I’m dead.” A young boy bolted from his firing position behind the chicken run, screaming all the way. “Daaaa! Tell him I’m not dead! Tell him he’s a big, ugly liar!”
An older child stood up from his hiding placeat the edge of the trees, a long stick at his side. “You wanted to play. It’s not my fault you’re a poor shot.”
Upon spying Mac, both boys rattled to a stop in mid-argument even as an enormous, rugged-shouldered man appeared from the barn, wiping his hands upon a rag, sweat darkening his red hair to a muddy brown. “Sam! Henry! I’ve told ye I need to be—” He spotted Mac, his gaze narrowing with suspicion, body braced as if expecting trouble. “What’s your business here?” he asked, though his tone clearly implied he’d rather not.
“Jory Wallace?” Mac asked.
The two men eyed one another—the children looking silently from father to stranger with worried curiosity as the atmosphere grew storm-charged. It was the gelding that broke the standoff. It nickered, stretching its neck toward the smaller of the two boys with a twitch of its soft lips.
The boy smiled, patting its great dark head before glancing up at Wallace from under a shaggy crop of wheat-blond hair. “Look, Da. He likes me.”
Wallace’s lowered brows cleared as he tousled the boy’s head. “Course he does, Sammy. Now take him to get some water. Henry, go with your brother.”
The older boy looked as if he wanted to argue, but at a stern glance from his father he did as ordered, though he shot suspicious glances back over his shoulder as he went.
Wallace turned his attention to Mac, regarding him with as piercing an eye as a parade ground sergeant. “You’re Sir Desmond Flannery’s heir, aren’t ye?”
“How do you . . .” Mac’s words trailed off. “You remember me?”
Wallace gave a snort of disgust. “You’ve something of the look of your father and him I’ll never forget. Big fellow. Shouted a lot. Wanted my head on a plate.”
“That was him. Don’t take it personally. He wanted mine as well.”
A muscle tweaked in Wallace’s jaw. “His own flesh and blood?”
“With Sir Desmond, family counts for nothing against the good of the clans.”
Wallace shook his head before he motioned toward the house. “Come along inside, then, Captain. I’ve been expecting ye.”
7
Bianca looked up from the book. “When I was a child, my father told me the legend of Robin Goodfellow.” Her throat tightened at dusty, half-forgotten memories of nursery tales told before bed. Father sitting in a chair beside her, spectacles sliding down his nose as he read while Nurse tutted her displeasure. “He never mentioned anything about a race of animal faeries.”
Leaning back in his chair, Sebastian steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Light from the window cast his long, solemn face half into shadow. “The Imnada weren’t Fey. Nor were they completely human, but something different altogether. Though they possessed many preternatural gifts, their greatest was the ability to change shape at will.”
“Sounds magical to me.”
His gold-brown eyes shone warm with humor. “Normally, yes, but their enemies possessed much greater magic. And following the betrayal of their king, vengeful rage spurred them to wield those powers very effectively.” Glancing at the longcase clock inthe corner, he braced his arms upon the chair, half rising from his seat. “Ah, but we’re keeping the women waiting. And your tea grows cold.”
Bianca shot to attention, her fingers gripping the hand-tooled cover of the book, nerves buzzing. “Now, wait just a moment, you can’t bring me to the edge of my seat, then just dismiss me back to tea and gossip. What happened? I want the whole story.”
“Are you certain? There’s no happy ending. Not for any of them.”
“Show me a happy ending and I’ll show you a fiction as great as any shapechanger prancing about the forest.”
A guarded smile hovered over his mouth,
An older child stood up from his hiding placeat the edge of the trees, a long stick at his side. “You wanted to play. It’s not my fault you’re a poor shot.”
Upon spying Mac, both boys rattled to a stop in mid-argument even as an enormous, rugged-shouldered man appeared from the barn, wiping his hands upon a rag, sweat darkening his red hair to a muddy brown. “Sam! Henry! I’ve told ye I need to be—” He spotted Mac, his gaze narrowing with suspicion, body braced as if expecting trouble. “What’s your business here?” he asked, though his tone clearly implied he’d rather not.
“Jory Wallace?” Mac asked.
The two men eyed one another—the children looking silently from father to stranger with worried curiosity as the atmosphere grew storm-charged. It was the gelding that broke the standoff. It nickered, stretching its neck toward the smaller of the two boys with a twitch of its soft lips.
The boy smiled, patting its great dark head before glancing up at Wallace from under a shaggy crop of wheat-blond hair. “Look, Da. He likes me.”
Wallace’s lowered brows cleared as he tousled the boy’s head. “Course he does, Sammy. Now take him to get some water. Henry, go with your brother.”
The older boy looked as if he wanted to argue, but at a stern glance from his father he did as ordered, though he shot suspicious glances back over his shoulder as he went.
Wallace turned his attention to Mac, regarding him with as piercing an eye as a parade ground sergeant. “You’re Sir Desmond Flannery’s heir, aren’t ye?”
“How do you . . .” Mac’s words trailed off. “You remember me?”
Wallace gave a snort of disgust. “You’ve something of the look of your father and him I’ll never forget. Big fellow. Shouted a lot. Wanted my head on a plate.”
“That was him. Don’t take it personally. He wanted mine as well.”
A muscle tweaked in Wallace’s jaw. “His own flesh and blood?”
“With Sir Desmond, family counts for nothing against the good of the clans.”
Wallace shook his head before he motioned toward the house. “Come along inside, then, Captain. I’ve been expecting ye.”
7
Bianca looked up from the book. “When I was a child, my father told me the legend of Robin Goodfellow.” Her throat tightened at dusty, half-forgotten memories of nursery tales told before bed. Father sitting in a chair beside her, spectacles sliding down his nose as he read while Nurse tutted her displeasure. “He never mentioned anything about a race of animal faeries.”
Leaning back in his chair, Sebastian steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Light from the window cast his long, solemn face half into shadow. “The Imnada weren’t Fey. Nor were they completely human, but something different altogether. Though they possessed many preternatural gifts, their greatest was the ability to change shape at will.”
“Sounds magical to me.”
His gold-brown eyes shone warm with humor. “Normally, yes, but their enemies possessed much greater magic. And following the betrayal of their king, vengeful rage spurred them to wield those powers very effectively.” Glancing at the longcase clock inthe corner, he braced his arms upon the chair, half rising from his seat. “Ah, but we’re keeping the women waiting. And your tea grows cold.”
Bianca shot to attention, her fingers gripping the hand-tooled cover of the book, nerves buzzing. “Now, wait just a moment, you can’t bring me to the edge of my seat, then just dismiss me back to tea and gossip. What happened? I want the whole story.”
“Are you certain? There’s no happy ending. Not for any of them.”
“Show me a happy ending and I’ll show you a fiction as great as any shapechanger prancing about the forest.”
A guarded smile hovered over his mouth,
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