"Well?"
"Well what?" Graeme whispered, peering at the shutteredhovel barely glowing in the sunset.
Specks of sheep milled up the steep hillsides toward grey-shorn cliffs.
"'S e bean sídhe a th' annad, nach eil?"
He grunted. "Ma gran was a banshee." The skitter of skeletal fingers across the back of his neck might be a family inheritance. Or perhaps Tasgall's proximity, thrumming with fae menace, put a man on edge.
Tasgall looked like a big man. Six-eight, thickly muscled. Long black mane preternaturally straight.
He was not a man.
The creature sighed, sharply. "An-diugh."
Graeme shot him a look. "I'm going. And stop it with that. You know I don't have the Gaelic."
Tasgall's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Tha."
"You're a shite, you know that?"
The big man's eyes narrowed.
Graeme squared his shoulders and approached, touching the old door. He felt nothing. Even an untrained warlock would feel active wards--a trained one would ken their shape.
The pressure of his hand swung the door in on creaky hinges, and mishanter seeped out like a fog. Graeme grimaced at the smell and stepped slowly inside, conscious of Tasgall's heavy tread behind. He knelt near the body of an old man, keeping his shoes just outside the drying blood.
Tasgall moved in too close, looming, and scented the air.
"Still has his liver," he rumbled.
Graeme swallowed as the sound shivered across his small hairs. He turned very carefully, still crouching, and came nearly nose to cloth with the creature's tartan. "D'ya mind?" he asked, craning up a look.
Tasgall stared down at him, scowling, and after a purposeful pause moved back a step, relieving the pressure of his presence. He turned in the small confines, graceful despite his size, and sniffed at the air with bellows draughts.
"It was not a human," he said.
"What, the--" Graeme motioned at the body.
"No." Tasgall did not look at him, instead lifting the hem of his shirt.
Alarm struck Graeme hot in the belly. "What are ye doin?" he hissed.
The creature dropped his shirt to the floor of the dead man's house.
"No--" Graeme jumped up, grabbing the shirt. "No, stop." What madness-- "Put that back on!"
Tasgall sneered, a knee-weakening expression. "I don't need a saddle," he growled, reaching for the belt holding the kilt on.
"It's nae a saddle, it's clothes! An you do need them!" He held the shirt out, and the kilt hit the floor. "Christ." Graeme felt himself go red. "What are you doin?"
Tasgall shucked his shoes.
"Hunting," the big, very naked, man replied.
"No." Graeme shook the shirt at him. "You can do that as a man."
"I will do it as myself."
"This is yersel!"
The creature rounded on him and bore teeth sharper than a human form should have. "This is you."
And then he stepped through the door, air shimmering as his form shifted. A black stallion's hooves thudded onto the earth and started away.
"Well what am I supposed to do! I cannae keep up wi' a horse!"
The stallion slowed to a stop, paused, and trotted back. His eyes glowed with embers as he regarded Graeme steadily. Then he bowed, stretching one leg and lowering his head.
Graeme gaped. And then desire washed through his body like passing through a waterfall. Desire to touch that glistening hide, to feel such power beneath him, thunderous as a storm. To own it.
He swayed in place.
And then whispers at the back of his mind demanded his attention to the puzzle of their half-spun words, and he flinched out of the glamour.
He should have been furious. An invitation like that from a creature like this was as good as pulling a gun. "Do you think I'm stupid? Go fuck yersel, Tasgall."
The each uisge straightened and chuffed, his eyes flashing.
Graeme glared into a glittering eye and annoyance laced his tone. "It's nae my fault ye pissed off the Summer Queen, so git outta here wit yer threats, puddle-donkey."
They stared at one another, until Tasgall threw his head and blew out a heavy breath, chastised.
Score one for the warlock.
