There had been very few times in all of Deòthas’s long years that she’d felt empathy for a bhampair, yet she empathised with Tor as he sat in her car, defensive and silent. She could appreciate his resentment at his parents’ unwillingness to use his full name. Her own mother hadn’t wanted to name her at all, and Deòthas still suspected the midwife may have been the one who gave her a designation. Even after that, her mother, Drùis of the Rìoghail House, could never bring herself to use her only child’s name.
Truthfully, Drùis had barely acknowledged Deòthas’s existence at all. When she did she addressed her not by her name but as ‘mo mhasladh’; her shame, her disgrace. Yes, Deòthas empathised with Tor. Even though she didn’t want to have anything in common with the boy, whose scorn had been undeniable the previous night, despite what he now claimed.
But had his contempt really been directed at her?
Tonight he’d looked at her with such desire, and while many men had looked at her with eyes glazed by lust over the years, none had done it of their own volition. No one had ever felt attracted to her without her magical intervention. She had never been wanted for herself. Never. Yet that had been the fragrance colouring Tor’s scent, and it had been in the gleam that had brightened his eyes, hadn’t it? It was need? A craving for her? Was he capable of dreaming of her the way she’d dreamed of him during the day?
But no, it wasn’t possible. No bhampair would lower themselves far enough to give a second glance to a fey-born, as he’d called her. Certainly not a bhampair who had as much potential as Tor. He was strong. He was handsome, even with his longer-than-was-fashionable hair, and especially with his ultramarine eyes. He couldn’t possibly want her. And even if he did it would be for nothing more than a fling to sate his curiosity about the last fey on this side of the veil. She had no interest in that.
“Here we are,” the rookie said at last, as she pulled off the main road onto a gravel drive. A long gravel drive which was already choked by Comhairle land rovers.
Parking on the carefully tended verge, Deòthas killed the engine.
“We go on foot from here. Get your hammer. Stick with me no matter what, you got it? You stay at my side as if you were glued there, understood?”
Tor nodded but still didn’t speak. Instead he frowned up the twisting drive. The house was still out of sight but that didn’t lessen his anxiety. Deòthas wondered if he were worrying about his first battle, or if he was more concerned about his parents’ reaction to the path he’d chosen to walk.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, without understanding why she felt the need to say it. Why should she want to comfort him when he wanted rid of her as quickly as possible?
“They may well kill me,” he answered softly, and the reply still didn’t clarify whether it was the marionettes or his family he feared.
“They’ll hate that I disobeyed them.” That statement explained what played on his mind, at least, but Tor didn’t give her a chance to respond as he quickly added, “Come on. Let’s do what we came to do.”
Side by side they made their way up the driveway, and as they drew closer to the house, Deòthas could hear sounds of battle. The ringing of steel on steel and the war cries of the ghaisgich echoed through the trees. The marionettes didn’t shout as they fought. They made no sounds of fear, or of pain, or of frustration. They only ever spoke to convey messages from the Manipulator.
She found their silence in battle to be more unsettling than the stench of their decay and the blankness of their vacant stares. The marionettes could unnerve even hardened warriors, and Deòthas doubted Tor would ever have witnessed a puppet before. She hoped he’d keep his cool but few did. Not the first time at least. Warriors recovered quickly but the first battle was always hard on new recruits.
“I was in Masquerade the night the marionettes attacked the club,” Tor said, as if reading her mind. “I saw them tearing folks apart. It seems so long ago now… I was underage at the time, too weak to fight and so I hid. They would have found me eventually but I stayed in the crawl space under the stage praying for rescue. Then I saw Corvinus arrive with his team and knew they’d be my salvation. Once the ghaisgich entered the club the puppets lost interest in civilians and so I ran, just as soon as an opportunity presented itself. I hated myself for my fear. I swore then that the puppets would never make me fear death again, and if I had to face their evil I would willingly go down fighting.”
Admiration welled up in Deòthas’s chest at his admission. The massacre at Masquerade had been early in the war with the Manipulator. It had been unexpected and catastrophic. Very few survived the slaughter and Tor had been lucky. Even so, his fortitude did him credit. Not many would be able to witness the Marionettes’ mercilessness as a child and have the strength to face them as warriors.
After pressing her fisted hand to her chest, Deòthas then held it out to Tor in a gesture she’d never made to any ghaisgeach, and which no ghaisgeach had ever made to her. “You are strong, brother. May you earn your brands in battle, so that all can see the strength you offer your race.”
Tor’s intensely blue eyes widened in surprise then he pressed his fist to his heart and mirrored her salute. “Thank you, sister. I am humbled that a warrior as worthy as you would grant such praise and blessings.”
Worthy? He thought her worthy? The rookie’s words and gesture meant more to her than she would ever admit. It had been so long since any warrior had viewed her with anything but disappointment. She’d even pushed Tancred and Corvinus towards frustration in recent years, and they’d been the only ghaisgich who’d ever even tolerated her company. But there wasn’t time for sentimentality.
“Come on, rookie, let’s go and earn your tats.”
He followed her without question.
When they finally reached the lawns at the front of the house, Deòthas and Tor paused just long enough to assess the situation. Ghaisgich fought side by side against more Marionettes than Deòthas had ever witnessed in one place. There were so many more than the expected twenty. The puppets had to have some purpose, with darker intentions than simply killing civilians. The Manipulator wouldn’t risk so many to accomplish pointless murders.
Is this why he’d had doctors generating bodies? To build up an army he could use to assault specific targets? How many puppets had been created? Enough to attack Comhairle facilities? The last thing supernaturals needed was that level of warfare, neither the Council nor the civilisation as a whole needed more losses. This attack was bad enough.
Strewn among the fighters were the bodies of those who’d fallen. Thankfully the corpses were all puppet and civilian, as far as Deòthas could see. No warriors. But who knew how long that would last? And while she was grateful there were no substantial Comhairle losses, civilian deaths never boded well for the popularity of the Council. Tancred had spoken from experience earlier; dead civilians made life uncomfortable for everyone.
A piercing scream broke through the battle cries as a female bhampair was pulled from the house, struggling in the arms of a puppet. At Deòthas’s side Tor roared in fury, his cry both possessive and ringing with an anger which sounded far too personal. Leaping forward he dashed towards the struggling woman and the monster who was dragging her down the steps of his family home.
Deòthas flinched, startled by a wave of jealous panic as Tor charged towards the woman. Where had the emotion come from? He wasn’t hers to be jealous over. Not that she had the time to worry about that or the strangeness of her reaction. Dwelling was a luxury she didn’t dare claim. Instead she leapt after Tor, wishing he’d obeyed her command to stay close. If he got himself killed there’d be hell to pay, even more so than Tancred would demand for their disobedience.
Really, she should’ve been relieved that she didn’t plan to increase her popularity; the last two nights antics would prevent any progress on that front...
At least she needn’t have worried about Tor, and she took her turn at gawking in amazement as the rookie hurled himself at his foe. He tore the Marionette away from the terrified girl as if the creature remained as weak as the frail mortal it had once been. He tossed the puppet to the gravel drive, leaping after the sprawling corpse and wielding his hammer as if it weighed nothing. The head of the huge maul arced down, the force of its impact squashing the Marionette’s skull as if it were a grape, and rending it’s body useless to the Manipulator. Tor spun on the spot, sending the oversized hammer curving upward into the chin of another advancing puppet and knocking its head clean off.
The rookie’s eyes glowed with their own fierce light as he glanced back at Deòthas, the brilliance of his irises heated by battle but also shining with a hint of amusement.
“I know, I’m incredible,” he yelled through the battle. “Now are you going to join in are you going to stand there gawking for the rest of the night?”
Deòthas grinned at his teasing query and her smile broadened further as a brief shimmer ran over Tor’s flesh, giving him a momentary golden hue at the same time as his red tattoos darkened to permanent black. Well done, rookie. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a warrior handle his first kill with such ease. She would have happily watched him fight all night, admiring his determination and precisely applied strength. Only Tor was right, she couldn’t spend the duration of the battle staring at him and leaving herself open to attack, vulnerable.
As her own foes charged towards her, she tugged the huge claymore from her back and gripped its handle with ferocious resolve. Then she battled through the oncoming puppets, severing heads from necks as she fought her way to Tor’s side, where he continued to fight to protect the civilian girl. The female whimpered at his feet, so weak and so afraid. What could such a girl mean to a warrior such as Tor? What did the fragile bhampair mean to her rookie, to her partner?
Gods, yesterday Deòthas didn’t even want a partner, now she felt like having a possessive outburst over him, mid-battle. What had come over her? Lust? Was that what lust did? Did she use magic to trigger such a response in others?
She had to get her mind back where it should be, on killing marionettes.
With a snarl, she claimed the head of another puppet. The thing bounced on the gravel drive, coming to rest at the feet of the terrified civilian as she crouched behind Tor. The girl screamed again and the rookie turned back towards her, genuine concern in his eyes as he knelt beside her, taking her hand in his.
“Ealasaid, shhh, be calm, my sister. I’ve got you, alright? Nothing’s going to hurt you now.”
Sister? The woman was his sister? The relief that flooded through Deòthas was entirely inappropriate, and yet she couldn’t help it as she planted herself between Tor and the advancing enemy. If the woman had been an ex lover, or worse, a current lover, Deòthas may not have been able to bear her proximity. Now? Now she’d protect her with everything she had to ensure Tor never felt that pain of her loss.
Hell, her emotions were entirely irrational and yet no amount of self-reproach could get them under control.
“Tor!” she interrupted as several marionettes hurled themselves in her direction. “A hand would be appreciated.”
Springing back to his feet, her rookie moved almost as gracefully as she did. Only there was no hiding the raw power in his body as his muscles rippled under his t-shirt and he raised his maul again. He radiated strength, so much so that he seemed unconquerable. Even Tancred didn’t exude pure strength the way Tor did. Not to her eyes, at least.
When Deòthas moved, Tor moved with her. She barely noticed the connection at first, the way he shadowed her. And the way she shadowed him. When she raised her sword in a defensive stroke, Tor instinctively defended the side she left exposed. When he felt forced to twist out of the way of an advancing marionette, she moved with him, automatically slipping in behind his attacker and ending the creature.
As they fought together, Deòthas learned Tor’s strengths and weaknesses, and he learned hers. Fighting side by side came naturally as they utilised the combination of their complimentary techniques in battle. More naturally than Deòthas could’ve ever predicted. She doubted she’d ever worked so efficiently with any other ghaisgeach.
In fact, she knew she’d never worked so well with any other ghaisgeach.
Yet with Tor it came instinctively.
Running on nothing but intuition, Deòthas found herself predicting Tor’s movements and moving to accommodate and support him. And when she moved, he seemed to do the same for her. How was that possible? It shouldn’t have happened, yet as the bodies of defeated marionettes piled up around them, Deòthas felt invincible, and that was all down to her rookie. Fighting with him came so easily, so unbelievably easily, and she could’ve taken on the world if she’d been asked to. She trusted Tor to keep her back and suspected he trusted her to keep his.
But such a depth of trust wasn’t meant for her. She couldn’t put faith in her emotions, not as erratic as they had been since she returned to the castle the previous night. Her faith would misguided because she couldn’t trust anyone. Never.
Sure, she’d seen other pairs function as single units, but they had worked together for years before achieving such a feat. They’d trained together. They trusted each other implicitly because they knew they could, not just because poor intuition was overruling the very cynicism they usually used to ensure self-preservation. Why did she feel so sure Tor had her back? He couldn’t possibly have her back. Their unified front had to be an illusion.
Tor grabbed her upper arm, tugging her out of the way of a charging marionette and destroying the thing with one easy swipe of his maul. Another puppet leapt at the rookie and Deòthas flew into action, throwing her body between Tor and the threat without conscious thought. She snarled a warning growl as she saw to beheading the wretched thing.
No one attacked her partner. No one.
“They just keep coming at us! At us specifically, not the others!” Tor yelled over the cacophony of metal clanging against metal and enraged war cries.
He was right. The puppets were advancing in droves on their position, disengaging from other fights in order to turn in their direction. What in the name of the Great Father..?
“They’re after the girl,” Deòthas shouted back while destroying yet another enemy as it reached for Tor’s sister. “But they aren’t trying to kill her, just separate her from us. She’s the target!”
Or one target, at least.
Thankfully Aodh and Seren seemed to realise the same thing, and with their teams in tow they carved a path through the marionettes to take defensive positions around Tor’s sister. United around Ealasaid, the wall warriors would be impenetrable… hopefully.
“Pleased you took the hint!” Aodh yelled at Deòthas as he approached.
She allowed herself a challenging grin as she answered, “You get a nervous twitch in your left eye when you want to do something Tancred won’t like. It was there the whole time you were glaring at me so I figured you were condoning disobedience, which is highly out… of… character!”
A series of thrusts punctured the end of her retort as she battled back yet another puppet. As Deòthas swung at the corpse, she felt fire rip through her side. She must have torn open her self-stitched wound, damn it. Oh well, she’d stitch it up again later. Provided there was a later.
“Gods, how many of these things are there?”
“Too many,” Seren answered as she sent her etched sword through the throat of an enemy. “But I think we missed some of them. There were range rovers pulling out of the drive as we approached. Chloe, Callum, and Peter pursued, but there were too many still here to send anyone else with them…
“These corpses are bloody insistent!” she added as she swung her sword at the next puppet, who’d taken the place of her previous kill.
“What could they want with..?” Aodh’s question trailed away as he became preoccupied with staying alive again.
Sweat poured over Deòthas’s brow as she struggled against their enemy. It proved tough going, even with Tor determinedly showing his worth on one side, and Aodh displaying why he’d taken the mantle as Tancred’s second on the other. Her injury burned and she dared not touch her side, suspecting it would be soaked with blood. Again. The rank smell of her decaying enemies was probably the only thing masking the fragrance of her own blood, and she felt grateful for that; the last thing she wanted was for Aodh to decide she needed an evac.
Still, a sense of relief washed through her when the horde of marionettes finally began to thin out. Then, without any clear reason as to why, the puppets fled. Every single marionette reacted to some silent command, turning on their heels and scattering in different directions.
Perhaps the Manipulator had realised he was losing too many of his soldiers? Or, thinking about the range rovers Seren had mentioned, perhaps he already had what he wanted and no longer needed to keep the ghaisgich busy? Deòthas hated that thought, but the pessimist in her didn’t believe in good fortune and the marionettes’ retreat could certainly be seen as good fortune. She chose to view it with open suspicion.
Aodh signalled for his team to follow the puppets, perhaps hoping to destroy as many as possible before they could escape back to whatever manner of evil controlled them.
“The rest of you find Corvinus and the safe room,” Tancred’s second-in-command ordered as he went after his warriors.
Seren’s team entered the house alongside Deòthas, Tor, and Ealasaid, as Aodh had directed. The civilian girl shivered, a mess of fear, only upright because Tor kept her that way as he led them through his family home.
They headed directly for the basement safe room, in the hope of finding Corvinus and his team alive and well, stepping over civilians and puppets alike as they made their way through the debris. Many of the dead civilians wore formal attire, the men following a strict black tie dress code and the women bedecked with jewels. The guests screamed ‘money'. The wealthy had clearly come out to play, and instead they’d been slaughtered.
Not that Deòthas needed to see the diamonds on the fingers of the woman she’d just stepped over to know that she’d entered the realm of socialites. The house itself gave that away. Its rooms were filled with antiques and the finest quality furnishings. Whatever else you could say about them, Tor’s parents certainly liked the finer things in life.
No wonder they didn’t appreciate Tor’s choice of profession. While the bhampair class system had, technically, been abolished centuries ago, the wealthy often felt entitled. They were behind much of the scorn cast at the warriors whom they felt were outdated and unnecessary. Or maybe they remained bitter; even after the nobility lost their rank, the Comhairle still held a position in bhampair civilisation.
“They were hosting a party?” Tor hissed at his sister as he skirted around an overturned table. His boots crunched over the broken champagne flutes which must have cascaded to the floor when their oak table tipped onto its side. “What were they celebrating?”
The bitterness in his tone caught Deòthas’s attention, and she trained her ears on the siblings as she followed them through the mess of upended furniture, wasted lives and spilled wine glasses. Discarded canapés littered the carpets, their silver trays lying where they’d fallen beside the murdered remains of serving staff.
Some party it had been.
If anything, Ealasaid seemed to pale further at Tor’s question, even as she clung to his arm. She hesitated before she managed to admit, “My engagement. They were celebrating my engagement.”
Tor stiffened, and while he continued to bear his sister’s weight, his tone grew a shade cooler as he replied, “Congratulations. I hadn’t realised he’d finally popped the question.”
He hadn’t known his sister was engaged? Deòthas stared at the bunching mass of muscle tightening under Tor’s t-shirt as he fought whichever surge of emotion disrupted his calm focus. He tensed, clearly upset… why hadn’t he known?
Tor’s sister looked down, and Deòthas suspected she didn’t want to meet her brother’s eye as she whispered, “You know what father’s like.”
If anything that answer only caused Tor to tense further as he asked, “You mean you weren’t allowed to tell me until after the party, so I couldn’t show up uninvited.”
His sister didn’t answer and Tor didn’t push for a response. Maybe Ealasaid’s silence was all the confirmation he needed and the brief, personal conversation peaked Deòthas’s curiosity. It also reawakened the sense of empathy she’d felt upon learning why her rookie still went by a diminutive of his name.
As she followed the pair through the extensive property she shifted her focus to the family photographs decorating the hallway walls, and what she saw did nothing to help the dull ache of sympathetic pain which pierced the centre of her chest. Tor featured in many of the older photographs, as a baby, and as a chubby cheeked toddler. But as the timeline of images progressed he featured less and less, and eventually disappeared altogether. An outsider might be forgiven for thinking the youngest child of the family had died somewhere around the age of ten. It happened regularly, after all. Many bhampairean died young.
Photographs of Ealasaid and a boy who must’ve been Tor’s brother dominated the walls. They were pictured at parties, dressed up, in clippings from some small scale newsletter… Yet Tor was nowhere to be seen. Ealasaid and Muiredach both pictured in graduation photos, the images spot lit and hung in pride of place, yet there was no celebration of Tor’s accomplishments. It seemed strange that he had no graduation photo. Most modern warriors were educated. The Comhairle didn’t just want thugs.
“Tor,” Deòthas asked softly, “why didn’t you go to university?”
He glanced back at her in confusion. “I did, I…”
He caught sight of the graduation pictures and his expression clouded.
“I have a first class honours degree in History and Politics from Northumbria University. My father saw no purpose in my seeking to understand human social development and doesn’t feel that my university of choice was prestigious enough to merit recognition. He wanted me to follow Ealasaid. She studied Law in the supernatural specific school at Cambridge. My brother also studied Law, but in the supernatural department at Oxford. If I’d taken after him, my photo would have been up there too, maybe. At the very least my father expected me to study accounting so I could help him in his business dealings. I wasn’t interested in either of those options.”
“You only did a human degree to irritate father,” Ealasaid whispered quietly. “He would have forgiven any topic which could’ve been useful to our kind, but you wouldn't hear it. The effort you must have gone to in order to arrange night classes just so you could rebel… he deserved more from you.”
Tor sighed, the sound a one of frustration and weariness as he took a left turn and began to descend a staircase.
“I studied human history and politics because as a ghaisgeach I may be called upon to defend our race from humans. It seemed wise to understand them. I did it because I knew what I wanted, Ealasaid, not because irritating father was my goal. I didn’t need to spend thousands on university fees to irritate our sire. Simply being myself does that quite well enough on its own.”
“Well from the tattoos, I take it you got what you wanted and father didn’t,” Tor’s sister answered as she pulled away from him, her strength returning now she faced a familiar argument rather than a ruthless foe.
“Perhaps your father had already moulded too many people into his image, in you and your other brother,” Deòthas snapped, although she knew it was foolish to rile up members of bhampair ‘society’.
Her mouth didn’t seem to know when to stop, however, as it just kept on going as if it had disconnected from her brain and was being controlled entirely by her…by something else.
“Your family should be honoured to have one of its children brave and pass the ghaisgeach trials. You father should thank the gods for blessing him with a son strong enough and just enough to bear arms for his race. Your family should strive to be worthy of Tor, not the other way round.”
There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, as if a number of warriors had just witnessed an event they couldn’t fathom. Or that was so outrageous they felt shocked to their cores. Deòthas didn’t turn, she didn’t want to witness Seren’s dismay or the scorn of her team. Instead she glared at the back Ealasaid’s head until the weak child turned to face her.
To a lesser person the fury in the woman’s eyes may have been frightening. Many of the poorer bhampairean feared the rich. Deòthas simply felt contempt. No doted on daughter of a socialite was going to intimidate her, especially not one who would speak to Tor with so much derision.
“How dare you!” Ealasaid spat, anger bright in her eyes which were so similar to Tor’s but didn’t shine with his strength. “No warrior,” she all but spat the word, “speaks to me like that. Who do you think you are?”
Snorting her disdain, Deòthas pulled herself to her full height, standing straight despite her injury as she let her gaze roam from the girl’s head to her toes and back again.
“I am Deòthas of the baobhan sith. You will do two things, girl. You will show me the respect I am due, but more than that you will show your brother the respect he is due, both as a ghaisgeach of the Comhairle and for saving your sorry life.”
“Deothas…”
She was used to being censured but when Tor said her name she froze and unfamiliar heat rose to her cheeks. For the first time in centuries she allowed herself to be reprimanded without rebellion, even though his simple use of her name cut her deeper than any lecture Tancred had given throughout her many centuries.
“Would you prefer I waited back at the car?” she asked stiffly and another hiss of surprise filled the space behind her. Shit. This exchange would send the heads of her colleagues spinning almost as much as hers seemed to be.
“No, of course not.”
While Tor’s response came instantly and sounded genuine, Deòthas had to wonder if he wouldn’t be happier if she were elsewhere. If his father was safe and sound then he was going to have big enough problems without her runaway mouth exacerbating the situation.
“I can go…”
“Deothas, no,” Tor stated again. “You don’t have to… I’d prefer you to stay.”
He winced then, confirming her suspicions that he would rather she was somewhere else. However, when he added, “Let’s just go and make sure Corvinus is alright,” she followed him in silence, overly aware of the numerous stares still trained on her back as if she’d grown an extra head or a tail.
Thankfully, when they reached the basement, they found it free of enemies. Well, almost. But the marionettes which remained certainly weren’t going to be standing up ever again. Ghaisgich milled around as Corvinus shook his head at a keypad and screen next to a great steel door. Upon hearing their approach he turned around, surprise registering on his face as he noticed Tor and Deòthas.
He shook his head again, admitting, “Tanc will have your head for this, Deòthas, but I’m pleased you brought the rookie.” The ancient roman then grinned at Tor, “You earned your tats, well done. That must have been one hell of a hazing.”
That was one way of putting it, Deòthas thought to herself.
“Now you’re here, maybe you can help,” Corvinus continued. “There’s a number of people in the safe room but they’re terrified and won’t open up for me. Do you know the key code?”
“Sure.”
Tor stalked over to Corvinus, took a deep breath as if trying to fortify himself, and opened the door. As the first civilians stepped from the safe room he folded his arms defensively over his chest and waited, tension radiating from him. Deòthas recognised his posture. Hell, she’d adopted it often enough over the years. One part defensive, two parts defiant. He adopted the stance with reason.
A woman with his dark hair and ultramarine eyes glided through the steel door. When she caught sight of Tor she reached briefly towards the tattoos on his face but her fingertips never made contact. She let out one keening howl of grief and then turned from her son without so much as saying his name. Ealasaid ran to the woman first, then threw herself into the arms of one of the emerging men. Her fiancé, no doubt.
Two more men followed the fiancé, two men who shared identical mousey hair and cat-like yellow eyes. Muiredach was easily recognisable from the quick glace Deòthas had given his graduation photo, and she guessed from their similarities that the other man must be his father, Tor’s father, Artair. Neither man acknowledged Tor as they joined the rest of his family, although several of the others who followed them from their prison cast furtive glances in the rookie’s direction.
Only one woman went to him. The blonde grabbed his hand as tears streamed over her cheeks and Deòthas took a step forward before she could still her body and prevent it from getting between Tor and the stranger.
The woman looked up at the rookie, a plea in her eyes as she wept, “Have you seen my husband? Have you see Bhàtair? Torquil, have you seen him?”
The woman used his full name and Deòthas's posture eased. At least someone respected him, even though no other survivor who would meet his gaze as he shook his head.
“I haven’t, but we’ll look for him. We’ll find him, Elspet. We’ll find him.”
Only they didn’t find him, not even amongst the dead, and Bhàtair wasn’t the only civilian missing. Many had died but at least six had simply vanished. Survivors phoned home in case the missing had fled and reached safety. They called clinics too, and checked in with friends and family, but even when warriors were dispatched to check homes and clinics in person, it seemed like those who’d disappeared had gone up in smoke. That could mean only one thing; the marionettes had taken them.
But why? They’d never taken hostages before.
“I don’t understand it. Why would they capture civilians?” Aodh asked when he returned from escorting the last survivor home.
The man he’d accompanied had hoped to find his wife there, safe and unharmed. He hoped she’d fled there to wait for his return. But she wasn’t there. None of the missing had made it home. Those who hadn’t been in the safe room were all dead or gone, and Deòthas felt confident Ealasaid would’ve been taken too, if not for Tor’s intervention.
“I don’t understand it either,” Seren added. “They’ve never done this before. I suppose those they’ve taken are rich, so it could be for ransom money. It would be unusual, though, if that were the case.”
“They’ve taken one from each noble family,” Tor said softly as he perched on the steps up to his family home.
Blood and sweat coated his skin, and he looked exhausted, both from battle and from helping to lift bodies into the unmarked ambulances which had been sent by several of the local supernatural clinics.
“The only ones the Marionettes have taken are of noble blood, and they’ve only taken one from each family.”
“We haven’t had noble families in centuries,” Seren butted it. “That system of segregation was scrapped years ago.”
When Tor laughed, the sound held no mirth. In fact, it sounded bitter.
“Try telling that to the families to whom you once bowed. That’s what they want you to believe but not how it is. Do you really think that the rich and powerful we have now are a new upper class? That they’ve replaced those who were overthrown? They aren’t. They’re the same families. They just go by their common names in public, rather than the names of the houses to which they once belonged. In private they acknowledge who they once were. They glory in it, and they scheme.
“For centuries the nobles have wormed their way into politics, into law, into positions of power. They’ve invested and grown businesses and made fortunes. They control the wealth of our nation and they make our laws. The people who control our society now are from the same stock as the lords and ladies who controlled it in times gone by. The people removed their power briefly, but it was only a fleeting change before everything went back to how it had always been. The chess pieces were simply renamed. King and Queen, Duke and Duchess, politician and lawyer.
“The Manipulator sent his puppets to capture one member of each of the noble families. I don’t know why but that’s what happened here. He has six out of the seven he needs for a full set. That’s why we need to get my family to a safe house.”
“Your family?” Seren asked, frowning. “That’s why they were after your sister isn’t it? You’re a noble.”
Tor’s head dropped into his hands and Deòthas could smell his shame as he admitted “My birth certificate reads Torquil MacArtair of the house of Dubh.”
Deòthas’s mind reeled. Dubh? He couldn’t be. He couldn’t be noble...
Yet she couldn’t speak, couldn’t voice the denials, because she believed Tor. The depth of his regret was enough for her. He felt as horrified by his lineage as she felt at hers, and she hurt for him because he wanted to be something so different from what the circumstances of his birth had conspired to make him. But no noble had ever been accepted as a ghaisgeach, not without being required to sacrifice his inheritance as a display of loyalty to their cause rather than his rank.
Tor might well be cast aside now the truth had been revealed. Tancred could exile him... And she would fight that. She would fight it fang and claw, even if that meant giving up her own place too.
The silence that met Tor’s admission stretched on and many minutes passed before Aodh managed to stammer, “The house of Dubh? You’re a noble?” The captain’s tone gave away his shock and seemed slightly horrified as he muttered, “That sure as hell wasn’t on your application forms.”
Aodh saw so much of the future that he didn’t handle surprises well, and Deòthas wondered if he now regretted Tor’s appointment and his appearance at the house.
Pushing himself to his feet Tor squared his shoulders. “Would I have been accepted for training if I’d told you I’m descended from the abolished nobility?”
He glared at Aodh as he stated simply, “Tancred would have binned my application without another thought, believing me to be one of the socialites who try to sully the Council’s name and who would disband the warriors as if they had no place in this modern world. He would have believed me to be an infiltrator even though I’m not my father. I’m not like the ancestors who clung to our name as if it had some value. All I want is to fight for my race, for all supernatural races. I do not want to lead or control them. I simply want to protect them. I am Tor, a ghaisgeach of the Comhairle, nothing more and nothing less. Judge me as you will, but see me, not my family.”
“You have no family,” a cool voice interrupted. “You disobeyed my orders when you took the trials, with no regard for how this would affect your family. Your poor mother, it would have been easier for her if you’d died. You’ve disobeyed me for the last time, boy. You are to be disinherited.”
Deòthas turned to Artair of the house of Dubh, glaring at Tor’s father as he stood on the top step, staring at his youngest son with cool disdain. He was so cold, so very cold, so very much the opposite of Tor. He disgusted her.
The man must have felt her contempt filled stare and he turned to her next, although he didn’t speak directly to her. “And I want that thing off my property. The fey-born is not welcome here.”
Tor bounded up the stone steps before anyone could stop him, lunging for his father. He all but threw the man back against the wall of the house, pinning him in place even though he wasn’t up to full strength yet.
“Do not call her that, father. She is my partner and she has a name. Cast all the scorn you want at me, but if you show her anything less than respect, then I will do everything in my power to destroy your name, to destroy everything you’ve worked for. Am I clear?”
Artair’s eyes bulged as he gasped against the pressure on his throat but Deòthas barely saw him as she stared at Tor. Had he really just defended her? Was he really fighting for her, even though he had every right to be reacting to the insults his father had hurled in his own direction? Why would he do that?
“Tor!” Aodh reprimanded, “He’s a civilian. You have to release him, even if he deserves your hatred. If you don’t stop, you’ll only make things worse for all of us.”
Deòthas doubted Tor even heard Aodh’s warning as he hissed, “You dishonour me, and you dishonour my partner. Under the old laws I could challenge you for either slight, and let me tell you something, father. I am stronger than you’ll ever be. I always have been. I could break you like a twig, and you would deserve it. But know this, even if I were given the opportunity, I wouldn’t choose to kill you. I would only force you to yield to me. Then you would be the one shamed, scorned, cast from the homes of the nobility like last week’s newspapers.”
Artair hung in his son’s tightening grip, his own hand clutching weekly at Tor’s arm then beating feebly against his chest. He was nothing compared to the man he’d ridiculed and cast aside. Nothing. Yet on his word the civilian campaign against the Comhairle could intensify, and then where would they be?
Moving to Tor’s side, Deòthas gently placed her hand on the muscular arm that held Artair in place.
“Let him go, Tor. His contempt means nothing to me and it shouldn’t mean anything to you. As you said, you are Tor; a ghaisgeach, and the defender of those who are weaker than you. Even the ones who are undeserving. Let him go.”
The muscle in Tor’s cheek twitched but his grip didn’t slacken. His anger had taken control, and he had every right to be furious. But how could she make him see that the foolishness of his family didn’t matter, not now he had a place in the Council… so long as Tancred let him keep his place. All he had left was the Council, and he should protect that.
“Do you want to know how I ended up here, the night the veil was sealed?”
That caught his attention, at least. Tor’s eyes moved from his father’s face to hers as he frowned at her, curious, because that story wasn’t in the histories. She’d never told anyone why she’d been in the mortal realm during Torrannféist. But maybe if Tor realised that she understood, that she knew why he was so very angry, it might help him to let it go.
“My mother didn’t want me at the celebrations. That’s the top and bottom of why I’m here rather than tapped on the other side. Mother used to call me ‘mo mhasladh’. She never once used my name. She was so ashamed of me, her half human daughter, that she couldn’t bear to take me out in public. She couldn’t bear for me to be seen in case someone realised I was hers, but if I came of age I would be entitled to go out alone.
“Luckily for her, my sixteenth birthday arrived on the same day as Torrannféist. Traditionally the sixteenth birthday of a baobhan sith is when they hunt alone for the first time. Usually, if a birthday coincides with a festival, the hunt is delayed a night, but my mother used it as an excuse to order me into this realm, even though all other fey would be at the celebrations. I didn’t get lost on this side; I simply wasn't wanted on the other.
“Your father’s scorn can’t hurt me, Tor, not after hers. And it shouldn’t concern you either. He’s nothing, just like my mother was nothing. Let him go. You’re better than this.”
Reluctantly, he did as she asked, and when his arms dropped to his sides he looked a little lost, as if he were confused by his own outpouring of anger. He ran a hand over his eyes and shook his head as if trying to clear it.
“I don’t know why I did that.”
“Yeah, there’s a bit of that going around,” Deòthas admitted, thinking about her reaction to his sister, but then a wave of dizziness claimed her and she swayed on the spot, barely managing to stay upright.
Her hand went instinctively to her side, under her jacket, and when she pulled her fingers free again they were glossy with blood. In fact, her side was slick with the stuff. It ran over her leather trousers to pool on the ground, and when she glanced back at where she’d been stood earlier, she found a deep red puddle there as well. She’d been so preoccupied with the Manipulator’s plan that she hadn’t noticed how badly she was bleeding.
“Shit,” she mumbled. “I forgot about that.”
The weakness came upon her unexpectedly, tugging her down towards the ground. When her knees gave way, Deòthas couldn’t understand how her legs had failed her. Yet she found herself sliding towards the stone underfoot, and would’ve hit it, if Tor hadn’t grabbed her.
“Deòthas? Deòthas!”
She was only vaguely aware of Tor repeating her name, the sound so distorted she may as well have been underwater. Her vision dimmed too, and the last thing she saw was her new partner forcing his own fangs into his wrist. Then came a blackness so deep that even the exquisite flavour of Tor’s blood on her tongue couldn’t pull her from its embrace.