Banished (6 page)

I’m a tall girl, and strong, but I know it’s going to be hellish to try and get him back to the Manor before dawn.

I make it to the patio doors before I completely run out of energy. I carefully dump the unconscious prince on the ground and straighten my aching back. I’m still sore
from my encounter with the banshee and after tonight’s, no, this morning’s shenanigans, I don’t think I’ll be able to move without doing a lot of groaning.

Behind me are the snarls and curses of the dark creatures that have hounded us through the forest, flocking to the standing stones that circle the Manor. Casting a look over my shoulder, I see a
variety of dark shapes battering themselves against the wall of magic. One of them, bigger than the redcaps, maybe an ogre, is heaving at one of the marker stones, doing his utmost to shift it.
Some of them start digging, trying to tunnel beneath the protective wall, and I have to give them five out of five for thinking outside the box. But, unless they have drilling equipment, I doubt
they’ll be able to get through. The protection spells safeguarding Blackhart Manor and the estate are centuries old and they are renewed at each equinox. Nothing is going to get through the
stone circle. Nothing I’ve heard of, anyway.

I open the patio doors and heave the armoured young man into the informal lounge and with much swearing I lay him down on the longest couch before I run and lock the doors. I take out my knife
and snick my finger lightly so that a droplet of blood wells from the cut; I press it into the elaborate carving around the doorjamb and watch as my blood sinks into the wood, leaving no trace. The
effect of the safeguarding spell is instantaneous and I close my eyes hastily against the bright flare that lights up the Manor. I can feel the ripple of it go through the house and know that if
anyone was watching the Manor from the Otherwhere the place just lit up like a beacon. The spell tells whoever’s watching that we’ve gone into lockdown and that nothing will be able to
get through the doors unless I let them. Sometimes you just needed more security than your average lock on the door.

Knowing that I’ve basically just sent off a flare for help in both worlds, to be seen by anyone with the slightest bit of magical potential, makes me feel vulnerable. There are very few
places of significance in our world that exist in the Otherwhere too, and the Manor is one of them. It makes it easier for high-born Sidhe to pay visits to us, and it’s easier for us to nip
across than to traipse into the forest to activate the gate hidden there.

The young man on the couch moans something in a language I’m sure I should know and he struggles to grasp for his sword in his half-conscious state. I rush over and remove the sword from
his side to prevent him from hurting himself. The sword feels very heavy in my hands. It makes my plain sword, with its leather-wrapped hilt, feel like a piece of scrap metal. I notice the
elaborately carved hilt and the deep green stone set in the pommel. A single large stylized dragon is etched along the blade and I wonder what Jamie would make of it. He was fond of saying that
weapons were meant to look like weapons, not toys. I lay it on one of the side tables and rub my bloodstained hands down my thighs.

At the sight of my hands, my heart accelerates and my knees go rubbery and weak, as if they can’t support my weight one second more. I lean pathetically against the table for a few
seconds, trying to get a grip on myself. I practise some of the breathing techniques Jamie’s taught me for use when it feels as if my magic’s about to burn free. The breathing
eventually helps and I turn to survey the unconscious prince.

First things first. He has to be cleaned up and I have to see if I can sort out the cut on his arm and we both need some rest. The carriage clock above the fireplace tells me it’s just
after five. Dawn should arrive soon, sending the redcaps and whatever nightmares they had with them scurrying for the darkest recesses of the forest, where they’ll hide till night-time before
coming at the house again.

I move as fast as I can to the kitchen and down a can of full-fat Coke for my nerves. As I wait for the sugar to hit my bloodstream I gather my wits. In the utility drawer I find several
scissors, which I pocket, and under the sink I find the overlarge and very well-stocked first-aid kit Mrs Evans keeps there. I grab a stack of clean bed sheets from the linen cupboard and carry
them into the lounge.

He’s still unconscious on the couch where I left him, thank the stars. I watch his chest move beneath his armour and wonder what the hell he was doing in my forest in the small hours of
the morning. I need to rest and recoup so that I can go join my cousins up in Scotland; I don’t need this. Whatever this is.

It takes some doing, but I wrestle the prince’s breastplate off and dump it on the carpet to the side of the room. Next, I find the hooks of his chainmail shirt and manage to get that off
without aggravating his wound too much, I think.

Two pairs of scissors later I give up in my attempts to cut the padded undershirt off him and in the end I use my knife. His soft cotton shirt is a mess of blood and I easily get rid of that and
dump it with the rest.

I wince when I see how deep the cut is that goes from the top of his shoulder down the length of his upper arm. It looks painful and I wonder if I’ll be able to help or if my ministrations
will make it worse. I bite my lips in an effort not to walk away and throw up in Aunt Jessica’s plants. I’m okay with most first-aid things, but stitching wounds is not my forte.
Surprisingly, Kyle was the one for such delicate operations. I’m just the one that either gets wounded or delivers woundings.

The prince lets out a short sharp cry and he grabs at my wrist. His eyes are open and a look of panic flickers across his undoubtedly handsome face. ‘Please,’ he rasps.
‘Help.’ He falls back against the cushions, out like a light.

I prise his fingers away and sit back, hoping that someone else will turn up soon to tell me what to do next. My eyes roam over the rest of him to see if I can find any other cuts and in the
process I get an eyeful of the sculpted smooth muscles on his chest. I flame bright red but I bend myself to the task I set myself. I’m relieved he’s not awake to see me hesitate or how
my hands shake as I start the process of cleaning the injury and sewing it up. It takes ages but the stitches look neat and tidy and my hands have lost most of their hesitation. The rest of me,
though, is shaking with fatigue. I sit back on my heels and wonder about giving him a shot of antibiotics. Will I give him some kind of illness if I do? I don’t know enough about Fae
metabolism and decide that if he gets sick I’ll give him an injection. At the moment he’s got a bit of a temperature but nothing too serious. I hold my hand over his mouth and his
breathing feels regular.

I bandage the wound and carry the dirty water and bits of cloth to the kitchen and mentally apologize to Mrs Evans for destroying the tidiness of her kitchen. I find a shirt in the folded
laundry that belongs to either Kyle or Marc and carry it with me into the small lounge.

I start on his face, washing off the dirt and the blood. A cut seeps blood just above his eyebrow and I clean that out too, disinfecting it. It’s not deep and it should heal well, so I use
small butterfly plasters to keep the cut together. I pull the shirt on over him, taking care not to jostle his arm too much.

After I’ve done as much as I can, I manoeuvre him into a more comfortable position on the couch, using the bed linen I took from the cupboard earlier as extra padding and make sure the
pillows support his head before I sigh deeply and sink down on the floor next to him. I am so tired, all I want to do is sleep for a week. My reserves are low and there’s a hollow ache in my
stomach that I always connect to my tiny store of magic being depleted. The thought of trying to send emails to everyone, to let them know what’s going on – that the house is under
siege by beasties and that I have the High King of Alba’s youngest son unconscious on our couch – is just a step too far. None of this seems real. The night stretches behind me like a
surreal nightmare. Even after a year and a half, all of this still feels new, and insane, and impossible. I know I have to get in touch with my family. I haul my phone out. The screen’s
cracked from where I sat down on it too hard. I leave my phone on the small table next to me. I lean my head back and close my eyes, intending only to rest them for a few minutes, but sleep folds
me to her chest and I let her.

The Citadel, Kingdom Of Alba, Otherwhere

‘Where is the boy?’

As he spoke, the duke turned his gaze to the shadows crowding the map chamber. The coals in the brazier gave off only slightly more warmth than light. The room held an ornate bookcase; most of
the contents of the shelves were spread across the monumental desk. Suspended against the wall behind the desk was a tapestry depicting all the lands of Alba, the rivers, forests, cities and larger
towns and army garrisons.

The duke stood before the map. He was a tall man with patrician features, a carefully trimmed goatee and neatly tied-back hair. His clothes were plain, but clearly no expense had been
spared.

A cluster of sputtering stubby candles bravely fought the gloom in the room, lighting the amber liquid in the glass he carefully placed back on the desk beside him. A moonstone ring, cunningly
carved to resemble a lion, glinted in the sparse light as he turned to regard his visitor.

‘My troops are hunting him as we speak.’ The man’s voice was deep yet unpleasant. ‘There were complications.’

The newcomer was not quite as tall as the duke and moved with a swordsman’s grace. Like the duke he wore no visible weapons but he carried a slender silver-topped cane that seemed more an
affectation than a necessity.

The duke turned to look at the man, taking no care to hide his surprise. ‘Complications? What kind of complications could possibly prevent your troops from bringing a pampered princeling
to heel?’

The stranger hid his annoyance at being questioned, but poorly. And as he shifted his weight under scrutiny, shadows seemed to cling somehow to his form, blurring his outline.

‘The boy received helped from one of the Blackharts.’

‘I thought we’d taken care of the Blackharts.’ The duke’s tone was unforgiving. ‘Istvan, this is no longer a chess game to be played into the night. It has
progressed from a game of “what ifs”. There is a price for failure.’

‘My lord, the girl . . . we don’t know why she is at the Manor. She was supposed to be with the rest of her family in Scotia.’

‘Destroy the Manor.’ The duke made a small gesture. ‘Do everything in your power to stop her helping the prince. Bring him here.’

‘Everything in my power, my lord?’ Istvan’s dark voice held both amusement and threat. ‘The consequences of what you’re asking will alarm everyone not already with
us.’

‘I no longer care, sorcerer. Do as you are told. Bring him to me.’

Istvan bowed his dark head, once more the servant. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

The duke was suddenly alone in the map chamber. He drew a deep uneven breath and reached for his drink, shuddering as it burned its way down into his stomach. But even after the third glass a
chill remained. He moved unsteadily from the tapestry, his ears tuned to voices only he could hear.

I wake up with a start and, after a quick check on the still-breathing prince, I move to stand in front of the windows. The forest lies quiet and enigmatic at the edge of the
park and there is no sign of the redcaps or their cronies from earlier.

I check my watch and mutter a curse under my breath. It looks as if it stopped just after four, probably taking a blow during my frisky fight with the redcaps. I undo the strap and pocket it,
wondering what else I’m going to lose of Kit’s Life As It Once Was. The watch belonged to my mum, and my nan gave it to me when I turned twelve, shortly after we moved back to the UK.
It’s literally the only thing, apart from me, that survived the fire that night.

Feeling irritable, I swing around to check on my guest, only to find that he’s standing a few paces behind me, looking uncertain on his feet and keeping a steadying hand on the back of one
of the over-plush leather chairs. Although he’s pale, he looks better than he did when I half-carried, half-dragged him in here a few hours ago. His damp hair has dried out and instead of a
dusty dark blond-brown it now looks a rich honey blond and it’s come loose from its leather tie and rests on his shoulders. His features are strong, masculine, with a firm jaw and great
cheekbones, but it’s his eyes that hold your attention. Framed by ridiculously long lashes, they are a deep midnight blue and seem fathomless. For a few seconds I stare at him, allowing
myself to think that he is utterly deliciously lovely, but then my common sense takes over and I catch myself before I gurn at him like an idiot.

I mentally shake my head to clear the fanciful imagery. The house is in peril, we’re surrounded by gribblies (a non-technical term we use in the family to denote any kind of creature) and
yet here I am, making moon-eyes at the person who is no doubt the cause of the current mess. I pull myself together and offer him a rather stiff smile.

‘Prince Thorn, how are you feeling this morning?’

He clears his throat and inclines his head a bit, almost like a small bow in my direction. ‘I’ve felt better. Like when my horse threw me and dragged me several yards through a lot
of undergrowth and a hedge before it stopped to eat some moon meadow grass,’ comes the frank answer. His accent is definitely foreign, making me think that English is not the language he
learned growing up in Alba.

His voice is lovely and deep and I find myself fascinated by his mouth with its slightly fuller lower lip. How is it possible that he can look so attractive, even when wearing bruises and cuts
from the battle just a few hours before? I find myself leaning closer to him. Is it my imagination, or does he smell ever so slightly of cookies?