Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Although he had many duties to attend to during the day, Chieftain Darro McKeran had also begun patrolling the passages of Dun Talamh, the clan’s stronghold, each night.
At first he’d taken up the habit along with their war master, Alec, whose sleeplessness had kept him from his bed.
After marrying his wife, Olivia, Alec stopped his nocturnal rounds to be with his lady, who calmed and comforted him as no one else could.
Darro had no such excuse, for while he enjoyed the occasional lover, no female had ever distracted him from his duties, and likely never would.
Serving as second in command filled his every waking hour with tasks that his eldest brother, Laird Tasgall McKeran, expected him to complete.
So it had been for nearly a thousand years.
Darro had become restless of late due to his growing unhappiness in his position. His countless responsibilities no longer gave him any satisfaction, nor could he refuse to attend to the laird’s commands.
His situation would likely never change, either.
Since the twelfth century, when an unknown enemy had cursed the McKeran Clan and their stronghold, he and his half-brothers remained imprisoned in a magical place that existed beyond the mortal realm.
For the last nine centuries they had been unable to escape past the outer curtain wall, which formed the boundary of their tiny world.
If such restrictions had been the only torment they suffered, their confinement might have grown tolerable over time.
Yet the enchantment that held them also caused the repeat of the same four seasons, which included all the terrible events of the year before the curse had been cast.
Attacked time and again by a vengeful laird who had died just before they were cursed, and forced to see the same brothers slain at his hands each time an event repeated, the McKeran remained locked in an eternal struggle with forces they could never defeat.
Because they had no means with which to break the spell that kept them trapped and reliving the same year, the clan had braved their situation as best they could.
They lived as they had in the highlands, attending to the needs of the clan and practicing their battle skills while remaining on guard.
With all their friends and extended family long dead, the people who served the McKeran had also been forced to adopt their traditions.
Then, too, every full-blood mortal that served at Dun Talamh had undergone other, outlandish changes.
No one inside the trap had ever aged or died until this past cycle, and at first the novelty of becoming immortal like the half-Fae McKeran had gratified the vassals.
Only too soon they came to understand the many, complicated burdens of living forever while facing fear every day that they could never escape.
Recently, when strange insectile attacks and alterations to the looping events had resulted in the deaths of two vassals, confusion and endless, fearful gossip spread among the household.
We’re no’ prepared for so much change.
Darro suffered from the same frustration as the laird and all of their half-brothers, who like him were unable to fathom what had triggered the changes or why.
After nine centuries of reliving the same year to see these alterations occur fashed him entirely.
Every day in the spell trap brought vexation of one kind or another, but none had ever proven lethal until this cycle.
Events had begun slipping out of order, happening faster than they had in the past. For the first time since being imprisoned here, two mortals from the outside world had died inside the trap, both by burning.
The mystery of the changes and the related troubles kept him awake at night, so Darro patrolled alone, hoping to discover something before another attack happened and killed an innocent.
Mayhap I shall die next.
The prospect didn’t frighten him as much as it would an ordinary man.
As the half-human son of a Fae hunter-warrior, Darro had been immortal since birth.
Thanks to his crossbreed blood he had stopped aging after attaining his manhood.
He also never suffered sickness, and his injuries had always healed swiftly.
All of the McKeran shared blood kinship through their sire, who had only been able to father sons with his mortal lovers, but Darro and Tasgall had been borne by the same màthair.
That was one of the reasons why the laird depended heavily on him to insure all carried out his orders, oversee the senior men of the clan and otherwise serve as his strong right arm.
I trust no man as much as you, the laird often said.
Although Darro would never complain, he often wished someone else could take his place at Tasgall’s side.
His brother had directed his life since they had left their lady màthair’s tribe to search for their half-brothers.
Since the clan had been cursed, all of Darro’s days were spent attending to the laird and the duties he assigned him.
Tasgall also wanted him to serve as an example to the rest of Keran’s sons, and occasionally still chided him for failing to meet his expectations.
You should speak up for yourself, lad, his sire had once told him during one of his rare visits to their settlement. You permit your brother to assume much that suits him instead of you. ’Tis your life, no’ his.
Darro remembered how he had simply shrugged in response.
In boyhood the infrequent reproaches he endured from his sire and some of the tribal elders had weighed on him, but he kept his mouth shut.
In truth he resented such remarks, for while others seemed to think they knew best how his life should be lived, they never once considered what he wanted.
Any complaint about his actions also seemed to him an indirect condemnation of Tasgall, and that he could not bear.
His brother’s unwavering will had not only created their clan and the stronghold they called home, but in the nine centuries since they had been cursed had kept them all from going mad.
These days, however, the laird no longer seemed to confide in him as much, which also troubled him.
What was he if not his brother’s closest friend as well as his strong right arm?
Darro pondered that as he walked into the passage to check the supports installed to keep the weakest wall from collapsing.
Although he had longed to be free of the weight of his position, he possessed nothing more than his place to truly define him.
Unlike Tasgall, who had chronicled their time in the spell trap with countless scrolls, he was not particularly fond of writing, and had no gift with words.
While sparring with any weapon he could prevail over almost every other McKeran, thanks to his size and strength, but his nature was such that he didn’t enjoy fighting even as practice.
His mortal weakness, a flaw that all half-Fae suffered because of their human blood, left him unable to toil with or near fire.
He liked working out of doors well enough, but had no talent for gardening, masonry or carpentry.
The one thing he could do well was an indulgence he rarely permitted himself–
The air filled with a woman’s scream of terror, smashing through his thoughts.
Darro ran toward the sound, and nearly fell on his face when a small young female with long black hair and golden skin hurled herself at him, dragging herself around him and pulling him away from the spell trap’s entry barrier.
She then grabbed him from behind with desperately clinging hands, trying to drag him backward, and began speaking in a language he didn’t understand.
He glanced down to see her pointing with a trembling finger at the other end of the passage.
Everything happened so fast he hardly knew what to do.
He needed to first calm her, but how could he make himself understood?
He looked where she was pointing and saw a black shiny rectangle on the floor—likely what the outsiders called a phone—and then saw a flash of gold as a tiny insect crawled into the seam between two stones.
That alarmed him so much he didn’t try to talk to her, but scooped her up and ran carrying her away from the entry.
“Dinnae fear, my lady,” he said. Even if they didn’t speak the same language, his tone might reassure her. “I have you.”
The woman murmured something as she tucked her face against his neck, her breasts heaving as she took in panicked breaths.
Her limbs trembled as if she’d become racked with fever.
The scent of her, as piquant as sweet gale flowers, seemed to fill his head like the sweetest spring morning air.
She took in a hitching breath and spoke again to him in her rapid, lovely language, the words of which flowed so fast they sounded like water rushing in a stream.
What if no one can make themselves understood to her?
Darro wondered if he could be the one to teach her English.
He would like that, and she had trusted him enough to let him carry her like this.
Yet she was so small and he so large, once she regained her senses he’d likely terrify her as much as the bespelled spider had.
As soon as he reached the great hall he hesitated for a moment before he carried her inside, where the laird and his wife were meeting with their patrol captains.
Everyone got to their feet as soon as they saw them.