Page 16 of The Best of Brenna Grant

Loki meets Kenzie behind a familiar inn…

Logan, Loki, and Torrian set out the next day with several guards. Gwyneth had chosen to stay home with the bairns since she had been journeying across the Highlands for a time. They arrived at the outskirts of the village toward the end of the day. As they paid the toll to enter into the royal burgh of Ayr, chills ran down Loki’s spine. This was where his sire had found him. He had not been in Ayr proper since the Battle of Largs in the 1260s, when the Scots had gained the Western Isles back from Norway. Exhausted, he glanced at Torrian, who seemed awed by the place. He was surprised his Uncle Quade had allowed Torrian on this excursion, but Logan had pressured his brother into agreeing, arguing that it would not only be an opportunity for Torrian to meet King Alexander, but for him to learn some basic survival skills.

Loki was so exhausted that he was starting to have strange flashes in his brain. Visions of past experiences that he could not quite identify popped into his mind. People without faces in unfamiliar settings called to him, but naught and no one was recognizable. As soon as they rode past a certain spot at the edge of the burgh, he stopped his horse and called out to his uncle and cousin, asking them to give him a minute.

He dismounted in front of a dingy inn, one for the travelers with few coins. He stood in front of it and stared. The inn his father had found him behind was a place much like this one. Bits and pieces came back to him, memories he had chosen to forget. Logan asked him a question, but he ignored it. Driven by an unknown force, he stepped to the back of the building and found what he’d been seeking.

A crate.

He nudged the crate with his foot, and it moved just a touch, enough for him to see there were items inside the crate.

It was exactly like the crate he’d lived under in Ayr. Something told him that as impossible as it seemed, this was his crate. He’d lived in it for many moons before he was invited to come to Grant land in the Highlands. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in all the familiar surroundings, smells, and sounds, which reminded him of what it had been like to live on the roads of Ayr, hungry and alone and cold.

He’d begged for most of what he ate at the time, though he’d found a nearby inn that used to save scraps for him once the travelers moved on.

The sound of running feet came from behind him.

“Leave off, you surly brute. Those are my belongings you’re wantin’ to steal.”

Loki spun around to see a laddie running toward him, a furious expression on his face. Dark disheveled locks that hadn’t seen a comb in days hung to his collar. A dirty face stared up at him with sharp eyes and a fierce scowl, a jutted chin daring Loki to challenge him. He looked to be the same age or just a wee bit younger than Loki had been whilst living in his crate.

“Bugger off, you auld man. Why’d you want my stuff? You’ll no’ get my crates either. I’ve taken good care of all three of them.”

Loki stared about the area, only then noticing that this lad’s home was larger than his own had been. He’d found two more crates and arranged them as additional protection against the approaching cold weather.

“Problem, Loki?” Logan stood at the end of the alley next to the inn, both hands on his hips.

“Nay, no problem, Uncle. I was just leaving.” Loki stared at the lad.

“Aye, he was just leaving. So bugger off, auld man.” His chin lifted another notch and he gave Loki his most aggressive expression, one he’d clearly practiced well.

Loki recalled how often he’d had to keep others from stealing his goods—his crate, his moth-eaten gloves, the one plaid he’d found for warmth, even the pan on which he’d carved his initials with a dagger. Instinct and memory told him that pan sat directly in front of him.

Loki leaned down and picked up the pan, but not before the urchin took a swing at him with his dagger. Catching the lad’s arm just in time, Loki said, “Calm down. I’ll not steal it. I’d just like to take a look at it.”

“That pan is mine, no’ yours. It belonged to somebody special.” The lad continued to grab for the pan, but Loki held him at bay. Logan continued to stand there at the end of the alley, watching and listening.

“Aye, it did, lad.” He turned the pan over and smiled. There they were, his initials—LL for Lucky Loki.

“How would you know? It belonged to a lad named Lucky Loki, and those are his initials he carved in it himself. He was so good with a sling, he became a hero in the battle with the Norse at Largs.”

Loki smiled and peered down at the lad. “Is that so? How did you hear about Lucky Loki?”

“Everyone knows about Lucky Loki. He’s a hero. He fought so hard that Laird Alexander Grant, the Highlander with the horse in chain mail that scart the Norse away, took him to the Highlands to be his son.”

“Truly?” Loki could not help but grin. He had a reputation he’d known nothing about. A hero? Had the lad truly called him a hero?

“You canno’ have it, ‘tis mine. If you try to steal it, I’ll hunt you down.” The cheeky lad bounced up and down, trying to reach his invaluable pan.

Loki didn’t know what to say. Not that long ago, he had stood in this lad’s place, hoping every day for some meat and enough rainwater to drink. “I’ll not steal it from you, lad.” He handed it back to the boy.

“Nay, ‘tis valuable and ‘tis mine. I’ll sell it someday. Mayhap he’ll come back.”

“Who?”

“Lucky Loki, o’ course. Mayhap he’ll come back and adopt me.”

Loki stared at him in shock. Aye, he should. He should do for this lad just what his uncle had done for him—adopt him and take him back to Grant land. He stared into the hopeful eyes, but it would not do. Not now. He was not in the same place his sire had been.