“We, uh, don’t speak Scottish,” said Stark.
Someone snorted. Loudly. “Are ye daft? It isnae Scottish. ’Tis the mother tongue—Gaelic.”
“That either,” said Stark.
“So, it’ll be the English, then. What is it uze want?”
“To run screaming in the other direction,” Kevin muttered.
“As this isle isnae fer wains—leave.”
“Shh!” Stark shushed Kevin before facing where he thought the voice came from. “We’re James Stark and Kevin Redbird from the Tulsa House of Night. Our High Priestess, Anastasia, contacted Queen Sgiach about our arrival.” He squared his shoulders and added. “And we’re not babies.”
As the silence stretched between them and the misty island, Kevin shifted restlessly from foot to foot and whispered to Stark, “How’d you know what a wain is?”
Stark only answered him because he wanted to distract the kid. “My grandpa MacUallis called me that until the day he died. He didn’t give a shit that I wasn’t a kid anymore. Actually, Grandpa was a mean old dude who didn’t give a shit about much of anything except my grandma and what he used to call a ‘wee dram’—which was actually single malt scotch, and he drank way more than a little of it.”
From the middle of the other side of the archway, a man materialized. He was muscular and built like an athlete, which more than showed because he wasn’t wearing one of the kilts they’d glimpsed as they traveled through the Highlands on their way to Skye. This man was wrapped in a thick length of woolen plaid the color of the autumn leaves. Most of his chest was bare. He wore leather forearm guards carved with knots and swirls. The hilt of a knife gleamed at his waist and as Stark studied him, he noticed a gold chieftain’s torque around his neck. His hair was shaven to his scalp except for a short Mohawk and his close-cropped beard was entirely white. Golden hoops decorated one of his earlobes. His face was deeply lined—he looked ancient—but the sapphire tattoos that framed his face in griffins’ claws and extended onto his cheekbones were as crisp and as powerful as his Warrior body.
He glared at Stark. “What did ya say yer granda’s name was?”
Stark blinked in surprise, but answered, “Robby MacUallis. He always said that we’re from here. I mean the Highlands of Scotland. We came to the US in the mid-1700s after something called Culloden happened.”
The Warrior snorted. “And that’s all ye know of yer past? Culloden happened ?”
Stark sighed. “You sound just like him. He talked like Culloden was yesterday and not April 16, 1746.”
A woman’s laugh sounded from the soupy darkness. It was a full, rich laugh, but there was something about the power it held that caused the fine hairs on Stark’s forearms to lift.
“Seems this young vampyre isn’t totally ignorant of his past—though obviously he knows nothing of his heritage.”
Queen Sgiach stepped out from within the wall of mist. She was tall and moved with a lithe grace that made Stark think of a lioness. Her striking sapphire tattoo of swords with intricately carved hilts blazed against the fair skin of her face as if Nyx had just placed it there. There were lines at the corners of her eyes, which were an unusual shade of bright hazel mixed with green. Her hair was waist length and except for a single streak of copper, it was perfectly white. A silver coronet crowned her head. In the center of it was a fat piece of amber that reflected the torchlight with golden fire. To Stark she didn’t look old or young; she looked like a warrior goddess.
Stark bowed deeply and respectfully to her, his hand fisted over his heart, and Kevin did the same.
“Merry meet, Queen Sgiach,” Stark said.
When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly soft. She didn’t sound pissed or welcoming—only curious. “Your High Priestess, Anastasia, contacted me saying two of her Warriors were going to request access to my island. Why should I allow you to enter?”
Anastasia had warned him that Sgiach hadn’t let her explain why she was requesting entrance to Skye for them. The queen insisted the Warriors speak for themselves, so Stark had considered how he would answer that question all the way across the ocean. He and Kevin had talked about it and come up with an excellent answer that sounded important and mature, but as he faced Sgiach and felt the power radiating from her, his well-rehearsed words evaporated from his mind and left only the most basic truth.
“I’m trying to fix the mistake I made when I supported Neferet and her war. My mistake cost vampyre and human lives, and allowed an entire race of new vampyres,” he paused and gestured at Kevin, who gritted his teeth and stepped up beside Stark. “Red vampyres like my friend Kevin, to be used—brutally, terribly. I have sworn to Nyx to stop Neferet before she hurts more of us.”
Sgiach studied Kevin. “I have never before seen a red vampyre. Tell me, young Warrior Kevin, is it true that you sway human’s minds and make them do your bidding?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, to some extent. Although, how well it works depends on the strength of will of the human. But that is just one of the differences between red and blue vampyres. We also must have an invitation to enter a private home, and full sunlight can kill us.”
Seoras snorted. “And are all of you barely outta yur nappies?”
Kevin blinked in confusion and Stark whispered. “Nappies are diapers.”
“Oh. Uh. Well, most of us are pretty young because our kind hasn’t been around long, but as far as I know, I am the youngest fully Changed red vampyre in this world.”
“He also is the only vampyre, red or otherwise, in this world who has an affinity for all five elements,” Stark added.
Sgiach’s arched brows lifted. “Fascinating,” she said. Her moss and amber eyes skewered Stark. “Tell me, young Warrior, why did you support a High Priestess who was so obviously not following Nyx’s path?”
“That’s something I’ve asked myself every day since I finally stood against her. I have no excuse. I didn’t want to believe my High Priestess had turned to Darkness, so I did what she told me to do for way too long.”
“May I ask something?” Kevin said, and then hastily added, “Please, Your Majesty.”
Sgiach said nothing but nodded.
Kevin cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles and said, “Why didn’t you do anything to stop her? You knew she’d turned from Nyx. You knew the human/vampyre war was wrong. You’re a Warrior Queen. You could’ve fought her, but you didn’t do anything. Why?” He repeated.
Seoras took a step forward, hand on the hilt of his dirk, but Sgiach touched his arm and he stood down.
“Your question is impertinent,” she said.