Tor pressed his wrist to Deòthas’s lips, relieved when her fangs automatically plunged into his opened vein. She swallowed his blood on instinct, even though it didn’t pull her from her faint. As she fed he tugged her jacket open, pushing the soft leather aside and lifting her black t-shirt just enough to reveal the wound which had brought on her collapse.
“Hell,” he breathed as he pressed the fabric of her shirt back over the puncture wound, urgently trying to stem the persisted flow of blood, blood which was already staining his father’s stonework.
“Her stitches have torn open,” he announced as he looked back up at Aodh. “We need to get her back to the compound immediately. I think she’s done extra damage to herself while fighting, and at this rate she’s going to be in serious trouble sooner rather than later.”
“You can’t feed her!” his father reprimanded from where he remained, pressed against the wall of the house. “Don’t you know what she is? Are you so foolish you’d give your noble blood to a fey-born?”
If Tor’s wrist hadn’t been clamped between Deòthas’s jaws, he may have gone for his father again, as it was all he cared about was giving what strength he had to the woman in his arms. She was his partner, damn it, and he wasn’t going to sit back and let her become seriously ill. Sure, she wouldn’t bleed out, not as an immortal, but if she lost too much blood then recovery would be a bitch.
As it was, he didn’t have to worry about any intervention on his father’s part, not as the captains joined him on the porch, forming a wall between him and the man who’d just renounced any right he had to control Tor’s life. Hopefully Corvinus would soon have his family loaded up in vehicles and on their way to a safe house, after that Tor would never have to see them again. He’d be free to do as he wanted, so long as the Comhairle were willing to ignore his ancestry.
“Gods,” Seren murmured, her tone coloured by outright shock. “Look at her markings.”
Her markings? Tor’s gaze flicked to the black warrior brands on the left side of Deòthas’s face but he couldn’t see anything unusual there. The others hissed in surprise however, and something that sounded like a denial uttered from his father. It took Tor a few moments to register what the others had already noticed; that Seren hadn’t been talking about the warrior tattoos which marked the skin of every ghaisgeach. On no, she’d drawn attention to something far worse. Something far, far worse.
At least he suspected that was how Deòthas would view it.
The tattoos weren’t permanent, the subtle shimmering lines below Deòthas’s right eye would vanish the moment she stopped feeding. Their glow appeared as a simple warning, the first indicator of a bond that could tie him more firmly to the baobhan sith than any warrior’s pledge. If he were to take her blood and her body, then those marks would become as permanent as the black patterns they both sported already. They would declare to the world that they were bound to one another, mated.
He’d never imagined the gods would grant him a sacred mate; that bond was too rare. He didn’t even know any mated bhampairean. Sure, the markings below Seren’s eye revealed that she had been bound once, but her mate had died. Most people were never granted such a sacred a union. And to be mated to a baobhan sith? That was utterly impossible.. Or it should have been. The fey never mated that way. The gods didn’t allow it... Just like they didn’t allow non-bhampairean to take the trials...
Shit. Double shit.
Why had the Great Father decided Deòthas should be special, especially to him? Or with him. Or whatever. What made her different in the eyes of the gods? Was it compensation for what had been done to her, to make up for her separation from her people? Not that her people had been any more understanding towards her than the Comhairle over the years, not considering what she’d just told him.
That raised another question. Why had she told him what she’d never told any other? Had she been trying to offer understanding, comfort? But that was out of character for her, wasn’t it? From what he’d seen and heard and read she didn’t empathise, she didn’t get close. Why would she want to comfort him when she thought he was disgusted by her? And her reaction to his sister’s reproach…Deòthas had been genuinely angry on his behalf, willing to fight for his honour. She’d honoured him too, when she saluted him. He doubted she’d ever granted another such respect, and yet he’d done nothing to deserve it. Was it possible that the fey could be attracted to him? Was there already some god-granted bond forming?
Tor had certainly felt tied to Deòthas when they’d been fighting. He’d been aware of every move she made and she seemed to pre-empt every step he took. They’d worked side by side, fighting flawlessly together. Had she felt that too?
But that was different, wasn’t it? Compatibility with your fighting partner on the battlefield was a necessity, a romantic attachment certainly wasn't. Deòthas may not even feel capable of accepting such a thing after living centuries without forming so much as a real friendship. His heart thundered in his chest as anxiety tightened into a ball which blocked his throat and caused a strange buzzing in his ears as he considered all the ways she might react.
“No one tell her,” he choked around the gag of his trepidation. “She can’t know.”
Corvinus knelt at his side, and the ancient roman tensed as he shook his head and murmured, “Denying it is never a good thing. What the gods have ordained shouldn’t be fought, Tor. It must be hard to find out your mate is fey but…”
“It has nothing to do with what she is!” Tor interrupted acerbically. “Although it’s no surprise that you lot would expect me to resent her species, just like you all do. You should pay less attention to what she was born as and more attention to what she chose to be. That might benefit everyone and it would certainly be far fairer on Deòthas.
“No. What concerns me isn’t her species. It’s mine. How do you think she’s going to react to this? Really? How do you think Deòthas, whose main form of self-preservation is avoiding attachments, is going to feel about this?”
“She doesn’t trust bhampairean, no one except Tancred, to a degree, and maybe Aifric,” Aodh added.
Seren bit her lip. “She doesn’t form relationships, Corvinus. She’s rarely made friendships, and despite the early rumours about you and Tacred, I’ve never known her to get involved with anyone romantically.”
“She was never involved with me, nor was she ever involved with Tanc. Those stories were just malicious rumours started by senile fools who would discredit us. If she’s ever had a relationship, she’s kept it to herself.”
Cornvinus’s admission came as a relief to Tor and it dawned on him that he would’ve hated being forced to work with anyone Deòthas had previously loved. He would have spent every day wanting to kill them for touching her, for having her before he could have her. Gods, what an irrational reaction; he’d only just met her! But wasn’t it just the type of reaction one could expect from a mated warrior? Especially a mated warrior who was setting himself up to resist the bond? Reason had no part in the matings ordained by the gods, a fact that made them both wondrous and terrifying.
“It may well be more than she’s willing to face,” Seren added. “The bond between mates, it’s intense,” she whispered, with sorrow adding a fractured edge to her voice.
“Shit,” Corvinus conceded at last, realising what Tor already knew. “She’ll run from this. But if it’s ignored…”
Tor sighed miserably, his brows drawing into a concerned frown. He’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Tales of mated pairs who tried to resist their bond. They were never happy stories. Good people went mad when they struggled to deny the gods. He didn’t want that, not for himself and not for the woman in his arms, but if he sprung the truth on Deòthas, it would be inevitable.
“If she runs we’ll have no choice but to try and ignore it. If we keep it quiet and I’m left partnered to her… well at least we can see where things go. Maybe one day she’ll be ready.”
Maybe one day I’ll be ready, Tor amended silently, because he sure wasn’t ready right at present. He’d been prepared to sacrifice his life for his race. For many races. But finding a mate? Finding an emotionally volatile mate? That hadn’t been part of his master plan.
“This has been one bloody induction to life as a ghaisgeach,” he murmured. “Seriously, one bloody induction.”
No one argued the point.
When Deòthas finally stopped swallowing, Tor eased his bloodied wrist from her mouth. At least once her fangs had disengaged, his bhampair body would heal the injury they’d left. One of them needing stitched up was quite enough, especially considering Tancred had forbidden both of them from leaving the castle. He was going to be in trouble, Tor new it. For leaving and for what he’d kept hidden about himself. Whatever. He could deal with the consequences of his action after he’d gotten Deòthas to safety.
Gently, he scooped the baobhan sith up into his arms. His baobhan sith. Hell, she felt so light in his arms. Feather light. And so slender, as all fey were. She felt fragile as she lay, unconscious, against his chest. Like a china doll. He knew it was an illusion, of course. He’d seen her fight and she certainly wasn’t some frail maid whose primary purpose was decoration. She was tough, the toughest, and yet as her warmth flowed into him, he wanted to protect her.
He didn’t ever want to be forced to give her up.
Tor could feel her breathing, her chest expanding and contracting against his, and inappropriate needs rushed through him. He wanted this, Deòthas is his arms, her body against his, in circumstances somewhat different to what was playing out on the porch of his childhood home. One bite, that was all it had taken, and his body and mind were being subjected to something he had no control over. A need he couldn’t prevent.
“Fuck,” he muttered and didn’t that just describe both the situation and what he wanted all in one simple curse.
“I’m going to get her home and to the physician. With any luck she’ll be too weak to argue the point when we get back.” He glanced at his father, not bothering to hide his scowl before he turned his gaze on Aodh again, “Sort him out, would you? They’ll resist leaving, but if he starts with his bullshit just remind him that the safety of his family could be all that stands between us having time to rescue the other nobles and whatever chaos the Manipulator is planning.” His hostile stare flicked back to his father, “Which could include the destruction of the nobility, if not the race. Not that I’d mourn the destruction of his kind, but he might.”
With that announcement he spun on his heel, stalked down the stone steps, and made his way across the gravel drive. He moved swiftly, almost jogging back to Deòthas’s flamboyant choice of vehicle while trying to keep from jostling her. He hoped she wouldn’t be too upset that he needed to drive her baby for her. Maybe once his Comhairle pay started coming in, he’d have to invest in his own set of wheels. Something a little less eccentric than the 944, but which didn’t conform to the range rover standard. He really wasn’t much better at conforming than Deòthas herself.
That seemed like something else to be debated another time.
It proved complicated to remove Deòthas’s various weapons so he could get her into the car, especially while holding, and also searching her pockets for her car keys. The latter task left Tor feeling sleazy. Somehow he managed to locate the fob without dropping her, and loaded her and her weapons into the 944, all without waking her. Although fear rolled through him at that accomplishment; she should’ve stirred surely? His blood should be helping her by now. How much blood had she lost? How serious was the injury?
He had to get Deòthas back to the castle and he prayed that there’d be no mortal police between here and there. He had no intention of staying within the speed limit and police involvement would be an inconvenience. His mind whirred, too worried for his… gods, his mate… to feel hungry, and so his bhampair brand of magic wouldn’t come online. He wouldn’t be able to seduce any officer into bending to his will. He’d have to go down the bite and blank routine, if it came to it, relying on his venom after the fact rather than his allure before it. And that took time. Sure, the neurotoxin in his venom would bring on a beneficial amnesia but he really hoped he wouldn’t need to waste precious moments attacking and wiping mortals.
Putting the car in gear, Tor pressed down on the accelerator and shot back out of his parents’ driveway and onto the now deserted road. Thank goodness it was late, late enough to be considered early morning, and other vehicles would be few and far between. The deserted streets made it safer to floor the right hand pedal. He intended to slow down for nothing short of a formidable natural disaster, like an earthquake or tsunami, both of which we unlikely in rural England.
He knew the panic bubbling in his chest was irrational; the Comhairle physicians would get Deòthas fixed up in no time, and with another feed her supernatural healing powers would really start making a difference. Yet no application of logic could soothe his alarm because he could still smell her blood and knew she was still bleeding. That terrified him. He should've found his fear completely unreasonable. He knew that. Yet he couldn’t change it. His biology and the gods wouldn't let him.
His volatile emotions didn’t calm at all, not even as he pulled into the castle grounds and made his way down the ramp to the underground garage. It didn’t help that Tancred waited for him just inside as he pushed open the main door. Aodh or Corvinus must've phoned ahead, but Tor had no idea what to say to the Chief. ‘Hi, I’m sorry for disobeying a direct order,’ probably wouldn’t cut it, and he could barely even think the words ‘can you ignore my ancestry?’. None of it mattered enough for him to worry about it as he held his mate to his chest.
Focussing on the only thing that mattered in that moment, he asked, “Can you show me to the medical suite?”
“Sure, this way. You look exhausted, will I take her?” Tancred responded, which proved to be a mistake.
The growl that ripped from Tor’s throat bubbled up instantaneously, wholly uncalled for as he clutched his unconscious partner closer to his chest. Deòthas was his. His to protect. His to help. His and only his… Wait, what?
Thankfully Tancred did nothing more than arch a brow before embarrassed heat scorched Tor’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he spluttered. “I didn’t mean to… it’s just… Wow, this is going to be harder than the trials.”
That turned out to be the truth. It took far more willpower to leave Deòthas in the physician’s capable hands than it had done to get himself onto his knees on the nail embedded running track. He wanted to stay with her, to be there when she woke up. He wanted to feed her again, if it would help her. But wouldn’t that just set the alarm bells ringing? If she woke to found him loitering, she’d grow suspicious, and so would everyone else. The chief and captains might well know the truth about the mating, but he still hoped none of the others had overheard the revelation. The fewer people whom knew about his tie to Deòthas, the better, because there was less chance of anyone letting the cat of the bag that way. And so he had to go, to step back and let the physicians see to her.
Even though it was the sensible thing to do, Tor couldn’t possibly leave her. He just couldn’t.
“Come on,” Tancred encouraged, grabbing his elbow and forcibly tugging him from the medical suite. “Your new partner is in capable hands and I need to speak to you about what happened.”
Defeated, Tor followed the chief out of the examination room and back through the maze of corridors. Unfortunately it felt as though he’d left part of himself back there with the doctors. The sensation was disconcerting and as irrational as all of his emotions had been since meeting the baobhan sith. Would it always be this way? Gods, he hoped not.
Sacred matings had produced all kinds of legends over the centuries, from stories of love at first sight to telepathic connections. How much was real and how much was myth? Tor didn’t know, and he sure as Tallamarbh wasn’t going to ask Seren and risk upsetting the captain. It didn't matter anyway. He knew just one thing; the need to be at his mate’s side had come on far faster than he ever would have expected. Especially considering the way his first meeting with Deòthas had played out.
Did he love her? No, no, of course not. He barely knew Deòthas. Sure, they had crappy families in common, but as far as everything else in life went they may well be chalk and cheese, he just didn’t know. People didn’t fall in love immediately, not even if the gods deemed them to be right for one another. That was fact, no matter what legend would have him believe.
Did he lust after her, then? Well yes; she was hot. Did he admire Deòthas beyond her physical characteristics? Certainly. From what he knew of her she was resilient, determined and cared to protect those who were weaker than herself. He looked up to her as a senior ghaisgeach and hoped to learn from her, but that was where his feelings for Deòthas ended… and where something much more complicated to explain began.
Strange, a day ago he’d wanted the gods to find him worthy of their notice, of their tattoos. But right then? No. As far as matters of love and marriage went, he really wished they’d targeted their interest at someone else. Not because he didn’t want Deòthas, hell no. She definitely provoked all the right kinds of attraction responses from him. It was just so damn complicated and, well, backwards. Like an arranged marriage, which he supposed described sacred matings pretty well, really.
“Aodh told me what happened.”
Tancred’s voice drew him from his internal conflict and Tor blinked, surprised to find himself stood in the middle of an office. He must’ve been trance like on his way here, and he sure couldn’t remember the route.
Focus, Tor. You’re going to have to focus if you want to prove yourself worthy of a position in the Council.
The room itself didn’t belong in a castle. Whatever furniture had come with the building had been replaced with glass and chrome alternatives and the chief’s office looked more corporate than Tor’s tastes appreciated. Not that his opinion on interior decorating seemed overly important at that point in time, and he wondered how much of the night’s events Aodh had passed on? Everything? Or simply certain more poignant moments?
“What part?” he asked uneasily, lowering himself into some chrome and leather contraption and rubbing his eyes wearily. When did he get so goddamn tired?
“All of it,” Tancred offered as he took his own seat behind his glass topped desk. “Everything from him encouraging Deòthas to bring you along, to how well you and your partner fight together. Apparently he’s only seen one other pair work together the way you two did, and that was Seren and Einion, while they were mated. He told me about your ancestry and your deductions regarding the kidnappings… And he told me what happened when you fed Deòthas. It seems you’ve had quite a first night on the job, rookie.”
With a snort of bitter laughter, Tor acquiesced to that accusation. “And what’s your opinion of it all?”
The chief’s fingers drummed on the surface of his desk as he studied Tor, but he didn’t answer immediately. As the near silence stretched on, Tor’s anxiety increased. His tenure as a ghaisgeach would definitely be the shortest on record.
“Your opinion, my chief?”
The drumming intensified but at least Tancred answered, stating, “If you mean ‘are you still a council warrior’ then the only answer I can give is that your place is secure. As tradition demands, we generally don’t accept known nobles into the training programme. There have always been exceptions though, for those who were willing to sign away their inheritance. Following Aodh’s report, I’m fairly confident you are not an infiltrator for those who’d see us disbanded. The Taghadairean gave you your place, just as they gave Deòthas hers. I don’t argue with that and there’s no point in worrying over what decisions I might have made if your heritage had been discovered before you faced the trials.
“If you’re asking my opinion on you and Deòthas? Well, I’m still trying to get my head around that one. Aodh asked me to put you with her the moment it became clear you were going to get through the trials. It wasn’t one of his visions, just a simple verbal prophecy. ‘Two sides; the son of Artair united with the halfling warrior.’ I thought ‘united’ meant ‘partnered with’, not ‘mated to’, however.”
He shrugged slightly. “I hope it works out, I really do. She deserves to have something… more. However, I also think you’re wise to be cautious about revealing this to her. You’re a strong warrior and I don’t want to lose you because she rebels against your bond. More than that, I’ve known her for centuries and I don’t want her to flee, to suffer, because she isn’t ready for this. Go softly, Torquil. That’s the only advice I can give. Go softly.”
Tor had every intention of treading lightly, even though some primal part of him demanded he claim Deòthas immediately, and offer himself up for her to claim in return.
“I’ll do everything I can to make sure she doesn’t run.” It was the best promise he could make. “In the mean time, what are we going to do about the captured civilians?”
Tancred’s brow creased and years of worry momentarily fractured his calm façade. Then his fleeting expression of uncertainty vanished, replaced by stoic determination.
“Seren’s still trying to contact those she sent after the vehicles which were seen leaving your family home as our warriors arrived. Once everyone has returned and is debriefed, we may have more information to go off. In the meantime the research team and the librarian are looking up possible reasons for the Manipulator to want noble prisoners.
“We’ll look for the civilians, of course, but we’ve never managed to track down the Manipulator. We have no idea where he’s hiding and so finding our missing is going to be difficult. Our main priority has to be protecting your family, in the hope that the Manipulator won’t do anything to those he’s taken until he has a full set. Of course, that means we’re going to have to make protecting you a priority too. I’m hoping the Manipulator doesn’t know who you are, but if he does you may be a target.”
“I’m not going to sit on the sidelines,” Tor interjected. “I took the trials to fight.”
Plus he needed something to distract him from the urge to claim his mate. If nothing else, killing marionettes might at least keep him preoccupied enough not to blow it and reveal himself.
Tancred’s fingers began to drum again as he answered slowly, “Let’s wait for the others so we can form a strategy. Then we’ll decide how you can best serve the Comhairle.”