Redeemed (Heroes of the Highlands) - By Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,18

of his lungs in great bursts. His nostrils flared, and his mind retreated from what he was certain to find there.

The room fared better than the rest. Daroch’s eyes skimmed past burnt tools, a great forge covered in the fine layer of ash, anvils specialized to make everything from nails to horseshoes to armor.

The back window cut into the stone wall behind the forge was broken. The sunset illuminated the heather-strewn hill that offered some protection from the harsh Highland weather, and sparkled off jagged edges of glass.

Something strange drew Daroch to it and he crossed the room with swift strides. Reaching out, he pried one of the glass fragments from the casing and inspected the dark, dried stain on the sharp point.

Blood.

Someone had escaped through the window. Upon further inspection he surmised that the window had not been broken by the heat of the fire, but by the force of a blunt object. But what? He looked at the floor to the corner on his right and then turned to the left to search the dark nook created by the back wall and the forge.

All the breath in his lungs released in a great whoosh as Daroch’s knees fell to the ashes.

Bones. Her bones.

“Gods,” he rasped through a throat closing with alarming pressure.

Huddled there, as though playing a children’s hiding game, the legs were curled into the chest. The arms circled the drawn up knees, but the wrists…

Daroch turned from the sight, sucking in a bracing breath before he could face it again.

The wrists were secured with small iron chains. Likely forged in this very room. The tiny bones of the fingers clasped together in supplication.

He closed his eyes again, but gruesome, hideous images flashed behind his lids. The worst of which was her soft green eyes, round with terror, begging for mercy. His own eyes burned, and a suspicious sheen clouded his vision when he opened them again.

Daroch blinked it away. A band of wrath encircled his lungs. His heart fell like a heavy brick to the pit of his stomach. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to run.

Instead, he forced himself to look at her. To bear witness to her unjust death. Her skull sat on slim, delicate shoulders, regarding him from small, empty sockets. Her teeth smiled at him in the most macabre way and a shudder overtook him.

“Och lass,” he whispered. “What did they do to ye?” Reaching to her, Daroch’s finger trembled as he gingerly wiped at the green patina of ash that covered her bones and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. Peat moss, oil, and pitch, identical to the bricks he’d been loading into the forge.

Huddled in the tiny nook, she would have been spared the fire. Likely, the smoke would have filled her lungs, but she’d have died before feeling the burn of the flames. Daroch had a sick suspicion the blaze hadn’t been lit in one room of the house. Nay, the fucking villains had used live women as tinder.

I never venture in there.

His stomach protested again and he snarled. What other secrets of hers did this room contain that had been erased by the fire? Why hadn’t her bones been laid into the earth? Why was she stuffed back here like so much forgotten slag?

Who had done this?

Daroch picked up a peat brick and crushed it in his fist. The first time he’d laid eyes on Kylah MacKay was in the great hall of Laird MacKay’s Castle. Rory MacKay had been plagued with Banshees and summoned Daroch for help. The self-same Laird who sent these peat bricks. He hurled another one through the window.

Banshees were creatures of vengeance. Daroch looked down at her bones, every part of him aching for her. He’d know, of course, that Kylah must have died horribly. He’d just forced himself not to think of it. Not to care. She wasn’t his problem, after all. She wasn’t his fault.

She wasn’t his to lose. To avenge. But the fact that she remained a Banshee this long after her death meant she was unable to claim her vengeance.

And that was something they had in common.

Chapter Eight

The witching hour fell before Daroch found himself at the doors of the MacKay keep. He beat on them with his staff. “Open up, MacKay,” he demanded.

A familiar, fair-haired man with the dimensions of a tree trunk threw open the heavy door and held Daroch at sword point. “You, Druid!” he accused.

“Yes. Brilliant deduction. Now get me yer