me.”
Then the truth came out in a rush, of the body snatchers and the crazed Welsh anatomist who paid for fresh bodies.
After he was convinced that he had gotten every bit of information the watchman possessed, Padraig strode out of the crypt and back to his waiting mount. He vaulted onto his horse’s back. The saddle, slick with cold rain, soaked wetly into his breeches, but Padraig scarcely noticed.
He lifted Aidan’s shirt to his face and held it against his eyes, as if it could block the image of his brother’s body being desecrated, piece by piece. He breathed deeply, hoping to catch a whiff of Aidan in the cool, soft linen. He could only smell dust and mildew.
A dark, killing rage became a boil in his blood, snaking through the slippery chambers of his convulsing heart, filling it with a lust for vengeance.
No one disturbed his brother’s eternal rest and hacked his body apart as if he were some common criminal. Padraig touched his chest where his medallion seemed to burn against his skin.
This Welshman had begun something that Padraig would be certain to finish.
England
Aidan Mullen took another peek at the leaden sky. He was uncertain how he’d get home, how he’d manage to send word to his family. Not only was he stripped of his garments, but also of any coin, as well. But those were problems for tomorrow. Today he could only focus on how grateful he was to be alive.
The sickness on his ship had killed scores of people, and likely there were those who like Aidan, had succumbed to a coma and were thought dead. Those sad souls had been tossed to the sea to prevent contagion; Aidan, because of his family’s titles and power, had been left to lie in his berth, stored in a crypt when his body reached his destination.
Aidan felt the pain and shivering of the remnants of sickness and cold. He reveled in those sensations; they were the stuff of life, and he was happy to feel the sting of survival.
He lifted his face to the sky and breathed deeply. A frigid rain began to fall softly, scenting the air with the clean scents of damp, mossy earth and pine trees.
How strange life is, he thought. His life, hanging by the barest thread, had been saved by the most incongruous means—gravediggers.
It brought to mind the letter he’d penned when death seemed certain.
In his mind, he thought hard about his brother, their way of communicating that neither of them quite understood. But always, as babies, as boys, and as men, they’d spoken a certain language that could not be defined or contained. It was as if energy passed between them, unaffected by time or distance. Thinking of this now, he sent a mental message, as strong as he could make it: I am well, Padraig. Do not worry, Dorchadas. I am alive.
Turning, he ducked into the tiny stone shelter that had become the makeshift home for him and his strange nursemaid.
There she was, this woman who called herself Olwyn, tending the fire. The orangey, yellow light made her fine skin glow, and turned her hair into a lustrous black lacquer framing her delicate features. That striking white streak shone like ivory set into an ebony sculpture, and Aidan wanted to touch it, to make it feel real beneath his fingers.
Instead, he dropped his fur, donned the odd garments she’d given him, and reclined by the fire. He pulled a few furs over his legs, lifted his tea, and drank deeply, draining the sweet herbal taste of it.
“’Tis raining,” he told Olwyn.
She cast a sidelong glance to the window, and he saw worry shape her features. What a face she had. It hid nothing, each of her emotions as plainly read as the written word. “I’ve no place for my mare. She’s too old to be out in the weather.”
“’Tis too small an opening to bring her in here,” Aidan said, looking at the narrow doorway and low ceiling. “Can we rig a makeshift shelter for her?”
Olwyn bit her bottom lip and gave it thought. “I’ve tarps in my wagon. I could maybe drape them over a tree branch, and tether her beneath. With her blankets on, she might be warm enough.”
“Aye, that would work.” Aidan pushed himself back to his feet. “I’ll help you.”
She frowned and shook her head. “You’re weakened and undernourished. You’ll catch your death.”
“I’ve already caught my death, aye?” He grinned at her, and when the ghost of a smile touched her face in return, he winked. “And I lived to tell the tale.”
Olwyn looked away from him, and her cheeks flushed lightly.
Aidan felt her discomfort, a palpable thing. “Am I doing something to unsettle you, Olwyn? I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”
She shrugged slightly, the barest perceptible movement of her shoulders. “I am unaccustomed to the company of men.”
“Oh?” Aidan couldn’t keep the grin from tugging at his lips again. He was alive, after all. Alive. He swore he would never take such a miracle for granted again. “Have you been locked in a tower, then? For certainly if there were a man within twenty paces of you, he must have wanted a chance to pay court.”
Slowly, so slowly, she turned back to meet his eyes. In the dimness of the small stone structure, he could see confusion take over her face, followed by fearful anger. She thought he was mocking her.
“Do you not know you’re beautiful?” he asked softly.
“You are far too forward.” There was a warning in her voice, but something else in her clear gray eyes. Was it hope?
“You’ve saved my life. Shall I pay you back with compliments?”
“No,” Olwyn whispered. She pulled her cloak over her shoulders, lifted the deep hood, and pulled it up until she disappeared in the cowl. “I need no repayment, and I’ve no patience for lies.”
She hurried from the hut and went out into the rain without seeming to notice it. Aidan followed her, and soon they were working together, lashing the tarps over a tree branch, tethering the old woebegone mare beneath it. Olwyn gathered large rocks and piled them along either sides of the makeshift tent, anchoring the oiled material to the ground. Aidan helped her, but she avoided making eye contact with him. When they finished, she spread thick horse blankets across Nixie’s bowed back, and gave her a ration of feed and a bucket of water.
The old mare nuzzled Aidan’s arm, and he returned her affection with a few strokes between her eyes and down her long face to the small velvety patch just behind her nose.
“She likes you,” Olwyn said, sounding surprised. “She’s usually very shy.”
“I’ve a way with animals.” Aidan gave the horse a final pat before looking up to assess the sky once more.
Turning to Olwyn, he read the worry on her face.
“We may be here a while,” he told her, his breath a cold frost in the air. “Perhaps we should set out traps. We could maybe catch a rabbit.”
“And be arrested if we’re caught with so much as the hide? Are you some sort of highborn lord that you think you can poach game without recrimination?” She looked at him as if he had sprouted ten heads. When he didn’t answer her, she seemed to take that as reply enough. “I’ve enough food that we’ll not starve anytime soon. And we’ll leave tomorrow, no matter what the weather,” she said flatly, and she turned and walked away.
Chester, England
Padraig stormed into the inn where he’d taken a room. He changed his clothes, strapped on his sword belt and his pistol belt, tossed his cloak over his shoulders. He stopped for a moment, and had the strangest sensation of having his brother’s thoughts in his own mind.
The feeling was familiar, and it made him want to weep. If he were going to still have those senses of his brother, Padraig could hardly bear to imagine his future, filled with a million tiny funerals every time something reminded