breakfast lines? He tipped his beret and tried to squeeze out some intelligible words through his narrowing throat. “Uh, yes. I, uh . . .”
“Are ye sick?” Hannah stepped off her porch and walked straight up to him, her long dress seeming to sweep her petite body gracefully forward. “Do ye need a place to stay?”
Elam grabbed his beret and wrung it with both hands. “Uh, yes, but I’m running short on money.”
“Atween the wind and the wa, are ye?” Hannah snatched up his knapsack, hooked him by the arm, and pulled him toward the cottage, her long auburn hair bouncing in rhythm with her gait. “Don’t let it ever be said that Hannah MacKay turned out an impoverished laddie.”
Elam gave in to Hannah’s persistent tug and followed her into the cottage’s front room. As the door swung closed, the rusty hinges squawked a loud complaint. Elam glanced around casually. Having sneaked in through the quieter back door several times to check on her, he was already familiar with the layout a small but tidy dining area to the left, a cluttered little kitchen to the right, and, lining a short hallway straight ahead, four perfectly square bedrooms, three for tenants and one for Hannah. During those visits in the wee hours, Elam sometimes crept into her room, feeling the need, as a faithful shepherd of dragons, to stand and gaze at her as she slept. Still unmarried after all these centuries, she always slept alone.
She stopped at the first bedroom on the right and peeked inside. “You’re in luck. Mr. Logan took his chimney brooms. He and his boy won’t be back until at least tomorrow night.” She laid his knapsack on the floor and pointed at a washbasin. “Water’s there if ye wants a cat’s lick before supper.”
As she turned to leave, Elam laid a hand on her shoulder. “Wait!”
Hannah spun back, her friendly smile growing and her brow rising again in anticipation. “Are ye not throu?”
Elam shuddered. Hannah’s Scottish accent was forced, and her idioms were slightly off-kilter. If the slayer ever heard her speak, he’d unmask her right away.
“What’s the matter?” Hannah asked. “Short o’ the Greek?” She stared at him with her wise old eyes, nearly as ancient as the earth itself, yet framed by a smooth, narrow face. Her gaze seemed to attach to his mind and absorb information.
He tried to shake off the brain lock, but it was no use. Something was up, and Hannah knew it. The Ovulum suddenly grew warm in his pocket, a good warmth, a prodding warmth. The prophet within the glass shell didn’t always need words to let his will be made known.
Elam let out a long sigh. He had to tell her everything.
Devin pulled Excalibur from its scabbard and lifted it in front of his face. The shining blade divided his view, slicing the image of Palin in half as the squire donned the final garment in his battle array, a dark leather surcoat with a red dragon emblazoned on the front. Five hundred years had passed since he last strapped on his scabbard, but everything still seemed to fit.
Devin pointed the sword at Palin’s head. “Does your new helmet suit you?”
Palin sat on his bed and rocked the domed helmet back and forth over his mop of black hair. “Yes. It’s not the same style as my old one, but it will do.”
Devin resheathed Excalibur and leaned out of their second-floor window. A fresh breeze blew streams of mist across a triplet of castle turrets rising from the adjacent wing. He breathed in the moist air and smiled. “It seems that your old model isn’t fashionable with the mannequins in the Scottish museums. The first two castles had nothing but full body armor costumes. Can you imagine going into battle in one of those?”
Palin took off his helmet and laid it on his lap. “Maybe you should inform the museum curators of proper battle attire in the sixth century.” He rapped the top of the helmet with his knuckles. “Or perhaps we need to be informed of proper, twentieth-century battle attire.”
Still gazing out the window, Devin pulled up a necklace chain and let the candlestone dangle in front of his surcoat. “I know you think my obsession rather odd, but we are hunting dragons who are disguised in human skin, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Our integrity would be in question if we were to appear as anything but slayers when we confront one of the devil