by Jeanne Rose
Thinking she’d better run to the manor and inform the MacDonalds, she stopped herself when she considered that someone might be Bain. What if he had come looking for her earlier, and, not finding her, had vented his frustration on her possessions?
Unlikely . . . but Caitlin didn’t want to feel even more foolish by making a fuss if the explanation were so simple.
Still stunned, she took another look around to see if anything had been stolen. Her jewelry was intact as was the leather billfold with her airline tickets and travelers’ checks. An even closer inspection finally revealed three missing items: a pillow cover from the bed, her hairbrush from the washstand, and a sketch of Bain that she’d left in the portfolio.
The inventory filled her with an even creepier feeling. What in the world would anyone want with such mundane items as a pillow case and a hairbrush? And what about the sketch of Bain? She couldn’t fathom that he himself would have wanted it.
Then who?
Rubbing her arms to rid herself of a sudden chill, Caitlin remembered seeing Professor Abernathy in the dark and wondered if he might have reason to want her spooked.
He could scare her half to death.
He had what he needed – a personal item and one belonging to her quarters. The likeness of her protector was an added bonus, something he hoped to use later. For he had to find a weakness before engaging the Prince of Air and Darkness.
Still uncertain if she, too, might not be after the treasure, he wanted her out of the way, to eliminate both the threat of competition and the possibility that their lust-inspired bond might add to his enemy’s strength. And while she wore the talisman, he could do nothing directly against her.
What he could do was make her wish she’d never left home. He could frighten her so badly that she would turn tail and run back to her native California.
He opened the ancient leather-bound volume, searching for an appropriate spell. When he’d taken care of her, he would start gathering his forces and make final preparations to do battle for what had to be the prize of all prizes.
CHAPTER SIX
After a near-sleepless night, Caitlin chose to say nothing about the weird theft to the MacDonalds over breakfast. She hated being suspicious of people she liked – especially Mary – and so was relieved when she finished and was able to make her excuses and leave.
But Professor Abernathy rushed outside after her, calling, “Caitlin, one moment.”
She gave the mild-looking professor a piercing glare.
“Mrs. Abernathy and I are off to see what’s left of the Antonine Wall this morning and thought you might like to come.”
Caitlin forced a polite smile to her lips. She couldn’t be certain that the professor was innocent of violating her quarters. “I’ve already made other plans,” she fibbed.
“Really. What might you be up to today?”
Was he merely being friendly or did the question have a sinister undercurrent?
“I thought I would wander through some of the nearby towns to soak up the local atmosphere.” She started to turn away, but was stopped by a firm hand gripping her upper arm.
Professor Abernathy frowned at her. “Think of the historical significance of the–”
”Thanks, but not today.” Caitlin shrugged her arm free.
Before the professor could do anything to stop her, she hurried off to her rental car. Checking her rear-view mirror, she noted he was still standing in the same spot, while Mrs. Abernathy joined him. Husband and wife huddled together and seemed to be arguing, all the while staring after her.
Caitlin shook away the creeps.
As good as her word, she drove straight through Droon to cruise several other towns, but any local atmosphere remained elusive. Her mood remained distant, her mind preoccupied. She couldn’t stop thinking about the strange things that had happened to her since she’d arrived in Scotland.
Having a car break down from some unknown cause the mechanic could only attribute to “fairy fire.” Developing a relationship with a man no one but a crazy old shepherd seemed to have met. Being followed to the standing stones, then chased into the mystery man’s arms. Finding her cottage ransacked.
What was going on? She felt as if she’d stepped into the Twilight Zone.
If so, she was prepared to journey deeper into the uncharted territory. For, after lunch, she found herself wandering through the woods and fields around Black Broch, sketchpad in hand. She couldn’t stay away from the old ruins. Or Bain.
She hopped across a narrow bubbling brook and made for a copse of trees that she hadn’t before noticed. Stepping between the giant oaks that had the feel of a dark primordial forest, Caitlin called up Bain’s image, as clear to her as if he were standing directly before her. Windswept black hair. Midnight blue eyes. Chiseled features. And a striking presence that bespoke power. Whether riding out of the mists as she’d depicted him in her sketches, or threatening her with assault while naked but for his plaid, he made an unforgettable impression.
Then again, the potent effect he had on her was due in part to his temper. He always seemed to be angry about something, and Caitlin suspected it wasn’t solely with her. Maybe his volatile make-up had to do with family obligations imposed on him by his authoritarian mother. He didn’t have much of a life.
He seemed so . . . isolated.
In his own way, he seemed to be cut off from the world as surely as her younger brother had been.
And maybe that’s why Caitlin was never certain that she would see Bain Morghue again. Being with him stimulated her mentally as well as physically and emotionally, but she couldn’t look to any future with the elusive man, not even to the next day. Though he was attracted to her, drawn to her despite himself, he made not even the simplest of commitments. A date. Though Bain seemed to find her time and again as if he knew her every move, Caitlin couldn’t shake the fear that her midnight rider would slip away into the mists from which he had come only to disappear forever.
As if he were no more solid than a gossamer figment of her imagination . . .
Standing at the edge of a clearing sheltered by palmettos and eucalyptus trees that appeared foreign to this rugged if stunning land, she looked upon the large open area in the center. All the grass and flowers had been flattened. And the outer ring of undisturbed grass waved gently back and forth, though Caitlin could detect no wind. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
A fairy ring.
Impulse brought her to the very center where beams of sun shafted through the trees. Her imagination began to work overtime. A fairy ring? Why not? What a wonderful place to create. Just as she thought that, she felt a chill breeze on her neck and shivered. Something felt forbidden . . .
She dismissed her fears and sank to the earth cross-legged. She could almost hear the music, wild and alluring, could almost see the occupants of the invisible world prancing about her in a furious dance. Long ago, she’d read that a human’s joining in the frenzied celebration would lead to a possible lifetime of captivity, the reveler only being freed if another clever human came to the rescue.
She could almost see herself dancing with Bain.
Spirit lightened by that bizarre image – for she couldn’t truly see Bain shaking a leg under any circumstances – she opened her sketchpad. Cocooning herself in the atmosphere of the place, she worked for what seemed like hours, her pencil untiring as it skimmed page after page, leaving behind images that came straight from her subconscious – twining spirals, feral eyes and sharp faces – the inhabitants of the invisible world around her.
Eventually she grew sleepy. She was yawning and her eyes were watering, until, at last, she gave way and lay back against the crushed carpet, sketchpad safely at her side.
As if blown by tiny wings, the pages fluttered along with her lashes.
And then she gave over, allowing her eyes to close . . .
BAIN'S EYES shot open to greet a blazing fire in the smallish chamber where he’d drifted off some time ago. Rememb
ering the images that had danced through his head while dozing, he was left unsettled. While he tried to make sense of this uneasy feeling, Ghillie Brown scurried to his side.
“Can I get ye food or drink, Laird?”
“Not now.”
Fingers of dread walked up Bain’s spine, disturbing him well and good. A presage of something about to go wrong.
“But ye must eat. Must keep up yer strength if ye’re to be properly vigilant.”
Speaking of vigilance, Bain asked, “Where’s the falcon?”
“Still stretching his wings he be.”
Bain didn’t like it. Dusk grayed the room. “He should have returned by now.”
Unless . . .
The pressure on his spine increased and the flesh along his neck crawled. Bain tuned in to the warning, but he could not fathom its source, a fact that made him more anxious.
“I need to prepare.”
Ghillie’s eyes all but popped from his head and the tufts of hair seemed to stand straight up from his ears. “Where be the trouble coming from?” he asked fearfully.
Bain didn’t answer. Even if he were certain, he wouldn’t be fool enough to test Ghillie’s loyalties in this matter unless he had no other choice.
HE STOOD PREPARED, naked in the midst of the standing stones, his flesh pale against the dark of night. Before him on the great horizontal rock altar lay the leather-bound volume, now closed, for he had no need to read words already committed to memory. His supplies were carefully laid out: dirk, chalices, burner and incense, hazel wood wand, black iron pentacle and a silver Celtic knot attached to a chain.
Wind swept through his hair and dew dampened his skin as he raised his hands and face to the full moon.
“I, Atholl, come to this sacred place of my own volition.”
He solemnly intoned the magical name he’d chosen for himself, a name that would be secret from all but the Celtic gods . . . and the Prince of Air and Darkness. He would spit it in his enemy’s face before vanquishing him.
“I once again dedicate my life to War and Revenge.”
His words rang ominously from standing stone to standing stone, the echo filling him with strength, making him imagine he spoke with their voices.
“I follow the ancient paths and therefore ask that you place your all-encompassing power in my hands. I am a stone of the ancient circle as are those surrounding me. I stand firmly balanced upon this earth, yet I am open to the winds . . .”
He continued the self-initiation, anointing himself, laying the Celtic knot upon the pentacle and blessing it before hanging its chain around his neck. When metal met skin, he felt the power passing to him; his pulse speeded up and his blood soared. The wand in one hand, the dirk in the other, he made his plea.
“The gates between the worlds stand open this night. Behold, Scathach, O Shadowy One, She Who Strikes Fear . . . Behold, Caillech, Morrighan, Raise Up Your Legions. I beseech your aid . . .
When he’d finished his chant to the dark faces of the ancient Goddess, he turned counterclockwise within the rough circle of the stones, his dirk raised. Widdershins was always the direction for curses. Then he laid the hair brush and pillow case on the altar, smiling at the terror soon to be suffered by the uninitiated . . .
WHEN CAITLIN AWOKE, she felt chilled to the bone. A sough of wind floated on the air, carrying with it the distinct thrum of harp strings, the clarion call of flutes and the urgent tinkling of bells.
Hearing the sounds more clearly, Caitlin sat straight up and twisted around to see from whence they came. The forest stared back at her, dense and unrevealing. And though the sky above remained clear, a bright star shooting across the inky blackness, the ground surrounding her was footed with a swirling fog that seemed to be thickening, inching across the land like a serpent.
The musical sounds grew closer, more insistent, and joined with them were the baying of hounds.
“Hello, is someone there?” she called, still seeking the source.
Out of the mists in the distance stepped one horse, then another, with several more to follow. Their hooves were shod with silver, their heads bridled with gold, and on their backs sat warriors and ladies dressed in fine embroidered, gilded and jeweled garments. They were led by a haughty-looking woman with silvered black hair dressed in deepest blood-red.
Caitlin stared open-mouthed, certain the riders were all actors recreating some local historical event. But why hadn’t the MacDonalds mentioned it? Or the local newspapers?
Horses and riders wound in and out of the mist, a pair of growling, snarling dogs trotting between the larger animals’ legs. The procession was at first visible and then not. Though it was pitch dark, a nimbus of light surrounded the courtly riders so their forms glowed with an ethereal brilliance. Behind them, a road cut through the forest, more spectral illumination offering Caitlin a clear view of a mighty black fortress with a tall, imposing tower. Black Broch?
While busy trying to make sense of this vision, Caitlin became aware of little skittering noises, the whish of wings. Staring from the shadows were tiny inhuman faces, terrible visages with sharp teeth and red eyes. She froze, afraid, especially when one of the shadowy things hissed at her and flew off like a moth toward the procession.
Then an eruption of sound like hollow voices made her glance toward the woman leader who had spotted her and was pointing her out to her guard. Immediately two men turned their great mounts and spurred them into a charge. Their hounds followed, nipping at the flashing hooves. Caitlin flew to her feet and made a run for the trees on the other side of the clearing. But the trees drew no closer . . . exactly as if she were running in place. Her calves burned and her heart and lungs felt near to bursting, but the shelter of forest remained at an unreachable distance.
Thundering hooves directly behind her sent a chill straight up her spine. She whipped a glance over her shoulder, saw the bulging muscles of the destriers working as if they were moving in slow motion. Thick reddish vapor issued from the horses’ flaring nostrils. One of the riders yelled a fierce war cry and held aloft a blue-snake-tattooed arm brandishing a spear on which rested a bloody, half-rotting human head.
Bile rose in her throat. The gap between her and her gruesome pursuers closed. Mists rose before her and just as suddenly parted, revealing a third warrior in black and golden armor.
She stumbled and fell to her knees. Pain jolted through her legs and back, and an invisible fist squeezed her chest. She didn’t think she could rise, didn’t imagine she could save herself. As the newest threat charged, however, she made the attempt. With a gasp, she shoved at the ground and plunged up to her feet. Fog swirled around her ankles, sucking at her like insidious fingers.
The warriors were drawing closer, lethal weapons upraised.
The danger veered away from her, the riders and hounds converging to her right, the warrior in black and gold fighting the other two. Claymores clashed with the heavy ring of steel. Jerking to a stop, she stood there panting, wide-eyed, muscles quivering with exhaustion. But who . . .? She recognized the third man’s mount, a powerful black stallion.
“Bain?” she gasped in wonder.
Had he really come to her rescue again? Glancing at her hand, she noted the moonstone glowed blue. But surely even he could not dispatch this particular danger as easily as he had the skinheads. These men were heavily armed. He was outnumbered. And the leader was dispatching more of her warriors.
Caitlin knew she had to help him. “Bain, watch your back.”
She raced toward the melee, cursing when her legs gave out and she almost fell again. Jaws dripping with foam, one of the hounds snarled and charged her.
Fear dissolved into anger – red, hot and seething.
With a screech of fury loud enough to split the heavens, Caitlin reached for the dog as it sailed toward her. Grabbing its ruff, she stopped it cold even as its jaws sank into her arm.
“How dare you.” She shook the animal and pitched it toward the troop’s leader. “Go
back where you came from, you cursed hound of hell!”
Belly low to the ground, the dog slunk off, and before her amazed eyes melded with the mist.
“All of you!” Caitlin screamed, once more stumbling toward the armed warriors. While Bain fought valiantly, she didn’t think he could hold off the reinforcements headed their way. She searched out the leader and yelled at the woman, “Leave us be!”
Hair flying around her mantled shoulders, the leader stared, eyes seeming to glow as deeply red as her garment. Careening to a stop once more, Caitlin locked gazes with the woman and refused to look away. But the physical exertion and mental stress had taken their toll. The image before her was wavering.
Caitlin sucked in the fetid night air and tried to hold on, but it was no use. Utterly exhausted, all her energies spent, she sank to her knees. The mists reached up to succor her, while constellations of stars whirled overhead. The next thing she knew, the black and gold armored warrior was bending over her, mouthing her name.
She blinked, trying to focus on his voice, on his face . . .
And then nothing . . .
“CAITLIN.”
She heard her name as if from a very long distance and felt a hand on her arm shaking her.
“Open your eyes, lass,” came an insistent voice filled with urgency, “so that I know you are well.”
With a start, she obeyed, her eyes flicking open to meet a welcome sight. “Bain!” He was bending over her, his hand now stroking her face. “What happened?” Heart pounding with remembrance of fear, she pushed herself into a sitting position and glanced around the field. It was empty, and all was still, threads of fog slinking along the ground the only movement. “You managed to drive them off?”
“Drive who off?”
“The warriors. And the woman who led them . . .”
Suddenly she realized he was dressed in his usual dark pants, shirt and cape rather than armor. And from what she could see of his moon-silvered expression, he appeared confused. And worried. His brow was furrowed, his mouth a tight line, his eyes steadily focused on her face.