping his teeth.

” ‘old up there, doc. Wha’ was that?” Fearchar stepped back a pace. Eoin’s cheeks turned a brilliant scarlet as more tears ran from his face. He covered his eyes with his arms, his hands clenched and trembling. Seonaid reached for his hands, more concerned than scared of the man. He recoiled from her touch, trying to hide his hands under his sides. The pinned man turned his face from them. He couldn’t tell what their motivation was in breaching his barriers.

Seonaid studied the distraught man. He had lean features that could only be considered heart-achingly beautiful. His nose was long and straight, perched above quivering lips. His high cheekbones looked foreign compared to the men she had seen on the isle. Fearchar pulled up a chair to the side of the bed and motioned for Seonaid to sit in the other one. She eased off of Eoin and settled, keeping her movements slow to not startle the man. Eoin curled into a ball away from them, pressing himself as close as possible to the rock wall. He cradled his mask in his hands. Studying the stained blue of his fingers, he waited out the shaking in his shoulders.

“Eoin?” Fearchar tried to get his attention.

The doctor hunched around himself. He was cornered. It was the dead of winter. This was their house. He fought through the constriction in his chest as his brain dashed to find a way out.

“Your hair is quite long,” Seonaid sought a neutral topic, noting the braided knot at the back of his head.

He flinched at the words. They had not been what he was expecting. He had anticipated Fearchar’s knife put to his side. Eoin reached back for his hood to cover his hair. Seonaid intercepted him, grabbing his hand. “Don’t kill me, please,” the tenor voice again rattled around in her head. She let go of his hand, and the voice stopped.

“Eoin?” Seonaid pressed him. He refused to turn to her. “Fearchar?” She looked up to her husband, not sure what to make of the situation. “Is it an alfr, Fear?”

Fearchar stared at the doc. “I-I dinnae ken, Seonaid. Burd’s quite fair.” The silence dragged across the ground. “Eoin, d’ ye wan’ yer gloves back.” Fearchar offered one in the quiet. A spot of peat hissed in the fireplace, blue flame casting jumping shadows.

Eoin turned to his hired hand. He stared at Fearchar, determining the man’s motives. Searching eagerly for the leather, he spotted them in Fearchar’s lap. He reached out a quivering hand before pulling them back into himself, hiding them with his body.

“Why’d ye wanna kill the Daleroch, Eoin?” Fearchar set one glove on Eoin’s arm, a peace offering of sorts. Eoin snatched it up and pulled it on his left hand, the jesses bobble swinging before he curled his gloved hand over his naked hand protectively. He looked back at Fearchar, wanting the other one.

“Eoin, why the Daleroch?” Seonaid pressed. Eoin stared at his leather-clad hand before rubbing his face and hair with his bare hand. His fingers caught in the ribbons in his braid. Seonaid eased over to the bed and lifted Eoin’s head up. He flinched, trying to get away from her. “Easy,” she soothed, “let’s take your hair down, a’right?” She glided her hands through his braid, pulling out the pins and ribbon.

His bare hand floated in mid-air to stall her. He relaxed for half a heartbeat under her ministrations. Eoin lurched up. His brilliant white hair slipped through Seonaid’s fingers to splay across the wool blanket. Why? He demanded.

“Ye’ve lived in our hoose fur three-four months now. We poisoned an entire clan. We wanted tae ken who had it in fur ’em. Nae’tae say the Daleroch were an admirable bunch or thae ye dinnae pay us well.” Fearchar handed the other glove to the unmasked plague doctor .

Eoin stared at it, uncertain. Chewing on his lip, he refused to meet their questioning gaze. He sought a solution in the space, searching for a way out of this. Nothing was coming to mind or to hand. The man blew out a frustrated sigh.

He yanked his glove off, drew in a steadying breath, and met their eyes. Setting his shoulders, he held his hands out to them. They shifted back, wary of the strange voices. He lifted his hands again, encouraging the couple. Fearchar reached out and grasped one hand. Seonaid tentatively followed suit.

This time, the darkness was not hell ridden. It was a soft encompassing warmth. A dim shape formed in the void. A gleaming torc about his throat and a gold band around his head, the man stood in the dusk. A breeze tugged at his hip-length hair. Bands of ocher red tattoos circled his biceps. Lines peaked out at his waist, indicating more tattoos. The wind quickened, encircling the man in a modest light. It petered out to leave him wrapped in white robes and a white great kilt. Soft white leather wrapped his feet. Red tassels cinched the material, creating a pair of simple boots. A bodhran and cipin appeared in his hand. Leather pouches, bone, metal accoutrements hung from his belt. White gloves, one with a bright red bobble on the end, held back his robe sleeves. A golden eagle settled onto his hand. He brushed a finger along her wishbone. She blinked at them before launching herself skyward. Pulling his gloves off, he stepped forward, greeting them formally. “I am Flath Eoin Impundulu Niloofar of the Fyskar clan.” 

Seonaid and Fearchar glanced at each other. “Flath? Flath as in Prince?” Seonaid was the first to test the word.

“Not much of a prince anymore, am I?” The pale man watched the eagle float, disappearing into the darkening sky.

“You are beautiful.” Seonaid blushed.

“I’m glad you think so,” he chuckled softly. Dismissing the bodhran and brushing the pouches off of his outfit, he paused to revel in the texture of the cloth for a second.

“Man. Ye are a man! Wait, ‘ow the hell ‘ve ye lived behind that mask fur three months and na’ ‘ave a beard!” Fearchar demanded. Silence and condescending green eyes bore into him. A dawning realization occurred outside of that revelation. “Ye can talk?” Fearchar blinked.

Eoin smothered a laugh behind his hand. “I was not always mute, Fearchar. Male is a questionable term. True, at the basest level of my outward appearance, that might be what you see. Within my community, I was my own person, neither male nor female, but a representative of the whole and I was accepted as such when I came forward. For the sake of simplicity, you may still call me male.” Eoin waved, and a set of low wooden stools carved with intricate knot work appeared before them. Seonaid and Fearchar cautiously sat down. Eoin eased into his seat across from them. The one point of light in the darkness was the soft glow from Eoin’s torc and crown.

“But ye’re talking now?” The hired hand pulled his great kilt to cover his shoulders, shivering in the strange darkness.

Eoin leaned forward and fingered his torc, close enough for Fearchar to see an incised scar hidden under the necklace. A black shield-cut feathered arrow sprouted from the scar, and blood crept down the pale column of Eoin’s throat. Fearchar reached out to the arrow. The blade and shaft disintegrated, the feather drifting down into Eoin’s lap. It evaporated into a smattering of gold dust.

“Ye were shot.” Fearchar rubbed his own throat at a sympathetic burst of pain.

“Amazing how quickly something you take for granted every day can be stolen from you.” Eoin leaned further forward to the centre of their triangle and snapped. A low fire bloomed in the middle of their circle of stools, a thick bed of coals illuminating the immediate space around them in reds and yellows. The wood smoke was tangy and deep compared to the peat fires found on Skye. Fearchar and Seonaid followed the sparks up to witness stars emerge into a long milky band above them. The constellations were pitched at an odd angle from the ones they were familiar with. The black outline of trees encircled them. A warm breeze smelling of damp foreign soil caused large leaves and long grasses to rattle and hiss in the dark. A creature in the forest let out a hooting bark. Seonaid and Fearchar huddled closer to the fire. Eoin, unphased, dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes to bask in the sounds.

“What are you? This isn’t – ” Seonaid waved at the void, not sure of the word she was looking for.

“This is not the fair folk’s land if that is what you are hoping for, my lady. I am no alfr, nor fae or godling. I have let you into myself. My mind.” Eoin tapped his skull once.

“Surely you jest!” Seonaid brought a hand to her lips to hide her surprise.

“Humour is not a strength of mine.” Eoin shifted in his seat to draw a bag from his belt. He pulled a handful of powder from it and tossed it to the fire, causing sparks to blossom in sharp shades of orange and pink, lighting the space more fully for a moment. The ring of trees was further than Fearchar and Seonaid had expected and immensely tall. The shape and scale of the forest were different from the woods of the Isle. The creatures settled in the background.

” ‘ow-?” Fearchar peered around the dark glade. A shiver ran down his back. He shoved his hands back into his kilt.

“A blessing. I will never say otherwise.” Eoin’s eyes glowed, but it may have been a trick of the firelight. He replaced his bag of powder as the hot scent of spices permeated the glade. “Certain members of the Fyskar clan could do this – share themselves with others. It was a gift passed down among my people. Anyone could identify those of us with the talent. It was not difficult.” He brushed through the ends of his hair out of habit.

“They all look sort of like ye?” Fearchar pointed a shaky finger in the doctor’s direction. Eoin shrugged and nodded. “Is’at why ye wore the mask, ’cause of yer…yer skin, the shape of yer face, yer ‘air? Ye’re as white as the snow at the door.” Fearchar tucked his hands under his arms, the wind picking up his braided hair to send the bone beads clinking.

“It used to be a mark of pride among the Fyskar to be born with the white hair. Not everyone is born with the talent. They tend to be darker in skin and hair and, no, we don’t grow beards like you highlanders.” Eoin ran a hand along his smooth jaw. He thought for a time before regaining his composure.

“I married. I was training to become an apothecary.” His cheeks turned blotchy, and his eyes prickled. This was like reliving those nights afresh. How was he not finished with his tears? He brushed at his cheeks in frustration. Fearchar and Seonaid found tears dripping down their cheeks. What he felt, they felt.

Seonaid reached for Eoin’s hand. He took her fingers gently in his own and admired the daintiness of her small bones. “Cormac, Grannd’s brother, once owned the fishing fleet you are familiar with as belonging to the Daleroch clan. Many of the Fyskar worked with or for the Daleroch. It was a decent relationship. He provided the clan with a source of income for those necessities of the modern world that the young could not or would not procure for themselves.

“Widow Magaidh’s sister, Old Woman Niamh, was best friends with Rut, your grandmother, Fearchar.” Eoin nodded to him. “Naimh had the talent, like me. Her grandson Cathal worked for Cormac on one of his ships. Did good work, had a steady hand for nets.

“However, even though he had the money for it, Cormac skimped on paying for maintenance on his ships. We all knew it. I had been asked to moderate more than a few arguments between the men of the Fyskar and Daleroch because of this negligence. Always there were minor improvements in the immediate time following these conversations. They were never enough, though.

“Naimh had predicted a rough day of it near the middle of spring and had begged Cathal to not go out, had begged Cormac to turn back. She had seen the signs that told of one last freeze, and it would come for them early in the day. The man wouldn’t have it. Insisted they had to make one more catch before the harbour froze over. A raging, monstrous storm of sleet and snow hit off the coast while they were still out on the water. The sails caked in ice in seconds, so fast that they were solid when the men went to reef it. The mast could not bear the weight and came down on Cathal, breaking his back. When she got Cathal back, Naimh was absolutely devastated. I provided his Wake two days later, when he succumbed to the pain, to help his spirit Walk.

“She went to Cormac after Cathal Walked on through to the Forest. She demanded the Dalerochs take responsibility for Cormac’s negligence. He tried to push her away and…” Eoin looked down at his hands.

“She made him feel how distraught she was?” Seonaid guessed.

Eoin’s lips thinned. “No, not how upset she was. She did something she had no control over. She let him feel Cathal’s pain.” His eyes glowed feral green. It was no trick of the fire.

Seonaid shifted. Her hands bunched into the pleats of her dress as a chill raised goose flesh along her arms.

“We cry when ye cry…” Fearchar tried to guess.

“But…?” Seonaid struggled to follow along.

“Cormac’s heart gave out from the pain. He died where he stood, holding Niamh. Grannd called her a witch, though he knew what the Fyskar were capable of. He knew we could communicate like this. We are a peaceful clan because of it. When you can tell intimately what you can do to a person, in-fighting isn’t necessary.

“Shortly after burying his brother at the kirk, Grannd rallied his clan and declared war on the Fyskar. He called us Biera, witches, warlocks. He decided to not wait to send notice to Edinburgh or seek council for prosecution against us. He took it upon himself to be judge and jury and to instigate his clan to be executioners. We are fishermen and artists, not warriors and barbarians. We are the last of our kind in the world as far as I have determined.” Eoin poked at his fire to send up smoke that danced menacingly in the space.

Fearchar rose to pace within the light of the fire, unable to watch the dancing heat. “Why dinnae I ken a’ this?” The handyman tried to wrap his head around the concept. “Ye aren’t last a’ the Fyskar, aye?”

“The village has forgotten us, or suppressed our memory. They weren’t aware of the Dalerochs’ scheming. The people knew that one day the Fyskar were there; the next, we had disappeared. They do not wish to bring the evilness upon themselves. They silenced our name, our clan. You wouldn’t have heard of us, Fearchar. Magaidh was left, alive and forgotten.” He rose to wander to the edge of his glade. Fearchar and Seonaid waited at the fire. Eoin stood out in the darkness and absorbed the sounds.

He wiped a hand across his face and the back of his neck as he tried to control his memories. So many pressed to be loosed, and he was not comfortable yet to reveal all. He pulled in as much courage as he could muster and returned to his hired hand and Seonaid. “My sons, Callum and Albin, are still alive,” he supplied quietly as he sat back down next to the fire.

“Sons,” Fearchar breathed. Around him flashed images of babies and young children, three brown-haired children and a pair of white-haired twins before Eoin was able to repress the leak of his memories.

“Bairns,” Seonaid wanted to cry.

“I was out at Widow Magaidh’s house. She lived away from the Fyskar village. The village was built near what you are familiar with as the Daleroch estate. They since levelled it or took over some of the crofts. My grandmother’s family tried to loosely associate with the Fyskar, having married in and out of the clan numerous times through the ages. They would dissolve their incorporated ties on whims and realign with the next clan chief that sparked their fancy.

“She and her sister had been raised away from the Fyskar. When Naimh’s husband died, Cathal brought her into the village proper to look after her. She was a great assistant as a midwife. Grandmother had always been a touch jealous of Naimh having the talent. Magaidh could not be convinced to move into the village, even when I was born with the talent and Cathal was not.

“I believe, for her living away from the village in her hermit-like ways, she was missed. Or ignored. Very few knew she was my grandmother or that Naimh was my great-aunt or Cathal, my cousin. I’m not sure why she was spared.

“I had taken Callum and Albin up to her for the day to give Osla some time off from them. They were still young. She had dried up too early and needed help. I was out looking for limpets and cockles along the seaside after I had finished Walking Cathal into the Forest. It was my way of clearing my head after saying goodbye to one of the clans. I – ” his voice broke.

He buried his head in his hands. Eoin had been doing good there, telling his story. He had even gotten past her name for a moment without choking up. The man had tripped over another point of pain that had taken its time before exploding in his chest. He could not fathom how saying a name could still cause that reaction in him after so many years.

Fearchar and Seonaid glanced around wildly at the wave of fire and blood that washed out the glade. Eoin rose from his seat in a trance, his eyes glazing over. Seeking traction, he slipped, pushing himself forward into a run. The glade shifted from midnight to dusk. The tall trees shrank back to rocky hillsides and cliffs that circled a chill bay at sunset. They stood on the rocky beach, staring out at a murky red horizon. The sea tugged at the shore, demanding its due.

Now ten years younger, the man stood calf-deep in the water, his great kilt a soft sky blue, lavender, and white. Fearchar had never seen such a tartan of the like on the Isle. The physician’s shirt was peeled off and tossed up in the heather. Massive red geometric lines of tattoos spanned his back. He had caught his hair in an intricate braid.

Eoin stared in confusion at the smoke coming up from a rise on the hill across the bay. He dropped his pouch of mussels in the waves and clambered out of the water. Ignoring his wrap shoes, he pulled on his shirt and ran. He sprinted up through the hills and across the cut-throughs until he came to what Seonaid and Fearchar recognised as the Daleroch estate. It was trampled and upended in the memory with corpses and pools of blood littering the yard. The short round house and a building behind it were belching fire and black acidic smoke. Screams slashed the air to bitter ribbons.

Men and women gathered along the beach edge at the bottom of the hill behind the house. Guards kept the gathering from escaping with knocked arrows, sighted aquebus, drawn long swords, axes, and pitchforks. Children cowered behind women’s skirts as men shouted at the guards, trying to plead for their freedom.

Eoin came around the house, his chest heaving, his feet bloody and torn from the ragged road. The stench of burning flesh engulfed him in suffocating plumes. There were three stakes, and more were being erected. Terror coursed through his body. Fearchar’s heart constricted painfully at Eoin’s fear.

“Flath!” A shout rang out from the throng. Heat constricted Fearchar and Seonaid’s throats. The world tumbled around them and slowly blacked out.

Waking from the inky blackness, exhaustion and pain drained his energy. He reached out to the beach that came into focus. The stakes smouldered, remains crumbling away. Blue and grey bodies washed up at the shore. Others bloated in the bay.

“Those that burned…they have lost their souls to the flames. Daleroch burned the girls, Osla. They will never be able to join the circle in the Forest…” Eoin’s ragged thought flashed through Fearchar and Seonaid like the edge of a knife.

He struggled to look around, discovering the arrow in his throat. The wounded man passed out once more.

Eoin came to late at night. Daleroch’s men were digging a pit on the beach’s edge. Grannd stood out at the perimeter between the sand and the stringy grass, directing the women to find as much dry shrub and driftwood as possible. Eoin found his feet, trying his best with the rushing blood in his ears to be quiet. With effort, he stumbled away before anyone noticed him missing.

Drifting along the dark path, a new fear blossomed in his heart. He pulled his blood-stained great kilt about his shoulders to stop his shaking. Wobbling down the path, he recited mantras in his head. Wardings, wailings, curses.

It took him hours of wandering and stopping for dizzy spells before he arrived at Widow Magaidh’s house. He stumbled into the warm room as the dawn broke along the shoreline.

“Eoin!” Widow Magaidh screamed in surprise. He blacked out inside the door frame.

Eoin returned Fearchar and Seonaid to his little fire. “She was left alone. She didn’t know anything had happened. I can thank the spirits that she did not have to witness the burnings or be part of it.” He leaned back to search the sparkling sky in the void. “The twins were safe.” Relief washed out his voice, leaving it crisp and brittle. He gripped down on his shoulder to hold back a shiver that ran the length of his body.

Fearchar and Seonaid sat in horrified shock. 

Eoin released them back to their house: the unmasked doctor on the bed, Seonaid sitting next to him and Fearchar occupying the dining chair. The fire had dimmed. Howling wind and a scratching sound at the door signalled freezing sleet. Eoin buried his head in his hands as tears flowed freely.

” ‘ll get turfs fur the fire. Seonaid, can ye.” Fearchar nodded to the fair-haired man. The sky rumbled, causing the house to vibrate.

“I’ll see if I can find something warm to drink.” She went about making a heated ale.

“Thank ye, Luv.” He threw on a lined waxed canvas cloak and trampled out into the biting cold.

Seonaid returned to Eoin with the warm tankard. She used the bracers as a safe spot to draw the man’s attention. He looked up at her, his eyes unfixed and lost. “Drink this. It doesn’t have your sleeping powder in it. It may not help make everything better, but it might take the chill out.” She eased the wooden cup into his numb fingers. He stared at the swirling honey-coloured liquid. Its fragrance made his stomach growl. “Hungry?” she soothed. His hand went to his stomach as he glanced away from her, embarrassed. He nodded. “I’ll get you some bannock, a’right?” She busied herself in the cupboards next to his bed. The woman returned to him with a stale loaf.

He wolfed it down gratefully. Sharing his mind was exhausting and energy-consuming. The Fyskar was ravenous. The ale had been watered down. Eoin was thankful for that.

Fearchar returned with a sling of peat that would last them into the dawn. He stocked the fireplace high, raising the temperature in the room noticeably. Seonaid came up to hug him gently. “He’s spent,” she whispered quietly. Fearchar glanced back at the man. His head rested against the wall, his eyes glassy as he looked off into space.

Fearchar set aside the remainder of his wood. ” ‘elp me.” He nodded his head to the door that led to their bedroom.

“What do you need?” Seonaid scrambled to follow him.

“The moon took a lover this evening. I saw the ring around it on our walk to Iain’s. We’re movin’ the rope beds in ‘ere t’night. It’s goin’ ta get baltic cauld ta ‘ave it so far ‘way from the fire.” He hung his cloak back on the peg and rolled up his sleeves.

“Ah.” She followed him. They took the frames and ropes from storage and set them aside in the main room. Seonaid undressed the box bed while her husband accounted for the rope bundles and retrieved a pair of woven straw mats.

Fearchar approached Eoin. The man had fallen asleep leaning against the wall. “Cummoan, doc.” Fearchar gently woke him with a shake on the shoulder. Eoin blinked awake, confused why he wasn’t looking through his mask. His hands clamped around Fearchar’s wrists like vices. He inhaled sharply, his heart beating fast. “Simmer, Eoin, calm yerself,” Fearchar shushed him, trying to shake the desire to run out of the house screaming.

Eoin blinked, focusing on Fearchar’s face. He released the red head. Fear?

“We’re aw knackered. Ye need well kip.” Fearchar led him over to a stool near the fire. “Down ya go. Stay there a mome’.” Fearchar turned to Seonaid. “Haw, le’s get the beds put t’gether.” He had her help him move the three frames and lash together the rope supports. They unrolled the straw mats on top before taking the linens Seonaid had brought in and laid them out once the frames were in place close enough to the fire to keep them warm. They piled their woollen blankets on thickly, and Fearchar spread out his great kilt on top of it all, leaving himself bare to his long shirt.

“‘aven’t said mum since ye started sleepin’ ‘ere, bu’ fur the grace a’ the li’l hen, ye’re nae sleepin’ in yer buits ‘n cloak.” Fearchar turned back to their housemate.

Eoin looked up at him blankly. He was having difficulty keeping up with the man’s heavy brogue. Seonaid approached the doctor. Eoin swung his focus to her, pleading in his eyes. He was exhausted, and half his brain seeped down his spine in an effort to be away and to bed. Sharing took a lot out of a person. On top of that, he had been sleeping horribly by wearing his costume to bed for months on end.

“Spats n’ boots first.” Seonaid pointed to the wool covers and fine leather. He looked down at them, perplexed. It took him a minute to understand what she wanted. His fingers fumbled with the buckles that held the wool tight. She helped him ease the fine red leather boots off. How long had it been since he had slept free of them? He couldn’t quite recall. Not since Pozsony.

“Ah am gonna take yer cloak off ‘n spread it on the bed. It’ll keep us aw sweltern’. D’ ye ken?” Fearchar reached for the large gold and turquoise brooch that held the garment on. Eoin reached for the brooch sluggishly. Fearchar’s fingers brushed his as he fought with the pin. A resounding pressure threatened to crush the red head’s skull. “Ye’re heid ‘urts,” Fearchar muttered to the exhausted doctor. “Seonaid, Luv, can ye find his box a’ headache medicine ‘n some water?”

“It’s over here.” She went and found the small packets of powder. Carefully, she mixed it into a cup of water and brought it back to the bed. She pressed it to Eoin’s lips.

He pushed the cup away. Alcohol and willow don’t pair well.

“Medicine donna mix with the ale?” Fearchar asked.

No, bad on the heart and stomach, the doc elaborated.

“A’right, we’ll leave it on the table here, and you can take it in the morning if your head still hurts. How’s that sound?” Seonaid asked him. Eoin nodded. His insides were cold and hollow, and his temples throbbed, sending shooting pain behind his eyes.

Seonaid loosened her ties, pulled off her jacket, and unlaced her sleeves. Fearchar walked over to her and helped with her stays, petticoat, and underpetticoat, leaving her in her linen shift. He kissed her neck and rested his head against hers. 

“Let’s get him ta’ bed and go ta sleep,” she whispered to her husband before walking to the shuttered window and pulling the wool curtain, placing rocks into the corner of the sill to hold the fabric tight to insulate.

” ‘greed, Ah am goin’ ta’ kip fur the next two days,” he promised her.

“I’ll join you.” She stifled a yawn.

They both approached Eoin once more and helped him up. He grabbed their hands without thinking. They found themselves suspended once more in his void.

Magaidh had wrapped his neck. He and his bairns hid in her croft as he waited for the wound to heal. He learned to poultice and plaster himself. She taught him how to cook and clean in a method conducive to him being hired into a big house. His knowledge of mending seine and haaf net, of lambing and herding, of finding springs and chiselling granite troughs would all be thrown away to steal him from fate. She had hoped to hide him away into a noble family with a steady income.

He learned to tailor, to card wool, and to drop spin fibers. Eoin took one of his grandmother’s old dresses and resized it. Eventually, the wound healed. He had not left her house in a couple months. The babes were beginning to roll over.

She helped him dye his hair with chestnuts she paid too much money for from the mainland. He was humiliated at having to hide his status. She obtained passage for him and the babes off the Isle to the Scottish mainland. She outfitted him, passing him off as a ward fit as a servant or assistant. To travel with two babies and not be recognised as any of the surviving Fyskar clan, he’d need the disguise.

Eoin released their hands. I’m sorry, he told them emphatically. He had not intended to drag them into that. It had been so long since he had not worn his gloves that it was hard for him to direct his thoughts.

 “Eoin,” Seonaid sought his gaze. He looked down into her soft brown eyes. “I’m gonna take yer over clothes, a’right?” she asked. He grasped at his collar for a second, terrified. “Ye don’t have’a if ye dinnae wanna. I want fur ye ta be comfortable ta sleep,” she placated.

He hesitated before slipping the cravat off his collar. Eoin pulled the shirt collar button from its hole. He swallowed, uneasy.

Fearchar busied himself with the bed warmer, filling it with heated river stones. He gave it a shake to settle the rocks. Eoin flinched, focusing on Fearchar. Seonaid reached for the next button. He snapped his attention back to her. Eoin grasped for the button she was working on. He stilled, not wanting to touch her. His fingers quivered, lost. Fearchar shoved the warmer under the covers. “A’right, doc. Le’s get ye in bed.” Fearchar took over for Seonaid.

“Thanks, Luv.” She kissed him on the cheek, crawled into the side of the bed closest to the fire, and closed her eyes.

“Let’s have ye asleep, doc.” Deftly, Fearchar released Eoin from his waistcoat. Ignoring the sluggish mans hesitation, the handyman  helped peel off a soft lavender silk vest. He took the coat and vest and hung them up on a peg.

Eoin opened up another two buttons at the top of his shirt, allowing his torc to peak out between the cloth. Fearchar observed the bell-shaped terminals of the necklace, noting the intricate fish and wave carvings in the design. The band looked to be of solid gold the thickness of his pinky finger. It had to be heavy.

“Better?” Fearchar asked gently. Eoin nodded. “Not sure ‘ow ye’ve been sleepin’ with aw them trappin’s,” Fearchar muttered at the man. “Breeches?” He pointed to the knee-length pants. “Ye’ve got them stockin’s tied up un’er them. They ain’t good ta’ wear aw the time, doc. Some’in’ ’bout blood flow. Come on, ‘ow many times ‘ve ye told aw’ some’ne comin’ in here fur doin’ ‘at? Ye’re the doc, doc. Ye ken better.”

Eoin glanced between Fearchar and Seonaid, his face flaming red. Fearchar blinked at him, indifferent to his embarrassment. The red head held out his hand. Eoin sucked in his breath and shucked himself out of his breeches, leaving himself in his fine linen longshirt, stockings, and ties. He handed them over to Fearchar. “Good, Weard. Get yer ties aw’ n’ get yer arse in bed. Ye’re sleepin’,” demanded Fearchar as he went and hung the breeches on another peg.

Eoin sat on the end of the bed, listening to Fearchar grumble about his militia days and commanding a bunch of man-children who could not even see fit to dress themselves properly. Fumbling with the ribbons holding up his knit silk stockings, he peeled the garments off and folded them carefully. With luck, he’d see to their washing in the morning. He set them on the stool next to the table. Washing his linens had been hurried through and inconsistent for the last few months as he hid behind his mask. Slipping into a clean shirt and a minor sponging in rose water had seen him through, but he dreamed of a proper rinse.

“Ye’re full a’ surprises this evenin’, Weard. Them surely cannae be good fur yer circulation.” Fearchar stared at the massive, engraved gold bangles binding Eoin’s ankles, both at least three finger-widths wide. They were heavily engraved with patterning similar to the bracers.

Fearchar clambered around Eoin to reach the middle of the bed, pulling Seonaid against him. Eoin glanced at them, uncertain. “Cummeon. It’a be warmer with the co’ers,” Fearchar grumbled at him, his eyes already closed.

Eoin blew out the lantern and followed suit, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. It had been so long since he had laid down like this. His feet throbbed from the foreign feel of not being in boots and stockings.

The bangles shifted and clinked together as he twitched to find a comfortable position. The wool blankets scratched his bare skin. Soon though, he drifted off into a deep sleep.

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Fyskar: Ch 6

The weeks passed, uninterrupted of any more phenomenal events. Eoin kept busy with his clients that made their way to Seonaid’s house. He travelled into town with Fearchar to remedy a few of the old women who had taken to their beds with complaints of arthritis and winter cough.

He ran into Lady Daleroch once while walking through the frost-covered winter market and asked after Conner. Her son was improving remarkably, as she stated and was excited to once again invite the doctor to her end of the year event in a day’s time. Eoin was sure to press that Fearchar and Seonaid be there to help translate for him. She had agreed most amiably, thrilled with her festivities. The woman let on that the whole of the Daleroch’s family was to be there, which was proving much easier now that the children were grown.

Eoin told her that he would send his gifts ahead of his arrival: three bottles of port that he had seen fit to bring from Spain for a special occasion. He wanted to share them with the whole of the Daleroch clan to celebrate the good health of the future clan head. She was practically bursting with pride, preening under his offer. She would have to pull out her good cups for such an offer; she smiled, thrilled. She left them in the market, hurrying off in the direction of her house.

He turned from her and made his way back through the market to Brodie Brown’s house – the closest person the town had to a mail distributor. Eoin had Fearchar ask after Brodie’s son, Robert, who he wished to have run up to Seonaid’s house and fetch the port to be taken to the Daleroch’s estate. He paid the lad a silver and copper to hurry and sent a note with him to let Seonaid know where to find the bottles.

They then continued through the town, checking in on the sick and the weak to distract themselves. The doctor distributed medicines as he saw necessary and left instructions with caretakers. He needed for the town to continue recognizing his authority in the matters of health and medicine if his plan for the Dalerochs was to take off and give Robert time to deliver the port.

The evening before Hogmanay in Seonaid and Fearchar’s house dragged on. He went back and checked his parchments multiple times. He fiddled with his stores, dragging out his scales to weigh dried goods and crystallized powders. He couldn’t keep his nerves from showing. He was still torn about Widow Magaidh. With luck, he would make it up to the churchyard to bid her farewell before he left the isle. His thoughts ricocheted in his skull, bringing up old memories, old conversations.

Fearchar and Seonaid shared their evening meal together before pulling out their suitable clothing. She had forgone her usual clientele that day to iron their garments, excited about the prospect of some festivities. Fearchar whittled away at a little bird statue, smiling at her merriment. They stayed up late into the night, Eoin toiling away at his bench while Fearchar and Seonaid reminisced about the parties with friends they had joined with seasons past.

Even with little sleep, Eoin woke to the brilliant sunrise the following day. It sparkled on the snow and made the bitter cold bright and soul-wrenching in its beauty. Smudges of pink and orange clung to the hills at the sun’s crowning. Stairs to heaven, he mused. He took a warm cup of ale from the hearth and reclined in the chair that looked out through the one window in the croft. His day had come. He breathed through the rapid beat of his heart, trying to settle it. Today would be quiet for Seonaid. Most of the town was gathered with family for festivities.

He downed the cup as he heard rustling in the next room. With ease, he pulled the mask back down and snugged it close. He wasn’t about to be recognised. He rubbed the cup out with the fine sand they kept in a basket next to the hearth and dried it out with a cloth before setting it back on the little shelf they kept their cups on. He eased back to his bench, recognizing Seonaid and Fearchar’s morning routine, knowing he had a few more minutes to himself before they would come out.

He fingered his decanters and flasks, debating if he should pack the contents up now or wait for a few more days after the papers made their way to Ian and even out to the mainland. He rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain. He decided to put away a few of his less-used medicines, counting on the holiday to keep from interrupting him. Then he spotted the small hatchet left unattended in the corner under his bench. He slipped it into the back of his belt under his waistcoat tails.

He took from his stores a fine powder that he had come into possession of on the mainland shortly before sailing to the isle. He retrieved from another drawer of his cabinet a small, long metal trough and a thin blade that meshed together to make an ancient style of mortar and pestle. He spent many minutes finely grinding down the already fine powder. He knocked the powder into a pouch and added a small bowl and vial of clear liquid to another. Lastly, he added to the mortar and pestle a few berry-sized red rocks that produced a muddy yellow powder once ground. This, too, was added to one more palm-sized pouch. These all made their way into his bag at his waist.

Tonight would be his release from his induced hellish prison. He had to be ready to flee if everything went wrong. He needed to leave enough out, though, that if someone came to the residence, they would not suspect Eoin of plots. He rolled his three parchments together and stuffed them into a cylindrical holder. He slipped the ornate tube into one of his pouches.

Fearchar and Seonaid eventually emerged from their room, significantly later than usual. Their guest remained content to mess with his various glass and wood containers. They eased back into their regular routine for an off day, making breakfast for themselves. Eoin never ate with them; he refused to remove his mask. Seonaid, once their fast was broken, cleaned the plates while Fearchar finished his tiny jackdaw bird.

Eoin kept himself busy with a pair of small glass tubes, slowly diluting a tiny spoonful of powder into boiling water. The water turned a brilliant emerald green for a flash as it hit the boiling liquid. It dissipated into a muddy brown. He continued the boiling until the tubes’ contents formed a thickened sludge. He added a dash of a thin white liquid and continued for the afternoon. Anticipation built in the house as the hour neared for them to go to the Daleroch’s estate.

“What ye’ makin’, doc?” Fearchar eventually wandered over to look at the tiny tubes.

Antidote. he held the tube up for Fearchar to look at.

“Poison medicine,” Seonaid supplied, coming over to join her husband.

“Poison medicine?” Fearchar asked, looking at the vials sceptically.

For you, Eoin handed them both one of the vials. Fearchar’s eyebrows raised. “D’ye want us ta…eat…drink this now?” the man eyed the sludge with disgust.

No. Take it immediately if they make you drink the wine, Eoin elaborated, pushing a cork into Seonaid’s tube.

“Don’t drink the wine, Fear.” Seonaid looked at her tube solemnly before shoving it in her pocket. “This is if we have to.”

“Whate’er ye say, doc,” Fearchar handed his vial back to Eoin, who promptly corked it and handed it back to him. Fearchar frowned at it and shoved it into his pouch, which he had formed at his stomach with his great kilt. Impatiently, they were trying to wait out the afternoon and into the evening. The festivities would begin at midnight with the first footing.

With the eleventh bell from the church ringing clearly through the quiet snow-laden hills, Eoin, Seonaid and Fearchar emerged into the dark night with lanterns to guide their chilled steps. The snow crunched under their feet. They could faintly hear yelling and raucous music reverberating up the hill from the village. The boys would be seeking their bannocks at the doors.

They arrived at the Daleroch estate to find the yard filled with joyous festivities in front of the building. The snow had been stamped down into an icy muck. Some of the men had broken out their pipes and drums. A few younger women danced with the men in circles around a smouldering bonfire outside. There were the remains of mutton that had been roasted that day over an open fire. The Daleroch’s celebration was in full swing. Yet, no one was inside the house. They were waiting for the first-footer.

The clan let up a cheer when Mrs Daleroch noticed their presence and called out a greeting. Grannd came up to them, and Eoin was relieved to hide behind his mask, for he couldn’t restrain his grimace of disgust at the man. Grannd took Eoin’s hand and shook it heartily. “To the Doctor!” he cheered, the clan following his lead. “For saving my son’s life and restoring his health, I’d like to bid you enter our door and bless our house with good luck!” the man smiled happily. Eoin sucked in his breath. He had not expected to be the man to be put in the house first. That right would have surely gone to Grannd’s son. Eoin nodded, trying for enthusiasm behind his mask.

Daleroch pulled him to the door-stone and set Eoin’s hand on the elaborate iron handle. Eoin took his grand time of show, letting the clan think that he appreciated his role. He opened the door and walked into the cheer of the people. The house was freshly cleaned and lit with candles in many corners, causing the room to flick with shadows. He spotted another meal already laid out, his bottles of port set next to the meat. Grannd Daleroch followed him into the house. Eoin moved to the stairwell, out of the way of the incoming flood of people escaping from the plummeting cold of the winter night. The house bloomed under the press of bodies and music. Eoin fought the sudden panic gripping him with the noise and humid warmth.

He watched, trying to calm his racing heart, as Mrs Daleroch cheerily opened up the bottles of port he had provided them with as his gift. She poured them raucously into carved wooden cups, drops spilling across the table. Each cup had a tiny bit of scrawl work around the lip, matching the table the meal was spread upon. She pressed cups into the hands of her family, happily chatting with each person for a minute here and there. Soon, every person had been served, and Grannd Daleroch approached the fireplace to give the New Year’s greeting to his clan.

“My family!” He raised his cup, deep-red port sloshing out and across his fingers. The crowd cheered back, some already downing their cups with the reply. Three bottles of port did not go nearly far enough with this family. “I wanna extend ta’ ye’ my gracious thanks in bein’ here at the clan’s house t’night ta’ celebrate the New Year. We ‘ave improved the flock’s numbers n’ added a new ship ta’ the fleet. My boy, fit ‘n spry once ‘gain, will be takin’ a wife this comin’ spring and God-willin’, make me a grandfather! You have all contributed tae this success n’ with e’ery year that passes, the more land we obtain. Soon, we will be the most powerful clan on this side a’ the isle. To the New Year, n’ ta new acquisitions!” He downed what was left in his cup and held it out for his harried wife to fill with an ale.

Fearchar and Seonaid feigned drinking the dark liquid, neither one eager to put Eoin’s concoction to the test.

Eoin leaned against the stair rail, counting the seconds for the first victim to fall. The music continued until the drummer slumped. One of the men laughed it off, joking about old men not holding their drink. Soon though, others dozed off. They leaned in seats and laid their heads on tables and the floor, yet still, no one worried. Lady Daleroch went about the room, tucking people into blankets and lambskins.

“Finally.” She took her full cup of port from behind an ornate clock on the fireplace mantel and drank it. “I never thought I would get to it. Doctor, you have a way with medicine and know a good wine when you see it.”

“It was a good turnout this year. Even great-grandpap came from the other side of the hills. Thank you, Doctor, for coming to celebrate my son’s recovery and Hogmanay. It would have been a sad year to burry him if it had come to it.” Grannd watched his wife collect cups from guests and scuttle them away to the wash trough in the larder.

“We couldn’t have asked for a better year. I don’t know what we would have done.” Lady Daleroch’s voice echoed above the clatter of plate ware and water.

Grannd raised an eyebrow, a smirk skirting the corner of his lip. “Not like we can trust the other two lads to the task; all they want is to find their way to Edinburgh.”

“He’s the only one showing interest in taking over the family legacy?” Fearchar eased around sprawled feet and skirts. Picking up the iron poker at the fire side, he stirred the languishing flame.

“Come spring, we’ll have him wed again, someone healthy, able to bear sons that’ll carry on what we’re doing here. He’ll keep the line going.” Lady Daleroch returned from the larder, drying her hands on her apron.

Grannd and his wife glanced around the room then turned to each other. Grannd took up one of the woven blankets from a chair and pulled it around his wife. “Looks like you’re just as spent as the guests, Meredith. Here.” Swirling patterns in the wool weave of blue, lavender, and white matched the cup in Eoin’s hand. “It looks like all our guests have left us fur their dreams. I’m sorry that it wasn’t more.”

“Nae, it’s rather ideal; we were growin’ tired a’ waitin’.” Fearchar smiled maliciously, eyes roving across bodies. Grannd glanced up at the man. He turned back to his sleeping family. Mottled purple and black spots blossomed across exposed skin. He stooped to his son sleeping on a stool next to the hearth. Swallowing, he touched the man’s wrist. No beat. He shifted away the man’s cravat to touch his throat. Blue and purple blossomed along his kneck. No pulse. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he held the flat to the man’s nose, waiting for it to mist. It never came.

Grannd backed into his swaying wife. “Doctor! My son! He’s…he’s…” Grannd stared at the mass of death surrounding him. Tears shimmered in his eyes, fear reverberating in the room. His wife slipped to the floor. Rushing, he caught her, easing her lifeless body against the wall.

Seonaid sidled up to him to look at the woman. “You see.” Her smile was all teeth as Fearchar joined her.

“We got paid a tidy sum tae clean ye out.” Fearchar laid the poker down and pulled his hair back with a leather strap. Eoin stood from his seat on the step. With slow, deliberate steps, shined red leather boots sifted across beams such that he missed every squeaking board, he approached the last of the Daleroch.

Grannd Daleroch twisted between the husband and wife before turning to the doctor. The clan leader’s panic rimmed his eyes in pale pink. A telltale flick of his digits told Eoin the man’s hands were going numb.

“You?” The man denying his impending death stumbled.

Eoin bowed at the accusation, sweeping his hand out to reveal his light blue Southron suit. He straightened and nodded to Fearchar and Seonaid.

Fearchar charged Grannd. The clan head fell back, aiming for the doctor. The hired hand skittered, narrowly missing a body on the floor. A gleam of metal in the firelight. Grannd pulled his knife from its sheath and thrust it toward the bounding redhead’s throat. The blade in an infirm grip bobbed, slipping. Fearchar blocked, span the man around, and disarmed him. Seonaid squarely landed a cast iron pan into the clan leader’s jaw. The audible snap of the mandible crackled in the silence of the house. The man dropped with a clatter to the wood floor.

“But,” he spat out bloody teeth, “why? What did we do to you? I’ve never talked to you before today.”

Eoin strode up to the man, his fingers cold in their lined leather gloves, trembled. Kneeling, he looked the Daleroch clan chief in the eye through his green glass lenses. He shoved a small pendant on a short, braided chord into Grannd’s face. The downed leader inspected the item through foggy eyes. A dawning light flickered in them. Eoin lifted his mask a fraction, enough that Daleroch could look upon his throat and mouth.

Eoin’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Fyskar witch! You were dead. You were dead and buried and damned!” Daleroch hissed, droplets of blood spraying across the metal tip of Eoin’s mask. The clan leader tried to scuttle away from the mask of death. His hands went out from under him. He hit his head against a body’s foot. Turning, he faced one of his children. A high pitched wail faultered as blood filled his lungs. He gurgled, fighting for his last moment.

Eoin quietly watched the life fade from the man’s eyes. He stuffed the pendant back into his pouch and stood up. Did either of you drink the wine? He demanded of Seonaid and Fearchar with harsh, jerky movements. They both shook their heads. Good. I’m going down to the beach. I’ll see you back at the house? He drew in a deep breath and slowed his movements. He could not hide the shake in his fingers.

“We’ll have ale and an early porridge.” Seonaid desperately tried not to look at what lay around her.

They gathered their cloaks and lanterns. Seonaid put a flaming stick to the wicks, setting the rendered suet to glow a sickly yellow in the dimming room. Opening the door, Eoin tossed another small pouch and one of the parchments to Fearchar.

His handyman nodded. Pocketing the purse and parchment, he escorted his wife onto the entry stone. Eoin pulled the door closed with a soft click. A silent agreement transpired between them. Fearchar and Seonaid pulled their cloak hoods up around their ears and left Eoin to his own devices. The couple sifted through the snow, down the hill, and around the outcropping. Their lights swung, casting an army of shadowed giants against the scraggly scrub along their path.

Eoin pulled another parchment from the cylinder and a crude nail. With the back of the hatchet, he nailed the declaration to the door, warning any who would enter the domicile that they risked Plague and urged that the building be burned to its footing in a fortnight of the last resident’s death.

His fingers trembled, and his head pounded. Fear snapped across his shoulders and scrambled down his spine. He turned from the door, looking back at the building once more as he walked around to the back heading for the path down the hill to the beach and the private dock housing the Daleroch’s fishing fleet.

He glanced to the old chicken coop, which had fallen into a state of disrepair. No birds lived in it; he was certain by the collapsed roof. A twittering shuffle echoed from beyond the structure. He stilled, straining his ears in the snowfall for the sound. It echoed off the chicken coop walls. He scrambled through the snow and mud, fingers vibrating.

Behind the chicken coop, he sank to his knees in awe. The free-flight mews, with its lichen crusted slate roof stood intact. The massive golden eagle inside the protective stall stood scrawny on her log. Many of her chest feathers were missing, plucked in boredom and hunger. Once glossy and full of spirit, her head hung in dejected wariness. She chirped, spotting the intruder.

He scrambled for the door to the tack room. Her furniture sat dusty and unused, unoiled leather cracked and brittle. The empty food pots contained dirt and dead spiders. He stamped out of the building, closed the door with a bang, and returned to the main house.

Inside, he ransacked the larder for whatever meat he could bring to hand. He shredded a rabbit’s leg and took it back to the eagle. Brushing his hood back, he pulled his mask from his face, setting it on a hook. She stared at him and skittered away. The poor creature hopped once, drawing his attention to her jesses. They had not been changed since last he saw her. Ragged and muck laden, they caught on the splintered bark of her roosting bar.

He grimaced at her state. Whistling low with a series of clicks, he pulled his cravat from his throat and held out his gloved hand for her. She twisted to study him and ruffled her feathers. Stepping back and forth, she bobbed her head, focusing on the meat in his fingers. He tried the whistle again. She hunched down and brought her wings up, but flight had escaped her memories.

Tears seared at the corners of his eyes. He approached slowly, waiting for her signals that she was calm with him. He encouraged her onto his glove. She wolfed down the meat while he surveyed her prison.

Filled, she fluffed up her feathers and looked up at him. Her golden eyes bore into his soul. He could not take her back to Fearchar and Seonaid. There was no adequate housing arranged for her. Possibly their byre would suffice, but it was full to the rafters of dry peat and what had once been a dairy stall served now as secondary food storage of preserved meats and root vegetables. He could not release her to the sky. Her ability to fly had been stolen from her by the Daleroch.

He guided her to the perch and left back to the main house. She called to him, her cries piercing the witching hour.

Returning from his foray, he presented his newly acquired treasures: thick wool rugs, nails, and a hammer. The golden eagle pushed herself into the far corner of her stall while he nailed up the protective covering, blocking up the barred window. Snow slid off the roof as he worked, startling both of them.

Moonlight drifted through the cracks in the ceiling. He would need to return soon. He stalled. Picking up ragged feathers beneath her perch, he listened to the low drum of a short-eared owl outside. The eagle would not take to being cooped in the dark for too long. Resigning himself to his inabilities, he left her with food. It was the best he could do. He would return.

Finished with his task and clothed again in his mask and cravat, he dragged himself from the eagle to the other job he needed to complete. A squat tack house perched against the ring of stone at the beach edge near the pier. Its rock wall had turned into a glistening sheet of ice from the spray of the lapping water and chill wind. Easing himself to the shadowed, snowy ground, he rested his back against the structure. He tugged his mask off, unable to tolerate the confines after having been freed of it in the mews. The wind bit at his cheek. Tears tracked across his skin. Wet snow dusted his shoulders, seeping into his justacorps and breeches.

The slow slap of waves on the wooden hulls lulled him into a gut numbing pit of forlorn loneliness. His heart twisted in his chest as he allowed his years of pain and anguish to break. He pulled off his gloves, throwing the pair into a snowdrift. Glaring at them, he tossed his mask in with them, the crunch of snow making the quiet waves all that more unbearable. Rubbing his jaw, he waited for his wallowing self-pity to abate. Cold dusted his knuckles. Holding out a hand, he grasped the drops of snow falling into his palm, turning them into drops of tepid water. Too many memories fell through those little wet flakes.

He rubbed at his eyes, wishing the pain would subside. Pulling in heaving breaths, he fought to quit trembling, desperate to keep himself together.

A birlinn mast groaned. Frigid wind whistled through the lashings. The dam of emotions cracked. He laid his head in his hands and wept.

He wept for his past, for his lost future. He wept for the atrocities that kept him awake at night. Snow accumulated in drifts on his hood until he was half buried in it before he shook himself from the swirling anguish.

Drawing himself up, he paced the beach. North of the tack house, a small uneven mound told him he had found the spot he saw in his nightmares. He sank to his knees.

I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done more, done something. They are safe, I promise you, they are safe now. He buried the hatchet’s blade into the ground of the hill and hung his chord and little pendant from the handle.

He pulled his bowl, a vial of alcohol, and powders from his bag at his waist. Setting the implements into the moon-greyed snow, he added the clear liquid to one of the powders. With slow meticulousness, it turned a brilliant deep blue.

Finished mixing it to a smooth consistency, he blew a fine ochre powder across the snow and grass, streaking it in a cloud of yellow and red. Taking up his bowl, he pulled off one of his gloves. He dipped his forefinger and middle finger into the wet-dog smelling mix and pulled a small ball of the paste away. With careful work and many additions of woad powder and alcohol, he traced a massive blue triskelion across the surface of the hill.

He sat and stared at the dim blue and red-yellow of the hill. The small pendant swung on the hatchet. Snow sifted across the dock and plopped into the water behind him. The crisp air burned his lungs and froze the tips of his ears as it blew under his hood. Resigning himself to his own need to be warm for once in several hours, he replaced the mask and stood, brushing his knees off.

He needed to get up and away from the house, the memories, and the pain. Fearchar and Seonaid must have returned to their home from giving Iain the notice of Plague. With luck, there would be no issue, and the decree would go out to the town to leave the Daleroch estate alone.

Eoin drew in a steadying breath. He flipped open the lantern door and checked the length of his tallow candle. If he walked quickly, he’d make it back to the croft before the flame sputtered out on the rush. He climbed the slick hill, finding long forgotten footholds in the rock that led him out behind the property and through a shortcut to the road that would go unnoticed from the front of the house.

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Fyskar: Ch 5

Late into his second month in Fearchar and Seonaid house, a woman knocked at the door, to Eoin’s surprise. He flinched in distaste, recognizing her. She was older but still prim and smug. Seonaid turned tail and closed the door to the bedroom before the woman could see her.

The lady came seeking medical advice for her oldest son, who had developed a horrid cough. Eoin listened to her as calmly as possible, then methodically packed up his box and took up a walking stick from the wall. The woman stalked out the door quickly, waiting for Eoin to follow her. Fearchar pulled him aside. “That’s Grannd’s wife, Eoin.”

Eoin nodded, cautious. Lady Daleroch had not aged well. The skin across her nose had tightened, and liver spots crawled across crepe hands.

“Ah am comin’ with ye.” Fearchar grabbed up his waxed canvas cloak.

Lady Daleroch turned back, waiting on the men. “Good! I need a translator fur this.” She motioned the doctor up and down. “Cannae ken why’s I’m here. Angus should’a been capable, but na’ he and Lizbet both were useless.” The gaunt woman wrung her boney fingers in her dress pleats.

They followed her to the Daleroch estate. The chill wind pressed Fearchar to be in out of the cutting cold, but he stalled as Eoin hesitated at the doorstep. The woman led them into the house to a stifling back room. Eoin’s mannerisms turned stiff and exact as he opened the windows to let in a sharp breeze and light.

In the middle of the room, the man lying in bed had lost most of his colour. He coughed wetly, on the verge of suffocating. His face beaded with sweat, his damp covers thrown to the hewn floor. Grannd’s son, Conner, toed the line between the living and the dead. Eoin tested the heir’s heartbeat, leather-gloved fingers rough as he checked for lesions and rashes to confirm a diagnosis.

“Will he be a’right?” Conner’s mother twisted a worn handkerchief she had frayed. Eoin noted the action. Not all was well in the house.

He set his box down on the small desk in the room. Pulling a pair of vials from a drawer along with a mortar and pestle, he gently fingered the worn hazel top. Leaving the small inlaid carvings, he opened several drawers and motioned his hired hand to find boiling water. Lady Daleroch fetched a kettle full at Fearchar’s prompting.

Fearchar watched the man practically vibrate as he stood in the packed little room, his hands hovering over the desk. Fearchar could not see the seething rage Eoin suffered difficulty controlling behind the mask. It was going to be all he could do to keep his cover now and help Conner get better. It was an infection of the lungs. Not easily treatable by simple country medicine. This would be using up some of his best materials, but it would be worth it in the end.

Conner’s mother returned, and Eoin showed her how to mix the tincture. When it was cool enough to not burn, he helped her give the man his first dose. The invalid sputtered and murmured, set under a delirium. He settled, though, and dozed off. His colour came back to his cheeks.

Eoin handed the woman seven days’ worth of the little packets. He instructed her to give the man the dosages with every meal and to keep the young man drinking plenty of liquids but no ale. The medicine would not combine well and would cause a swift death. Lady Daleroch  promised to keep the flask away from him. She cried, happy to have a solution to her son’s suffering. Indifferent to her relief, Eoin packed up his box, nodded to her, and left quickly. “How much do I owe him?” Lady Daleroch’s trill chirp followed him out the door. He didn’t care what Fearchar answered. There was no amount of money they could possibly pay him that would relieve his feelings toward them.

He had nearly made it to the burned-out, decrepit roundhouse when he heard Fearchar running up behind him. “Told ‘er to save off pay’n ’til Conner’s be’er,. That ‘right with ye, doc?” Fearchar drew up next to him, panting. Eoin waved off the question, moved away from the roundhouse, and headed back for Fearchar’s hovel.

Three weeks later, a letter arrived by messenger for Eoin. Conner had recovered from his cough and was doing much better. He was not quite able to be up and about for long periods yet. Grannd Daleroch wanted to know if Eoin would be willing to join the family for Hogmanay in lieu of payment and as thanks for the doctor’s care. Eoin handed the paper to Seonaid to read to Fearchar before he let himself out of the house for a long cold walk. He was experiencing varying waves of relief and tension pulling him apart and could not stand to be stuck in the dark, cramped building for another moment.

The red tails of his leather cloak flipped and clapped in the wind. The door of Widow Magaidh’s blackhouse appeared before him quicker than he anticipated. The sun was feathering along the rim of the mountains. He stared up at the venting hole in the thatch to watch puttering grey smoke curl and puff, reaching thin fingers to the jackdaws that circled and cawed above. No one had been out to pull the smoked grasses down the year before for the garden. He would need to ask Fearchar about installing new thatch. A slap of leather against rough terrain echoed like gulls taking flight behind him.

He checked himself, aware that Fearchar had followed him out from Seonaid’s croft. He was at least a solid hour walk from the gloomy rock monstrosity of the Daleroch estate that caused his skin to burn, his heart to desert him, his lungs to convulse. He should have said no before going out there to torture himself. Three weeks later, the tension that knotted at the back of his ribs had yet to abate.

“Oye!” Fearchar chased after him, trying to regain his breath. He bent over, pulling in deep gulps of air, his plethora of braids sweeping forward, the beads clattering together. “Wha’ was that ’bout?”

Eoin waved him away and turned around, leaving Widow Magaidh’s rock hovel. He wasn’t ready to face Magaidh. The doctor realised, though, that he’d be hounded by the man with the dazzling ginger hair till he returned.

Fearchar kept up with his long gait as they descended the outcrop paths back to Seonaid’s home. “Daleroch said to make sure you knew that they want for you to come to Hogmanay to celebrate as compensation for helping her boy. Will he get better with what you gave him?” Fearchar stumbled over a rock. Eoin caught the redhead’s hand, saving him from sprawling in the mud and gravel.

Releasing him, Eoin nodded, burrowing his hands under his cloak. He didn’t feel like talking. It was enough that the mask hid the tears that rimmed his eyes. Heat swept across his cheeks as he tried to keep the salty drops from rolling down his skin. He swallowed hard, trying to stall. The man counted the boulders and stringy shrubs built up along the hills on the familiar path. Fearchar continued talking, but Eoin had stopped listening.

He fixated on a spiralling column of seabirds, their feathers flashing brilliant white in the gleam of the setting sun. “…and putting up a plague notice would make it unquestionable.” Fearchar pressed a hand to his side, staving off a stitch. Eoin spun, startling his handyman.

“What?” The redhead cocked his head.

Say that again, Eoin demanded, spanning the distance, hob nailed boots clicking against loose gravel.

Fearchar stepped back as Eoin’s cloak brushed up against his chest. Brilliant green eyes. “I was saying that Lady Daleroch made this easy for us. With ye already seein’ inside the ‘ouse n’ ‘elping the man, ye can fake it. Ye can make up a plague notice fur the Hogmanay. We can take out the Daleroch, and no one’ld come up ta’ check. Ye’d ‘ave ta put in with Iain at the dock. That’d make it acceptable fur the law n’ ‘ld deter packages bein’ sent up ta the house for ’em. Nae one’ld come to check with threat a’ Plague.” Fearchar traced an imaginary pen in the air with a grin. The beak mask stared at him for a good half a minute. He fidgeted, uncertain if he had made the doctor mad.

He ducked, finding himself engulfed in the man’s cloak. Eoin pulled Fearchar into him in a sudden hug of joy. Fearchar wasn’t sure how to react, but he was surprised by the thinness of the man. Fearchar didn’t have a firm impression of the doctor’s constitution with the cloak on. The physician’s hands were sinewy and muscular, his arms like fine steel bands. Eoin let him go and strode away.

This was the breakthrough Eoin needed. Iteration after iteration of ideas had proved fruitless to the doctor in figuring out a way to infiltrate the Daleroch and not have an issue after the fact. With a posted notice of plague, no one would be motivated to enter the domicile. He was there as a plague doctor. Why not make it look like that had been the true intention of his visit there after all?

They arrived back at Fearchar and Seonaid’s house to find the building vacant. Fearchar peeked into the bedroom to find it empty. “Guess’n she’s outta market t’day,” Fearchar expressed to Eoin, who had seated himself at his apothecary bench. Eoin nodded absently as he pulled out a sheet of parchment and his quills and inks. He could scratch out a hurried notice that he could tack to the door, but he wanted this to look as official as possible.

He would need two notices: one for Daleroch’s estate and one to post with Iain McCloude, who acted as the constabulary, lawyer, and judge of the little town. If desperate, he might need one more document to be sent to Edinburgh or Glasgow to make it official that the estate was to be avoided at all cost. The hours dragged by in the quiet domicile. The first interruption in Eoin’s fervent scrawling was Fearchar’s exclamation of snow when large wet flakes blanketed the rocky outcropping. He had asked if Fearchar needed to go after Seonaid. Fearchar waved him off, reassuring him that if she was caught out in a blizzard, she had enough friends in the village that would be willing to put her up for the evening. Eoin shook his head and shrugged, marvelled by the man’s relationship with his wife.

Almost complete with the second sheet, stomping feet at the doorstone interrupted Eoin’s attention. He hurriedly stowed the dry sheet and set an inverted box over the second one. He pulled out a list of ingredients and wiped the nib of his pen off before pushing a cork into his ink bottle.

Fearchar took his time getting up from the hearth and making his way to the door. The handle turned. Fearchar looked up to the crack in the door. Seonaid, bundled heavily in her wool shawl, burst in, a flurry of white flakes trying to follow behind her. She shoved the door closed, her cheeks pink from the cold. Her eyes glimmered. Eoin stayed his hand from his cleaning. Something was off with the young woman.

She glanced away from Eoin to Fearchar and back. Biting her lip, she pulled Fearchar to her, buried her head into his shoulder, and fought to keep her weeping quiet. He wrapped her in warm arms. “Wha’s the matter, Luv?”

Eoin returned to his stores and sifted through materials, wary of involving himself in a conversation not meant for his ears. In his few months of living with the couple, he could not recall Seonaid expressing sadness or anger in such a manner. Shifting in his chair, he waited for Fearchar to take her into their bedroom for privacy. His blood curdled in his veins as he listened to her tell her story.

“I went into town to fetch oats for the house. I ran into Agnus while I was down at the baker’s. She told me Widow M- Widow Magaidh had slipped last night.” She fought back another wave of tears. Eoin sprang the gap and descended on the couple. He gripped them by the shoulders, pressing for more information. They shied away from the doctor’s unusual outburst. Seonaid shook her head at him sadly.

Where? He demanded from her.

“She was found outside of town near the fork that takes you up to Dubh’s house and out to her house. She…she hit her head, they say.” She swatted at streaming tears. Fearchar pulled a handkerchief from the pouch at the front of his great kilt and pressed it to her eyes. He tossed a glare at Eoin, warning him to back off.

No, where is she now! Eoin persisted.

Seonaid blotted her face, giving herself time to regain control of her cracking voice. “Her body was sent to Cill Chriosd this morning. I barely had time to catch the cart before they headed out. I left a few flowers on her shroud. They planned to have her buried this evening if the snow permits. If they don’t get her in the ground now, the dirt’ll be too hard to dig for the next month.” She wandered to the fireplace to stare at the lapping flames. Fearchar pulled her back against his chest and held her as she swayed.

Eoin sunk to the ground in a heap. He wished, as he had so many times before, that he could scream, but all he could do was allow his sorrow and frustration to boil inside.

Fearchar patted him on the shoulder. “So sorry, doc. Ah didnae realise ye knew her well tae work…tae work yerself up o’er her. She’ll be missed.” Fearchar walked to his little stool by the hearth and sank onto it. Seonaid joined him, sitting next to his feet, and laid her head on his lap. He absently brushed at her hair, soothing himself as he leaned against the warm fireplace wall.

The evening slipped through their fingers. Eoin pulled himself from the cold floor and rolled into the little bed next to the wall. He pulled his cloak close around him and made sure the hood covered his mask as much as possible. Closing his eyes, he allowed his memories to drift him into a restless sleep.

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Polaris Skies: Ch 8

They packed their bags and collapsed the tent. Sleep had done the pack good. They were in a relatively jovial mood as they walked farther and farther from Portland and the sights of war. The highways had been destroyed to an extent, but there were still fragments of road leading them into potato country. They followed route eighty-four until they got into Ioda.

“Ioda potatoes, food for that matter,” Yeller mumbled.

“Please don’t talk about food.” Deck rubbed at his stomach.

“Careful, you might start drooling.” Zola shifted her pack for the third time in the last ten minutes.

“I already am.” Deck paused her to help adjust the straps to the hiking bag.

Flutter. A caw overhead startled their mutual commiseration. A murder of crows cast shadows on the ground, sending a shiver down Nat’s back. The creature beneath his skin urged him to follow them. He pushed the beast down, not keen on feeding on carrion.

“How long have all of you been friends?” Hana asked the group at large. Nat shrugged his shoulders as his wolf continued watching the flock.

“I’ve been in Jenton since the suburb was built so, since kindergarten, but I lived in the area all my life,” Deck supplied.

“Middle school?” Yeller asked Deck.

“Yeah, at least, I know we started hanging out in sixth grade, so at least middle school,” Deck confirmed Yeller’s question.

“He was into sports even then. Tried to pull me into football and realised how much of a klutz I am,” Yeller whispered conspiratorially.

“We got to Jenton in the middle of the summer before fifth grade,” Sun Hee spoke up, motioning to Benj.

“I moved to my cousin’s mid-way through seventh grade,” Zola said. Yeller patted her on her shoulder, gently reassuring her.

“What about you, Nat?” Hana turned to the brooding walking ball of angst.

“Homeschooled by a pair of Roman Catholics until mom got a job at the university. Joined up with the rest of the pack in middle school.” Nat looked up at the sky, praying the impending clouds would still the roaring in his head. With no reprieve, he put his back to the wind-swept plains and hills, willing his mind to calm, for his wolf to settle. The whip of grasses along the road bobbed, calling to him to run.

Sven?

Yes, dječak?

If I stay near this woman any longer, you’re gonna force me into meltdown.

Hold out, dječak. There’s still many a puzzle here that must be understood.

Hey, what was that about the other night, Sven, when you mentioned that Hana was hiding something?

I’m not sure yet, dječak[3], but we’ll find out, won’t we?

The dirt road, more a game trail than land fit for vehicles, they found themselves on, ran parallel with a bombed-out highway. A field of rotting grain lay between the highway and the dirt road. Smoke drifted from the destroyed skyscrapers far off in the distance. Hazy in the mid-afternoon air floated at the edge of the skyline. A pack of vultures took wing, sending eddies and whirls into the settling particulate.

“Do you know how to get to your parents’ lab?” Zola asked.

“Not really, no. It’s in Neo York, in one of the burrows, that’s about as much as I know. I know I’ve been there, but without GPS, I couldn’t get from the bridge to Broadway.” She studied the circling vultures, a look of longing passing through her eyes.

“They set up a lab for radioactive waste study in one of the burrows?” Zola scoffed at the idea.

“Burrows have banks and grocery stores in them. Let’s say that there was a particularly large motel not in use during that point in time. It could house up to twenty different rooms worth of lab equipment, then there were sixteen rooms for all the lab workers to reside in,” Hana retorted.

“Sor-ry didn’t mean to raise your hackles,” Zola snarled.

“I didn’t mean to get upset. It’s just… I haven’t seen them for a long time, and I don’t even know if they’re still alive because of all the bombings.” Hana backed down, stuffing her hands as deep into her pockets as they could go. A crinkling at the edge of her fingers pricked Nat’s ears. She dug into her pocket and pulled it inside out. There was a hole in the material in the corner. She shoved the pocket back into the coat and wiggled her fingers into the hole to find the edge of a piece of paper. Pulling it out, she swallowed.

“Uh, guys, ‘think we got our first clue to where we’re heading,” Hana whispered, handing the sheet to Deck.

Number’s on the fridge. In an emergency,

call Uncle Gershwin

Flipping the paper over, he noted a small aerial picture of a sprawling campus and a little red bubble. “Know where this is?” He pointed to the red bubble.

“Sort of. I don’t know any Uncle Gershwin. Mom and dad were weird. Adopted parents, kinda. I don’t have the number,” Hana murmured to herself.

“Not like the phone system was working anyway. Think this is where we can go to get this fixed?” He handed the slip of paper back to the black-haired woman.

“Maybe. But what if this is the wrong place?” Hana asked him, searching his face, her eyes darker than usual in the grey afternoon.

“If they’re still there, then we get it fixed. If they’re not, then they’re not there, and we find another way,” Nat tried for reassuring. She caught his eye and gave him a soft smile.

The wolf, ever-present, watched her interaction with interest. In a flash, it pushed, demanding to be forward. Nat turned from her gaze and swore under his breath. He would need to formulate a defence against the creature to keep her safe from himself. The screaming headache at the back of his skull as the wolf raged inside of him caused his heart to stutter.

They trotted through the wavers in the hills, chipped asphalt and blasted concrete twisting treads. The plains and hills of rotting grass passed with the rotation of the sun veiled by cold clouds. Pine sentries interspersed with giant oak guardians pierced the cape of darkness rising on the ridge.

Hana shifted her coat against the hump of her shoulders, her eyes darting through the woods like a rabbit escaping a hawk. The wolf nudged Nat to watch her furtive movements, her displeased fixation. Her unease slipped his spine as needles on a vine.

The group wound through game trails, deep into creeks and gullies. Freshwater dribbled beneath thin ice, and washed down moss faces to swirl in frozen stalagmites. Steam rose near the end of the ravine, an outcrop of flat land sat in the cloud beneath the top of the gully. Approaching the steam, ice melted, and the temperature thawed their fingers.

“Looks like we hit heaven, guys!” Benj approached the water, dipping a finger in to find the spring that met the melt to be hot. Deck caught him by the back of the coat collar before he could fall in.

“We need to be careful in times like these, Benj. What if that’s contaminated, or we contaminate it?” Deck hissed. “We need to set up the tent, get a fire built, and find food if we can before we get comfortable.”

“So, we strip out of clothes and then go swimming. I don’t think that anything dangerous is going to be able to live in such a hot environment for any sustained period of time; anyways, we all need a good bath. I mean, archeaos could live in it, but they’ll die once we get out in the cold.” Benj shrugged out his grasp to take the ground tarp Yeller held out to him. The guys scuttled up the side of the outcropping to the flat land and pegged down the tent while the women poked around the edges of the hot spring for out-of-season crawdads.

“All right, Mr Scientist, but if anyone dies, it’s on your head,” Deck grumbled. “Yeller, Nat, you two get a fire started. I’ll see about some food, hopefully,” he commanded. Under his breath, he whispered to Benj, “Are all of us going to bathe at once?”

Tension ran through Benj’s shoulders as the words fell along his backbone. He drove a tent stake into the soil. “Hell, why not?”

Zola and Sun Hee flashed by both of them, butt naked, to splash into the steaming pool. Benj’s jaw dropped as he twisted to see what was happening. The women chortled in glee at the warmth.

Deck patted him on the shoulder, “I think they answered that question for you,” he chuckled. “I’ll go hunt for a bit. Maybe if I let the creature out, I can get a bit of rest.”

Nat fought with the fire while Yeller headed out to the perimeter of the clearing to collect more sticks. Deck left to the forest, dropping his clothing at the edge of the gully. The brindled creature padded into the dense shrub, following a scent.

Benj, halfway through linking the pipes for the tent canopy, looked up to the quiet. “Hey, where’d Hana get off to?”

Nat’s heart skipped as the wolf tossed him back into the darkness. He went to the edge of the clearing and paced off the perimeter, searching for her scent. The smell of fresh blood dripped down his tongue. Herbivore. Nat pushed at the pitch-black, stretching the tightness inside of himself, scuffling for leverage in the slippery cold.

The wolf found the woman hunched over a fresh deer carcass, working the skin off with her pocket knife. She had already disembowelled the beast. The smell ricocheted inside Nat’s skull, sending shivers through his core as the wolf fixated. He gained purchase at that deviation, pulling the wolf from front to shove him to the back of his head. The scene in front of him when he gained his sight back dropped his stomach. “What the…?”

“Dinner?” She tried to smile, her teeth a disgusted clench under a smear of dirt and grime.

“Come on,” he swung the carcass onto his shoulders, “let’s get cleaned up and let this drain.” He led her back down the game path, letting the wolf drift to her clipped steps in the brush. The creature shifted inside him, rubbing at his insides, raising the hairs on his arms. There was that unsettling smell of bird again.

Go to sleep, mutt. I’m not letting you out again if you keep fixating on her.

Like you can stop me.

Yeller greeted them at the edge of the clearing, his eyes flat at the sight of them. He collected the carcass, displeased with the butchered pelt. Hana shrunk under his dismissive scrutiny. A shot of anxiety bunched at the base of Nat’s neck. Sven rolled under the swell of emotions, his ears pricking at the turmoil.

“Hey guys, you joining us or not?” Zola sent a wave of water at Benj. It rippled under along the shore below him. He looked down to catch her laugh.

“It’s not that deep; you can stand in the deepest area!” Sun Hee said proudly, her shoulders showing at the line of the water. Hana shrunk back at the boisterous invitation.

“Be there in a minute. Just about done!” Benj called down. Deck dropped from the gulley edge onto the outcropping, setting a pair of turkeys next to Yeller’s workstation. Feathers. Blood. The wolf scratched and tore. Demanding it’s due.

“Are you gonna join us, mali gavran?” The creature whispered in her ear, his heat brushing against her back.

“Um…no, that’s okay, maybe later…after we eat and that stuff,” she stuttered back.

“A quick dip. You’ve got blood all over you anyway.” He had slipped out of his clothes and waded into the pool by his last sentence.

“I think I’ll help Yeller with dinner.” She thumbed over her shoulder. She turned, swallowing, into a black sweater pulled across a muscular chest. Gasping, she looked up to meet Yeller’s eyes.

He grinned down at her, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “I’ve already got it draining.” He motioned back to the stretched-out meat.

“Come on, it’s warm in there.” Yeller pulled her to the pool. It pained him to do so, but Nat was fascinated with the woman. Who was he to stand in the way? He shrugged his shirt and pants off before he realised that she wasn’t following.

“Come on!” yelled everyone from the water. Yeller stood at the edge of the pool, an embarrassed grin on his face. “It’s warm. You’d rather go to bed clean, right?” he laughed. She stared at the group in startled horror.

“Ah, bring her in the pool, clothes and all Yeller! We need to wash them anyway,” Zola called to her cousin.

“If you say so, Zo. You’re dealing with her.” He shrugged with a playful smirk. Nat’s wolf watched, jealousy burning below his sternum when Yeller caught her.

Down, mutt. You don’t know shit.

He hurts her-

You’ll hurt her before she takes a step, you damn hyena.

I would never.

Bull. You’re barely leashed, and the thing in the background only makes you more volatile.

Sven stilled his restless pacing at that accusation. You feel something else?

Only when you’re particularly dangerous. So, if you don’t want to go lay in the icy river, put your horndog ways away and let me have my emotions back for a damn minute. Jeez, I hate feeling like I’m fourteen again and stuck in a locker room. Go away!

“Put me down!” Hana demanded, swatting Yeller’s chest. He let her down all right, into really hot water. Her clothing and shoes soaked it up. She pulled them off in the water and chucked them to shore, barely missing Yeller’s head, swearing all the while. Turning to her shirt, she got trapped in the fabric. Zola and Sun Hee came to her aid, pulling the hoody free to reveal a pair of long sleeve compression shirts underneath.

“You’ve got blood all over this thing, jeez. Hopefully, the water can pull most of it out,” Sun Hee grumbled to her while Zola rubbed the smear off her forehead. Sun Hee and Hana fought with the last of the compression shirts. It snagged, the hunch to her back shifting. She grunted at the twist as the material came free. The women splashed back in confusion.

Nat approached her first. He brushed at a feather, its silk rippling along his arm. Her black wings spread out at least fourteen, maybe fifteen feet. Deck whistled. How had she been hiding them under the compression tops? Hana was so much smaller than Nat had initially thought, at least half the size. She had wrapped them about her in such a way as to hide them and make her appear larger than she was.

“So, the RWE bomb that fell near your neighbourhood…?” Nat asked as he analysed the massive length of the span. He ran along one of the ridge bones, feeling the muscle tension under it. Hana nodded, chewing her lip. He tripped against hooks and barbs in wonder. A claw wound around his heart, and the creature stole his senses.

The wolf snapped around to settle his acid green gaze on Deck. “Can she be reinfected? Will she really turn wolf?” he hissed, his pitch and octave lower and his vowels accented. Nat pushed desperately to have his place back from the creature.

“I have no idea, dude. This is all kinds of trippy.” Deck shrugged, his eyes wide on the contrast of albino white skin against Hana’s feathers.

“What happened?” Benj asked her.

“Well, I …didn’t want anyone to know. I…” she trailed off when Nat found an open wound on a knuckle bone. Sucking in a gasp, she tried to slide beneath the water, but he had caught the joint carefully, stalling her escape.

“Hold up. What’s this?” The wolf demanded.

She gritted her teeth, seeking to rest her gaze anywhere other than on the people around her. “They do that if I leave them cramped together for too long. The cloth rubs them raw.” She tugged to have him release her. He gave her freedom, backing up to provide some room.

“We’ve got bandages; we’ll put them on when we get out,” Deck reassured. “From now on, leave them out. It’ll be fine. No one’ll hurt you,” Deck soothed as he relaxed against a bank of the pool. She nodded mutely, curling a wing around herself protectively.

The group quieted to find seats on rocks and relax into the soft burble of heat. Yeller emerged a couple of times into the whipping cold to poke at the fire. He dragged over everyone’s clothing at the prodding of the women. They all proceeded to rub out the grime as best they could. Sticks paced around the roaring bonfire acted as clotheslines, helping to dry them out somewhat. Eventually, they set up the deer to cook when some of the lightweight clothing were dry enough to be considered wearable. No one was overly eager to emerge permanently from the hot pool.

With meat finished cooking and heavier clothing dry, they left the shelter of the pool for a meal. Gathering around the roar, they tucked in with a less than polite gusto. Glowing eyes all around twinkled in the night.

“Something’s wrong,” Benj whispered to Nat, nodding to Stitch’s trembling fingers. They waited, watching as she picked at her meal. She rubbed at her side, a grimace seeping at the edges of her eyes.

“Oh, shit,” Nat spat, dropping his slab of meat to the ground as he rushed to her. She fell face first toward the fire, her eyes losing focus.

“Help, now!” Nat hissed. Yeller scrambled for the woman’s trench coat to lay her on. Benj ran a finger down her neck to find her pulse. Nat watched numbers tumble on his lips and an odd pause here and there. Eyebrows knotting, Benj shook his head in confusion.

“What the fuck?” Nat laid the woman down on the ground. The wolf was struggling under him, but he wasn’t putting up with the creature’s jealousy right now. The shadows in the glen deepened with his frustration, the clouds of steam crystalizing to dust the rock and moss in a thin sheen of frost.

“Her rhythm is unsteady. My bet, with being exposed to us, and the hot bath, and little food, she probably fainted.” Benj studied her, pulling an eyelid open and looked at her pupil, not sure of what he had said. The deep black of her iris shifted, bleeding out to a stark grey-blue before seeping back. Nat and Benj shared a questioning glance.

“What’s wrong with Hana?” Zola crouched, her voice crinkling on the ice. Yeller wrapped his arm around his cousin protectively as he gave the winged-woman a once-over. “She’s trying to change, isn’t she?”

Benj bit down on his lip, nodding. “How fragile she is; bird bones and avians aren’t known for having great immune systems; she’ll probably die if she changes into one of us.”

“Unacceptable,” the creature growled, baring his teeth at the threat.

Benj shook his head, “It won’t be that easy, Nat. She’s changed once, and with this new contaminant in her system, she may not be able to prevent it. If that thing takes over, she might not survive the transition.”

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Polaris Skies: Ch 7

“Shit!” Zola’s quiet curse had everyone dashing for the tent.

“What? What? Who’s dead? What’s wrong?” Benj barreled through the zippered flap with Deck tumbling after. Yeller and Nat stood back, trying to see what was happening around the squirming bodies.

“Get the fuck out!” Zola screamed, pushing for Benj and Deck to leave. “Out! Out! Don’t come back in! Don’t!”

“Ah.” Yeller motioned for Nat to follow him away from the group.

“Why is she screaming at Benj?” Nat tugged to keep his coat hood drawn up around his ears.

“That’s her aunt flo curse voice.” Yeller pointed out a dead log, snapping limbs to tuck under his arm.

The logistics of the three women dealing with a cross country journey tumbled onto Nat’s shoulders like a load of bricks. “Oh. Yeah, no, I think I’d be screaming too.”

“Give her twenty and she’s gonna be crying. Think Deck has any ibuprofen in that pack?” Yeller twisted his head in the direction of camp.

“Probably. I’ll go see.” Nat trudged back through their footprints.

“She’ll love you forever if you just hand her the whole bottle and give her a canteen of water and pretend like you know absolutely nothing.” Yeller snapped another limb.

“Good to know.” Nat stubbed his toe on a hidden log and met the snow face first. Spitting flakes, he brushed himself off and dug out Deck’s pack from beneath the rock carne they had made to deter animals shredding the tent for food.

Bottle of meds and half full canteen in hand, Nat pushed past Deck and Benj. He unzipped part of the door and stuck a hand in with the bottle of ibuprofen. “Zola, delivery from Yeller.” One of the women snatched the bottle from his hand. He offered the canteen in the same way.

“What’s going on? Is she okay? Did something happen?” Benj pressed, worried.

Nat raised an eyebrow at his concern. “You have a sister, right?”

“Yeah, not the topic?” Benj returned the quarked eyebrow and buried his hands under his armpits.

“Zola?” Nat called through the tent.”

“What?” She sounded like she was going to take someone’s head off.

“Mind if I let poor lover boy over here in on what’s happening, or do you want me to leave him in the dark?” Nat offered. His wolf roamed at the recess of his head, cluing him in finally on new smells, ones he could have done not knowing about. Old copper, an odd bitterness.

“I will let my wolf eat you,” she bit.

“You heard the lady. Go help Yeller put a fire on.” Nat shooed Deck and Benj away from the tent.

“Why are you being the knight of the tent kingdom?” Deck grouched as he left Nat to go look for firewood.

“Because Yeller asked.” Nat balled his hands over his nose and blew hot air into them in an effort to defrost his face.

“They gone?” Sun Hee whispered through the tent wall.

“No, I’m still here. I can leave?” Nat offered.

Sun Hee popped her head through the tent flap. “Can you see if there are any other jeans in the packs? Anything at all?”

“Who do you think’d fit?” Nat tried to calculate Zola’s wide hips against his friends.

“Yeller and I share the same waist size. I just have to roll up the cuffs.” Zola confided.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Nat sifted through the snow back to the carne and tore apart the packs in search of a pair of jeans. A pair of heavy khaki cargos at the bottom of a bag looked promising.

“Finding what you need?” Yeller whispered over his shoulder.

“Zola asked for a pair of jeans, said yours are supposed to fit?” Nat held the pair up for Yeller’s inspection.

Yeller groaned. “Yeah, she can have them,” he turned to the tent “if she promises to give them back!”

“I ain’t promising nothing until this ibuprofen kicks in.” She yelled back through the tent.

Yeller pulled the zipper and shoved his pants into the cramped tent. “Ó diabhal, col ceathrar. Tá sé ngach áit. An bhfuil tú ceart go leor1?”

“No. I’m in the middle of the fucking woods bleeding like a stuck pig and cramps that’d cripple an elephant. Do I look okay to you?” Zola hissed.

“Tá tine againn. Just fanacht beagán. Seo. Tabhair dom é sin.2” Yeller demanded.

“Like hell!” Zola screeched.

“Col ceathrar3, I’m just trying to help.”

“God. Give the Irish a rest. Your folks taught it to you from a language generator on the internet. It’s not even how it’s actually said, probably. I can do it myself. Just..just…just go away so I can get out of here without all of you watching me. This is embarrassing.” Zola’s voice bordered on tears.

“There’s a creek off to the north of the woods a bit. It travels east, so you shouldn’t have too much issue finding it.” Yeller went back to the mound of packs and returned with a bar of soap.

Nat directed Deck and Benj to put together a fire while Yeller negotiated with his cousin. The fire blooming in the morning chill drew the men around it as they waited on the women to emerge. Yeller dug out a spare bag from the carne and tossed it into the tent.

Hana and Sun Hee were the first to come out. They blocked off Zola from the men who all sat around with worried expressions. Hurriedly, the three women took the bag and left into the woods.

All the men gathered up around the fire to stare at it silently. Yeller set down a couple shirts and a handful of rocks. The women’s muttering echoed loud and clear through the still air. “So, um…period?” Benj finally guessed.

Yeller laid the series of smooth stones along the edge of the fire. “Yeah. Give her the day. Needs to do a bit of washing up.”

“What are you doing with the rocks?” Deck motioned to the line-up.

“Keeping her from crying.” Yeller tossed one stone.

“Why’d you do that?” Benj stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.

“Looked like it’d pop.” Yeller tossed a heap of snow on the steaming stone, eliciting a sharp crack. Poking it with a stick, flakes fell away from the rock.

“That coulda been dangerous!” Deck pointed at the rock.

“Uh, sea4? Reason I moved it before it’d explode.” Yeller turned the other rocks over. Benj and Deck took a couple steps back.

“You okay?” Yeller pulled Nat out of his fixation on the firelight.

“Huh, yeah, why?” Nat blinked, trying to bring his eyes back to focus.

“You were just kinda…staring?” Yeller took a pair of long sticks and moved the stones into a t-shirt and wrapped them up.

“Oh. Wolf shut up for a bit, so I guess I was just spacing out. Need me to do something?” Nat crouched to pick up one of the t-shirts holding a few rocks.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you do that. I got these. It’s alright.” Yeller took the packs and walked off toward where his cousin and the other women and disappeared into the forest.

“Guess we’re sticking around for the day. Might as well get a few shelters built up then.” Deck pulled a collapsible hacksaw out of his pack.

Nat fed the fire while the other men put together several pine tree lean-tos and the women sorted out what was going on with Zola. His hand throbbed near the heat and screamed at him when he got too far away.

[1] Oh damn, cousin. It’s everywhere. Are you okay?

[2] We have a fire. Just give me a bit. Here. Give me that.

[3] Cousin

[4] yeah

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Subgalaxia: Ch 1

She sat rigidly in her chair, her corset pinching at her ribs.  This was not comfortable in the least. What had ever possessed her to go from her folks farm in Kansas to Manhattan of all places was beyond her now.  She had enjoyed the adventure of getting from Kansas to New York, but now that she was here, sitting in a small alcove awaiting her first interview, she was regretting her rash decisions.  She didn’t want to marry Dill. She wanted to have a life, to make something great of herself. She wanted to really have a hope at the very least of raising her station in life. She had been the brightest of her class, and been dared by more than one of her girlfriends to attend college.  And now, here she sat, waiting for the counselor to see her.

It was rather splendid really, this new age.  Women were gaining a few freedoms. She had been able to travel without the need of a chaperone.  She was actually residing at a female dormitory at the moment, though it would have probably been more financially reasonable to have stayed with Aunt Matilda and Uncle Adam, she just didn’t want to deal with family anymore. 

She had more than her fill of being told how she should live her life.  She had left her hope chest at home, in order to make a point that she wasn’t ready to marry, settle down, and have lord only knows how many children.  That was not in her future or her interest. She wanted to dance at a nightclub, to taste her first champagne, to sparkle.

She had been sitting for the last hour.  The other two women that had been with her had already come and gone.  She reached into a pocket of her vest, extracted a dainty pocket watch, and popped the lid open.  4:55 p.m. Her face paled as her stomach grumbled at her. If she wasn’t seen today, she wouldn’t be able to enrol, and the office closed at 5:00 p.m.  She sighed, frustrated with herself that she had allowed herself to hope against hope that she could actually make something of herself. Maybe Ma and Pops were right; all her talent lay in mending and cooking, and she wasn’t fit for a degree.  “Ms Teslanoviach? We’re so sorry for the delay, Mr. Bradshaw can see you now,” a wiry male called out to her from a door.

“Oh. Coming!” she bustled herself out of her chair, grabbing her portfolio excitedly. This was really going to happen. She followed the man into the dimmed room.  It was packed with books. A balding older gentleman in a Victorian suit slumped over his desk, scribbling away under a dying lamp.  “Mr. Bradshaw, this is Nicole Teslanoviach. She has come here from Kansas,” the wiry man stopped to glimpse over her application before handing it to Mr. Bradshaw, “to enroll in the science curriculum.” he passed off the pages.

Mr. Bradshaw glanced at the pages quickly before motioning for Nicole to take a seat.  “I’ll get to the point miss. This program is new, and not the most settling of fields for a gentlewoman such as yourself.  There are dangers in the laboratory that are not suited to a female disposition,” he gently tried to rebuff her dreams.

“Mr. Bradshaw, sir, I believe that the laboratory will not disturb me in the least.  I have looked forward to working with this institution for longer than you would believe,” she giggled, trying to win the man over.

“My dear, I don’t think you comprehend my meaning fully.  There are chemicals that might severely impact your health.  The anatomy laboratory is just not…” he blushed, “it’s just not proper for a woman.  After all, the zoology room would probably make you faint,” he tried again.

“Sir, I grew up on a self-sufficient farm three towns away from the nearest railway station.  I, being an only child, had to help with all the chores on the farm, including butchery and fertilizing the fields.  I’ve had my hands in more mechanisms than you could bat an eyelash at, and I’ve dealt with more rank, rotting things than you would want to encounter, sir,” she answered defiantly.

“Still, my dear, maybe you would rather apply to the fine art class or the history college.  I hear that the Latin professor is exceptional this year,” he pushed.

“No sir, this is what I want to work towards,” she didn’t budge.  Mr. Bradshaw was becoming upset. His face had reddened to a dark crimson.  She sat rigidly in her chair, her corset pinching, but she never wavered. This was her dream, and she was going to make it into a reality.

“Ms. Teslanoviach, I will tell you this now, and only now, and the decision is final.  There is no more space in the science college. You can learn a humanities or you can leave.  On top of that, you said you came from a small town? Can you even pay for your education?” he scoffed at her.  Her face paled. She had hoped that there might have been some ability to attain a sponsorship or patronage. Her dreams were shattering into tiny jagged pieces around her.  “No, Mr. Bradshaw, I do not have a sponsor. I had hoped-”

“You hoped?  Miss, please, for the sake of my time, and this fine institution, leave.  Apply in a few years when you can pay for your education or you have retained a sponsor.  Mr. Yeltz, see Ms. Teslanoviach to the door,” he dismissed her.

She sat stunned, perplexed, for a second, not certain if she should argue or leave in a dignified huff.  She looked into the face of the wiry man, his china-blue eyes pitying her. She wasn’t going to have it. One thing she knew was that she did not want anyone’s pity.  She rose, put off with the situation and sauntered out of the room. She made it to the end of the hall and out the door before tears started stinging the back of her eyes.  If she hurried, she could make it to the shadows of one of the Grecian columns before the tears would mar her makeup. Tears started flowing, blinding her vision as she turned a corner.  She felt pebbles scuttle under her heels and the clang of a metal can that she tripped over.

Thud.  She ran into someone.  “I’m sorry,” she apologized as she tried to make her way around.  Ham-sized fists settled on her narrow shoulders, “Oh, now, lass, what are you doing in this part of town?” a gruff voice asked her. 

She looked up, startled to find herself lost in an alley. The man before her was stocky, dirty, and Irish. Her heart lept and started thudding heavily in her chest.  “It looks like I’m a bit lost, sir. Do you know a way to Five Corners?” she asked, terrified for herself.

“Oh, missy, I do, but it’ll cost you,” he laughed. His hand clamped around her arms as she tried to pull away from his grasp.

“My, my flighty bird, aren’t you excitable.” He picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder.  She screamed and kicked.  Her petticoats took the brunt out of her struggle.

The snap of leather cut through the dismal walkway.  A steady metal rap on rock and dirt trembled across the walls.  “Unhand her.” A soft western drawl reverberated through the space. Nicole turned to see the man commanding man.  A three-piece suit and leather duster. His face and hair were hidden beneath his straw hat.

“Ohho, what’s a cowboy doing in these areas?” The man holding her spat.

“Took a left at New Mexico and ended up here.” The westerner approached the brawler quickly, snapping his cane quickly across the man’s rough hands.  With a shriek of anger and pain, the Irish man pushed Nicole away from him and hurtled himself at the newcomer. The wall greeted her, sending her into a puddle of blackness.

A quick step back from the rushing man and a swift hand jabbed into his throat, and the westerner brought the Irishman down. The brawler struggled for breath, spread out in the mud.  A jab to the gut with the metal-tipped cane guaranteed the man would stay down.  The Westerner analyzed the woman sprawled on the ground.  He sniffed disdainfully at the unconscious creature. He withdrew a pocket watch from his vest and checked it. A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips before he hefted her into his arms and strolled out of the alley to disappear down a glowing blue corridor.

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Fyskar: Ch 4

Dry grasses whispered in the warm wind. The sun seeped along the edge of the horizon. Sand scattered beneath his shoes. The bird at his arm shifted, the creature’s hooded head twisting at the noise, sending the knotted tassel bobbing. ​

“First true free flight, physician. Chances are he won’t come back to you. Will you let Qasim fly?” A warm voice at his back eased his tension. Eoin leaned into the bird, pulling the ties loose and dropping the little piece of leather. The bird blinked, focusing on his face. Gold avian eyes dilated. Qasim yawned, snapping his beak and swallowing. Twisting around, the golden eagle analysed its surrounding. The bird dragged its beak through its flight feathers. A rise of his back feathers followed by a shake had him calm and ready.

Eoin unwound the leash from the bobble at his glove. Releasing the chord from the jesses at Qasim’s feet, the doctor whistled once. The bird stepped back and forth on his hand. A ground bird let out a squawk. Qasim turned to narrow in on the potential meal. Eoin put his arm out for the bird. A second whistle. The bird dug its talons into his long shirt sleeves. It squatted. Drawing in its shoulders, it launched, feathers rustling, catching the morning breeze.

Eoin woke to a draughty room filled with baskets, dried herbs, and winter provisions. Turning, he watched the banked fire, waiting on his dreams to stop pulling at his heartstrings. He was home, and yet, this was no home. Dragging himself out of his makeshift bed, he took up the iron poker and shifted coals into a pile. He laid out a set of small sticks on the coals and waited for them to catch as he washed his face in the basin of water before pulling his mask on.

With the fire roaring and the couple in the other room still asleep, he pulled a small black cauldron from the rafters. Filling it with fresh water, he shifted the tri-pronged feet of the black, pot-belly vessel into a set of large coals.

He turned from the fire to his pharmaceutical cabinet and opened up tiny drawers and doors. Into a silver cup from his chest, he carefully ladled little spoonfuls of powders and leaves, exacting in his measurements. When the water in the pot had come to a rolling boil, he poured the liquid into the cup and allowed the mixture to steep.

He returned to the legged pot and shovelled coals out from under it, letting the rolling boil come down. Turning to Seonaid’s stores, he scooped in millet and barley to set up for a morning porridge. He refused to take his mask off in front of the couple. They had found the compromise of him preparing the morning meal and eating before they rose to suit everyone in the house.

Eating quickly, he filtered the sediment from his cup and drank the steeped solution, blanching at the bitterness. He washed out the cup and bowl and set them back to order. Staring at the ornate geometry etched into the little silver cup, he ran through a list of his chores and inventory that needed to be performed.

Settled and fed, he proceeded with his compounding pots of salves and lozenges. Getting into a rhythm with his work, Eoin tended to lose track of his surroundings. He flinched when the door to Fearchar and Seonaid’s room creaked open. ​

“Mornin’, Waerd.” Fearchar yawned in the door frame. He scratched his chest as he walked over to inspect the cooking pot.

Morning. Eoin signed a short form reply over his shoulder.

“Work already? Ye’re awful busy. Ye still intent on goin’ ta town ta admin’ster, rather than wait up here for vis’tors?” Fearchar filled his bowl, sat at the table, and proceeded to down his breakfast.

Yes. Eoin stacked a series of short pots and thumb-sized cloth bags to the side of his work area.

“Who are ye, Eoin? Where’d ye learn ta do all a’ this? The villagers like yer medicines. The other doc in town doesn’t understand yer methods. They work, though. Ye’ve made a pretty coin and good trade-off yer business. What could there be fur such an upright man a’ society ta lead ta wantin’ ta do what ye’re paying us for? Where did you come from?” Fearchar chomped down on a spoonful of porridge. Eoin shrugged. His hired hand had a habit of asking these questions in the morning. Not like the plague doctor needed to answer. He had paid for work, not to be questioned. Eoin ignored the redhead like he did every morning.

“A Southron. Why else’ld you wear thae suit? Come frae money. How’d ye know ye’re way ‘round a cook fire? Aristocrat, how else’ld ye’ half thae gold. Yet ye serve the poor ‘n care fur the sick. Ye act as though ye grew up in the village. Ah tell ye a name. Ye ken where ye’re goin’. Yet, no’un here knows a’ ye. Ye’re a layer a’ questions, Waerd. Tha’s what ye’re.” Fearchar leaned back against the warm fireplace stone as Eoin’s piles grew. “A destitute aristocrat. Fallen from the whims a’ the crown. Had to make a living and took this on after yer wet nurse taught ye a couple draughts. Nah. Tha’s not right. Ye’d a’ stayed in yer great house had ye coin like what ye paid us. Who are ye, Mr Niloofar?”

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The Feather on My Scale: Ch 2

“Think he would fit in?” I tugged off a stack of gold rings upon entering my private chambers.

“One way to find out.” Ptolemy grabbed the wab by the collar, pushing him against the wall.

Wash squeaked, his eyes going wide. “Please, don’t kill me!” His hands clasped around Ptolemy’s arm. Feet up, the wab twisted, nailing him in the stomach. 

“Got a bit of a kick to him.” My bodyguard caught hold of the wab’s foot and pressed in closer to stall his movements.

“Let go! What do you want from me?” Wash tugged back his foot. Straddled by Ptolemy’s height, his toes slipped on the tile.

“How about kissing you?” Ptolemy closed the scant distance, piercing aqua eyes studying the scattering of constellations across the man’s nose. Wash shivered at the question, his eyelashes sweeping down. His throat worked over, and the tips of his ears went red.

“There’s always other ways to find out, Ptol.” I dropped the pile of rings in a dish a servant would return to the temple priests.

“I can let him go.” Ptolemy hadn’t backed up yet, even with that suggestion.

“I doubt he would try to run away at the moment.” I raised an eyebrow in their direction while a pair of footsteps approached.

Nebra’s draped robes slipped against the flagstone.  “He’s cute. Just a snack, or are you sharing? Totally Henu’s type, don’t you think, Ptolemy?”

Wash gulped audibly, his eyes flashing to study the tall woman. His cheeks paled under her analysis.

“He doesn’t weigh more than a feather, Henu. You’re thoughts?” Ptolemy ran fingers up Wash’s neck to trace the hollow behind his jaw to his ear, twisting fingers into black curls. I had forgone joining with Nebra and him this morning, and he was using this moment to torment me and the untrained priest.

“Thoughts, Wash?” I shrugged off my robe, tossing it on the arm of an upholstered chair.

“Sir?” Wash twisted from Ptolemy’s face.

“On being my hierophant? I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I’m a sacrilegious heathen.” I shifted from dismantling to watch my general and the object of all our interest.

“Wait, what?” His tight grip on Ptolemy’s arms loosened, and he rested his weight against the prosthetic between his legs. He flicked a questioning glance up at my bodyguard’s chest. “That-that doesn’t hurt, does it?”

Ptolemy chuckled before turning into a full rawr of laughter. “You don’t keep him, Henu, I’m keeping the little piebald dove.”

A black shadow passed the threshold, robes and hair touching the floor in a cascade of death. “Henu doesn’t speak Imperium or Angelus, and supposedly your work through the temple would render you multi-lingual. Not a lot of people in Hawria speak Imperium.” Seth walked past, his face in a book. Nebra slipped fingers around his waist, stalling his progress toward my library.

“I’m still pinned against a wall here! Wait, you’ve got me in here to translate? No, I can’t. I’ve never been high enough up to be issued classes. Something about being an incomplete person. You know, the whole strippedy bit on my face.” He went to touch his forehead in explanation and instead tapped Ptolemy on the arm. “What about me getting Mubkharatan into Imperium. Weren’t you going to kill me for smuggling people out?”

“Adom was the one that mentioned death. I didn’t. So, life or death for you depends on some things. You’re a whole human; what the hell are you talking about? You aren’t dead here,” I protested the statement.

“Tell that to the priests and the townspeople. They firmly believe part of my soul has been left out of my body. And that’s a hard stigma to handle.” He pushed a hand up along the stripe to tunnel fingers into ringlets, scattering them into a disorganized halo. “What do you mean fit in?”

“Depends on some things,” Ptolemy muttered, shooing Wash’s fingers from curls to carefully twist them back into shape. 

Wash stalled under the treatment, unsure of what to make of the giant keeping him in place to preen him. “Things? I can do almost anything if it means you not smashing my skull in right now. I will continue to protest the treatment of Mubkharatan.” He pointed an angry finger in my direction. “That won’t change. Most everything else is up for bid right now.” Wash waved his hands in compliance. 

That had my attention. I turned from devesting myself of way too many presumptive bobbles to return to where Ptolemy had the wisp pinned. “Anything?” I mused to my group of advisers. Seth closed his book with a snap to look the man up and down as Ptolemy continued his fixation. I could have sworn until my dying breath that he was a reincarnated cat of some type, the level of pride he took in grooming everyone around him.

“Anything. You have my life. I won’t betray you. I would say on pain of death, but I’m partial to death not being painful, if you could please,” Wash swallowed.

“Careful what you promise, wab,” Seth hissed.

“Depends on if you fit in.” I pulled Nebra and Seth in under my arms, kissing one then the other’s neck, finding the soft weight just below Seth’s binder. He tapped my hand with his book.

“Fit in?” Wash asked, confused as he watched us. “Wait. Who are you people?”

Ptolemy released him, letting him slide to the wall.  My military adviser turned to me, slipping his hand around my neck, pulling me to his lips. I could melt every time he touched me.

Wash startled at the contact. “You’re, you’re, you’re,” he stuttered, trying to get past his shock. I released Nebra and Seth. Ptolemy moved away, giving me space. 

Nebra continued her hold on Seth, nuzzling his neck where I had kissed him. “Concubines. Think wives and husbands without the political pull, so to speak. He’s supposed to stay unmarried to be able to join a faction. Something to keep the nobles happy,” Nebra informed him, looking up from her hold.

“Not that I’ve found anyone I want to deal with in that type of condition. Wash, have you ever met the eligible of the Nobles? Talk about a headache I don’t want to deal with.” I pulled the long gold hair sticks from my mane and let it drop around my shoulders. Adom always twisted so tight, I’d think he was trying to pull my face in half.

“Finding someone who’d fit into this happy little menagerie you’ve got going here, Henu, is not going to be an easy feat if you’re considering marriage vows.” Seth cautioned.

“Fit in? You, you…you want me to be one of your concubine?” His eyes were approaching the size of saucers, flicking back to me. Ptolemy sidled back over to him to straighten the wab’s robes. Wash flicked a confused glance across Ptol’s fingers and took the treatment.

“That depends. You’re not Noble, so marriage is off the table.”

“Depends on what?” Wash pushed for Ptolemy to give him room.

“If you want to be a consort to the King, Wash. You’re a wab right now. If he banished you to the outskirts, you would still be wab. It’d mean changing your vows, though if you became Henu’s.” Ptolemy released the man.

Wash straightened his collar and shifted his belt to tighten the folds of his clothing back in order. “You do know I’m a Mubkharatan, right? Like, that wouldn’t fly in court, you know, right? I sort of was just caught for shielding Mubkharatan.”

Seth snorted at the protest. “A Mubkharatan. That’s what you’re afraid of? Your king having a Mubkharatan consort in his bed?”

“No, wait. That sounds really bad. That’s not…what?” his face paled as he worked through her statement. “Bed?” he asked.

“Concubine. That’s what he was saying,” Ptolemy gave him a toothy smiley, the type full of fangs.

“Would I be taking you away from a lover by keeping you captive here?” I asked.

He paused. Shook his head. “No, no one. The temple took me in when my parents couldn’t afford to feed me and all my siblings. Having half a soul made me unfit to share cups with another priest or priestess. No one has ever indicated even a passing interest, and I’ve kept myself to myself because of that. They wouldn’t want my taint.” He indicated the difference in the colour of his uniform and made the mistake of fiddling with his curls again. Ptolemy was hard-pressed to keep the ringlets from going astray.

“So, no one to worry that you aren’t coming home for your dinner? No leftover crush that would leave you pining for another’s arms? Are you interested?” I asked.

“I’m…I don’t…I don’t know you well enough to feel comfortable just jumping into your bed, My Lord.” He pulled the edges of his robe tighter at his chest.

“That’s why I said be careful what you promise.” Seth gently thumped him on the top of the head with his book.

He swallowed. “I promised anything.” He turned back to me. “I mean what I say.”

“I don’t want anything, Wash. If this isn’t something you’re partial to, I can see about getting you smuggled into Easimal for your own safety. I would not count you as safe from Adom or many others for having protected Mubkharatan. As consort, I can protect you with my name, with the people’s belief in my sanctity to keep you clean.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the Rake of Iunu who takes advantage of everyone? Why are you asking me if I want in on this? Don’t you just go up to people and like… you know?” he demanded. Well, that reputation hadn’t died. Kiss Ptolemy one time in front of his commanding officer, and now everyone calls me a rake.

“Is that something you were hoping for?” I slipped my fingers up his hand, pulling it to my lips. A sliding sensation ran beneath my skin at the contact, a piece of me easing out of my fingers to where we met.

“Just a little unexpected, My Lord,” he whispered, his hands warming in mine. “What are you, sir?” he asked, his fingers drifting along mine as I let go of him.

“How do you mean?”

He rubbed at his chest, flicking a glance away from the four of us. “You don’t feel like normal people, My Lord. My Catalyst reacted to you,” he admitted quietly, his shoulders shaking.

I turned to Ptolemy, raising a questioning eyebrow. He shrugged, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

“Catalyst is your burning. Then there’s the cool down; what was that called again?” Nebra asked.

“Repercussion. Some Mubkharatan are Consumptionists. Some are Performers. It’s like our brain kind of trips out after we use our power and has to meet a certain set of circumstances so we can function normally again.” Wash replied.

“And you touched me, and it did something to your Catalyst?” I tested the idea.

“I felt – I felt really powerful, Sir. I did every time our skin touched. Please don’t kill me.” He pulled his hands in under his arms protectively, flicking a nervous glance at Ptolemy.

“I won’t if you quit asking me not to kill you.” I gave him a bit of distance.

“Okay.”

“How rude is it to ask what your Catalyst is?” I ventured.

“You are the King, Sir. I can’t tell you what is or is not rude.” Wash regarded the tile at my feet with detached fixation.

“Are you comfortable showing it to me?” I moved back toward the living area, encouraging my concubines to open up space for the man to breathe.

“Not really,” Wash pulled his hands out from under his arms to rub at a shoulder. He flicked a glance between Ptolemy and Nebra. She shrugged and turned to one of our benches to collapse upon.

“Answer me this, then. Is it dangerous?” I pulled off the last of my robes to leave me in my skirts and necklace. The room finally felt cool.

“I’ve never produced a hot enough flame to burn anything. I can’t, even if I try.” Wash’s attention narrowed to drag along my stomach as I turned back to him. The tips of his ears were turning a shade of crimson. I raised an eyebrow at his unerring fascination. Ptolemy and I shared a smirk while Wash tried to get his tongue to obey him.

“A flame that won’t burn? Impossible!” Ptolemy protested, drawing Wash’s attention away from me. He glared at Ptolemy’s exclamation, his gaze fleeing to my feet once more. He held out his hand, palm up. An image of a standard-size black cat sat on it. 

I reached out to touch it, meeting Wash’s cold glance over the apparition. The creature slinked to my hand as Wash watched its movement. Dry heat shrouded in cold air stepped onto my hand. Weightless, its paw prints whispered up my sleeve as it climbed up and onto my shoulder. It launched, turning into a multicoloured bird before plummeting to the ground to bounce as a red ball. The ball rolled to the middle of my chamber and flattened, seeping across the tiles. Grasses and dunes rose up, encompassing my room in a flickering hallucination of the mountainside. Sweat beaded along my sides and lower back as the temperature in the room rose.

“What is this?” Nebra walked into the oasis, touching the wavering juniper growing in the corner. Her fingers sank into the ghostly image.

“My…my Catalyst,” he swallowed.

“This is fire? Nothing’s burning?” Ptolemy took in the bizarre images.

“Not all catalysts are destructive,” Wash hedged quietly.

“How long can you do this for?” Seth circled the scene, intrigued.

“About another twenty minutes. My Repercussion gets worse the longer I do this, though, or if I make the mirage bigger,” he protested.

“What happens with your Repercussion?” I turned from the scene to regard the wab.

“I have to eat.” He was trying to become one with the wall.

“That’s not a problem. We have plenty of food here.” I waved toward the other end of the hallway where my dining quarters lay beyond the library.

“Not just anything, My Lord.” His voice cracked. His eyes were turning glassy.

“Consumptionists. They have a vice, right? Whereas the other type, actors or something like that, they have to repeat a task a number of times, yes?” Ptolemy recalled as he brushed at the breast feathers of a perched bird who regarded him with indifference.

“Yes, sir.” Perspiration gathered at the edge of Wash’s hairline.

“And what is your vice?” Seth returned to the man.

“Honey.” He flicked his glance across the floor to study where tile met the wall.

“How do you obtain it as a church member? Honey is incredibly expensive!” Seth gasped. Nebra caught my eye over his head and nodded. She left for the com to summon a servant while we continued plumbing the depths of Wash’s skills.

“It’s not safe for me to use outright, so it’s not like I get much of an opportunity to practice with it,” Wash retorted.

“I’m sorry, that was unfair of me,” Seth conceded.

“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t polite of me to snap at you like that.” Wash sank to his knees and bowed low to prostrate himself against the tile as his position called for him to do.  Watching the shake in his fingers, I realized it was also a way to hide the toll producing the mirage took on his body.

Nebra returned with a decanter filled with raw honey, warmed to liquefy its viscosity. Holding it, she glanced between Wash and myself as if to ask who to give it to. I motioned for the cut glass, taking it from her offer. “You wanted a rake?” I approached him as his images disintegrated around us and took a knee to put me on his level. “Know something?” I drew his attention to look up from the floor. Slipping fingers up the column of his throat, I caught the curls at the back of his head to hold him where I wanted him. Glazed mismatched eyes flicked between me and the decanter. “I’m keeping you, my hierophant.” I took a swig of the honey and kissed him, duelling with his tongue as his focus melted beneath the onslaught. 

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 5

Requies had provided me with the apartment number while I had mulled over my first introduction to his place of business. After a longer than necessary chat, I headed out his door and made for the west end steps. I had left Cortex and Tempestatis back at the warehouse to wait on orders. I had also left them with an order to obtain the pickled crabapples for me if they insisted on playing another round with the guys while they waited for my report back.

Ascending the steps, I caught my first glimpse of one of the rumoured Rubrum men. Sure enough, in the shine of mid-afternoon sun, the flag of a red diamond was stitched into the guy’s patchwork jacket. A three-bar stripe was pinned under it. Probably had some meaning.

I slipped my shoes off on the second floor below them and ascended the steps quietly. If I lost anything, I knew the coat would survive, but I always suffered issues finding new shoes. I was not going to replace my new boots.

At the top of the flight, I slipped down the concrete porch until I was right behind the man with the coat. He was oblivious to my approach. Which was a blessing. Ment no fire. I picked him up by the back of his neck and the waistband of his pants and tossed him over the edge. On second thought, as I watched him fall, I probably should have broken his neck. He screamed rather loudly before hitting the bottom. I sighed. The scream brought out another guard, this one searing my sinuses with rat tobacco. Jeez, I wouldn’t be able to smell anything for the next fifteen minutes at least.

I ducked from his barreling fist, but he twisted, landing a solid punch to my chest. My lungs wheeze at the abuse. He mewled at the crunch of bone. Trusty trench coat to the rescue. I returned the favour, giving him an upper hook to the sternum. He coughed up blood, coating my sleeve. I grabbed the back of his neck and brought my knee up to break his nose before pumping him full of flame till he glowed from the inside out. I tossed his corpse over the rail to join his fellow guard.

“That leaves one last thing to do. Let’s find out what’s behind door number one.” I twisted into a hook kick and slammed into the aged wood. The door splintered in, sending shrapnel and the door handle into the drywall. Three men ducked under the impact.

“All right, you bleeding saps, the infernus you doin’ on Caeruleum territory?” I grouched as I rushed in. A muffled cry drew my eye as I took in the room, grabbed one guy by the wrist and yanked him out of the room and over the rail. My brain registered the mewl from in the room.  A body had been strapped to the bed, a black sack over his head. Of fuck no. Not on my territory. They were getting evicted the satisfying way.

Two of the men stood around the bed, startled. One pulled a dagger from a sheath at his back and rushed me. The second lout brought down a ham sized fist to my shoulder. I blocked the knife and turned into the punch. Contact. The crunch and overwhelming scent of copper heightened my need to burn. Two bodies hit the floor, smouldering. I kicked them, though I was sure they were already dead.  Shit.  Should have kept one to drain out.  This was going to be a rough ride back.

“Right. Out you go. No need to make good ole’  Requies come up and pull you out,” I muttered as I dragged the corpses out and over the railing. I dusted my hands off and walked back into the apartment.

I pulled my com out and switched channels. “Tempestatis?”

“Tempestatis here.”

“Bring your guzzler around and have Cortex set up defence in case. I sent a few men over the edge of the railing. Should be dead, but I’d rather you not get blasted,” I checked the small closet and tiny bathroom for any other men.  Maybe I’d get lucky and find a quick snack. I was not keen on getting ambushed, though.

“Guzzler, boss?” Tempestatis asked. I could hear his boots hitting gravel. He was doing what I asked; he was just curious.

“Requies’s info was golden. Got a guy from the trafficking ring they were running on our territory. Rubrum is gonna have some issues with me if they keep encroaching.” I bared my fangs.

“Need one of us to come up to you?” I heard that hitch in his voice. He always hits that one note. That one note and I quiver under my own immense sense of guilt. I switched the com off as I turned back to the man in the bed. One leg was chained to the footboard. The opposite arm was strapped to the headboard. Poor bloke.

“Easy, easy,” I tried to reassure. “I’m gonna take the bag off,” I explained as I approached the side of the bed. The man was shaking. He was pasty white, underfed, and probably just a few inches shorter than me. His one free hand he balled up in a fist and lashed out, trying to defend. “Stop, stop. I’m not going to hurt you,” I soothed, standing well clear of his flailing. I switched to Angelus and repeated my statement. He quelled momentarily. I circled around to the other side where his hand was bound. “Don’t go kneeing me in the head,” I muttered as I reached over and pulled the bag off.

“They’ve sent another one,” he muttered, tears staining cognac-coloured eyes. I was anticipating his hand coming up to lash out. I wasn’t anticipating the twisting in my chest when his eyes met mine. He didn’t try to fend me off. Instead, he moved to cover himself, cringing with embarrassment and fear. Welts ran the length of the back of his arms. The Rubrums were asking to be disbanded. “I’m not with the Rubrum. I’m going to let you out, okay?” I turned to the bound hand. The chain lock was going to be easy enough to melt, the manacle lock would take someone back at base to pick through.  I could never manage fine point work with my heat.

“You’re not with Gemma?” the man gulped. His voice was soft, and it slipped down my spine like silk. That was new.

I pulled back my shirt collar to reveal a knotted blue thread lacquered into a brass necklace. “I’m Caeruleum. You’re on my territory, so under my protection,” I explained while I dismantled the lock at the headboard.

“You’re with Nigrae Lunam?” he asked, fear lacing his voice. Why did my Alias on his lips send shivers across my skin?

“What’s your Alias?” I asked, turning to his leg. Zip ties for the chain were going to be a snap. The weld mark between links that kept the chain bound to his foot, though… Clavis would have to do something about that. He was the best I had at tiny heat.

“Sanctus.” He quivered at the question. He rubbed at the circulation in his hand. The metal had cut into his wrist.  He was covered in the smell of oxidizing and fresh copper.

“Right, Sanctus. I’ve got a man coming with a guzzler. Do you want in or out of the territory?” I asked.

“You’d harbour me? What about your boss? I’m Rubrum.” He sat up when his foot was free. His auburn hair tumbled around his shoulders and down his chest in tangled knots. He peeled the sheet off his back. More marks flayed it.

I pulled my trenchcoat off and tossed it on him. “Here. I’m not seeing clothes around here for you.” He pulled it on, unable to look at me. He cowered at the crunch of gravel under tires. “I tossed the Rubrums out, but there’s no telling if they have backup. I’m going to make a dash for my men. Can you make it with me?” I asked. He nodded solemnly. He stood up and wobbled. “They haven’t fed you, have they?” I prodded gently. 

He shook his head. “Been three days…maybe four,” he murmured.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “A’right, here.” I leaned over. “Let’s get you out of here.” He climbed on. Piggyback wasn’t my usual method, but whatever. The guy’s back and arms were liable to be tender. I wasn’t about to fireman hold him. The fire in my blood sang to me. That aggravating Repercussion. I could taste my desire at the tip of my tongue. Whatever it took, I was getting the man out of the hotel and somewhere safe before I went on a Rubrum hunt. I knew where I’d take my next meal.

“Boss?” Cortex asked at the entrance to the hotel room. He surveyed the scene and the gaunt man on my back. “Report was right?” he ducked me out of the room. We took to the stairs like bats out of Infernus.

“One of the victims.” I tilted my head to indicate Sanctus. He weighed nothing. He had laid his head against my neck, his breath warm. “Need to get a crew out here to work surveillance. Can you get Fornacem on that when we get back to base and send  Requies payment for the trashed door and drywall. The rest should be billed to Gemma by way of Caeruleum. I want her to know that I found her botch job.”

“Yes, boss.” Cortex jumped the last couple treds.

Tempestatis had brought the heap of junk we called a guzzler around as close to the stairs as he could get for us. Cortex ran around to the passenger side and slid through the open window for the com. I could hear him issuing commands.

The guzzler was a modge-podge hack Clavis had tossed together for us that drank biodiesel like an alcoholic. “Boss!” Tempestatis opened up the back door for me when he saw my hands full.

“Easy with this one. His back’s almost gone.” I gingerly set the man down.

“Gemma’s just begging to be dethroned,” Tempestatis hissed as he approached Sanctus. The man pressed against my back in terror. The guzzler was unsettling, and so were Tempestatis and Cortex. I’d seen it before when we’d rescued others in the rings. “Sanctus, this is Tempestatis and Cortex. They’re gonna take us back to base.” I eased his death grip on my sleeve. My Repercussion kept going haywire every time I touched his skin. I was going to need to eat soon if the throbbing rings in my eyes were any indicator.

“Wait. Did you call him Sanctus!” Cortex popped his head up over the top of the guzzler.

“You know him, Cortex?” I prodded as I ducked the man in. 

“Not personally.” Cortex opened up the opposing back door and reached in to help ease the man in, keeping to the sleeves of the trench coat. “Careful,” his tone went soft with Sanctus. I cocked my eyebrow. “Get him in, boss, and on our way. I’ll tell you. Means I’ll need to double Fornacem’s patrol though and arm them,” he grumbled. Sanctus whimpered as he sat into the seat.

“Can’t be comfortable.” I got in after him and closed the door. Cortex clicked the other door shut and slid into the front passenger seat. Tempestatis floored it, and we fish-tailed out of the parking lot and onto the street.

“It’s not,” he agreed, pain radiating across his face.

“Anything I can do?” I asked. He shook his head and leaned his forehead against the window to watch the blocks fly by. He shifted, trying to take pressure off.

Three-quarters of the way back to base and Cortex turned around in his seat to talk to me. “Gemma’s not gonna let him go easily.” He flicked a glance to the man sitting next to me.

“Sanctus?” I asked sceptically.

“I can buff,” he admitted quietly. He attempted to shrink his lanky self into a ball.

“Power up? Wait. You’re one of the three Providentia?” I demanded, my heart hitting the inside of my ribcage. Oh, we had just taken one of Gemma’s really shiny toys. She was going to throw a royal tantrum, and there would be fire in Imperium tonight.

“You’re gonna put me in a cell too, aren’t you?” he pressed himself into the corner between the door and the seat. His eyes bit into my core. Something familiar about his face. It nagged at the back of my brain.

“Is that where Gemma’s been keeping you? Why are you in Caeruleum territory?” I twisted a bit to put some distance between me and the man sitting next to me. More space, more breathing room.

“Gemma’s planning something. She sent me up with the front to infiltrate the territory. She keeps me caged if I’m not buffing someone.” His voice was getting quieter.

“Not putting a damn Providentia in a cage,” I hissed. “Like Infernus I’d think of putting anyone in a cell for their power.”

“Speaking of power, boss…” Tempestatis let on as he reached for the com. “Hail, Maria Mater?” he clicked over the station. A couple seconds elapsed as we all waited for her to answer.

A crackle and pop of the speaker announced someone on the other side. “Maria Mater here,” her voice chirped over the speaker.

“Everyone’s heading back. Get Medicus. We’ve got Rubrum’s merch,” he instructed.

“See if Archimagirus’ll get some food for him. Said he hadn’t eaten in three days,” I instructed. “And Vestitor. Don’t think my coat’s gonna work for his wardrobe as a permanent fix.” 

“Got it!” I can hear the relief in her voice, and shouting for others on her side of the com.

“Maria Mater, see if there’s volunteers,” Cortex glanced back at me. I hate that analysis.

“He burned, didn’t he? And didn’t leave himself leftovers?” I heard her seething. Shit. “Yeah, I’ll round up some volunteers. Oye, Erumpo, go see if anyone wants to play Dracula’s thrall for a bit! Archimagirus’s getting food ready!” 

I cringed at that announcement. I was such a waste of everyone’s power. 

“How many you need, Maria Mater?” Erumpo barked. “Anyone wanna help boss today?” 

I wanted to crawl into the trunk of the guzzler. Turn the damn com off. The guy next to me was practically vibrating.

“I want to say two, but have four on hand,” Cortex reached back. His blue threaded bracelet flashed in the sunlight. His thumb drew against my barcode. The scent of pine, yeast bread, and copper was just enough to ignite that roil beneath my skin. I hate my Repercussion. I despise my reaction to it. My fangs slid down, deforming my lips.

I can’t really hide it. I tolerate Cortex testing. He’s fed me more than anyone else on the base. He knows how far he can press without getting under my skin about it. I trusted him to know me better than myself when it came to my Repercussion.

“Make that a solid four, and Archimagirus might need to put on potatoes or a half slab of bread, whatever we’ve got that’s heavy on the stomach,” he instructed. “Boss, you’re sure you don’t…?”he went to offer. I shook my head, pushing his hand away.  

Sanctus turned to look at me, curious about the interaction. “Volunteers -” his eyes meet mine over Cortex’s hand. “You’re Nigrae Lunam.” His fear was palpable in the tight space. Fangs and black eyes seem to have that effect on the uninitiated.

“You didn’t know? Lunam, it is polite to introduce yourself or do you have absolutely no class?” Tempestatis asked as he slid into the base’s warehouse.

“He had asked if I was with Nigrae Lunam and sounded scared asking, so I didn’t feel it necessary to terrify the man,” I growled as I opened my door.

Maria Mater stood on the floor in the midst of Clavis’s section of the shop staring at me with a twitch in her jaw. “Tell me you at least killed the bastards,” she spat. She was really put off. Dropping a pair of Accendium who couldn’t speak Imperian on her apparently did that to her. She’s not really a kid person. She’s more a do her own thing person. People tend to refer to these types as cat people. I knew enough house cats to call her a tiger.

Cortex helped Sanctus out of the car as Medicus arrived with Hyacinthus and Archimagirus. “Where’s our patient?” he asked as he surveyed the four of us. Cortex pointed to Sanctus, who was trying his best to become one with the frame of the guzzler.

“Go easy on him, Medicus. He’s a victim of the Rubrum’s ring, and a Providentia, so, gloves,” I instructed, wiggling my fingers.

“Gloves?” Archimagirus asked with a plate of baked potatoes steaming. He looked about ready to throw a fit. He hated anything that took away his tactile senses.

“Woah, seriously? You just took a Providentia from Gemma? She’s gonna be pissed!” Hyacinthus smiled amiably at the timid man.

“Is Fornacem getting everyone together?” I asked her.

“Hubby and Fornacem are already pulling three five-man teams. We should have a full rotation down at  Requies’s in the next twenty,” she reassured. 

I nod and turn back to the growing crowd. “Unless he says you can, don’t go touching him,” I hissed as I walked up to my co-leader.

“How many?” she demanded from me. I stood there looking down at her sparkling blue eyes, guilt trying to bite into my stomach. “Three with fire, two just jacked over the edge of the railing,” I admit. “And I melted a lock and several zipties.” I tacked on quietly.

“He also busted one of  Requies’s doors!” Cortex added on for good measure.

“I didn’t burn that one!” I justified.

“Couldn’t just keep one of them to bleed dry?” she snapped her fingers. A set of men and women looked out through the doorframe.

“Not here, and not in front of you or him.” I nodded back to Sanctus.

“You keep insisting on propriety,” she grouched.

“‘cause you keep looking at me like I’m an abomination.” I finally dropped that bit of information I’ve held back for too long.

“I keep looking at you like this because you don’t trust me with a basic function of yours. Everyone else has seen your Repercussion. You treat me different, and everyone talks,” she whispered fiercely. 

I looked at her, stunned. That had never occurred to me. I just didn’t want to scare her. She was my co-leader, and I had never known that had been a thorn in her side. “Oh…”

“Will four do it? I had six who said they’d be willing,” she asked, her tone level. I’m not sure what to do with this. Six years and she’d never told me it bothered her.

“Three. Can you see about finding him a room? Was Vestitor able to find him clothes?” I asked.

“You didn’t give us a measurement, so Vestitor’s waiting for him after Medicus. I’ll get him the spare room next to your’s set-up. Why are your eyes so black? They don’t do that unless you’ve gone completely ballistic. You didn’t blow the hotel, did you? Three. Is three gonna really be enough?” she pestered as I strode toward the door.

“I did not detonate. Especially not for four men. Not enough to make me feel like I’d need to,” I quipped. 

She pulled me around to look at her. She pressed her hand to my forehead and the swamping scent of lilac and blood just about drove me through the roof. I pressed her hand away, only to feel another set of hands grip onto my sleeve. Hades, please let someone kill me now. I prayed. I looked down to a pair of cognac eyes that begged me not to leave him. I could get drunk on that colour. “Medicus’ll see to you, Sanctus. You’re safe here.” I tried to dislodge him. He shook his head adamantly.

“He doesn’t want to leave with Medicus.” Cortex came back around to my other side. “Can’t get anyone close to him. Shaking like a leaf and doesn’t seem to understand us.”

I let the gears click in my head as I tried to figure out how to detach the distraction from my side. Finally, I turn to him in full. “Sanctus?” I asked. He hummed a quiet reply. “I need for you to go with Medicus. It’ll be better for him to see to your back. I thought I scared you?” I kept my tone quiet. I hoped it was gentle. I was having an infernus of a time controlling my fangs. I could only imagine what my face looked like at that moment.

He shook his head mutely. Maria Mater crept closer. “Sanctus?” she asked, her voice soft. Oh bless the little hearth mother. He burrowed into my side. I wished he wouldn’t. The Repercussion was setting me on edge, and he smelled like a warehouse of copper pipe, sage, and rosemary.

“Let’s move this to somewhere quieter. Does that sound like a good idea?” she asked him. He contemplated her question, his fingers waivering nervously on my sleeve. He nodded mutely, unable to look up at her.

“Let’s head to the green room then. I’ll let Lunam show you where it is after I’ve had everyone get their stuff together, okay?” she explained. I don’t know what kind of magic she had for making people do what she wanted, but without fail it always worked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, his voice barely more than a spider’s thread. Maria Mater nodded with one of her charming smiles and turned to usher the rest of the group out of the way. Her voice undulated down the hall as she provided instructions. Archimagirus would drop off food in the room for everyone. She sent Hyacinthus, Cortex, and Tempestatis off to help Fornacem and Mercator. Medicus was to wait back in clinic for later. Tension eased down my spine. That was why she was my co-leader.

That left me with Sanctus, who had finally untangled himself from my arm. The shop had quieted, save for Clavis, who was tinkering off in the far corner with a generator. The man didn’t talk to anyone if he could help it. He liked his machines and his privacy.

“Sanctus…” I went to speak, but I couldn’t find the words. They were stuck in my throat. He pulled my trench coat closer around him. I’d smell him for days. Let me die and bury me under ten feet of clay. He couldn’t see my remedy for my Repercussion. I couldn’t let him. “What do you know of who I am?” I kept my tone as even as possible, switching to Angelus.

“Nigrae Lunam, leader of the Caeruleum. Has eyes that go completely black when he’s angry. Reason he’s called Nigrae Lunam. Walking bomb. Set him off and he vaporizes everyone indiscriminately. Doesn’t like anyone, so everyone is a potential target. Leader cause he forces others to work for him under threat,” he answered, cowering further into my coat.

“That’s a lot to unpack there,” I concede. “You’re a Providentia, so you’ve seen a lot of Repercussions, right?” I leaned against the corrugated wall. He nodded, not looking at me, though his hand never left my sleeve. “You sure you don’t want to go with Medicus to the clinic and get your back taken care of?” I did not want to be having this conversation. He shook his head vigorously. “Gemma or any of the other Rubrums ever tell you what my Repercussion was, not just my Catalyst?” I asked, this time unable to look at him. Some people got to sing lullabies. Others had to go run a mile. Clavis got to set a hundred screws in order from largest to smallest. Tempestatis had to stack a set of metal disks twenty times. Cortex’s was mopping. Maria Mater’s Repercussion was similar to mine in liquid consumption – though hers was respectable water.

“She said you killed people before and after your Repercussion,” he gulped.

“She’s not entirely wrong,” I admitted. He looked up at me, his skin going sallow under wide eyes. “Most of the time, I don’t kill people,” I shrug. “It happens, though.”

“Then the volunteers?” his voice cracked.

“This is why I want you to go see Medicus in the clinic and not follow me,” I tried to allude.

“They’re going to die? And they’d do it willingly?” he gulped, horrified.

“No. They aren’t dying,” I soothed. 

The shop com crackled next to my ear. “Okay, Lunam, we’re ready for you. Medicus’s back at the clinic. Just get Sanctus over there after you’ve eaten,” Maria Mater interrupted me.

“You don’t need to see this. Not after everything you’ve been through.” Wet heat burned at my eyes. I couldn’t imagine what seeing me doing this would do to him. Not after what Gemma and her people had taken from him. His hand quivered on my sleeve. “You’re terrified of me, but terrified to leave me. I’m very confused, Sanctus,” I explained as I motioned for us to walk down the hall.

“I know what you do. So I know I’d go fast,” he explained.

Oh great. I was his get-out-of-life quick ticket.

I opened the door to the green room, the room we used to put formal guests when we were waiting to get them into the council room. Archimagirus had left trays of finger sandwiches and baked potatoes on the table pushed up against the wall. Six volunteers, three men and three women, stood just inside, laughing about something. Trust Maria Mater and Cortex to not trust me with how much I needed.

I drew in a breath and stilled my nerves. Usually, this was easy enough to do, but I had to consider the man at my side. “Thanks for taking your time, guys. Means a lot. I appreciate it.” I do make it a policy to thank them for this. It wasn’t something they had to do.

“No probs, boss. Anytime,” Praesepe smiled, brushing back his black hair from his eyes.

“You just know you get the day off tomorrow for it. What is it this time you’ve got your bet on?” I asked. I know this foolhardy kid. Two inches taller than me and built like an ox, we’d been asked on more than one occasion if I was his father. Never sure if I should feel insulted or complimented about that. I was only ten years his elder. He had a string of underground bets going on at any given time.

“How long it takes for Gemma to send her crew over to  Requies’s.” His smirk was malicious. Kid very rarely lost his bets too. “Want in on this one boss?” he offered as he extended his wrist. I swallowed the smell of compost, camomile, and blood. My stomach screamed at me, and saliva swamped my mouth. “Ten on,” I let go of my inhibitions. The feeling of puncturing, that crackly sound of flesh as my fangs sliced into an artery, was alluring. I heard a muffled gulp and cognac eyes left me feeling something inside my bloodlust that I had never felt before. “Ten on.” Praesepe’s smile slid across my shoulders as I let my high control me.

Eventually, a tap on my shoulder had me closing his wound, and I was turned to the next person. Yeast and leaf mould. “Flumen,” I greeted.

“Nice to see you back, boss,” her voice was low and husky.

I make an effort with each volunteer to greet them, talk to them, be familiar, treat them like they aren’t just food. I hate my Repercussion, and this was the best I could find to apologize for being me. “Greenhouse going alright? I know you had Clavis put in those new fans. They helping?” I swallowed as my body shook in anticipation.

“Much better. The citrus mould is down. Gonna lay in the hammock tomorrow and enjoy it.” She raised her wrist higher for me. I sank into it happily. Volunteers get the next day off. It’s another policy I passed when Cortex tried to help me and fell flat on his face after one of my feeding sessions.

I went through my third one and thought I was done until Sanctus got too close to me. My heart went into my throat, and I dearly realized that my thirst had not slacked. Two more volunteers later, and I was glutted out. The last of the six left unhappily. He wouldn’t be getting the day off tomorrow.

“So…” I turned to Sanctus as I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief I kept on me for just such occasions. I couldn’t tell if he was in shock or not.

“I thought…Gemma always said….” He was trying to wrap his head around what he had just witnessed.

“Here, come on.” I motioned him over to the table. The others had already eaten their fill to start making up for the blood loss. I put a couple sandwiches in Sanctus’s hand. “Eat,” I encouraged.

He stared at the food in his hand in confusion before looking up at me. “Really?  Is it okay to?  You have green eyes,” he told me in surprise. 

I blinked at this statement. That was not where I thought this would go. I snorted. “They aren’t always black,” I laughed. I’m so used to everyone who works around me knowing my eye colour that I often forget newbies aren’t familiar with it.

“They’ve been black since you took that hood off me, though the black took over more and more.” He pointed out as he finally bit into a sandwich. Watching him eat was relief enough for me.

“Indicator that I used my power. At least, that’s how I see it. Doesn’t do jack for my vision. I can’t see in the dark, and it doesn’t make light better or worse unless it goes all the way to the edges. I’ve seen it in mirrors before, and yeah, it’s trippy as infernus.” I smiled. I felt like a rolly-polly and comfortably warm. Sage and rosemary was only dimly nagging at my periphery.

“So…not angry?” he asked as he shovelled the rest of the sandwich and half of the next one in his mouth. 

I handed him another one, and the shock of his fingers bumping against mine sent a wave of electricity rolling under my skin. “Lasts until I fix my Repercussion.” I’m not sure why watching him eat was proving to be such an interesting thing for me. I’d had meals with enough other people over the course of my life and had not taken an interest in fingers holding a sandwich, or perfectly straight white teeth biting into bread. It was all I could do to draw my attention away from the soft pink of his lips.

“You haven’t used your power since getting in here. Why are they going black again?” he pointed out.

Wait. What? Not possible. My stomach said I was a pig and a half. I stepped back until I could see myself in the mirror on one of the walls. Sure enough, to my horror, they had gone completely black. “The infernus is this?” I asked.

“You’re Nigrae Lunam; I’m new here,” Sanctus pointed out, though with his trembling, I think he’s more pomeranian than human.

“Yeah, and this is new in my book. Well…I’m not hungry. I couldn’t eat more. Let’s get you to the clinic. Maybe it’ll go away,” I said hopefully as I directed Sanctus out of the hall and to the clinic.

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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