Free Night of the Highland Dragon by Isabel Cooper Page A

speaking. “Could be an eagle.”
    â€œFor lambs, Da, aye,” Finlay had said, “but she were a full-grown ewe.”
    Finlay Very Senior had snorted. “Ye’re no’ blind, lad, and I didna’ used to be. The ones we’ve seen flying could take a ewe if they wanted—or a cow.”
    The conversation had faded behind William as he followed the child. “Have you ever seen an eagle?” he’d asked her.
    She’d grinned up at him, two gaps in her mouth where new teeth would soon grow. “Flying, aye, plenty. Granda’s right. They’re huge .”
    â€œAh,” he’d said. “Should you be worried, coming out here?”
    Amy had shaken her head, pigtails flying like wings. “They never come closer. Scared of people, Da says.”
    Then, William had thought, either her father was wrong or her grandfather was—or something had changed. There might be a natural explanation. Although wild creatures might start acting oddly for many reasons, and not all of those reasons had to do with the material world.
    â€œThis is it,” Amy had said, pausing by the bloody patch of grass. “They wouldna’ let me see her. But she’s been cut up already. For the dogs,” she’d added with a farm child’s unflappability toward gore. “So they’ll have a good dinner, aye?”
    â€œIll winds and so forth, yes,” he’d said. “Get home safe now.”
    He’d watched her figure vanish into the distance.
    The trees provided him some shelter, but using the chains required considerable privacy if he wasn’t going to be run out of the village as a madman. Finlay had mentioned dinner, and it was about that time, which would give him a window, if only a small one.
    William wasn’t really sure that the process would work. Even when he’d first heard of the killing, he’d been doubtful. Human death, especially when there was magic involved, could linger on a landscape for days. Animal death lasted hours, if that. Magic might make the imprint last a little longer—he hoped so—but it was far from certain, and from what he’d heard, whatever killed the ewe had done it during the night.
    He reached into his satchel. His hand had closed around the first link of the silver chain when he heard the footsteps behind him.
    Spinning around to face the new arrival, he kept one hand still on the chain—silver was good against unnatural things, and links of heavy chain could give natural ones pause—and reached with the other for the revolver in his coat pocket.
    Of course he found himself looking into Lady MacAlasdair’s eyes.
    This time, their color made him think not of emeralds but of deep water: dark, green, and deadly cold. Her body mirrored his, alert and tensed to spring at a moment’s notice. Although her hands were empty, William thought that the results might be painful for him regardless.
    She was the first one to break the silence. “Perspective.” The word came slowly, the r rolled and every syllable laced with profound skepticism. “What perspective d’ye hope to be gaining out here? Now?”
    â€œI thought I might be able to help,” said William.
    â€œDid you?” Aside from the necessary motions of her lips, her face was as still as the rest of her.
    â€œI have no proof of my good intentions, of course,” he said. “But this isn’t the first body I’ve seen in the wilderness.”
    â€œSo you decided to take an interest?”
    â€œI thought there might be some connection to my friend,” he said.
    â€œYour friend was killed by a mad dog?”
    â€œNo,” said William. “Nor an eagle. But I don’t know that the ewe was either, and neither do you.” He watched her face as he spoke and saw in its strong angles the slight hesitation, the moment of how-did-he-know uncertainty that gave him his answer. “For