Mystic Warrior (7 page)

In this world, redemption was still possible.

“What happened to set the village on fire?”

“Nothing extraordinary,” he said, refusing to mention the blue flame that had distracted him, almost causing his death. To admit it existed was to accept the plausibility of Lis's theory. He swallowed to clear his suddenly obstructed throat. “I left Paris with a cartload of escaped prisoners, thinking I could take them to the coast. We ran into brigands. I inadvertently started a fire.” If that didn't send her fleeing, he couldn't imagine what would.

She shot him a quelling glance that said she hadn't expected less.

Once they reached the village, he flung the boards down in front of the priest's house and waited for her to go back to Ian. He refused to open his psychic senses to Find her brother's whereabouts. Being scolded by a woman was bad enough. He didn't need it from a man who had once been his friend.

She looked down her nose at him as only the queenly Lissandra Olympus could do. “If you are the one who burned the village, I am sure they will be delighted at having a destructive monster like you to aid them.”

He refused to wince as her barb hit its mark. Turning his back, he began scaling the stone wall of the parsonage with a board over his shoulder.

He knew the instant she strode off.

Once safely on top of the wall, Murdoch threw the plank over the post he'd already nailed in place, satisfied he'd done the right thing. Just to test that he wasn't losing his instincts, he opened his mental barrier to the town below. Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

Hell and damnation.
Lis was storming blindly down the street with her Empathy sealed off, and the Public Safety Committee had started drinking early this evening. The simmering hatred and violence of the uniformed squad rose above all the everyday emotions of the townspeople. The committee had already condemned the mayor for “never having good republicans at his table” and sent him off for execution before Murdoch had arrived.

They were bloody-minded tyrants, bored and waiting to pounce on anyone for the least infraction. Their Parisian arrogance and hatred for those unlike themselves put them at odds with the simple people they'd been sent to protect.

Murdoch tried to tell himself that Ian would defend Lissandra, but his senses Found no trace of her damned brother. What the
devil
were they thinking to let her out here on her own? Lis knew nothing of the hazards here. She evidently couldn't even
walk
without being forced to shut off the Empathy that would warn her of danger. The chaotic, often violent emotions of this world must be pure torture for someone of her sensitivity.

Uttering another curse, Murdoch scanned the scene below—and found Lis wisely skirting the tavern. He was already halfway down the wall before a pair of soldiers sauntered from the inn as if they'd been watching—which was what they were paid to do.

Murdoch's keen hearing picked up their words even before he reached the ground.

“If it's a man you seek, I'm at your disposal,” the older soldier called. He swaggered into the street to intercept Lis's progress, clutching the hilt of his sword as if it represented his masculinity.

If Lis refused the invitation, he would demand to see her papers. And she wouldn't have any. That was all the excuse needed to condemn her as a spy and be treated as worse. Even though Murdoch raced to join her, he had no way of stopping the confrontation. One threat to Lis and he let months of practicing composure and stifling his temper go by the wayside.

He curled his fingers to restrain his lethal instincts, but the fury he worked so hard to bank combusted, and a wind howled down the street in the direction of his rage. Intensifying with distance, it bent tall trees, rattled doors, blew off hats and shingles—and blasted the uniformed soldier out of his boots.

The soldier's terrified shriek as he flew backward pierced the stormy air.

Having served its purpose, the wind died as abruptly as it had begun. After peering from their doors and windows, the villagers left their hiding places and crept into the street, gawking at the debris that lay scattered in the wake of the sudden wind burst, then glancing around until they found the source of the screams amid the tree branches.

The soldier dangled by his bandolier high above the tavern roof. The limb supporting his weight bent dangerously low, in imminent peril of snapping.

 

Lissandra sensed Murdoch's approach even before he grabbed her arm and jerked her backward into the gathering crowd as men raced to find ladders and rescue the shrieking soldier.

She'd dropped her mental shields at the first sign of danger. Now, buffeted by the piercing agony of the mob's fear, she could barely stand, and she clutched Murdoch's arm rather than brush him away.

“You protected me,” she accused him. That he had done so—again—in a tempestuous manner that only he could generate weakened her knees as much as the chaos did.

“You thought I would not?” he asked coldly. “Or that I couldn't?”

She needed to keep her wits about her. This was no time for their argument to boil to a head. They'd called attention to themselves. Not good.

People turned to stare and whisper as the crowd's fears found a focus on the strangers among them. Lissandra, not Murdoch, had been the one standing closest to the soldier. She could sense their fear of her, which had only escalated with Murdoch's abrupt arrival.

This incident seemed simple to resolve without their immediately running away.

Lissandra leaned her weight on Murdoch's arm until he was forced to hold her upright. He seemed prepared to do so, but she abruptly grabbed her hat to straighten it, hoping to distract the mob with the mundane.

“The wind,” she exclaimed loudly. “I've never felt such wind! Is this place cursed?” With what little mind control she possessed, she nudged the villagers to look back at the man in the tree and associate the curse with the villain they all feared.

They did so with gratifying alacrity, murmuring among themselves, shaking their heads in bewilderment.

The second soldier glanced suspiciously from the place where she had been standing to the screaming man in the tree, then back to the two of them edging out of the crowd.

Before the soldier could speak, a priest pushed through the throng, quieting his more-frightened parishioners. He, too, glanced at the screaming bully, then at the second soldier.

“We are blessed,” the priest declared loudly, stopping beside Lissandra and Murdoch. “The saints protect us from drunkards. Come, my friends, you are fortunate you are not harmed.” He offered his arm. It took a moment before Lissandra realized she was meant to take it.

She dropped a little curtsy that Ian's wife, Chantal, had taught her. “It was most frightening, monsieur.”

“
Père
Antoine,” Murdoch whispered in her ear, falling into step beside her as the crowd parted, their fears apparently relieved by the priest's presence. “Or
citoyen
, if you wish to respect the new republic.”

It was almost like having the old Murdoch back, whispering wicked commentary in her ear through Council meetings. She swallowed and fought her gratitude at his correcting her error. She had once been easily swayed by him. Never again.

“I apologize. I am much shaken, Père Antoine,” she said to the priest.

“Of course, mademoiselle,” he said, proving he preferred the old terms, “it is understandable. Where do you stay? I will take you there.”

She had left her bag at the widow's, prepared to remain there until she found Murdoch. Now that she'd found him, she had no reason to linger. Except that going home without Murdoch, no matter how far he'd fallen, felt like failure, and she refused to accept defeat so easily. She ignored the priest's question while pondering her choices. “Do you often have winds like this?”

“Only since Abel has come to stay with us.”

Abel? She glanced at Murdoch, but his expression remained enigmatic.

“Abel,” the priest continued, “it would be best if you stay in the chapel until I can speak with you again.”

Lissandra understood the priest's fears. She knew enough of the ignorance of the Other World to grasp the danger they faced if Murdoch refused to leave the village and couldn't restrain his gifts. And if he refused to leave, she could not either. Despite all rationality, her decision was made without a second thought.

“He is my husband,” she told the priest, defying Murdoch's fingers digging into her upper arm. “I heard he was ill, and I have been looking all over France for him.” There, let Murdoch react to that declaration.

He released her arm, and faded into the shadows of the alley where they walked. He was still there, listening,
judging
, but not interfering.

The priest stopped short and stared at her in dismay. “Surely he did not abandon you, madame. He is a paragon of strength who mends our village as our government will not.”

“Paragons don't throw men into trees,” Murdoch corrected with sarcasm, crossing his arms and leaning his wide shoulders against the burned-out skeleton of a house. “It is only a matter of time before the committee decides I am a demon traitor.”

“That is ridiculous,” the priest argued. “What you have accomplished in so short a time is a miracle blessed by God. The whole town supports you.”

At being called a miracle, Murdoch shot Lissandra a glance that should have sizzled, but she ignored the warning. “My husband”—she sought some explanation for Murdoch's behavior—“seems not himself. Was there some accident in which he was hurt?”

Père Antoine's eyes widened. “He was shot from behind while saving his friends from thieves. He healed so well. . . .”

Shot! Someone had almost killed a potential Oracle? Lissandra glanced in horror at the half-hidden man, but he offered only an angled eyebrow, daring her to comment. Aelynners healed quickly, and Murdoch faster than most, since he possessed Healing abilities of his own. She shook her head free of fretting thoughts to concentrate on getting what she wanted.

She touched the priest's arm earnestly, willing him to believe her. “I don't think it's wise for my husband to travel until he recovers fully.”

The priest relaxed. She felt sorry for the man. The villagers' homes and livelihoods had been ruined, and only Murdoch had come to their aid. The priest protected his people as fiercely as she guarded hers.

“Your . . . husband . . . has gifts that we need,” the priest murmured, “gifts from God. I do not understand how he does it, but in only a few days, he has restored the church. And in the absence of our menfolk, he has begun replanting the wheat fields all on his own. He is a miracle worker.”

“He has studied under great men from around the world,” Lissandra assured him.

Murdoch coughed to cover a snigger. She knew him that well, even after all these years. At least he wasn't raging and throwing a tantrum at the lies she was telling. She would no doubt pay for them later. If human behavior was the same here as at home, he'd be scorned by all if he did not eventually leave with his “wife.”

“Ah,” the priest said. “That explains much.” He looked at Murdoch sharply. “Perhaps we will not say this too loudly for a while yet. These are simple people who need a miracle to believe in. If you are to stay for any length of time, you will need to behave more circumspectly.”

“I will attempt to refrain from heaving scoundrels into trees,” Murdoch said with insouciance, daring the priest to believe the impossible. “But I would house my lady wife safely.”

Lissandra suspected she was about to regret her impulsive decision to become his “wife.”

“Of course,” the priest agreed, pulling on his bottom lip in thought.

“The woodcutter's cottage will suffice,” Murdoch continued as if he'd not been interrupted. “It is some distance from town, so I cannot get into too much trouble.”

“But the fields . . .” The priest looked up anxiously.

“He is injured,” Lissandra reminded him. “It is far better if he imparts his wisdom to your people rather than do it all himself.”

“Fair enough. We will provide the cottage and what food we can in return for his lessons. Knowledge can be passed on, and we will be richer for it.”

“Wise man, Père Antoine, not to argue with the lady. We wouldn't wish her to lose her temper.” With a smirk, Murdoch straightened from the wall he'd been leaning against. “It might be best if the committee does not know where we are. I'll come to town instead.”

“Perhaps that is best,” the priest agreed. “But if you need anything . . .” The priest made the sign of the cross. “In this time of trouble, you have been our savior. Go with God.”

He blended into the shadows in the direction of the chapel, leaving them alone, together.

Murdoch grabbed his
wife's
elbow, and dragged Lis toward the stable. She resisted. He tugged. She practically flew through the air, and he cursed his own strength. He set her down and released the slender hand to which he'd become attached so quickly.

He'd overcome his disappointment that he couldn't shove her back into Ian's custody. Given Lis's tenacity, what she hoped to accomplish by coming here alone did not bear scrutiny. No matter how high-and-mighty and powerful she thought herself, he knew he couldn't let her roam loose in a world of chaos she didn't understand and would probably want to Heal. He snarled in exasperation.

She wrestled with her filthy skirt, and he could almost feel the withering frost of her glare. To have Lis find him in the midst of yet another disaster peeled off his callous hide and left him raw and exposed.