Night of the Highland Dragon (18 page)

At first she thought one of the other women would notice and raise an alarm, but at the sides of her vision, she saw that neither of them was moving. Flickering light danced across all three of their stiff forms—light from a source that Judith at first couldn't see.

It moved closer, in time with a man's steady footsteps. Ross MacDougal stepped into Judith's vision, tense and sorrowful as he looked back and forth between the three women in the room. In one hand was…another hand, this one long dead. Each of its desiccated fingers sprouted a wick, and a flame danced at all five: fingers of fire on fingers of flesh.

In his other hand, he held a long knife.

The time for secrecy was over.

Anyone on the road, or on the farms to either side of it, could see William running. He didn't care. He registered a few people as he passed them, knew that they might have tried to speak, but didn't pause to respond or even to acknowledge them. Later, they'd understand. Or they wouldn't. The question had no weight to it.

As he ran, he silently cursed—cursed the rough ground underfoot, all rocks and loose dirt; cursed his body for the basic humanity that meant he couldn't move with the speed he wished; and cursed his mind for its failures of memory and connection. It had taken him too long to think of the Hand of Glory. He still wasn't sure he'd remembered all of the details right.

A candle made of, or resting in, a criminal's pickled hand: that was the basic gist. It should take a while to make…but it might not, for a man who'd already enlisted demons to his cause. That kind of power might let its adherents take shortcuts.

Make
the
candle. Light the candle.

There was the fork McKendry had mentioned. William veered left, almost ran into a man with a horse and cart, saw that it wasn't Ross—the bastard—and kept going with a breathless, muttered apology.

Light
the
candle.
He wished the man
had
been Ross. He would have been off his guard, then, harmless and away from Judith. Damn him. Judith could probably take care of herself. But there were ways of killing even dragons. Hadn't William bluffed her with just that?

What did you do with the damned thing once you got it lit? It was a thief's trick. The grimoire had mentioned burglars. Doors wouldn't stay locked. He thought that was part of it. How many bloody farms were on this path? Why had he thought Loch Arach small? The place was vast. The road went on forever.

Unlocking doors wasn't dangerous. There had been more. A picture appeared in his head, one from a real nursery tale, though not one that featured dragons: a golden-haired girl lying on a bed, roses growing all around her. Sleeping Beauty. Sleep. Or stillness. Helplessness, either way. There'd been a verse in his notes, a possible correspondence from a folktale:
Be
as
the
dead
for
the
dead
man's sake
, one of the lines had gone.

Sympathetic magic. Fairly simple. The dead were without motion or volition. A dead man's hand conferred the same qualities. Basic theory. Even he knew it.

Be
as
the
dead.

Running should have been painful by then. Breathing should have been painful by then. William knew the depth of his fear by the fact that he could have kept going for hours. A house was coming up in the distance, small and set back, as McKendry had said, near the woods.

He drew his gun. He chose the one with silver bullets this time, though Ross was probably still human. William was taking no chances.

Be
as
the
dead
.

Four syllables. An easy rhythm for his feet to echo. Like a heartbeat, really. And did the heart keep moving when the rest of the body couldn't? Did the lungs? Was it only helplessness that the Hand brought to its victims, or the slow horror of suffocation? Was Judith—

There was the door. William stopped. He made himself stand still—
be
as
the
dead
—and listen. He heard a voice from the other side: Ross. Nobody else was talking.

Careful
now
, said the voice of his reason.

None of his notes had told him the Hand's limits. It might be like Medusa and turn any onlooker to stone. Rushing in unprepared was never a good idea when there was time to do otherwise, and if Ross was talking, there was still time.

There was also a window.

* * *

“I'm sorry, Mother. Gillian,” Ross said. “And you too, Lady MacAlasdair. I hadn't intended any violence. No more than I could help,” he added and swallowed.

Judith thought he was remembering the young man in Belholm, the one William had mentioned to her. She hoped so. She wanted the memory to rise up and reproach Ross, as she lacked the power to do. In that much he looked like he was gratifying her. He swallowed again, hard, and for a second she thought he might be ill.

She strained to move any part of her body, throwing her whole will toward motion, and nothing happened. In final desperation, Judith reached into herself and began the process of transformation—and nothing happened.

Her body was no longer her own.

Inside her head, she screamed for what felt like an age.

Ross was speaking again. “I heard you talking. From outside, I heard you. And I knew she'd not let the matter rest.” He wasn't even looking at Judith now. “And I knew neither of you would defend me. Even though I've always had your interests at heart. And I—”

I
panicked
.

Ross didn't say that, but he might as well have. His eyes were wild, the whites and pupils both wide, with only a sliver of brown showing between. Sweat stood out on his forehead, despite the day's chill, and he kept licking his lips as he talked, his tongue darting out to the corners of his mouth at just about every third word. If he hadn't been holding the hand and the knife, Judith thought he'd have been wiping his palms on his trousers.

Dry mouth. Wet hands. Down through the centuries, she'd gotten to know the look of fear well, and the way it felt on the skin and in the throat. If she'd actually been breathing, she was sure she could have smelled it, acrid and metallic.

If Ross had let Judith go away, he might have had time to run. Before he went, he might even have had time to convince his mother or his sister, or both, that he was innocent, or at least justified.

Jumpy
as
a
colt
.

He
had
jumped, and come down running in the first direction he saw. Now he was reconsidering. Now he was thinking it was too late to reconsider. Ross was in very much over his head, and he knew it.

That made him more dangerous. You could reason with a calm man. You could play on his sympathy, talk him down, maybe buy him off if it came to that. Terrified men, like terrified stock, would kill at the sound of a stick breaking.

“I know I never explained myself. And I'd say that means some of the blame's mine—though if you'd only trusted me, as is proper… But you've been on your own up here a great deal, aye, and it's far from a natural place and never has been. I can't blame either of you. I'm so very sorry that things have come to such a pass.”

Ross searched his mother's motionless face, then his sister's, hunting for a sign of understanding or forgiveness that he must have known wouldn't appear—
couldn't
, even if either of them had felt as he wanted. To Judith's eyes, he moved strangely, half a second too early or too late. When she thought about it, there'd been the same quality about his voice and the sound of his footsteps.

What any of that meant, she couldn't say. She suspected she might not have very much time to wonder.

G'bye, Stephen, Colin. Live well, and remember me to your bairns.

“The thing is,” Ross said, because he was going to make her wait to die, like the black-hearted dog that he was, “it's not only the money, although there's certainly that, and I'd have supported you in grand style. It's about preserving the world as it should be. About preserving the
nation
as it should be. I'm doing a fine deed, truly, though I allow that it might not look that way. There's only one other man who has the courage to join me in it now, but once the others find out—we'll be heroes. To them and to everyone.”

What?

Briefly, Judith was too puzzled to feel either fear or sorrow. She didn't have much choice about staring at Ross, but she would have even if she'd been able to move. Was he a would-be Saint George—or the mortals' version of that legend—who'd somehow gotten word of her family's secret? Or a modern version of the witch finders who'd held such dominion in her father's day?

He
would
have a time trying to hang her or burn her at the stake. A knife to the throat or the heart, on the other hand, would probably suffice. Those of her bloodline healed quickly and endured much, but vital organs were, well, vital, regardless of form, and it would be easy enough to hit the right spot when she couldn't move.

I'm sorry, William. I hope you don't take this too badly—and I hope you make an end of this bastard.

I'll miss you.

As if responding to her thoughts, Ross looked over his shoulder at her, then back to his mother. “I'll take Lady MacAlasdair out of here now. We'll go to London. I'll not kill her if I can help it, and I don't think my brothers wish her a corpse. Perhaps knowing that will change your mind, and you'll not raise the alarm after I go. But just in case,” he said and raised the knife, pommel pointing down.

If Judith had been able to breathe, she'd have stopped then. A blow to the skull would kill as often as it rendered the victim unconscious. If a young man knocked an old lady over the head, it was almost a sure thing. Silently, she cried out, but she still could make no sound.

* * *

Although a farmer's cottage having glass windows was probably still a luxury in a village like Loch Arach, the window William peered through, once he'd raised his head to see above the sill, was no great specimen. Set in rows of small disks in lead frames—thus making the window impractical as an entrance—the glass was old and streaky. Every shape in the room blurred at the edges, and those farther away became merely suggestions of forms vaguely defined against the darker background of the cottage walls.

There was Mrs. MacDougal, sitting in a chair, and her daughter caught in the act of reaching for a dish. Judith stood by the older woman, half turned toward the door. All three of them were as motionless as wax figures. Light flickered over them. In the dim cottage, the additional source was quite apparent, even through the old glass.

That was the Hand of Glory. That was Ross MacDougal. And
that
was a knife.

Even as the threat registered in William's mind, tightening his hand around the grip of his gun, it lifted his spirits. A man wouldn't need a knife with a spell that killed instantly. Nor would he be standing there and talking. The actual words Ross used didn't come clearly through the window, but William heard the rise and fall of his voice, and in it he heard the whining of a frightened dog, one whose fear may drive it to spring at any moment.

Slowly, glad to find that he could still move, he brought the gun up to the window. As far as he could tell, Ross had a good grip on the Hand, but a good grip wouldn't necessarily last very long. If the intent of the Hand's wielder mattered, a distraction would help too—but the man was also conventionally armed, and he had three hostages. The trick would be timing.

William didn't look at Judith. Throat like the Sahara, every muscle in his body tense, he found a stable stance beneath the window and pressed the muzzle of the gun to the glass. Inside, Ross stood in front of his mother, looking sorrowful. Questions rose in William's mind, but none changed what he had to do now. He took aim.

Ross raised the knife.

The first shot broke the glass. The second bullet, a blink behind it, hit Ross in the hip as he spun around. William heard his cry and saw him sag at the middle, but didn't have time to observe more. He was up and running, throwing himself through the door and into the room, where the Hand had fallen to the floor and under the table, each of its fingers still burning.

He ignored blood, ignored screams. He was still moving. The women weren't. There was some factor at work other than being able to see the Hand—some trick of time or intent. Good. How did he end it?

Put
the
Hand
out.

How did that work?

Legends and notes crowded his memory. Thieves. Servant girls. Milk.

He seized one of the pails by the door and hurled the contents at the still-burning Hand. The pail hit the floor with a crash. The drenched flames sputtered and died, and milk flowed across the cottage floor and around the prone body of Ross MacDougal. By his side, it mingled with his rapidly flowing blood, forming red and white patterns like fluid roses.

There was no gradual return to motion, no chance to stretch and feel sensation returning. Paralysis left Judith as suddenly as it had struck her, sending the jolting pain of a stubbed toe over her whole body. She snarled one of the riper oaths she'd learned during her years away before she remembered her company.

Well, they were doubtless feeling the same. And there were more surprising things in this house just now than the local lady's profanity ever could be.

Judith spun to look where Ross had fallen. Her weight went back as she moved, and her fists clenched, but clearly none of that was necessary. Ross lay on his back in a pool of mingled blood and milk. His chest moved steadily, though shallowly, and his eyelids twitched. Still alive. Damn. Well, it would be easy enough to fix that.

But William was kneeling by Ross's side, his coat and waistcoat in a carelessly discarded pile on the floor, and pressing the crumpled remains of his shirt against the wound on Ross's leg. The muscles on his bare chest and back flexed with the effort, and Judith's body tightened, responding to her own survival instinct as much as to the view.

As always, there was neither time nor privacy. Gillian was rushing to her brother's side, and William's actions weren't just a source of arousal; they were a reminder. Judith was supposed to behave that way. She should be civilized. Merciful.

Human.

“I'll go and get the doctor,” she said, but she took a quick look at Mrs. MacDougal and Gillian before she moved toward the door. She'd put on civilization for their sakes, but everyone in the room knew that her real concern lay with worthier recipients than the blackguard necromancer on the floor. “Are you both all right? Mr. Arundell?”

Gillian didn't even look up, but there was no blood on her, and she'd moved quickly enough. It took a moment for Mrs. MacDougal to focus her eyes on Judith's face. When she did, to Judith's relief, she nodded. If she'd looked grim before, she was a granite figure now, a remonstrating angel from the head of some tomb.

She asked no questions. But then, she wouldn't. She'd served Judith for forty years, and she was still under the
geas
that had held her then. Elspeth MacDougal might have learned very well not to ask about certain things.

The realization was another blow.

William's voice steadied Judith, even preoccupied as it was. “I'm fine. He'll live, I should think. The wound's in the fleshy part of his leg, and it's missed any vessels, as far as I can tell. Do get the doctor, though. I've been known to be wrong.”

Judith went. Part of her wondered why she was bothering, and why she kept running once she was out of the MacDougals' sight. She could always just say she'd run, and save the nation the price of a rope—but she was at least half human, and this was here and now.

Acts were stones. Pile enough of them together, and you might have the shape you wanted, or one that was close enough to serve.

She gave Dr. McKendry the sanitized version of the story. Ross had attacked the three women with a knife, and William had shot him in the leg.

“My God,” said the doctor. They were already on their way back to the Gordons' house, now in Dr. McKendry's carriage. He was driving—the horses, though bred from MacAlasdair stock, didn't have quite enough training not to find Judith intimidating—and so spared her the full force of the look she knew was on his face. “Why in heaven's name would a man act so?”

“I don't know,” said Judith, not lying. She really didn't know why Ross had gone down his path—particularly not after his obscure attempts to justify himself.

She could think of any number of possibilities, though. She didn't know which of them—or what entirely different motive—would be the explanation. All of them still came to mind far too readily for her own comfort.

* * *

To the best of Judith's knowledge, Dr. McKendry took his oaths very seriously. Certainly when he knelt by Ross MacDougal's bed, seemingly disregarding the hard floor and aging knees alike, he worked as hard and as carefully as she'd ever seen him with a patient. His face was grave—as it would have been with any other serious injury—and if he made less effort to avoid causing pain than usual, that might just have been because Ross never came back to full consciousness.

Eventually the doctor sat back, bloody handed and weary. “He'll do. I'll come tomorrow to make sure 'tis not festered.” He washed his hands on the wet scrap of towel Gillian offered, then let William help him to his feet. “I'll have a look at the two of you lasses before I go, though.”

“We're fine,” said Mrs. MacDougal.

“I'm glad you think so,” said the doctor. “However, your daughter's well along with child. Not a good time for a shock. And you're no' as young as you were, Lizzie, any more than I am.”

Gillian let out a long sigh, like the hiss of a bellows, and leaned into the sheltering arm of her husband, now returned from his errand. “Might as well be safe, Mum.” She looked back to Judith, hesitated, and then asked, “What about”—brown eyes flicked toward Ross—“him?”

“I'd best keep him at the castle,” Judith said. “The rooms up there lock, and I've enough men to watch him. We'll figure out more later.”

Loch Arach took care of minor crimes itself—sometimes diplomatically, often roughly. Judith rarely had to intervene much. The unfortunate Ryan, whose hand still lay under the table looking like a giant withered spider on its back, had been the last man to try outright murder. They'd hanged him. They'd had to ask the Queen, and the law hadn't been nearly as touchy then as it was now about a provincial lady serving as justice.

Thirty years later, Judith would have to contact her brothers again. She'd also have to decide what Ross's actual crime was. He'd said he wouldn't kill her if he could help it. What a gentleman he'd been.

“Lady?”

McKendry's voice was polite and concerned. William was looking at her too, brow furrowed. She'd been staring into space longer than she'd thought. Not really a surprise: that was the closest to death, or whatever, that she'd been in a very long time. Even battle hadn't been so bad. She'd been able to fight.

“The castle, for now,” she repeated.

“I'll take him,” said Ronald, slipping his arm from around his wife.

“The two of us,” William said. “Eventually. Meanwhile—” Judith saw him looking at Gillian and her mother, balancing the doctor's concern with what he knew of them and what his mission required. She, who had herself judged the breaking strain of men and women more than once, thought it was an expert look. “I'm afraid I need to ask a few questions.”

“Oh?” Gillian frowned. “I'm not ungrateful for your help, sir, but…” She trailed off, presumably because it was hard to put
What
business
is
it
of
yours?
into diplomatic terms.

“Mr. Arundell does detective work back in London,” said Judith. “If Ross was led into this—threatened, mayhap, or blackmailed—then I'll be finding the people who did it. Ross talked of improving the world, or at least the country, and of how the village wasn't natural. I'm not sure what he meant by that, or what he wanted with me.”

“With you,” William repeated. It might have been a question, but there was no inflection in it—no tone at all, only stillness.

Judith nodded. “Talked about his ‘brothers' in London not wanting a corpse.” She looked back over to Gillian. “And there were letters?”

“Aye,” said Gillian. “Three. All with English postmarks, though I didn't note from where.”

“Do you know where they are now?” William asked. He was very calm, almost casual. Only his mouth moved.

Gillian shook her head.

“He threw the last one on the fire,” said Mrs. MacDougal. “I saw it burning. I had words with him about it this morning. Asked was it a girl he'd gotten in trouble, or was he on the wrong side of the law? He said I couldna' understand.” She took a slow, rasping breath. “I shouldna' wonder if the others ended up as kindling too.”

“I see.”

“They weren't large, the letters,” said Gillian, closing her eyes to aid her memory. “And they didn't seem like the sort a lass might write to her sweetheart—or to a man who had been. Plain paper. No perfume, nothing of that sort. And the hand looked like a man's, from what little I saw of it.”

Judith, glancing involuntarily at the other hand that looked like a man's, had to stifle an inappropriate laugh. Hands and hands, she thought.
Never
play
poker
with
a
surgeon, MacAlasdair—bastard always comes up with a good hand.
That had been King, in the War Between the States. Private at the beginning, corporal by the end. He'd taken a shot to the face, lost most of his jaw, and still lived for a day and a half.

She inched closer to the fire.

“If you recall anything else, do let me know,” William said with a warm and sympathetic smile. “You know where I'm staying, of course.”

“I'll give you more of the details of this”—Judith gestured around the room, vaguely—“up at the castle later. We'd best let the doctor make his examination.”

“Of course,” said William. “Mr. Gordon, perhaps we should start for the castle now. I'd imagine it'll take us longer to get there with him than it will for the lady.”

He passed by Judith as he spoke, brushing her shoulder with his fingers: a quick touch, necessarily subtle because of their audience, but no accident.

It was a good reminder. She didn't necessarily
want
to remember—it would have been easier to sink back into plans and thoughts, into the inside of her head—but she was physical, human, and the lady of Loch Arach. Certain responsibilities attended on all three.

“Thank you,” she said and then crossed the room to kneel in front of Mrs. MacDougal. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so very sorry.”

“You didna' make him do it,” said the old woman. Her eyes shone with tears, but none of them fell. “You didna' make him do anything. You never asked him, nor I, nor Gillie. He went to the city and he came back wrong, that's all.”

Plenty of men came back fine—or better. Judith knew that. So did everyone in the room, probably including Mrs. MacDougal herself. None of them said it, just as nobody mentioned all of what Ross had said or the hand that still lay beneath the table. If Ronald or Dr. McKendry saw it, they
didn't
see it.

The world turned on silences as much as on words. She'd had that thought before, but never so strongly.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” Judith said, as she would to any of her people in crisis, and then her brain caught up with her mouth. This was no ordinary misfortune. “If you'd like.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. MacDougal, as she would have at any other time. “Very generous of you.”

With that, Judith left. There was nothing else she could do.

* * *

She wished she'd ridden. Walking home gave her too much time to think. Riding would have been quicker and would have occupied her mind more. The road held little to distract her—no bird sang in the sere brown-and-gray wilderness, no small animals fled her presence—and so she heard every crunch of shoe leather against dirt, felt every beat of her heart and each breath that filled her lungs, and still couldn't concentrate hard enough on them to get away from her thoughts.

Flight would help. Hunting would help. She hoped so—and for the first time since she'd come back to Loch Arach, she felt the village and her duties there as a weight on her shoulders, or shackles on her wrists. The village had bound her, and maybe that was right. After all, she'd bound
it
, or her family had. Through interest—through mystery—the MacAlasdairs had linked an otherwise obscure village to the worst of what lay in the outside world: greed, prying, and whatever strange fanaticism had moved Ross.

The
geasa
that William had asked about were minor in comparison.

Discipline kept Judith from swearing aloud. She knew her own strength and the limits of her control too well to risk kicking a fence post or punching a tree on the way. But inside her mind, as the road widened and wound and led her back to her own front gate, she cursed steadily—and wearily.

The look on Janssen's face when she arrived could have meant that Judith's own expression reflected her mood, or just that the events of the day had shaken the man. “Mr. Arundell and Mr. Gordon are in the small downstairs drawing room, my lady. With Mr. MacDougal. I didn't know where else to direct them.”

“The green one, or the one with the mirrors?”

“The mirrors, my lady.”

“It'll do,” said Judith. “Better than the wine cellar.”

When she'd been a child, MacAlasdair Keep had possessed, if not proper dungeons in the Gothic tradition, at least two cells near the wine cellar itself. Floods and disuse had done good work there since Ryan's day, and Judith had taken to storing the more dilapidated bits of castle furniture there until she could dispose of them. Currently a set of moth-eaten chairs and a writing desk missing half a leg were the prisoners in custody. She neither wanted to move them for Ross's sake nor to go down to the cells and check on him with any regularity.

No. She'd keep him upstairs. They'd do…whatever they ended up doing…quickly, and then he'd be gone and it would be done. Then she could think about the future, if she had to.

“Are they still there?” Judith asked.

Janssen shook his head. “Campbell's watching Ro—the prisoner,” he said and dropped his eyes. He and Ross would have been children together, Judith realized. Friends? She didn't know—though in a small village, good friends or bitter rivals were the most likely options—and couldn't ask. “Mr. Arundell took the black mare down to Belholm. He said you'd understand. And that he'd come back soon.”