The image of Mr Lunan patrolling the steading returned to me, with his shotgun ready loaded and his three black mastiffs at his heels. I remembered him up at the Pictish House, hunting for Sidh as if they had been rabbits, or vermin to be exterminated.
“The Sidh stole Mr Lunan’s first wife,” I said, “and his baby.”
“Let me show you,” the Sidh female said and touched my face.
Within a second, I was in an unfamiliar farmhouse kitchen with a much younger Davie Lunan and an auburn-haired woman I thought I knew. The woman was cringing, trying to protect herself from Mr Lunan, who was alternatively slapping and kicking her.
“Leave me, Davie!” the woman screamed. “I couldn’t help it! Please! It just happened.”
Mr Lunan aimed a final kick that sent the woman sprawling, and then left the house
