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Three-and-a-half years ago, three hunters had been found burnt to their white bones. One who had escaped, suffering from only a singed arm, told them a harrowing tale of a madwoman cackling like a banshee and throwing fire from her palms at them. The rumors had suddenly become real.
Angus cast a look up at the grey skies. It was a bit too distressing and possibly comical, the Laird thought, that a dispersing thunderstorm and the sun coming out was what signaled the end of the damned witch acting up again. After the third attack, Angus had taken it upon himself to rid the world of this devilish woman but twenty-two months down the road, he was no closer to getting what he needed than when he had started.
Sighing, he hated that he had to report another failure to his council and, worse, his family. His young sister, Ailsa, had not been allowed to leave the citadel for those long two years in fear that she would fall into the witch’s trap. He hated subjecting his sister to such unneeded isolation when she could be free. His warrior brother Malcolm could fend for himself but he was not letting his sister or his diminutive mother, Lady Isobel, a healer with a penchant to gather herbs in those woods, get caught in the woman’s clutches.
Taking the soft incline to the castle’s gate, Angus’ mind felt scattered and his heart was sorrowful. Knowing that he had sent two men to their deaths, hoping they were the key to ending his witch worries, was heavy on his heart. The single comfort he had was that the two men had no wives or children he had to cater to. Thank God that mercenaries were solitary creatures.
The smell of the infirmary was one Angus had little love for. The memories of the many nights he had spent there with various injuries—knife cuts, fire burns, a broken wrist, a twisted ankle, and even the rake of a wildcat’s claw over his shoulder—did not endear him to the sickroom.
Lingering at the doorway, Angus watched as the men were moved to beds. The healer women leaped into action, removing burnt clothes and ordering poultices to be made from the herbs in the sunroom, that was just through the southern arch at the end of the room.
He grimaced when a baleful groan came from one of the men, half of his face a mess of black and bloody red. The burn was down his neck where the skin had melted to a sick white fatty layer and had mottled red and black spots around it. Patches of blackened skin flaked off while the healers moved around the men and when a large bubble of pus began to leak out, Angus turned away, hoping to keep the contents of his stomach where they were.
He kept his eyes away while swallowing over the bile that was scalding his throat raw. His mother, Lady Isobel, suddenly came striding down the hallway, pulling the sleeves of her gown up her elbows. She looked all business, clearly going to help the healers and Angus, foolishly, stepped to intercept her.
“Mother, please don’t—”
Her piercing blue eyes stopped him with his mouth half-open. Her look was so daunting that his teeth clicked as he quickly shut his mouth.
“That’s what I kent ye said,” Isobel said, while pushing him away and breezing past him.
Angus stifled a snort and shook his head at his incredulity. His mother was not one to be deterred when she was on a cause. There was nothing he could do at the infirmary, so he went to the old meeting room his father had left him and tried to make some order of this chaos. There, he closed the door behind himself and sank weakly into the chair. Instantly, his rough hands came to cage his face and a tendril of despair ran through his mind.
What am I going to do now? My last plan came to nothing. Rodham and Bhaltair were the best in Edina… If this is me last resort, what else is there? I need to get rid of this witch.
His stress level was so high he could feel grey hairs growing out of his head with every passing breath. There was no information on who this witch was. He did not know her name, where she had come from, or why she loved to terrorize the people around her. People that—as far as he knew—had not harmed her at all.
Reaching to a drawer, he pulled out a list of people who had been harmed or killed by this woman and he grimaced while taking his quill and turning the page over. There, he added Rodham and Bhaltair’s names to the lengthy list. He turned the leaf over and glanced at the names stricken out with red ink, the bright hue signaling that these unfortunate people had died from their injuries. Only a few had survived and a handful of them had recovered.
Something had to be done with this woman, but what? Where was the key to this debacle?
“Ye’ll get a permanent line in yer face if ye keep doing that,” the dry-humored voice of his younger brother Malcolm said from the doorway.
Sitting back, Angus massaged his brow, “I’m already getting grey, I dinnae see a problem with getting lines.”
His brother shook his head and drew out a seat. Angus met the same shade of blue eyes that he saw in the mirror every day. He, his brother, and his sister had all inherited their father—David’s—deep blue eyes instead of their mother’s lighter shade.
Malcolm was sympathetic, brushing a lock of his shoulder-length auburn hair from his eyes. The man, an eight-and-twenty-year-old soldier in the family army and a reputed lady’s man, sighed, “The fire witch again?”
“Need ye ask?” Angus grimaced. “Rodham and Bhaltair might live for a day, but we all ken that they’re going to die. At least they will go somewhat peacefully.”
“Then what are ye gonna do?” Malcolm asked.
“Damned if I ken,” Angus sighed. “But she has to be stopped.”
The soldier sat forward, “If ye would just allow me and me men—”
“Nay,” Angus snapped. His tone had come out harsher than he had expected and he grimaced. Measuring his voice, he clarified, “I cannae risk ye, Malcolm. As for now, we dinnae ken anythin’ about this woman and until we dae, I cannae risk those who are assets to me and our Clan… nae yet.”
“Nae yet,” Malcolm said with a lazy grin. A fringe of his hair flopped over his left eye. “I’ll be lookin’ forward to when ye do.”
Narrowing his left eye, Angus glared. “When I do, it will nae be ye. Ye take too many risks, Malcolm.”
His brother shuddered, “Ye ken, when ye do that, narrowing that eye, I swear I see Papa… without the beard, of course.”
“That’s why I dae it,” Angus smirked before sobering. “Go and be useful, prepare the gravediggers, Malcolm. We have two bodies to bury by mornin’.”
“Righto,” Malcolm said, standing with a stomp of his boots. “Try getting so
