With the scrolls gone, it was as if a large chunk of him were gone as well. The most powerful of his ancient spells had been locked inside those pages when Odin had bidden the Elves of Niflheim to imprison him. And now, finally, after more time than he could gauge had passed, now that he once again had hands to hold those scrolls, they were gone!
The scrolls and the jewels that were the keys to unlocking his Magic from its prison. The scrolls and the jewels that were the means to imprison him again. Gone. Taken by some pathetic, putrid little human.
And the sword!
He forced himself to breathe, drawing air into the pitifully small lungs this body afforded him.
The Sword of the Ancients could not remain adrift. Steel forged in the fires of Asgard, honed on the bones of the warriors filling Valhalla, this was a weapon he must possess. This was a weapon, the only weapon, he feared. It alone had the power to steal his freedom. The power to end his life.
Not just the life of this pathetic body he inhabited, but his, Fenrir’s, very existence. It had been created for that purpose.
The legs of his chair scraped loudly across the stone floor as he pushed away from the table to stand, fury beating in his chest. Around him, the insignificant mortals who assumed he was their laird stilled, turning their frightened faces in his direction.
They should be frightened. Though they knew it not, their lives were no longer their own. Their laird had been a formidable tyrant, but at his worst, he was a frail maiden compared to Fenrir in full ferocity.
Without a word, he strode from the great hall and up to his bedchamber. Once there, he sat upon his large bed and removed his shirt, dropping it next to him.
He had sent a party of men in search of his treasures days ago, and he needed to see what progress they’d made. He needed to see if he could yet break through the mental barriers of the one who had stolen what belonged to him. Once he accomplished that step, it would be easy enough to direct his warriors to the exact location of the wretched thief and reclaim his rightful belongings.
He rubbed his hand over the smooth skin of his new body, still somehow surprised at the lack of fur. He glanced down as his fingers encountered a twinge of pain where five oozing, festering marks circled his heart. He didn’t know what Torquil had done to damage their body in this fashion before he’d taken control of it, but he’d been unable to heal this unusual wound, no matter what he’d tried.
It was a mystery he would have to deal with at a later time.
He lay back and nestled his head into the pillow beneath him. Eyes closed, he retreated into his mind, ignoring the piteous cries coming from behind the black door deep within the hidden recesses there. Plead as he might, what was left of Torquil MacDowylt’s soul would remain in that place until Fenrir no longer needed this form.
Calming his thoughts, Fenrir set them free, flying through the world of the between in search of the sparkly bits of stone he sought.
Only when he found them did he slow, taking care to avoid their siren pull upon him. As long as the thief kept them all together, he had no chance. But once they were separated, their power was his.
He was in luck. Carefully, slowly, he fit his essence inside the one jewel that had been separated from the others. Beyond the red shimmer of the ruby’s walls, he could just make out the shadowy, wavering form a man.
“There you are,” he growled, pushing his voice beyond the stone, into the cold night air. “Did you think to escape me so easily?”
The young man yelped in fright, whatever he’d held clattering to the ground at his feet.
The thief was little more than a terror-stricken boy? He couldn’t have asked for better luck. Since his power rode the wings of terror, this was going to be much, much easier than he had expected.
Three
MATHEWMACFALNY STEPPEDout of the small house and into a narrow, dirty alley deep in the bowels of Inverness. He didn’t have to count the paltry sum of coins in his sporran again to know he’d been cheated.
The old merchant’s eyes had lit with greed when Mathew showed him the jewel. He’d closed down his stall and brought Mathew here, to his home, where they could conduct their business in private.
Hugo had often said he trusted no one. Though his brother had been sorely lacking in scruples of his own, he’d been right on that count. Because of his brother’s training, Mathew had split up the treasures the night before he’d reached Inverness, carrying only one of each in his sporran and hiding the others in the small pack he carried.
When he’d first approached the old merchant, something about the man’s attitude had warned him this wasn’t the place to present all the treasures he planned to sell.
He’d shown the old merchant one single jewel and one ancient scroll, claiming they were all he had left in the world to support him and his poor family of orphaned brothers and sisters.
And still the old man cheated him.
Mathew had no doubt the merchant was, at this very moment, cackling in glee over the bargain they’d struck, knowing he’d fetch a much higher price than what he’d paid for Mathew’s lovely bauble.
But the transaction hadn’t been a complete loss. The coins in Mathew’s sporran were enough to provide him with a mount and the provisions he would need to reach Dunvegan Castle.
Besides, he was more than ready to have that blighted ruby out of his hands. Let the merchant deal with the vengeful spirit dwelling inside it. It would serve him right for his cheating ways.
Freed of that burden, Mathew was ready for his next step. Although the merchant had had no interest in the scroll he’d hoped to sell, he’d told Mathew that the laird of the MacLeod was said to desire such things, willing to pay good silver with no questions asked. The great laird was also rumored to harbor a particular interest in Magic and the Fae.
