 
unseen

kate gray
Kate Gray

Copyright © Kate Gray 2012

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
"To my wonderful hubby, and two (lucky for them) adorable boys for putting up with frozen dinners while I worked on this. Many thanks as well to my volunteer readers (R&K), who quieted some of my fears. And to Mrs. (Haakonsen) Jorgensen for telling me I could write in the first place."
"We should worship lord Shiva so that we are freed from our worldly attachments just like a fruit falls from a tree after ripening. Once we are successful in doing this we are liberated from this vicious cycle of life and death."

-Yajur Veda
Sunset was a welcome visitor, as it ended a particularly warm day for late January. The dim light of a pipe glowed in the creeping dusk, mingling its sweet earthy scent with the smells of cooked food.

Dozens upon dozens of canvas shelter halves were pieced together, housing that many more soldiers. It was a vaguely organized shanty town of the usual sort, with men playing games of chance or various instruments in the idle evening hours.

During the daytime, they all sweated through their drills, saw to their various duties, and generally behaved in the manner expected of them.

Major Gordon Macconnach tried to concentrate on completing his evening rounds, wishing all the while that he might be able to do so in his shirtsleeves rather than the infernal woolen uniform his rank demanded.

Decorum at all times in front of the men, Lord Wellington would have said, but that illustrious man had left this simmering climate to bring Europe into rein.

He and the polished upper ranks had clearly forgotten what life was like in this part of the world. What reasonable officer could hope to maintain a sense of separation from his subordinates without decorum, they would say.

Macconnach would say decorum mattered little when the officer was at risk of fainting in front of his men.

Separation, indeed, thought Macconnach darkly. Despite his rank, Gordon Macconnach had long felt separate from his fellow officers. In fact, Macconnach likely would never have attained his current status without his family's monies. That, and being singled out as a man who bore further prodding and elevation.

He stumped through the various barracks lanes, winding in and out of the sheltering tents, which served as temporary housing until the fort could be completed. Billeting was difficult enough to come by with the constant influx of troops.

Men lazed about in the close evening air, swatting flies away with horsehair tied to musket ramrods. Most were entirely out of uniform, heating their rum rations bare-chested. Macconnach wondered that Lord Abington didn't seem to mind the lack of decorum in the midst of the ranks.

He'd cautiously broached the subject only once, to which Abington had smiled beneficently. "My boy," he'd said in that mellifluous way of his, "we must always choose our battles according to the likeliest outcome." It was, in reality, a decision based on numerous possible outcomes.

"With those men out there," he'd swept a long arm in the direction of the barracks, "many of them are conscripts at best, criminals at worst. Very often they've come from the most terrible circumstances our fair isles have to offer. I have learnt never to judge a man's worth by his pedigree, and as such, I have allowed the men to have their own head on many matters. So long as they appear every morning at the call, fight like tigers at my side, and never raise a hand against their friends, we shall never have a problem."

Macconnach had noticed that Abington refrained from commenting on the other obvious reason for letting the men wallow in a false sense of comfort, one which lingered in the background of every military man's existence.

The truth was that Abington's men typically flourished under his singular method of discipline. Punishment was meted only when it was deservedly wanted; it never exceeded the measure of the transgression. He granted the men their evenings for liberty, so long as they policed themselves, and never abused his trust.

He worked tirelessly to ensure that their pay arrived in a timely fashion, and that all their records were kept, pristinely, at the fingertips of his highly efficient quartermaster. These men understood, finally, that the duty of their general was not only to direct their motions into the chaos of a battle, but to be their advocate and protector.

In return, any one of them would willingly die in his place. Their loyalty was unquestioned, unimpeachable. It extended so far that Abington's only daughter could pass through the camp at any hour of the night or day, and proceed without fear of molestation. Again, this was a due borne of fidelity, not of fear.

Not that Macconnach had met her yet. She'd only returned to India some few months ago, having been attending to her mother's deathbed. It had grieved Abington no end to let them go, some matter of a year before.

Lady Abington's health had deteriorated badly in the heavy climate, however, and her return back to England had been insisted upon. She had fallen into extremely poor health. None of the physicians' practical medicine could remedy her from the ague she had acquired while doing her charity work.

Lord Abington had also returned briefly to the Hampshire country manor belonging to his family; long enough only to attend to his wife's burial, and to fetch his daughter back with him.

Isabel herself had been overjoyed to return to India, Abington had confided in Macconnach; she enjoyed the warm weather, and spoke Hindi and Bangla like a native.

Officially, he had to disapprove of her gadding about the countryside like an urchin, but there was no dissuading her. She had her father's temperament, just as her brother, Alexander, had his mother's.

Macconnach found himself pondering the mysterious Isabel Alderton. She apparently enjoyed frequenting the tent "town" housing the enlisted men. Not to flaunt, mind, all the men were quick to assert, she passed through quite often to take dictation for the somewhat illiterate population.

Letters home were a luxury, and even better, those same men proclaimed with childlike excitement, she would read the replies aloud to them. She was also known for her theatrical readings of Jane Austen or T.L Peacock.

Best of all, she knew every name for every face, and always asked after kith and kin. She was an extension of her father, Macconnach theorized, cultivating true admiration in normally deeply suspicious and hard hearts.

She had thus far avoided the officers' billeting, their dining areas, and anything to do with the elevated ranks. Lord Abington tended to chalk it up to good sense, knowing how puffed up young leftenants and captains could be.

He'd been one himself once, in a far away place. It was only too easy to recall the fancies those young men undertook to appear more than they were. Gambling, dueling, and too many gins later, and those same fools would lend themselves to whatever woman was convenient. It was not at all the future he thought his daughter wanted for herself.

That was the odd part, thought Macconnach. The man didn't appear to give a fig about certain proprieties where Isabel was concerned. Never mind that she would never be able to make her own way into the male-encrusted pinnacles.

He only wanted her to pursue her own whims, and choose her own life. He trusted in her intellect. He would seemingly let her select her own husband, for her own reasons. She was to read whatever she liked.

Pursue whatever causes she liked. All he ever demanded from her, as he demanded from his men, was honesty, courage, and good judgement.

A shout broke through Macconnach's reverie, and he whirled in time to see a young Irishman dance in joy at having finally won a hand at cards. His companions cursed him affably, thumping him on the back, telling him to sit down already and lose the rest of his money.

Macconnach smiled. He admittedly liked the peaceful nights that Abington's rule afforded. He was still passing a paternal eye over the crowded camp when he spotted s shadowy figure moving in the dark, about five hundred meters or so off to the northeast.

He began to fumble for his spyglass, realizing belatedly how dark it had gotten since he'd begun his walk. Hearing the perimeter guard give a shout, he dashed over the distance, and arrived just as the private went stumbling into the shrubbery.

He had a short distance to cover, however, as a very rough mud brick wall sat in his way. A thump and muttered expletive later, the perturbed private returned to his post.

"What was it? Did you see?" Macconnach had no trouble summoning up the dignity common to his station. The private, a rough, tow-headed man nearing his thirties, looked sheepishly at his major and saluted.

"Naw, sir, I dint see a thing. All I sees, sir, is the bushes go all trembly like, and wavin' about like they's alive. You don't think it's one o' them bloodsuckers, sir?"

"Ah. Yes. Private Hunt, you've been listening to the Prussian campaigners, have you?"

The private reddened, and stared at his toes.

"Aye, sir. Round the night fires, like, and they've been telling the...stories they hears when they was all over there, sir."

"Well, Hunt, I surmise that we are quite vampyr-free here. It was probably just a peacock or some other of the domestic animals." The lie came off sour-tasting.

Macconnach looked again at the plants, knowing full well what he'd seen. A human form. On quite another topic, a question bubbled up in his mind.

"Tell me, Hunt, does Miss Alderton sit to hear these particular fantasies?" The man's face lit up, his fright forgotten.

"Indeed, sir. She's one for all those fine storytelling times. She's plenty o' her own, but she does enjoy hearing new ones. She sends her girl down in the evenings to get word whether anyone has one for th'night. If a body does, then she's here, sir. Every time. Takes her tea with us an' all." Hunt spoke with the fondness one might show an older sister, despite obviously being a piece older than Miss Isabel Alderton.

Armed with that knowledge, Macconnach asked to be given word of the next story hour that he might observe from a distance. Hunt, interpreting this as an inspection of their behaviour toward the young miss, swallowed hard, but nodded assent.

Macconnach hated to string the man along, but he could hardly let on that he was burning with curiosity to lay eyes on the mysterious Isabel, could he? Contentedly, he made his way outside the perimeter wall, scarcely concentrating on his task.

As he drew near the spot opposite the side of the wall where he'd spotted the dark figure, he paused. He yawned, thinking about his cot, his Scotch, and his pipe tobacco, gone mouldy in the humidity.

Damned shame. At least his shirts hadn't been eaten by the dreaded ants. And his liquor was similarly safe. These were yet things for which to be grateful.

In a moment, he spotted further movement some distance away. From the lower branches of an acantha tree, someone in a long sari dropped to the ground, breaking into a joyous run toward the nearby local village. Macconnach frowned. He sincerely hoped that none of his men were taking advantage of local girls. He decided to follow, having concluded his rounds for now.
" _Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist."_

– _Epicurus_
Macconnach fell into his boyhood habit of stealth, as on the heaths, while he drew closer to the nearby village. He wished to ascertain as quickly as possible what a local girl might have been doing inside the camp perimeter.

He hoped to catch her up before she reached the protective folds of her family dwelling. To speak with her without terrifying her. The fluttering sari could be seen several dozen meters ahead of him, its dark color nearly impossible to follow but for its movement in the darkening surrounds.

The girl was progressing quite quickly, so he decided to run faster, a choice decidedly hampered by his full uniform kit. Unbuttoning the heavy wool jacket he still wore, he picked out a sturdy looking tree as he moved, and heaved it into the lower branches, trying not to imagine Abington's reaction, were the general a witness.

Thus unencumbered, he moved far more swiftly, wearing only the white shirt and formal vest demanded by his rank. He was glad that he'd had his boots repaired recently as well. Only a fortnight before he would have been hobbled by their threadbare soles.

Macconnach slid into the half-aware consciousness of exertion as he loped along, and so he remained until suddenly, the person running ahead of him vanished into the thin air. Cursing heavily, he came to a halt, and searched the landscape.

The night air was still and thick, muffling most noises, as Macconnach crept along, muttering in Gaelic. He came up on a thicket, large and impassable, and began to circumvent it when he found himself inexplicably off his feet, and on his back.

A slippered foot pressed against his throat, as he saw the wicked gleam of a long blade. It was the sari he'd been chasing. She had her face veiled with it, though she leaned in to hiss at him in Hindi. Her eyes flashed, shining in the meager light of a half moon.

"What do you want, English?"

He found himself ruffling at her assumption, though he refrained from responding to it, with the threat of the knife still at large. He fumbled for a suitable answer in Hindi, which he had bothered to learn a bit of, but only a bit so far.

" _I follow you to ask of you a thing to which I have no answer_."

The kohled eyes narrowed in assessment. Then she spoke in English.

"You are not English. My apologies." Her flawless accent sent a cold pit into Macconnach's gut.

"And you, miss, are no Hindu. Miss Isabel Alderton, I presume?" Her eyebrow raised slightly, and she tucked the knife into a hidden place within the folds of the sari, sighing as she did.

"You have me. Might I ask you to be so kind as to tell me why you have followed me?" She pulled the covering from her head as she spoke, revealing to him her face.

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid that I quite assumed you were a village girl."

"Being taken advantage of by some redcoat, I suppose."

"Yes, well, your, ah, father frowns upon that sort of thing." Isabel peered at him sharply.

"Not for the reason you might suppose, Major."

"You know who I am?" He felt a surge of hope at this thought, though he knew not why.

"I know who everyone is. As my father chooses his company, my own company is chosen carefully, and by me, I might add."

"See here, Miss Alderton, I have never given you reason to suppose that I thought poorly neither of your judgement nor of your father's, have I? We've not even met formally! I know why Lord Abington wishes the men not to fraternize with local girls, and I also know that you govern yourself. I'm glad of it, I must say, because I have met far too many drab, colorless women in my time."

Macconnach stopped speaking with a snap of his jaw, both angered and embarrassed by this encounter. Isabel, for her part, managed to summon up something akin to contrition, as she offered him her hand. He took it, and stood up, brushing ochre dust from his breeches.

"I offer my apologies, Major Macconnach. I'm afraid that I've built up rather a thick defensive barrier against your many peers. Most often my dealings with them have been stuffed insensible with condescension and marriage proposals."

At that, Macconnach smiled.

"Aye. I'm aware of the phenomenon. They're likely just reacting to the discovery that you're more intelligent than they." He blushed maddeningly as she examined him once more, her black hair shimmering in the light of not-too distant fires.

She shrugged finally, and gave a half-hearted indication that he might be allowed to follow her. Following obligingly, he only asked to know their destination.

Casting a look backwards in the direction where his jacket lay unattended, he hoped that nobody came across it. Goodness knows what conclusion might be drawn.

"You shall see." She smiled at him over her shoulder, and he noticed for the first time how lovely she was. Her hair hung down, in defiance of modern fashion, a cascade of inky water all around her, and her dark eyes glittered with amusement, or devilry.

He tried to contain his thoughts as they walked nearer the village, making whispered reminders to himself that he was in the company of the general's daughter.

"It must be very difficult for you."

For a moment, Macconnach's heart leapt into his throat as he wondered whether she was a witch, able to sense his thoughts. Then he realized that she must have been referring to something other than the questionable direction of his musings.

"I'm not sure what you mean." He held back a thorny branch for her, and she smiled without mirth again, charging forth without hesitation into the dark expanse, where the village fires winked welcomingly.

"Major Macconnach, I'm sure you do. I have the feeling that, for a man like you, your status is a constant question."

"I suppose you refer to my ancestry, Miss Alderton?" He wished she would ask him to call her Isabel, but he supposed that was too much of a liberty.

"My father is not a man given to pointless charity, Major, if that's the fear you've been harboring." She pierced him once again with those black eyes, less the color of ink, more that of black pearls.

And he retracted in his mind all of the casual thoughts he'd had in her regard. He'd previously thought her most likely to be an aristocratic sort, playing at the games they all played at so well, all the while never touching the fiber of real life.

She was every bit the fine mind her father had hinted at. She was so very much like her father in character, though she luckily bore little physical resemblance to the man. He shook himself loose from these thoughts to concentrate on walking.

"Have you encountered much of the local mythology yet, Major?"

This question caught him a bit off-guard. Was she testing him? Getting a sense of his mind?

"I'm afraid I haven't had a great deal of time yet for cultural studies. Your father has a bountiful library; perhaps there is some reading material in there that you might recommend?" His words were again met by a sharp look.

"You needn't assume that I have any interest in your intellectual growth. There is an immediate purpose to my asking." She had a superior talent for reducing his tongue to tatters so far.

His only recourse at this moment, he felt, was to either return her hostility, or to meet it with equanimity. She might eventually see that he was completely unlike his fellow officers. Why he wished this outcome, he could not yet confess to himself. For now, it would have to be a secret locked away.

"Perchance you might give me a sense of that purpose, then." He spoke evenly, afraid to lend any sense of emotion to his words. Her eyes narrowed, but she relented, if only a tiny bit.

"Hinduism is rife with the sorts of supernaturalism that make our vicars and our ladies wish to basptise and convert the whole of India. What those collared and hatted fools do not recognize is that these are...not necessarily simple legends." She paused, surveying him for a reaction. He physically bit his tongue before replying.

"Forgive me if I do not follow your meaning, Miss Alderton."

She sighed at him. She was accustomed to days filled with sighs, and he was not any exception so far. Men could be so linear in their thoughts. For them, it seemed all was black and white, or a decline into foggy corruption.

Women could sense the truths that existed just out of sight. She wondered if this talent had been honed by generations of mothers keeping their offspring from harm.

"Engage your imagination, Major. You've surely heard some of the tales from the Mysore battles. Surely you accept that there are things beyond our understanding."

If only he could tell her just how much he accepted, he thought.

"You're not referring to that old story of the fort that was supposedly attacked by demonic forces?" He had, in fact, heard this story, and it was one of the few things that had made him uneasy about accepting the posting in this country.

The dark stories that had circulated in the theater of the Austrian and Russian fronts could simply be attributed to the pathological depression of the region. Here, in India, however, something was different.

He'd sensed it from the moment of his arrival. To be honest, the feeling had reminded him of nothing less than a certain long-ago night that he had spent chasing his father's runaway sheep through a boggy heath.

He pushed that aside, though, as he had every night since. She was speaking, and he'd lost the thread of her story.

"I hope you'll excuse me, Miss Alderton, if I interrupt. Your interest in all of this is a bit confusing. What is it that you are doing out here, in a place where wild animals roam freely at night? Alone, no less?"

She looked as though she'd gladly pull out her knife again, only to slip it into his heart.

"I can look after myself. Better than you can, I daresay."

"Than I am able to look after you, or me?"

"Humph." She ignored the question, in favour of answering the previous one. "The villagers have a wedding celebration in a matter of a week's time. Something has been sending signs to their holy man that not all is well. He feels that there is an evil somewhere nearby."

Macconnach was even further from making sense of this errand than he had been before asking her.

"An 'evil'? What is to be meant by that?" His stomach reminded him that he had missed his dinner. More worrisome was the gleam in her eye, as she turned back to watch the goings-on in the village.

"You might well ask, Major. The holy man does not know. He can only feel its presence. They are praying to Durga to receive her aid."

"Ah, yes." He thought quickly, trying to stumble over any sense of who Durga was.

"She is a warrior goddess, known well for having defeated other demons. They hope to summon an aspect, or an avatar of her." She looked at him carefully. "Do you understand that? I'm sure it sounds frightfully pagan to your ears." Her tone was muted sarcasm.

"You misjudge me. I may be a member of a congregation in the Christian faith, but I am, by birth, of a people who are deeply wedded to nature and to its unseen forces."

For once, Isabel Alderton had no reply. She merely raised her eyebrows in acceptance, and led on to the edge of the village. There, they could see smoke rising from what appeared to be offering pyres.

He surmised goat, from the smell wafting over to them. It was no great deal different than some of the rituals he'd witnessed as a child, and been sworn to secrecy about. He wondered how much longer the Company or the Crown would allow these sorts of things in India, before they fell prey to the same strictures as his own had.

Then these villagers would be performing them in secret, as his family had. He tried a different question.

"What are your intentions here, at this village?"

Before she answered, there was an appraising silence. She seemed to be at war with herself as to whether he could be trusted.

"I hope to persuade them that I am the avatar which they seek."

"I once again apologize. I do not believe I heard you correctly."

"I intend to determine what, or who, is causing their woes. For though I acknowledge that there may be that which is unseen, I believe their troubles to have a human root."

Macconnach took a step back and sat heavily on a dirt mound. Isabel scowled at him. "You think me some foolhardy girl."

"I think you a prime candidate for some hungry tiger's supper. And mad, perhaps blinking mad, as well."

"No more mad than an entire army whose usual tactic is to proceed on line, shooting at an enemy who is doing the same thing in reply. There haven't been any tigers round here in ages, anyhow. The last one that came near now lies in state on my father's floor. You followed me, I might remind you. You're free to go back whenever you like." She bowed mockingly at him, and swirled off into the village before he could reach out to prevent it.

He watched her walk boldly into the centre, where the offering fires were still blazing. Everyone there seemed to know her, but he could sense the vague unease which pervaded the atmosphere.

He hoped she was not in over her head, as he had even less sense of propriety in this setting than she seemed to. Worse, he had no weapon, nor even his jacket to lend an air of authority. He waited in a shadow to get a feel for how things might progress.

He certainly did not wish to disrupt a holy activity, nor alarm anyone further than they clearly were. Miss Alderton had sat down with the women, and was following along with their prayers. He intuited that they must be offering an appeal to this Durga Miss Alderton had mentioned.

The question of what she was about to do circulated through his mind as he kept watch. She had given him no indication that she wished him to follow, but he was beginning to feel like a peeping coward.

Finally, he decided to stay put unless she gave him some signal to join her. He had a suspicion that would not happen, but he resolved to watch carefully, just in case. What happened next merely caught him by surprise, instead of complete bewilderment, because he was watching so closely.

She had bowed forward during a moment when all the women were doing the same, invoking, presumably, their goddess. When she had returned to her sitting position, he saw, with mild shock, that there was something squarely in the middle of her forehead.

She seemed not to notice, rather, seeming to be in a trancelike moment. The women around her noticed nothing, as they all faced the same direction, but the men had an excellent view, as they all sat facing the opposite way.

One of the older men cried out and pointed at Miss Alderton. Macconnach squinted, trying to make out what it was, and why it would attract such excited attention. He finally determined that it was an eye of some sort, but only just as she was swarmed by everyone in the surrounding area.

She rose, and walked a few paces, speaking in a voice unlike her own. He could not make out much of what she said, given it was Hindi. Her words had an immediate effect; the villagers began to sing and clap in rhythmic pace, and everyone seemed most joyful, relieved, even.

Miss Alderton paced in a circle, smiling at everyone, still speaking, until she sank down into a heap. Everyone paused, breathlessly, peering down, but not moving. After a moment, Miss Alderton lifted her head.

The eye had vanished. She seemed a little out of sorts. He could hear her questioning tones, and an elderly man came forward to confer with her. She nodded, and smiled, and the villagers concluded with a cheerful cry. She remained with them for a matter of another half-hour, before retreating amidst happy farewells.

Macconnach had moved himself from where she had left him behind, so that when she walked past, he was able to take hold of her. She kicked at his knee, which he dodged. She then tried to cuff him, but he'd had enough.

"Do you suppose that I didn't grow up trading fists? Crivvens, girl. I was young once, too."

Isabel glared at him, summoning an image in her mind of taking a rifle butt to his skull, although her father would hardly approve of that. It was a little odd that he was inspiring such fury in her thoughts. She'd only just met him.

Usually it took a few months for her to come to despise a new officer under her father's command. And even then, it was a calculating, cold hatred. What she felt right at that moment was seething, heated, and discomfiting. She drew in a deep breath and tried to regain her composure.

"You might let go. I won't run off."

Macconnach found that idea unlikely, but he complied, and asked the question that was roiling in his mind.

"What sort of trickery did you just employ there?" He'd had the benefit of watching the event play out from afar. While she was skilled at her craft, he had been all over the world, and had seen the very best at work with their sleights of hand. Isabel was defiant in the face of his question.

"I suppose you intend to tell my father."

"I intend nothing, Miss Alderton. You've demonstrated quite clearly this evening that you will not listen to any reason, nor take any advice."

"Twaddle. But if you must know, I merely used a small prop. You must have taken note of it, but the reason for it was because of how Durga is portrayed. Naturally, I couldn't come up with an extra eight arms, and had to settle for her third eye."

She began to wind her hair up. "At any rate, they seem to have been amenable to the whole thing. The village head and the families of the couple have agreed to allow me to attempt to chase away whatever ill spirit might be hanging about."

"I fail to see how you can hope to be successful in convincing them that you have, in fact, chased away anything. The mind believes what it believes, and when a whole populace believes it together, it's all the more dangerous." He did have a touch of experience with that from his time in Cairo.

"If I follow their procedures, all should be well in the end, because I also intend to make sure there is no human cause for their misery."

"So you say. You ought not leap to conclusions so early on."

"Humans have ample imagination, Major. As I have just demonstrated, one person can wreak all sorts of mischief in a small town."

"I believe I take your meaning. Why should anyone cause trouble for these people, though? They seem simple and honest enough."

"As you say, it is too early to suppose anything. They have been kind enough to me over the past few months, but I have not yet been privy to anything beyond the superficial."

"Perhaps you ought to tell me what has been going on here. Then, I might be able to assist you."

Isabel had her back to him as she worked to get her hair back into a more suitable shape. She paused as he spoke, wondering whether he was truly to be trusted. Beyond that, was he discreet enough to be of any value as she worked over this problem?

For his part, not knowing exactly what was wrong, Macconnach could only go by his gut. There was something, almost in the air itself. He watched Miss Alderton for a moment, and then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

There was the steady stagnation that came with heavy, moist air, and the smell of burned animal flesh and hair. Beyond that, he allowed his senses to reach out tentatively. What was it? He could feel it, electric, and insubstantial, but it was there.

He allowed it to creep closer to him, whatever it was, to get a sense of what it might be. A feeling of unease began to nibble at him, while images of death and decay tried to flash into his mind.

"What are you doing?" Miss Alderton's voice broke his concentration; Macconnach let his breath out in a rush, and opened his eyes.

"Not a thing." He stared back, meeting her eyes evenly. She was, while intelligent and crafty, about as subtle as one of the local elephants used for clearing jungle tracts.

"Well, then, I'll see you back, shall I?"

"I am a grown man, Miss Alderton." He struggled to retain some dignity.

"That you may be. There is, however, the matter of your jacket, and that you may not be able to find your way until morning." She casually tossed off these words, and slipped back into the darkness at the edge of the village. He sat for a moment longer, chewing his lip.

"Blast." He jumped up and followed. Back in utter darkness, his eyes struggled to readjust, and he stepped gingerly, hoping not to fall.

Five meters away from the encampment, he saw her. She was just finished pinning her hair back, readying to replace the sari over her head.

"Do you not wish anyone to know you were outside the walls, then?"

Her expression was unreadable as he neared her.

"Not least of all because I don't need anybody else accompanying me." Her voice sounded cold in the blackness between them, and his confidence left him.

"I am sorry for altering your evening's plans. If you'd like me to leave you now, I shall." Isabel abandoned her efforts with the sari and strode up to him.

"You are a bloody minded man, aren't you? This shall be our secret, because you found me out, and because I chose to include you in it." This wasn't exactly true, but she wasn't interested in truth, per se.

"You mustn't tell my father this," she went on, "but I have been something of an adherent to Eastern philosophy for quite some time. Here, as in the ancient world, people do not believe in chance. Something gave you cause to walk where you would see me, and then to follow me."

Again she had touched on the edges of a secret, the existence of which she could not imagine or fathom.

They reached the tree where Macconnach's heavy woolen coat dangled from a branch. He stared at it, knowing that putting it back on would signal the end to this strange evening. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her what he had been attempting to do back on the edges of the village.

There was no way to frame so that it sounded anything less than completely barmy. Besides, how could he tell her that, and not tell her the other detail. What her father had really brought him, Macconnach, to India for.

ॐ

Isabel was, in her own way, a creature of logic, possibly more so than most men of her acquaintance. For all her thoughts of intuition, she was more like her father than she cared to admit.

Normally, this "evil" in the nearby village would have been business that the General would have seen to with her, but he was different now. Losing Mother had taken a toll on Papa, she could see that quite clearly.

Macconnach, on the other hand, might prove to be a suitable replacement. He was a bit peculiar, very unlike his peers, and had not attempted any sort of romantic overtures thus far. Strange, but welcome.

His eyes, almost black, had pierced her from across their few meters of distance back in the village. He had a strong-set jaw, with the still-fashionable whiskers worn in his own way. He wore his hair slightly longer than the current style, much like engravings she had seen of the Highland men, wild and unkempt, and it was coal-black like her own.

He wore the symbols of an infantry officer, but her father had told her he was more in the line of intelligence these days.

His jacket bore the scars of his duty abroad in the name of King William, expertly mended, but there all the same. She rather suspected that the man was like his jacket. She could see it there behind the black fire of his gaze.

Oftentimes, she had wondered aloud what things her father had seen in his younger days. Her brother had long since tired of her incessant questioning.

Her mother had been horrified by her daughter's fascination with what Isabel termed, "the toils and tolls of warfare." And here was a man who seemed to show it all to her without ever speaking a word.

And yet, there was something more than unusual about him. She recalled his demeanor as she had turned, to find him, face turned to the night sky, unmoving, as though he had been waiting for something.

It had been a strange sight, to be sure. She almost thought he had gone away from his body, just for a moment, but then, that was not possible. It was _not_ possible. She bade him a good night, he gave her a short bow, and turned on his heel to rejoin his men.

Isabel was left to cross the remainder of the grounds alone, which felt for the first time as though she was crossing an open ocean. Peacocks called hauntingly as she wended her way into a small palace.

This housed her father, his senior staff, and her. She and the general luckily had themselves distanced away from anyone else, a fact that allowed her to glide silently into his library unnoticed. A single oil lamp burned within.

"How are things in the village, my dear?" Her father sat facing away from her as she moved to the book-laden shelves.

"Intriguing as always, Papa."

He turned to her with a knowing smile, watching as she picked over the lighter volumes.

"You seem a bit distracted. Nobody gave you any trouble as you came or went, I trust?" His tone was light and careless.

At that, she started ever so slightly. How could he already have heard anything? Isabel looked upon her father's still-young face, and saw nothing in it but concern for her. She smiled at him fondly.

"Never, Papa. Nobody ever sees me leave."

ॐ

He smiled as well, and went back to his perusal of Plato. She watched him for a few moments as he sat reading, tapping the pages in time to his pace. He was not an old man, only forty years of age.

Though there were not so many years dividing them, he had, as in every aspect of his life, carefully maintained a manicured separation between himself and his children. When his wife, her mother, had still been living in every sense of the word, he had treated her in every way as his equal.

His children he had given far more credit for intelligence than they likely even deserved at their then-tender ages, and had discoursed with them fondly, affectionately.

But he had kept a wall between the children and the parents. Isabel and her brother had oft referred to it as his Hadrian's wall, for though it was quite clearly there, it was not substantial enough to drive either of them away.

He had loved his wife openly and honestly as well. It had driven a knife into his heart to send her away to die, as he knew she would. In following physician's orders they had both paid the ultimate price for it.

So it was that when she had died, and the Lord General had returned to England to see to her burial, that Isabel had been able to witness the first true signs of age upon her father.

He had carried grief with him after that, a burning coal of guilt and pain that she could not touch. And then, he had drawn his children to him, and utterly broken down his barriers.

Isabel had seen at once how dearly he needed to be sustained for the time being. His once black hair was slowly creeping into silver. Those once dancing blue eyes often faded as he sat in contemplation.

Lately, during their library sojourns he had begun to express his secret doubts to her during the long winter nights, when neither of them could sleep. He wondered aloud whether he ought to have given up his rank and returned home with her mother.

She would listen silently, more often than not. They sat in the library almost every evening. The daughter tending to father's mind, both of them engaging in long conversations on philosophy, faith, and power.

This night, she went to his chair and kissed his cheek. She knelt beside him, and Hugh, father, general, nobleman, looked in wonder upon her, as he usually did. She was very nearly a copy of him, as he was of his own mother. It was a comfort that she very little resembled her mother.

It made the days easier not to see such a ghostly reminder of his loss. It was Isabel's loss as well, but a mother was someone of a different value to that of a spouse. Isabel would one day understand that, if she ever allowed her heart free reign.

Lord Abington could sense in his daughter that something out of the ordinary had taken place that evening, but he was determined not to push her into a confession, as it were.

That was not the sort of relationship he had with her. She was her own person, despite the outside pressures of society, and the constant chastisement that she bore from peer and superior alike.

He had long since come to an understanding with his son that the lad would have to take a smaller share in the family estate and make his own fortunes with that. Having been well-raised,

Alex had understood fully the reasons why. Isabel would need her independence, and the means to maintain it. Women had very little in the way of opportunity to raise themselves up, and both of them refused to force her into marriage, or give her cause to beg for support.

It always gave him pause to consider that she was in part his creation; it gave him even greater pause to consider her age, and the temptations that attended her recent adulthood.

He trusted her fully, insofar as he trusted himself. It was his men that he often contemplated. He had encouraged her to cultivate a sisterly relationship with the enlisted men, never to show preference for any of them, always to attend to them the way they would expect a family member to.

It was another kind of wall, and a very pretty one at that. She was entirely skilled at achieving such a status among the men. They all looked after her as though she was a precious jewel, never fighting for her attentions.

The mean knew that she would make her way eventually to every one of them. As for his officers' ranks, she had been the one to determine her relationship with them.

Avoidance had been the key operating procedure, as she had admitted to her father that she often found them silly and self-important. And he had typically agreed, because they were in all places just so, especially with no warfare to keep them tethered to thoughtfulness.

Excepting one of his current staff, to be precise. He'd not yet successfully manoeuvered a way to introduce Gordon Macconnach to Isabel, but he felt that he should.

He'd found in Macconnach a kindred spirit and untamed nature that he was sure his daughter would appreciate. The major was reticent about mingling with his general, and Abington was sure he understood why.

Scots officers were not always treated well, not always given the chance for great advancement; Macconnach had to know that his position was at least partly due to his...special set of skills.

Abington chuckled over Macconnach's interpretation thus far of the regulations in place at this outpost. He kept himself to himself with an Herculean devotion to order, and not the slightest hint that the man had any vices or normal urges.

He never caroused with the other officers. Not that he was typically invited to partake as they did, but it seemed to Abington that Macconnach took isolation as a comfort. The man immersed himself in duty to relieve whatever homeward pangs he might have.

That was why Abington knew that Macconnach had left the encampment on that night. Macconnach himself had informed a sentry of his conclusion of duty, and that he would be leaving the area for a short time.

He had wondered at the time about it, but once Isabel had returned, she unintentionally confirmed for him what had happened. Macconnach must have spotted her, and taken up pursuit, likely believing her to be a native girl consorting with one of the men.

Abington chuckled again a bit more loudly, and covered his mouth. Isabel peered at him suspiciously, wondering what in Plato's oratories could cause any amusement.

Seeing the expression of enjoyment on his face, however, she quickly abandoned her curiosity. It was too good to see him happy. She dared not send it back into hiding, so she merely stood and bade him goodnight.

He kissed her hand lightly and waited until she had left the room. He then stood and went in search of his valet, who would see to it that a message was sent to Macconnach's quarters.
The next morning, after the breakfast dishes were cleared away and Isabel safely off doing the same work her mother had done, Macconnach made his appearance as requested.

Abington sat at his breakfast table, the morning's dispatches spread out before him. Macconnach looked pale, resolute, and unreadable.

"Major, do please take a seat. I haven't called you here on business."

Macconnach relaxed a fraction and did as he was told.

"I am wondering how you're getting on here after your first month. Loathing the heat, I trust." Abington kept his focus on the letters and reports.

"It isn't so very much like home as the Black Sea was, I admit, sir." Macconnach had spent fifteen months there, before being called to Egypt and its pyramids for nearly two years.

"Moreso than in the desert, I hope. You likely wonder why I brought you here to these wilds after meeting you only once." Macconnach shifted in his seat.

"The thought had crossed my mind more than once, your lordship. However, I believe you must have had good cause to ask for someone such as myself."

"I am not given to charity, especially not to men who are second sons of lairds." Abington watched Macconnach's face intently as he chose his next few words. "It was because I saw in you, myself, ten years past, and I knew that you would never be given a chance to excel with General Rossdale deciding your fate. In addition to your, er, extra duties, I have received approval to promote you to the billet of executive officer for this battalion. I do think that, while your talents may take you a certain distance, you may need some normal experience if you're ever to see a rank such as my own. Colonel Grandy was pleased to hear the news, I might add."

Stunned silence fell over the small room, as Macconnach straightened up further in his chair.

"I am honored sir. I hope that I'll not give you cause to doubt your decision in any way." He thought for a moment. "But you also selected me for reasons which do not fit neatly into the billet descriptions of the King's Army, sir."

"That came to my attention when my wife's brother gave me your name. Thus far, I have had nothing but confidence in my continued ability to select excellent senior officers." He smiled at himself. "We shall be working in concert with one another, and you shall be moving quarters as soon as Lieutenant Colonel Gormley moves on. You shall be in the house."

Here, Macconnach colored slightly, but said nothing. Canny thing, Abington thought. Probably thinks I'll behead him if I find out he was with my daughter.

"I suppose then, that I must begin to speak with Gormley to enable a smooth transition."

"Just the thing, major. I leave you now to your day's duties, and," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I should like a demonstration of your unusual talents very soon." Macconnach rose and bowed formally.

"Understood, your lordship." He was at the door and very nearly out when Abington made his move.

"Oh, Macconnach, I never did hear. Who or what did you chase down last night?"

His back to the general, only a violent start was visible as the man struggled to regain control of himself. Abington smiled at the complete confirmation of his suspicions.

"It was only a native girl, my lord. I was too slow to catch her up, and she must have disappeared into her village."

"Very good, Macconnach. Carry on."

"Sir." Another stiff bow and Macconnach was gone.

Abington reached for the bell to summon his butler, Ranajit. He then gave orders for a small dinner party in a week or two, with the only guest being Major Gordon Macconnach.

Abington was not a devious man, but he found himself rather enjoying the thought of outwitting his precocious offspring. She would, no doubt, be irritated to discover that her father had intended on the two of them making their acquaintances from the first. He was obviously aware of his daughter's nighttime wanderings.

Why else would he assign a senior officer to make rounds, when it was a leftenant's job? Abington was due to travel to Calcutta in the interim, and would have to entrust Ranajit with the task of keeping a watchful eye on Isabel.

His old friend, who had been with him for too many years to count, was well-versed in this duty. Ranajit had been fulfilling it ever since Isabel had learnt to walk.
ॐ

Macconnach walked through his thoughts for several days afterwards. During firing drills, he imagined himself in his new role. Afternoon mess found him considering the eventual reactions of his peers. The battalion's field day was hardly on his mind as he warred with himself over his desires and his duty.

One evening after tea, he sat in his quarters, polishing his brass outfittings, still unable to come to any conclusion. It had been four or five days since he had chased down Isabel Alderton. A sharp rap on his tent pole brought him back to the surface, and he waved in a young corporal who held out to him a folded message.

"What's this, then?"

"Sir! It's a message from the big house, sir! One of the serving girls bade me give it you, sir!"

"All right then, you're dismissed."

The lad ran out as fast as he could, leaving Macconnach to frown over the grubby patch of paper. A servant? For him? He opened it with trepidation, only to find another folded slip of paper inside, this one pristinely white, smelling of cloves. His heart leapt into his throat. Isabel Alderton. It had to be.

It read: _Major, I do hope that the other evening agreed with you. I shall be again as I was, if it is of interest to you_.

She had not signed it, but there was no need to. He understood precisely her meaning, and what her request was. It was the intent behind it which gave him pause. If only he could respond.

She might not understand his reservations, but she would respect them if he were able to share them with her. On the other hand, he disbelieved her assurances that she would be safe on her own.

The memory of what he'd sensed that night rose up in his mind, and he groaned in defeat, knowing where he would be after dark.

At the appointed hour, the same time as the other night, Macconnach slipped out of the gates, whispering to the sentry his intentions to walk the perimeter. He felt a pang of guilt for his untruth, but only as long as it took him to spot the movement of an indigo sari hemmed in gold.

She was even lovelier than she had been before, which hit him quite unexpectedly. He then realized that her eyes were lined with kohl. It gave her the distinct appearance of being truly native, to the unsuspecting. She moved from the shadows and met him as he walked to her.

"I understand that you are to be promoted."

Macconnach looked at her in surprise. He hadn't assumed that the general would have shared this news, but supposed it made sense, given the peculiarities of both father and daughter.

"Yes. Your father informed me quite unexpectedly. I'd no idea that he brought me here for that purpose."

"I had my suspicions. Though, I suppose," she said, whilst tossing pebbles into the shallows, "you might still be worrying over the wisdom of our journey the other night, as you obviously are still this night."

"You must be a sibyl. Those were my exact thoughts." He smiled, and felt how long it had been since he'd last done so.

"No, merely a student of the human mind."

"The human mind is a place of strange intentions and dangerous ideas." He edged closer to her, looking at the moonlight glittering in her hair. She sat in profile to him, still staring at the rippled surface passing them by.

"I thought you would not come. That your better sense would win out."

"Are you saying that it was poor sense for me to have come?" He watched as she turned her head quickly, propping her chin on her shoulder.

"Not really. But it is, perhaps, a bit reckless." Her smile curled around to him, a lotus flower eddying in a stream.

"That must be why I am jumping at every sound. It's odd for me. I'm accustomed to sleeping through...everything." He grinned at her, feeling a bit foolish. She must have been feeling much the same, for she hid her face from him before speaking again.

"You must think me entirely silly and far too liberal." The current of her smile drifted downstream. So, that was what troubled her. He shifted to be able to see her better and leaned in to whisper.

"I hardly know what to think of you, to be honest. I might have thought you to be so before I met you, but you have utterly destroyed that impression from the moment you first spoke. Impetuous, devious, and worrisome, on the other hand...." His own smile lingered in his voice, but she scowled at him, clearly misinterpreting his humor.

"I had a feeling you would say something like that. I cannot apologize for being what I am, Major. I find society and convention deadly beyond words. I would rather become a nun than have to live in a world of terrible drear."

He raised his eyebrows and held his tongue.

"Are you returning to the village tonight?"

"Not into the village, exactly. Rather, there is something I should like to examine, just on its outskirts." She turned to the southwest, and set off. "Aren't you going to accompany me?"

Macconnach sighed, and fell into step with her. He should have added 'infuriating' to that list he'd just given.

"You do have an innate ability to frustrate, Miss Alderton."

"And you to stating the obvious. I might point out that this is how I normally rid myself of unwanted persons, but as you are not the typically dim sort of commissioned man, I find I can tolerate you."

"Tolerate?? How kind of you to say so." He looked over at her. "You truly must not know why your father brought me here."

"He knows better than to bring me suitors, so I have to assume you are referring to some other hidden reason."

Macconnach walked on, all silence.

"In time, perhaps. In time." He walked on ahead of her, whistling a reel in satisfaction. He at last had the upper hand, if only for a moment. A rather strong sensation of needing to be a duelist around Miss Alderton had settled over him.

ॐ

Isabel was, in fact, rather torn about her current situation. Only her father knew that she had come back with him to his posting because of her habit of getting into mischief in "society". Rather, that she sought it out.

Here, others sought her for things other than the next line on a dance card, or for tea and calling hours. She shuddered to think of all the petits four she had been forced to consume. Or the inane card games, and never mind the horrifying musical concerts everyone seemed to be holding in their salons these days.

The thought of balls and continental fashion trends was all it took to put her back in an ill temper. Here, there were no measures to prevent her from traveling to the local villages.

Nobody chided her for wearing last season's frocks, nor even ones from several seasons past. Nor was she expected to titter and gossip. In this place, she felt free. It wouldn't be terribly surprising to find out that Papa had tasked someone to shadow her, but she hoped not.

She watched Macconnach now, as he marched on ahead through the dense growth, and felt once again the impulse to knock the man off his feet. Why on earth was there such a strong fancy to lay hands on him, she wondered?

She decided to ignore it, as it was most disconcerting. He could be trusted to help her, but that was all. Otherwise, he was clearly going to be a challenge to her concentration.

_You must really not know why your father brought me here_. Piffle. Twaddle. He really was only maddening, if he spoke of talents that set him apart from the others. Self-importance, that was all.

She turned back to the task at hand, thinking smugly that she would be doing what she was doing, with or without Macconnach.

Never mind the odd compulsion she'd had in sending him that silly note. There was a very real issue with which to be dealt. All she had to do was determine what it was.

"You've not said what sorts of troubles this village has been experiencing. Perhaps our best approach would be to sort through what has been happening, and look for the likeliest reason that way."

"I thought it better to show you, if you'd care to follow me, rather than plowing blindly through the night."

Neither of them could see the other very well, and missed that they each rolled their eyes in unison. Macconnach sensed that he'd lost the slight upper hand he'd held, however, and capitulated.

"Very well, Miss Alderton, lead on, take me where you will."

Isabel brushed past him unceremoniously, repressing the urge to give him a shove as she did so. She walked on with absolute certainty, even though it was like trying to march blindfolded.

The moon from the other night had shrunken much further. He noticed scudding clouds which must surely forebode rain. It was an unnerving feeling: walking without any sense of whether he was about to step onto a hill or into an abyss.

He could still feel the creeping presence he'd felt the night before. It was either following them or preceding them, but he was not positive which the case was. This uncertainty proved extremely distracting.

It was one thing to take on an enemy that he could name. It was quite another to face the unknown. He heartily wished they would get wherever they were headed, and reached inside his satchel to reassure himself that his tools were just as he'd placed them before leaving.

They approached an animal pen some distance outside a village; he could only assume it was the same one as the other night. The sounds of cattle and goats came to his ears. Several men were keeping watch, seemingly on high alert.

Surely this was not the usual procedure. He wondered what had brought on such vigilance, unless it was a question of protecting a dowry. Still, such a task would normally be given to boys, not to armed men out on this night.

Miss Alderton gave a low call, waiting for a reply, which came in the form of the one of the men surrounding the herds lighting a small lamp. The man walked tentatively toward them. He was following, one might guess, where he'd heard the noise from.

Isabel Alderton stood up straight, the flamelight glinting off the gold threaded border of her sari. Hastily, Macconnach made to do the same, hoping that this village had no ill-will toward redcoats.

It was a slender man with a thin moustache who approached them and identified himself as Arpan, son of the village head. Macconnach bowed to him in the manner he'd learned, but Arpan only smiled and offered his hand. He had none of the aversion to touching foreigners that was so often complained about over gin and whist.

Arpan led them to a freshly turned over patch of dirt. He spoke at length to Miss Alderton, while he first pointed to the mound, then to the animals, ticking off on his fingers, and then, he pointed to the hills that could be seen faintly in the distance.

Finally, he led them to the cattle pen. On the other side of the fence, goats clustered together, far too alert for a time when they should be drowsing. The cattle similarly showed signs of being on edge.

Macconnach asked Miss Alderton to advise Arpan that he was well familiar with the large beasts, and as such, approached them with confidence. It had been obvious, without needing to be told, what Arpan had wanted them to see.

As Macconnach walked into the nervous herd, talking gently, soothingly, he held up the lamp taken from Arpan's hand. There, all over the hides of India's holy animals, someone had cut strange symbols. Some of the cattle had these markings, healed, but only just, while others had fresh wounds.

The herdsmen had taken care of their precious animals, slathering ointments all over the wounds, but the attacks had taken their toll. The cows rolled their eyes fearfully, while the men just outside seemed to jump at every noise. Only Arpan's calm leadership seemed to keep them on a steady course.

The symbols themselves were meaningless to Macconnach, but he recognized the care with which they had been done, and felt a frisson of the intent. It was the same unknown thing that had been clinging to him ever since that first night.

He walked from the herd back to where Arpan waited. Miss Alderton spoke quietly to him, and he gave his replies, but the other man had fixed an unfathomable gaze on Macconnach.

"He says that the attacks had been limited to these desecrations, but that the dirt mound over there is where they had to bury one cow that had been with calf, as well as three goats that had been...ahem, defiled."

"Buried? Not burned?"

"No. They were unclean, he says, and the holy man wouldn't allow burning, as it would have been an insult to the gods."

"And they have no notion as to the perpetrator of these acts? No angry neighbors, no jealous rivals?"

"Would they have been seeking goddess Durga's intervention otherwise?"

"I take your point. Surely he must have some theory, though."

"I shall share that with you presently, but for now, I must endeavor to keep with my assigned role. They wish me to make a small offering and be blessed, and then, it is supposed that I shall have some sort of vision from Durga that will shed some light on all this."

She intended to accomplish this on her own, apparently, in spite of the fact that her "contact" with the goddess was pure fabrication. He put a light hand on her arm as she began to turn away from him.

"Might I suggest that you allow me to accompany you?"

ॐ

There was something in his tone which did not allow for dismissal. His presence would be somewhat difficult, especially if he was thinking he might try to keep her from misleading anyone.

"Please. I won't do anything to undermine what you plan on doing. I think you might find me to be useful, in fact." He was being truthful, she appeared to decide.

"Have it your way. They might not be pleased having a man interfering with the work of the goddess."

"Her companion was a lion, correct?" This seemed to catch her by surprise. He had to have been in her father's library since last they met.

"Your point?"

"That she had a companion at all, much less an animal also seen as a warrior." He was so earnest that she conceded, and spoke to Arpan. The other man nodded slowly. It seemed he had some curiosity regarding the major, though it was not entirely clear as to why.

They walked back to the center of the village. Its temple was typically modest, with several shrines and niches on all sides. They made their way to the Durga shrine, where an offering was already prepared.

Smoke from incense burners wafted through the still air, but unlike the previous night, everyone in attendance was silent, solemn. Miss Alderton demonstrated for Macconnach the appropriate posture of humility before the goddess.

He knelt, uncomfortably, on the ground outside the temple. There was still, somewhere in his thigh, a musket ball fragment from his time spent in the Baltic states. However, he did as always, and let go, gradually, deliberately, to reach into a realm over which his physical being had no dominion.

It was something he had always been able to do, even before he understood and could control it. His father had first thought these moments were fits of some sort; it was his father's father who had seen them for what they were.

The "sight" was the way they had explained it to Macconnach the child. As an adult, he began to understand that it was much more than seeing the unseen. That had become apparent from the first moment Macconnach had used his skills in anger, albeit accidentally.

Some might call it magic, or witchcraft, and he doubtless would have been put on trial had it been an age for such things. Luckily for him, they lived in a time when parlor séances and fortune-telling were beginning to be in vogue.

He'd just needed to be taught self-discipline and a strict coda for using his gift, if it could be called that. The memory of a sudden rush of fury, and a stormy rumble from above still made him feel a bit ill.

Bringing harm to innocent people was something he had never wanted; for this reason he had begged his father to send him to the army. At the very least, he might be able to put himself to better use than accidentally blowing up a still.

In light of his request to accompany Miss Alderton, Macconnach supposed he should have told her about his abilities. It was a bit surprising that the general hadn't shared anything with his daughter, in light of his seeming habit of doing so on every other topic.

Nothing to be done about it at the moment, however, and so he finished his reaching into the ether. No matter that Miss Alderton might think there was a very real person behind all this mischief, Macconnach could see she was mistaken.

He did his best to cast a net outwards, to pull in, but it was a monumental effort for once. He could feel sweat pouring down his back, but pushed the physical sensation away roughly.

ॐ

Next to him, Isabel watched peripherally. She was trying her best to maintain the illusion that she had carefully set up, and now, here was Macconnach, behaving strangely again.

She wondered what he was up to, or if he was taking ill. It was most distracting, but nobody else had seemed to notice. She focused on the task at hand, which was to procure more time to investigate these strange attacks.

It was her hope to bring them to an end before they escalated, which she knew was likely inevitable. The human mind in an uninterrupted, diseased state never got better before it got much, much worse. The next obvious progression of the attacks might move onto human victims.

Isabel thought carefully. The study of the motivations of man was a hobby of hers, but again, she relied heavily on her own observations and intuition, rather than the nonsense that science and medicine had produced so far.

Were she to follow popular theory, it would be that phrenology and race had more to do with criminal impulses than anything else. She knew this to be utter drivel, just from having grown up in this country.

Delinquency, as far as she had observed, seemed to have more to do with environmental and social pressures than anything else. It depressed her that so-called doctors of medicine and letters could waste their time trying to discover a magical recipe for evil.

One could instead simply see what was in the streets all around them. Not for the first time, she thought that the world might function less foolishly were women at the reins of leadership.

Accordingly, her thoughts ran to what type of madman would commit atrocities against defenseless animals. The most highly held animal in Hindu culture, no less. She wondered if someone was trying to disrupt relations with the British, but the appearance of the symbols was entirely unfamiliar to her.

She was glad she had sketched them out while Macconnach had been cooing to the herd. He was such an odd creature. And here she was, thinking about him again, rather than the task at hand. What was he doing, anyhow?

He was breathing heavily, as though he had gone to sleep, and indeed, he slumped forward to a degree. Should she poke him, and wake him? Instead, she decided to direct herself back to the goal of finding a culprit.

It was likely a man, perhaps even a young man, but she thought no older than middle-aged, and no younger than perhaps ten. Younger than that, and a mother would notice a son slipping away to get into trouble.

And old men tended to be more concerned with smoking their pipes and telling everyone else what to do. This person would probably have no wife, or if he did, she would be all but invisible.

Only someone capable of great cruelty would commit such acts. She thought carefully over all the men of the village, and discounted them. None of them seemed to fit the character she was creating in her mind.

That left men in the encampment, or the strong possibility that this was someone entirely unknown. Unknown to her, anyway. Someone in this village must have an inkling of what might have brought on this strife.

She peeked through slitted eyes around to those who were gathered. Everyone who needed to be there was there, but a guilty conscience might drive someone to be there who had no reason to attend otherwise. She found her target quickly.

It was one of the cooks who worked for the army kitchens. From her kneeling position, she watched his eyes darting about nervously. It was possible that he was simply more superstitious than his neighbors, but she felt that he might know something.

In spite of what she'd said to Macconnach, this whole business of putting up a charade did leave her vastly uncomfortable. The supernatural, even in sham, was not a realm in which she cared to dabble overmuch.

There were many, her father apparently included, who felt it was a scientific realm to be explored; she had never witnessed a single event to convince her that it even existed.

Years ago, her father had told her of things he'd witnessed during his years abroad. She'd felt compelled to debate his recollections, being rather haughty-minded in her younger years.

Now, in her twenties, she felt that she should not have argued with him, in spite of how she'd felt. The reality was simply that she knew having to answer to a question of faith in the unknown would lead down a path of many other questions she was not yet prepared to address.

It was all well and good for others to have their beliefs, if believing allowed someone to behave more admirably. Far too often she had witnessed the opposite, and had been compelled to say nothing. A young lady in her position achieved very little by making herself a person to be despised. She had simply learned that women often better accomplished their ends through the sort of subterfuge she was currently carrying out.

The major was still off to the side, sitting in his odd way, seemingly asleep. Isabel did wonder at him. How old was he, exactly? What sort of upbringing had seen him herding animals at one time, and a rising young officer the next?

Very odd, indeed. He was a rather convoluted puzzle. She was still unclear why she'd asked him to come along, not just once, but twice now. She hadn't even known who he was that night.

Something about him had given her an instant trust that he would not try to dissuade or betray her. Even so, he was distracting and irritating. He did not even seem to notice that Arpan was watching him most intently. It was vexing, really.

As she tried to refocus her thoughts, and formulate something to tell everyone gathered, Macconnach suddenly leapt to his feet. He looked all around, saying nothing, until he focused on a hut across from them.

His brow furrowed, he began to cross the distance to it, but halted when a wail emitted from inside the small structure. An older woman came running out, tearing at her hair, speaking in an anguished tumble of words. The men ran inside, and a loud commotion broke out.

Anyone left sleeping within the village was soon out of doors, looking confused and frightened. Isabel was trying to make sense of this development, but she turned to Macconnach, her eyes narrowed.

"What was all that? You made as if you knew something had happened just then."

He said nothing. She gave up for the moment, and tried to get some sense of what was going on by speaking to the men running in and out of the small house. Presently, a younger woman was led from the hut; weeping and wringing her hands.

Desperately she pointed off into the hillsides, where the tea was grown. Macconnach hung back a while, waiting to see what Miss Alderton could gather from all the talking. He was afraid he already knew.

"A baby has vanished. A girl child." She was speaking, but not _to_ him in the sense of a conversation. Her heart felt cold and unhappy. "Obviously, the mother is quite distraught, but nobody wishes to gallop off in the dark to search for...." She stopped before her voice could betray her upset emotions.

"Say no more. Tell them that...His Majesty's Armed Forces are ready to oblige, should they ask for help in locating this infant. I shall go back for my mount, and set off immediately, if they wish it."

He was wholeheartedly serious, but there was something more to his statement, something he was unwilling to say aloud. Isabel was sure of it.

She chose not to question him, however, but quickly relayed his words to Arpan, who cast another appraising look over to Macconnach. He walked to where the major stood.

ॐ

"It was you, I think, whom our holy man truly perceived last night." Arpan shot a knowing smile over at Miss Alderton, who had chosen to stand a distance away. Macconnach started. The man spoke marvelous English.

"I did not wish to contradict _her_ claims," Arpan pointed to Isabel, "especially as the holy man believed what he saw was true. But I think it was you. I can see it in your face, even now. You are like a rishi, a seer, of some sort. I don't know what else to call it, but I think you have felt the evil that is in this place."

"I've no wish to see Miss Alderton in any sort of trouble with your villagers. May I have your word that you will not speak of this to them?"

Arpan tipped his head in acquiescence, and signaled for Macconnach and Miss Alderton to follow him. They walked to the far end of the village, into what Arpan informed them was his own home.

Inside, a younger version of Arpan rested on a cot. His younger brother, he told them. He spoke to the boy who pulled up the his tunic in the back. The lad, Dev, told them his story.

He had been watching his goats during an overnight grazing. He was at least a day's walk from the village, along with a cousin, with all of his family's herd, except for two females who were back in the pens, ready to kid.

Sometime in the small hours of the night, he had been woken from a restless sleep. He'd never heard anything like the noise and confusion that surrounded him, but he had made for his musket, ready to frighten off a predator. He could not see his cousin, who had been on watch next to their fire.

Dev trembled involuntarily before telling the end of his tale. His firearm had been knocked from his hands, while he had pitched forward into the dirt. There some unseen force held him fast.

It was no person that he could perceive, but someone or something had held him down, and cut into him the same strange symbols that were marked on the animals outside. After what had felt like hours had passed, he was allowed finally to move. The goats were scattered, some mutilated, his cousin gone.

"When Dev returned and told his story, we naturally assumed that our cousin had been responsible. Now, especially with this infant gone missing, I am afraid of the worst."

Macconnach knelt next to Dev and looked over the boy's wounds. They were about as healed as some of the goats' injuries, so, perhaps a matter of two weeks or so.

He could neither make sense out of the pattern of attacks, nor of a motivation yet. _Even evil has reason_ , he reminded himself. Arpan rested his hand on Dev's shoulder; the boy lowered his shirt and left the room.

"Perhaps now, Major Macconnach, you might tell me what you have sorted out."

Isabel opened her mouth in indignation, but chose instead to listen to what he had to say. She realized she was as interested as Arpan seemed to be.

"I should explain myself a bit. Miss Alderton, it was a bit of a half-truth when I told you I set out after you last night, not knowing who you were. I admit that I had my theory when I first spotted you, but as soon as I got onto your trail, I knew. You see, I am what you are...er...."

ॐ

"I shall save you the bother, Major. I am aware, Miss Alderton, of what you are 'up to' in your terminology. It is forgivable. I sense your heart is in the right place, and you only wish to help. Most of the people here are very rural, and have had no experience with the outside world." Arpan looked at Isabel pointedly. "I, on the other hand, have traveled extensively with Lord Wellington's private staff. Only within the last month have I returned home, to take my father's place. My fahter is dying, and the lord governor was kind enough to discharge me from his service."

Miss Alderton had the good grace to look embarrassed. Arpan smiled at her discomfit.

"I do apologize. Truly, it was never my intent to be dishonest or fraudulent; I would have found the criminal behind these acts, I assure you."

Arpan shook a finger disagreeingly.

"Ah, Miss Alderton, I must differ. If this was the act of a human being, I think you might have succeeded. But I think that not the case. Major?"

"Ah, well, I don't know if I know that yet, exactly. I should say, I don't believe it to be the work of a person as you or I would define."

"Major Macconnach, I think you have yet to share with me a certain amount of _your_ story." Isabel was angry now, thinking that her fears of being spied on were certainly confirmed. She'd certainly have some choice words for her father later on.

"Very well. Your father brought me here because of my talents, which I'm sure you as everyone else thought must be something only he could see in me."

Isabel barely held back a derisive snort.

"In reality, that's essentially it." Macconnach shrugged. "Most upper level generals have someone like me on their staff, albeit usually as aides de camp. Your father has done me a tremendous honor by promoting me to the billet of executive officer."

"What do you mean by, ' _someone like_ ' you?" Her suspicions gave way to utter confusion.

"I am not entirely like other men. Where I grew up, in the northwest of Scotland, they call us _Tuatha de Danann_. Sometimes also by a lesser term, the _Sidhe_."

"The 'shee'?"

"Seers, to put it in simple terms, as Mister Arpan had previously referred to. It's a bit more than that, if you want to know. We are also bringers of death, tellers of fortune, communicants of the gods and the fair folk...."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand. Is this some sort of jest at my expense?"

"No, Miss Alderton. Major Macconnach speaks the truth. I recognized him immediately for what he is, because Lord Wellington also had on his staff someone with the same talents, as it were."

For once in her life, Isabel Alderton felt at a loss for words. That her father had kept a secret of this sort was understandable; that it was conceivable and based in truth was what stumped her.

Her whole life and its learning had been focused on the tangible. She had been born in England, but raised in a land held under that nation's thumb. She had seen misery and suffering, and its direct opposite of joy and peacefulness.

Nothing up until this moment had convinced her that any higher power had a hand in the lives of mankind. Even now, she had trouble accepting it, but for the fact that her father apparently had.

His logic she trusted, and by proxy, she had to trust that he believed in whatever Major Macconnach claimed he was. Even if it was a lot of hokum.

She breathed deeply.

"Would you mind very much if I asked you how you came to be aware of your skills? And how it is that the army happens to put you to this sort of use, as the right hand of its power brokers, so to speak?"

"I don't think I care to go into exact details of my becoming aware. It was an accident, to be truthful, and it had rather catastrophic results. I left my own village. My father had heard about the desire to train young men such as myself for this sort of duty. I begged him to send me into service. He did, and put far more of his estate than I care to think about into seeing me through the promotions process. I think we can agree that I would not have been suited to life in a vicarage, any more than you feel suited to embroidery and painting flowers."

Isabel smiled at this. He did seem to comprehend her, after all. He went on.

"As to the other question, I can only tell you a bit more than I already have. There are aspects to the duty that are, after all, classified. Your father has expressed to me that he does not object to your knowing; he trusts your discretion. However, to proceed further with this case that has cropped up here in the village, I expect that I'll need his explicit authorization. In general, however, as far as I am aware, seers of my sort have been in use in Britain since at least the days of Julius Caesar. Probably longer, but that was the first point in time was such things were written down and recorded."

"Used by whom, the Romans?" Isabel could feel her head spinning a bit.

"No." Macconnach seemed to think hard. "Well, they certainly observed druids running about and causing havoc, but they apparently didn't think it was any more useful than their own priests and soothsayers."

"If I might interrupt, Major? You say that you will need to speak with your general. I think I shall accompany you." Arpan began to rise, but Macconnach begged him to stay.

"Lord Abington will likely be glad to receive you, but I might suggest waiting until daylight. Miss Alderton and I must return, and get some rest, as I suggest you do as well. I will have to complete my morning's duties, but I think if you come in the afternoon, perhaps in time for tea, we'll be ready to receive you."

ॐ

Arpan considered Macconnach's words, and gave his agreement. It was certainly past midnight, and they could all do with some sleep. Macconnach straightened himself up. It had been a long and surprising evening.

He wasn't entirely certain how he felt about its developments. The general was not likely to be overjoyed, either, but at least Arpan seemed to be an individual of discretion.

His prior service with the Duke of Wellington would be a favorable counterpoint to his own daughter's somewhat rash behavior. Miss Alderton had her ideas, and the spirit to right wrongs, but she was naïve.

Her fortunate life in the shelter of her father's excellent sense of command was far from the normality of life in the His Majesty's Armed Forces.

No man under Abington's rule wished to commit any wrong; the punishment nearly always was to be transferred into the far more brutal regiments outside these idylls. No man in his right mind wished to leave this pleasant duty station.

Macconnach worried a little about the utopia Abington had created. It was a thriving, pleasant environment for most, but it would always be transient. He wondered whether he had been brought in for reasons, which Abington might still be withholding.

Whatever was going on in that village was not contained to it, for instance. Macconnach could feel the tendrils of evil reaching out all around him; it was looking for toeholds, the way an ivy creeper would. As with that parasitic plant, anything that evil took hold of would begin to crumble and decay.

They took their leave from Arpan, who was not entirely happy with the need to wait until the next afternoon; he greatly feared that some new incident would befall his people. Beyond that, a child was missing, and they would have to organize a search at daybreak.

"I hope you'll forgive my skepticism, Major. In spite of his having faith in you, my father did raise me to be something of a critical mind."

"Naturally. I think more highly of you, truth be told, for wishing to understand, rather than asking for your palm to be read, if you take my meaning."

They walked side by side through the deepening night. Somehow, the air felt more close than it ever had before. Macconnach wondered if that sensation was a trick of the fears they now felt, or if it was genuine.

ॐ

"I expect I'm a bit of a Doubting Thomas, however, since every bit of the cynic in me wants to have some sort of proof that I can see."

"I am not a magician, nor am I a medium. It is difficult to explain properly. Some of those in the upper echelons, in the Guards, that sort of thing, they see persons such as myself as merely talismans against bad luck. Taken universally, I suppose we could be. I have always been able to feel the vibrations that ill forces create. But instead of being a bastion against them, it is more that I must understand them, interpret the intent, and bring to bear whatever I can to beat them back."

"Very well. If that's the case, however, how does one fight that which is unseen?" She did so dislike this bizarre turn of events.

Beyond how discomfiting it was to have all of her philosophies upended in a matter of hours, she felt a great deal of dread regarding all of it. How could she accept it?

Macconnach was not terribly forthcoming with useful information. She would probably need to take matters in hand still.

"I know what you think." His voice startled her out of her thoughts.

Her head snapped around as Macconnach spoke. How???

"Your doubt is not unusual." He sounded amused. "Your father probably had to be convinced in a similar manner, but I imagine he has come to accept it as a matter of faith."

"Faith. Bosh. If you cannot tell me, why bother letting me know any of it?"

"Let me try to explain." He strode in front of her, causing her to stumble to a halt. "In our Gaelic traditions, there are what we call wards. They are meant to block evil. A lot of them are simple superstitions, but the ones that are effective are the ones that the druids used to put into use. The Celts always had a strong bond with the natural world, trees and animals in particular. They incorporated those items into artwork, which, in turn became symbolic wards."

He unbuttoned his waistcoat. Isabel felt a hot rush of blood to her cheeks. "Please forgive me this, I know what it must look like, but I assure you that it is part of what I am trying to clarify for you." His hands hovered over his shirt buttons for a moment as he seemed to be half trying to make a decision, half waiting for permission.

"Well?" She said, nervously. He sighed and opened his shirt. Isabel felt her breath catch as she tried to make sense of what she saw. He was marked in the same manner that had been on the goats and the boy.

Except, they were not the same, not really. These were somewhat sensible; interlaced lines and curls across his chest, with, as Macconnach had said, certain elements of nature woven in.

Some of them men in the camp had tattoos, to be sure, the kind that soldiers get when they drink excessively and miss the company of women even moreso. The extraordinary part about Macconnach's tattoos was that they did not appear to be as such.

They looked as though he had been born with them, as though they were completely natural. Once she got past shock, she could not help but notice his lean and finely-muscled torso. A tremor passed through her body; he seemed to notice, and quickly buttoned himself back up.

"The, ah, images, what particular meanings do they have? I admit to ignorance in your mythology." She said this with no little degree of embarrassment, recalling how she had scorned his own ignorance very recently.

"You may have noticed what is referred to as knotwork, but there is also ogham. It is the oldest written language of the Celts. In this case, there are the symbols of trees. The rowan, a tree that the gods have long used, as has man. Even now, in the Age of Christ, everyone plants a rowan near their home, if they're able. It offers protection from outside influences. More important are my central wards of ivy and elder, and their accompanying animal companions, the swallow and the raven."

He fell silent, unsure what to say next. It was incredibly improper of him to have behaved the way he just had. An utterly mad impulse had driven him to do it, but not to shock or upset her. "I do apologize. It was not my intent to have you think me some sort of depraved lunatic."

"No, no, I do not think that. Oh, look, here we are, back at the fort. My apologies, Major, but I am most tired. I shall see you for tea tomorrow, yes?" With that, she darted away. He was left in her swirl of dust and chaos, which was a foreign, but not entirely unpleasant, surround.

ॐ

It would have been far too easy to curse her, and to blame her for becoming involved in this unexpected circumstance. The trouble was that he knew exactly why he'd gone along with her again.

It had less to do with keeping her safe, and more to do with simply wanting to lay eyes on her again. Lord only knew why; she was as frustrating and impetuous as any female creature with which he had ever had dealings.

He kicked the dirt. Isabel Alderton, who only listened to herself. No, that wasn't completely true. She listened to her father as well, but only to confirm her own opinions. Macconnach wondered when Abington had given up trying to gentrify his daughter.

The fact of the matter was that he was frustrated, for the first time in his life, by a woman.

ॐ

That woman had run for her life as soon as she'd seen the comforting glow of the encampment torchlights. She was breathing carefully through pursed lips, as she made her decision to forgo seeing her father, climbing the stairs silently to her rooms instead.

Ranajit had spotted her, she knew, and would report her return to the general. Abington might be puzzled and perhaps hurt that she had bypassed him this night, but she typically had good reasons for her actions. It was late, and he was probably as tired as she.

Isabel sat in the center of her bed, trying to calm her nerves enough to allow her to fall asleep. She had arrived at a point of logic which would permit her to place a sort of reserved sense of faith in the major and his fancies.

_No_ , she told herself, _not fancies_. That did not go along with giving a person the benefit of the doubt. Even if it did seem like rubbish. Rubbish in which her father was fully vested. What was correct, what was truth, what was hogwash anymore?

She threw herself back on to her bed in frustration, and kicked at the air for a good moment or two. All of this was bound to drag up certain subjects she'd been most eager to avoid since her mother's death.

Major Macconnach. She hadn't even the faintest notion how to spell his surname. He was ambiguous, exasperating, and so far the only time he had been taken aback by anything was Arpan's little trick of pretending not to speak English.

He was terribly distracting. She knew she'd had this thought more than once over the past four days, which irritated her even more. Why had he unclothed himself in that manner? She supposed that if she had been just another soldier, it would hardly be of any notice.

Certainly, she had seen her share of shirtless men through the years. But was not a soldier, nor any other kind of male comrade. And he was not the typical redcoat, either. Terribly distracting. Particularly in light of the impulse she'd had at that moment, to reach out and touch him, of all things.

She gave up sleep after an hour of lying awake, and slipped down into the library. Her father's bottle of brandy was still on its tray. She wondered why he'd left it there, out in the open, and then saw the clean glass behind it.

_Silly Papa_ , she thought. But he knew her too well. A nightcap was one of the only times she'd ever indulged, and so she did, trying to rid herself of the excited feelings still racing along her arms and legs. The alcohol quickly did its work, sending along that slightly leaden sensation in place of jitters.

She swallowed a tumbler-full, more than the usual, and felt the burning all the way from her nose to her lower regions. After a few moments, she pointed herself back to the upstairs, coughing as she went and blinking away tears.

That smoldering sensation reminded her of how she'd felt when she'd first focused on the major's physique. She'd had an embarrassed interest, but it was visceral interest as well. In bed, she placed all her pillows over her head, and tried not to think about it, as she fell into a heavy sleep.

ॐ

Macconnach woke far too early the next morning, after perhaps only five minutes of hard-won sleep. He heard the sergeants bellowing up and down the tent lines, and wondered if it was too early to move into his quarters.

Moreover, when were they going to get the building materials to actually make this into a fort? Barracks would certainly further reduce the noise a great deal. His head ached from the late night, and all the energy he'd put into trying to trace an unknown entity.

Worse, there seemed never to be any break from the heat in India. At least in Egypt there had been a winter season, and the nights would grow cool. There was nothing quite like the unrelenting damp and broil around here.

Fighting off an ill temper, he rolled from his cot, and shook himself awake. What wouldn't he give for a cyclopean block of ice; instead he had to settle for tepid water from a jug in his basin. Shaving wearily, he then dressed, and staggered out to the assembled troops.

He distractedly stood at attention while morning reports were read off. He had to remind one young leftenant to leave off editorializing the absences, and simply say who had gone off to sick ward.

Finally, all was done, and the men dispersed for their morning mess. Macconnach was not particularly in the mood to breakfast with his peers, however, and contented himself with whatever he could carry back to his quartering.

He wondered what would happen once he took up dwelling in the primary residence, as he stared up at the formerly defunct palace. Naturally, that would place him at closer proximity to Isabel, closer than he was now, anyhow.

It would also be harder to slip off away from his peers, who often played whist or commerce in the evenings. Even the upper ranks were never without their cards, often tucked unceremoniously into their waists. He was safer in his tent on that front; in the main house, he would be constantly waylaid for card games.

It was not such a terrible way to pass an evening, but for the cutthroat nature of his fellow officers. They nearly always played for pound sterling, and who were never likely to forgive a debt.

He barely paid attention to the foodstuffs he had walked off with, his thoughts wandering instead to Isabel, in spite of his best efforts. Normally, during times like these, he would take himself off on a bracing tramp through the hills.

The climate here was hardly conducive to extreme physical activity, nor were the cooler hills too close by. He also considered that going off on a walking tour was what had gotten him into this madness to begin with.

The daily blanket of humidity settled itself entirely over the landscape as the sun rose. It seemed to deaden and muffle all the sounds of men at their work, so that, for a few moments, Macconnach was able to close his eyes and entertain the notion that he was alone on the earth.

Beguiling, but depressing, he decided. And it pushed him no closer to a course of action. He yawned again and again, feeling discomfited and worn. Finally, tugging at his moustaches in defeat, he pulled a bottle of Scotch whiskey from his heavy steamer trunk. He twirled its amber contents, and called for his batman.

"Smithson!"

A bright blond head poked in, with it the ruddily cheerful face that belonged to Smithson, a sergeant in his forties.

"Sir!"

"Smithson, be a good lad and wake me when things get going, would you? I slept not a wink last night, and I fear I may go mad if I persist in staying upright at this time." He grinned, hoping that Smithson wouldn't notice how flushed his major was, or would hopefully attribute it to the weather. Indeed.

"Not to worry, sir. Tisn't anything for goings on right now anyway. You'll not be missed during the drills. I daresay I shall wake you later, for the General has asked senior staff to sit down with him for a late luncheon. You'll need to be on your stuff." Smithson tried not to wink.

"Late? That's a bit unusual for him. He nearly always lunches quite early. Earlier than I care to, I s'pose. Wait, blast, I nearly forgot. I do need a message to go to his lordship; I need to speak with him privately later at teatime. Thank you, Smithson, that'll be all."

"Sir." Smithson faded back outside like the attentive wraith he was.

Macconnach's eye fell back upon the Scotch bottle. The liquid contained within seemed to gently glow, like the peat fires back home. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to decide. He hated to drink during the daylight hours.

What else was there for it, though? Sleep was hanging off in the wings, as it were, refusing to drop the curtains without some sort of external nudge.

Smithson was hovering just outside, Macconnach could tell. Never mind. He tipped the bottle, pouring a respectable amount into his tin cup. Bottoms up. He downed it in one swig, knowing how scandalized his father would be.

"You're supposed to taste it, boy, not use it to clear your plumbing!" _Sorry, sorry, Father, I just need to knock myself out, to call Morpheus and spend some small time in solitude_.

Another tip of the bottle and he felt the first shivering sweat of inebriation. His head swam, and his gut seemed to smolder, which was curious. He never had that happen anymore. It was as though he was experiencing someone else's moment of inebriation.

No matter. A contented sigh later, he allowed himself to tip over, not even caring how hot it was anymore, or that the blanket was itchy and damp. The elixir of his father's making had done its job, as he had known it would. His eyes gratefully closed, and he sank.

Macconnach's dreams were far too clouded and cluttered for him to make any sense of them. The overriding theme, however, was unmistakable.

Longing.

He could feel it as strongly as he felt any other hunger or need. A hidden figure loomed in the shadows, calling to him as his sisters would, in the dark. Before long, however, the overall theme of his dreaming mind shifted, as it is wont to do.

The lurking figure altered, and became fully threatening. He could feel some strange menace as he tried in vain to look this creature in the eye. As they stalked around him, keeping a distant perimeter, he felt certain that the danger was very real, that it was somewhere close by.

What did it have to do with Isabel, though?

With a flinch, he sat straight up in his cot. Smithson stood formally, at parade rest, nearby, looking a bit ill at ease.

"Is it already that time? How long did I sleep?"

"Sir, only an hour, sir."

"Whatever is the matter, Smithson?"

"You were thrashing about sir. Just a little, but then you began to call out, so I thought it best to wake you, like, before it drew attention."

For goodness' sake, the man was looking at him as though he feared his major was possessed. How loudly must he have been shouting? And what about? Macconnach opened his mouth to ask, but Smithson had excused himself.

Apparently there was someone without the tent. He could hear Smithson speaking in low tones, and then his man poked his head back in.

"Sir, the general to see you."

With that, Abington gently pushed his way past the valet, and came into Macconnach's tent.

"Major. Are you quite well?" Abington noted the torpor with which his officer rose, and the pale countenance which stared back at him.

"Your lordship, I do apologize. I slept but fitfully last night, and tried to take some rest before the real business of the day began."

"You look most unwell. I fear that you are not simply suffering from lack of sleep. There are many strange maladies curious to this part of the world, you see, and we do our best to keep them at bay. You have not, perchance, been to the outlying villages, have you? We have little control over the sanitary measures taken by some of the locals, in spite of better efforts." Abington was gazing steadily at Macconnach, as if waiting to measure the man's worth by his response.

What could he do? The truth must out, as the saying went.

"My lord, I must confess that I have been to one of the villages, I know not its name. A few nights ago, I followed what I thought was a local girl out of the encampment. Knowing how you feel about such, er, fraternization, I sought her reassurances that her business here was innocent."

"I see. I take it that she was not, in fact, a local female."

"Indeed, very much not, sir."

Abington chuckled.

"My daughter enjoys her clandestine forays. You must think me mad to allow her to travel so freely."

"Never, my lord. Having now met her, I can safely say that I very much doubt that she takes either advice or order from any person."

Macconnach tried to collect himself enough to maintain level eye contact, fearing that all was evident on his face. Abington would surely know the truth soon if he had already deduced this much. But the general was still smiling.

"You have now discovered the innermost truth of my daughter. I brought her back to India, principally because of her disposition. She was in all sorts of mischief while in England, and she abhors society. This place suits her, veritably, like the glass slipper in that silly folk tale. I try to grant her the same rights I would my son, having also given her the same education and training." Abington was inspecting the whiskey bottle, and its tag. "Macconnach, do I read correctly? Is this your family name?"

"Ah, yes, sir. I did think you must have known. My father is an esteemed distiller of the Scotch whiskies. He backed our family fortune on it, as he would hope my elder brother to continue to do." Macconnach reddened. "I partook of some, er, medicinally, just a short while ago."

"Not to worry, Macconnach. It is not my intent to scold you for imbibing." He breathed in deeply the scent of the whisky. "A very fine nose, I must say. If you are amenable, I should like to sample some at a later time." Abington seemed still to have something yet to say.

Macconnach fearing that he knew too well to what it might pertain, decided to speak up before the question came.

"My lord, I do, I wish to speak to you on a subject relating to your daughter." Macconnach's heart banged on most uncomfortably in his chest, but Abington did not turn his piercing eyes back on him. Instead, the general continued surveying Macconnach's belongings, in a too-casual manner.

"Oh yes? Well, do go on."

"You have guessed, my lord, that Miss Alderton and I had made our acquaintances." Abington was smirking, Macconnach felt sure of it. He sighed. Better had just be honest. "In venturing out last evening, we did have a purpose. Miss Alderton introduced me to the head man's son, who will soon take over for his father. They have been afflicted with a most unusual plague of late."

"A most unusual plague, you say?" Abington sighed deeply. This was not precisely what he had come to Macconnach expecting to hear. "I would imagine that, if you have been twice, and are telling me about it, that the problems they have fall into your realm of expertise?"

He poured a tot of the whisky into the same tin cup Macconnach had drunk from, swirling its contents briefly, before tipping it back. He seemed to be genuinely and carefully tasting it. Somewhat surprising, in view of the usual officers' predilection for port. Granted, Abington was not the usual officer.

"I did hand-select you for this posting, at the very least to provide my daughter and myself with another individual who thinks and behaves as we do. That is to say, someone bound by conscience, and not by class. We Europeans tend to have our predispositions and mores, but here...in this place, it's far better that we abandon those notions."

He sat heavily on the cot, next to Macconnach. "Oh, I know, my feelings on this country and of its native population are in the very small minority. Isabel is, perhaps, even more of a staunch defender than I, but I would say, in my own defense, that I must necessarily keep up some appearances, or risk losing my position here. I doubt I would be doing very much good to the nearby villages by allowing myself to be replaced by some swaggering lord with a chip on his gilded shoulder."

"We're meant to have a permanent fortress here as well, is that what you're driving at, sir?" Macconnach thought he was beginning to grasp the implications of what the general was saying.

Abington was hoping to leave Macconnach in command of this place once he, what, retired? It was difficult to imagine Lord General Abington poncing about with the rest of London's retired brass.

Sitting in a club, slowly becoming lost to history in a cloud of tobacco smoke; no, Macconnach could no more imagine that than he could imagine himself doing it.

"Indeed, we are meant to. And so, here we are, and you shall face your first challenge. Ha, ha, I did say I would care for a demonstration, did I not?" Abington fell silent, staring out the tent flaps.

"Was there something else, sir?"

"Oh, you know. All this business we have here in this country. Sometimes I wonder why we are here at all. Expansionism, and all that, lovely, lovely. I can't shake the feeling that the we choose to colonize based on our vices. Tea and rubies, in this case, I daresay."

"We are an arrogant race. I presume this is why you feel so great a responsibility."

"Just so, just so. There is obviously a great deal more that I feel concerned about. You've perhaps heard all the fuss and rumblings about the King's poor health. We cannot know for certain what may happen when he is succeeded by his niece. There may be panic and instability throughout the kingdom, even spreading as far as India. We must be prepared for any eventuality."

Abington had no especial love of the Company, it seemed. "It is of especial concern to me that we are in the land of the largest presidency. The Sepoy ranks grow ever-larger, day by day, and the Company struggles to maintain its authority with the Bengalis, I have come to hear. However, as we support the Company, and they mind the interests of the Crown, very little shall alter unless there is some sort of crisis."

It was a matter of some internal ridicule, in fact, at the lengths the Company would go to to please the Sepoys, the catering to of their religious beliefs, their demands for concessions, et cetera.

The armies of the Crown were a bit disdainful of what they called kow-towing, in spite of how well-oiled a machine the Company's forces had become. Macconnach happened to agree with some of the Company policies, even though he'd decided long ago not to join their ranks.

He'd wanted to see more of the world than just the Indian subcontinent, for one thing. For another, he already had family wealth, and thought it best to leave the rank and file piracy to those who needed it more.

As it was, Gordon Macconnach had not been entirely in favor of his father's decision to purchase a majority for his son. It had come to roughly twelve hundred pound, a sum which staggered even him, who had grown up watching his father expand his businesses farther and farther afield.

The distillery business itself, that had been a mere hobby thirty or so years ago. The Macconnach family had hardly needed the income, but Father was a wizard with barley mash.

The Excise Act and new distillation technologies had caused a sudden boom of production and business expansion, and in the past ten years, Kenneth Macconnach had become wealthy beyond even his own imagining.

Gordon knew that his father's unspoken dream was to see one of his sons become Prime Minister. The same way Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, formerly of Ireland, had done. He could only hope that his older brother, Reggie, would see his way round to politics, because he certainly had no ambition in that way.

Even so, his father had gamely pushed his son up the ranks. He'd have to draw the line soon. After all, it would only work until he reached the rank of colonel. After that, he would be on his own.

Then he would have had to wonder if his background, with his strange abilities, would indeed stop him there. Now, with the promotion and faith of a well-respected senior officer, things were seeming much brighter.

That senior officer was rubbing his forehead wearily. They had been sitting in silence for some time, but now took up the discussion of the village and its woes. The general was dismayed by the account, chiefly with the thought of two persons missing.

The fact that one of them was an infant girl had impacted the decision to wait. It was an unpleasant reality. Abington himself was not eager to interfere in their actions regarding this, but he agreed that Macconnach could offer his help in any way he saw fit.

He reminded Macconnach to tread lightly; given Arpan's history, he might still have influence in the Guards, or even the ear of Wellington himself. It was a delicate matter, in the general's view, and he wanted it dealt with discretion.

The half-battalion stationed here, he told Macconnach, was due to be reinforced by another three to four companies of Sepoys, and another few of Company soldiers. Abington would finally be at the head of the command that he was promised, but it would be a time of transition, and unease.

Once that happened, Macconnach would have to be at his disposal, performing his duties to their fullest.

"When is that due to happen, sir?"

"Roundabouts July, or so, I should think. That gives us nearly six months to make ready and see to the full construction of this ruddy fort they want us to build. I don't know that I see the ultimate purpose of it, quite honestly, but I suppose the Company people want a safe place to store their bloody tea from time to time."

"I do hope that we'll be able to have this resolved before that time, my lord. My sense is that this evil, whatever it might originate from, can be dealt with."

"I heartily wish that to be so. I do not pretend to understand men like you, Macconnach, but I do acknowledge your gifts." He stood to take his leave. "I shall see you and the head man's son at teatime, then. I pray you, Macconnach as well, to heed where my daughter cannot. She is fiery and determined, but I was not entirely able to teach her the means of defending herself. Her mother would not countenance it." His face fell into grief at the thought of his departed wife, and perhaps, for opportunities lost.

Once the general had departed, Macconnach fell back onto his cot. Exhaustion still flooded his body, but he had work to do before end of day. Smithson poked his head back in, grimacing at his major's poor color.

"Can I get you something, sir? Barley water, or something a bit stronger?"

"No, Smithson, I've had quite enough of the strong stuff for now. The heat is making me feel a bit unsettled, though. Perhaps some barley water with quite a lot of lemon smashed into it?"

One thing Macconnach did enjoy about this part of the world, as he had with Cairo, was the ever-abundant presence of fresh fruit. He would sorely miss that whenever he returned home for good.

So far, he wasn't entirely enamored of the strangely sour curries of the region, but he'd been told that he'd barely touched the surface of local cuisine. For now, he was content with the mangoes, and jackfruit, sometimes heavily sedated with jaggery syrup.

There was a nice Chinese influence, also in the produce trade. Macconnach had to admit that he had a sweet tooth. He was fond of the lychee, and of the fat papayas that made their way to Bengal.

It was strange to realize that no one of his acquaintance back home would have any idea what any of those fruits were. It was good fortune there to have apples, grapes, or whatever was in season; here, something was always ready to fall on one's head from above.

He quaffed a fair amount of lemon barley water before venturing out into the sun. It was not quite eleven in the morning, but the heat was by far a rival of any day in the sun of Egypt, the difference being in the wetness of the air.

Macconnach wondered on a daily basis whether he would ever acclimatize to it. Unlikely. Men were drilling on the parade grounds, performing daily tasks, making repairs, and on the perimeter, digging the foundation post holes.

These would be filled by massive logs harvested from the northern forests, which were on their way but still several weeks off. He understood that the timber was being hauled by elephant over terrible terrain. The north was all mountain and dense wooded areas.

The posts and beams for the fortress had to be cut and milled from ancient forests. In the west, the stone blocks needed were being quarried and hauled, albeit over roads that had been in place for hundreds of years. The hope was that the stone would arrive at roughly the same time as the timber, even with the extra time needed to cut and shape it.

Macconnach sighed over the thought of the work ahead. It was mundane stuff, the kind of work that made men irritable and quarrelsome with one another. It would be a challenge to keep everyone on even footing. He made a mental note to speak to the general on the notion of setting up a few sporting events.

If the men had boxing, wrestling, and some other events to look forward to, building might proceed more smoothly. Midday came and went, at a singularly plodding pace; the quick march of the sun toward the horizon after that was at its usual welcome speed.

Before long, the tea hour was upon him, and he left his senior non-commissioned staff with their evening charges of taking count of men and arms, and headed to the small palace. Leftenants, brevet captains, and captains lazed about in anticipation of dusk.

Macconnach could sense their itchy desire to produce cards and set to playing. It was most annoying, especially when two of them, Evers, and Arras (a Spaniard who had taken commission with the Crown because his father had been English), accosted him, and tried to engage him in a "friendly" hand or two.

He shrugged them off, in spite of knowing what it might cost him. These sort of men, even more so than their enlisted counterparts, could cultivate and keep grudges for years. Macconnach reminded himself not to reject any of them too frequently; he would need their loyalty in the days and months to come.

That in mind, he turned and told them as he walked, that he had pressing business which needed attending to, but would be sure to partake on some other near occasion. Evers seemed completely pacified by the thought, and went off in hunt of fresh blood.

Arras, however, stayed where he stood, eyeing Macconnach thoughtfully as the major disappeared around a corner toward the general's private rooms.

ॐ

The Spaniard was older than many of his peers. Family shame had driven him from his mother country, and he'd arrived in the arms of the redcoats with the remnants of his family fortune, his only thought to redeem honor lost.

He was at home amongst other men of decayed noble lineage, only that he had far less means than even they. Because of that, Arras had become a bit cannier, watching every detail of daily lives unfolding around him.

There were other officers around him who would call him a stationary highwayman, and no better than a blackmailer. Captain Arras did not take these criticisms to heart. He knew what he was.

Even more to the point, he knew precisely how much more money it was going to take to repurchase his family's home and lands. The sole problem he'd run into out in this wasteland was the limited number of men whom he could manipulate.

Unexpectedly, there had been Macconnach arriving like a fatted calf. He was from a wealthy family, Arras knew that. He'd asked around, and the others had been only too happy to supply the information in hopes that they would finally be left alone.

For Arras was a bully of men, an opportunist, a man whose own heart had been steeped in dishonor and unhappiness for too long. He had seen the major only the night before, walking back into the encampment in the small morning hours in the company of the general's daughter.

He calculated that he might make up the last of his needs within a short time, and retire with a comfortable pension back in his own country, away from these stuffy English.
ॐ

Macconnach made his way to the general's sitting room, where tea was being laid out. Rather, he thought, the appearance of teatime was being laid out. There was not a silver service anywhere in sight.

Crystal bottles and tumblers sat in its place, surrounded by an overladen plate of cucumber sandwiches, another with mango pickle sandwiches, and the last with small fried clumps ringed by bowls of sauces.

The maid setting the table saw him peering curiously at the last platter. She giggled. He reminded her of her favorite uncle, so she took a chance and told him what everything was.

Her English was excellent, he noted, and she blushed. Miss Alderton had given her lessons, mostly so that she might know what the soldiers were saying to her, or about her.

Looking at the young girl, Macconnach could understand why it might be prudent. She was exactly the kind of beauty that men would fall over themselves for and never give her anything but disgrace in return.

ॐ

"Charu, I did warn you not to let on how well you understand, did I not?" Miss Alderton had walked in to catch the end of the conversation between the major and one of the maids.

She tried to seem amused. In reality, she was quashing a strange pang that had risen from her stomach into her heart. The girl jumped at the sound of her mistress' voice.

Isabel felt a strange sort of satisfaction as she watched Charu blush. "You cannot be overcareful. All these men will try to charm you; your only defense is in misleading them." She shooed Charu back to the kitchen and turned to Macconnach. He was observing her critically. Her hackles were immediately raised.

"That was, perhaps, a bit more unkind than needed."

"To whom? Your species?"

"Miss Alderton, I beg of you not to lump me in with all of what you perceive as the gentlemanly ranks." He pointed in the direction where Charu had just been standing. "If you wish her to learn, and to listen to you, you ought not embarrass her. You will lose her trust rather quickly that way."

To her exasperation, she found that he probably had a point. She was just on the point of stalking out of the room when her father entered, Arpan at his side. They were in deep conversation.

Macconnach smiled at Arpan, who had chosen to don his uniform. The array of campaign ribbons was impressive, along with the gold braid that denoted it as dress classification. He bore the rank markings of a full colonel.

Macconnach tried to imagine the reaction of the camp guards on seeing this figure approach. It must have been quite a moment. He caught Arpan's eye; the other man winked at him, as if he knew exactly what was on the major's mind.

Isabel rolled her eyes. She knew as well. No matter the part of the world, she sighed to herself, men were all of a kind. Even her father, from time to time, fell into the habit of behaving like an overgrown rooster.

_This_ was the lesson she ought to teach Charu. Men might sit out front, ruling the castle, heedless of the day to day course. Power was truly a subtle thing. She was disgusted with herself for being cruel to the girl, and resolved to go apologize as soon as possible.

For the moment, though, she felt she had to stay. Even with Macconnach and his supposed faculties, she did not trust for a moment that these three men would make a suitable decision without her.

Moreover, it would likely end up being a plan which excluded her. Arpan, Colonel Arpan, that was, made his greetings, and informed them that a search party was being put together to seek out the infant girl.

"The mother has to be kept in the village. She is with child, and since last night," he rolled his eyes a bit, "the midwife determined that she believes the woman is carrying a boy. Of course, this came a short time after the father's mother was seen visiting the midwife, so I put little stock into such things. Unfortunately, this family is not directly related to mine, and I have less influence over their choices. It might have been useful to have a mother's familiar eyes casting about for evidence of her own child."

He was clearly unhappy. "As one might expect, there was no clear trail. The family has already discussed calling off the search, but I convinced them to let us try for another day or so."

"Which is where the major comes into the conversation. What say you, Macconnach? You have offered your services, I take it."

"At your discretion, of course, sir."

"You have it. Your work is accomplished more easily after sundown, I believe?"

"That is true, yes, sir." Macconnach looked a bit uneasy. He had never spoken openly of his peculiar skills only twenty four short hours ago, and now, here he was, talking for the second time about it. "Amongst my people, these beings are _Aes_ _Sidhe_. General, you've perhaps heard the legends of the 'banshee'?"

"I believe so."

"The _Baon_ _Sidhe_ is just one of the host of beings in that realm. And there are many of them; female spirits who escort souls into death." He paused, looking around him at the three faces, all attentive, none judging. "The _Baon_ _Sidhe_ have male counterparts. I am one of those number. My dominion is death, either the bringing of it, or the forestalling of it."

Isabel sat back into a chair with some force. She had not been anticipating the explanation he had just given.

"Major Macconnach, if I might ask, when did you first become aware of your gift?" Arpan was sincere in his inquiry, but something in Macconnach's face shifted.

A shadow of pain passed, and for a moment, he seemed to be struggling to find his voice. When finally he spoke, a sort of hoarseness subdued his normally forceful tones.

"It was a long time ago. I was a lad. There were plenty of girls in my family who had the gift, but for the boys...it's so rare as to be unheard of. Nobody knew what might happen. I...summoned...it was a terrible accident. Nobody blamed me out loud. I was but a lad, and our family had always been associated with the fair folk." He looked over at Isabel Alderton, who sat silently in the seat she had tipped into. "It happens to be how our family got its name, you know."

"What was it? The accident, I mean?" She already knew he wouldn't say it. Something in her pressed to see whether he was ready to answer or not, though.

ॐ

"T'isn't anything that has any bearing on the here and now, my dear girl." Abington intervened on the major's behalf. The general did know what had happened, in point of fact, but only because he had made his own enquiries. He doubted that this was a moment to share such a story, even if the major was willing. "And so, now, Colonel, you have the major at your service, for something along the lines of ninety-six hours. After that, I'm afraid I shall require him at his duties."

"Thank-you, General Abington, sir. Your help is appreciated, and will go some way to keeping suspicious eyes turned away from your redcoats. I would speak a word of caution, however."

"You needn't stand on formality, Arpan. You are on even footing with me."

"Very well, Hugh. My advice is this: Do not relax into the belief that whatever evil has befallen my village will stay clear of your men. My people are fearful, but already they begin to look at one another differently. I have had to send my brother away, even, because talk was beginning to turn to blaming him for the other boy's disappearance."

With that, he stood from his own seat, and gave a sharp bow to Abington. "By your leave, sir, I return to my people." He left, and a gloomy air descended over the remaining party.

Ranajit and Abington's valet stood in the hallway through which Arpan had just departed, their pale faces telling all. They had heard everything; it was only natural in a household such as this.

"Roberts, Ranajit, come in." Abington thought over carefully how to address the situation. "Vigilance is the word of the hour, and prudence its companion. I am confident that you both understand what I am saying to you."

Both men nodded. Roberts was an extremely young sergeant, one whom Abington hoped to see pushed up the ranks further. He was competent, and intelligent, but more importantly, he was tenacious.

Ranajit, the head butler, was older, a grandfather even, but in younger days, he had been a fearsome soldier. In later years, he had become sanguine, a father figure for anyone working in the household.

Everyone knew not to oppose him; his past life was evidenced on his face by a long, thin scar, which ran from his eyebrow to his collarbone. It was thought locally that anyone who had survived such a terrible injury must surely have been touched by Shiva.

ॐ

Macconnach caught himself eyeing the scar on the older man, and had a sudden mental picture of Ranajit as a young man on horseback. Bengali lancers had a fearsome reputation, and suddenly, the long scar made more sense.

Ranajit turned his head and gazed evenly back at Macconnach, who felt a quick tremor. It was the same sort of disruption he'd sensed the previous night. He searched the older man's eyes, but saw nothing to betray any sense of what he'd just felt.

ॐ

Roberts departed with Ranajit slowly bringing up his rear. The other staff called him 'grandfather', indeed he adored the growing brood of babies born to his children. Ranajit often thought himself to be a walking contradiction, though.

His former life, the one that had hinted itself to Macconnach, was something that never truly left a man. It was one thing to stand at fifty paces and fire a musket or a rifle at another human.

It was quite another to ride into a fray, and see a man's eyes widen at an eight-foot spear bearing down on him. The lancers were so terrible in battle, purely because of the difficulty in repelling their attacks.

Ranajit himself was not so terrible, although he did enjoy the respect given him by others because of the scar, and of the reputation of the lancers. In his own household, it was his wife who was the tiger. If he had two dozen of her, the whole of the Bengal presidency would need no further defense.

It was a blessing to have a wife such as Jaya, even when she was angry, stamping up and down the length of their home. Even then, Ranajit would sit and stare at her in wonder. He always told her that they had been a destiny match.

Jaya laughed at him, but it was true; even though they had been arranged, it seemed to have been directed by another force outside their families. They had both felt it immediately.

Jaya had confessed to him years later that she had been tempted more than once to spirit over to his house in the middle of the night, before they were married. That was who she was.

Her father would have beaten her if she had ever done it, but she hadn't been worried so much about that as about ruining the match before it was finalized.

Some twenty-five years, three sons, and one daughter later, they had settled into a peaceful life, aside from Jaya's temper. That, Ranajit reasoned, was merely the chilli seasoning to life.

Besides which, fat little grandbabies had begun to moderate her fits of pique lately. He could only hope that these rumors from the nearby village would not reach her ears. Or worse, of what he and Sergeant Roberts had heard from the general's study.

The head man and the general had seemed to be talking of demons. This was most unsettling to Ranajit. He had been at a British fortress, many years past, when it had been attacked by such forces. He had never seen anything like it before in his life, and not since.

He thought back to those days, and recalled his youthful terror. The horses had certainly been the first to sense that which was coming. Eyes rolling in abject fear, several had broken from their stalls; a stable boy had been trampled to death in the process.

Dark clouds had then rolled in with terrifying speed, seething and crackling with lightning. The British officers had ignored the warnings, only to watch helplessly as unseen hands had plucked and flung men over the ramparts.

From then until now, Ranajit never had truly known what had finally driven off the demons, for that was what they had been. There were offerings, naturally, and men had cried out for Lord Shiva's intervention. After listening to this new major, and hearing what he had said, Ranajit thought back more clearly.

The colonel in charge of that fortress had had a man with him, very much like this Major Macconnach, a man whose eyes were so dark as to seem black.

In the midst of the onslaught, as dozens of men had writhed on the ground with ears bleeding, the end of the world seeming very near; Ranajit had seen that man of the colonel's, up on the highest tower.

It all seemed to fall into place and make sense. Whatever this Major Macconnach was, he was most likely the same kind of weapon used by the colonel all those years ago. His skin crawled at the memory. He would not be discussing this at home, that much was certain.
ॐ

"I do hope you have no intentions of trying to keep me behind, Father, Major."

Abington silently sighed. Here again was his tenacious creature, but in this, he only had himself to blame.

"Isabel, my dear, even if we planned to, I hardly think we could outwit you. I do wish you to agree to one stipulation."

"What might that be?"

"I would ask you to defer to the major. Having taught you a great deal in your life, there were certain subjects I was disallowed to prevail upon, as you well know. Please, follow his lead if he feels you are riding into some sort of danger."

Isabel seemed on the point of anger for a moment. Then, her face softened, and she gave her assent.

"Very well. I would imagine you have seen your share of war, whereas I have not. And as to all this talk of dominion over death, well, suffice to say I find it very strange indeed. It will take some time for me to come to accept it all, I think."

Macconnach stiffened, and removed himself from where he had been leant up against a window. Isabel hardly had time to react to the shock of seeing the major with actual anger in his eyes before he spoke.

"Pray, take all the time you need, Miss Alderton. I have no need of your acceptance in order to do my work." He bowed curtly, and took his leave of the general and daughter. Abington sighed, and took hold of Isabel by her shoulders, that she might not hide her reaction.

"Why are you so adversarial with our Major Macconnach? Normally, when you can't stand the sight of one of my officers, you barely speak a word to him."

Abington was gratified to see that he'd struck a nerve with his words. Isabel flushed readily, though she scowled at her father.

"That is neither here nor there, Papa. If you must know, the major irritates me more than the others do, that is all."

"Ah, I see. Shall we consult your mother's books on this subject? I find my memory failing me...."

"You are teasing me."

"And you are decidedly in denial, my dear girl."

It was unfashionable to roll one's eyes, not to mention impolite, but she did so anyhow.

"And here I thought you had no wish to marry me off."

"Ha-ha! More like keeping you in the household to prevent you from becoming a brigand! Your mother would haunt me if I ever let you live on your own, unwed, in scandal."

"Some time or another, young ladies will do so. I see no shame in the idea. I could hire myself a large, surly bodyguard, or have one of those mastiff dogs to protect myself with."

"Perhaps it may someday be so, but you needn't be the first young lady to test the waters. I know it must seem unfair at times, given that a young man may do as he likes, when he likes. The simple fact is that you would incur harm to your reputation, which is not so trifling as one might be inclined to think. Perhaps you fail to understand how much more difficult your life would be under those circumstances."

"I do understand. Perhaps I do not care for those things; the trappings of civilized life by which we are all confined. One might be just as happy with nothing, than be the prisoner wife of some...."

"I very much doubt you would be content with nothing. Far from the simplicity of the farmer's life which is reliant on large families, I might point out, you would be utterly alone. I cannot imagine that absence of any human companionship would suit you."

"Oh, blast it. I despise convention!"

"My recommendation, my dear, if you cannot imagine marriage for convention's sake, is to find someone whose company you truly enjoy. Ally yourself with someone who sees you for who you are, and is not _completely_ terrified by what he finds."

"Thank-you very much indeed."

"Not all men are so broad-minded as I. God hammered me as differently as he did you and your brother. I do not regret allowing you your head, except that you seem to be having so much difficulty in deciding on your happiness in life. Society is what it is, else, you would be one of my star officers, and your brother would be freer to pursue his desires as well."

The mention of Alexander brought Isabel's childhood memories flooding back. Their mother had often noted that it seemed as if "God had mixed up" their souls, for he only seemed to have interest in the arts and clothing. Isabel, only in climbing trees and catching frogs.

How many times had Alex finished her embroidery for her, or fixed her hair after an especially exciting adventure? How many times had she bloodied the noses of boys who had tried to abuse her brother?

She still had not shown her father the letter she'd gotten from Alex a fortnight past, in which he wrote of his plans to open a ladies' boutique in Paris. She was happy that he had found his place in Europe, instead of back home, but she could not entirely predict what view her father might take of it.

He wanted Alex to be content in life as well. He had never pressed him to join the military. Knowing as he did of some notorious cases of hangings for what were termed "unnatural crimes", it was only wise.

"I'm sorry Papa, I don't mean to be such a contrarian. It seems to be an uncontrollable urge. I suppose, though, if a man came along whose company I could tolerate, I might be inclined to consider it."

Abington rolled his own eyes theatrically, but refrained from pointing out the obvious to his daughter. He raised his long frame to its standing height, and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

"I think you might consider apologizing to the major, even if you do not believe you ought. He is to be my right arm, and will be here frequently. It is my desire that he should take command here after I decide to retire. Thus, you may assure yourself that he has my highest confidence."

"I shall do my best to overcome, Papa, truly." Frankly, stitching a ball gown together out of cheese sounded a great deal easier to her than apologizing to Macconnach.

"Good. I suppose," he sighed, "you ought to go and ready yourself to ride after the infant. You must exercise caution when you are away from the protection of the army, though. The major will do his best to keep you safe. As his duties must remain somewhat classified, I cannot send anyone else along with you. You will have to be reliant on the goodwill of the village men who ride with you as well."

"I do wish you would explain all this nonsense a little better, if you'll pardon my disbelief."

"I think I'd better leave that to Macconnach. He did tell you a great deal, but you must relax your doubting nature a little in order to actually understand it." He smiled and patted her cheek. "You're an intelligent creature. I've no doubt that you will be able to come to terms with this upending of your logic."

ॐ

He could, of course, tell her all about his own evolution in thought, something which had begun years ago, as he'd regularly read some pamphlets from the Royal Geological Society.

Aside from the usual oddball discoveries, and crackpot theories, of late, there had been other minutiae. Some of these had come in the form of detailed dispatches from the HMS Beagle, and he had found those alone awe-inspiring.

Along with those papers, which had arrived during the time his wife was slowly losing her battle, there had also come some other papers from the same source: his wife's brother.

These were from the society that he belonged to, which had just been officially gathered and named: The Royal Society for the Investigation and Application of the Paranormal. It was a mouthful, to be sure, and was commonly referred to as the RSI, for the few who were privy to its existence.

He happened to fall into that crowd, as a senior officer for the Crown, but he was on uncertain footing as regards his daughter, and now this head man, Arpan. He'd allowed the major to take the lead on the explanations, purely because of a regulatory loophole.

Macconnach was exempted from the usual ban imposed on "advertising" of the supernatural abilities which he possessed. This protection for the major had been necessary in order to allow him to do his work, and that his family was already well aware of what he was capable. He was only disallowed from speaking of his official missions for the Crown.

The other regulations were a bit of an annoyance, but since Macconnach was technically considered a weapon of some secrecy, Abington had little choice but to adhere.

He had been merely grateful that he'd snapped up Macconnach, and not some dismal mystical fool, or worse, a civilian for whom he would have had to make extra allowances. Rather, he'd gotten a hardy, practical man whose temper was even enough to withstand Isabel and her assaults.

Abington sent word to the stables for Isabel's young mare to be saddled and ready for kit. He sent his daughter to pack, and called for Ranajit. The butler, who was of an age to Abington, eased into the room.

"Yes, General?"

"Ranajit, we'll need to ask the kitchen to draw up several days of provisions for...several people. And I would like you to bring me that pepper-box from my rooms."

Ranajit bowed his usual bow, and slipped away, but Abington could sense the other man's disapproval. He would never trust a priceless daughter to be safe, alone in the company of men. But Ranajit was a protective old hen who loved Isabel as if she was his own.

Abington was going to have to satisfy himself with giving her the little pistol, the pepper-box, which he had procured in London. He'd recently fired it once or twice, to gauge its trueness. Pistols were merely effective at close range, he reminded himself with a shudder.

Isabel could keep it tucked away somewhere on her person, quite safely, but he'd have to task Macconnach to teach her its use. It was no good rejecting the notion that there was only one species of predator abroad in India, after all.

Ranajit brought the pistol in its box. It had several chambers, which made it more appealing to Abington for Isabel's use. She could have it loaded and use it without needing to reload in a moment of duress. He set about cleaning it and endured ten minutes of Ranajit's grumbling in Bangla, with accompanying loud sighs before he finally said something.

"I am aware that you are unhappy about Miss Isabel's leaving the grounds. However, since you have known her for some years, you must know that I would have to tie her up and lock her in her room before she would be left behind."

"Yes, General, I know this. She is a fiery soul. I worry because she is this way, but also, what is your word...this, 'too innocent for her own good' word?"

"Naïve?"

"Yes! Naïve. She may have a pistol in her hand, but she may not be able to use it, out of fear, or may pause to harm another person. She does not know the terrible things men can do."

"Alas, I fear you are quite correct. I mean to ask the major to instruct her a few skills. The sorts of things that my late wife would never have permitted."

"You mean as the instance we tried to teach her boxing?" Ranajit smiled slyly at the memory of a slight English girl swinging her small fists.

"The very thing in précis. Of course we never would have gotten found out if she hadn't knocked the teeth out of that corporal."

He winced, thinking of the carefully aimed left-hand jab. The lad had landed on his backside out of sheer shock, and none of them had thought about the fact that Lady Abington regularly toured through the sick calls.

There she had found Isabel, still apologizing to the corporal, while he'd vainly tried to warn her that her mother was incoming, not unlike a mortar attack. From that day onward, Isabel had been forbidden to run amongst the enlisted men so freely.

Hugh Abington had taken a verbal ear-boxing from his unamused wife. And the lad, well, they called him "Toothless Paddy" from then on. Abington found he was chuckling at the recollection, and noticed that Ranajit was similarly engaged. They quickly sobered themselves back to the task at hand.

"You think that this major will be happy to have to teach such things to the general's daughter?" Ranajit hadn't forgotten the look on Macconnach's face at the end of his speech apparently.

Discomfit, for certain, but also pain had lingered on that man's face. Ranajit was always uneasy about things to which he could not put a certain explanation; the minds of Englishmen were usually at the forefront of his unease.

Abington saw the disquiet of the other man, and smiled. He felt certain where Ranajit did not.

"My good man, I can assure you that he will be, if not overjoyed, at least intrigued by this task." He tapped the side of his nose. "Between you and me, I believe they are both protesting against some invented force between them, but I have a father's instinct that all will work out the way it ought."
ॐ

The sun was setting as the horses were brought into the rear courtyard the next evening. This area was built into the private quarters which the general and his daughter enjoyed, and was separate from view to the rest of the stables.

It was a deliberate choice on the part of the general, who wanted as few questions as possible regarding the major's departure. As a precaution, he had also instructed Isabel to come out disguised in clothing that would give her the appearance of being a young soldier riding along with Macconnach.

Isabel's absence would be explained in a day or so, necessitated by a visit to Kolkata, or some other destination. The ball season was nearly upon them, and provided the excuse; she had a half dozen or more invitations that she had been ignoring.

Someone could play her part in an early morning departure, and hopefully, no-one would make a broad leap of assumption.

Abington had shown the pistol to Macconnach, with strict instruction to teach Isabel at the earliest opportunity. The major had looked over the little weapon with a doubtful eye.

He was recollecting a dagger flashing in his face that first night, and wondered if the general knew that his daughter carried such an item. He said nothing, however, and agreed to give her the lessons.

A knife had its uses. A firearm at least increased the distance, if only by a little in this case, between a person and an attacker. It was also a bit easier to pull a trigger than it was to actually push a blade into someone's ribs.

He ought to know, he'd had opportunity to find that out, as anyone who had fought with fixed bayonet would.

"Is there anything else you'd like her to know? Shall I progress her to the rifle if she has the inclination?"

"Oh, good lord. What a thought. I suppose so, although I should hope you know by now she has a bit of a temper, especially if you condescend to her." Abington was kneading his brow, and missed Macconnach's heaven-raised expression.

"I have had brief occasion to observe it, sir. I shall take care to avoid her wrath."

"Ah-ha, only brief occasion! Luck is surely on your side. She may seem a strange sort to you, but she has a fine mind."

"Oh, I've had occasion to see that at work as well. If you'll pardon me for saying so, sir, Miss Alderton has something of a finely _diabolical_ mind, and it may give her some trouble unless she can learn a modicum of caution."

Macconnach was not entirely at ease saying this, but his pride still stung a bit from her expressions of doubt. He knew, simply from experience, that doubt was a regular reaction to his work, but he'd thought that after she had seen him at it.... Abington was staring at him cannily.

"You must understand how difficult life can be for a young woman of intellect and, er, ardent spirit. We live in a society that has assigned her a role, and cares not at all that she has no aspirations toward it."

He sighed, stroking the jaw of his daughter's black mare. "It is inescapable for some, but I have no doubt that she would live a misery as the wife of a typical man. I may be a fool for it, but if I have the means to prevent that life for her, I shall."

Macconnach started when he heard the emphasis the general put on those last few words. He swallowed. For some odd reason, the image of Isabel Alderton's eyes rose up, even as he recalled how they had flashed as she had deftly put that dagger to his throat. It was going to be a long journey.

As if she knew she was being discussed, Isabel finally made her appearance. She was clad in breeches, and jacket, with a wool capelet hiding any unmasculine lines on her body. She had tied back her hair in the fashion of a young man, and was turning over a shako in her hands.

Abington was smiling at the sight of her, as if considering possibilities that could never be. Macconnach found himself trying not to linger too long over the sight of her legs.

He could not ever remember a time when he had actually laid eye on a young lady's legs. He found he was holding his breath, and had to let it out slowly, as not to make a sizeable noise.

"Papa, I fail to see how this hat thing will stay on my head. It tips about when I put it on."

"Never mind, Isabel." Abington took the shako from her hands, and expertly settled it. For a further moment, Hugh Abington allowed himself the illusion of his child in uniform, and then shook it off. "Take heed, and pray, do not argue with the major overmuch."

"I have promised to...behave, if you like."

"I do not ask for that as much as for you to have faith in him, of any sort. He deserves that much."

"That word is being bandied about quite a bit of late. I do hope that I will soon discover what it is I am to have faith in."

Her conscience pricked at her as the image of Macconnach's shirtless chest bobbed up in her thoughts. She looked over her costume frowningly, flicking at invisible dust, as she tried to banish the thought away.

"Have care in what you wish for. Is that not the warning given when someone hopes for vague things?" He smiled, and patted her arm firmly. "Try to keep in mind that you are meant to be a young man to any observant eyes. And take this. The major will give you some instruction at an appropriate juncture."

Isabel looked down at the little pistol being placed in her leather gloved hand.

"Oh, Papa, really. It seems a bit ridiculous...."

"Safety is not ridiculous. Needless death is." With that, he turned back to the major, who saluted briskly. "Safe travels, safe returns, yes? Get on with you, then."

Macconnach turned to his own mount, a dark grey stallion he'd had for many years. Actually, he was a white stallion, but Macconnach had learned some time ago that a white horse, no matter its intelligence or swiftness, was an easy mark for an enemy.

Regular application of dye was done, but the black wouldn't take terribly well, so Bran was grey. Isabel watched from a respectable distance while Macconnach spoke into his steed's ear. After a few minutes she began to express her impatience in a series of light tappings of her foot. Finally, she spoke.

"Giving orders, are we? Equines are an admirable species, major, but not given to human speech."

"Who says I was speaking in a human tongue, Miss Alderton?" He sprang into his saddle and rode past her, refusing to make eye contact.

Isabel harrumphed at being teased and clucked softly at her mare, who sighed the sigh of a horse who knows when common sense is being flouted.

"Come along, Lizzy, we must keep the boys in check." Lizzy had her doubts about such aspirations, but broke into a canter to catch up Macconnach and not be left too far behind. The young mare did not like to be left in the rear, that much was certain.

ॐ

Once out of sight from the encampment, Isabel stripped off the cape, and stuffed it into a saddlebag. She was soaked through already, stifled as she was in two layers of shirtsleeves, and coat over that.

Water helped a bit, though she would have far preferred to pour it down her front. Sadly, such things were not possible for her, although she had seen soldiers do it often enough. Her thoughts wandered, unbidden, to those days gone by.

After the boxing fiasco, when she'd been banned from the ranks, as it were. Determined not to be left out, she'd traded Alex her best sewing kit for his toy spyglass. Then, she had spent every free moment watching the men at drill and recreation.

Learning how to do things from afar had been an interesting challenge to her mind. The real test had come when she'd wanted to learn how to load and clean a rifle. Alex had always been her co-conspirator, so long as she was willing to sit and be his model, or test subject.

She still had a small scar on the back of her neck from his experimentations in hair color, so she rather thought he'd gotten the easy end of the arrangement. All he'd had to do was beg for all the toy instruments of destruction that boys were plied with, the ones that were supposed to make them into men.

Together, they had played Barbary pirates, Napoleon versus Wellington, anything which had let her practice the skills she had learned. Usually it had meant that Alex would be lazing about as "Boney-part," eating sweets. Else feeding their mother's little dogs until they were fat and wheezing. Isabel would strut, making speeches or commanding her dolls to overtake some hill of blankets and pillows.

At the moment, however, she was tugging at the collars of what she wore, wondering how it was that men could ever actually get to the business of war if they were so uncomfortable in uniform. Or perhaps that was why there were so many wars.

They were all simply in a state of constant ill-temper, and needed an outlet. She jokingly thought she ought to tell Alex to design comfortable uniforms with the thought of world peace as the end result. The thought cheered her up, though she still kept up her scowling at Macconnach's back.

Fifteen feet ahead, Macconnach could feel a sullen heat directed at him from Isabel Alderton's direction. The obvious reason for her anger toward him at the moment was that she did not like being obliged to anyone for anything.

Still, just in case there was more to it, he let Bran drop back to ride alongside her. That little pistol had not abandoned his thoughts, after all, and he was not yet certain how well she knew to handle it.

"Your father would like you to have, er, full lessons in the use of firearms."

"I am acquainted with their use and of how to care for them, Major, thank you all the same."

"Miss Alderton." He was careful with his tone of voice. Isabel stared resolutely forward, squinting a tiny bit into the darkness ahead.

"Major Macconnach."

"Having seen men cleaning and at firing drills is not quite the same as having laid hands to a working weapon."

Isabel tried to hide her shock, wondering whether someone had ratted her out, or whether Macconnach had acquired this information on his own.

"I have used my brother's hunting rifle a few times. It is hardly requiring of great intellect or skill."

"Before we met, do you know, I had it sorted out what part of the old palace you lived in. Perhaps your father or brother ought to have reminded you that glass reflects sunlight."

Blast. So he had seen her. Well, that didn't mean she had to be contrite and accept his irritating lessons.

"And you did not tattle on me to my father; my congratulations, Major."

"That is not what I meant. You simply have to... _ought_ to consider that real life presents variables and chaos that years of training cannot fully prepare anyone for."

"You mean, if what is out there is what you think it is."

"Shall I describe for you some of the creatures I have encountered, in only ten years of service to the Crown?"

"Oh, please do, I am so clearly lacking in the ways of the world."

"Is this attitude due to my stepping on your toes back in the village? Do you truly think still that your pretending to be 'touched by the goddess' would have brought the help these people need? I don't mind your being here, that you wish to help, but if you're going to be a fool, you might as well turn your horse and go back to your father."

He touched his heels lightly to Bran's flanks, and the stallion shook his head before breaking into a trot. Isabel was left to work the sting out of his words on her own. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes; she swiped at them angrily, cursing herself.

_Was_ she jealous that he had intervened? It was ridiculous, but in the end, she knew that was part of it. The rest of her seethed, at herself more than anything, that she did not have the ability to bring cold disdain between Macconnach and her.

If there was a truth hanging hazily in front of her at the moment, it was that he inspired strong emotion, not detachedness. Instead of being able to ignore him, the way she did with all the other popinjays, she found herself constantly moved to spar with him.

To engage, rather than to walk away. It was a curious experience for her, not to mention a thorny one, as she was not the greatest enthusiast of protracted hostilities. Debate, certainly, even animated conversation were her preferred milieu.

As she kept circling the question in her mind, however, she had to admit the central problem was indeed this inexplicable need she had to keep provoking Macconnach. And then her father, with his smug certainty that he knew the reason why!

Isabel found she was gritting her teeth so hard that her jaw was becoming painful. She breathed in and out, slowly, the manner of which she had once learned from a yogi.

Of course, it was difficult to meditate and cleanse the mind whilst on horseback. The flies hadn't given up either, in spite of the dark. The night also brought its own special host of pests and dangers.

ॐ

Macconnach rode in silence. He needed to direct his mental energies outward anyhow, to begin to track their prey. The thought occurred to him that they were in the unenviable position of being prey as well as huntsmen.

Where to initiate a search was very unclear to him. As of yet they still had to determine what exactly it was he had sensed.

Although Colonel Arpan had offered a few notions, Macconnach had often found that until he made direct contact with a creature or spirit, he was not always able to detect its exact nature.

This limitation was the very thing that had resulted in the death of someone close to him, so many years past. Since that stormy night in his home hills, he had made it his mission to learn how to respond to the intentions of evil. That first time...he had been caught so off his guard, his powers had manifested without warning, almost like a grenade exploding prematurely. But who would have expected a kelpie to make an appearance in the midst of a crashing thunderstorm?

His best friend Dougal had seen it first.

"Gordie, look! It's a horse, in the loch! What d'ye suppose it's doing out here in this weather?" They two had been caught by the rain far from shelter, and were already busy trying to goad their frightened sheep into orderly movement.

Dougal had pointed off into the distance, his eyes wide with fascination. The horse had stood stock still, in spite of lighting and thunder thrashing the countryside. During the lulls, they could see a faint green haze around it.

Macconnach remembered how he could feel it. At first a tickle in his senses, it quickly became a clamoring, overwhelming feeling of ill-intent.

He'd known it was a kelpie instantly, because he'd grown up hearing all the highland tales from his sisters. And he'd known with every fibre of his being that it wanted them, to tear their flesh, and consume them.

Dougal had become enthralled by the beauty of the creature. No persuading on Macconnach's part had discouraged his friend from gazing at it. All the sheep had long since scattered.

"I could just throw a tether on it. Take it home, like, and it'd be mine, Gordie!"

Before Macconnach had time to react, Dougal had taken to running headlong at the animal, madly, fervently, his intended tether falling abandoned on the ground in a sodden heap.

Macconnach had reacted out of pure terror, crying out a warning. Dougal had turned in confusion, as the horse began its alteration back into true form. The face of the kelpie was something of nightmares, meant to paralyze its victim in fear.

Macconnach had done just the opposite then, as he'd felt the fear working into something else, something dangerous. He had reached for his friend as the kelpie had begun to pull him into the loch.

With his roar of anger and protest had come a rock slide from an overhanging cliff. The kelpie had released Dougal and slipped back into the black waters of the loch.

No happy resolve came from its flight, however. Dougal was killed the instant a boulder struck him in the skull, leaving Macconnach to carry his friend five miles back home. The sheep had scattered.

The village had ground to a halt. They all said it had been an accident, but he could see differently, every time he left his house. Deep in their souls, every man and woman in the place, they feared him. He couldn't even remember the first time he'd heard the word, the one that, after a fashion, was whispered wherever he went.

Dullahan.

He'd never even heard the term before. Everyone knew what the Baon-Sidhe were. There were plenty of them in his family lineage, along with all the women who had been Seers.

He had been the first male born in his family with any sense of the Sight for hundreds upon hundreds of years. And oh, his parents had tried to make him believe that it was only that: the Sight. He'd known better.

And then he'd heard that whisper. It had taken seeking out the village taleteller to finally know what was meant by it. The old man had avoided Macconnach's eyes, guiltily, as he'd sat oiling and tuning his fiddle.

"Why d'ye want to know of that, lad?" As if he hadn't known, hadn't heard of the stories circulating about young Gordie Macconnach. Seeing the look in the boy's eyes, Old Robbie had relented, and simply told him.

Dullahan were rare, he'd said. Nobody even knew whether they were real, not like the rest of the host of the Sidhe, who were common amongst the oldest families in Scotland. Some speculated that the Dullahan were the consorts of the Baon-Sidhe, or perhaps just their brethren.

Either way, death was their only trade. Old Robbie had known what a terrible thing it was to be saddled with such a name. The Dullahan were perhaps, uncommon, but their stories were well-known. They were escorts of the dead, in some stories, in others, the Dullahan were nothing less than Death's Hand, walking amongst the living.

After that, Macconnach had known. He could never have stayed in his village, even if he had wanted to. His father had indulged his second son's request to join the King's armed forces, all the while insisting that a Laird's son should not waste away in the lower ranks.

At first, Macconnach had fought against this, thinking that it would be better for him to simply die anonymously overseas. With some persuasion, he'd accepted that he would be more useful as an officer.

He'd led intelligence-gathering missions, venturing into the places, gradually, where other men dared not go. Two years in, he had come into contact with an older officer, Colonel Grandy, who had immediately recognized him for what he was.

"Why are you wasting your talents on spying, boy? Only a fool would let the Home Guard use him for espionage. You would be far more valuable doing that from which you are running."

It had been a casual statement, over pints in the officer's club in Luxor. A stranger, albeit a superior officer, had simply walked up to him and _known_. Or had he walked up to Macconnach because he had known? It was never entirely clear.

Grandy had taken Macconnach under his wing almost immediately. He'd spirited the young man off for training in the "unseen arts", as the colonel called it. Sessions were most successful at night, they quickly found.

Macconnach had his first encounters, with the afreets that lived in and around the funerary complexes in the Valley of the Kings. It was a benefit to discover that most minor spirits were intimidated by Macconnach's association with death.

The reactions of these lesser demons, when confronted by him, had finally led Macconnach to some greater peace with his gift. He could be of aid to his fellow man. He could forestall death, he found, as well as foretell it. It meant that he could repel the forces of evil which worked against man, if their intent was to kill.

Quickly, he also found that other nations had their own agents who were similar to him. There were men who had skills like his, but more often, they were the ones responsible for calling on forces to be used against their enemies.

There were also numerous Seers, such as Grandy. These ranks included women who necessarily had to disguise themselves amongst the tailing caravans in order to follow an army undetected.

All sorts of vice were sold from those caravans, with the according persons of low virtue and rough backgrounds as their purveyors. These women Seers generally undertook more danger. Macconnach had always marveled at their devotion to duty as well as their resourcefulness.

Now, after more than a decade of service in his peculiar field, Macconnach was one of the first in India to fulfill this role. The Company had declined the services of the RSI for some time, feeling that it would be a violation of some unspoken understanding between them and the Rajputs.

Of late, however, with more and more strange occurrences cropping up, the East India Company had relented. Macconnach had heard that the tipping point was the unexplained death of the son of an MP, with the witnesses describing a "hellish creature" having attacked the young man.

Colonel Grandy liked to describe the RSI as an inquisitor's worst nightmare. Grandy himself was a colorful eccentric, destined to forever remain in his current rank, owing to a strong attachment to gin and gaming tables.

And at times, Macconnach was not sure whether to be grateful to the man or whether to be embarrassed by him. It was true that the RSI was able to function with a great deal of secrecy, but Grandy was not known for his discretion.

In fact, it was his favorite joke to introduce Macconnach as "Azrael", the angel of death. It was, fortunately, a jest that often went over most heads. He was often asked whether he was a physician after such an introduction.

If only Grandy could see him now, riding with a ragtag band. One of whom was a young woman masquerading as a male, no less.

Macconnach looked down at his saddle, and twisted the reins firmly around his hand before closing his eyes. He reached out with his mind, in the way that he had learned. It was almost the same as how birds called to seek one another out before roosting for the night.

Grandy had called it the, "I'm here, who's there," call. It was supposed to be noncommittal, giving nothing away about the caller. The idea was to lure in a response, and to judge a potential threat by that response.

Sometimes there were mischievous spirits at play, but Macconnach had not felt that the night before. What he had felt, what had danced just out of reach to him, had been something like standing in a room with a dead rat behind the walls, not knowing from whence the smell originated.

He could perceive it at a considerable distance now. In spite of the neutrality of Macconnach's call, the entity seemed to know what he was; he could feel it mocking him in a way that implied nothing good or easy about the journey yet to come.

Likely the child was already dead, but Macconnach knew that their mission was no longer simply to find a little lost girl. Whatever this was, its presence portended a far greater disturbance than maimed livestock and missing children.

They were on the right heading, he knew that now. Bran seemed to sense the current in the air as well, adjusting himself before Macconnach even twitched at the reins.

ॐ

"All well, Major?" Isabel strove for a tenor of concern. He had been silent for well over half an hour.

"Aye. Just confirming that our direction is true."

"Perhaps you have some idea what it is that we might find?"

"Not entirely. I'm afraid that I have no detailed inventory of what is likely to be a long list of possibilities, at least not in the local parlance. If we are speaking to generalities, there are tales in every culture of child snatchers. The desecration of animals is something else entirely."

"It is a parent's nightmare, is it not? The loss of a child?" She remembered the look on the face of the little girl's mother.

"It is also a child's nightmare to be stolen, removed from familiarity. It happens far too often, but the usual environment is in overflowing cities. It's rarely noticed except by the families there. In small villages, it's bound to attract far too much attention."

"Your theory then, is that all these acts were designed to induce us to doing what we are now doing?" A most unpleasant thought, that an enemy might be many steps in advance of them. Isabel looked round into the dark, and shuddered in spite of herself.

"To lure someone, yes. I cannot yet tell whether this entity was seeking a particular person, or simply attempting to reel as many people in as possible."

"Which is the more likely answer?"

"I should say that there are certainly creatures out there that feed off as many souls as they can possibly obtain. I think, however, that the possibilities of a single target cannot be ignored."

"Hmph. I might point out the difficulties in such a notion. How could this thing be guaranteed its prey, in that case? We all decided of our own accord to go for our own reasons...oh."

"Indeed, Miss Alderton. Any one of us could be that person." Colonel Arpan had pulled back in time to hear the end of the conversation. "After all, I am a head man, someone of value, especially with my background. The major has his own value, not just as a British officer. And you are the daughter of an English general. I do not discount the other men with us, but I chose them, rather than them choosing to come. I posit that we all must be exceedingly cautious."

"What were the names of the demons you told me of? I have no ear for Hindi, they all left my head as soon as you said them." Macconnach rubbed his whiskers with some embarrassment. Arpan laughed.

"You need not know their names as much as what they can do. Firstly, there is a whole host of asuras. These are the fallen, deities which are in opposition to the virtuous devas. Asuras embody what you might call the 'deadly sins' of man. I believe they work more in a manner which you might say your Satan does, tempting men into lamentable acts. We have, of course, more specific demons and creatures, some with many names which all amount to one thing."

"Which is?"

"More mischief than evil. I have searched my brain for some answer, but this is entirely unfamiliar to me."

"Well, it isn't to my liking, but I suppose we shall just have to wait to learn the identity of our creature until I am able to sense it more clearly."

Isabel did not add what was certainly on all their minds. _Let us hope that we are all still whole and alive at that time_.

She thought thoroughly through all the compiled myths and legends she'd read and heard during her years in India. Arpan was certainly going to be knowledgeable about his native area, here in Bengal. But she'd been in western India before coming to the east.

Goa in particular had stories of far more wicked spirits, something she had previously attributed to indigestion nightmares. Goans loved their fiery foods; she herself could testify to the aftereffects.

She thought about mentioning it, but decided to wait. She had already behaved badly enough with regard to Macconnach, no need to go for excessive condescension. Instead, she tried to keep to more conciliatory overtures.

"So, Major, how do you, ah, go about your work, so to speak?"

"Is that meant to be a serious question?" He was eyeing her with the same sort of irritation and suspicion she had only recently been displaying toward him.

"No, I suppose not. Trying for small talk, don't you know?" No, suppose not. "Really, I'm not such a bad sort, once you get to know me. I just...that is to say...oh, drat."

She was out of her depth with all this human interaction, except in an academic capacity. Wit was her only true weapon. Books and learning from afar. If she had been a man, she could have gone to university like Alex, been a soldier, an explorer, whatever she liked.

Instead, she had to finagle and claw for anything she got, except that this tactic was getting her nowhere of late. Perhaps there was something to be said for the women who used wiles and fluttering eyelashes to get the things they wanted.

Isabel had long assumed that the only things women like that wanted were jewels, furs, and dresses from Paris. Perhaps they knew something she was not privy to, having barred herself from their company. It seemed to be a growing likelihood.

Under most circumstances, she was not concerned about these women. They were faddish, fickle, and seemed to be primarily interested in verbally disemboweling one another.

There was something to be said for understanding one's enemy, she supposed. And for learning the things of which women were truly capable. Indeed, at this juncture, Isabel felt at an extreme disadvantage.

She might otherwise have the knowledge to read and manipulate men, but this was her own fault. She had run and hidden away every time the subject of the "female arts" arose. After a while, her mother had given up, assuming that Isabel would grow out of her reticence.

But Mother had died, off into the "arms of the savior", as said the vicar and all his happily wagging sheep. Isabel did not. She scowled at churches and bibles, as any doubter would.

What merciful God would rob her father of his happiness? Let alone countenance the stark reality of crowded poor houses, diseased and overcrowded slums...no, the ideas that the Hindus and Buddhists had was a bit closer to reality. Life was suffering.

She just hadn't decided yet whether it was eternal, or whether there might be that nirvana somewhere within reach.

They rode on for several more hours, while the moon rose. It was a sunburnt and swollen orange belly of a moon, casting weak light over their path. The air felt muffled and close, and Isabel found herself longing more and more to be sprawled out in her own soft bed.

She felt as though they were in the land of the Lotos Eaters; in her tired daze, she began to look for Morpheus up in the trees. She couldn't have been drugged, could she? No, everyone else was drooping as well, except for Macconnach.

Still determined to aggravate her, he was bolt upright, alert as a panther. But no, she was supposed to be more charitably disposed toward him. Why was he so alert, though? It just wasn't right. She nudged Lizzy to trot up closer to him.

"Anything?" She spoke as quietly as she could, though she wasn't quite sure why.

"Just the faint thread I found earlier. It seems to be growing a little stronger in the past few minutes, though."

"Very well."

"If you cease thinking about anything, you may be able to catch a bit of it." Stop thinking? Rather a large task for her. _Might as well give it a go_.

She tried, and then she stopped trying, and then she simply let her mind be as black as the night, with only a dull orange glow in the centre. After a few minutes, there was something.

She could feel a small lurch of anxiety, out from nowhere, digging into her chest. She felt a big ragged, as though she had been underwater for too long.

"Miss Aldteron? Isabel?" Macconnach could see things had suddenly altered, felt the closeness of some entity abruptly swing around to them. In a moment, Isabel was gasping for air as though she was being strangled.

Macconnach yanked Lizzy to a halt; Bran stopped on his own. Closing his eyes, Macconnach could hear Arpan bringing up the other men short, their hoofbeats then clattered closer and closer.

He had to ignore it, focusing instead on Isabel, and reached out more aggressively. The creature reacted strongly, and made itself suddenly visible. The men with Arpan shouted in terror.

Macconnach's eyes flew open. A grayish, withered creature had itself wound around Isabel. Its flesh hung off in disarray, like a corpse, which must surely have explained the wretched smell of decay Macconnach had caught earlier.

He had heard of the _nzambi_ from the Congo, and of the _golems_ of the Jewish faith, perhaps this thing was similar. That would mean that it was being controlled from afar. This was a more disturbing thought than a simple rogue demon. Where was its master?

For now, he focused on ridding them of this creature, only vaguely aware that it had gone from being unseen to seen. His logic was telling him that this was not the case. He had simply failed to take note of it.

The present dilemma was that it was trying to kill Isabel, and so he was able to summon his full strength, and he called up to his sisters for aid. Lizzy began to prance, trying to break away from his grasp, but there was no doing so.

There was only the howling of an unnatural wind, which tore the creature off of Isabel, and flung it some fifty yards away, where it careened into a solid tree trunk.

With a sodden thud, it landed, and moved no more. Isabel coughed and retched a bit, while Arpan offered her water, eyeing Macconnach carefully.

"I dare not hope that this was the creature which is responsible for all our troubles?" Arpan knew it was too much to wish for.

"No, I should think not. It was likely a mere servant." He did not have to say any more, Arpan and his men were already on their guard. Isabel seemed finally to catch her breath back, and wasted no time before offering her observation.

"I think it a _vetala_." She was surprised at how hoarse her voice sounded. The panic of not being able to get air into her lungs still lingered as well.

She had never felt more powerless; the sensation angered, rather than frightened her. Arpan frowned. One of the other men from the village spoke up rapidly.

"Chintan says that he has heard of this creature. His uncle was a lascar with the Navy, and would tell him stories."

"They're mostly stories of the western coast. I heard them when I traveled through Mumbai and Goa. I always thought it was why cremation was so popular, to be honest, because nobody enjoys the thought of their mortal remains being commandeered for nefarious purposes."

It was almost a comical thought, if not for having just seen evidence in the flesh, as it were.

"If they are constructs of that nature, then they are vulnerable, yes?" Macconnach was deep in thought.

They all automatically looked over to where Macconnach had flung the thing. The horses would go no closer, however, and so they were compelled to dismount and investigate on foot.

It turned out to be a banyan that had arrested the flight of the vetala. Isabel rubbed the bark of the tree, with an odd hope that it had not been affected by the unpleasantness that had just taken place.

This was the tree of good fortune, after all, a living organism that had likely seen hundreds of years itself. She had heard that one might count a tree's years by its rings, but it was a shame that the only way to do so was for the tree to die.

"It is gone." Arpan's observation brought her out of her botanical reverie. Immediately, they were all on guard again.

"Gone, perhaps, but not entirely." Macconnach was staring down at the ground, toeing a pile of dirt with his boot. No, not dirt, Isabel realized as she drew closer. It was a pile of decay.

Centipedes and beetles swarmed over it, reducing the pile further in front of their very eyes. "Whatever else these vetala are, they are disposable. We may expect more, I suppose."

"Nothing less than a usurpation of the dead, that's what it is. Bodies being stolen from their families and...." Isabel stopped herself. She was thinking of the boy who had been with Arpan's brother. Had he been stolen for this purpose? Was he the creature Macconnach had just destroyed? She could see that Arpan was thinking along similar lines.

"I should have had the animals burned."

"Oh, Arpan, all the stories I ever heard, they only involved humans."

"A comforting thought," he replied drily. An uneasy silence fell over the group. Macconnach looked around at the other men that Arpan had selected. They were all, from what he'd been told, members of the families of means in the village.

Arpan said he had chosen one from each family in order to maintain some sense of balance amongst those who stayed behind. Macconnach had not pointed out that the flaw in the plan was what would happen if not all these men returned to their homes safely.

ॐ

None of them took note of a slight winking light about a half mile to their rear. If they had, they might have taken it for the lantern of a herder, or perhaps they might have read something more sinister into its presence.

But they did not see it, and therefore had no cause to interpret it. And so Arras was able to follow their movements with his spyglass, undetected. At first, he had thought to blackmail Macconnach in typical fashion.

After monitoring events within the palace, he had altered his expectations. It seemed that Major Macconnach and the general's daughter were on the trail of some kind of prize.

General Abington was always loathe to encourage talk of lost treasures, but even he was not fool enough to ignore the fact that they were in a palace of a former Raja who had vanished around the time of Mysore.

The Raja's family had supposedly fled to the foothills that Macconnach and his group were presently approaching. It made sense, neat and attractive sense, to him. He had not quite worked out what he would do once anything was discovered, although if the cache were large enough, they might not be able to take it all at once.

Then, all he would do was wait until they left, dispatch any guard left behind, and retire himself into thin air. With that possibility in mind, he had left his current accumulated savings buried, away from the encampment, so that he would need not return for any reason.

This all worked itself soundly in his mind, and he had no compunction about murder. He had committed it before. Once he was done with the redcoats, he would be done with killing, period. That was his covenant with God, and he did not give a hang what more righteous minds would make of such promises.

He squinted into the lens again, barely making out their shapes amongst the rippling forms of trees. The wretched moonlight was not helping him, either.

He wondered what they must be doing, but if they were following a map of some sort, it would make sense that they had to stop occasionally to orient themselves. If it were a very old tree that they were all clustered around, even more proof that he was right.

He had not settled on why Miss Alderton was amongst the party. It was niggling at his brain. He hoped she would stay behind in his second scenario. He was entirely opposed to harming a woman, but there were other things to be done with women.

And her disguise; he snorted only at the thought of it. She had looked like a child dressed in a theatre costume. Not even a moustache to hide her slender jaw.

She rode like a woman as well. It was well that they had left after dusk. No tiny amount of scrutiny would have failed to see through her pitiful camouflage.

After what seemed like an eternity, they remounted their horses, Macconnach on his ridiculous stallion, Miss Alderton on her nag, and the rest of the men on their native ponies. Except, he noted, for one, who had what seemed to be an Arabian.

Very odd indeed. In his equations, however, it only served to reinforce his theory. This man must have bought an expensive mount with what he had already found.

He nudged his own mare, a standard issue of watery origins that were offered en masse to military officers. With his retirement, though, he was going to reestablish his family's Lusitano breeding stock.

His heart contracted even still when he recalled the day his bay mare had gone to the auction block. There was no hope of her still being alive, but surely he would find her equal.

With gold and emeralds in his sights, he continued his pursuit, moving silently behind the small party. He had no talent in anything except the craven arts. And so, as the party he followed had missed the signs of his presence, he too missed the signs of the presence of unseen evil riding with him.

He merely felt a bit hotter and more impatient than usual, and distracted himself from it by cursing the English horse in colorful language.

ॐ
It had to be approaching midnight. Isabel was sore from riding astride Lizzy, and she scowled at whomever had decreed sidesaddle was the only appropriate means for ladies to ride.

It meant that she was out of shape for riding properly, not having really done so since she'd been a child. It also meant that she would be in woeful condition once they stopped to rest.

Since her encounter with the vetala-thing, she kept reaching up to feel her throat. There was still some sort of burning sensation, and though she would rather have covered up what were sure to be bruises, the lingering sensation of choking dissuaded her from doing so.

She thought she would never again complain about smells or the lack of a refreshing breeze, so long as that recent moment of being unable to draw air was never repeated.

Something about the creature and its unheralded appearance was eating at her thoughts. Every time she tried to think clearly about it, the more it seemed to slip away.

It was an intangibility very much like the dreams she'd been having lately about her mother. She'd hear Mother's voice, calling her from some distant room.

The closer she got to the room, the more slowly she would move, while the door seemed to grow ever distant. It was unpleasantness all round, and she began to feel that she should let it all slip away for a while.

Instead, she found herself staring at Macconnach again, but with slightly less hostile undertones. She was actually quite appreciative of his having come to her aid. She was very much unready to utter those words to him, but began to analyze the efforts he had put in to save her life.

It had been a tidy, if inexplicable, bit of work. One moment staring dumbfounded at her, the next, whoosh! Wind screaming out of some dark and desperate place...had he been frightened for her?

There had been some unknown emotion registering on his face, she recalled that well enough, but whether it had been for her sake, or through the exertion of his task, who knew?

What she did know was that she had gotten the bit of proof that she had asked for. She could no longer deny that Macconnach was what he'd claimed to be, which was, what, exactly? He'd not been entirely clear on that subject.

And what would they do, precisely, when they found the source of all this evil? Isabel turned the little pepperbox pistol over in her hands, looking carefully at it. She was not a soldier, which was what Macconnach had politely hinted at.

The pistol could hold a few rounds at a time, and she had no experience reloading under duress. Her father had told her stories of men freezing up completely when confronted by the chaos of war. She'd be...damned, there, she said it, she'd be damned if she'd let that happen.

It simply came down to her lack of experience, which could easily be as crippling as fear. She would have to allow the major to give her some instruction. Perhaps he might be persuaded to include the rifle in that as well. Perhaps, if she might persuade herself to set aside her pride.

Arpan carried a rifle; from its appearance, it must have been a gift. It was gilded and tasseled, but she did not doubt that it was in excellent working condition. He also carried his officer's sword.

Logically, she deduced that he would also have something like a katara dagger or a kukhuri knife hidden somewhere on his person. Arpan struck her as a person who preferred an abundance of preparation.

The other men carried their short swords, rather reminiscent to her of the Roman gladius, as well as lathi spears that had made men like Ranajit into such lethal lancers.

She naturally was the most lightly armed of the party. In contrast to their weaponry, though, the men were laconic aesthetes. They loved song and poetry, and kept one another entertained throughout the ride, in spite of Arpan's repeated entreaties that they lower their voices.

The only logical conclusion was that their level of self-confidence overshadowed their worry over what they had just seen. It was not a feeling she shared with them. She was, to put it mildly, a bit shocked at it. She asked Arpan for some illumination, to which he smiled.

"You know as well as anyone how seriously we take the mystical here in India. Did you not seek to make use of that with your communion to Durga?"

Arpan said this pointedly and Isabel blushed, wondering whether he was going to let her live that down. "It is seen as perfectly normal in many respects. You English have spent far too much time deciding to ignore what is right in front of you."

"Ah, there Colonel, you have the English wrong. They are simply too much of a crossbred species to have any of their own myths left." Macconnach had wheeled around to join Isabel and Arpan.

"Oh, indeed, Major? Yours are utterly muddied with the Irish, are they not?" Isabel tried out an innocent smile. Macconnach shook his head. Even when she was seeking to engage in lighthearted banter, Isabel could not allow anyone to have the last word.

"Blasphemy. We were there first." He winked at her. She twitched.

"At any rate, my people are strictly Britannic, from what I'm told. I could have all sorts of druids and whatnot in our family history."

"But there, you see? It is the whatnot that defines you, and you have no idea of its details, nor of the stories which comprise your landscape. You have no place in nature anymore, and you deny that anything exists beyond the trees and flowers that you cut and pluck." Arpan sounded genuinely aggrieved.

He was, in fact, thinking of how much the landscape had altered since the arrival of the East India Company, with its desire to turn all of the Bengal Presidency into tea fields, as far as he could tell.

The Company men liked to strut about, bragging on having conquered the tiger, but they failed to see the true reason for it. The tiger went where its food and safety could be guaranteed, in other words, as far from Englishmen with rifles as possible.

He knew, as every other man, woman, and child in India did, that the jungle could only be borrowed land. It would take back its rightful ownership eventually.

In fact, he could not help but wonder whether this circumstance with demons and strange creatures was due in part to the sudden explosion of plantations and land development.

Bring with it the presence of hundreds of strangers, who would put ever more and more demands on the land...surely the gods were not well pleased with this.

He had long ago learned to put on a show of obedient if vague Christendom for General Wellington. Indeed, although the Duke was tolerant of a great many vagaries in this strange life, he was not so with what he called "pagan faiths".

Arpan had had more than one occasion to observe that narrowness in action, and had realized early on that he would fare much better if he took to the cross, and begged forgiveness from his own gods later.

He had wondered whether his false faith could have been the reason for the village's troubles. It did not make enough sense to him to be an acceptable theory in the end.

If that were the case, he alone should have suffered, and been thrown down from his position of authority. Too many others were suffering. And now, the general's daughter had been harmed, if to no serious end.

The next incident might end with far more serious consequences. He was thinking of the other men around him, of course. If he were to meet his end, it would be of no great consequence.

His sons were being safely raised in the halls of England's finest educational institutions. His daughter was tucked comfortably away in Cornwall, where she was learning to paint, he was told.

They were far better off there, than to be looked down upon here, because he had married an Englishwoman. His sons would follow their father into the military, and his little flower would hopefully find herself an understanding gentleman.

He hoped to be with his wife again one day, if he managed to live through this hunt for strange creatures and a lost girl child.

ॐ

Somewhere in the distance, buried deep in one of the undulating foothills of the Himalayas, there was a carved out stronghold. It had indeed once belonged to the family of a deposed raja.

Many years before, the powerful family to whom the palace had once belonged sent off a working party of men to dig into the hillside. It was meant to be a treasure hold, just as Arras had reasoned.

Wealth won through the labors of others had then been carried in on the backs of many ponies, guarded by men bristling with spears and swords. The digging and building had gone on for months upon months, hidden in what had been heavily forested land at the time.

The family had taken for granted that all was proceeding well, finally sending for news of progress after approximately six months' time.

The messenger had arrived at the designated spot, only to find it completely deserted. Upon inspection, the hapless lad had found all the gold and jewels exactly where they were meant to be, the digging apparently complete.

Not a single servant or guard was to be found, nor any of the ponies. Even the elephant that had been there to move heavy stone had gone astray. The boy had been quite loathe to share the news of the missing workers and animals, but felt that he had been lucky to leave the place with his life and limbs intact.

Naturally, he was not taken at all seriously by his masters, who had so little faith in him that they assumed he must have crossed paths with the workers and never taken notice. They compelled him to pluck chickens in order to hone his attention to detail.

When the workers and guards failed to ever return, furrowed brows and doubts only pertained as to whether the gold had actually been placed in the vault, as the boy had swore.

Perhaps the family had been robbed, and the boy had been paid to lie about it! The boy was tortured in order to speak the truth; another messenger dispatched to check the vault.

Two weeks later, the disheveled and badly wounded messenger returned, living long enough to affirm that the gold was there, but something evil.... There he died, leaving the raja to decide whether all these strange circumstances were enough to warrant concern.

He chose to shrug it off, feeling that with all the guards and diggers gone, dead perhaps, the location of the vault was quite secure. The second messenger was certainly dead; all that remained was the first, who protested his innocence in the face of lies.

He had seen something, he swore upon Lord Krishna's honor and his both. He died under the lash, weeping pitifully.

The raja failed to take any of these warnings. His youngest son, once the friend of the boy who had died after first being sent to check on the vault, had listened to his friend's story late one early night after the boy had returned.

The raja's son did take the story to heart, and watched his friend die, helpless to intervene. He had been only six years of age at the time, but even he understood the implications of greed and cruelty. Moreover, he knew what his friend had seen, which the second messenger also alluded to before expiring.

Several years later, as the Tipu Sultan led the Marathas against the Redcoats, the raja declined to take sides. In spite of many threats from both sides, the raja knew he had what the English called the "trump card".

The vaults. And their secure location. He and his family would go, wait out the hostilities, and emerge once they got word of which way victory was bound to go.

The raja's youngest son was by then ten, nearly eleven, and considered himself a man in his own right. He was no longer the youngest son anymore, and had made his own plans.

When night fell on the appointed day, a long train of litters and pack animals set out, headed into the arms of the jungle. As the accounting of all the children had taken place at the outset, no one observed that younger son breaking away.

He scooped up his youngest twin siblings as he left. He made his way to a village, to meet a family he knew there; the parents of his dead friend. The twins were given into the care of the messenger boy's parents.

They had never learned what had truly happened to their son, but accepted the chubby toddlers into their household without question. Their older brother was taken into the head man's household.

There the boy tried to atone for his father's misdeeds through hard labour. He was content never to have known what befell the rest of his family, and they never came searching for him.

This was because they were all dead.

If one were to speak to their spirits, nothing could be learned of how they met their fates. It had happened so fast, blindingly, sickeningly fast. One moment, smiling upon carefully arranged piles of gold, the family's wealth.

The next, darkness, terror, oblivion. No bodies recovered. Their surviving children grew up without them, slowly forgetting their former life, to become completely meshed in with the new one.

Through the accumulation of years, hapless wanderers occasionally found themselves in the raja's vault, or tomb, however one might view it. They never exited.

And then the English came further into Bengal territory, blasting and slashing their way through its jungles. There was dark rich soil to be had in addition to all the other bounties of the region.

By then, the entrance to the vault had fallen in; collapsed under its own weight. The hillside in which it lay was razed, terraced, and planted with the ubiquitous tea plants, camellia sinensis.

Nothing ever grew in that one spot, however, where the raja's vault had been. Nothing could compel a plant to take root there; everything died, or crept to another location, spontaneously rooting further up the stem.

Tea plants were able to root from cuttings, so this was not viewed as particularly unusual. The shape of the area in which growth was not taking place was not seen as unusual either. It seemed as though it was just an amorphous, natural form.

Perhaps if anyone had been able to see it from above, they might have been more concerned. It bore the mark of old evil, something that probably only a priest would have recognized.

The plantation workers left it alone, without much curiosity. The Company representatives, who thought they owned the land at that time, were not much bothered by it either. Eventually, it was given up on entirely, and allowed to revert.

The raja was long forgotten. His gold was buried back in the arms of the earth, from whence it had come. The earth remembered though, and knew that there were more people on the way, looking for what was there. It trembled at such terrible things.
ॐ

They were on the right trail, Macconnach was certain of that. The closer they drew to the hills, the more he could feel the pulsating presence of whatever wickedness was still ahead of them.

He'd been regretting for several hours that Isabel Alderton and these other men were along for this journey. It had been a mistake to assume that this was merely about missing children. Something far more sinister was at work, so completely beyond what he'd encountered before.

He half considered telling Arpan to direct his men to compel Miss Alderton back to her father. He simply was not certain which was more lethal, her rage or what lay ahead.

Isabel had been remarkably silent for some time, except for shifting often in her saddle with suppressed groans. He sympathized with her on that account, his back was beginning to speak up and protest as well.

Probably he had not ridden so nearly as often as he ought. Bran was quite content on the other hand. The stallion cantered along as though he had endless reserves, and Macconnach reminded himself to slip something extra to the stable hands for their excellent care.

Miss Alderton's mount displayed the same stamina. As for the rest of the ponies, even down to Arpan's excellent filly, they were beginning to tire. He had to admit that they were still many hours away from a destination.

Perhaps it would be best to find shelter and rest. It was a dissatisfying waypoint in the beginning of a strange journey, but he could see no alternative.

Everyone gratefully collapsed on the ground, while the horses watered and fed. Macconnach suggested a private area for Isabel, but she pointedly ignored his overtures, rolling herself up tightly in a wool blanket.

He dared to peek over at her after some few moments. She appeared to have gone immediately to sleep. Just as well. He'd like to have a word with Arpan without her interruptions, for once. He made his way over to the other man, who seemed disinclined to sleep.

"It is a curious thing. Even so long away from life in the field; I can still feel like a young fool on my first watch."

"Indeed. I always think of the nights I had to bring in the sheep from the far grazing fields."

"You allowed your sheep to wander at night?"

"Ah, well, you know, the last wolf in Scotland was done in around 1680, so they say. Same for bears and any wild cats we once had. Easy enough to wipe out entire species on an island, don't you know...."

He was absurdly ashamed of this fact, though he couldn't say why. They were dangerous, wild creatures that had wreaked havoc on livestock for years, not to mention all the human attacks. Some part of him mourned the loss, however.

"You truly are the masters of all lands." Arpan did not bother to hide his sarcasm; he knew what kind of footing he was on with Macconnach.

"Please, do me the honor of not including me in the numbers of those who lay waste to the landscape."

"Hm, I have not yet been to Scotland. Is it much different than London and Southampton?"

"Surely you are not serious. There does not even begin to be a comparison. Except maybe Glasgow." Macconnach smiled, pulling a flask from his satchel. "Nowhere in England can produce this, for instance."

"What is it?"

"My family's art. Single malt, aged thirty years, this stuff. Laid the day I was born. My father thought it only fitting that I have a regular supply of it."

They each took a long pull, Macconnach once again savoring the slow burn and the aroma of his homeland that lingered behind. Arpan nodded appreciatively.

"Very fine. The duke was not a Scotch man of any note, but there were many in our group who were. It is certainly the best I have had."

"How did you come to be in Wellington's circle?"

"Ah, a long story, best made short. Wellington is a hard man, but he invariably rewards those whom he finds worthy. I was someone he saw in that light."

"Did you save his life, something like that?"

"He probably would have distanced himself from me if that had been the case. No, I think he appreciated my mind. Saw my worth before I did, for certain. I was an arrogant young officer when first we met, but I apparently impressed him enough to have him bring me along when he left to take on Boney."

"Did you ever see Bonaparte?"

"Only once, from afar. I was in signals and intelligence, you see."

Something clicked into place for Macconnach on learning that.

"Is that how you knew what I was?"

Arpan laughed, but said nothing.

Many of Macconnach's colleagues continued to work in that field, in spite of Grandy's dislike toward it. "You know that we are likely headed into something quite deadly. The closer we get, the more I feel the sense that we are being drawn...."

"Into a spider's trap? I have had that same feeling, although _I_ can only attribute it to the years I have spent in my field."

"We could divide the party up, send Miss Alderton in a safer direction with the other men." Macconnach felt he already knew the answer to such an idea.

"I think she would immediately see through that. What reason would you and I present for remaining together?"

"She is damnably clever, and horribly persistent, I grant you that." He scowled, while Arpan wagged a knowing finger his way.

"And you care for her. I can understand why you should want to keep her safe."

"I...no...that...no." Macconnach found himself tongue-tied, and sighed with no little aggravation. "Oh, very well. I don't know why, though. She despises me, won't hear a word I say, and is purely maddening."

"As I have some experience in the matter, I might posit that she is wrestling with her innermost thoughts, as you are. We are not afforded the choosing of the workings of our hearts. The gods may even only dabble in such things. I had an arranged match, you know, but I met an English girl, and found myself having to pay the bride price in order to free myself."

"You've a wife? Is she here?"

"No. She is in Cornwall, with our daughter. It will be some time before we can be together again." Arpan stared off into the night sky, thinking of the chilly days his children were existing in. They were a world apart.

Macconnach watched his companion with sympathy. It couldn't have been easy to make such a choice. He looked over at the slumbering form of Isabel Alderton. Nobody would mistake her for a lad in uniform right then, as the curve of her hip gave it all away.

He bit his lip in thought, as his mind warred between seeking a solution, and the desire to run his hand along that outline some six feet away. He took another swallow from his flask, but it didn't help.

He knew that Miss Alderton assumed he was like other men of his profession, with a long trail of debauchery in his past. She had spent too much time in that world to ignore the existence of the comings and goings of a certain type of female.

He just wished that she might apply some of her beloved logic and realize that not all men engaged in that sort of thing. He certainly never had. Grandy had been death on it, but Macconnach hadn't any interest to begin with.

His interests had always lain in finding the right young lady, eventually. There had never been any rush on his part. It was a matter of joke amongst his friends back home, especially as his brother seemed to have no end of offspring squirreled away in every corner of Britain.

Reggie Macconnach wasn't exactly a rogue, he never meant to leave ladies in an indelicate state. He just had the disposition of an actor or a poet. He was not the first man to behave that way. It was not handy for the first son of Kenneth Macconnach to behave so, however.

As Macconnach argued with himself, he heard Reggie's voice in his ear, rambling on some bit of Shakespeare, on the beauty of women. And he finally had a better understanding of his brother.

Isabel was only one woman though, a less than a fraction of Reggie's numbers, and so he only felt a fraction of understanding. He wished he could devise a reason to walk round the other side of the fire, so that he might look upon her face, but it was an idiotic idea. She would probably wake and throw stones at him.

What would it be like to lie next to a woman? He felt even more idiotic that he did not know. Thumping the flask into the dirt next to him, he pulled his jacket up over his head.

Sleep was evasive, but at least he wasn't sitting, staring at something he couldn't have. Arpan sat up on watch, smiling and looking up into the stars. He sent a prayer or two up into the heavens, and then fixed his gaze out into the quiet expanse that lay around them.

He could not be sure what dangers were in front of them, but he was beginning to perceive the presence that Macconnach had been tracking. Arpan did not know why, but he felt it pulling on him, telling him to go to the hills.

He was wanted.

ॐ

"General Sahib, the morning report." Abington was lingering over his breakfast chai.

"Thank you, Ranajit. How is it out there?" It was a question he asked out of habit every morning, even though the answer was fairly predictable. Spring was just beginning to settle itself firmly.

The heat and humidity would not fully blossom for another month or so. He imagined Macconnach's reaction to that information and smiled, but only for a moment.

Thinking of Isabel out in the wilds was enough to dampen his amusement. He had no doubts as to her safety. But he knew what anyone would think of him for allowing her to traipse off with no chaperone, in the company of only men.

Her reputation would suffer. That cost alone was what gave him pause. Otherwise, he trusted her implicitly, and the men who were with her were deserving of the same respect. Arpan had assured him that the character of all the other men who would be with him would be unimpeachable.

If society were but a little bit more advanced, Abington could envision his daughter living her life on her own terms, as she so desired. The only factor that might enable a young lady to do so, on society's current terms, was economy.

Many young ladies married very old gentlemen in the hopes of achieving just that end. Lord Abington was still as certain as ever that he desired no such fate for Isabel.

It did not alter the fact that some women found themselves with no other option, but Abington did have the means to prevent it for his daughter.

Isabel thought, most likely, that her father knew nothing of Alexander's business venture. He wondered from whence she thought her brother had gained his capital.

The shop in Paris was meant to be Alex's living, in order that Abington might make a more sizeable bequeath to Isabel. The whole of the inheritance system was still a grand mystery to Abington.

As it was unlikely to alter, he must do what he had to. Alex, to his credit, was all in favor. He would, after all, inherit his father's title, and the estate in Sussex.

Beyond that, between father and son, they had devised a means to settle as much property and earnings on Isabel as possible, and to protect the same from avaricious suitors.

If she ever got to a point of wanting to marry, that was. Abington had not told her any of this, and did not plan to unless and until she was on the brink of matrimony.

Call him diabolical, but he had the idea that she ought to decide to take on a husband in spite of the fear of no longer having control over her life. That's what it was all for, wasn't it? Stepping to the precipice, taking a deep breath, and letting go?

He blew out a long breath of air, and turned his attention to the morning's report. Predictable numbers, top to bottom, all present and accounted for...excepting one. Abington frowned. He'd never had anything but nil numbers in the "not present, not accounted for" column.

There was a slash-marked numeral one glaring back at him today. What on earth was happening? He had informed everyone as to Macconnach's absence, with approved explanation signed and dated by Abington himself.

Flipping through the few pages of notations, he promised to knock whomever had made this error soundly on the skull. The paper he sought out finally drifted into view, and he read quickly in order to go and vent his spleen as soon as possible.

What he discovered was not what he had been expecting, however, and he found himself slumped back in his seat after a moment or two. Captain Arras was the one who was unaccounted for. This was most irregular.

Arras. That strutting peacock of a man. He was a decent enough soldier, but there was something not quite on about him. Abington had learned that his father had been a guerilla fighter for Napoleon, for which the elder Arras' family had been stripped of lands and wealth.

Let the punishment suit the victor, and all that. Abington had tried to be sympathetic, but he'd sensed that there was something inherently untrustworthy about the man.

And now, the day after Macconnach and his daughter had departed, Arras was missing. It seemed anything but coincidental. He called Ranajit back into the room.

"Is your son knocking about?" He was grim, and Ranajit was immediately wary.

"You require his services?"

"I should think so. You may as well go with him." Abington could not formulate why he felt so ill at ease about this development; he only knew that Arras was a lethally valuable man to have on a battlefield. "You'll be tracking, Ranajit. This man."

He handed over the piece of paper. Ranajit narrowed his eyes, in part because he understood the general's seriousness, but also because he was beginning to have trouble seeing close up.

"You have told me before that this man was trained like a sneak thief?"

"In a manner of speaking, although at the time, I was referring to his speciousness as a cards opponent. I believe you may imagine that he was trained as a guerilla, as his father certainly was."

"Ah, yes, your English-not-English word. If I remember how you explained it, he will be difficult to pursue?"

"Not just difficult. Dangerous as well. Don't underestimate him. He may catch wind of you long before you find him out, unless you both exercise as much caution as he does."

Ranajit grinned at this idea.

"Ah, General, you forget who captured that tiger hide for you! Surely you do not think I would be standing here if I failed to be as deadly as that creature!"

"Just so, Ranajit, but humor my worries nonetheless. I should not care to lose you, nor your son."

"Might I ask what he has done? And what we are to do with him, once we have him?"

"Not sure what he might have done, other than to run off when he oughtn't. I should think you'll bring him right back here, to me, if that's possible."

"Very good, General Sahib. I shall make ready and leave as soon as possible. Are we to have ponies?"

"Of course. I very much doubt that Arras has left on foot, but you can find out easily enough from the stables what sort of mount he took." He dismissed Ranajit, and began to pace about.

He called for Roberts, who glumly took up the butler's duties, calling in turn for the housemaids. These quietly giggling girls cleared the breakfast room, while Abington took his pacing out into the open air of the gardens.

These were still overgrown and neglected from years of vacancy in the palace. The gardener was daily at war with vines and briars. First, with the patience one might expect from such a profession, later to be heard cursing. He had long since begun hacking away at plants with the long, bent kukri.

It was not a place of tranquility such as one might be accustomed to from an upbringing in the English countryside. Abington found it to be at least of place of seclusion, other than the sporadic sounds of outrage which erupted from time to time.

He could do nothing but wait at this point. The palace seemed to hang in suspense alongside him, and he found himself ruminating again over its fate. It had been abandoned for sixty or so years, but it was an otherwise perfectly usable, well-constructed piece of architecture.

Even more unfathomably, no-one in the vicinity seemed to know either what had caused it to become abandoned, nor able to recall the name of the raja.

The best Abington had been able to discern was that the raja had likely been involved somehow in the Mysore wars. Perhaps he had been killed with no issue. He strolled back into the study, staring at the door lintels which he'd had to have cut up a foot to accommodate not banging his head constantly.

Such a mystery was most consternating to a man such as Abington, who liked his world to have details, even if they were unusual. He barely noticed as the usual pile of correspondence and papers were brought in, and began sifting through them in a state of abstraction.

There were months-old newspapers from London, containing articles on the general decline of King William's health, speculation on his policies and what might become of them when power passed to his niece. Letters from friends, missives from on high, invitations from local peers, and only one caught his eye, from his wife's brother.

The very man. Without whom, Abington would not have Macconnach and an empty house at the moment. It was written in that man's own hand.

He wondered what his brother-in-law might have to say, as Sir Robert was usually loath to put pen to paper. He slit the envelope through its seal, and began to read.

Well. This was an interesting development. The letter from Robert had taken far less time to reach Abington than any of the newspapers. The King's health was far worse than he would even have known, had the papers been only a week or so old, however.

It was not generally known how close to death King William was, but Robert, being a senior minister in the government, had certain contacts. Succession was fixed, he said, full powers would pass to the Princess Royal, without regency.

Abington could not decide whether this was good news or not, trying to imagine his own daughter, at such a young age, with such an enormous responsibility. The princess would also be expected to marry, one might gather, perhaps against her will.

Robert anticipated a great deal of scrutiny directed at the RSI, for even without the regency in place, Lord Conroy had been stalking about all the ministry offices, demanding full accounts from all quarters.

Abington scowled. He'd met Conroy once or twice in London, and a bigger bully he could not imagine. It was widely hoped that the princess would send him from her household, thus removing his imagined influence.

Beyond that, it was difficult to envision how else the man might be curtailed. He seemed to be heretofore untouchable, in spite of every type of accusation thrown at him.

Abington did sincerely hope that the Institute would survive the change of regime, and that a new ruler, a queen no less, might continue to see its value. He laughed at himself over this thought, because no less than a year before, he hadn't even the faintest idea that the RSI existed.

What a strange series of events had brought him to this place. All begun with a solemn exchange of words while he and Alfred lingered in front of the fire after the funeral. The funeral.

For Abington, there was life before, and life after. Before, it was about family, duty, and propriety. He had his wife to thank for so many years of calm seas, a life of anticipation, comforting predictability, and gentle humor.

After was after. Nothing else could be the same, and so Abington had decided that it should not try to be. He was not the same man, and his wife was left in the cold embrace of England's soil. At this thought, he quickly blinked away tears, an unmanly yet unavoidable consequence of thinking too much.

After was meant to be a life of thought, of learning, of breaking with convention. Life was too short and too dear to spend it perpetually bowing to the whims of society.

He glanced over at the collected works of Horace and Ovid, neatly tucked away in a bookshelf that had only recently been mounted. The Romans and their perceptions of women, for instance, were often referred to in his club back home.

These fellows all seemed to want demure and dutiful wives. Then they complained of them endlessly, in that they had no interests, no intellect, on and on.

No, not for him. Adelaide had been her own singularity, her own style of woman, from her hobbies to her sense of fashion. She'd been a fiercely devoted mother and wife, and had poured her energies into helping others.

Abington wrestled on a daily basis with how best to honor her memory, how to preserve her legacy. He did feel that, through Robert's work, he might have a foundation, but there was much to live up to.
ॐ

They slept until the heat and light made it impossible to remain in that state. Isabel untangled herself from the blanket she'd been wound up in, unhappily noting how damp she continued to remain.

They breakfasted on jackfruit and cold rice, while the village men fussed over their chai preparations. There was copious argument over whose wife had the best chai masala mixture, when to add the milk, and how sweet it should be.

Arpan had to intervene finally, reminding them that there were still many miles ahead to ride. He tried to give the appearance of good humor as he concluded by telling them that his grandmother's masala was the best.

Macconnach could see how worn the other man looked.

"Are you well? You're looking a little peaky this morning."

Arpan looked wearily over Macconnach's way.

"I don't believe I got more than a few winks, you might say. Strange, really, I ought to be used to sleeping and eating in the Spartan style."

"By that you mean in Lord Wellington's service, I presume?"

Arpan chuckled.

"Indeed I do. I take it you've heard of his minimalist tendencies?"

"That I have. One might call it the stuff of legend. What do you suppose is troubling you at the moment?" Macconnach eyed the last of his rice unhappily. He strongly desired a fish or even a small amount of bacon.

"I am not entirely certain. The most curious sense of dread has settled on me, so that when I close my eyes, rest does not come, or as it did once or twice, I was awakened immediately by nightmares."

"Most unpleasant. I have the same feeling that you speak of, although I think I may say that by now, I am more equipped to cope with it. You had not mentioned that you were 'sensitive', however."

"Yes, well, that might be due to the fact that I really do not believe myself to be. Whatever I am feeling currently is the first such instance I can ever recall. I call it extraordinary."

"I see. Well, in that case, I might offer an explanation."

"I should be glad to hear it."

"You see, there is a touch of what some call the inner eye in most of us. For the largest percentage of people, they never realize it, because nothing ever triggers it. My mentor is of the opinion that many of us with fully evidenced powers required a precipitating event in order to be fully open, rather than latent. I tend to agree with him, as everyone I've ever spoken with has had some such event take place in their life."

"Have you?"

"Is not my presence here evidence of that? I must say that I would think it more likely that Miss Alderton would be the more likely candidate, after last night. Though, I get the feeling that you might have a bit of a story you've not yet shared with us."

Macconnach stared Arpan in the eye, not entirely certain what he might hear, convinced nonetheless that there was some detail to be offered that would shed light on their quest. Arpan sighed deeply, though he was willing to share the tale.

"I cannot be confident in all the details, not completely, but the fact is that there is a connection between my father's family and the palace in which General Abington has taken to be the heart of your new fortress."

"I do not think I follow your meaning."

"Do you not? Likely that is due to your only becoming aware of our troubles rather recently. We in the village know that, almost to the day, our village began to suffer as soon as the English troops settled in to occupy the palace and its grounds. And thus began the rumors that someone in your ranks must be the source of the problems. Nobody could blame Miss Alderton, nor you, because you both arrived after all these incidents began. Until we made Miss Alderton's acquaintance, there were many who thought it possible that the general might have given orders to harass us."

"But Colonel, you served with English troops, surely you never would have thought that?" Isabel had entered the conversation in a typically sideways fashion. She looked tired and disheveled, but was gratified to see that everyone else seemed to be in similar condition.

"Oh, Miss Alderton, you do yourself no credit. I have seen the very worst of the most elevated of men, and the best of the lowest, 'tis true, but I think we all know that every range exists within the ranks and commissions. I had no direct knowledge of your father, if that is where your disbelief lies. He could easily have been a minor dictator, or a complete saint."

"And what opinion do you now hold?" Her jaw was set in a heated fashion. Macconnach bit his lip, knowing that she would never forgive his laughing at her. She was strangely, sweetly attractive in the full bloom of fury, he thought to himself for not the first time.

"Miss Alderton, I think you can safely presume that I have settled on a favorable view of him, and nearly everyone else there. Your father is one of the finer officers I have had the good fortune to become associated with."

Isabel relaxed, though a high color lingered admirably on her cheeks for some time.

"You were saying something, I think, regarding the palace and your family."

"My father's family, yes. You see, from what I know, my great-grandfather lived there. He was a young man when he came to the village, bringing two other children with him. The head man took my great-grandfather in, because he had only daughters, and saw some quality in the boy. The eldest daughter married him, and he became the head man."

"So, you are descended from one of the last occupants of the palace?"

"I believe so. He never would speak of it, what he had done there, who he was, none of it. Supposedly, the two younger children were high-born, at least, that is what was said, because they often spoke of the things they missed from home. My great-grandfather finally forbade they speak of their old home anymore, when the twins were old enough to listen and obey."

"But surely, the people in the village would have known who he and the children were anyway. Why would an entire populace keep a secret like that, unless it pertained to something so terrible that...." Isabel and Macconnach looked at one another with a swift dawning of comprehension.

"What did happen to the palace occupants?"

"It was never spoken of. Even visiting the grounds was discouraged. We were told that it was haunted by demons, as children. When I grew older, I thought that the stories were the usual means of parents instilling obedience and fear in their children. Now, I question that. Perhaps the stories were true. I never saw a single soul set foot on those grounds, in spite of what possibilities might lie there. Certainly, there were stories of abandoned riches, and I often fantasized about the manuscripts that must have rotted away there. But I never went. No-one ever went."

"Arpan, what if...what if your great-grandfather was the only survivor, with the children, I mean, of some evil event? Something like what is happening now?"

"This is the notion that I too have arrived at. And I wonder whether those children perhaps belonged to the royal family that lived there. But, from all that I have been able to learn, it is as though one day, the raja and his family existed, and the next, were gone into nothingness."

"I do not think I like the implications of that scenario."

"Nor, Miss Alderton, do I."

"No, it does not bode well for the work that I must undertake. I'm sorry, Miss Alderton, I was not going to speak out, but I think it is possible that the time has arrived for you to return to your father." Macconnach was as serious as he could be. Isabel reignited into fury.

"Certainly not! You cannot think that just because that creature leapt onto me that I am in more danger than anyone else here?"

"Why must you argue this? It isn't a game. We may face death as a matter of course. I could never forgive myself, that is to say, that your father would never forgive me bringing you into known danger."

"Oh, well, we can't upset the general, can we? But I ask you this, Major, why should we assume that being back at the palace is any safer now than being here? How can any place be safe, until some resolution is brought about? Perhaps you might be more reassured of my safety if you can keep me in your sights."

Isabel said this through gritted teeth and swallowed past the strange lump in her throat. She was somewhat rewarded by the sight of Macconnach flushing, however faintly.

"I am afraid that I tend to agree with Miss Alderton at this point. Perhaps there is no safe quarter until you have met this enemy on its field of battle." Arpan looked over at the men from his village ruefully.

"I might remind you that nothing has happened yet at the palace. That is the only particular I can think of that does not agree with either of your theories."

"The palace is a large area, the grounds even larger. We have hundreds of men milling about. Something could very well be going on, escaping our notice, if no reports were made. Beyond that, all the attacks were made against children and animals. We've no children at the palace."

Not yet, anyhow. She was thinking of one sergeant's wife, who was due to give birth any day. The child would have to remain in God's hands for now. Macconnach was clearly not satisfied with what had just transpired, but he was in no position to argue.

Short of taking Isabel back himself, he would have to accept her continued presence. She certainly was not going back of her own volition. He threw up his hands, and set about making ready to depart their little campsite.

As he did so, he thought over what he had seen and perceived thus far. Perhaps Isabel had hit upon something unintentionally when she'd mentioned that only animals and children had been harmed.

He wondered whether it meant that the entity was not yet powerful enough to confront human males, or if that merely indicated its preferred victims. It had dispatched a creature to harm Isabel, or had it?

Perhaps the thing had been with them all along, and only Isabel's attempt to sense the unseen had triggered the attack. Macconnach tried to imagine Colonel Grandy's thoughts on the matter, but heard nothing.

_Strange_ , he thought, _one could always rely on the Voice of Grandy in one's thoughts_. It was all silence here. At least, he hoped it was merely the location, and not a sign that some ill had befallen his mentor.

He made the decision for himself, that Isabel had likely been the impetus for the discovery of their inhuman spy. He could only regret that she might have come to harm through his own encouragement that she dally in forces beyond her understanding.

He looked over at her as she futilely tried to wash up before the next leg of the journey. There were indeed great purplish marks on her neck; he began to understand her reluctance to return to the palace. She would hardly be able to hide those bruises.

For now, she was supposed to be traveling to join the ball season in Calcutta, and there would likely be no questions regarding her absence. Macconnach was not certain which destination he liked less for her, though.

It was either that she would be facing wickedness and danger of an unnatural sort, or the same of a human sort. Balls abroad were typically glutted with men on the prowl for wives. Isabel would have been one of a very small number of eligible women.

He tried to deny to himself that he was jealous, but it was no good. Every time he looked at her now, he could only see her as he had first seen her, lit with the fires of passion, even if that passion had not been for him.

His breath had caught in his chest then, as it had just a moment or two ago, when she had been set to defend her father's honor.

When next he looked over at her, he found her inspecting the little pistol her father had given her. She handled it with care, aiming it only in a direction where there was nobody standing or sitting.

Macconnach watched her for a few moments, smiling, until he thought to go and advise her before Arpan took the chance.

ॐ

Arpan watched Macconnach walk over, and rolled his eyes. Some fellows were unutterably slow to action. Such inertia from a man who had reacted with lightning speed to a threat! Of course, he was a Scot, a people with whom Arpan had no experience. He supposed they could all be this way.

ॐ

"I'd almost forgot that I promised to give you a little instruction."

"That you had promised my father, I think you mean."

"If you'd rather I not, I shan't trouble you." He turned to go, but Isabel relented.

"No, no, it's all right. I suppose you must find me as prickly as a hedgehog."

"Perhaps only so much as a holly tree."

"Oh, well, that's better, then. I suppose if you're to teach me anything, you'd better get to it, before they all get bored with arguing over their tea."

"I find their arguing to be rather reminiscent of home. All the old women in my village used to have a yearly baking competition, but never get around to picking a victor, as they spent too much time shouting at one another."

"Sounds charming." Another affirmation as to why she ought not to lead a life of domesticity.

"Yes, well, it was a bit of entertainment in an otherwise quiet life. Now, as to your lesson. You must first learn to stand."

"I am standing."

"Ah, no." He arranged himself into a firing posture. "As so." As he was left-handed, he put his right foot forward, left foot to the rear, and perpendicular.

Drawing up his rifle, she noticed, in a lovely fluid fashion, he quickly loaded it. Then, he brought it to his shoulder, and fired in one swift series of movement.

Just as quickly, he upended the rifle, tapped the muzzle on his boot, reversed it, plunged the bore brush down, and backed that out. He pulled out a ball, a patch, and the powder horn.

"Now, you fill the powder, and ram the ball." He smiled magnanimously, held out the rifle, and waited.

Isabel looked at him uncertainly. She took it from him, and poured powder for the count she'd always observed the men doing. Quickly, not too much, try not to spill.

She fiddled over wrapping the patch around the ball and settling it in the muzzle before taking the ramrod from Macconnach. He'd been twirling it while she fumbled, but handed it over once she was ready for it.

This was the moment when all could conspire to make her look the fool, of course, if she knocked everything loose. Or she could accidentally fire it, and send the ramrod into the trees. Or worse, into one of the men milling about.

"Take a breath. A rifle is about as useful as throwing a seagull at the enemy, if you get yourself completely out of sorts."

"You would know about throwing birds, then, would you?"

"Just take your breath." As he instructed, she then complied. "Good, now let it out, and when you've let all your air out, you fire. Aiming first, of course."

"What else?"

"That's all. That's all that training involves. You have first to learn your weapon, before you attempt to be like those men you've seen going for three or four shots per minute. Every rifle has its own personality and quirks. Fail to learn them, and it will fail you."

He was serious, but far more patient with her than any sergeant she'd ever observed at his duty. They enjoyed screaming their orders, as if to be heard back in England

from India.

"You must have had younger siblings."

"Just sisters. They never wanted to learn a thing from me either, so you might say I've had my practice."

Isabel gave him a withering sneer, and shouldered the rifle as she had seen him do. It weighed far more than she was prepared for, though, and she staggered backwards for a moment.

"No, no, I'm quite alright. Let me make my mistakes, Major."

He raised his hands in mock defeat, and stood back. Arpan and the rest of the village men were immediately observant, and Isabel felt self-conscious.

She tried to think of his instructions, taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, after sighting on a dead tree some ten yards off.

She squeezed the trigger as hard as she could, sure that she would make a frightful mess of the whole affair. The next thing, she heard clapping, and felt a hand on her shoulder.

"You could open your eyes now, Miss Alderton. And well done, I congratulate you. It takes most men at least a few weeks to fire as well as that."

She opened her eyes, feeling a bit foolish. She hadn't even realized she had closed them.

"Yes, well, most men haven't spent as much time as I have, spying on the troops, as you pointed out."

"I'm sorry about that. I thought you were...well, never mind what I thought. Your attention to detail bears out that you did learn. Though I begin to understand why your mother took away your spyglass."

He winked at her as she felt a heated reply die on her lips. "That sort of aim would give pause to anyone. You have the makings of an excellent sniper."

Isabel frowned as she looked at the tree more carefully. There, dead center, she could see the diminutive hole from her ball round.

"Could be beginner's luck."

"Could be, but I saw the look in your eye. I've no doubt that if you were properly trained, you could knock out a hawk's eye as it flew past."

"I think I'll save the rounds for something a little more threatening than a hawk. Do you suppose they'll have much effect on those creatures? The vetalas, I mean?"

"I can hardly say at this point. It did seem to be physically vulnerable, so we might all keep ourselves at the ready. I've my own rifle, so you can ride with the other one, but keep that pistol primed as well. A long barrel will do no good at all if another one leaps on you."

"Pardon me, Major, but I rather think you mean when, not if. You know, I often wished I could do as men do, as I am doing right now, I suppose. But I never thought to wonder over the precepts of courage or fear. How does one face the prospect of death on the battlefield, I wonder?"

ॐ

"As at war with the enemy, one is often at war with oneself. Having ridden into the fray once or twice myself, I can assure you that even the most gallant soldier faces this struggle. Bravery is finding the ability to keep moving forward in the face of fear." Arpan said this as he eyed Isabel's shot in the tree trunk. Finally, he felt as though he comprehended Abington's confidence in sending his daughter on this journey.

"I suppose I never thought about it that way. Thank-you Colonel."

"The major was quite right, you know. That is what I would certainly call a deadly aim." Arpan smiled at them both, and walked back to his men. "We shall ride a bit ahead, Major, if you would be so kind as to give us the correct bearing."

Macconnach seemed a bit confused, but did as asked. Arpan told them not to rush, with a twinkle in his eye. Whatever was out there would still be waiting.

ॐ

"I wonder what that was all about. He can't think it very proper to leave you without a chaperone."

"If my father had wanted me to have a chaperone, he would have put my ladies' maid into this party as well. I note that he intended to send her off to Calcutta, however. The safe assumption is that my father's faith in you must be complete."

"Perhaps he should not give me so much credit." He regretted his words immediately. Isabel had not missed them, either. She stood blinking at him owlishly.

"Whatver can you mean? You are not to be trusted?"

"Forget I said anything."

"No, I shan't. Explain yourself, please."

"I don't know that you would wish me to do so."

"Tell me!" He took a step toward her, uncertainly. How could he even begin to speak his mind? Besides, she was still technically armed.

"You do not make it an easy thing to be in your company."

She frowned, and turned her back to him.

"I am sorry. You ought to have noticed before now that I am not the model of femininity. Perhaps I oughtn't have come along on this, I know you certainly think so, but I'll be dashed if I sit back and do embroidery while I could be helping."

Macconnach took a few steps nearer, finally touching her on her shoulder, as he had after her successful shot.

"That was not what I meant." He turned her around. She was perplexed, but only for a moment, as he took her hand, and placed it on his heart. "You're a bit of a distraction, that's all."

"I've heard worse about myself, I suppose."

"Do stop being flippant."

"And what happens when I do? I've not negotiated this sort of territory before."

"I told you that I was not to be trusted."

"Now who's being flippant?!"

He silenced her with a gentle kiss, the shock of which she felt run from her burning cheeks, down to her toes. It was the most staggering moment of her life to that point. She had not known that such sensations were possible, nor what untold realms would be opened with only a kiss.

With that kiss, her father's grief took on new depths of understanding. Major Macconnach himself seemed taller and more handsome all at once. She found herself entertaining a desire to be held in his arms, to feel him against her, to touch him.

These things were not possible, however. Her honor would forever be trampled if she were to give in to those thoughts, while his would probably grow. It was horribly unfair. He seemed to realize this as well, and backed up.

"I do apologize, Miss Alderton."

"No, it is I who should be sorry. I've been a perfect beast to you, and yet, you seem to have only seen my qualities."

"There you are mistaken. Having high regard for someone means that you try to accept their flaws, and not mind them. Of course, I shouldn't mind if you decided to stop insulting me."

"I shall try."

"I was only joking."

"I know. Perhaps I do myself a disservice by being so unpleasant to my peers, however. Goodness, my mother must be dancing with the angels. I don't know why I do it, though. Perhaps it's because my father wasn't born a peer. I tend to assume the ones who were won't accept me, I suppose."

They saddled their horses as they talked, trying to exhale away the new awkwardness between them.

"He was given title?"

"Oh yes, he had to win it. He's from an old family, one that used to be titled in the progeniture, but they lost it all, ages ago. Some ghastly scandal, and the estate was broken, the land given away. The only good thing about it all is that he has no entail, and my brother can run away and never take the title, if he chooses not to."

"And what about you? Would you run away?"

"I don't know. There's not much out there for a woman in my position. Believe me, I've considered the options. I could marry some decrepit old fool and live out the merrie widow scheme. Or go and be a spinster with my brother. It's simply depressing that there is no allowance for a woman to have any true occupation."

"Being somebody's wife does not interest you?"

"I cannot say. Nobody of interest has ever asked." Isabel winced into the sunshine as she mounted Lizzie. She nudged her steed, cantering away at a steady pace. Macconnach was left behind for a moment, and tried to steel himself.

"Steady on. We've a job to do, a dangerous one. 'Distractions lead to destruction.'" The last was Grandy's personal favorite motto. The old colonel was a devoted bachelor, and had often extolled the virtues of same to all his trainees.

Nothing to be used against you, nobody to leave wondering, and every evening brings its own pleasures. At once time, Macconnach had agreed with him, but no longer.

Grandy had simply never discovered the notion that a woman could be an equal. Macconnach nudged Bran into a quick trot to close the gap, hoping that sunset would not be long off.
ॐ

Arras lowered his glass. Always, he discovered new and valuable things when he exercised caution and patience. Even if this venture did not pay in the sense that he hoped for, he now had more than enough to press the major with.

The general's daughter, her reputation at stake, oh yes, he would certainly get what he needed. One small kiss had seen to that. Arras wondered how Macconnach could be so foolish, though he could see the allure of it.

Miss Alderton was a very handsome prize indeed. She might even pass for a native of his own country, and for a few minutes, Arras mulled over the idea of demanding her hand as part of payment.

It had its merits, even if she was a shrew who had only ever dismissed him coldly, but once a woman was a wife, she could be tamed. And tamed she would be, if he had her.

He tucked his glass back into his waist and kicked the English nag into motion again. The horse flinched, but began to walk on resignedly. There was nothing to be gained by defying this rider, she had learned. At least, not yet.
ॐ

They covered far more ground than Macconnach could have hoped for. The horses seemed to have renewed strength after their reluctance of the night before, moving with a speed that seemed to indicate that they too were being drawn inexorably toward some as yet unknown end.

The hills began to rise up all around them, as to lose all sense that the earth was ever flat. Tea plantations stretched out in all directions, and in the late day heat, he thought could detect the faint but familiar scent of its leaves.

Jagged remnants of worn off peaks dotted the landscape erratically, as if to draw the eye deliberately upward to the distant peaks of the Himalayas. It was a lush sight, heady, almost. Macconnach wondered where in the midst of all this such a dark entity could exist. Death was a complete paradox to the verdant life around them.

It was still an hour or two away from sunset, and far more difficult for Macconnach to bring his powers to bear. He'd never been certain of the reasons for this, except that during the daylight hours, it was as though there was always an interference, some sort of background noise.

Once night fell, all the humming and buzzing of the living silenced into sleep. This was his only working theory; that mortal thoughts crowded his own.

Grandy had been interested in this phenomenon, had wanted Macconnach to try and see if he could focus in and hear one voice at a time. It had never worked. In fact, the only outcome of trying to focus in that manner had been headaches which had lasted for days.

He let out a deep breath that he hadn't known he was holding back. Somewhere very nearby was their goal. He no longer had any hope of finding either child alive, as he had thought at the outset.

Ripples of the evil washed over him now and again, growing closer and stronger. Nightfall would certainly lead him right to it, but on its terms, not his...or theirs. He looked ahead to his companions, and over at Isabel.

Here was a time when it would be better, perhaps, for the weapons of old. Swords and knives, instead of rifles and one small pistol. The men from the village were far better equipped for a fight.

He wished he'd brought his dagger at least, or even his officer's sword. He could almost feel his ancestors' ghosts shaking their heads in disappointment at him. Perhaps they were. No, the only solution was to find the source before dark.

"You are deep in thought."

"Merely theorizing, Miss Alderton."

"What about?"

"The possibilities of exploiting an advantage."

"One would think that an advantage would need to present itself, first."

"The very problem I was caught on the hooks of."

She looked round at the scenery. How peaceful and perfect it seemed, as if they were looking at a lovely painting of a fancy, rather than something real. She frowned. It was perfect.

Not a flaw anywhere in sight. There were no plantation workers anywhere to be seen here, but every tea leaf was a tiny jewel on each plant. Not a single imperfection. Why were there no workers? She squinted toward the sun, calculating that it must be only just the hour when the workday might be ending.

"Does it not strike you as odd that there are no tea pickers here, when these plants are budding, and ready for harvest and pruning?"

Macconnach looked at her thoughtfully.

"I confess that I had not thought of this, being unfamiliar as I am with tea growing. Colonel, would you think that there would still be workers here this time of day?"

Arpan also looked to the sun, and pursed his lips.

"I would think that, yes. Every plantation is run differently, but I am given to understand that most of them try to operate during all the hours of light, especially in the springtime." He looked down at the plants, and frowned. "I think that these plants are a little bit ahead of a normal growing schedule. They should be just ready in May, not this early."

They all dismounted and began to look more carefully at the plants, Macconnach thinking to observe signs of recent human activity upon them.

"I think you must be right, Colonel. These are flowering. I cannot think that I ever remember seeing tea flowers in January." Isabel bent closer to smell the tiny blossom, and gasped.

As they watched, all the little flowers began to close up and shrink back into buds. Minute popping noises emanated everywhere as the plants, which had been laden with the little white blooms, suddenly were naught but green. "What on earth!" She looked to Macconnach.

"I think we have found the place we need to be." They looked at one another, and then down to the ground beneath their feet.

The village men quickly climbed back on their ponies, looking as if they expected an attack at any moment. Colonel Arpan and Isabel still kept their gaze on Macconnach expectantly. "Not yet. I think that was, perhaps, a demonstration."

"But how odd that was." Isabel looked out over the vast expanse of greenery. "I should have thought that a creature of death would have continued in its desire to cause death." She crouched next to the plants, fingering the buds that were now tight, and covered with the thin green shell that protects delicate petals before they open.

As she spoke, she was aware of an abrupt shift in the air surrounding the plants. She stood as the flowers opened once more, rapidly, almost too swiftly to see the process take place.

Just as quickly, they all faded, turning brown, and dropped off the plants. The village men cried out, speaking all at once to Arpan, who tried to calm them. Macconnach scooped up a handful of dead flowers, which promptly turned to dust in his hands.

"I suppose they want to leave."

"Indeed, Major. I think that they might have expected something that falls within our understanding, and the stories we have all grown up on."

"What one might call the 'usual' demon, which is always defeated by a worthy hero?"

"I see your childhood was not dissimilar to ours. Yes, we all grew up hearing stories of gods and goddesses doing battle with wicked foes. This," he gestured at the tea plants, "is perhaps more unusual and disturbing than those tales of glory."

"Perhaps it would be best for them to pull back and wait for us."

"As you say, Major. Perhaps it would be." Arpan turned and spoke to his men. They protested feebly, but finally handed over a sword to Macconnach, one of the lathi spears to Isabel, and turned to ride away with their three horses in tow.

It was decided that they would ride to the southeast, slightly off-track from whence they had come. About a mile away was a hill high enough for them to stop on and watch with Isabel's spyglass for signs that the coming battle was done.

Arpan watched for a moment before turning back to look at the dead flowers covering the ground. Macconnach looked to Isabel.

"You can go with them." He held an even tone, Isabel looked sharply at him.

"Not, 'you must go with them'?" She smiled. "That is progress, I must say."

"One last time to ask, one last chance for you to take your leave before night falls and we face whatever we face."

"I shall face it with you." They stared at one another. "Where do you suppose this creature resides? Underground, I suppose."

"Your father may have my head for this."

"Not to worry, Major. If we come out of this in one piece, I shall attest, as will Miss Alderton, that we had little choice in the matter. As we did take note, perhaps the safer place for her right now is by our side."

"No, I cannot completely agree. She would be safer with those village men who are now riding away." He flung out his hand in the direction which they had just ridden, and turned to look out of reflex. "Where are they?"

Arpan whirled to look as well, giving a strangled cry when he saw all the ponies and horses wandering free, their riders nowhere to be seen.

Isabel squinted into the distance, clapping a hand over her mouth. In between the light and shadows of the slowly setting sun, a glistening could be seen on the haunches of the ponies.
ॐ

Arras had left his nag tied to a tree, and was coming up behind Macconnach and the others on foot. He could see them stopped, looking at all the wretched plants around them. He spit on the tea leaves.

Coffee was his preferred beverage, in the Moorish fashion, preferably with a nice healthy dose of liqueur poured in. Tea was yet another English fashion that he refused to adopt.

He stayed low as they spoke amongst themselves, regretting that he was too far away to hear them clearly. And then, the moment he had been waiting for arrived. The larger portion of their party split off, taking all the animals with them.

He smiled and checked his rifle. Ready and loaded. All that remained was for him to wait for them pass him by, and then he would go and follow Macconnach. He concealed himself thoroughly, and waited, counting silently.

Some minutes later, he had heard nothing of a large party riding by, in spite of having seen them headed directly for him. Arras gingerly withdrew from his hide, and checked.

Perhaps they had changed direction? No. He stood up, behind an outcropping, and watched as all the horses and ponies trotted around aimlessly. He felt his mouth go dry. One of the ponies saw him, and came close, trembling uncontrollably. It was covered in blood.
ॐ

"Where did they go?" Arpan cried out again, and began to run toward the horses. Macconnach caught him up quickly, and held him back.

"We must not. The only way to leave now is to see this to its end. We must destroy this entity in order to live." He was grim, and held tightly onto the sword he'd been given. Isabel paled.

"Do you mean to say that we have trapped ourselves in the spider's web? We were lured here?"

"I'm afraid so. I should have anticipated such wickedness."

The three of them turned to look at one another, trying to fend off despair. Isabel felt a current of fear coursing through her, and reached down to pluck a handful of leaves.

"You know, it's the oddest thing. I would have sworn to it that this whole hillside was bare when I was looking at it yesterday. I suppose I just thought I'd been tricked by the light, but I am almost certain there were no plants...." She crushed the leaves between her fingers, smelling them as she did.

The scent was that of falseness, as though created by someone who had gotten a whiff of tea once, from a great distance. "They are an illusion of some kind. They are not real."

"Part of the spider's web, I'd imagine." Once again, they felt the presence of a change in the air, as if something was watching and smiling upon them maliciously.

The many thousands of tea plants burst into flame all around them, extinguishing just as instantly. It left behind nothing but grassy hillside. It was as though nothing else had ever grown there.

ॐ

As Macconnach looked down at the grass, he noticed that it was of a rough variety, the kind that would only grow in the most barren soils. Other than that, there was no life. No insects, no ants, not even a small snake slithering by.

Even the birds in the air seemed to fly only on the edges of the area in which they now stood. Macconnach wanted to knock himself in the head for his stupidity. They had been drawn into this trap, with no awareness, and no resistance.

It was as though his powers had been blunted somehow, long enough to miss any warning signals that the danger was under their feet.

"Major, I should think we have only an hour or more until nightfall. May we assume that any attack will wait until that moment?" Isabel looked pale behind the firm set of her jaw.

"I've no true idea, Miss Alderton. Perhaps we ought to take a few moments to think, and rest. Maybe partake of something to eat."

"We all would benefit from partaking. Yourself included. I cannot think that you would do better without sustenance." They looked over at Arpan, who had taken to praying, silently; his eyes closed. "What a tragedy for their village. If only we had known." She blinked away tears.

"The fault is mine alone. I should have known."

"How were you to know? Pardon me for saying so; I think that to be a lot of rot."

"You needn't patronize me."

"Oh, good lord. Major Macconnach, you do have a mercurial temperament. For your own sake, and for ours, please spare us self-pity, and ready for battle." She took hold of his jacket lapels, and shook him gently but firmly.

It was a needed measure. At the hour of confrontation, doubt had no place, and would only serve the enemy. He looked down at her, as she stared earnestly into his eyes.

Arpan had finished his prayers and was about to join them. He coughed self-consciously and turned away, wishing that he could smile. Any joy of the moment was wiped away by uncertainty and fear.

"Promise me one thing, then."

"Name it and I shall but endeavour to see it done."

"If the moment comes, and it may; in order to destroy our foe I may face my own death. You must promise to flee, and live."

"My will may break at such a moment. I do not know that I wish to continue in quite the manner that I have, much less without such a person as yourself." An awkward silence flooded the air between them.

"I...that is to say, bother." The collar of his shirt felt tight. He looked into her face, which was still pale and freckled, her eyes burning with fervor, her mouth set becomingly.

All at once, Macconnach understood why her father had let her go with them. He saw in her a strength that had survived repeated attempts to be tamed and turned into demure femininity. Isabel would be wasted on most men.

She needed an equal. Abington had hoped to set her free by finding her that equal. Should he be insulted that he had been selected for that end? That everything Abington was set to give him might be pinned to marrying his daughter? It was a question for some other time. For now, he had other things to worry over.
ॐ

Arras crept up, slowly, silently. He could not be certain what had befallen the men who had been riding away. There had been no sound of rifle fire, and he had seen no bodies as he'd crossed the distance between himself and Macconnach.

It cast a tangle of uncertainty over his plans, though not enough to dissuade him from proceeding. It was, to his mind, merely a case of greed turned to murder. That Macconnach and the girl would take part in such things was what muddied the waters.

Arras decided that he would have to be much more on his guard, and wished that he had taken the time to cultivate one of the enlisted men. If for nothing else, at least he would have had someone to take the first blows on his behalf.

The odds were at least more in his favor, with the other five men gone. Macconnach was the only real threat. The girl would be no trouble, and the native man was probably as soft as all the others Arras had met in Bengal. He would deal with the native first.
ॐ

"What is it?" She was surveying him apprehensively, thinking that perhaps he had sensed the beginnings of an attack.

"No, it isn't that. I think we've a bit of time before our enemy makes itself known."

"Then what?"

"I was only thinking of your father."

"Not that again! We mustn't be bothered about that right now."

"No, I don't mean to imply that. Has he ever told you his hopes for you, or how your future is meant to be secured?"

"Major, I do not know that now is the time for such a conversation."

"I get the distinct impression from him that he would far prefer to see you live as freely as any man."

Isabel paused in the midst of forming some quick retort. This was what she had been running away from, as soon as she had turned fifteen. More than seven years later, she had not stopped, not reconsidered, not allowed for any alternative.

With what result, she wondered? Just shy of turning twenty-three, she had easily forgone plans for the ball season. Her vision of the future had always worn blinders, ignoring any and all suitors with ruthless ignorance. Alex had once joked to her that anyone with serious intent would need to engage in guerrilla warfare. Perhaps that was what she was currently facing.

"You have been privy to my father's thoughts on his daughter, have you?"

"I have, because he now faces the second half of his life, and has seen his wife taken cruelly from him. He does not wish the same fate for you."

"You do not know of what you speak. You never knew my mother!"
ॐ

Arras could hear them arguing. Just as well. It would be far easier to take them by surprise if they were distracted. He paid little attention to what they said. Didn't matter, really, as long as they were willing to keep talking and tell him where the gold was.

It would be gold. That he was convinced of. These Hindus were all but obsessed with the stuff. He'd seen a wedding in Calcutta, the bride must have had thirty pounds of gold on her.

It was a wondrous thought. The lost treasure of the lost raja. He would be on his way back home by dawn, the girl with him. He smiled inwardly at the thought of setting sail, and bidding farewell to this wretched land forever.

Forward, forward, forward. His mind began to glitter with possibilities.

ॐ

Perhaps. Perhaps there was no fruit to be borne in talking to her this way. She was of an uncommonly defiant nature. Macconnach sighed.

Arpan was still pretending to hear nothing, pacing around on the lookout for danger, one would imagine. Isabel stood across from Macconnach, her fists clenched, cheeks flushed. He resolved to try one last time.

ॐ

Arras rose up behind the native man, arm raised to strike as he came to his full height. Just as he straightened, his toes lost their purchase, and he slipped a fraction before righting himself.

It was a tiny noise, a slight crunch of dirt and stone, surely not enough to raise an alarm, but no; the other man began to turn. Arras panicked and struck too early; a blow glanced off his arm, and he met nothing but air. He howled in pain and fury, and lunged forward.

ॐ

Macconnach saw the first exchange from the corner of his eye. Isabel only heard the angry sound of someone in pain; they turned together to see Arpan struggling with someone who was quite human.

"Is that not that one of my father's men?"

"It is. A Spanish officer. I beg your pardon." He hefted up his rifle in favor of the sword, and rushed over to Arpan.

One solid blow of the rifle's butt staggered the Spaniard, and sent him to his knees. Macconnach then leveled the barrel of the rifle on the other man's cheek.

"Captain Arras, if I am not mistook." Arras spat on the ground at Macconnach's feet. "I shall take that as an affirmative. Colonel, you are not injured, I hope."

At that, Arras started, and rolled his eyes over to Arpan in some measure of shock.

"Just a scratch, Major. I believe the captain may require a bandage, however."

"I need nothing from you," Arras hissed. "I wonder whether the general gave you orders to commit murder in his name, though." He smiled as though he had every reason to. Macconnach stared at him in utter amazement.

"I have no thoughts of depriving you of your life, Arras. I only wish to know why you are here." The smile faded from Arras' face. He looked at the three of them, and swore in his native tongue.

"You mean to defy me, then. Very well. Tell me where it is, and I shall try to leave Miss Alderton's honor intact."

Isabel pushed past the two men to Arras.

"I daresay I heard you wrong. Would you care to repeat yourself?"

"Where is it?!? You greedy English pigs! How dare you!"

That was enough for all of them, but Isabel reached him first, and kicked him soundly in the jaw. Arpan gently reeled her back away from Arras, but not before he scrabbled at them both, and came to his feet holding one of the kukri knives they'd been carrying.

"You tell me, and I will go." He was raving.

"Tell you what, you fool?"

"The gold!!!" He screamed this, now fully over the edge into pain-filled rage. Again, he was met with silent incredulity. Doubt began to creep in, but he was not yet ready to surrender. "Why else, then? Why did you ride out here with the natives, all in secret? Everyone knows that the raja of that cursed palace must have buried his treasure out here somewhere!"

He took some few steps backwards. The sun caught his eyes as it sparkled on the horizon one last brief moment, and then it winked its sleepy eye into slumber. He blinked, and stumbled a few more steps back.

"Captain, you have us all wrong." Arpan began to speak, trying for a soothing tone, but Arras bared his teeth and snarled,

"You, whatever you are, silence yourself!"

"Arras, you are speaking to a member of Lord General Wellington's staff. You might do well to silence yourself."

There was a dangerous edge to Macconnach's voice now, one Isabel had not yet had occasion to hear. This was the final straw for Arras. He could feel the ground turning to sand beneath him, and all his plans slipped away.

No, it wasn't just despair, he realized, and looked down. His feet had disappeared under a layer of silt, and he could feel himself sinking further.

"Help me!"

"I see. First demands for gold, now pleas for help. You shall be quite lucky if the general doesn't see you hanged."

"Major! Look at his legs!" Isabel pointed, and Macconnach saw. The Spaniard was up to his ankles in the dirt.

"Is it quicksand?"

"In the hills? Good grief! No, there must be a cave, or a sinkhole. Quickly, get hold of him!" He was by then trapped up to his shins, then his thighs. They all tugged on him to no avail.

"I can feel something. It is pulling...." In a thrice, he was gone. Isabel cried out, breathing raggedly. Arpan drew his sword.

"The hour is here." Macconnach closed his eyes for a moment. "Be on guard. I sense its approach."

"I would feel a little better about this if it were not just three of us, facing an unspecified danger."

"Colonel, I thank you for counting me in your number, and I cannot but agree." Isabel picked up the kukri that Arras had dropped, and drew out her little pistol.

They stood back to back, waiting, feeling the breathless anticipation that is the companion of dread. A few moments later, a rustling sounded downhill and caught their attention.

ॐ

They all tensed, ready for the unknown. Isabel could feel a sickening weight shifting from her chest into her belly. She was not certain whether she could face all this.

Idly, she wondered if every soldier felt such wrenching fear before battle. The noise grew louder, and she gritted her teeth. She would have to live long enough to ask some of them. Two forms sprang from the brush.

"Ranajit! What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"Miss Isabel, your father sent me. He found that one of his men had seemed to follow after you, and wished us to track that man."

"If you mean Captain Arras, you're too late." Macconnach pointed to the spot which had swallowed the Spaniard up. Ranajit frowned.

"Major sahib, I do not understand."

"I'm afraid we've not the time to explain. Suffice to say, we're not to worry about Arras. There may be far worse trials ahead." Macconnach put his hand on Ranajit's shoulder. "I'm sorry that you've walked into this. We tried to send the village men off to safety, but we seem to be trapped here. Is this your son?"

The younger man nodded, and took a step forward.

"I am. We will stand and fight with you, whatever enemy you face."

Macconnach smiled grimly at him.

"Would that we knew what we are about to face. You make take fright, and wish to flee, but I caution you against it."

Father and son looked at one another uncertainly.

"As you say, Major sahib. The general will not be best pleased by any of this."

"I shall take full responsibility."

Isabel and Arpan began to argue with him on this point, but Macconnach held up his hand. "Shall we save our debate? We would do well to make ready instead."

Isabel was not sure how much more making ready her nerves might stand. It felt a bit like being told to stand still to wait for a boulder to smash down on oneself.

"Major," she started, but he fixed his eyes upon her with regret and took her hand for a brief moment. The physical contact had the same immediate effect as a cooling stream in hot weather. She swallowed and nodded.

"Not long now. When it comes, fight what you can see, leave the rest to me."

With that, silence fell, but for their shallow breathing. After a few more moments, Isabel could feel the hairs on her arms begin to raise, and the air grew steadily colder.

"Stand your ground!" It came as an order; not one of them shifted. Macconnach looked up to the sky, and closed his eyes. Isabel could see his fingers clenched tightly around the sword he'd picked back up.

His knuckles were so white they glowed in a darkness which seemed preternatural, a living thing. As he tilted his head back, he began to speak in a low voice, words of some other tongue, completely foreign to Isabel's ears.

The wind picked up, as it had the other night when he had dispatched the vetala. She concluded that he must be calling for aid again, and shuddered to think of banshees coming down out of the sky. What would her father think of this? Would she ever see him again?

A piercing shriek shattered the quiet, and stretched across the distance for what felt like an eternity. It was similar to the cries of the golden jackal, to which she was well-accustomed.

Instead of the usual comforting feeling she'd always drawn from their yips and howls, however, this only brought dread. Ranajit shouted, pointing to the north. The moon was in its new phase; only the light of the Dog Star gave them any glimpse of what was to come.

Spread out across the hillside, they could see movement, creeping and unnatural. These were the rhythms of the dead. Isabel realized that the cries were emanating from some of these creatures, as they slunk across the ground.

A smell of decay reached them, filling the air. She held tightly onto the long, curved knife, and scanned the ground in every direction.

They were only coming from the direction which had seen the Spaniard pulled down into the earth. That might be a blessing, if any were to be had in this hour. Ranajit and his son were steeled, waiting for the moment of attack.

Isabel looked upon him, her father's butler, a servant who had once been a soldier. She had grown up with him by her side, his son a playmate.

He had bandaged knees, sneaked sweets, and secretly taught her things about India that even her father didn't know. She would not forgive herself if they both did not come back with her.

The air had grown cold enough that they could see their breath. Macconnach was the only one of them not shivering, but he seemed to be in some other realm than they were, still speaking quietly in his unknown language.

Arpan was the first to engage one of the creatures, as it came to the top of a rise, it leapt off toward him. Isabel could see that it had been an animal at some time. In the faint light, she saw patches of hide still intact, their orange and black stripes faded.

This creature that had once been a tiger snarled as it flew, Arpan responding in kind, swinging his sabre cleanly through it. The snarl faded into silence as it crumbled into dust.

Startled, they laughed for a brief moment, until seeing how close the rest of the creatures had drawn. They were of all different species: wild dogs, jackals, hyenas, tigers, caracals, wild boar, foxes, gibbons, and elephants. The dogs were the most plentiful, and they darted into the fray like the trained opportunists they had been in life.

Their fur hung in ragged clumps off their skeletons, and yet they came in to do violence as if they were fully of flesh. By some unspoken agreement, the four of them surrounded Macconnach, and fought the creatures as they struck.

Isabel found that it was far easier to destroy the creatures than she might have thought, for they were mindless, following only some mass command. She was not bothered by doing them harm, either.

There was no blood, only sickening crunches of bone and rot. Dust and animal screams filled the air for some time, until their attack dwindled, and a lull settled. The break in the action lasted only a few moments, until the ground began to rumble beneath their feet.

A fissure opened in the spot that had swallowed Arras, widening and expanding until it seemed to resemble the entrance to a cave.

Isabel could see that it looked manmade; her mind flew unbidden to the stories of the lost raja and his supposed treasure vault. Something told her that they were likely seeing that very thing.

"Perhaps we now have some inkling as to the end of the raja and his family." She swallowed past the horror of the thought. A dull glow began to show from inside the cave.

"It drew us here. It wishes to consume." Macconnach had ceased his chanting, and was focused on the cave entrance. More creatures were on the move, from out the mouth of the fissure.

These were, or had once been, human. Their flesh was partially mummified. Tattered remnants of clothing hung from them, their eyes were empty, yet burning with some appalling fire.

They cried out in tongueless rage. Isabel could feel her resolve wavering, but she gripped her knife tightly again, refusing to allow her feet to move.

"Consume what? Us?" She thought about the missing boy and the baby, the mutilated animals. It had been a carefully designed lure, she realized. One that would catch the attention of someone like Major Macconnach. "You. It wants you, doesn't it?"

"It will take all of us, but yes, I think it has wanted me all along." A rumbling sounded again; this time it sounded distinctly like nothing so much as the earlier laughter, fiendish and malevolent. "I stand by what I said earlier. If you can, leave me to it, and go back to your father."

"No!"

"Miss Alderton is correct. We shall not abandon you to your death. Besides, Major, I think now that it drew me here as well."

"What do you mean, Colonel?"

"I am the last of the line of the lost raja." The new host of creatures drew near; they all poised to fight. "I am sorry. I should have said something earlier, but I have never before uttered those words."

All at once, the creatures flew toward them, screaming and clawing. Isabel could see once they were closer that there were men, women, and children. She dropped her spear and concentrated on slashing at the pressing throng.

All the others were similarly engaged; the numbers of the walking dead seemed endless as she let fly the knife again and again. This was much more unhappy a task, and she found herself weeping freely as she cut through what had once been children when they leapt at her.

They were reduced through their enchantment, to something much more primal. She was reminded by them of langurs, the street monkeys which would jump on unsuspecting passersby to rob them of food and trinkets.

ॐ

Next to her, Arpan was facing his own crisis of conscience. He had known who he was, had known for some time. He never would have been a member of Lord Wellington's staff without knowing his noble lineage. These creatures he now set about destroying, they were the bones of his ancestors.

He had learned what circumstances had driven his great-grandfather to leave the palace and family. A young boy with a broken heart had had enough of cruelty. When Arpan had found his great-grandfather's letters, beneath a loose stone inside their house, he'd finally understood.

Shame had driven the raja's son away and saved him from a terrible fate. Likewise, shame had kept Arpan from ever speaking of what he'd discovered. It had driven him away from his village, into military service, and out of India.

Away from his home, the tale of the raja's family had blinked out of existence. It had been only too easy to forget them. Once he had come back, so too had the memories of the misdeeds of his forebears.

The only question now was whether he had been called by them, or by the same entity whose desire was to take Macconnach for its own. Little by little, he and Abington's manservant beat back the creatures, the vetala which were the possessed dead.

Perhaps he was meant to give them their eternal rest, he decided. He had been called to free them from their enslavement. It was the only duty he owed them, for they had paid on their own sins many times over. This thought drove him forward, as he let fly his sword as a liberator.

Clouds of dust erupted as each vetala was destroyed, but it seemed that there was an endless supply of them. All the workers that had cut out the vault from the earth, all the family and household, the guards, and unfortunates who might have stumbled over the place through the passing years.

He whirled, hacking and slashing, until he came face to face with a lad whose death had not yet robbed him of all his features. His young cousin. Arpan choked back a sob, and tried not to look for the baby girl from the village.

"I release you."

He cut the boy down, reminding himself that it was a mercy. A fresh surge of vetala washed toward them, a tide in advance of something far worse. Reverberating and metallic crashing sounded nearer and nearer from the mouth of the cave; the creatures became frantic in their assault.

ॐ

Ranajit parried heartily with his spear, feeling his age creak through his bones with every blow landed. He would gladly fight until the end, if only he could be sure that his son would return home unharmed.

One of the creatures got in close to him, and dug its fingers deep into the flesh of his arm. Ranajit gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out, and tore the creature's skull from its body. The bony fingers remained, until he turned and smashed the rest of the torso into dust. Blood poured from the wound, and a strange odor rose to his nostrils, but he ignored it and kept swinging the heavy lathi spear.

"Father! You are wounded!" Ranajit's son rushed to his side.

"Look to yourself. We are far from safety!"

ॐ

With a rush of old air, such as made them choke and cough, all the dust was scoured away. The remaining creatures turned as one, and scattered in front of what Macconnach could only assume was their master.

It was not an entity with form, as he had sometimes met, but an insubstantial, swirling, a gaping maw from which nothing could escape.

In its center was something like hellfire and undulating rows of gnashing and tarnished teeth. Macconnach raised his hand, preparing for what he had accepted might be his final battle. The vetala howled shrilly; Macconnach looked up again.

"Now, my sisters," He said in Gaelic, and the skies clouded over. Lightning flashed brilliantly against the backdrop of grey and white, claps of thunder following shortly behind. He knew he asked greatly of his kin on this occasion.

They would probably hold it in debt against him, should he live to repay it. He breathed in the air deeply, and strode toward the monster. It laughed pitilessly, and in the single beat of a heart, he was surrounded by it.

ॐ

"No!!!!" Isabel made to run to Macconnach. Arpan held her back, as she fought and struggled to break free.

"He will face it alone. We cannot aid him in this battle."

She sobbed, feeling for all the world as if she had just lost a part of herself. It was the worst pain she could remember, surpassing even that of watching her mother slip away. Ranajit came round to face her, and took her face into his hands.

"I think that this is not so. Your heart has finally come alive. Let it open; he may draw strength from you."

Isabel nearly protested, still caught on the hooks of not wanting to surrender. Finally, she nodded, and turned away. It hardly seemed possible that she could have arrived at such a place, after only having met the man such a short time ago.

Somehow, he had found his way through her defenses. She wondered whether it was the same for him. Perhaps that was why he had persisted in trying to send her back at every turn.

She looked over at the inky cloud that had enveloped Macconnach. The winds still howled around them, lightning crackled. Surely that must mean he was still alive.

Arpan had turned his attention back to the vetala, destroying them with a ferocity she hadn't imagined he'd had within him. She had heard him speak to one of them, though, and felt that she understood his passion.

These poor souls had been suborned to a selfish, evil end. Destroying them was the greatest mercy that could be done. She looked at the knife still in her hand, and joined Arpan.

With each swing of her arm, she focused on thoughts of devotion and affection, for her father, her brother, her mother, and finally, for a man who had found his way through the labyrinth of her heart.

Perhaps that was the only freedom she would ever know in this unfair, unbalanced world. She would not give it up easily, she realized. Until the bitter end, she would fight with her heart, not against it.

ॐ

Macconnach felt the entity wrap its tendrils around him, as it sought to feed from him. He cursed himself for not comprehending earlier that its intentions were thus. It must have sensed him, as he had sensed it, that first night in the village.

Perhaps until then it had only been trying to sustain itself with randomly taken victims. After sixty years of feeding from the hundreds it had once lured in, it was reduced to an emptied boa constrictor. It wanted one large feeding that could nourish it for some time.

Macconnach could provide that, with his energies that extended beyond the natural realm. Why had Grandy never warned him of such a fiend? Perhaps the old man had never encountered one....

He worked to re-center his mind, to draw in his sisters. He could feel his life beginning to trickle away, and with it, his thoughts began to swim.

A pinpoint of light fixed in the distance, growing gradually brighter and larger. He could no longer hear his sisters, who had briefly been by his side. Were they being consumed as well?

Was that even possible? He determined to see the entity's destruction as he himself would be destroyed. It was all that was left.

ॐ

The vetala were now but dust. Cold silence was all that remained of them. Isabel turned back to the roiling blackness of the entity which had Macconnach in its grasp.

She could not say what it must be; only that it seemed to draw every ounce of light, heat, and matter into itself. It was terrible to behold, the very manifestation of malignance.

It was a destroyer of worlds. She blinked. Why did that seem so memorable? The wicked destroyer, an ancient attribute of...whom?

"Ranajit."

"Miss Isabel?"

"What are the two halves of Shiva?" He stared at her, uncomprehending, until she pointed at the entity.

"Ah, yes. Two aspects. You _were_ listening to my stories. I always thought your brother was the only one paying attention. I think you mean Rudra-Siva. These are the old faces of Shiva, meaning the balance between light and dark, life and death, creation and end. There is also the far more terrible face of Shiva, the Bhairava, which is annihilation."

"But, I recall you saying that even the worst aspect of Shiva had its counterpart."

"Yes. I have already tried to tell you what it is this night."

"How can I help? Compared to its will, I am nothing. Major Macconnach is the one who combats monsters, not I."

"And yet, you have heard him say that his dominion is death. He needs something to anchor him in life. He needs you."

Isabel could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She turned her eyes back to the entity, and knew what she must do. She must be swift.

"Please, Ranajit, if the worst befalls us, promise me you will go back and let my father know. Let him know that I am at peace."

He smiled sadly, and took her hand for a brief moment, as he had done so many times when she'd been a child. As he let go, she dropped her knife, pulled out the pistol and let it fall, and began to run toward the swirling cloud, which would surely obliterate her.

She could hear Colonel Arpan's protest, as she herself had cried out after Macconnach. Another step took her to the edge of darkness; she raised her hand to test its surface. A few shaky breaths, and she closed her eyes, stepping into it.

There was nothing. Nothing and everything. She wanted to scream as she felt her physical existence being torn at. She ignored it, looking ahead, trying desperately to find Macconnach.

She thought she could see him, from what seemed a distance of miles away. He was on his knees, arms raised. Still fighting? It was difficult to discern.

Courage found its way back into her, and she stoked it like a glowing coal. It pressed on her heart, which ached and protested, but it knew it too must burst into flame. She struggled against her inertia and began to walk toward him.

ॐ

Macconnach was finding it difficult to think coherently. The monster was pulling and clawing at him. It was grueling to keep up his calls, to fend off the attack. The light, however, had suddenly flared, and began to come closer.

He gritted his teeth, working to forestall death once more. And yet death seemed to keep progressing nearer and nearer. It was enough to bring tears of frustration springing forth.

Perhaps, perhaps once he had been willing to die in the line of his duty. No longer. He knew the reason why, and half-wished it were not so, even as he clung to it. It was only Isabel who had kept him persevering against these terrible odds.

If he died, she would move on and live without him. But if they both lived? What then? He opened his mouth and expended his final bit of energy on one last call, up to his sisters. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he fell to the ground, and watched as the light drew ever nearer.

ॐ

Isabel saw him fall, and began to run. She focused her will onto him that he might live and keep up the fight. After what seemed an eternity, she began to close in. Echoes of pitiless mirth flayed at her as the Bhairava anticipated its kill; she disregarded it and pressed on.

The significance of her own mission moved her feet more quickly than she ever could have imagined, until at last she was by his side. His eyelids flickered; he raised his hand as if to shield himself.

ॐ

The light was upon him. He tried to fend it off, not yet ready to accept his fate, when it reached down to him and spoke in a familiar voice.

"Pray, do not surrender just yet."

He squinted, fearing a deceit, and stretched his arm out to her. She held her hand to his, and began to pull on him. "You must rise, and finish this."

"I cannot. I have not the strength left. Why did you come? You will surely die as well." Grief swelled and threatened to overtake him.

"Then we shall die together. I think we shall not, though." He clambered to his feet as she continued to pull on him. He felt weak and spent, swaying unsteadily as he tried to stand.

Isabel reached up and took his face in her hands. Her eyes were lit with those fires he had been imagining for weeks, but this time, it was for him. His breath caught in his chest.

"I bring my strength to yours." She stood on her toes, and kissed him, gently.

He could feel an immediate rush of new vitality, though he was not certain whether it was from Isabel, or something else. His sisters? He did not know, except that the theory could be tested.

He put his arms around her, lifting her up. It was enough; a fire began to embrace them both, a living fire that raced away from them, lashing back at the entity.

They heard it howl in fury, and felt a shuddering as it began to splinter. Isabel held to him more tightly, staring into his eyes, as he watched her with tentative hope.

"I have been unkind to you as I warred against myself. I know now that I love you, and that you must not yield." The tears that she had tried to hold back ran freely again.

Macconnach touched them in wonderment. It hardly seemed possible that this was the same woman with whom he had only recently been sparring.

"I shan't. Would it be ungentlemanly to admit that I feel the same?"

"Probably. I rather think that nobody will have overheard you, however."

"How did you know that this would have any effect? What a mad gamble...." They looked up together, the night sky was visible in tiny slivers.

"I had some help in sorting it out. After that, I could only trust in myself to find you." He nodded, and set her down.

ॐ

One last kiss. They then held one another's hand to face the final confrontation with the entity.

ॐ

"It is a creature of annihilation, destruction, death. A Bhairava. That is why I came. I had the only alternative to it." She smiled, still feeling the powerful sensation of that animate blaze issuing forth from them.

"We shall defeat it together." He felt her hand in his, her body close by, as he closed his eyes one final time. "Push back at it: focus your thoughts, and push as hard as you can. I shall do the same."

"I shall."

A brief silence fell once more. Then she could see the fire still burning around them as it grew ever larger. The Bhairava intensified its shrieking. It began to writhe and crumble.

It reached in to try to strike at them, but Isabel paid no heed to her fear. She held onto Macconnach more tightly. It took all her strength to press back, and she felt faintly ridiculous as she realized she had no idea what she was really doing.

"It does not matter. Allow your instincts to guide you, as they brought you to me."

She hadn't said a word, but there he was, answering her thoughts. Had he always been able to do that? His strength returning, he grinned at her.

"Not precisely. It's much clearer now that I am touching you. Now focus!" She obeyed, and they felt a ripple of energy pass through them. An instant later, the fabric of the Bhairava began to shred completely in a powerful explosion.

ॐ

They were thrown apart, the flames died away, all was dark once more. Isabel felt dirt and stone beneath her, and began to cry and laugh with relief.

"Miss Alderton? Major? Are you there?" It was raining. The thunder and lightning had subsided, but the winds were still wild, buffeting against her as she tried to stand.

"I am here." She spoke, hearing Macconnach's voice at the same time as her own, saying much the same thing. Ranajit was immediately at her side, laughing as well, even though he was soaked to the bone.

"You have done it, Miss Isabel. You followed your heart, to the end of the world and back."

"I had better think we were in the end of all things. I've never imagined anything quite like that, Ranajit, even after all your tales."

He helped her to her feet, that same cheerfully smug expression on his face all the while.

"What was there?"

"Only the road to oblivion. It was paved with death, with all the souls that had been consumed through the years."

Ranajit nodded in satisfaction.

"Then I think you have truly freed them. Their remains were freed from slavery, their souls from eternal torment."

"Yes, I suppose so."

He smiled at her as if he had always expected this outcome. Arpan and Ranajit's son walked over, allowing Macconnach to lean on them. He looked even weaker than he had before.

Isabel thought of the two days' ride back to the fort, wincing when she thought of the horses' having run away. They would have to make their way to a plantation somewhere nearby, and try to purchase at least one animal for Macconnach to ride.

"And to think you thought me a charlatan only a few days ago." He chuckled, holding his side painfully.

"Are you wounded?" She rushed to his side, lifting his hand away from his ribs. Blood seeped through at frightening rate. "Oh, God."

"Do not worry yourself. My kin never had a chance to intervene earlier. They must have known your intent and allowed it to proceed." He lifted his hand up. Lightning flashed, a single streak across the sky to Macconnach.

A current of glowing electrical energy trailed down his arm. At the same time, Isabel saw a movement off to her side, and looked quickly to it. A spectral woman stood some short distance away, beckoning to Isabel.

She walked over. This must be one of the sisters to which Macconnach had referred. For all the stories of banshees she'd ever heard, this creature was no more than a girl, an innocent given over to the heraldry of death.

"You brought him back." It was a statement, rather than a question. The girl's face was wreathed with something between gratitude and grief. "He will not be an easy companion, we warn you of this."

"I am not afraid."

"Return to thy home, then, and be with him. Our ward of protection will only extend so far. Your strength will be needed again." The banshee pointed to the east. "Take thee thy horses. See to thy father."

She faded; a faint trail leading up to the sky marked her retreat. Isabel looked to the east as the storm began to fade. The horses and ponies walked up a rise, their heads bobbing as they moved. She finally smiled, water streaming down her face, and the heat pressed back in. The battle was ended.
ॐ

Three days later, a bedraggled party rode into the slowly growing fortress. In their absence, bulwarks had been set, cut from some unfortunate aged timber. Isabel looked up at their riblike presence as she trotted by on

Lizzie, feeling a sense of grief at the loss of such longevity.

Perhaps these trees had been alive when the raja and his family had first been taken by the Bhairava. Now these trees would forever be a part of the structure of this place.

She declined to hide her identity as they arrived, determining that everyone within these walls would know soon enough where she had been. Possibly they would be swayed by a tale of the major having rescued her on her way to Calcutta.

She did not particularly care at present. Her father would have to see to the details. They had ridden through exhaustion, allowing their animals to take sustenance as often as wanted.

They were all filthy, and in need of a week's worth of sleep. The palace was in sight, and though she now knew its unhappy history, thanks to Colonel Arpan, she felt that her only desire was to find her bed within it.

Ranajit and his son were given leave to depart to their own home. General Abington gave his old companion and servant the sort effusive thanks which his countrymen would surely have frowned upon. Isabel looked up on her father, seeing no further age or worry having settled over his features since she had been gone.

She wondered whether she still looked the same, or whether she had outwardly aged as much as she felt she had inwardly. Arpan shook her father's hand heartily, if not with some tinge of heartache, and set back for his village with the ill news he had to impart.

"Would that I could soften the blow for him." Abington turned to Isabel, surveying her general state of dishevelment. "At some future moment, you shall have to explain exactly what happened. I rather thought you'd arrive back here with some bedraggled children, not be one of the bedraggled."

"The children were dead before we left to find them, but we couldn't have known that."

"What a terrible thing. We shall have to do our best to aid them in the face of so much loss. You say all five men vanished as well?"

Isabelle looked at her father mournfully. Would she ever be able to adequately put into words what had happened? That something of such horrifying proportions could exist right under the noses of hundreds, perhaps thousands of people?

It had robbed lives for years, invisibly, never arousing suspicions. The only reason for its defeat, perhaps, lay in its greedy desire for Macconnach.

"Yes, Papa. I hardly know how to explain it. I've no clue how the colonel will do so."

Abington drew his daughter closer in order to embrace her. He could never know how close she had come to death. She would not tell him; she had extracted promises from Macconnach, Ranajit, his son, and Colonel Arpan that they would remain silent.

Instead, she smiled up at him. "Suffice to say, the major has acquitted himself admirably. We need have no further concerns."

"That is a rather good piece of news." He caught a light in her eyes that he had never before noticed. "You seem much more kindly disposed toward our good major." Isabel's eyes flashed and strayed over Macconnach's way before she replied.

"I think you might say that your machinations have come to fruition, Papa." Abington's eyebrows shot up. He contained himself, barely, as he fought down a smile.

"I've not the faintest idea to what you could be referring. You both are in dire need of cleaning up, however, and a meal is in order as well. Get on with you!"

Isabel rolled her eyes and headed to her rooms with appalled maids following closely behind.

ॐ

Abington examined Macconnach closely for a moment or two, taking close note of his torn clothing.

"Major, I thank you for delivering my daughter back safely."

"I rather think it is the other way round, my lord. I would not be here but for her."

"And yet, you seem to have won her regard."

"She mine, as well. We have come to...an understanding, I think."

"We will have more to speak of on that regard, Major. For now, see to yourself, and come to dinner tonight."

"By your leave, General." Macconnach bowed and sought out Smithson, whose eyes widened in horror at the state of his major.

ॐ

Never mind, he thought. He'd been assigned to this man, knowing all the peculiar things that could come along with the billet. This was surely not going to be the last instance of the man looking as though he'd been chewed on by a pack of wild dogs. Life in the Army, wasn't it a delight?
ॐ

As on water's surface, when a wave begins, it spreads, and spawns new ripples as it travels. Macconnach could feel the unpleasant reality of this as he walked to his tent, while Smithson was telling him that he'd already begun moving their things into the palace.

All across the countryside, as the ripple of his and Isabel's encounter with the Bhairava travelled, it bounced off various other presences. Some of these had slumbered for generations, others had long been at work, and would remain so. The destruction of such a powerful entity was a warning, a calling card, an awakening.

When the ripple finally died out, many forms of consciousness had turned toward the Bengal Presidency. Macconnach was known. But he was wanting to be understood.

He looked out across the horizon toward the setting sun, and felt the new current. It was not a reassuring sensation. Isabel should not have to live in this world with him. He looked up to the shuttered windows of her rooms, feeling heavy-hearted. He knew what he had to do.

ॐ
_If you enjoyed thistale of adventure, please visit amazon for more titles in the series!_
