The Tempus Stone - SAMPLE
Prologue
Kilfinan, Scotland, 1971
“Mariota MacEwen, show yourself.”
The man’s angry growl cracked through the empty church like a whip striking innocent flesh. The air grew thick as his words faded into the darkened depths of the building.
Simon MacInnes crouched behind the church pew. His mother had told him tales of disfigured giants sent by the gods of old to reap justice upon the Earth. Beings who shaped disobedient boys into men.
But none of those monsters resembled this man. Tall and dark-skinned with eyes so black Simon could almost see his reflection, the man lunged forward and gripped his arm.
“If you lied to me, boy, my fury will have no bounds.” The words hissed through clenched teeth.
No, this creature was no monster, but a god. An angry god. One to be feared and obeyed.
Simon opened his mouth, but his voice caught in his throat. “I-I speak true, my lord. They are here.”
The god cocked his head.
Simon held his breath—please, please, please—and when the god’s steel claws released its grip on his arm, he crashed to the floor.
Footsteps rang. Reverend Patrick came to a halt between the pews at the front of the church. His old blue eyes widened at the towering god standing in the center of his kirk.
“Let the boy go, demon. He’s an innocent and of no use to you,” he said.
The god laughed. “I determine who is of what value to me, good Father. I have come for the woman. Interfere and you will die.”
Goosebumps prickled along Simon’s skin as a strange energy filled the room.
“This is a place of worship. We have no—”
“Enough!” the god bellowed.
The minister’s hands flew to his throat at the same time the doors of the church slammed against the walls in an earth-shattering bang. No one entered but a bitter wind that swept through the church, its howl muffling Reverend Patrick’s gasps.
Bursting from a door beyond the altar, Graham Patrick and John Currie rushed to aid the priest, who was on his knees, clawing at his neck, his skin now a deathly shade of blue.
“That one’s her man.” Simon pointed to Graham, the taller of the two men. “He knows where it is.”
The god’s smile made Simon’s knees shake. “Does he?”
Simon nodded, his stomach twisting into an anxious knot. Mayhap, if he pleased this god, he’d grant Simon a boon.
A wish.
Simon knew what he’d ask for without hesitation. He’d ask to go home. Home to his màthair. And he’d be good. So good. He was older now. He had learned how to behave. He could do it. He could avoid his da’s strap. He was sure of it.
Extending his arm toward John and Graham, the god flattened his palm. A wave of energy rippled through the dark church, rumbling beneath Simon’s feet like veins of fire splintering rock.
The pews shook.
Reverend Patrick crumbled to the floor, and before the men could react, their bodies rose in the air, arms flailing like puppets hung on a string.
Simon’s heart knocked inside his chest. He stood and took a small step backward, careful not to draw attention to himself.
With a flick of his wrist, the god sent both men flying across the room. Their bodies crashed against the wall with a thud and slid to the floor.
“No!” a woman screamed.
Simon couldn’t tell if it was his aunt or Jean who had screamed. They were both on the floor, kneeling beside the fallen men.
“Surrender the stone, Guardian, and I will allow you to live.”
At the sound of the god’s voice, his aunt’s attention snapped from the men to the being commanding her submission, her expression pained.
Simon was glad of it. Although his màthair said god’s children should always show mercy, his aunt deserved this pain. She was wicked. Like the god.
Like me.
Mayhap worse.
On the floor, John stirred. Jean kissed her husband’s face and brushed the blood from his skin. His aunt squeezed her friend’s shoulder, then rose from the floor. Twenty paces separated her from the god vibrating with power at Simon’s side.
Squaring her shoulders, she angled her proud chin in the air. “If I hand you the Tempus Stone, have we your word you will free the boy and allow us to live out our days in peace?”
The floor shook. “You dare bargain with me?”
“I will not hand you the stone without your assurance you will harm us no more, so aye,” Mariota said. “I will bargain with you.”
Bracing for the god’s reaction, Simon clutched the varnished pew, but the being only smiled. A false smile like the one Simon’s father always bore before a lashing. He shuddered, and it was not due to the sudden drop of temperature in the kirk.
“A bargain it is then,” the god replied too calmly.
Mariota sighed and opened her hand. Centered in her palm lay a simple stone radiating a soft violet-blue light.
“No.” Jean sobbed in the background. “No. We must find another way. We must.”
“Have faith,” Mariota said, a tremble to her voice. “We did all we could. We can do no more.”
The floor shook as more energy pulsed into the room. When the god moved, his long, powerful strides covered the short distance to where Mariota stood with her arm extended. Claw-like fingers snatched the prize from her palm.
A burst of blinding light shot from her chest, and she tumbled back.
The blue stone fell from the god’s grasp. He roared an ear-splitting howl before an invisible force took hold of him, expelling him from the church.
Chunks of the ceiling rained to the floor, forcing Simon to cower and cover his head with his small hands. The wind raged, and the force returned. It enveloped his body and yanked.
Screaming, Simon grasped for the pew, clawing at the seat, the floor, anything that would halt the pull’s momentum. But the force was like a talon latched onto his shirt, and nothing he did prevented those claws from dragging him out of the church, and into the waiting hands of the angry god raging beneath a starless sky.
The last sound Simon heard before the kirk doors slammed shut was the anguish cry of Mariota MacEwen screaming his name.
Chapter 1
Fall River, Massachusetts, present time
“Maybe I should have gone with a different color.” Caitlin Reed lowered the paint roller, pushed a strand of dark hair off her face, and stepped back to assess her work. “Like Superman blue or Spiderman red.”
“It’s pretty,” Lila said.
Ugh. Pretty?
“Seven-year-old boys don’t want pretty bedroom walls. I should have gone with the blue instead of the gray.”
“Stop second-guessing yourself. If you go with the Batman theme, black skyscrapers on that wall will look awesome. Trust me, no seven-year-old boy can resist the power of Batman.”
“Maybe.” Caitlin bit her lip. “I want him to choose, though. He needs to be part of the process.” She couldn’t wait to see Jadiel’s dark eyes light up when he stepped into his room. He’d never had a room of his own. During the adoption party, he’d confided his love of the Patriots and all things Batman while struggling to hide his lisp.
It was adorable.
And that was when she’d known—when she’d committed to making them a family.
“Are you nervous?” Lila asked.
“No.” She wasn’t nervous. She was scared out of her mind. There were too many what-if’s, too many things that could still go wrong. So she did what she did best. She prepared. She researched. And she waited.
Patiently.
Well, almost patiently.
She bent down and hammered the paint lid onto the can. “It’s been a year in the making, and the worst is behind me. I’m ready. Visitation starts after tomorrow’s disclosure meeting.”
Slowly, of course. The transition had to be perfect. Everything about the adoption had to be perfect.
“I just hope he loves the room.” And me.
Lila smiled. “How could he not? You’re going to be such a great mom.”
“I’ll keep the gray. It’s neutral. If he decides he wants a sports-themed room instead, we’ll go that route.”
The simple black platform bed and matching bureau sat in the sparse room like an advertisement in a department store catalog, stylish yet sterile.
But in a few months’ time, his small closet would burst at the seams with toys and sports equipment. She could already imagine the items spilling onto the hardwood floor. The room would look anything but generic.
Caitlin smiled. It would be perfect.
“It looks amazing. I declare our work here done.” When Lila rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, she smeared paint across her skin. The color was a near match to her silver-blue hair cut in a pixie style that accentuated her almond-shaped eyes.
Caitlin swallowed a giggle and reached for a paper towel. “Don’t move. You’ve got paint all over you.”
Lila groaned and took the sheet Caitlin offered. “I wasn’t built to be domestic.” She scrubbed the paint from her face. “Is it off?”
Faint traces of gray were still visible beneath the reddened area near Lila’s hairline. “Most of it.”
“Why do people enjoy this DIY shit?” Specks of dried paint covered Lila’s palms, the pads of her fingertips, and her designer jeans. With a look of disgust, she threw the soiled paper towel in the bag. “We should do Mario’s Saturday night to celebrate. My treat. We’ll eat and toast to your upcoming visitation with your son and to me never having to pick up a freaking paintbrush again. I’m a cool, fashionable aunt to-be.” She pointed to herself. “Not a paint-wearing mess of a human being. I have a nephew to impress, after all.”
Caitlin laughed. “You’ll be his only aunt. I’ll give you that.” Using the inside of a plastic bag, she pulled the paint-soaked roller from the frame and let it drop into the bag’s interior. “As for dignified?” Her grin stretched from ear-to-ear. “I can’t lie to my son. What kind of precedent would I be setting?”
“All right. All right. Make me eccentric. Every family needs a zany aunt.”
That pretty much described her petite, Boston-accented spitfire of a best friend to a T. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be the one he calls when he’s ready to zip line or sky dive or jump out of a plane. Eccentric or not.”
Lila snorted. “Like you’d let him do any of those things.”
“I might surprise you.”
A yeah-right expression crossed her friend’s face.
“Hey, I have a sense of adventure.” Granted, she buried it beneath a cache of safety rules and regulations, but she could be spontaneous when the need arose.
“Knowing your parents, it’s a miracle you get out at all.” Lila raised her hand. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being overprotective.”
“Overprotective?” Caitlin shook her head. “Try weird, paranoid, and excessively private. Normal people don’t go around building end-of-the-world storm bunkers because they believe in conspiracy theories.”
“Wait? They have a bunker?”
Caitlin winced. “Maybe?”
Was she being too harsh? Her parents made having a normal life hard. She’d thought as she grew older, they’d ease up. Loosen the reins.
She’d been wrong.
With every passing year, they became more fanatical in their beliefs, often demanding their only daughter adopt a similar mentality. So the less they knew, the better. Caitlin was determined not to make the same mistake with Jadiel. Her son would have the freedom to live, to spread his wings, and she’d ensure he always knew she’d be there, waiting to help.
On his terms, not hers.
Lila picked up several crumpled pieces of paper and a ball of blue tape off the floor and shoved the items into the bag. “I take it you two haven’t talked?”
“Nope.” Caitlin would rather pick lint from wool than call her mother right now. “My dad left a message earlier. I’m just not in the mood to argue about this again.” Or point out—for the millionth time—why a husband was not essential to being a good mother.
“I’ll call her, I will.” And she would. “Tomorrow, or over the weekend.” Caitlin couldn’t ignore her mother forever, but she needed a few days to figure her life out without Else Walker Reed’s constant interference.
“I know it’s been rough with your grandmother gone.” Lila’s expression was sympathetic. “I miss her too.”
Caitlin traced a finger over the pendant tucked beneath her shirt. She’d worn her grandmother’s favorite necklace for the first time since her death a year ago. She could almost hear her seanmhair’s voice whispering in her ear. “Life is about change, mo chride, and if you aren’t risking, then you aren’t really living, are you, my beautiful girl?”
Caitlin wondered what she’d think now and smiled. Mary MacEwen Walker had been a force of nature. She’d been the glue that held their small family together. With her gone—
A strange prickle warmed her fingertips.
Caitlin studied the skin, noting no redness, yet the sensation refused to fade. Her hands weren’t hotter than normal, and she’d touched nothing poisonous outside, had she?
“Hey.” Lila reached over and touched her arm. “You ok?”
“Yeah.” Caitlin frowned and scrubbed her fingers against her jeans, only to have the warmth replaced by a weird tingling at the base of her neck.
Hormones, maybe?
God, was she experiencing menopausal symptoms at twenty-eight? Fate wouldn’t be that cruel, would they?
“Caitlin?”
“What?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” She rubbed the back of her neck, relieved all she felt was the coolness of her touch. “What were you saying?”
“Brian. He called me.”
The air in Caitlin’s lungs froze.
“I should’ve told you earlier.”
No, she shouldn’t have. “Don’t.”
Lila’s expression turned sympathetic. “Why didn’t you tell me about the baby?”
“It wasn’t my story to tell.”
“This adoption—”
“Has nothing to do with them.” Caitlin wasn’t about to let Lila—or anyone else—lump the two together. The adoption was hers and hers alone.
And fine, she could have prepared Lila for Brian’s news. After all, they’d once been the three amigos, attached at the hip and inseparable for most of their lives.
But that bond—that friendship—had changed. Irrevocably. He was married to someone else. And yes, it sucked. Yes, it stung. Caitlin had not only lost her husband, but one of her best friends. And maybe, just maybe, that was the part that hurt the most.
In any case, she was done wishing. Done looking over her shoulder. Wasn’t it time she reached for the life she’d always wanted?
Lila blew out a breath. “I haven’t forgiven him, and I know it’s selfish to talk to you, but we’ve always been honest with each other.” Her voice softened. “I’m torn, Cait. I’m sad and so fucking pissed. Every time I see him, I want to bash his head into the wall.”
Caitlin knew the feeling, but for her future son, she’d stomach the next eight months of teaching across the hall from Brian and his new wife, even if it killed her.
She grabbed the trash bag from the floor and padded barefoot down the hall. “I’m transferring out at the end of the year.”
“What?” Lila’s angry voice trailed behind Caitlin into the kitchen. “You can’t be serious. Cait, you’ve spent six years at that school, seven if you count your student teaching.” She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “You love it there. It should be them leaving, not you. Besides, you can’t go. I’ll miss you. Who else am I going to bitch and moan to about our awesome new principal?”
In the few short weeks since her promotion, Principal Frank was proving herself to be a narrow-minded and completely uncompromising administrator.
“She’s reason enough to jump ship.” Caitlin opened the back door. The night air was unusually mild for late October. She set the garbage bag inside the city trash receptacle, and when she stepped back into the house, Lila had guzzled half the water and was staring at the capped bottle.
“You know you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” Resigned, Caitlin leaned her back against the door.
“Pretending everything is okay when it’s not. There’s a limit to what most people put up with, and you’ve gone way beyond normal.”
“You’d rather I rage and act like some scorned wife instead?”
“No, of course not.” Lila set the bottle down. “Look, I’m telling you this as your friend and as someone who loves you. Take a stand. Tell him how it makes you feel to work side-by-side with him every day. Ask him to leave. No, demand it. Then I want you to talk to someone. Go untangle those nasty feelings you’ve bottled up inside so you can be ready for whatever life offers you next.”
Caitlin turned on the faucet and stuck her hands under the hot spray, scrubbing traces of gray paint from her skin. “I’m not bottling anything.” Was she? “And I know what you’re implying. Trust me, there won’t be a next time.”
“Even if he’s six feet of yum with a heart of gold?”
Caitlin snorted. “Especially then.” Because men like that didn’t exist. Besides, she was done with the opposite sex. She didn’t need a relationship to be happy.
“Hey, don’t be angry.”
“I’m not.” But she was. Irritated with herself, Caitlin grabbed the dish towel, dried her hands, then quickly patted the droplets of water near the edge of the sink. Lila meant well. It’d been a long, rough day, and they were both tired and cranky.
Caitlin hung the towel on the rack. “Do you want coffee? I’ve got decaf.”
“Can’t.” Lila reached for the jacket draped over the chair. “I have a stack of open responses to get to. You know, the perks of being a fourth-grade teacher. You K-2 educators don’t know what you’re missing upstairs.” She winked. “Think about what I’ve said and call me if you need to talk. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks for your help tonight.”
“Anytime.”
They exchanged a hug. Leaning against the door, Caitlin watched Lila slide into the front seat of her car and waved goodbye. Once her friend had gone, she locked the door.
Her rear pocket vibrated.
Caitlin retrieved her cell and stared at the caller ID.
Mandy Cabeceiras. Jadiel’s caseworker.
She frowned at the screen. Why would Mandy be calling her after hours?
Using her best I’m-not-worried voice, Caitlin said, “Hi, Mandy.”
“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.” Mandy’s normally smooth and confident voice sounded cautious.
“No, not at all. Is everything okay?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then leaned her back against the wall and waited for the other woman to speak.
“There’s no easy way to say this. Caitlin, I’m postponing tomorrow’s disclosure meeting. Jadiel’s maternal grandmother has come forward. She’s asked to meet with the agency before we proceed with the adoption.”
What? “I thought he didn’t have any biological relatives.”
“That’s what we believed. She had moved out of state and severed ties with her daughter several years back. Before the child’s parents died.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Caitlin walked to the sink and looked at the window and the gloomy darkness enveloping her back yard. “Is she pursuing guardianship?”
“At this time, her intentions are unclear. We often approach relatives about guardianship. This is not out of the norm, Caitlin. The state’s primary goal is preservation of the family, but only if it is in the best interest of the child. Of course . . .”
The blood pumping in Caitlin’s ears muffled Mandy’s words.
This can’t be happening.
It can’t.
“. . . you’re home-studied and approved. If this match doesn’t work—”
It had to work. Jadiel was hers.
“—you’re already in our system awaiting another potential match. But please don’t lose faith, Caitlin. Not yet.”
In a daze, Caitlin muttered thank you and said goodbye. Then she hung her face in her hands and cried.
Chapter 2
Buannachd Mhòr, Ardgour, Scotland, 1450
Ewen MacLean shoved open the keep door and strode into the great hall. The familiar smells of the castle assailed him at once—the peat burning in the fireplace, the herbs Mari spread into the rushes, and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted venison wafting from the kitchen.
He drew in a breath and let the tension drain from his jaw. After a hard day of riding, it was good to be home.
Servants bustled from the kitchen and down the hall, preparing the large wooden tables for the evening meal. He nodded greetings as he passed and turned into the narrow passage leading to the laird’s private solar. Light flickered from the torches on the wall, casting shadows on the floor.
The previous week in Mull had left him restless. It was nothing new. Any time spent in the company of his father, the illustrious Lachlan Bonnach MacLean, seventh Chief of Clan MacLean and third Laird of Duart, left him itching to hit something.
Or someone.
An impulse that was sure to land his arse in the dungeon one of these days. After all this time, the man could still twist Ewen’s innards into knots that took weeks to unravel.
He rubbed the back of his neck and forced a breath through his teeth. The sooner he reported his findings to Donald, the sooner he could work off the week’s frustrations in the training yard before he did something he’d later regret.
“Ewen, is that you?”
Ewen stopped and pivoted toward the sound of Mari’s voice. “Aye, it is.”
She rounded the corner. Dark circles marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. “Is my rascal brother with you?”
“Nay, Ian is outside tending the horses.” He leaned over and accepted the hug his sister by marriage offered. “Are ye well?”
“Aye, we are.” Stepping away, she brushed loose strands of auburn hair from her face, then settled her hand on her belly. “The bairn and I are fine. Just fine. It’s that bull-headed brother of yours you need to be worrying about.”
She pointed her chin toward the solar door. “He’s been waiting for you since we received word you’d be arriving today.”
Ewen frowned. Someone alerted Donald of his arrival?
“He’s been in a foul mood ever since. I’m of a mind to clobber him over the head. ‘Tis fortuitous that Brother Rupert chose today to visit as well.” Amusement lit Mari’s dark eyes. “Should either you or I murder my dear husband before the day is through, we can rest assured he’ll be buried with his final graces.”
“Brother Rupert is here?” Ewen hadn’t seen the Benedictine monk in years, not since he was a lad of ten and six.
“Aye, he arrived from Iona this afternoon. It would seem both our laird and the good brother are eager to speak with you.” Flicking her hands, she shooed him toward the door. “Go on now. Discuss what needs to be discussed. I’ll notify Brother Rupert of your arrival. Trina will fix your chambers and bring you food and drink. Then you will rest. You’re weary, Ewen. I can see it in your eyes.”
She was right. Yet his mind raced with what he’d seen in Mull, and no amount of sleep would wipe those images from his memory.
“Save your worry, lass. All is well. Besides”—he winked—“in two moons’ time, it will be you we worry over if that bairn is anything like his father.”
“He, is it? Well, we’ll see about that, now won’t we?” She harrumphed and started toward the great hall. “Remind our laird that when he’s concluded his chieftain duties for the night, the Lady of Buannachd Mhòr awaits his company.”
Ewen chuckled. “As you wish, my lady.”
When he entered the solar, Donald was hunched over the ornate table near the window, scowling at a parchment spread upon its surface. Ewen closed the door. The sound jarred his brother from his intense scrutiny of the document.
“Is this the infamous missive that has sparked the seeds of treason in your dear wife and set your mood afoul?”
The scowl disappeared from Donald’s face. With his red hair and bushy beard, the laird of the MacLean’s of Ardgour had the look of a mad Viking with the brute strength to match.
He rounded the table and greeted Ewen with a hearty warrior’s embrace. “It’s good to have you back, brother. Come, sit. We have much to discuss.”
Ewen didn’t like the seriousness of his tone.
Lowering his considerable frame into a chair across from Ewen, Donald stubbed a thick finger to the parchment on the table. “Received from Duart this morn along with a message to expect your arrival this eve. What say you of the alliance? Are you in accordance?”
Ewen read the first lines of the contract, a betrothal between him and Alisa Cameron, and growled.
“I take it our father did not discuss the alliance with you?” Donald surmised.
“Nay, this is the first I’ve heard of it.” Ewen shoved the parchment away. He’d spent a week suffering the chief’s presence, and in that time, the man had said naught about chaining Ewen to a Cameron bride.
Bluidy hell.
“What’s he about?” Ewen groaned. “Why send word to you if he’s set on this path?”
“What would you have said had our father suggested the betrothal? ‘Aye, Father? As you wish, Father?’ Nay, Ewen. Our father is no fool. He knows you are blinded by the past and would give no credence to his endorsement of the pact.”
“That is a lie.”
“Is it?”
Ewen slapped a fist against the table. “My rancor has naught to do with my mother.”
“And what of Isobel Frasier?”
The name slammed Ewen’s mouth shut.
“’Tis time you sheathed your fury, brother. If not for yourself, then for our father, who grows older with each passing year.”
Donald leaned back into his chair and considered Ewen with eyes nearly identical to his own—a vivid blue that could see through to a man’s soul or rip his courage to shreds.
“You live on the sidelines, watching others gain that which you desire. You guard, you protect, you gladly give your life for my people, and yet you do no more than what is necessary for yourself. Do you think I doona see the longing in your eyes when you look upon my interactions with Mari? Think you I doona understand the pain that dwells in your heart?”
Ewen sighed and shoved off his chair. “What have I to offer? I’m a soldier and a bastard son. ’Tis no life for a young bride.”
“You are a MacLean, and now our father offers you the chance to have a keep of your own. A wife. Children. Kin. I did no’ let my illegitimacy hamper my aspirations. You know this. You battled by my side in the taking of these lands, in the laying of the first stone of this keep. You defend my borders with your life. Think you I will not do the same for you?”
“I do not doubt your loyalty.” Ewen stabbed a hand through his hair. “Do you support this contract?”
“The alliance has merit. My spies tell me Alan Cameron grows weary of our attacks.”
Perhaps, and yet all Ewen could think was, why now?
The territory in question had originally been bestowed to their older brother, John, by Alexander, Lord of the Isles, after the Camerons deserted their lord to fight on the side of the Royal Army.
The Camerons retaliated and took back their lands—lands the MacLeans had spent the last eleven years attempting to reclaim.
Now Alexander was dead, and his son, the new Lord of the Isles, was married to a daughter of Livingston, the same family who’d held the Queen Mother captive.
“What of John? Did he agree to forfeit his claim?”
“Mayhap this was John’s idea,” Donald said. “His way to mend the wrong he and Isobel dealt you so many years ago.”
Ewen snickered. “Remorse, now? Think me a fool? John would not give up these lands without good reason.” This sudden change of heart smelled of coercion.
Or self-preservation.
If Ewen were a betting man, he’d put coin on the latter.
Donald shook his head. “Nay, you are no fool. There is a war brewing. This alliance, fragile as it may be, will secure our father’s aims and protect our people.”
“And where’re the sniveling Campbells in this mess, eh? Stirring the pot?”
Donald’s face darkened. “Marrying off their daughters, it seems. We’re to be kin. Did you not hear?”
“Kin?”
“Aye. Our young Lachlan is betrothed to the Earl of Argyll’s daughter. The wedding is in a fortnight.”
Their youngest brother was marrying a Campbell? The bluidy scoundrels would be underfoot, and there wasn’t a damn thing Ewen could do to stop it.
Scrubbing his cheek, he looked out the window and followed the lines of frost that had settled upon the glen. Mayhap it was time he buried the past and let go of his hurts. Forget John. Forget Isobel. Forget the Campbells.
Forgive his father.
Battle no longer quelled the restlessness inside him. With his hands, he could carve a life from the land he loved. He could set down his sword.
But marriage?
The last thing he expected upon his return to Ardgour was to be saddled with a bride. Aye, the lass would make him a fine wife, and she would want for nothing.
But love?
That he could never promise, his heart long gone, lost to another who’d ground her pretty heel into the bluidy organ, leaving him with a scarred pulp beating inside an empty chest.
He ground his teeth. “Fine.”
Donald whipped his head, eyes wide. “What did ye say?”
“I’ll marry the girl and mind our borders. Tell the chief his ploy worked.”
Donald “The Hunter,” first laird of Ardgour, bounded from his chair and pulled Ewen into a bear hug. His chest vibrated with a deafening laugh that rang in Ewen’s ears.
Bewildered, Ewen twisted out of his brother’s embrace. “God’s teeth, man. Have you lost your mind?” Clearly, impending fatherhood had addled his brother’s brain.
“By God, I expected a fight. Never did I think I’d see this day. You make me proud, brother,” Donald said with a hearty slap to Ewen’s back. “We will bring peace to our people. We will keep Ardgour safe from our enemies. And one day, our sons will rule together.”
Sons.
Ewen’s throat tightened. It was a dream any father would aspire, and one he’d never let himself hope for.
At the table, he gripped the quill. A decade of hostilities would not be easy to quell, but for a chance at a family of his own, he’d risk his life.
And more.
He signed his name on the parchment and sealed his fate.
“You have the look of a man condemned to the gallows.” Donald rounded the table and pushed the contract aside to allow the ink time to dry. “Ye’ve naught to fear. Mari tells me she’s a bonny lass with a fine disposition for a wife. Now tell me, what news have you of Mull?”
Ewen set the quill on the table. He’d come prepared to discuss what he’d discovered, but now the conversation was at hand, the words were lost. Battle-hardened as he was, the condition of the victim sent goosebumps up his arm.
“By the saints, brother. Speak.”
Ewen let out a slow breath. “The body was found outside of Lochbuie. Drained of blood with a tear to the neck. Same as the lass found here.”
And same as Ewen’s mother.
His chest ached.
Donald fell into his chair. “By God . . . Who was she?”
“He was the baker’s son. A lad of ten and six. A farmer found him inside a circle drawn in the earth. Like Malie, his arms were tied above his head.”
Donald closed his eyes briefly. “You spoke to the villagers?”
“They are fearful. Many speak of the old gods. Of dark magic and human sacrifice.” None spoke of the raven-haired lass seen fleeing the site of Malie’s murder.
“This smells of witchcraft. It was wise to send for the monk.”
Ewen shook his head. “I did not think to summon him. Although the facts are damning, it’s too early to speculate on who”—or what—“is behind these deaths.”
Perhaps things were graver than he’d imagined if, amid these strange happenings, the monk willingly broke his monastic routine and traveled from the abbey in Iona to solicit Ewen. And by the darkening of Donald’s expression, his brother agreed.
“Iona has long existed in the shadows of the supernatural. Perhaps Rupert can shed light on this mystery. Ewen, you must find this killer before fear overwhelms our people.”
Ewen rubbed his eyes. “Aye.”
Donald rose and reached for the flagon of whiskey on the trestle table. He guzzled the fiery brew, hissed, and then passed Ewen the bottle.
The heat of the liquor burned Ewen’s throat and settled his gut. Joining his brother at a chair by the hearth, they drank in companionable silence, eyes focused on the flames, the uncertainty of the task before him weighing heavily on them both.
A worry for another day.
Ewen closed his eyes and settled back into the chair. Tonight he would enjoy the company of his laird, the comforts of home, and a flagon of devil’s brew.
*
The sun rose beyond the hill. Watching color explode across the sky, Ewen stood outside the stables, hands on his hips, his mind wrestling with one thought after another.
“I knew I’d find you here, lad.” With his black robe rustling in the breeze, Brother Rupert leaned a wide shoulder against the stable door and peered at the horizon. “When you were a young boy, you would oft do the same when sleep failed to claim your mind.”
“Aye, well I remember.” Ewen smiled. “It’s good to see you.”
“I’d prefer it be under different circumstances.” Affection warmed Rupert’s golden eyes—eyes that could also turn fierce and instill fear in a broken boy with a restless soul. Ewen had no doubt the good brother could still give chase across the fields to club a wayward lad or two, if the need arose.
Ewen grinned. He had the phantom scars to prove it.
“These deaths are unnatural.”
Snapping to the present, Ewen glanced at the field. “Is it witchcraft or something darker?”
Brother Rupert shrugged. “There are others more versed in the religions of old, but from what I can tell, the victims were part of a ritual. One that is far older than much of what we have recorded at the abbey.”
A ritual?
Two separate incidents. Two naked youths drained of blood laid out in identical positions inside a roughly drawn circle.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.”
“I’m told you didna visit Mull,” Ewen said. “How can you make this assessment? Other than a circle drawn in the earth, there is naught to indicate Druidry.”
“No,” Rupert agreed, “I did not, but I have witnessed this work before.”
“It’s the same then?” Ewen ground out. “The wretch who killed my mother murdered these innocents?”
“It would appear so.”
Ewen expelled the breath he’d been holding. This was not the news he had been hoping to hear.
Brother Rupert crouched. Pressing his forefinger into the dirt, he drew a cross with an oval loop at the top.
“The crux ansata is a representation of eternal life and is often depicted in Egyptian literature as such. Engravings on tombs and temples show the gods of Egypt holding the crux ansata while bestowing divine power upon their Pharaohs.” He tapped the earth beside the symbol he’d drawn. “But Egypt is not the only land where this symbol held prominence.”
Rupert drew a circle around the cross.
Ice crawled into Ewen’s veins. The victims, with their arms arched over their heads, resembled the crux ansata within the circle.
“Before the time of the Druids there lived a great race, people who lived side by side with the gods in a world said to have marvels beyond our imagination. A civilization—”
“Ewen!”
The shout carried across the field from the direction of the glen where many of the villagers lived. Looking up over Brother Rupert’s head, Ewen saw Connor’s lad running over the hill at breakneck speed.
“Ewen,” the boy shouted, waving frantically.
Ewen sprinted to the pale-faced boy whose chest shuddered with heaving breaths.
“She’s in the glen. Mama saw her in the glen. There are demons in the woods.”
“Calm down, boy. Your mother saw who?”
“Her,” he said, gulping air. “The one who—”
The raven-haired woman.
Saints, no. Not another death.
Ewen grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Run to the keep and alert Ian. And do not leave until it’s safe to do so. Go.”
Ewen ran to the stables, shouting to Brother Rupert as he mounted his horse. “Follow the lad. Make sure he alerts Ian. Tell him to send my guard and notify the laird of all you have told me.”
Before Brother Rupert could finish saying, “Go with God,” Ewen had galloped from the stables and raced across the fields toward the sighting. Behind him, the keep faded into the distance, disappearing into the hills he loved.
He slowed, his neck prickling with warning as he scanned the woods.
Where is she?
Attackers burst from the forest, their battle cries ringing in the air.
Without hesitation, Ewen reached for his claymore and jumped off his horse to face the enemy. He didn’t recognize their faces.
Had he chanced upon a surprise attack to the keep?
Or had they been lying in wait? A cleverly laid distraction to keep him from finding her?
Axes raised, the men advanced. All bluidy ten of them. He should be flattered. Six he could easily overtake, but ten? Did they think him immortal?
Growling, he sunk his blade into flesh and fought like a madman using his feet, elbows, fists, and any other God-given limb against the group of warriors. He blocked most strikes, but a blow to the head knocked him to the ground.
Dizzy, he laughed out loud. Felled by an ambush. Only a halfwit sprinted into a precarious situation without first scouting for a trap, and saints help him, he’d gone in wearing only his léine.
No helmet.
No armor.
Just his sword and a dirk.
Had he lost his bluidy mind? Ardgour’s Dorcha Dìon, its dark protector, would be recorded in the annals of time as having died a fool’s death for failing the first lesson taught every green warrior.
Be prepared. Doona let your emotions rue your cause.
Hell would welcome him with open arms.
But as luck would have it, hell had no room for fools, for at that precise moment, he heard an angel’s voice. Her melodious chant rose in the air, muting grunts and growls, forcing men to their knees, eyes bulging, grasping at their chests before crashing face-first to the ground.
Whispering words Ewen couldn’t understand, a woman appeared and placed her hand on his forehead.
Was this the witch he’d been searching for? The raven-haired woman terrorizing his people?
Air locked in Ewen’s throat, and his vision blurred. Perhaps hell had come for him after all.
Yet . . .
There was a familiarity about her he couldn’t place. “Who are you?”
“It matters not who I am.” Smiling through weary emerald eyes, she clenched her jaw as if in pain. Her ethereal skin blanched beneath the strain.
Clasping the amulet at her neck, she closed her eyes and moved her hand over his heart. “My time nears, and I haven’t the strength to help her.”
Ewen tried to sit, but his body sagged against the ground as if weighed down by a hundred men.
“It’s your turn now. Save her. She is all that stands between our world and theirs.”
The woman stood and lifted her arms to the heavens. Air stirred and whipped her black hair around her face, spurring leaves from the ground into a spiral pattern.
Pressure slammed into Ewen’s body—a head-to-toe assault that left his temples pounding and his limbs weak.
Groaning, he curled into his chest and reached for his sword. His vision faltered, the world falling into a tunnel of black but for the disc of light at the end.
Focusing on that tiny speck, he clasped the dirk at his belt while forcing his legs to move until the witch’s soft chant changed, squelching the light and birthing the tempest that swallowed him whole.
Chapter 3
Weetamoo Woods, in nearby Tiverton, Rhode Island, was Caitlin’s second home. Acres of mature oak, American Holly, and other trees native to the coastal areas of Southern New England lined its forest trails. Running had never been her thing, but after the divorce and a million failed starts, she’d completed her first 5k and been hooked ever since.
There’d been setbacks, of course, like overcoming her bizarre fear of the forest, but there was something about the rhythmic pounding of her feet against the damp earth that freed her mind and settled her anxiety better than any drug.
It was a calm the last two days trampled miserably, all because her ex was going to be a dad. She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Brian had spent most of their marriage building a case against having children too soon. At twenty-two, he’d claimed they were too young.
He’d been right. They were. But at twenty-five? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?
Ugh.
She’d been such a fool.
But in retrospect, she should thank him. An unhappy marriage was no place to raise a child. She knew that. The rational part of her brain knew it, too.
But her heart?
Her heart was angry and bitter and broken. Some days she feared she’d suffocate beneath the weight of those emotions, and the fact he was making babies with his soul mate while her adoption fell apart only added insult to injury.
Caitlin adjusted her earbuds and wound deeper into the forest, pumping her arms, running as fast as she could before the tears spilled down her cheeks. When she couldn’t breathe, when her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, she came to a full stop, hands on her knees, panting.
Why hadn’t she let go?
Why was she holding on to the threads of a marriage that made neither of them happy?
“Gah, Lila’s right. I am a coward.” When had she become so weak? So whiny? So . . .
Fragile.
This version of her wasn’t who she was. Who she wanted to be. A child—her child—deserved better than this shell of a person.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Caitlin clutched her grandmother’s pendant. The ache of her seanmhair’s loss mixed with the pain thrumming in her veins. How she missed her grandmother’s sass. She could always see through Caitlin’s excuses, and now, more than ever, Caitlin needed her wisdom.
Her strength.
And a hug.
Her grandmother gave the best hugs. Hard, squeeze-you-like-a-lemon hugs. Smiling, Caitlin shifted the necklace closer to her heart. If she were standing beside her, she’d say all wasn’t lost. With work, a weakness could transform into a strength, and anything worth having was worth fighting for.
Would Caitlin give up so easily?
Hell no.
She was going to march her ass into Mandy’s office first thing. There was no reason she and Jadiel’s grandmother couldn’t work out an arrangement. Some type of visitation. Caitlin was determined to be a part of that little boy’s life.
When she opened her eyes, a greenish haze swarmed the area where she stood. Her heart turned over in her chest. The strange glow swirled through her fingers and spread outward, wafting four feet off the ground and extending to the evergreens and brush lining the path before dissipating in the breeze.
A rustling noise by her feet startled her. Her panicky gaze darted about the empty preserve before landing on the chipmunk scurrying to a nearby tree.
Caitlin rubbed her eyes and let out a shaky laugh. She was seeing things. The news about Jadiel’s grandmother had knocked around in her head for most of the night. She’d barely slept and boy oh boy was she paying for it now. And in two hours’ time, she’d be hanging on for dear life with twenty-nine energetic seven-year-olds ready to tear her apart. Lucky for them, she’d love every second.
Two hours?
She’d need to head home now if she wanted to stop at Mandy’s office before heading to school. Beating a path back to her car, Caitlin snaked around a tree to avoid a swampy area. The unnatural quiet hung thick and unsettled, which was odd, because she’d never run this trail without bumping into a fellow runner.
Was the park closed for maintenance?
Was that even a thing?
When she’d bolted from the car, she hadn’t seen a sign, but God knew she’d been distracted. Dark monster clouds rolled across the sky, strangling the morning light.
“Rain? Seriously?” The weather app hadn’t reported rain, but with the way this morning was turning out, she shouldn’t be surprised.
The temperature dropped quickly, and a chilly breeze whipped against her back, funneling a cascade of dry leaves around her feet. Thunder rumbled, howling against the wind, and she forgot about misplaced signs, missing people, and awful mornings.
She was going to get soaked.
Really soaked.
Slowing, Caitlin raised her arm to shield her face from flying debris. Above her head, the air thickened, growing into something resembling an enormous . . .
Jelly sac?
The anomaly hovered. Lightning sparked inside the weird cloud, firing across its diameter like shooting stars before fading into gray bursts of cloudy mist. The thing pulsed and swelled, expanding into a vortex of flashing light and whirling wind until it was large enough to swallow a car and the tiny human woman blocking its path.
Caitlin’s mind raced to make sense of the crazy signals her eyes were sending her brain. Impossible signals, because this? This was unlike anything she’d seen before.
Then right before she resumed her run, something big shot from the cloud, landing with a hard thump a foot from where she stood gaping. In the next second, the wind died. The clouds parted. Sunlight streamed through the tree canopy, and the strange hissing sound that accompanied the storm went radio silent.
The only evidence any of it occurred was the heap of flesh laying motionless on the forest floor.
She tensed. Not a heap.
A body?
Her breath hitched, and she leaped back. It couldn’t be. Bodies didn’t fall from the sky.
But . . .
She inched closer. Maybe a Halloween decoration? A very realistic-looking prop with long, dark hair and a masculine form dressed in a bright yellow tunic covered in dirt and a reddish-brown substance resembling blood.
Goosebumps prickled her skin. “It” looked too real to be fake, but there was no way the mini-tornado hurled a man halfway across Tiverton in his pajamas.
Could it?
Because that was the only logical explanation for the unmoving figure dressed in a garment that barely covered his muscular thighs.
Caitlin glanced at the sky, now a clear blue. A tornado? Really? But what else could it be? Tornados rarely—if ever—happened here, but they weren’t impossible.
A deep moan sounded, ricocheting her heart back to panic mode. Caitlin dropped to her knees and reached out to roll the man onto his back, but when she touched him, a surge of heat stung her fingertips. She yanked her hand back and rubbed the pads of her fingers.
Had he been electrocuted inside the vortex?
Expecting another jolt, she eased her hand forward and prodded his shoulder.
No spark.
She cursed herself for not remembering more of her CPR lessons. He had moaned, so that meant a pulse and hopefully a clear airway. There was no pooling blood—at least none she saw—on or near the body, except for the dried stains on his shirt. Once on his back, she could straighten his head and neck to begin CPR.
Not that she knew what she was doing. Yes, she was certified, as were most teachers, but she’d practiced on a dummy two years ago, and that dummy hadn’t prepared her to administer CPR to a man who’d fallen from the sky.
Don’t panic. Airway. CPR. 911.
Easy peasy, right?
The mantra did nothing to control her trembling limbs.
With another groan, the man rolled onto his back. Something metal glinted in his left hand. His eyes flew open.
Jerking back, Caitlin fell on her rear.
He jumped into a low crouch, the quickness of his movement leaving her breathless.
Knife in hand, he scanned the woods.
And then her.
Digging her fingernails into the dirt, she craned her neck. He was huge. Over six feet of towering muscle. It was like staring at He-Man dressed in a yellow tunic. Only this barbarian had wild, jet-black hair and fierce blue eyes that slashed everything in its path, including her.
Holy shit. She was going to die.
She must have whimpered or made some stupid sound because he dipped his head and locked his eyes onto her face. His fierce scowl softened, and he fell to his knees in front of her, his brief burst of energy surrendering into the frosty morning air.
It took her a full minute to regulate her breathing and get over the shock of almost dying. He winced and reached a hand to his side, and when he spoke, his deep voice vibrated in a language she couldn’t quite understand.
Familiar, yet—
Blood seeped from beneath his palm. Her sharp intake of breath echoed between them.
“You’re bleeding.” She scrambled to her feet and then fumbled with her armband to pull her phone from its pocket. “Don’t move. We need to get you to a hospital. You’re going to be okay.” The phone shook in her hands. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
She mistyped her security code. Frustrated, she blew out a breath. She hated needing a code, but she’d learned early in her career that electronic devices were a temptation little hands couldn’t resist.
The man eyed her phone, dark brows dropping into a squinty vee. The weird dialect rolled off his tongue, the words forming too fast for her to catch their meaning.
Or maybe he was slurring.
Which was bad, right? That meant brain trauma.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She snapped her attention to the device, now dangerously close to slipping out of her trembling hands. At this rate, the guy would bleed to death before she could dial 911.
“Don’t talk, okay? I’m getting you help.”
The man didn’t listen. He spoke, thick syllables rising and falling like a Scottish burr. It reminded her of when her grandmother was furious. She’d unintentionally switch from hollering in English to Gaelic.
Wait . . .
Gaelic?
He was Scottish?
What on earth was he doing here? In his jammies?
When he spoke again, she swore she understood him to say, “Where am I, lass?”
“I—um . . .” Her thumb hovered over the keypad as the strange phenomenon came to mind. “You’re in Rhode Island. Weetamoo Woods.”
He wiped his bloody hand across his chest. Words buzzed out of his mouth faster than before.
“Whoa.” Caitlin turned her palms out. “Slow down, okay? Can you”—she gestured with her forefinger—“understand me?”
He nodded.
“You can?” Well, that was a surprise. “Good.” She focused on his lips. “Good. Now let’s try again, but slower this time, okay?”
“Aye.” He attempted to stand.
“Standing is probably not a good idea. Maybe you should just stay where you are until I can get through to nine-one-one.”
Except for the blood she’d missed earlier, he appeared fine. Still, she wasn’t a nurse or a doctor and had no experience to gage how serious his injury could be.
“The wound is minor.” He’d slowed his speech enough where she didn’t have to strain as hard to understand. But he ignored her directive, choosing to rise to his feet. Glancing to the woods behind him, he asked, “How d’ye come to be haur without yer kin?”
His brogue was rich. Definitely Scottish.
“I live here? Well, not here, but close by.” She entered her passcode.
The man followed the movement of her fingers over the keypad. A frown formed over his brow. He surveyed the area once more, then swayed.
Caitlin grabbed hold of him. The strange current jammed up her arm.
His eyes snapped to hers in surprise. Then he flung his hand out and caught her wrist. “Where is she?” he growled. “Did you aid her summons, witch? For what purpose?”
Witch?
For a second, she froze, and then she attempted to tug her arm from his impossible grip. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”
He gentled his hold, but didn’t release her. The dagger glinted dangerously from his other hand.
“What strange tongue you speak, and yet despite my never having heard its like, I understand?” He tsked. “Nay, witch. You’ve summoned the wrong man.”
Caitlin’s jaw couldn’t drop any lower, but he was right. The language was clearer.
How?
Jutting his chin to the cell phone, he said, “Discard the item you hold. To the ground. Now.”
Frowning, she tossed the cell phone and winced as it hit the forest floor. “Look, I don’t know what happened to you, or how you got here, but you’re hurt and probably confused. Just put the knife away. I’m only trying to help you.”
He confiscated the phone with the hand holding the weapon and pinned her with a look that twisted her insides. “Who do you serve?”
“Serve? I don’t serve anyone.”
He snorted.
“Listen to me. I found you on the ground. You’d fallen through . . . through . . .” Her throat clenched under his stare. Did she dare tell him he’d fallen from the sky when he’d just called her a witch? “You were unconscious when I found you.”
He angled his head, the vivid blue of one eye disappearing beneath a dubious brow, while the other attempted to unearth the truth. “You truly have no knowledge of how I came to be here?”
“No. I don’t.” Her knees nearly buckled under his scrutiny. “I swear.”
He stared at her for the longest, soul-sucking minute of her life. Then he eased his grip on the knife and released her wrist. “Aye, then. I believe you.”
What? “You do?”
“Should I not?”
“No—I mean yes.” God! “Yes, you should believe me. I’m only trying to help you.”
He secured the knife to the belt tied around his waist. “You’ve fear marked upon your bonny face. Were you truly a dark witch, you would have unleashed your vengeance without remorse. ’Tis not to say you haven’t aligned yourself with evil, now is it? But I’ll let your actions decide.”
“My actions?” Oookay. Caitlin blew a loose strand of hair from her face and backed away from the barefooted giant raving about witches, evil, and vengeance.
Maybe she hadn’t heard him right?
Then again, with her luck, the guy probably escaped from a psychiatric ward—hello yellow jammies—and instead of calling for help, she was arguing with him and perpetuating his psychosis.
She paused.
He did sort of resemble an escapee. A thick scab ran across his forehead, and his bruised jaw was covered in two or three-day-old stubble. And those incredible eyes?
Alert.
Too alert to be crazy, but she was no expert.
He-Man arched a brow, and there was no misconstruing the amusement dancing in those sharp baby blues. “Do I meet your approval?”
Heat flushed her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “Don’t go getting the wrong idea. I was trying to figure you out.”
He grinned. “Were you, now?”
“What else would I be doing?” The fire on her face intensified, reaching her temples.
“My apologies, then. For before, lass,” he said in that sexy brogue. “I had to ensure you meant me no harm. You understand.”
Sure she did
“My phone, please. Since you’re clearly not dying, I should be going.” She had a busy morning that didn’t include blushing at half-naked strangers in the woods.
He cocked his head. The turquoise blue of her cell phone case slid between his agile fingers as he analyzed her phone with bewilderment. “What function does this strange box perform?”
“What function?” Before she could complete her next thought, he shoved her behind his massive frame, but not before she caught the glimpse of another man entering their line of sight.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this charming?” The voice was smooth, cultured, and accented. English? Scottish?
She couldn’t tell.
Caitlin poked her head around He-Man’s massive arm. A fit, older man with a military-style haircut and an expensive suit stood before them, arms crossed like an action movie villain.
“It looks like I’ve arrived in the nick of time,” he said. “How fortuitous.”
As if this day could get any weirder, six more men dressed in suits similar to the first shoved through the tree-line, fanning behind him in a perfect arc with what looked like swords strapped to their backs.
Swords?
She lowered her voice so only He-Man heard. “What’s going on? Are you in some kind of live action role playing game?” Her gaze swept beyond the tree-line. She’d bet there was someone in the trees streaming the video for the world to see. Which was a total breach of her privacy and against the law.
He-Man didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The darkening of his eyes was answer enough.
Her breath caught, and she curled her fingers into his shirt. The fabric was stiff. Damp warmth ebbed from his tensing limbs, spiking her pulse to beat erratically in her ears.
“Ms. Reed.”
Those two words startled her, snapping her gaze back to the man. “How do you know my name?”
“We are connected, you and I. I suppose you could say we share a bond.”
Impossible. She never forgot a face, and his was a face she didn’t know.
He laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. Although I suppose there is much Mariota did not share with you. A shame, really. We could have avoided this nasty business. Now be a good dear and hand over the stone. I know you have it. I have seen the mist, so there is no use denying the truth, girl, is there?”
The urge to turn and run gripped her. “I don’t know you. I don’t know how you know my name or why you’re here. But you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“No, Ms. Reed. I do not make mistakes. It is you who are mistaken. But, very well,” he shrugged. “If it’s games you wish to play, then it’s games we shall play.” To his men, he barked, “Grab the woman. Kill the warrior.”
“Stay behind me.” He-Man’s roughened voice pierced her shock. “Run when I tell you.”
Her heart thumped in her chest. “You can’t fight them alone.”
He gave her a strange look. The moment ended when one of the suited men broke from the center of the group, his intention clear.
Oh, God. This wasn’t a game.
He-Man ducked to avoid the strike, wielding his knife like a venomous snake—lashing out, making contact, pulling back. One by one, the others followed until all six were in the fray; the leader watching from the sidelines with a wicked grin on his face.
It would be a massacre.
Caitlin bent over and searched the forest floor for a weapon. She curled her fingers around a fallen branch and grabbed a handful of dirt with the other. She whipped around, wielding the stick like Excalibur.
He-Man roared, the savage sound mixing with the others quickly filling the forest. Grunts. Flesh striking flesh. Metal clanging. His body moved to a rhythm he appeared to know all too well, and in a blur of steel and limbs, his opponents fell.
But they refused to stay down.
“Stay close,” he ordered, using his body to shield her from an attacker.
Two of the black-suited men cornered him. One locked him in a chokehold, and the other drew his sword. Caitlin threw dirt in the face of the one closest to her and stabbed at him with her flimsy branch, the wood breaking upon contact.
Her protector maneuvered out of the hold around his neck, slammed one attacker to the ground, pierced his chest, and then embedded the blade into the second man’s torso.
Another sword swung.
Caitlin ducked to avoid an arm. He-Man toppled the guy to the ground, hijacked another weapon, then spun to counter an attack.
“Now,” he bellowed in his thick brogue. “Run. I will find you.”
Adrenaline fired into Caitlin’s blood. She bolted, arms pumping at her sides, when something latched onto her ponytail, wrenching her to the ground.
She hit hard.
Pain seared her scalp. Expecting the sharp stab of a blade, she kicked out furiously. With a snarl, her attacker reached down and clutched the zippered collar of her running top. Hauling her to her feet, he started dragging her away from the fight. And she knew if he did, she knew she wouldn’t make it out of this park alive.
She dug her heels into the ground. Sinking her nails into his forearm, Caitlin bit down with all she had to break his hold.
It didn’t work.
With a frenzied roar, the bastard punched the side of her head, then shoved her to the ground and straddled her waist. His hands shot to her neck. Her eyes flew up, clashing with her attacker’s furious gaze. He’d moved from anger to crazed fury and there was no going back.
This time, she was going to die. For real.
Coughing from the pressure building against her windpipe, she clawed at his arms. His face. His eyes. She might’ve lived like a coward, but she sure as hell wasn’t about to go out like one. She fought for every breath until the body on top of her went rigid and slumped to the ground beside her, a sword protruding from his back.
Sucking in burning gasps of air, Caitlin scrambled to get up.
He-Man’s muscular arm came into view. “Can you run?”
Her ears rang from the blow to her head. “What?”
“Are you well enough to run, lass?”
“Yeah.” She took the hand he offered, ignoring the zing of energy shooting up her arm as he lifted her to her feet.
Bodies littered the forest floor.
The beginning of a panic attack bubbled in her chest. Shifting her thoughts from the carnage in the field to the forest, she focused on the here and now. On a plan, because any plan would be better than running wildly through the woods with no end goal.
Trail markers.
She needed to find the trail markers.
“This way,” she choked out. She’d crossed the green trail earlier, which meant the gas line easements were east of their current position. If she followed the pipeline in a northerly direction, they would come up to the Lake Street entrance. Her car was parked a few feet away.
It was mid-October, which meant the leaves were falling, but the combination of evergreens and deciduous trees might provide enough cover to hide them until they reached the parking lot.
She hoped.
It was the best she could do until they made it out of the park and she figured out what to do next.
Behind her, He-Man waved her forward, then stumbled. His pace slowed significantly, his strides sluggish. The thought of carrying his two-hundred-plus pounds of muscled flesh to the car, without assurance the sword-wielding fanatics were out of the picture, spiked her pulse. But she’d do it. She wasn’t leaving him behind, not after he’d risked his life to save hers. And not when she could see the trail leading to the lot.
They were so close.
With her key remote held tightly between her thumb and forefinger, she depressed the unlock button, cringed at the chirp, and pushed through the last leg of the route. Gasping for breath, she reached the car, opened the door, and threw herself into the front seat.
Just as she started the car, He-Man approached. He halted a few feet away from the passenger door, a sword in one hand, the other holding onto his side.
His face drained of color.
Oh, God, please don’t pass out.
“Come on. Get in!” she yelled at the windshield.
Blood seeped through his shirt.
She jumped out and rushed to where he stood, white as a ghost. “Get inside.” She glanced behind him, scanning the trail. “Can you make it?”
He nodded warily, ogling the car with the oddest expression.
She didn’t have time to figure him out. “Okay, get in then.” She opened the passenger door and hurried around to the driver’s side. “I don’t see anyone following, but if they are, they can’t be far behind.”
He stared at the interior of the SUV with something akin to . . . awe? Then the sound of male voices jarred him from his stupor. Clumsily, he climbed in, dropping the sword on the floor between his legs, and before he could grab the door handle, Caitlin threw the engine into reverse.
He-Man pressed his back against the seat and gripped the edges of the leather cushion, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead.
Three of the suited men burst from the dirt path.
Caitlin tore her eyes from the rear window and shifted into drive. The car’s momentum swung the door closed. With her foot completely depressed on the gas pedal, she fishtailed out of the lot, leaving a billowing cloud of dust in her wake.
READY FOR MORE?
“She couldn’t imagine having her entire world wrenched away in the blink of an eye. Sure, her situation wasn’t exactly ideal, but she was familiar with the time and its people. She understood how things worked in this century. There was comfort in that knowledge.
And hope.”
— Caitlin Reed/The Tempus Stone