eyes. It snarls when it sees us and tries to attack, but is held back by the rope.
“That’s your brother?” Goll asks suspiciously.
“His name is — was — Fintan,” Fand says.
“What happened to him?” I ask, staring uncomfortably at the yellow eyes. Disfigured as they are, they look disturbingly similar to mine. “Is he undead?”
“No.” Fand stands. “We’ll tell you in the main hut. Come.” When we hesitate, she manages a thin smile. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. Fintan and the others are tied up tight.”
“There are more like this?” Ronan says.
“Four.” Fand pauses and her expression darkens. “For now.”
She goes to the largest hut and ducks inside. One last glance at the creature chained to the rock — it looks like a cross between a wolf and a man — then we follow, gripping our weapons tight, watching the shadows for any sign of other, unchained beasts.
It’s crowded inside the hut, with all five adults, the three children we saw earlier, two younger kids — one just a babe — and us. The MacGrigor are poorly dressed — most of the children are naked — and scrawny. Dirty hair, rough tattoos, cracked nails, bloodshot eyes.
“They’ve seen Fintan,” Fand says when we’re seated, after a few seconds of uneasy silence.
“Good,” Torin grunts. “That saves some time.” He collects his thoughts, glances at me, then tells us their sorry tale — my tale.
Several generations ago their ancestors bred with the Fomorii. They thought the semi-demons were going to conquer this land and threw in their lot with them. When the Fomorii were defeated, the MacGrigor were hunted down and executed as traitors. But some survived and went into hiding.
“Though if they’d known what was to come next, I think they’d have stayed and accepted death,” Torin says bitterly.
Some of the children of the human Fomorii couplings were born deformed and demonic, and were immediately put to death. But most were human in appearance. These lived and grew, and for many years all was well.
“Then the changes began,” Torin sighs. “When children came of a certain age — usually on the cusp of adulthood — some transformed. It always happened around the time of a full moon. Their bodies twisted. Hair sprouted. Their teeth lengthened into fangs, their nails into claws. The change developed and worsened over three or four moons. By the end, they were wild, inhuman beasts, incapable of speech or recognition. Killers if left to wander free.
“The affected children were slain, while the others grew and had children of their own. They thought they were safe, that they’d survived the curse — but they were wrong. Some of the children of the survivors changed too, and their grandchildren, and those who came after.
“It strikes at random,” Torin says. “Sometimes four of five children of any generation will change, sometimes only two. But always a few. There’s never been a generation where none of the children turned.”
The family sought the help of priestesses and druids in later years, when their treachery had been forgotten and they were free to live among normal folk again. But no magician could lift the curse. So they struggled on, moving from one place to another whenever their dark secret was discovered, living as far away from other clans as possible, sometimes killing their beastly young, other times — as here — allowing them to live, in the hope they might one day change back or be cured by a powerful druid.
“It’s no sort of life,” Torin mutters, eyes distant, “waiting for our children to turn. Having to feed those who’ve fallen foul of the curse and look upon them as they are, remembering them as they were. I’d rather kill the poor beasts, but . . .” He glances at Fand, who glowers at him.
“And Bec?” Fiachna asks, sensing my impatience, speaking on my behalf. “Her mother was of your clan?”
“If her mother was Aednat, aye,” Torin says. He looks at me and again his face is dark. “Aednat had six children. All turned. When she fell pregnant for the seventh time, years after she and her husband, Struan, had agreed not to try again, Struan was furious. He couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another child into the world and rearing it, only to have to kill it when it fell prey to the ravages of the moon.
“Aednat argued to keep the child. She thought she might be lucky this time, that the gods would never curse her seven times in a row. She was old, at an age when most women can no longer conceive. She thought it was a sign that this child was blessed, that it would be safe. Struan didn’t agree. Neither did the rest of us.”
“Some did!” Aideen interrupts bitterly, but says no more when Torin glares at her warningly.
“We decided to kill the child in the womb,” Torin continues gruffly. “That was Struan’s wish and we believed it was the right thing to do. Struan took Aednat off into the wilds, to do the deed in private. But none of us knew how much Aednat wanted the baby. She fought with Struan when they were alone. Stabbed him. I don’t think she meant to kill him, but —”
“My mother killed my father?” I almost scream.
“Aye,” Torin says, burning me with his stare. “She probably only intended to wound him, but she cut too deeply. He died and she fled. By the time we discovered his body, she was far away. We followed for a time, to avenge Struan’s murder, but lost her trail after a couple of days. We prayed for her death when we returned. I’m pleased to hear our prayers were answered.”
I rear myself back to curse him for saying such a mean thing, but Fiachna grabs my left arm and squeezes hard, warning me to be silent.
“Of course the girl’s not our business now,” Torin says heavily. “She’s of your clan, not ours, so we can’t tell you what to do with her. But she’s a cursed child, from a line of cursed children, and the spawn of a killer. She’s at the age when the moon usually works its wicked charms. If you let her live, the chances are strong that she’ll change into a beast like Fintan. If you want my advice —”
“We don’t,” Goll snaps.
“As you wish,” Torin concedes. “But when the moon is full, be wary of her.”
He falls silent. I’m panting hard, as if I’d been running, thinking of the kind, weary face of my mother, trying to picture her killing my father. Then I recall the boy-beast in the hut and imagine myself in his position. I wish now that the past had remained a secret!
“What about the demons?” Drust asks, maybe to change the subject to stop me brooding, or maybe because he has no interest in my history or Torin’s grim prediction. “Don’t they ever attack?”
“No,” Torin says.
“Even though you’re poorly defended and they could butcher you anytime they pleased?”
Torin shrugs. “There were other families living near here. They’d been forced out of their tuatha for various reasons and settled in this wasteland. The demons killed them last year. We’ve seen the monsters pass from time to time and they’ve seen us. But they leave us alone.”
Drust nods. “Then it wasn’t a Fomorii your ancestors bred with. It was a true demon. Some of the Demonata fought alongside the Fomorii. Many demons don’t attack their own, especially if there are pure humans to kill. You’re kin to them, so they spare you — for now at least.”
“We’ve heard talk of the Demonata before,” Torin says. “Other druids — those we went to for help — spoke of them. They told us the curse was demonic and that was why they couldn’t help.” He leans forward. “I don’t suppose you know any way to...?” He leaves the question hanging.
Drust thinks about it awhile, then says, “A demon master might be able to lift the curse. But I know of no human — druid, priestess, or any other — who has the power to remove such a blood stain.”
“You mean the demons could cure us?” Fand says sharply.
“One of the more powerful masters, perhaps,” Drust says.
“Do you know where we can find one?”
Drust starts to respond, to tell them about Lord Loss.
Then he stops and shakes his he
ad. “The demon masters have not broken through to this world yet. When and if they do, they will be easy to locate. But I doubt if you will be able to convince them to help — by nature they are not inclined to be merciful.”
We stay talking a while longer. I ask questions about my mother and father, what they were like, how they spoke and lived. But Torin ignores my queries and speaks sharply whenever Aideen or Fand tries to answer, changing the conversation. I consider using magic on him, to make him tell me what I want to know, but Drust reads my thoughts and growls in my ear, “This is neither the time nor place for magic. Control yourself.”
When the MacGrigor have told us some more of their sad history and how they eke out a living here, Drust speaks of our quest, of the tunnel that has opened between the demon world and this, and his plan to close it. But he says nothing of how he hopes to pinpoint its location or why he’s leading us to the western coast — the end of the world.
When it’s time to sleep, we return to the two stone huts set aside for us and make ourselves comfortable. It’s been both a revealing and frustrating night for me — I’ve learned some of my history but not all. There’s so much more Torin and the others could tell me, but Torin hates my mother for betraying the clan, killing her husband, and deserting them. And since she’s no longer here for him to hate, he hates me in her place. He’ll never tell me about her or allow the others to.
Before I lie down, I remember the conversation after the revelations about my past and ask Drust why he didn’t tell Torin about Lord Loss. “If they could find him, they might be able to persuade him to help,” I note — figuring, if I could play a part in curing them of their curse, they’d surely tell me more about my parents.
“Aye,” Drust says archly. “But all we know about Lord Loss is that he likes to follow us around. If we told them that, they might try to hold us here, to use as bait.”
“But there are more of us than them,” I point out. “We’re stronger and better armed. You and I have magical powers. They couldn’t force us to stay.”
“Probably not,” Drust says. “But it’s safer not to take the risk. This way, they have no need to delay us and no conflict can come of it. The MacGrigor — or their descendants — will have to track down and petition a demon master another time.”
So saying, he rolls over and falls asleep, not even bothering to cast any masking spells, certain of our safety here in this bitterly charmed village of the damned.
The Source
I spend a few tortured hours thinking about my parents, Aednat and Struan, and the tragedy that separated them and brought me into the world. Torin called me a cursed child and he was right. I’m doubly cursed. The curse of my clan and the curse of being a killer’s daughter. Surely, of all the current MacGrigor crop, I must be the most likely to turn into a monster.
I worry about it for hours, imagining what it would be like to lose control of my mind, feel my body change, become a beast like the one I saw earlier. I thought death was the worst thing I had to fear, but now I know better. With worries like these, I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep again. But eventually tiredness overcomes even my gravest fears and I drift off into a fitful sleep, one filled with dreams of wolf-girls and dead children.
I awake late in the morning. The others are already up but most have only risen within the last hour, so I don’t feel too guilty for sleeping in.
I expect them to treat me differently now that they know the truth of my background and the threat of what I might become. But it quickly becomes clear that they think of me no differently than they did yesterday. I suppose there’s too much else to worry about. After all, what’s one potential half-demon when judged against the hordes of genuine, fully formed Demonata we might yet have to face?
Ronan and Lorcan have caught another hare, which Fiachna roasts on a spit. Along with the leftovers from the night before it provides us with a filling meal to start the day. Again we offer to share it with the MacGrigor, but again they refuse. They have too much pride to eat from another’s fire.
When we’re finished, they point us in the easiest direction to the coast, then wave us off. Aideen looks like she wants to wish me well but she dares not speak kindly to me in front of the glowering Torin. I wish I could stay here and work on Torin, earn his respect and love. But even if he wasn’t so hostile to me, I’m part of a quest, and although it’s shrouded in secrecy and I’m deeply suspicious of Drust’s reasons for helping us, it would be wrong to quit now. Perhaps, if I survive, I can return and seek a place here in my true home — even if it’s only so that they can chain me up with others of my kind if my body starts to change.
One of the wretched wolf-humans is howling madly as we leave, as if it senses a kindred spirit and is singing to the beast I might one day become.
I think about the MacGrigor — my family — as we set off, wondering what will happen if we fail and the Demonata overrun the land. Will these poor excuses for humans be all that remain of our people? Will they alone be spared, kept alive because of their poisoned blood, the only human faces in a land of twisted demons?
My lessons resume as we march. I practice the spells that Drust has already taught me and learn some new ones, like —
How to hold my breath for ten minutes.
How to make my fingers so cold that anything I touch turns to ice.
How to create an image of myself, to confuse a human or demonic foe.
How to sharpen a rock using only magic, to fashion a crude knife or spearhead for those times when magic alone might not be enough.
I’m amazed at how swiftly I’m developing. Under Banba it would sometimes take me a week to master a new spell. Now I’m mastering some in minutes, almost before Drust has finished explaining how they work. And although they tire me, they don’t drain me and I recover rapidly.
Drust is surprised too. He keeps commenting on how fast I am, quicker to learn than anyone he’s ever taught, how deep my magic runs. At first I think it’s flattery, designed to keep me happy and stop me thinking about the MacGrigor. But as the day wears on I realize he’s actually worried about my progress.
“What’s wrong?” I snap as for the twentieth time he mutters darkly about my skills. “Aren’t you glad that I’m learning quickly?”
“Of course,” Drust says. “Any teacher would be pleased to pass on so much with such little effort. But it’s not natural. Of course all magic is unnatural. We bend the laws of the universe to suit our needs. Each student is different, learning in a unique way, developing unlike any other. But there are similarities... learning steps all must climb... patterns they share.
“Except you.” His eyes are heavy. “When we started out, you were like any student. Slow to learn, stubborn to abandon your old ways, gradually opening yourself up to a new world of magic. Now you’re nothing like that. You’ve changed in every imaginable way and I’m not sure what to think of it.”
“It’s not that strange,” I mutter. “Once I perfected my first spell, it was easy. I just had a hard time getting started.”
“No,” Drust says. “There’s more to it than that. I . . .” He hesitates, then says it. “I want to look inside your mind. I want to join spirits with you and see what inspired this change.”
I go very quiet. I shared my mind and spirit with Banba many times. It’s part of the teaching process. I thought I’d have to do the same with Drust, but there’d been no mention of it until now. Sharing one’s spirit is a personal, private thing. To do it with a woman is hard, but to share with a man . . .
“It won’t be easy for me either,” Drust says quietly. “If you refuse, I won’t force you. But I have good reason for asking. There’s something unsettling about your growth. I suspect I know what it is. But I need to go within your mind to be sure.”
“Can’t you just tell me?” I groan. “Why all this need for secrets?”
“Druids and priestesses are creatures of secrets,” he says. “We live in worlds of mazes and mysteries. Secr
ecy is part of who we are and how we live. It should be enough for you when I say I need to do this. My reasons are unimportant. You either trust me or you don’t.”
I want to pull a face and say that I don’t, to annoy him. But his worry has set me worrying too. Now that I think about it, I realize no apprentice should advance this far, this fast. Banba told me ignorance is the greatest danger any magician ever faces. If you don’t know yourself intimately — your powers and the magic you wield — sooner or later you’ll fall victim to forces of the unknown.
“Very well,” I sigh. “But I don’t want you rooting around inside my head too long. Find what you need, then get out. If not, I’ll fight.”
Drust nods, smiling wryly. Then, without slowing, he takes hold of my left hand and directs his thoughts towards me. I feel his presence immediately, as if he opened a door into my mind and stepped through. His magic washes into me, seeping through my skin. Most of it is directed through his fingers but it comes from other places too — legs, chest, head. His power is like a cloud wrapped around me, swallowing me, tasting and testing me. Soon it’s as if there are two people sharing one body. My thoughts are his — my past, my dreams, my magic.
I stiffen but don’t stop walking. Movement gives me a notion of separation. I’m still aware of my individual self, who I am, who I was, who I hope to be. If I stop, I’m afraid Drust will become me and I’ll lose myself to him completely.
He presses further into my mind, searching, exploring the well of my magic. He’s already deeper within me than Banba ever got, discovering truths that nobody knows, my secret wishes and desires, my hopes, loves, and fears. And still he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, working on the part of me that is pure magic, dragging himself down towards my core, deeper and deeper, searching...
Something flares within me. I feel a bolt of lethal power shoot towards Drust. I know it will kill him upon contact but I can’t stop it. It’s coming from a place I can’t control, that I didn’t know was there. The bolt flies straight at Drust, increasing in power. It’s going to kill him! It will blow him apart! It —
Suddenly he isn’t there. Contact has been broken. He throws himself away physically, mind following, disappearing from my thoughts, crying out in pain, but not the sort of pain that accompanies death.
I cry out too and drop, head on fire, screaming, feeling the bolt of power explode into nothingness, tearing at the rim of my mind but not damaging me, not like it would have damaged — destroyed — Drust.
Bright lights. Stars. Then a red haze. When it clears, everyone’s around Drust and me. Concerned for me, wary of the druid. Ronan and Lorcan have him at sword point, even though he’s rolled up into a ball and isn’t moving. Connla’s behind them, testing his own sword’s edge, eyes flicking from one twin to the other. Fiachna’s studying my face, rolling my eyelids up, making sure I’m all right. Bran is close by, anxiously chewing his lower lip.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, pushing Fiachna away — my skin is more sensitive than it’s ever been. His touch is painful.
“What did he do?” Ronan asks, positioning the tip of his sword by Drust’s throat, ready to slice it open and end his life the second I give him an excuse.
“Put down that sword,” Connla growls, unexpectedly coming to the druid’s aid. “Don’t harm him.”
“I will if he’s hurt her!” Ronan snaps.