T. Hammond

Posse: The Duoviri

Copyright © February 2016

Editor: Eamon O’Cleirigh, Clear-View Fiction Editing.

Cover Design: byHangLe.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, taping, or other information storage or retrieval system (except for review purposes) without the express written consent of the author.

Disclaimer

Real names, places, and events are used as a backdrop for my completely fabricated story. History is a combination of documentation (if it’s written, it must be true, right?), interpretation (multiple translations into multiple languages means nuances are lost), speculation (guessing), and subjective or wishful thinking. I have tried to be accurate with much of the historical information, but weaving mythology, and magical or mystical elements changed things up a bit.

In several cases, historical events had conflicting dates. When presented with multiple time lines, I’ve selected the one(s) which support my story. I’m a fiction writer. My job is to entertain, but I have researched and found documentation to support the timeline of events depicted throughout my Posse series. Although I didn’t list references in my FICTIONAL book, History buffs and people with OCD can check the Posse board on my Pinterest page if interested: https://www.pinterest.com/thammondwrites/)

This is meant to be fun reading. Relax and enjoy!

Message to my Readers

To apostrophe, or not to apostrophe—that is the question. Albeit, not a burning one for me. I’ve gone back and forth with a couple editors on whether Legends Historian or Legends Aerie (for examples) should have the possessive apostrophe.

Sorry grammar nerds—it’s deliberately dropped except in a few cases where I felt the possessive was necessary, such as Legends’ Conclave.

In my editor debates, I used the example of Seahawks (Go Seattle!). A person could be the Seahawks reporter for her job at ABC Magazine, or the dedicated Seahawks’ reporter who works for the franchise.

Jade’s journal is a hobby of her choosing and expresses her personal interest and views. She is not paid, it is not her job, and her journal is not the property of the Legends.

Love it or hate it—I chose to use Legends on purpose, and not always with my editor’s blessing.

I am solely responsible for any perceived grammatical faux-pas.

The Eximium

No one’s ever accused paranormals of being humble. Even the supernatural community’s self-proclaimed name, Eximium, Latin for exceptional, accentuated their arrogance and excess of self-importance. The designation of Eximium encompassed all supernaturals: vampires, shapeshifters, beluae (the preferred term for wereanimals), witches, sorcerers, and more. Humans were referred to by the unpretentious, non-Latin title of mundanes.

Deep inside the dimensional caverns of the Faerie Mound—the Sidhe—in a time before the Jewish calendar was conceived or Sumerians began writing in cuneiform on their clay tablets, the Light Fae, oft times referred to as Seelie, developed a fatal sensitivity to iron. Ancient Elven healers proposed their vegetarian diet as the reason. The Dark Fae, or Unseelie, comprised of the carnivores, omnivores, and blood-drinkers, continued to thrive.

By approximately 4800 BC, the magic of the weakest seelies faded altogether. The concept of mortality was introduced to sidhe society with tragic results. Of course, the Fae could die—over the centuries, countless skirmishes with enchanted weapons or death magic had proven that. But inconceivably, some began to age, the cause attributed to prolonged exposure to the unseelie and their iron-rich blood. In extreme cases, death followed.

The two factions discussed options before amicably deciding to relocate the majority of the Dark Fae for the benefit of the respective races.

Eons ago, seeking open skies, dragons had migrated to the human world, successfully masking their presence and thriving in vast, unpopulated territories. The hearty, adventurous unseelie volunteered to leave the Faerie Mound to live on the mortal plane, while the Light would remain insulated within the magic cocoon of Faerie. Some braver seelie souls, sylphs and nymphs in particular, sought shelter in isolated groves and forests aboveground, hoping the nature-rich land would heal their ailing bodies.

Wild magic followed the unseelies to Earth. Defying the laws of physics, it produced varied and unpredictable results. Supernaturals displayed a diverse range of paranormal abilities from simple magic to conceal a blemish, to complex spells for teleportation across continents. Eximium boasted varying degrees of blurring, a form of glamour—the ability to hide, change, or distort perceptions of the observer. The beluae, vampires, and many of the unseelie with a human form, used blurring to minutely alter their features, fooling humans enough to adopt the guise of a long-lost relative. As a result of continuously inheriting from themselves, the Eximium grew powerful in terms of money, property, and assets. Those supernaturals unable to pass themselves off as human (e.g., goblins and trolls) would depend on concealment or repulsion spells to deflect unwanted attention from their clans.

The ancient shifters held vast reserves of personal power, allowing them to perform significant, full-body glamour, above and beyond the simple tweak of a feature or two. These dominant shifters were sometimes approached by seers to assume an existing life as a human proxy. Passing themselves off as Homo sapiens in order to influence world events, proxy shifters were entrusted to substitute for people with a pivotal destiny who had been killed before their time.

Eximium, ever curious, and often bored due to excessively long lifelines, sometimes formed attachments with humans. During such dalliances, select races discovered humans could occasionally sire or bear children. Of these rare offspring, about half developed minor paranormal abilities. Eximium scholars presumed magic-touched humans—seers and telepaths especially—paved the way to mankind’s later acceptance of supernaturals in their communities.

Given the choice, the majority of paranormals avoided mankind, despairing at the excesses of despot rulers, growling with irritation when petty, mundane squabbles bled into peaceful supernatural communities, and sighing in defeat at the endless cycle of warfare.

~ Lexa/Boudicca ~

Southern Britain - 60 AD

To the supernatural world, I was Alexandra O’Clare—Lexa, to all but my closest family, who stubbornly refused to use the diminutive. To humans, I was recognized as Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni.

My Eximium job description was Proxy Shifter, as I was one of a handful of shapeshifters with the ability to create and hold full-body glamour for indefinite periods. The real Boudicca and her entourage were killed en route to Londinium by a rogue vampire, some eighteen or nineteen years ago.

The Inter-Species Council’s seer tasked me to step into Boudicca’s life to fulfill a destiny pre-ordained as historically significant. They provided no hint or direction of where the fates would take me, other than it was important that circumstances happened naturally. Any errors I made, any choices I took, were assumed to be inevitable. This was my second proxy assignment for the council, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

My beloved Prasto and I had been married less than a score of years. More formally known as King Prasutagus of the Iceni, he was in his sixties when death coaxed him from my side. I’d blurred my features to those of a woman in her forties, but in reality was closer to ninety. Despite the outward difference in our ages, ours had been a love match from the moment our eyes met.

Prasto never knew of my shifter nature, despite whispered gossip that sometimes surfaced about a mysterious creature of formidable size and indistinct shape roaming the cliffs and forests in pre-dawn hours. The Beast of East Anglia, occasionally glimpsed through the shrouds of fog and mist, was rumored to be a bear, large cat, or even a dragon, whose mournful roar of loneliness echoed through the twilight veil. Huntsmen in the local taverns told increasingly outrageous tales, often for the price of a mug of ale. Stories of the beast, tearing Roman commanders from their horses or razing groups of soldiers crowded around campfires, were relayed with great relish and spiced with gory detail. Children romanticized the Beast as a guardian of the Iceni people, watching over them as they slept.

My husband never questioned my nighttime disappearances, nor my walks along the coast in my restless need to get away, sometimes for hours at a time. His warm, understanding gaze spoke of his love and support for my struggle to find peace with the life I’d led before arriving in southern Britain. If he believed I had knowledge of the rumored beast, he never asked.

He, and scholars who delved into Boudicca’s background, assumed I was of noble birth from a northern tribe. It had been easy to step into her regal shoes for the assignment. As the eldest daughter to an Alpha shifter, I’d been educated alongside my brother, and controlled considerable wealth in my own right.

Periodically, I’d blurred my features to appear slightly older—a wrinkle here, a gray hair there. For a shifter of my abilities, it was effortless to hold the simple glamour, concealing the fact I hadn’t aged as mortals did. My long braided hair was silvered with strands of light gray, a hint of frost against the copper-rust richness. When this lifetime ended I’d let the magic fade and, once again, my locks would revert to their natural shade—a vibrant ginger-red.

Over the course of our years together, we’d been blessed with two beautiful, mundane daughters—Camorra and Tascal. They were only fifteen and twelve respectively, when their father took his last rasping breath, his frail body worn after a valiant battle against fluid build-up in his lungs. He’d suffered a painful death, slow and merciless, stealing his will day-by-day over the course of a month.

As a young Eximium, I was too inexperienced to grasp the heartbreak of loving humans and watching as their mortality consumed them. Shapeshifters, like most supernaturals, lived hundreds—sometimes thousands of years. Instead of looking to the inevitable end, I enjoyed my life as a chatelaine of a beautiful estate, content to see to the welfare of our people and the comfort of my beloved husband. Our children were born mortal, with a human’s frailty and shorter lifespan, but I gloried in their births and celebrated each year we shared.

I ran a hand over the coarse texture of my cold bedding. I’d roused often at night, missing the heat and weight of his body; those soft snores I’d found comforting, regardless of my years of teasing about the lion who lay beside me, roaring through the darkness.

With our Celtic people bearing witness a fortnight past, a blazing pyre lit his way to the heavens, lifting his spirit to the gods. I watched until the early hours, smiling when gusting breezes off the sea scattered his ashes over the land he’d loved as much as his wife and children. Prasto was finally at rest.

The first indication of trouble came six weeks later when runners brought news of Roman centurions approaching from Londinium. In his wisdom, my husband had become a client king, subjugating himself to the Roman ruling class. Tribal traditions and cultural heritage were no longer observed due to our conformity and recognition of Roman authority. In the beginning, our people railed at his choice, but in time he convinced them our compliance was for the best. We’d heard stories of the cruelties visited upon our region, but his supplication meant we were left in peace, while neighboring tribes suffered under the cruel whip of the invaders. In another act of appeasement, to reinforce our limited freedoms under Roman occupation, Prasto bequeathed half his fortune to the Roman Emperor, Nero. By recognizing the emperor as a joint ruler, he hoped the peaceful accord with the Romans would flourish after his death.

We heard their approach before the first man on horseback appeared over the rise, followed by a centuria of soldiers in metal-plate armor, their leather sandals slapping the packed dirt with a pounding rhythm as they marched in formation. My daughters stood beside me, tall and proud, as we waited. Their pretty faces still bore the ravages of tears and mourning, but they’d dressed as befitting young princesses and took their place in the greeting line; their earliest official duty as royals.

The Roman soldiers were an impressive sight, marching in disciplined columns as they crested the small rise leading to our homestead.

I expected changes when notification of the king’s death reached the emperor, anticipating lengthy negotiations and uncomfortable compromise as rule of East Anglia switched into my hands. However, we were to discover, unlike Celtic society, Romans did not recognize a woman’s right to participate in religious or political roles, nor did they support a woman’s right to own property or preside over her people. The Legionnaires had not come to discuss terms—they marched onto Iceni lands with greedy, grasping hands, and evil hearts.

I can’t remember the name of the commander who stepped forward from the ranks, demanding to know if rumors of Prasutagus’ death were true.

“I am Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni. It is my sad duty to confirm the king’s death.”

“Queen no longer, madam. Under orders from Rome, and Emperor Nero, the Iceni lands hereby fall under Roman rule. All property, assets, and entitlements are forfeit.”

My husband’s will was in place to prevent this very thing. There must be a mistake. “I demand to speak with someone in charge. The king made arrangements for me to rule in my daughters’ stead until they are of age to inherit—”

“The Emperor does not co-rule with women,” the commander proclaimed, looking down his hooked nose. “Roman laws do not allow for royal succession to be passed to females.” His sneering gaze traveled from my crowned head to my sandaled feet. “Your daughters have half of nothing. You’re now slaves of Rome.” His eyes, full of lustful intent, raked the budding figures of my two girls. The first wave of alarm jolted through me.

The centurion shouldered me out of the way.

“How dare you!” With hindsight, I should not have slapped him, but in my anger, fearful of losing my children’s inheritance, or worse, I lashed out. Always mindful to hide my shifter nature, the slap to his cheek was more an insult than an effort to harm. In reality, I could have struck his head from his shoulders, but my Eximium vow to conceal my nature took precedence, even as temper sucked the air out of my lungs.

Events escalated from that point. My personal guard closed ranks, spears raised in my defense. Arrows, a dozen or more fired from the front line of the Roman column, pierced my protectors before they’d advanced a pace. My cries echoed those of my household staff, who cringed away from the conflict. Hit by a stray shaft, my husband’s valet clutched at the feathered length buried deep in his frail chest as two housemaids pulled him away. Camorra and Tascal were grabbed and restrained, with knives held at their throats to guarantee cooperation.

I cursed my Eximium vows, tempted to throw caution to the wind and fight my way to the girls, but the threat of those blades, pressing at the tender flesh of their necks, kept a shift at bay.

In a matter of moments, I’d been reduced from queen to commoner.

I let myself be bound to a nearby tree, arms stretched over my head as ropes secured me to a sturdy limb. Through the haze of my rage, I heard the commander call out for my back to be striped.

“I want her flesh to match the red of her hair.”

A soldier’s dagger sliced the gown from my back, leaving limp cotton rags scarcely covering my breasts. All I knew was misery. The whip bit deep, shredding skin from my back in slow, measured strokes.

Blood pooled in the waistband of my dress as the punishment continued, my back burning in agony with each crack of the lash. The housekeepers and maids wailed as Romans cheered each bloody stripe. I fought the merciless ripples of defensive magic surging under my skin, wasp-like stings of a repressed shift alternated with each cut of the whip. Too many armed witnesses, there could be no shifting to heal these wounds. I would bear scars for life.

My throat grew raw from cries I couldn’t contain, no matter the toll on my pride. I experienced the worst agony of my life—or so I thought, until Tascal screamed.

There was barely any slack in the ropes, but I could revolve enough to glimpse the commander striking my youngest while another soldier held her steady for the man’s fist. “No!” Moments ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d enough voice to shout, but as I struggled and listened, my daughters were beaten until they could no longer stand. I yanked against the ropes, my wrists raw and bloody from the effort. Now that I was willing to face the consequences of a broken oath, the loss of so much blood from the whipping weakened me to a point I couldn’t shift to fight. Too exhausted to stand, I couldn’t even brace my feet below me. I cursed my prior passive acceptance as the legionnaires bound me, mistakenly assuming I protected my children with meek compliance.

The sound of fists on flesh stopped. I drooped limp in my bindings, relieved—until the rending of cloth sent a blaze of terror through my veins. Their screams began anew.

Words cannot express the depth of my helpless frenzy as my daughters were viciously raped by Roman soldiers only yards away from where I hung, powerless. Tascal passed out first, her cries long-since turned to pained whimpers. The woman in me admired Camorra’s continued thrashing about in an effort to hold off the soldier who’d rolled die for a chance to go first, but the mother in me prayed she would follow her sister into oblivion, removing herself from the horrific indignities performed on her battered body. An eternity later, I watched from the corner of my eye as her head lolled to the side and consciousness left her.

Fire burned deep in my soul as laughing soldiers continued to assault my girls and pillage my home. It seemed like hours before the last Roman, uncaring that my daughters were unaware of their abuse, finished with a mocking jest, tossing a dull coin to the dirt beside Camorra.

When the commander eventually severed my ropes, I collapsed to the ground, revenge flaming white-hot in my heart.

My daughters and I were spared our lives, but we would forever walk a different path. In the months following our attack, I plotted retribution. I would take payment for my daughters’ virginities in the blood of Rome.

~ Lexa/Boudicca ~

Southern Britain - 61 AD

The Iceni tribes pulled together in vast numbers, tens-of-thousands strong, determined to strike back at Rome’s atrocities. Mine were not the only indignities suffered under foreign occupation. In the eight months since the soldiers assaulted us, our external wounds had healed, but anger continued to build. The Celts had swallowed decades of Roman oppression, choking on the tight-fisted brutality of the invaders. We were finally willing to take a stand, ready to wrest Britain back from her rapists.

We’d cut a swath through East Anglia, setting course toward our first major target, the city of Camulodunum. As we marched, the Trinovantes tribes to the south and other neighboring clans joined our ranks, swelling our army to overwhelming proportions.

We’d met little resistance along the way, as Rome, so confident they had subjugated the barbarians, assigned major cities a paltry infantry of a couple hundred men.

From my chariot, I glanced over my shoulder, ignoring the familiar pull of scar tissue crisscrossing my back. Satisfaction pooled in the pit of my belly as thick smoke plumed above the flame-licked skyline. Our numbers had easily overtaken the soldiers in a two-day siege—it had only taken that long because the cowards had barricaded themselves into their cursed temple, a monument to a former emperor.

In our wake, the gutters were littered with headless bodies and congealing fluids of Roman men and women, grown fat and indolent on stolen bounty. Camulodunum lay in ruins.

Adjusting the brooch of my cloak to let the heavy, blood-weighted folds encase me in dubious warmth, I contemplated our next strike—Verulamium. From there we’d follow Watling Street south to Londinium, a relatively new, yet rapidly-growing Roman settlement.

“Queen Boudicca!” A rider paced alongside my slow-moving chariot, grinning hugely through soot coating his face like a macabre mask. “The temple to Claudius…” he paused to spit, “…is totally destroyed. The people rejoice in victory.” Those within hearing distance roared a cheer of triumph. A wave of shouts rippled outward as news spread through our caravan.

My daughters rode in a wagon to my left. My mother’s heart broke to observe such pain in their far-away stares. Time healed the body, but the emotional toll would be felt for many years to come. Aware of my gaze, Tascal’s chin jutted defiantly, but her lip quivered with a vulnerability that threatened her facade. My girls were so brave, but too young to accompany me on this path of vengeance. However, they’d insisted on fighting, and I could only cede to their wishes. They were women now, much as I’d prefer to hold them close and coddle them.

From habit, I fingered the golden torc resting against my throat, a symbol of my station and a gift from my husband, miraculously undiscovered by soldiers when our estate had been ransacked. Sliding my fingertips over the familiar hammer-beaten metal provided comfort. I cursed circumstances for bringing the Roman invaders to our shores. I missed my life as a chatelaine, surrounded by farmers and simple problems of crops and livestock. Now I was a warrior queen, leading my army of a hundred-thousand angry Celts toward another clash with the enemy.

***

Blood. Blood, everywhere. Behind closed eyelids, my mind replayed the screams of dying Romans. I endured visions of thick red gore bubbling from gashed chests, or spraying from gaping arterial wounds and cleaved limbs. The smell of offal and death permeated my clothing, as there’d been no time between battles for commonplace tasks like mending and laundry. Each skirmish proved more dreadful than the last, the violence escalating with a combination of anger having found release, and desensitization derived from the mind seeing horrors too terrifying to process. I clenched my eyes tighter in an ineffectual attempt to block the memory of heads mounted on pikes as we marched out of Londinium, eviscerated carcasses left to rot in the oppressive summer heat.

We’d advanced west along Watling Road toward Venonae. Scouts had alerted me a half-hour ago to a legion of soldiers awaiting us. From my vantage point, I could see General Suetonius had chosen his battleground wisely. A narrow gorge with the forest thick and dense at his back, made ambush impossible. To his front, a wide plain spread outward like the billows of a fan. His forces, numbering a mere tenth of my own, stood in tight, disciplined formation. Anticipating our offensive, their passive stillness was an insult to the power and sheer size of my forces.

I was tired, my troops just as weary, but we were caught up in high spirits from our recent victory. I ignored the warning in the back of my mind to rest and recover. Instead, I let rage guide my decision to react to the non-verbal challenge of the Romans—a dare to wrest them from their chosen battleground, if we could.

We prepared our attack plan, confident in victory before the first spear was thrown.

As my warriors gathered in the open field, families which had accompanied our progress in caravans, stationed their wagons in a tight arc across the open end of the field to watch the upcoming carnage. Prayers were invoked to Andraste, the goddess of victory, druids sacrificed to their elemental gods, and a small number appealed to the newer God and his prophet, Jesus.

I no longer remember my rallying cry, only recalling the fierce passion burning through me as I stirred the emotions of my people, to encourage triumph over the evil men who’d stolen our property, demeaned our people, and forced us into slavery. I may have reminded them of indignities and insults heaped on our nobles, clergy, and leaders, and most certainly railed against the atrocities against my children and theirs. In war, there were no nobles and servants; we were united in a single, booming voice for freedom. I poured all my fury and heartbreak into my speech, and rejoiced in the answering roar as thousands of weapons were lifted in answer. Our battle cry rolled like thunder through the small valley.

The fight raged for hours. The Battle of Watling Street, as it was remembered by historians, was not the quick and forgone conclusion we’d presumed. With superior positioning and better-disciplined fighters, the Roman commander whittled at our greater numbers. Their formation proved impossible to penetrate, and the more men we threw at their wedge of soldiers, the more bodies dropped in lifeless heaps that the advancing column stepped over with the same disregard they’d shown for the Celts since invading our land. Half the day gone, the Romans had only lost a few hundred men, while the ground was literally knee-deep with thousands of dead Britons.

My ears rang with the endless clash of metal-on-metal, and loud, unrelenting screams as my army fell, slashed and pierced by Roman swords and arrows. My nose, sensitive because of my shifter nature, was barraged with the stench of released bowels and bladders, overlaid with the heavy scent of copper. Blood coated the grass in a crimson sea, soaked into sparse patches of dry earth which swallowed the fluids with greedy thirst. Bodies, two and three deep, were trampled underfoot by advancing troops. Dignity did not exist in death—a harsh lesson learned as I scanned the tableau before me.

I should have regrouped and reconsidered the offensive, but as they say, hindsight is always clearer. How can I fully explain the hatred and rage which fueled us, pressing us forward, even when we sensed defeat?

Too late, we attempted to draw back, the Romans advancing with deliberate, deadly precision, but our retreat was impeded by the presence of our families in the circle of wagons to the rear of our position.

We were systematically slaughtered—men, women, and children.

My daughters and I joined the final wave against the Romans. Tascal fell first, an arrow piercing her throat. I swear, the first serenity I’d seen in a year filled her sweet round face as she drew her final, gasping breath. Camorra was to my back, so I only heard her cry out as a sword took her life. I barely felt the spear punching through my chest, pinning my body to the blood-soaked field, too weak to do more than turn my gaze toward my eldest daughter, whose sightless eyes stared blank in death.

Blessedly, blackness overtook me. Peace, at last.

~ Lexa ~

Dún Aonghusa, Árainn - 61 AD

Wintry-gray ocean waves crashed into the rocks a hundred yards below as I drove massive claws into the limestone pavers. Each morning I stood on the cliff and fought the desire to throw myself upon the jagged boulders. A siren-song of bereavement whispered promises of peace, and final rest.

Dawn washed a weak streak of pinkish-orange through the sky over my left shoulder, a portent of storms to come. Thick fur provided welcome protection against the bitter-cold wind. My conical ears, lying flat against my head in an effort to hold what little heat they could, failed to detect approached footsteps.

“Here ye be, lassie.” A rhetorical comment needing no response.

I swung my head around to acknowledge the diminutive old woman stroking my haunch. Barely five-foot tall, her head didn’t even reach my shoulder. “Ahh, now don’ be givin’ me tha look, missy. Changed yer nappies, so I did. No’ fearful, am I, o’ standoffish pussycats with eyeteeth tha length o’ me best dagger.” Stretching an arm high to pat an eight-inch canine, she avoided the razor-sharp tip with familiar ease.

Amused, I shifted to sit, maneuvering her between my forelegs and chest to shelter her tiny frame from the worst of the wind. Mimi, my childhood nanny, and companion to my girls before they’d reached an age to spurn such coddling, ran soothing hands over my breastbone. Her seeking fingers found the puckered scar, buried beneath my thick undercoat. The battle wound, partially healed, but not forgotten with my shift to animal form. Assured, she leaned back into the protective warmth of my body, a familiar habit from days gone-by when I’d called Árainn my home. Each morning we’d stood in this very place to watch the water break along the shoreline.

First-generation Lant’ean Fae, my parents had waited thousands of years before being blessed with offspring. I was eldest, but only by two minutes. A close family friend, Mimi was a childless witch unaffiliated with a coven, who rejoiced when the shifter couple begged her help to rear two rambunctious children, a feline shifter and a mundane.

My parents were gone now, casualties of a stupid territorial skirmish in Africa. Wrong place, wrong time.

Mimi rubbed my coat. “Yester eve he had a vision moments afore he bellowed an’ disappeared in tha blink o’ an eye.” She sighed, the weight of her thoughts bowing her frail shoulders in remembered misery, layers of sweaters and furs doing little to prevent a shiver from the chill of frightful memories. I tucked her closer, but my body could do nothing to shield her against such thoughts.

“Popped back inta tha cottage moments later, so he did, face sorrow-filled with yer gels laid at his feet, ye hangin’ limp in his arms. At death’s door, ye were, tha shaft o’ tha spear broke off, blade still wedged a’tween yer ribs.” Mimi pressed fingertips against the cage of bones guarding her own heart. “Never seen him so afeared as when he returned from tha battlefield, ye too weak ta shift an’ heal. Thought fer sure he’d set fire ta tha verra heavens themselves, so distraught he was.”

Annoyance rumbled through my chest. Mimi slapped the top of my paw. “Don’t be showin’ disrespect, lassie. He loves ye somethin’ fierce, so he does. He oft refuses ta use healing magic fer trauma as he doesna believe in changin’ a body’s fate. But says he foresaw yer future, yer purpose, an spent half tha night feeding energy ta hold ye steady ‘til ye had power ‘nuf ta shift. Ye’ve yet important business ta attend, Alexandra.”

Mimi rarely used real names, part superstition, part habit. With not quite two centuries behind her, she was an old-school witch, convinced that names held power. Attending as midwife at my birth, she’d suggested Alexandra, which translated to defender. Supposedly, my destiny was to protect the weak, punish evil, and lead others to heroic deeds. Using my name now was, no doubt, a reminder of my unfulfilled destiny.

Swords, fire, blood, viscera, and my daughters’ sightless stares, superimposed over the desolate ocean before me. Cries of battle fought with the rustle of wind. I closed my eyes, attempting to shut out the lingering visions and echoing sounds. A groan of pain rumbled through my throat.

As Boudicca, I’d been responsible for the slaughter of a hundred thousand souls, two of them my own blood. Our cause had been just, but my quest for vengeance had led the Iceni and neighboring tribes into an unwinnable war with Rome. So much for my destiny to lead and protect.

“Change an’ return wi’ me ta tha cottage, lass. Bread’s fresh and me chowder only wants a stir or two ta finish. Ye need ta eat.”

With a deep sigh and last, wistful glance at the white-tipped waves below, I shimmered into my human form, wrapping an arm and part of my thick woolen cloak around Mimi’s shoulders. Unlike the elemental magic of the beluae, who changed their physical form at the expense of their outward trappings, shifter’s magic had no such restriction.

“My girls, Camorra and Tascal, gone,” I said, giving voice to my anguish. Heartbroken, filled with bile that churned in my stomach like poison, I hugged my companion closer to relish contact with another being. “Thank you for contacting the coven and seeing to their preparation.”

She nodded, her words stolen by heartache.

Before wandering to the cliffs, I’d visited their pyres. All that remained were traces of dew-smeared damp ash and charred marks upon the stone slabs. While I’d lain at death’s door, my children had been given to the flames, encircled by members of the Árainn coven who prayed as the winds lifted their souls to the heavens. Even though they were mundanes, it was fitting they’d been brought to Dún Aonghusa, one of the gates to Faerie. Rare among Eximium, I had the ability to bear offspring with human partners. My children were celebrated as blessings and this was sacred ground, worthy of their final resting place.

Rich, spicy smells welcomed us as we crossed the cottage threshold. Seafood chowder had always been a comfort food, the ocean scent of mussels, haddock, and lobster mixed with the hardy aromas of onion and fresh herbs. My earliest memories include helping my mother chop vegetables and crack crab shells, pulling delicate white meat from dimpled claws.

“Magus, ye’ve returned. Jus’ in time fer supper, o’ course.” Mimi hailed the bearded, white-haired man who stooped to warm his hands at the fire. A snowy owl, his familiar, perched on the back of a sturdy chair. He must have just teleported in, as I’d not sensed his presence when we’d approached the house.

“Mimi,” he greeted, nodding at her in acknowledgement. Then he turned his gaze to me. “Alexandra.”

“Good morn, Myrddin.” Lacking inflection, my concession was to respond in his preferred Welsh tongue.

He sighed—a rare glimpse of frustration, as he was well-known for self-control. Continuing in the same language, “Can ye not call me Grandfather?” He turned to me, arms half-upraised, whether in entreaty or to offer a hug, I’d never know because I turned away to hang my cloak by the door and help Mimi with her coat. Once I turned, he’d taken a defensive position behind his chair, hand brushing the feathered down of his owl—for reassurance, I think, as his close proximity to his familiar wasn’t aggressive.

Also known as Merlin, one of the original Dark Fae, who retained massive power once the wild magic faded, my grandfather held the distinct label as the only Eximium to manipulate both elemental and shaped magics with equal deftness. The Welsh people designated him magus, and the supernatural community adopted the title for lack of anything better. He was the first Legend—the only one of his kind. Theoretically, if a witch and a sorcerer could produce a hybrid, a magus would result. But, like all other children of Eximium unions, offspring of rare supernatural pregnancies were either one or the other, never a blend of abilities.

Grandfather may love me, but he also resented my autonomy, making no secret of his preference that I remain on the island to learn the ways of the gate guardians. Longer-lived than most other earth-walking Eximium, Myrddin remembered life when the unseelie roamed within the Faerie Mound. When the Dark Fae left the comfort of the sidhe, the gateway had been safeguarded by warrior witches and sorcerers, who monitored the comings and goings from Faerie. Myrddin took up the post in 347 BC, but to hear him go on, you’d think it wasn’t actually secure until he stood as protector. He conveniently ignored that he’d lived in Wales for thousands of years prior to assuming duty as the sentry for Dún Aonghusa.

My opinionated grandfather took exception to my mother striking out on her own, forsaking the duties of guardian in favor of becoming a wife and mother. I made no secret of my opinion—Myrddin was a hypocrite to deny his daughter an opportunity to live the life she wished, expecting her to forsake freedom and love for a lonely, desolate duty. It was the height of vanity to assume only his bloodline could do an adequate job of safeguarding this passage between the two worlds.

I loved this island with its harsh, barren beauty. Flat limestone pavers, or clints, crisscrossed the countryside separated by deep fissures, grikes, overflowing with grasses and wildflowers bursting in colorful brilliance over the landscape. But I refused to be bound here by familial obligation.

As an Eximium proxy shifter, I answered to a different calling. A rare paranormal, with the magical skill to blur my form and features enough to flawlessly stand-in as surrogate for another, I was contacted the first time when an important human died before her destiny could be fulfilled. Boudicca had been my second assignment, and likely my last, seeing as how I’d messed up so badly.

The seers had been adamant in selecting me to assume the future Celtic queen’s lifeline when she’d been struck down.

“We’re related by blood, old man, but you’ve hardly acted as kin before. I ought to be saluting since you snap out directives whenever we chance to be in the same room.”

I took a position with my back to the fire, enjoying the savory scent of chowder and herbs as I let the warmth soak into my chilled bones. I hitched my skirt up above my knees so the fire could heat my calves and thighs, earning a fond smile from Mimi. We’d spent many a cold winter lined up in such an immodest way after a morning on the cliffs.

“Don’ be disrespectin’ The Merlin, lassie,” Mimi admonished in lyrically-accented Welsh, shaking a gnarled finger in my direction.

The Merlin. I mentally scoffed, as if his name were a title. I suppose, in parts of Ireland especially, it may have been. Immortal and arrogant in his immense power, he was revered and held at a respectful distance by most of the paranormal community.

Shuffling to the fireplace, to stir the kettle hanging in the hearth, Mimi also caught my grandfather’s superior smirk. With a casual backhand slap at his arm as she passed him, she reverted back to Gaelic adding, “An’ ye don’ be rilin’ her up, troublemaker. She has a point an’ ye should be smoothin’ tha waters, not tossin’ oil a’top them.”

She stepped behind me, blocking the heat. I didn’t bother to conceal my amusement as I peered over her stooped shoulder, watching her swirl lazy circles through the savory broth. We may be the only two who didn’t fear the magus.

I turned in time to see Myrddin smile at his housekeeper and friend. “Peace, witch. I’ve brought my granddaughter home to heal and regain her strength. I’ve no intention of causing her grief.”

He looked toward me, his eyes sad and somber. “You’ve shifted, so your flesh is whole, but wounds left behind at the loss of our children are the deepest and longest lasting. Stay awhile and be assured, I’ve no plans to renew my efforts to recruit you to the gate. Your future was revealed to me in visions, and I see Dún Aonghusa is not where you’ll be needed. Your current choice, as a human proxy, is indeed where you should be in order to prepare for what comes later. I should not have pressed you.”

It was the closest to an apology I could expect, it not being in his nature to utter, “I’m sorry.” I also knew enough not to ask a seer for more of a revelation than was freely disclosed.

“Who are you? And what have you done to the grouchy magus?” I asked, hiding my own smile.

My sass evoked a slap to the back of my head, courtesy of Mimi. “Enough, gel. Be gracious an’ accept his acknowledgement of yer right ta pick yer own path. Now, both of ye, to tha table. Chowder is ready an’ best eaten hot.”