Forged in Dreams and Magick hl-1

by Kat Bastion

  Forged in Dreams and Magick

  ( Highland Legends - 1 )

  Kat Bastion

  The award-winning debut in the Highland Legend Series:

  Isobel MacInnes wakes up in present-day California, lunches in medieval Scotland, and by ten days’ end, falls in love with a man and his country, only to lose them in a heart-wrenching twist of fate . . .

  Found in the arms of her second soul mate . . .

  Forced to balance the delicate strands of time between two millennia . . .

  Shocked by revelations rewriting the very foundations of history . . . of everything.

  Isobel, a rising-star archaeology student, is dropped into two ancient worlds without warning . . . or her permission. Her fiery spirit resists the dependency thrust upon her. Amid frustration at her lack of control, she helplessly falls in love. Twice.

  She struggles to adjust to the unimaginable demands of two leaders of men—a laird in the thirteenth-century Highlands and a Pict chieftain in a more ancient Scotland. Isobel transforms from an academic, hell-bent on obtaining archaeological recognition, to a woman striving to care for those she loves, and ultimately . . . into a fearless warrior risking everything to protect them.

  Kat Bastion

  Forged in Dreams and Magick

  Highland Legends - 1

  To my prince…

  Chapter One

  Highlands of Scotland—Present Day

  The damn rental car resisted my rusty attempts at downshifting. I gripped the stick’s cracked knob harder, fighting a choking cramp at the base of my throat. My efforts at holding my emotions at bay failed. Loud sobs burst free from my lungs, echoing in the confines of the small car as fresh memories of a final goodbye imprinted into my mind.

  My grandfather’s wise, time-worn eyes had looked deep into mine as rogue tears sprang forth, coating my lashes. He’d been lying in his death bed. A nurse waited in the only other room of the tiny cottage he’d called home his entire life. He smiled, crinkling sun-weathered skin from the corners of his mouth to his emerald-green eyes. Aged hands caressed my cheeks, gently pulling my head down as he touched his lips to my forehead. I inhaled his comforting scent, a sweet mixture of cigar and the clove-flavored black tea he loved so much.

  “Och, sweet Isobel. Doona shed tears for me. The years . . . they’ve been good.”

  I straightened, wiping the irritating moisture from my cheeks, wanting to make him proud. “Seanair, I—”

  He silenced me with a finger crooked from arthritis. “All’s been said. Our story’s written, but ye know in yer heart; history has our great Highlands wrong. Ye’ve told me so a thousand times. Find our secrets. Discover the whispers on the wind that the years faded long ago. Isobel MacInnes, show the world the bright angel I know. Decide for yerself what’s tae be shared and what’s tae be held sacred.”

  He brushed a wavy lock of hair from my face as I nodded. His unwavering support of my need to uncover the truths about Scotland’s mysteries—for which I had no proof but inexplicably knew existed—helped fuel my pursuit of a career in archaeology and shaped the person I’d become.

  I set my lips tight in resolve. He’d already insisted I leave that morning before the aggressive cancer finally claimed him, and I decided to give him the dignity of death his way, granting his wish. With a wink and a smile, I stood, turned, and stepped away. I didn’t dare look back. The fragile façade I’d held together on the outside had threatened to crumble the entire visit. I wanted my last living relative to see me leave the same way he chose to depart this world—with strength.

  My ornery mode of transportation brought me vividly back into the moment, my lousy gear changing causing the shrill protest of shredding metal. I’d have preferred nails on a chalkboard. With blurry eyes, I glared at the stubborn stick in my hand. The car lurched, the shifter vibrated, and the frame shuddered until I shoved it into gear. I released the clutch, feathered the gas, and glanced up at the road.

  “Shit!” My heart shot into my throat as I yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a sea of sheep blocking the way. The unwieldy car snorted and jerked to a stop inches from the bank of a creek.

  I got out of the vehicle onto spongy earth and furiously slammed the door shut. Both the car and I needed a breather. Hundreds of lazy, shepherdless sheep commanding the road agreed. Despite my emotional chaos, I burst into laughter. If only my seanair could see me now. I paused at the thought and shook my head. Life, full of imperfections and inconveniences, had become a footnote for him. He’d already embraced the next chapter of his journey.

  I inhaled a deep breath, steadying rattled nerves. The rural air held the fresh, cool crispness of the last remnants of spring, even though the bright sun warmed my face. I walked to the front of the vehicle to make sure the wheels hadn’t sunk into peat. I sighed in relief. The broad-surfaced tires sat on top of the soil, so I had confidence I wouldn't be stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, with a bleating cacophony of sweaters-on-legs as an audience.

  Lost in scattered thoughts instead of watching where I walked, I took a careless step. With no time to scramble, I slid straight down a steep bank, landed ankle-deep with a splash, and flew backward from the momentum, landing flat on my ass. My jeans soaked through from the waist down. I sat in the ice-cold water for a moment, tilting my head toward the heavens.

  “Really? Today, of all days, you’re teaching me what? Tolerance?”

  Never needing anyone to rescue me, I picked my wet, sorry self up and trudged along the creek, looking for an exit point. Roots stuck out of the earth, resembling reasonable handholds, but given my recent luck, I passed, searching for a safer path until a bright flash in the earth caught my attention. I backtracked, locating a brilliant piece of metal stuck in the side of the bank. The fragment’s surface glinted in the sunlight like a long-lost soul signaling for help.

  I cocked my head to the side, trying to understand what I’d found. A metal crest shone brightly as the only portion visible. The symbol seemed familiar, but my frazzled state of mind had crippled a typically flawless memory, and I couldn’t process why. The thrill of the hunt overshadowed my struggle to place the crest, however, as my pulse quickened; my years of dig experience and the undisturbed state of the surrounding peat seemed to suggest that I’d found my career launcher.

  Embarking on a new mission, I marked my steps, searching for makeshift tools. A loose root and some scrub served me well, and within minutes, I’d exposed one entire side made of a variety of different metals. Even in the dirty, field-found state, its beauty took my breath away.

  A to-do list flooded into my head. I needed pictures, notes, sample bags . . . a phone to call my mentor, MacLaren; I had to share the news with him, regardless of his remote research location. I splashed down a dozen yards until the slope eased enough for a simple scramble up the bank and a quick jog to my vehicle. Excitement overwhelmed my nervous system, literally vibrating my body. Trembling hands fumbled with the car door’s metal latch, and a low growl rumbled from my throat. I took a deep breath and with steady focus curled my fingers under the lever, lifted slowly, and flung the door open, grabbing my supplies.

  I held the phone up in vain to a signal-less sky and sighed, resigning to the fact that not even a message would get out to the professor. He’d have to hear about the discovery when I returned to Inverness on the way back to the States. The relic would travel home with me, legal or not. Not one ethical cell in my body had any issues with the clear violation of law and procedure, temporary madness overriding my natural rule-abiding tendency. I’d never likened myself to Indiana Jones until that very moment.

  Retracing my path, I climbed down into th
e creek, splashing my way back to the metal object. I documented my find and began the painstaking retrieval of the artifact from its ancient home. I worked for the better part of an hour, cold to the bone from wet jeans, digging until I’d freed the captive. As soon as both of my hands made contact with the item, an unusual energy flowed into my body as if completing a circuit. I disregarded the sensation, certain the electric charge came from the thrill of discovery, and gently rocked the item loose, bringing it forth into the light of day. Fashioned entirely of metal—a foot long, and half as wide and tall—the box I’d unearthed bore extraordinary detailing.

  I pulled the heavy object tightly into my embrace, stepping into my new future.

  CHAPTER Two

  UCLA Archaeology Department—A Couple of Weeks Later

  As I walked through the poorly lit, tiled hallway toward Professor MacLaren’s office for the millionth time in my life, I was laser focused; none of the usual feelings of anticipation and excitement flowed through my veins. I barely registered the bleach scent lingering in the air. I found it impossible to concentrate on anything other than the cloth-wrapped box I clutched so tightly under my arm that I’d lost sensation in my fingertips. Like a running back cradling a football with tunnel-vision sights on the glory of the end zone, I made my way toward the haven posing as my workplace.

  I usually counted the steps, the closed doors on either side, and the tiles on the floor before arriving at my favorite destination, but not today. I was so completely distracted by the mysterious, heavy box in my hand, I almost missed the doorway. On the wall, next to the door, hung his-and-hers nameplates—his above mine, of course. Kindred in both his Scottish bloodline and passion for the ancient past, MacLaren had taken me under his wing and tutored me to achieve what no other grad student had in such a short timeframe: Assistant to the Head of the Archaeology Department. And if I had my determined way, my discovery would catapult me to Assistant Professor. I shifted my precious cargo, cradling it protectively in my left arm, and fished my key ring out of my purse. A click of the lock, a turn of the knob, and the creak of the heavy wooden door marked the preparatory cadence for me to step into my otherworldly realm.

  No amount of focus could take away from the comfort that washed over me as I entered. I turned, shut the door behind me, and closed my eyes, ritualistically inhaling scents of the past. Leather, wood, and the staleness of a place in need of a thorough dusting filled my nostrils as everything I obsess about in near-constant perpetuity welcomed me home. I flicked the light switch on the wall. My eyes opened to the cavernous room MacLaren had turned into a comfortable space, with an entry living area showcasing a burgundy-and-gold Aubusson rug surrounded by a coffee Chesterfield sofa and matching wing chairs. Wooden built-in bookcases lined one side and the back wall. MacLaren’s desk and large leather chair sat a dozen paces ahead. Flanking the space behind the desk were two locked, glass display cabinets boasting the finest treasures of his collection.

  But not one of those artifacts could ever hope to surmount the shadow of the priceless one I held.

  I stepped forward and gingerly placed the box on the corner of the desk, taking care not to mar the polished wood surface with its metal corners. With bated breath and trembling hands, I unwrapped the relic of my dreams.

  Recently installed, museum-quality lighting cast the perfect protective glow on everything collected and displayed within the room, but nothing prepared me for the vision in flawless illumination. Yes, the actual discovering, retrieving, and transporting had turned into an adventure like no other—carry-on luggage took on a whole new meaning when I refused to take my eyes off what I believed was potentially the most important discovery in history. Yes, I’d spent countless hours carefully cleaning it in my small apartment-turned-laboratory. Yes, I’d packaged samples of both the surrounding peat and fine particles cleaned from the box into marked bags for analysis—the results of which were astounding.

  I’d even taken my find to the chem lab where a materials chemistry specialist agreed to meet me under the quiet cover of night. The clandestine meeting had been arranged from my end, but Darren, who I’d only spoken to over the phone, had no idea what I’d brought. From my perspective, his requisite ignorance had enabled our meeting last night.

  * * *

  “Isobel, this is amazing.” Darren skimmed his hands over the box with gloved fingers.

  His eyes grew wide, making me wonder if I’d been wrong about his nonexistent archaeological knowledge. I stood at the table’s edge, watching his expressions instead of the top of his bleach-tipped head, as he conducted his examination from a metal stool. Impatient, I put my hands on my hips, calming my voice, hoping to sound dumb and only mildly interested.

  “How much can you tell me about it without taking samples?” I asked.

  “Well, by the looks of it, the intricately laced layers along the edges are gold, silver, platinum . . .” He leaned over, grabbing a small, silver pointing device from the table. “These carved disks on the corners here beneath the latticework seem to be copper. Bronze, lead, brass, steel . . . I’m struggling to find a metal not represented here. This is a metallurgist’s wet dream.”

  I’d already cleaned the box with dry brushes and a detailed gentle-solution bath designed to preserve the integrity of metal pieces. As I listened to his analysis, I received the confirmation I’d been seeking. My novice eye suspected the number of materials and their intertwining detail on the one piece stood unprecedented. The different heats and expertise required to craft each metal made the work amazing to behold, irrespective of the elaborate designs and weaving.

  “What about the material fashioning the sides?” I asked as he turned the item around and around, visually noting every one of its many facets like I’d done so many times before him. The one almost-breadbox-sized item held so much beautiful detail, it took several days worth of viewings to take in; I still noticed new things daily, like a small etching or a concealed motif.

  Darren tapped his chin with the pointer, clearly as intrigued as I by the unknown material of the sides. It had sheen but didn’t reflect. It had a bluish-silver hue and the slightest sparkle. He opened a side-cart drawer, withdrew a magnet, and held it against one side of the box. When he released his hold, it fell into his hand. He repeated the process on every side, verifying what I already knew: it had no magnetic properties. Without a word, he stood and left the room.

  I whispered to our subject, “Guess you stumped him, too.”

  He returned with a Geiger counter. Radioactive? He floated the device over the box. The handheld meter crackled. He rubbed his goatee-covered chin, furrowing his brow.

  “What?” I wondered aloud.

  “I thought it might’ve come from space because the color and density resembles unique meteorite samples I’ve tested.” He tapped a side. “The low reading discounts that theory.”

  “Doesn’t radioactivity of an element decrease over time?” I conjectured.

  “Sure,” he replied, “but not to this level. This would have to be thousands of years old. Plus, the quantity of ore needed to constitute the density of the sides and the craftsmanship required to fashion all of this together into one piece . . .” He trailed off, lost in his confusion.

  While he grappled with his new mystery, my excitement skyrocketed. He’d told me all I needed to know. No other artifact like it existed on Earth, because it held properties not of this Earth. Its age exceeded our historical record of metalworking craft, and the peat and dust samples I’d analyzed pointed to one undeniable conclusion: never-before-imagined skill and materials created the object I’d found.

  “Great, thanks Darren. I appreciate your having a look so late.” I carefully pulled the cloth around the box and lifted it out of his reach. He stared at the new void on his metal work table. I almost laughed. I knew the sleepless night he’d have obsessing for answers to questions now plaguing him. I’d had those same restless nights all week.

  * * *

 
The special lights bathing the artifact before me, however, captured minute nuances, bringing the inanimate to brilliant life.

  “You and I have been through a lot, haven’t we?” I said to my dazzling new friend. I laughed, dancing precariously close to the edge of becoming one of those crazy professors who is socially inept with people but perfectly suited for lifelong companionship with the objects of their insatiable desire.

  In the private enclave of MacLaren’s office while I cast my gaze upon the gleaming box, the Universe revolved around me as the rare object took center stage surrounded by a collection of its archaeological descendants. I grew lightheaded and realized I’d been holding my breath. I inhaled deeply as the exhilaration of the moment gently released its hold.

  My iPhone chimed its factory-installed text tone, pulling me out of my awestruck daze. I glanced at the screen. Iain Brodie. My friend. Also a modern-day Highlander and global movie star. I quickly read the message that populated the display beneath his name. Oh shit! I’d invited Iain to meet me at MacLaren’s office; the entire purpose of my quest today hinged on his reaction to my find, and his text alert said he’d be here in a few minutes.

  I went to the antique gilded mirror hanging on the far wall. Vanity may never have played a role in my life before, but Iain’s opinion of me had grown more important with time. My image came into view on the silver-backed glass. I tucked an unruly lock of my wavy, pale blond hair behind my left ear. The reflection staring back had never been knockout gorgeous, but I’d been called pretty often enough to believe the words. A small nose, heart-shaped face, and cute dimples when I smiled likely prompted the compliments I’d received. My simple, forest-green mohair sweater matched my eyes in the room’s light. I straightened the pleat in the ankle-length, wraparound plaid skirt that skimmed the tops of my favorite calfskin boots.