Ioan sighed. “I don’t know. They’re quite dangerous.”

Brigid straightened her back and looked at him. “I’m very brave, you know. I never cry.”

Ioan looked down into the face of the wounded child who never knew she was a child. She only understood years later the shadow that fell over his eyes.

“I know, Brigid. I know you’re very brave.”

So Brigid Connor was introduced to myths and legends, dark fairytales and stories of fantasy. While her aunt might have clucked at the Grimm, Carroll, and MacDonald he gave her, the Poe and Tolkien she devoured, Ioan brushed them away. Ever her protector, the doctor understood the slim girl needed the dark and twisted stories that made her feel not quite as alone when she read them. And it was into these stories that Brigid would fall, over and over again, as she grew into a young woman in the house dug into the mountains of Wicklow.

And yet, despite the loving acceptance she found in her protector’s library, despite the warm embrace of her aunt and the gentle guidance of the immortal family she grew to love, Brigid came to understand the shadow in Ioan’s eyes that never seemed to leave. Brigid understood, because it mirrored her own.

Wicklow, Ireland

October 1999

Ioan stared at the doorway. “The child is so troubled, Carwyn. I don’t know what to do about it.”

They spoke in Welsh, seeking what anonymity they could in the crowded house while Ioan’s wife, Deirdre, Sinead, and the girl had a shouting match down the hall.

Carwyn shrugged. “Part of your problem is calling her a child. She isn’t one. She hasn’t been in a long time.”

“She is a child. Just a wounded one.”

“Surely you’ve had experience with victims of abuse? You’ve practiced medicine for over three hundred years, Ioan.”

Carwyn watched his son in the library of his home. Ioan was troubled and, for the first time in many years, Carwyn was at a loss to help him. With eleven immortal children of his own, he knew the pain of seeing a family member struggle. The girl, as a member of Ioan’s household, had fallen under vampire aegis as soon as she had entered. In the immortal world, that meant Ioan was responsible for her, both for her actions and her safety. But Carwyn knew the girl was also precious to his oldest son, and there was no greater challenge than to see a loved one struggle with no way to help.

Just then, he heard her, the girl’s voice dripping with adolescent condescension. Ioan winced and Carwyn tried not to laugh. “Behavior problems?”

“Well, obviously. But she’s anxious. She hardly sleeps. Doesn’t like to be touched by anyone.”

A low, burning rage filled his chest. Carwyn would never forget seeing the monster hovering over the girl in her bedroom. His fingers dug into the oak chair at the memories even years later. He could feel the energy of the mountain humming around him. The library sat at the back of the farmhouse, dug into the side of the hill and sheltered completely from the dangerous sun.

“What ever happened to the mother?”

“You’re generous to use that title, considering.”

When Sinead had learned of the abuse from the girl’s mother, drunk and desperate, Ioan and his mate, Deirdre, had taken immediate action. Carwyn had only happened to be visiting at the time from his home in Wales. They had taken the girl and tried to take the mother.

“Sinead tried to convince her, but she wouldn’t leave. I used amnis to alter her memories. She’s never come looking for the girl.”

Carwyn shook his head, disgusted with those who foolishly threw away the treasure of kin. The shouting between the women grew as the argument moved through the farmhouse. Apparently, the choice of paint in the girl’s bedroom was at issue.

Ioan sighed. “The problem is not in her body. There is no sickness I can cure. Her wounds are emotional, not physical.” He paused. “What would the church say?”

“Not enough,” Carwyn murmured bitterly, well aware of the failings of his hierarchy in dealing with its own demons.

“Would you talk with her? Father Jacob is a fine man, but his wisdom is limited.”

“I don’t think she needs a priest, Ioan. To tell the truth, I’d not be able to minister to her anyway.”

“Why not?”

A crashing came from overhead, along with an impressive string of insults about the color yellow. Carwyn stifled a smile. “I killed her stepfather in front of her, Ioan. Hardly the one to help her when I was partly the cause of her trauma. Even now when I visit, I see the guarded way she looks at me. I don’t blame the girl, but it’s not my place to be her confessor.”

“I think you mistake her feelings. Brigid knows that we protected her. She has no regret for Richard Kelly’s death. She’s—”

Ioan broke off when Deirdre’s voice rose from the kitchen. Carwyn snorted. It sounded like Deirdre may have met her match in the young human.

“Well, she certainly doesn’t seem to be the timid type.”

“Quite the vicious little thing, to be honest,” Ioan muttered. “She can be rather cruel when she wants to wound.”

The two vampires paused to listen to the women shouting, and Ioan couldn’t contain the smirk at the girl’s sharp retort to his wife and his housekeeper. Carwyn reluctantly admired the imaginative nature of the curses. She’d go to confession for them, he’d bet, but she wouldn’t really repent.

Ioan said, “She’s very intelligent. Frighteningly so at times. She’s stifled here, but I can’t persuade Sinead to let her go to school. And, to be honest, I understand her reluctance. Without our guidance, I have a feeling the girl would go quite wild.”