Page 42 of Darro

Chapter Eleven

Bodach saw what was waiting outside his property, and swore softly as he shut off his headlights to park behind two mini-vans. When he walked up he smiled at the two dark-haired young women standing between the two vehicles.

“Hello, ladies.” He noted the black eye one sported, and the way the other cringed. Ballar had been abusing his females for a while, it seemed. “You would be the Daughters of the Sickle?”

“They don’t allow women in the coven,” the one with the black eye said. “It’s just for guys.”

“So you two serve as what, punching bags? Sex toys with pulses? That doesn’t sound like much fun.” He touched their shoulders. “How about I change that?”

When Bodach had finished with the two women he went back to his car, got in and drove up to the front gates. There Dax Ballar and a dozen other men dressed in dark clothing stood waiting, all of them putting on fierce expressions. A few kept their arms folded or their hands stuffed in their pockets.

Some of them are bright enough to be afraid of me, but still stupid enough to come here. The women were right about them.

The Sons of the Sickle all sported variations of the infamous dark druid tribe’s ink, some of which looked cartoonish. Most were in their early twenties, but here and there he spotted a teenager. Bodach wondered if any of their ancestors had been permitted to reincarnate. Likely not, for in the modern world the original Briseadh would have hunted down and exterminated their ridiculous progeny like the rodents they were.

Bodach didn’t bother to get out of the Mercedes but punched in the code to the gates and drove through them, leaving Ballar and his brethren to scramble after him on foot. Watching them trot up the drive amused him even more. Had they even an ounce of the wisdom possessed by their distant ancestors, they would have run for their lives in the opposite direction.

“We’ve been waiting for two hours,” Ballar said, striding up to the front of his coven and throwing out his arms. A few dark red sparks flew from his fingertips to fizzle out halfway to the ground. “Are you trying to anger the dark gods we serve?”

Keeping a straight face was going to prove more of a challenge than dealing with these baby dark druids, Bodach thought. “Why would they care what I do? I’m not mortal or druid kind.”

“Yeah, but you’re, ah, what is he again?” one of the youngest asked, and promptly got struck by another member.

“Dark Fae, my boy.” He scanned the confused faces of the other young men. “I’ve heard that some terrible dark mage from my people disposed of some of your tribe back in the days of old, when they crossed his path and cast their little murderous spells at him. He was a force to be reckoned with, as he couldn’t be killed by anything.”

They continued to watch him without a spark of comprehension, which confirmed his suspicion that they had no idea who he was.

“Obviously I am far less impressive.” He dropped his guise and allowed them to see his true form. “I’m very old and frail, gentlemen. I won’t present a threat to you or your gods, I promise.”

The shift in his appearance made the coven exchange worried looks. Some of them backed up a few steps, turning as if to run for the gates.

“We are not cowards,” Ballar said, halting the would-be runners. “I struck a bargain with this goblin, brethren. Since he’s Fae he has to keep his word to me.”

Bodach couldn’t fathom where the mortal had gotten that idea, but allowing him to continue to believe it for a while longer would make things easier.

“Of course. We all want the same things, don’t we?” Without waiting for an answer he waved a hand, and the doors to the castle swung open. “Please, follow me.”

Once Darro made sure that all of the bodies of the slain attackers had disappeared, he looked up at the window of the guest room. He knew Esme would be waiting for him there, counting on the wordless promise he’d given her with that kiss. The shock of what had happened between them during that embrace still had his insides knotting. She desired him and wished to be loved, and he wanted her more than he needed to breathe. When the red light had burst in the air, the last of the fear had drained out of him, leaving him completely at ease with the prospect of loving his lady. The damaged spell had been broken at last. What held him back now wasn’t the physical differences between them, but the call of his many, myriad responsibilities.

I cannae go to her until after I see to my duties.

Darro knew the laird would expect him to report at once on the attack. They would then spend several hours in discussion with Alec and the other senior men about how to better prepare for another assault on the stronghold. The men would then expect him to make the rounds of the garrison hall as he always did, to assure those who had been wounded during the attack had but minor injuries. He might finish by dawn, at which point he would have to report to Tasgall yet again. All of that was his responsibility as second in command, a position which he had always despised. Now he wished to be free of the burdens placed on him, which over the last several hours had grown crushing.

He but had to tell the laird: I no longer wish to serve as your second. I want to have time to be with the woman I desire, just as you have with Lady Ava. He also couldn’t imagine doing that for any reason, even her.

When Darro found his older brother in the laird’s chamber he knew he could not yet trust himself to speak and not shout. Fortunately Tasgall liked to do most of the talking.

“Come and have a drink with me,” the laird said, walking over to the fire.

Darro thought for a moment he might actually raise his voice to his brother; something he’d never done in his long life. “By the fire?”

Tasgall shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him.

“I dinnae want whiskey, my lord,” he said through his teeth, “or shall I set myself alight for your entertainment.”

“’Tis spiced perry, and I shall bring it to you. Why do you whine? I’ve never wished to watch you burn, even as you do so often of late. Only ’tisnae from fire.” The laird uncorked a jug and poured a measure of the pear cider into two goblets before walking over and offering one to him. When he didn’t take it he said, “Shall I command you to drink, then, Chieftain?”

He seized the goblet and drained it before slamming it down on the table. “Does such suffice, or shall you order me drink over and again? ’Twill take three barrels of perry to make me minced, as well you ken.”