“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said, looking at Jamie in wonder. “She’s brought me Jesuit bark.”

“Well, I did tell ye, Sassenach, that if ye mentioned your need of it to Roger Mac and Brianna, likely ye’d get some. And in that case,” he said slowly, looking at the direction in which our visitor had disappeared, “I think perhaps yon woman is maybe Mrs. Cunningham.”

16

Hound of Heaven

Two weeks later

I WAS SOMEWHERE DEEPER than dreams, and came to the surface like a fish hauled out of water, thrashing and flapping.

“Whug—” I couldn’t remember where I was, who I was, or how to speak. Then the noise that had roused me came again, and every hair on my body stood on end.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” Words and sense came back in a rush and I flung out both hands, groping for some physical anchor.

Sheets. Mattress. Bed. I was in bed. But no Jamie; empty space beside me. I blinked like an owl, turning my head in search of him. He was standing naked at the glassless window, bathed in moonlight. His fists were clenched and every muscle visible under his skin.

“Jamie!” He didn’t turn, or seem to hear—either my voice, or the thump and agitation of other people in the house, also roused by the howling outside. I could hear Mandy starting to wail in fear, and her parents’ voices running into each other in the rush to comfort her.

I got out of bed and came up cautiously beside Jamie, though what I really wanted to do was dive under the covers and pull the pillow over my head. That noise … I peered past his shoulder, but bright as the moonlight was, it showed nothing in the clearing before the house that shouldn’t be there.

Coming from the wood, maybe; trees and mountain were an impenetrable slab of black.

“Jamie,” I said, more calmly, and wrapped a hand firmly round his forearm. “What is it, do you think? Wolves? A wolf, I mean?” I hoped there was only one of whatever was making that sound.

He started at the touch, swung round to see me, and shook his head hard, trying to shake off … something.

“I—” he began, voice hoarse with sleep, and then he simply put his arms around me and drew me against him. “I thought it was a dream.” I could feel him trembling a little, and held him as hard as I could. Sinister Celtic words like ban-sithe and tathasg were fluttering round my head, whispering in my ear. Custom said that a ban-sithe howled on the roof when someone in the house was about to die. Well … it wasn’t on the bloody roof, at least, because there wasn’t one …

“Are your dreams usually that loud?” I asked, wincing at a fresh ululation. He hadn’t been out of bed long; his skin was cool, but not chilled.