Alpin glared at the door Lady Sophie and her maid had disappeared through. He took a deep drink of the wine mixed especially for him, a thick mixture of sheep’s blood and wine. It fed the need which grew stronger every year and he doubted some wide-eyed lass could effect a cure. He wanted to feel pleased that the women descended from Rona Galt had suffered as his family had suffered, but could not. None of them had deserved the misery visited upon them. He also wanted to hold fast to his previous scorn concerning the possibility of a curse, but found himself wavering, and that angered him.

      “Mayhap she can help,” said Eric, watching Alpin closely.

      “So ye believe me cursed?” drawled Alpin. “Ye think our troubles caused by some woman long dead who danced about a fire one night, uttering those fanciful words as she sprinkled some herbs upon the flames?”

      Eric grimaced and dragged his hand through his roughly cut dark hair. “Why do ye resist the idea of a curse? What besets ye and has beset every MacCordy laird before ye for hundreds of years isnae, weel, normal.”

      “Not every disease affects so many people it becomes common. Just because an affliction is rare doesnae make it the result of some curse or sorcery.”

      “Then, if ye truly believe ’tis nay more than bad blood, why have ye let the lass stay?”

      Alpin grimaced. “A moment of weakness, or insanity. It was her wish to nay see any more Galt women hurl themselves into the sea out of despair. I have no hope left, but I couldnae bring myself to kill hers. ’Twill die soon enough.”

      “I sometimes think that is some of our trouble. We have lost hope.”

      “Only a fool clings to it for four hundred years,” Alpin drawled.

      “Mayhap.” Eric stared out the window, seeing only another of the many shades of darkness he had spent his whole life in. “I often wonder if that loss of hope brought on this never-ending shadow we live under.”

      “Ye grow fanciful. And, if it is born of the death of hope, then we best be prepared for it to grow e’en darker.”

      “Why?”

      “Because our little golden-haired Galt witch will all too soon be burying hers.”

      Chapter Three

      “Eric, wait!” Sophie ran the last few feet toward the man she had been hunting down and grabbed him by the arm. “If I didnae ken better, I would think ye are trying to avoid me.” She did not need Eric’s glance behind her to know Nella had caught up to her; she had heard the rattle of her maid’s many amulets. “I just wish to ask ye a few things, Sir Eric.”

      “M’lady, ye have been here but a sennight and have spoken to near everyone within the keep, outside the keep, and probably for near a dozen miles around,” Eric said. “I cannae think that I can tell ye anything that ye dinnae already ken.”

      “If I am to break the curse, I need all the knowledge about the MacCordy laird that I can gather. I am certain the grip of this curse can be broken if I can just find the right key. Morvyn failed, but she ne’er came to see exactly what the curse had done. That might be why she failed. So, I am gathering all the truth I can and recording it. The answer is in there, I am certain of it. I can feel it within my reach.”

      Eric leaned against the side of the stables he had been trying to escape into when she had caught sight of him. “The lairds of the MacCordys grow to monhood watching their fathers change into some creature from a nightmare. They then become men and begin to change themselves.”

      Sophie crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “That isnae verra helpful. How do they change? A lot of what I have been told is difficult to believe. I do ken that the laird cannae abide the sun.”

      “Nay. The light of the sun fair blinds him. Alpin finds it increasingly painful as he ages. Three years ago he spent but an hour in the sun and it was as if he had been dropped into boiling water. If not for the heavy clothing he wore, I think he would have died. He hasnae ventured beyond the shadows since that day, except at night, or, if heavily cloaked, on sunless days.”

      “And he needs blood.”

      “Aye,” Eric snapped, then sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “That need grew slowly. He now eats naught but nearly raw meat, seared just enough to warm it, to make the juices flow. His usual drink is now an even mix of wine and blood.”

      “Do ye ken if he felt the change immediately, or if it was a slow awareness?”

      “Since this affliction has been visited upon every laird, ’twas expected, so I cannae say. The first hint comes when the heir becomes a mon and when next he becomes angry. The eyes change to those of a wolf and the teeth become sharper. After so many years we have learned to watch for the change, to guard against that first attack of anger. There were some tragedies in the early days ere we learned what to expect. Alpin was little trouble, for he, too, had studied the matter and was prepared.” Eric shook his head. “He has great strength, m’lady, and fights to control this affliction, but the change cannae be stopped.”

      “What if one ceased to feed the need for blood?” she asked.

      “Och, nay, ye dinnae wish to do that. ’Twas tried and the need grows to a near madness, endangering all who draw too near.”

      “Restraint willnae work?”

      “Nay, not e’en if one finds the means to hold him in a way he cannae break free of. The strength of these men can be terrifying to behold. So can their ability to persuade, to beguile, be beyond compare. E’en if ye find chains strong enough to bind them, they can eventually get some poor fool to set them free.”

      Sophie stared down at her foot as she tapped it slowly against the hard-packed dirt of the bailey, her hands clasped behind her back. Most of what Eric told her matched what she had learned from others. He told her the truth without any gruesome elaborations or tales of the devil, however. The truth was not good. No normal restraints or cures had worked. It had been foolish to think the MacCordys had left any stone unturned in the course of over four hundred years. Rona’s curse refused to be denied its victims.

      “None of the lairds lives to a great age, aye?” she asked, looking back at Eric.

      “Sadly true. A few have killed themselves, a few died in battle, some are murdered by their own people.”

      “But nay until they have bred an heir.”

      “Aye, and after the son is born, the change often happens more quickly. The old laird, through sheer strength of will, held back the worst of the affliction for thirteen years, but I believe seeing the curse appear in Alpin broke his spirit. The verra next battle he fought, he died, and I think he planned to do so. In battle, the beast within the lairds bursts free in many ways. Their strength is that of many men, their ferocity unmatched, and their skill at laying waste to the enemy a source of legends. ’Tis why we are so often sought out by men who wish us to fight their battles for them.”

      “Has there been a laird or two who was seduced by such power, began to welcome it?”

      “Oh, aye, a few. But nay Alpin,” Eric said firmly, “if that is what ye think. Alpin has more strength of will than any mon I have e’er kenned or heard of. If any mon could beat this, he could, but there isnae any sign that he is winning that battle. Nay, at best he but slows the tightening of the grip of this affliction.”

      “Then he doesnae grow worse as quickly as his father or grandfather?”

      “Nay, but his father was married by now and had bred the heir. His grandfather, weel,” Eric shrugged. “He was verra bad from all that I hear. I dinnae ken if he was weak or one of those who reveled in the fear he could stir. He was killed by the villagers after he killed his wife. Tore her to pieces, ’tis said. Her and the lover he found her with.”