“What have you got there, Connor?” Liam inquired breathlessly, having heard his kinsman’s yell and come running. 

At that, the sodden, bedraggled, and bleeding woman coughed and sputtered. Connor rolled her over and held her as she weakly spewed whatever remained of the contents of her belly and lungs. 

“The roadway crumbled as we warned it would,” Connor explained darkly.

“Aye,” Liam acknowledged, casting a critical eye over the dirt and rock shifted by the landslide. A good portion of the hillside was lost beneath the water. “I’ll set up signs to warn drivers.” He paused and looked at Connor with a critical eye. “Are you all right?”

“I’m hard to kill,” Connor replied, his tone almost bleak.

“You’d be dead if the monster hadn’t taken a fancy to you,” Liam commented acidly. “I saw it push you to the shore.” He paused again and then asked, “Why didn’t the monster eat her?”

“Because the Saorach claimed her first.”

Liam turned his face toward the glassy, nearly black surface of the water and pursed his lips. The loch was a living thing, something scientists dismissed as fanciful. But many of the old ways still lived that far north, many of the old spirits and gods and magicks had not retreated in the face of Christianity. Indeed, many of them had made their peace with the Roman Catholic Church, which more readily accepted their strangeness than did the less inclusive Protestant traditions.

“I’ll send a message to Moira,” Liam said.

“She probably knows already,” Connor replied as he made sure his rescue was breathing freely. She was not conscious, something for which she should be grateful. The darkening goose egg above her right eye and the bleeding above and behind her left ear gave silent testimony that she’d been knocked violently about inside that car. He wondered what broken bones she endured.

Ah, well, it was not to be helped just then, for he needed to get her to the house where his great nephew’s grandmother could care for her until Moira came to work her healing magic. Besides, he was thoroughly chilled and miserable.

​He swam around the monster’s lithe, snakelike neck and grabbed a bit of cloth. Lungs burning, he needed air—desperately. The lake monster stilled and fixed a bushel basket sized eye upon him and the barely discernible body he grasped. 

Connor’s own eyes narrowed and he sent a warning to the monster to leave well enough alone.

Do fola liom éileamh, ionúin Saorach. The claim rang clearly through his mind, vibrated through his flesh. He remembered those words from long ago and knew they were not for him that time. He gasped, sucking in a lungful of water. And his vision began to burn as much as his lungs. 

The loch’s oldest and most enduring resident dropped the mangled vehicle from its toothy jaws and snaked a head beneath them. With casually brute strength, the monster lifted them to the surface and pushed them to the shore. With a snort, the ancient beast cast a baleful glance at the puny man and woman and sank back into the dark, cold depths. 

Connor heaved air, coughed, vomited water, and sucked in another breath. He rolled over the plump, middle aged woman and pressed against her to expel the loch’s water from her lungs. The water was tinged red and he began to tremble. He turned her over, tilted her head back, and covered her mouth with his, pushing air from his lungs into hers. He breathed for them both, then took a moment to arrange his hands over her sternum and pump several times rhythmically. In the periphery of his vision, he saw the water dragon’s head rise partially from the water and then sink once again. 

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Suzanne looked at me, her expression steady and giving nothing away. I understood that going or staying was my choice. She would not interfere with my decision.

I averted my gaze and whispered, “No.”

“I’m under orders, Mrs. Vermont.”

Suzanne’s hand settled over mine, warm over my cold flesh. Her touch gave me strength. I repeated my answer in a hoarse voice, “No.”

“Mr. Vermont will not be pleased.”

I shuddered, knowing that the punishment he’d mete out would be beyond anything I’d ever suffered for prior defiance. Slowly, I stood and raised my skirt, exposing the dark bruises and welts on my upper thighs as well as haute couture silk panties. I heard the hiss of indrawn breath behind me. The reverend had come home, followed by his mother.

“Brutality offends the Lord!” Reverend Blankenship shouted. He glowered at Gordon and pointed one thick finger at him. “Begone, minion of Satan! Begone from God’s house!”

Gordon’s cold eyes flared with some strong emotion—or perhaps it was just annoyance. He nodded, turned on his heel, and departed. I released my skirt and let the heavy fabric fall back into place.

Rev. Blankenship held my gaze as he seated himself at the table and his wife brought him a slice of pie and a glass of cold milk. He took a bite then said, “Your husband’s a powerful man, Mrs. Vermont.”

I nodded.

“This won’t be easy.”

I nodded again.

“Howard, you could lose your position over this,” his mother hissed.

Struck by the consequences the reverend and his family were likely to suffer for supporting my bid for freedom, I turned to leave.

“A shepherd cares for his flock and rescues those that are lost,” he intoned. “As Jesus Christ saved the world, I can do nothing less than save one of my flock.”

I trembled, unsure whether to stay or go. A pair of warm hands settled on my shoulders and gently turned me around. I looked into the soft smile of Suzanne Blankenship’s kindness.

“No woman should bear marks like that. You’re staying with us.”

​My fragile control shattered and I collapsed into her arms, weeping as though my heart had broken. As though something else had broken inside me, I felt liquid warmth soak my panties and run down my legs. Suzanne gasped. I looked down. Blood trickled over the expensive leather of my shoe.