“I need to. It’s taking me where I must follow.”
“It’s the will-o’-the-wisp. It is leading you astray, and it will lead you to your death if you allow it. You have to resist the urge to follow.”
Something in his words penetrated the fog clouding her mind. The will-o’-the-wisp. It called to those who wandered, those who felt pulled toward something new and something different. It twisted around the mind, convincing people to run ever deeper into dangerous paths, away from the path they were meant to trod. It tugged at her wanderer’s heart, tucked itself into her vagabond’s mind, and pulled her almost beyond resisting.
She closed her eyes tightly and leaned against Duncan. She wrapped her arms around his middle and held fast tohim, knowing her life depended on it. The mystical flame would eventually extinguish itself, searching for another unwary wanderer. She simply needed to resist its call until it did.
“I can still hear it,” she whispered, afraid.
He stood steadfast, a lighthouse in a storm, holding her to him and whispering words of reassurance and promises to remain with her for as long as she needed him to.
“The flame has flickered out,” he said after a time.
But its pull continued twisting around her mind. She held fast to Duncan, depending on him to keep her from following the lights again.
“There is a hollowed-out old tree nearby, one large enough for us to tuck ourselves inside,” he said. “We’ll be warm and safe there.”
He kept hold of her as they walked, held her hand as she set herself in the protective embrace of the tree, then sat beside her.
“We know now why Granny Winters included a crock of butter in her bag,” Duncan said. “The will-o’-the-wisp is known to steal milk from cows to make into butter. Offering butter provided a needed distraction.”
“I shudder to think what would have happened if you’d not helped me.” Sorcha leaned against him.
He set his arms around her once more. “We make a fine team, Sorcha.”
There was comfort in that. Comfort and hope.
Chapter 15
Móirín and Parkington both attempted to convince Gemma not to follow Baz into the shadows of the narrow street he’d gone down. The oddity of those two joining forces in anything at all might’ve been enough to stop her if not for the fact that the Mastiff was connected somehow to all of this. The Kincaids were dangerous, the Mastiff even more so. She needed to know that Baz was safe.
She passed Hollis and Ana walking with a woman she didn’t know, likely the one they’d been trying to rescue. Seemed they’d managed the thing.
Gemma continued on and came upon Baz and Fletcher studying the walls on either side of them. She eyed the brick and stone as well. They were covered in writing, the same phrase scrawled over and over again. “The Tempest is coming.”
“Who is the Tempest?” she asked.
Both men spun about.
“Gemma!” Baz moved swiftly to her. “You were supposed to stay with the others.”
“Oi, but I don’t always do what I’m told.”
“Why is it you think the scrawls are a warning about a person?” Fletcher asked, his eyes darting from her to the walls and back.
“‘Tempest’ is always capitalized, i’n’it? Seems more likely it’s a person than a thing.”
Baz and Fletcher exchanged looks.
“Could be another cur in the Mastiff’s network,” Fletcher said. “The Protector. The Raven. Same type of name.”
Baz shrugged. “Could be. Or this could be old writing, here for years, before the Mastiff arrived on the scene.”
Gemma stepped closer to one of the walls, an oddity in the stone catching her eye.
“Some of this is in ash,” Fletcher said. “Has to be recent.”
One of the stones at her eye level had gouges in the surface, the sort made by a chisel rather than by time or accident.