Rainsquall

39. 39.

39.

M etal scraped and clattered along wood. The shutter hook, loosened by the wind. Tugging Folke away from the snug cocoon of sleep. Reaching a level of consciousness where he could form a coherent thought came at the cost of realising he was alone. And that someone had tucked him in with fierce determination.

Folke fought to sit upright, groaning at the throb in his rear, much worse than the day before. Rubbing the base of his thumb between his brows, he pushed himself to remember how he’d gotten to bed in the first place.

Up the stairs with uncooperative feet and in the nude. Finlay reprimanding him for being so careless. Darach telling Finlay to stop fussing.

He’d been so tired, he hadn’t even washed.

Need to rectify that.

Whistling of a tea kettle and low murmurs drifted upward into the hallway. Folke made no effort to lift his feet, shuffling into the lavatory. Soaking in a warm bath for longer than usual helped ease the soreness, although the pertinacious winds did nothing for his nerves. Finlay had said it was just a storm and, by all accounts, storms were common enough.

Something about this one, however, seeped uneasiness into his heart.

“Just in time for breakfast,” was Finlay’s wakeful greeting once Folke reached the kitchen. Water pouring with the distinct chime of ceramic told him he made use of the teapot.

“Good morning, mo chridhe.”

Folke grunted. He felt no more alert than before. Something that seemed to amuse his lovers.

“I’ve seen dead soldiers more awake,” said Finlay. “We’re late with breakfast because of you.”

“I’m not sorry,” Folke mumbled, sliding against Darach, readily embraced. “It was a long day yesterday.”

Maybe today they could sit by the stove and read, and do nothing else.

Beard hair and lips pressed against his forehead, and another set caught the slope of his cheek before Folke pulled away to drag himself to the back door.

“I’ve already seen to yer sheep. They’re doing well.”

He paused, toes nudging his rubber boots. “Oh. Thank you.” That saved him from walking out into the rain first thing. He’d check on them later. “I might not take them out today.” The wind had picked up too much, replacing the kettle’s whistle as it fed through crevices by the windows.

“That’s a good idea, letting them rest.”

Folke spun on his heel toward Darach. Demanded, “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re old, mo leannan. Ye ken that.”

They were, but for him to say it meant his Garments were showing signs of age. Something in their gait? Folke’s shoulders slumped. Soon, he would have failed his duties as a shepherd in the truest sense.

“Come,” Darach said, gently, “let’s eat.”

Folke suppressed a grimace at the chair pressing into his back. The last thing he needed was for Finlay to berate him again. Hoped his lovers hadn’t seen, especially as Finlay set a plate before him and pressed a kiss to his temple.

Bread and blackcurrant conserve. A generous helping of young cheese on the side. Folke floundered, not knowing how he would ever return their kindness.

“I have a phonograph,” he blurted, running the tip of a finger over the plate’s scalloped edge.

“You do?” Thomas, from across the table. “What kind of music do you own?”

Yes, but not for you, Folke wanted to snap. Said instead, “I have no idea. It belonged to my far, but you might find it enjoyable, Fin.”

That left finding something for Darach. A book, perhaps.

Or his heart.

Which both men already had.

No point denying it.

“Thanks, Precious. I’ll take a look later.”

Folke echoed, suspicious, “Later?”

He wasn’t keen on the pause, tense from where he sat.

“As much as we’d like to, sweet Folke, Finlay an’ I need to head out for the day.”

“What about me?” Thomas demanded.

“You stay here. Keep an eye on things.”

They were placing Thomas on guard duty for Folke’s benefit. Something the blusterer had much to say about.

Folke turned his attention to remnants on his plate, squeezing crumbs between thumb and forefinger. There was no need to feel abandoned. Finlay and Darach might have neglected their duties over the past few days and needed to make up for it. It seemed vital that they did.

“I’m sure I’ll find ways to occupy myself,” Folke said, taxed. “You can take him with you. It’ll be no skin off my nose.”

Regrettably, as Folke followed his lovers into the hallway and listened to them shrugging into coats and shoving feet into heavy boots, it became clear that they’d be leaving Thomas behind, regardless.

“You’ll both be safe?” he asked.

“Naturally.” Finlay stroked a thumb across Folke’s cheek.

A press of lips locked his response away. Not that he had much of one. He smoothed his hands across the lapels of a thick pile overcoat, the same Finlay had worn on their date. Wool, double breasted. Its buttons large and textured, but not of metal or plastic. Leather, perhaps. Military, without a doubt.

“We’ve left ye some biscuits in the kitchen to tide ye over.”

Folke’s gratitude was swallowed by a kiss far more entangling. A rich lavishment of tongue and touches that left him clutching at the fur of Darach’s coat and winded when it ended.

“Thank you,” he managed around the rise of desire. “Don’t be gone too long.”

No promises were made as his lovers opened the door to a rush of wind, blowing debris across the hallway floor. Thick raindrops splattered the porch roof, the wind chimes dissonant. Abrupt in its silence once shut out.

Folke reached under his knit jumper for buttons, not yet willing to unroot himself from where he stood with the scent of his lovers still clinging to his senses.

Come back soon.

Please.

“What’s wrong with you?” Thomas smacked loudly around something in his mouth. The stench of anise soon inundated all else.

“I worry for them.” Maybe honesty would catch him off guard.

“Yeah,” Thomas trailed off, unbothered. “If they get hurt, it’ll be your fault.”

“Pardon?” Folke tucked his hands into his armpits as he crossed his arms, not trusting himself to keep from backhanding the vole.

“You’ve been distracting them. If things have gotten worse, they’ll need to fight. And that’ll be on you, mate.”

“First off, I’m not your mate ,” Folke snapped, aware he was being petty. “Secondly, they’re both very capable men. There’s no doubt in my mind they can handle a few creatures.”

Or so he worked on convincing himself. The truth of it was, he had no idea how capable either of them were. And Darach had been hurt before, a fact he couldn’t brush aside.

Folke patted his way back into the dining room to occupy himself with tidying. The gales barraged the kitchen window, but as sediment-tainted water scratched the plates, he drifted with the thought of Darach fixing the pipes.

He’d been so repulsed by the idea of the three staying any longer than a few hours. Now, Folke thought about how he’d bring his lover a cup of tea while he worked. Or maybe a refreshing fizzy drink, if he undertook the task in the summer. They’d take a break and sit in the grass together, under the sun’s warmth. Folke would chase droplets of sweat off Darach’s forehead with his fingers. Kiss him. He’d kiss Finlay too, who would be there helping, and run his hands over a sweat-soaked shirt to forever marvel over the power in those shoulders.

“Your sheep are running off.”

Ceramic crashed, shattering. He paid the broken dish inside the sink no mind, whirling on Thomas who’d snuck up behind him.

“How could they be? They were locked in!”

“I dunno.” He could practically feel Thomas shrugging. “I did say hi to them earlier. Maybe I forgot to put the latch on?”

Folke swore. Slammed his feet into rubber boots and moved to open the back door.

“They’re out front, you knob.”

He spun around and stalked back into the kitchen. “Stop insulting me, or I swear I’ll put you over my knee!”

“Blimey,” Thomas lilted with a laugh. “You’re going to have to be nice to me if you want my help.”

Folke clenched his jaw. “If you don’t fix what you bollocksed up, I’ll tell Darach what a young shite you truly are. No guarantees he won’t miss stepping on you next time.”

A scoff. “Fine.”

He hurried through the hallway. Gathered his crook on the way out the front, and darted after the cloying stink of anise into a gelid downpour. Not five steps out onto gravel and wet chill crept through his clothes, stuck his hair to his forehead.

“They ran up this way!”

Folke’s hand had scarcely touched the guide rope. He hesitated. Muttered a swear. Swung under the rope. Frayed and weighted by rain, it scraped over his back, soaking his jumper further.

Grass whipped around him in powerful, uneven gusts threatening to push him over. He couldn’t hear bells, nor any bleats, the torrential downpour too loud. In the distance, thunder rolled, reinforcing Folke’s suspicion that this tempest was far from natural. Thomas had admitted as much.

He swung his crook back and forth, catching long grass, large stones. Ignored the tension building in his shoulders, the shivering induced by icy, splinter-like rain. Tried not to think about how he’d be stranded if Thomas decided to leave him.

“Where are they?” he shouted, unsure where the vole had gone.

“Up here.” The nasally timbre whipped past him from ahead.

Folke hastened his pursuit. Slowed only once reaching level ground—the hill’s summit. He strained to hear the Garments over cracks of thunder and howling winds that struck his heart with fear. He had heard a wind much like this, once before.

From some distance away and nigh inaudible, “Down here!”

Pushing away the onerous disquiet, Folke followed. Careful in his descent, the hill’s slope steep, and the drenched, rock-laden earth slippery. Stumbling the last few steps to yet more flat land, he set his crook into grass to steady himself. With every inhale, rain drew into his mouth, open around a repeat question he couldn’t voice, his focus pulled toward an unsettling racket.

Not the storm, not Thomas, or his sheep. Like a young Needle digging in his mother’s flower bed, her nails clicking against each flicked pebble.

From behind him, “They told you?”

Folke gasped, startled. Turned toward Thomas to better hear. “Told me what? Where are my sheep?”

“ Civilians are not supposed to know.”

“What the hell does it matter whether I know or not? Where are my sheep, Thomas?”

Coltish feet splashed, slowing.

“Did they tell you I’m a pretty good shot, too?”

Heavy metallic snaps.

Folke’s heart slammed to a stop. Never before in his life had he heard a gun being cocked, but recognised the sound for what it was. He took a step back—away, clutching his crook against his chest. Chilled to his very soul. Utterly terrified of the child nearby. Of the rasping breaths and the uncanny howling around him.

He stammered, “Thomas.”

Couldn’t summon the courage to say more. Took another step back. The digging came from behind him.

“What?” Thomas laughed. “You thought I was going to shoot you? I can’t do that. Fin will hear.”

A burr had formed inside his throat. Folke couldn’t swallow around it, despite the trickle of relief. Finlay would hear it. His lovers wouldn’t ever forgive Thomas, he had to know that.

“But I can do this.”

Something hard collided with his hip. Sent him staggering back in pained shock. It slammed into his knee next. Folke cried out, toppled to the marsh-like ground. Sought his crook where he’d dropped it. Wrapped his fingers around its uneven shaft and swung hard. Landed a low hit, evoking a loud swear.

He scrambled up, ignoring the pain in his leg. Retreated further at fast approaching plashes.

And felt the ground give under his feet.

Folke flailed, his world gone. Heard himself gasp in a sudden, deafening silence. Felt a droplet pull from the tip of his nose, his body weightless for an eternity.

Until he crashed, knocking the air out of his lungs. The crack in his chest reverberated and agony stuttered his wheezing inhale. Folke fought to roll onto his back, clutching his left side.

Rivulets spattered his face as he lay struggling to comprehend what had happened, reeling and shuddering at the sharp pain in his ribs.

Cacophonic panting surrounded him, pitched like the intrigued whines of dogs. The digging had stopped, replaced by the angry wet snarls of a beast.

Folke’s own breaths left him in strangled bursts. He pushed himself through mud with his feet in an attempt to stand up, to put distance between him and encroaching, squelching shuffles. Loud enough to smother his fearful cry at the feel of icy dampness curling around him like fingerless hands. Pawing at his shins, his forearms, scraping his face. Panic surged into his throat, burning like sick. He kicked. Connected with something that cracked before his foot was exposed to cold air, his boot gone. He shouted in agony, contorting to escape the wheezing and the sharp digits digging into his skin, the treads of heavy paws and growls of a creature that was not a wolf.

Thunder roared overhead, vibrating the dirt through which Folke dragged himself, his fingernails chipping against stones. The stench of bleach suffused the crackling hair.

Folke knew. Knew before the crash of lightning flung molten shards across his face, that he wouldn’t die at the fingerless hands of the Ruck, or by the teeth of a Barghest. Even as it clamped around his ankle, biting down hard. Pulled him back, scraping the exposed skin of his back against debris.

His wail was lost among fulminating strikes and the charged bellow of legends. Teeth around his ankle unlocked. Ghostly shrieks followed. The ground beneath Folke shivered and rumbled under the weight of something so vast, it blocked the downpour’s endless barrage.

Shudders running through him had contorted into convulsions of terror. He could do nothing against the indefinable touch wrapping around him, encasing him in full. Lifting him and freezing his skin over with the rush of air. He winced against the momentary onslaught of rain, disappearing again as blasts of hot breath washed over him.

A loud click, not unlike a knee, echoed.

Folke reached out. Set his violently shaking hands against glass-like smoothness, undulating in a flawless, diamond-shaped pattern across Beithir’s nose.