by Brenda Joyce
He cares about me, Tabby thought. She pushed herself to sit up straighter, too tense to feel any joy. “Macleod, let’s focus on what we do know. That woman is the evil that came from An Tùir-Tara and followed us here from New York. It attacked me twice so far. How can it be Criosaidh? She’s alive and at Melvaig. Right?”
Macleod said slowly, “Criosaidh is alive an’ well at Melvaig, Tabitha. But if her ghost has come here from the sixteenth century, I think it verra dangerous fer them both.”
Tabby tried to think about Criosaidh being alive and just to the south, with her future spirit, having time-traveled into the past to stalk them. Macleod had to be onto something. The pendant he’d brought from the twenty-first century had imploded when it came into contact with its thirteenth-century self. What would happen if that ghost met itself before it had died?
Tabby’s tension escalated. “In the Book, there is a Wisdom that every Rose is taught early on. It’s in Gaelic, but translated it says, ‘Seek it in the sands of time and you will find it in the light of eternity.’”
“That can mean anything.”
“The entire passage is long and convoluted and hard to comprehend, but my grandmother said it means that every moment in time is continuously occurring—that it’s eternal. Until my friend Allie went back in time, I never really understood it, but I do now. Or I think I do. Time is a continuum,” Tabby said slowly. “Every moment exists, for everyone, at every possible point in time, like a sliding ruler. Slide into the future and there we are—at Melvaig, in the Burning Tower in 1550. Slide backward, here we are. Slide forward—we’re dead. Slide back—we haven’t been born.”
His stare was sharp. “But only fer those who can leap. If ye can leap, ye can find anyone at any time.”
“I wonder,” Tabby said thoughtfully, “if the spirit is allowed to move backward?”
“Satan is probably pleased.” He shrugged and Tabby thought about the bottom line—evil wanted chaos and anarchy. Evil followed no rules.
“You told me that the Masters aren’t allowed to go backward or forward in time and encounter their older or younger selves. I think we both have an idea of why that rule exists.”
He confronted her, fists on his hips, reading her mind. “No.”
“I have barely conceived my plan,” she cried. “But maybe we can lure the ghost to Melvaig and get it into contact with Criosaidh.”
“By usin’ ye as bait? Never!”
Tabby stared. If she went to Melvaig, ostensibly to make peace with Criosaidh, maybe the ghost would follow her there and implode. “It can’t hurt to try.”
He was disgusted. “She’ll kill ye then an’ there. There willna be conversation, just yer death at her hands!”
“Because of her vengeance for her husband and her son?”
His expression hardened. “Ye blame me now fer the ghost? Mayhap ye’re right. Mayhap my war started this.”
Tabby hurried to him. She touched his face. “I don’t blame you. I would never blame you. And placing blame right now is pointless.”
He breathed hard. Tabby had the strongest certainty that he was blaming himself.
“This is not your fault. But freeing Coinneach might be a really good idea—and returning him would be the perfect excuse to go to Melvaig.”
“Ye willna be bait.”
In a way, Tabby was relieved, because she wasn’t all that brave. “And Coinneach? Keeping him prisoner can’t be helping.”
Macleod’s expression became hard enough to crack. “She’ll gloat if we return him. ’Twill be seen as a sign o’ weakness. Her revenge against me will continue.”
He was probably right on all three points, Tabby thought. But she suddenly sensed that fourteen-year-old boy somewhere close by. “It can’t hurt to free him. It might appease her, even if for a moment.”
His tension seemed to escalate. “I will think on it.”
Tabby blinked in surprise.
“Maybe it will appease the ghost, too,” she whispered, stunned that he might see reason, after all.
He spoke harshly. “She has to be the woman who dies in that fire, Tabitha. ’Tis when she becomes a ghost. Ye dinna die there—she dies there.”
He was distressed and not trying to hide it. “She is associated with that fire and that is all I am sure of. If the fire did result from a war of witches, maybe it was me and Kristin.” Tabby didn’t think so. “Maybe she dies afterward.” Meaning that Tabby had died first. Macleod made a hard sound. Tabby tried to sound casual. “Maybe she hates me so much that her ghost takes up the war where we left off.” That was a dismal thought.
He stared at her. Tabby felt his mind racing.
“I hate not being able to read your mind!” she cried.
“This needs to end now. I will go to Melvaig.”
She inhaled. “To kill her?”
He smiled coldly. “It’s long overdue.”
“Do you even have the power?” Tabby’s worry escalated wildly. “And what is that going to accomplish? Her ghost will be born in the thirteenth century, instead of at An Tùir-Tara?” She realized what murdering Criosaidh would do—it would change a future historical event if she died now. She would not be at An Tùir-Tara in 1550. “This isn’t a good idea! We can’t mess around with history and you know it.”
He was thoughtful now.
“Macleod…how powerful is she?”
“I dinna ken.”
That was not the answer she had wanted. “If you go, I am going with you! And what if you fail? What if you can’t destroy her?” Tabby thought that a likely possibility.
“I need the power to leap,” he said softly, more to himself than to her.
And Tabby knew what he meant. “To do what? To leap to Melvaig to go after her? And when that doesn’t work, to go to An Tùir-Tara to protect me? To make certain she dies, in one time or another?”
“Damn the gods,” he said softly, his eyes blazing.
“That will hardly help! And changing the future is as bad an idea as changing history!”
“I willna let ye die! I will get the power, if I have to beg fer it or steal it!”
The gods were already angry with him. They’d be furious if he went to Melvaig now to interfere in their handiwork—and just as furious if he went to 1550 to intervene in An Tùir-Tara. “Changing Fate is not allowed!”
“Do ye think I care?” he raged.
“If I am meant to die there, it’s over, Macleod!”
“I willna let ye die—not now, an’ not at An Tùir-Tara,” he said. “An’ if the gods dinna like that, to hell with them all.”
MACLEOD WAS DOWNSTAIRS in the hall, brooding over wine. Tabby hoped he wasn’t trying to bargain with the gods for the power to leap.
Tabby couldn’t sleep either. They’d just made love again—frantically, as if their time was running out. She lay in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. She was going to have to admit it. She was scared.
She was afraid to die in that fire and she was afraid for Macleod, too.
It was so much easier worrying about him. He was so reckless, so arrogant—so defiant! He wanted to change Fate and she had to stop him. She couldn’t imagine what his Fate would be if he dared to make that attempt, either at Melvaig now or at An Tùir-Tara.
Harmless shadows drifted across the ceiling. Outside, wolves howled and the moon was high and full. She tossed and turned restlessly. It felt as if they were in over their heads, with no way out. But Macleod was becoming reasonable. He was considering releasing Coinneach to ease tensions. Maybe she could convince him to go along with her plan to lure the ghost to Melvaig. The only problem was that the plan scared her a lot. But his idea of hunting Criosaidh was even worse.
The shutters scraped the wall. Tabby’s tension soared but it wasn’t Criosaidh, it was the wind. Either plan would be worth it if they vanquished her damned ghost in the process. But destroying her ghost wouldn’t necessarily change An Tùir-Tara. Getting rid of that spirit would buy them some
time…maybe. Macleod’s plan to simply kill Criosaidh and prevent her from ever being at An Tùir-Tara could save Tabby’s life—if she was the witch Tabby would fight there. And Tabby was certain that she was, although she wished she had doubts.
She closed her eyes and felt hot tears. Tabby realized she wanted time with Macleod. Wanting two-and-a-half centuries was absurd—she didn’t think she had that kind of life span—but she wanted time to really get to know him, to talk to him, spend time doing all kinds of silly things like ice skating and picnics and pizza while watching John Wayne movies.
She felt like crying now. Macleod wasn’t going to go ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza, but he might like a John Wayne movie and he’d love pizza—except he belonged at Blayde and she did not. Her heart thundered, trying to tell her something. “Not now,” she whispered.
They were in trouble—or, she was in trouble, and a few things were clear. Getting rid of the ghost was a great idea and freeing Coinneach wasn’t a bad one. But she had to stop Macleod from going to either Melvaig or An Tùir-Tara. Not allowing him to interfere in history was the biggest priority of all. Even if it meant she would die.
It can’t be soon, Tabby thought desperately. Just thinking that made her feel selfish. But she was thinking about Macleod. She had so much to do. He needed her so much.
But Fate could be very cruel, and bad things happened to good people all the time.
The chamber’s open door slammed closed.
Tabby sat bolt upright as evil and hatred swarmed into the room.
Criosaidh had come back.
Even as she knew that the witch’s ghost was present, the evil closed in on her like quicksand. Tabby slowly stood up, everything except her adversary forgotten. Just how powerful was the ghost?
Her evil filled the room.
Tabby felt herself slip into a sea of calm. Focused as never before, she said, “Show yourself, Criosaidh.”
Nothing happened. Instead, Tabby felt the hatred growing.
She closed her eyes as several shutters began banging, casting a spell to reveal the spirit. Its anger and hatred intensified. When Tabby opened her eyes, a dark and sultry woman shimmered in the chamber, her eyes burning with hatred, so transparent that Tabby could see through her. And then she smiled.
Against the wall, Tabby tensed, preparing for a terrible onslaught. She began to put a protection spell on herself.
But Criosaidh vanished.
Stiff with tension, Tabby looked around the interior, and the shutters slammed open, a huge blast of frigid air gusting into the room.
It was so strong that Tabby was hurled across the entire chamber and against the far wall. She cried out as she was smashed against the stone, and then the energy died.
On her knees, Tabby straightened slowly, her eyes wide, every hair on her body standing on end. Even though the chamber was absolutely still, she felt the spirit’s evil and hatred gushing about her. She couldn’t see Criosaidh, but she was still present.
“Evil get out, evil be gone. My white power, keep you away,” Tabby murmured.
The energy returned with blazing force, crushing Tabby against the wall. She gasped, but focused on the spell. The force beat her there, battering her as an insane man might with a stick of wood. “Evil get out, evil be gone. My white power, keep you away!” But even as she chanted, she knew that Criosaidh’s ghost wasn’t harmless after all.
The energy shifted.
Tabby collapsed to the floor. “Evil get out, evil be gone,” Tabby cried.
And suddenly Criosaidh took form again, standing there in the center of the chamber, murderously enraged. They faced each other.
“Evil get out, evil be gone!” Tabby screamed.
She vanished and a hurricane force swept into the chamber as the shutters blew off the windows, and her pallet slammed into the wall. Tabby braced herself, but she was hurled backward, and then Criosaidh’s energy pinned her brutally to the wall.
In that moment, she thought of Macleod, and knew death would take her now if he didn’t save her.
HE WOULD NEVER LET Tabitha die in the fires of An Tùir-Tara. He would do whatever he had to in order to change her death. And damn the gods, because the knowledge of her death by fire was so familiar to him, as if he had somehow known all along that this was how she died. But if Kristin had spoken the truth, they would both be there.
She could not leave him.
It was a terribly dismal thought.
Was he coming to care for her?
Did that make him weak?
He was actually considering freeing his prisoner, but it had nothing to do with giving up his vengeance. Tabitha might be right and Criosaidh might be momentarily appeased. He saw no reason why he couldn’t protect her and fulfill his duty to the dead at the same time. Coinneach would live another day, but not for much longer after that. And returning Coinneach gave him the perfect excuse to get inside Melvaig—so he could murder Criosaidh and end this once and for all.
Where was Ruari? Hadn’t he heard him? He needed the power to leap to An Tùir-Tara, just in case he was incapable of destroying Criosaidh now.
Macleod sighed, his head hurting—his heart hurting. An Tùir-Tara was two-and-a-half centuries away. But the deamhan ghost was there in the present with them. He should not stay downstairs for too long. Criosaidh’s ghost had breached Tabitha’s protection spell, even if she hadn’t tried to use her black power. The failure of the spell was ominous; it did not sit well with him. He had the instincts of a hunter, but now, he almost felt like the hunted. And to make matters more dire, he sensed that the sands of time were running out.
He heard a sob behind him—or he thought he did. He whirled.
A thin fourteen-year-old boy faced him, standing before the hearth, crying in despair, weeping in rage, wanting to know why. Why?
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look away, incredulous that the boy would dare to make his presence known at such a dangerous time. He wanted the damn boy gone.
It was so clear that the boy was terrified, but not of evil or his enemies. He was afraid of being alone.
Macleod had forgotten that.
The boy fell to his knees, crying. Mixed up in the fear, there was rage. That boy was furious with the world, but instead of ranting and raving, he wept. When he was finally done, he had to take that rage and bury it at sea with all of his loved ones, so he could become a man and do his duty and live a life of soulless revenge.
He had forgotten that, too.
The boy stared at him as if bewildered. Why?
Why? Every man had his duty, his burdens, his responsibilities. Macleod strode to the boy, intending to kill him with his bare hands, because he did not want to recall any of this, ever! But the boy vanished, so he seized the chair and hurled it at the wall with all of his strength. It struck the stone above the hearth, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces.
That boy was pathetic. He pitied him—hated him. How dare he question his life!
And then he heard Tabitha call him.
Too late, he felt the evil and her pain.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Nick asked. He did not bother to lower his voice, as they were in the midst of a thick forest and entirely alone. He glanced upward to locate the sun. Although he saw slivers of blue sky, he gave it up and reached into his pack for his GLD, a palm-size device that would instantly tell him where they were—but not if he’d made it to the right time.
Jan was also clad in camouflage, carrying a small pack with her gear, and she stood, brushing dirt and pine needles from her thighs and seat. She had resisted going back until liftoff, arguing that she was needed at HCU to hold down the fort. But, never one to hold a grudge, she said, “I’m fine. Where are we?”
He smiled. The best thing about Jan, other than the fact that he considered her family, was that she was all business when it counted. He glanced at the LED screen. His smile vanished. “Motherfucker. We’re just north of Loch Gairloch
.”
Jan didn’t bat an eye. “You know how hard it is to pinpoint a landing. How far are we from Blayde?”
He tapped the screen and a moment later, an estimate had come up. “About twenty miles. And there’s a few big puddles between us and them. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have an inflatable raft in my pack.”
Jan folded her arms, appearing cross. “Come to think of it, considering the high percentage of water in the Highlands, why didn’t we pack one?”
“Last time I flew by Scottish Air, I landed right on target.” He tapped the screen. “We’re really close to Melvaig.”
“Tabby’s at Blayde. Or that is the most likely scenario. My money says Kristin’s wherever Tabby Rose is.”
“What would I do without you?” He grinned. He liked going back in time, especially to medieval Scotland, even if this was only his third trip back. The air was so damned invigorating. And he loved the fact that he couldn’t predict what the hell they would encounter. Now they’d have to borrow a vessel from Melvaig.
Jan said, “You should have told me about the flashbacks.”
He shrugged as if he didn’t give a damn, even though his gut clenched. There’d been four—when he’d hoped that first one would be the last one. They were getting more intense and closer together.
“You need a psych evaluation. You should not be here, now, damn it,” Jan said, her beautiful green eyes flashing.
She’d been arguing about the mission when he let the information slip. She kept telling him to take Sam or MacGregor or the new Russian guy. She’d had that steely look in her eyes that meant she was never going back in time again, not for anyone, not even for him. And that was when he’d told her he was having flashbacks.
They’d almost killed him once.
They’d killed an agent instead.
He couldn’t do this alone and he couldn’t tell anyone. They’d put him back in psych. And he had HCU to run.
“No one has ever been able to determine how long a leap takes. For all we know, it takes years.”
“You should not be in the field! You cannot afford to have a flashback in the middle of hand-to-hand combat with some six-foot medieval demon. We both know you are incapacitated during a flashback.”