“No,” Torin says.

“Even though you’re poorly defended and they could butcher you any time they pleased?”

Torin shrugs. “There were other families living near here. They’d been forced out of their tuatha for various reasons and settled in this wasteland. The demons killed them last year. We’ve seen the monsters pass from time to time and they’ve seen us. But they leave us alone.”

Drust nods. “Then it wasn’t a Fomorii your ancestors bred with. It was a true demon. Some of the Demonata fought alongside the Fomorii. Many demons don’t attack their own, especially if there are pure humans to kill. You’re kin to them, so they spare you—for now at least.”

“We’ve heard talk of the Demonata before,” Torin says. “Other druids—those we went to for help—spoke of them. They told us the curse was demonic and that was why they couldn’t help.” He leans forward. “I don’t suppose you know any way to…?” He leaves the question hanging.

Drust thinks about it a while, then says, “A demon master might be able to lift the curse. But I know of no human—druid, priestess or any other—who has the power to remove such a blood stain.”

“You mean the demons could cure us?” Fand says sharply.

“One of the more powerful masters, perhaps,” Drust says.

“Do you know where we can find one?”

Drust starts to respond, to tell them about Lord Loss. Then he stops and shakes his head. “The demon masters have not broken through to this world yet. When and if they do, they will be easy to locate. But I doubt if you will be able to convince them to help—by nature they are not inclined to be merciful.”

We stay talking a while longer. I ask questions about my mother and father, what they were like, how they spoke and lived. But Torin ignores my queries and speaks sharply whenever Aideen or Fand tries to answer, changing the conversation. I consider using magic on him, to make him tell me what I want to know, but Drust reads my thoughts and growls in my ear, “This is neither the time nor place for magic. Control yourself.”

When the MacGrigor have told us some more of their sad history and how they eke out a living here, Drust speaks of our quest, of the tunnel which has opened between the demon world and this, and his plan to close it. But he says nothing of how he hopes to pinpoint its location or why he’s leading us to the western coast—the end of the world.

When it’s time to sleep, we return to the two stone huts set aside for us and make ourselves comfortable. It’s been both a revealing and frustrating night for me—I’ve learnt some of my history but not all. There’s so much more Torin and the others could tell me, but Torin hates my mother for betraying the clan, killing her husband and deserting them. And, since she’s no longer here for him to hate, he hates me in her place. He’ll never tell me about her or allow the others to.

Before I lie down, I remember the conversation after the revelations about my past and ask Drust why he didn’t tell Torin about Lord Loss. “If they could find him, they might be able to persuade him to help,” I note—figuring, if I could play a part in curing them of their curse, they’d surely tell me more about my parents.

“Aye,” Drust says archly. “But all we know about Lord Loss is that he likes to follow us around. If we told them that, they might try to hold us here, to use as bait.”

“But there are more of us than them,” I point out. “We’re stronger and better armed. You and I have magical powers. They couldn’t force us to stay.”

“Probably not,” Drust says. “But it’s safer not to take the risk. This way, they have no need to delay us and no conflict can come of it. The MacGrigor—or their descendants—will have to track down and petition a demon master another time.”

So saying, he rolls over and falls asleep, not even bothering to cast any masking spells, certain of our safety here in this bitterly charmed village of the damned.

THE SOURCE

I spend a few tortured hours thinking about my parents, Aednat and Struan, and the tragedy which separated them and brought me into the world. Torin called me a cursed child and he was right. I’m doubly cursed. The curse of my clan and the curse of being a killer’s daughter. Surely, of all the current MacGrigor crop, I must be the most likely to turn into a monster.

I worry about it for hours, imagining what it would be like to lose control of my mind, feel my body change, become a beast like the one I saw earlier. I thought death was the worst thing I had to fear but now I know better. With worries like these, I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep again. But eventually tiredness overcomes even my gravest fears and I drift off into a fitful sleep, one filled with dreams of wolf-girls and dead children.

I awake late in the morning. The others are already up but most have only risen within the last hour so I don’t feel too guilty for sleeping in.

I expect them to treat me differently now they know the truth of my background and the threat of what I might become. But it quickly becomes clear that they think of me no differently than they did yesterday. I suppose there’s too much else to worry about. After all, what’s one potential half-demon when judged against the hordes of genuine, fully-formed Demonata we might yet have to face?

Ronan and Lorcan have caught another hare, which Fiachna roasts on a spit. Along with the leftovers from the night before it provides us with a filling meal to start the day. Again we offer to share it with the MacGrigor, but again they refuse. They have too much pride to eat from another’s fire.

When we’re finished, they point us in the easiest direction to the coast, then wave us off. Aideen looks like she wants to wish me well but she dare not speak kindly to me in front of the glowering Torin. I wish I could stay here and work on Torin, earn his respect and love. But even if he wasn’t so hostile to me, I’m part of a quest, and although it’s shrouded in secrecy and I’m deeply suspicious of Drust’s reasons for helping us, it would be wrong to quit now. Perhaps, if I survive, I can return and seek a place here in my true home—even if it’s only so that they can chain me up with others of my kind if my body starts to change.

One of the wretched wolf-humans is howling madly as we leave, as if it senses a kindred spirit and is singing to the beast I might one day become.

I think about the MacGrigor—my family—as we set off, wondering what will happen if we fail and the Demonata overrun the land. Will these poor excuses for humans be all that remain of our people? Will they alone be spared, kept alive because of their poisoned blood, the only human faces in a land of twisted demons?

My lessons resume as we march. I practise the spells which Drust has already taught me and learn some new ones, like—

How to hold my breath for ten minutes.

How to make my fingers so cold that anything I touch turns to ice.

How to create an image of myself, to confuse a human or demonic foe.

How to sharpen a rock using only magic, to fashion a crude knife or spearhead for those times when magic alone might not be enough.

I’m amazed at how swiftly I’m developing. Under Banba it would sometimes take me a week to master a new spell. Now I’m mastering some in minutes, almost before Drust has finished explaining how they work. And although they tire me, they don’t drain me and I recover rapidly.

Drust is surprised too. He keeps commenting on how fast I am, quicker to learn than anyone he’s ever taught, how deep my magic runs. At first I think it’s flattery, designed to keep me happy and stop me thinking about the MacGrigor.

But as the day wears on I realise he’s actually worried about my progress.

“What’s wrong?” I snap as for the twentieth time he mutters darkly about my skills. “Aren’t you glad that I’m learning quickly?”