by Brenda Joyce
“You’re not me,” Tabby said sharply. “And I know this—Macleod isn’t supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be fighting the war on evil here in 1298. Nothing good can come of his leap. Nick?”
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “Jan and I are going back to Melvaig, on the off chance that Kristin is still there. If she’s not, our time has run out and we’re going back to the Big Apple. Now, if you want a lift in that direction, I’ll help you out.”
Tabby was so upset she didn’t respond. Nick hefted a pack and handed it to Jan, who said, “Thank God these damned missions are limited to twenty-four-hour runs. I am ready for a hot bath and some really good wine.”
Tabby was enraged that they would not lift a finger to help her out.
“I have a feeling he’ll be back,” Nick said, by way of consolation.
When they were gone, she walked over to the table and sank down there. No good was going to come of Macleod trying to interfere with history and she was terrified for him. What if he encountered his sixteenth-century self? Would he implode? That would change history, all right! And she was stuck at Blayde in 1298. That was unacceptable.
She would have to try to use magic to get to him, she thought. Maybe she’d be lucky, because her magic seemed to be getting stronger by the day.
A noise from the staircase made Tabby turn.
“You don’t need to use magic,” Kristin said. “I’ll take you to An Tùir-Tara.”
Very slowly, Tabby stood up. “And what do you get out of it?”
She smiled. “Your death.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Melvaig, Scotland
June 19, 1550
HE REMINDED HIMSELF that he would go home to the thirteenth century, where Tabitha was alive. But instead of doing that, he sank down on the stairs, shocked. Tabitha would die at An Tùir-Tara.
He could not move and he could barely think. He was consumed with grief. But all he had to do was return to Blayde in the thirteenth century and she would be there, waiting for him. A sense of confusion began. He could not live without her. Nothing had ever been as clear. He loved this woman. But he hadn’t had the power to prevent her death—not now, and not as an older, even more powerful man.
He breathed hard and realized he was crying.
Watching Tabitha die was something he would never forget.
Even if they spent two-and-a-half centuries together, he could not watch her die again. An Tùir-Tara had to change! But how could he possibly accomplish that?
He began to tremble, rage joining the grief and the guilt. Was her death written? If so, he would never forgive the gods!
A shadow fell across the dark stairwell. Macleod took another breath and somehow looked down the stairs. MacNeil stood there. His fury knew no bounds now. But the walls didn’t shake, the stairwell did not move and no stones fell from the ceiling.
He hadn’t felt the Abbot’s power, either.
Beginning to realize what had happened to him, Macleod slowly stood. “I willna allow her to die here.”
MacNeil’s face was as hard as stone, but the light in his eyes was pitying. “Ye dinna learn.”
“Ye cold, heartless bastard! Tabitha is kind an’ good. She deserves immortality. I will find a way to save her!”
MacNeil’s face never changed, but his gaze flickered. “Ye’ll never trust in Fate. Ye’ll never trust the gods.”
He wanted to murder MacNeil with his bare hands. He wanted to curse the gods loudly enough so that they knew he was through with them, so that his curses came true. “Never,” he snarled.
MacNeil stared, pity still in his eyes. “Yer temper doesna serve ye well, lad.”
“What do ye want o’ me now?”
“Ye should know by now that yer temper only causes ye more grief.”
“What do ye want?” he shouted. “Tell me or be gone an’ get out of my way!”
“We want nothin’ from ye.”
An inkling began, but he dismissed it. MacNeil had hounded him for most of a century, demanding he give up his vengeance and take his vows. The gods would never really disown him. Of course, he could never take those vows. How could he? Fate would claim Tabitha, taking her from him. Her Destiny was written by the Ancients. He would never serve them now and that was his revenge against them.
But Tabitha was waiting for him in 1298—and his decision to take his vows had pleased her more than anything else he could ever do.
He could not think clearly, he realized. He was too upset, too sick, too shocked. But maybe he could bargain for her life. “Tell them to change An Tùir-Tara. Let Tabitha live. Let her die a natural death. An’ then I will serve them.”
MacNeil made a dismissive sound. “Ye’re done, Guy. The gods dinna want ye to serve them. Yer own grandfather has disowned ye.”
He did not care—did he? Tabitha would care. Somehow, he would explain it to her. But to do that, he had to get back to Blayde in 1298, and once there, he would find a way to change Fate. He faced the fact that he was empty inside now. “Where are my powers? Did they take them, or is this the reason no Master should go back or forward in time and see himself?”
“When ye encounter yerself in another time, one of ye will lose power.” MacNeil stared. “But ye’ll never lose the power to leap, otherwise, how will ye get back to the time where ye belong?”
Macleod tensed. “I dinna have the power to leap. ’Tis gone.”
MacNeil’s face twisted in anguish. “I am sorry, lad. When I told ye they’ve disowned ye, I meant it. They’ve taken yer powers. Ye’re mortal now.”
If he was mortal, he would not be able to leap back to 1298. He began to breathe hard. “I have to get back to Blayde. I have to get back to Tabitha.”
“Did ye think to defy us fer ninety-seven years and walk away unscathed?” MacNeil turned away.
“Send me back,” Macleod shouted, rushing down the stairs. And he tripped, falling. He was a mortal now.
MacNeil ignored him, walking outside into Melvaig’s central courtyard, which was still in embers.
Macleod picked himself up and ran after him. “We’re friends.”
MacNeil looked at him sadly. “I canna help ye, Guy. ’Tis forbidden.”
It began to sink in. He had no power. He was trapped in the sixteenth century with no way to return to Blayde and his time—with no way to return to Tabitha and no way to ever help her survive the Melvaig fires. “I have to get back!”
“I am sorry,” MacNeil said softly. “I had such hope fer ye.”
“MacNeil! Send me back!” he begged.
“Welcome to hell.” Grimly, MacNeil blasted him with his power.
And Macleod was flung backward in time—by a mere hour.
TABBY MOANED. But the world stopped spinning and she realized she clutched a rough stone floor. Breathing hard, she looked up and realized she was in a circular tower room. She tensed with dread, recalling everything. Kristin had hurled her through time.
“Yes, Tabitha, you are in Melvaig’s tower.” Kristin laughed softly.
Tabby became aware of the amulet, pulsing and warm against her cleavage. She touched it, finding comfort, and got warily to her feet. Kristin stood there, appearing terribly amused. Her heart sank. “Is it June nineteenth, 1550?”
Kristin’s smile widened. “Actually, my darling, it is June first, 1550.” She walked past her and paused in the doorway. “Don’t bother trying to escape. The guards have been ordered to stop you by beheading you if need be. Although I much prefer being allowed to torture you to death myself. And I won’t be long. I want to tell my mother that you’re here.”
Tabby ran to the doorway as Kristin walked out onto the landing, where two soldiers stood. “Let me guess. Your mother is Criosaidh?”
“How clever you are!” Kristin laughed softly.
As a guard started to close the door in her face, Tabby put her body between it and the wall. “Wait! Why are you doing this? Why do you want me to die? What have I done to you…t
o her?”
Kristin’s smile vanished. “In eighteen more days, my mother dies here in the fires because of you.”
Had Allie been right?
“I win?”
Kristin’s face filled with fury. “No, you don’t win. I won’t let you win!”
Tabby decided that now was not the time to try to decipher what would happen—and the fact was that she had seen herself die in the fire.
“I was five years old the day you and my mother had your last battle here,” Kristin snarled. “She died in my brother’s arms, horrifically burned, while I begged her to live. I am not a powerful witch, Tabitha, not like my mother. Unfortunately, my father was just your average mortal. I have waited hundreds of years to find the power to gain my revenge on you. But I have that power now.”
Suddenly Tabby thought she felt her sister, across time. “How did you find that power, Kristin?”
Kristin laughed. “I have my source! He is all-powerful and answers only to Satan!”
Tabby sensed the enormity of that evil and it sickened her.
“He gave me the ability to leap. He gave me the longevity I needed. I decided to hunt you while you were weak and innocent, naive and unsuspecting, in the twenty-first century, before you became as powerful as you’ll be in the sixteenth century.”
Tabby wished she did not believe her, but she did. A terrible source of evil was out there, and Kristin was hunting her to avenge her mother. Now, she understood the ghost’s burning hatred and malevolence.
This had to end soon.
Tabby trembled. “You’ve brought me here to murder me. You can’t change history, Kristin, not if it is written correctly. History can only be changed if it went awry, if it has veered from Destiny.”
Kristin started to laugh. “Oh, dear Tabitha, we live to change history.”
“What are you talking about?” Tabby cried.
“Days before the very first time the Japanese attacked the United States at Pearl Harbor, their plans were discovered and the bulk of the Japanese air force was destroyed before ever reaching your airspace. Only two of your ships sank and only a few dozen sailors died.”
Tabby gaped.
“But we worked long and hard to change history—and we succeeded! The Japanese victory is Satan’s work. Don’t you know that right now, on September 11, 2001, hundreds of demons are trying to make certain the Pentagon is destroyed along with the Twin Towers? Sooner or later we will rewrite the history of that day! You are so naive. Right now, we are making sure that the allies drown off Normandy—that D-day fails, that Hitler survives to rule Europe, that every Jew dies, that no Gypsies survive! We do not have rules. We live to change Fate! Anarchy is our bible.”
Tabby backed into the chamber. “Of course. Stupid me.” She wet her lips, and silently began casting a spell on Kristin to bend her mind to Tabby’s will. She had never tried to exercise mind control over anyone before, but her life was at stake. History was at stake—even if it was only the history of Melvaig and Blayde, of her and Macleod. Their future was at stake.
And she wanted that future with him. She wanted it as much as she had ever wanted anything. She would fight for it now.
She stared at Kristin impassively while silently chanting a mind spell. The amulet warmed impossibly against her skin but didn’t burn her.
Kristin looked puzzled. “Why are we talking about history?”
There is one will here and it is mine. Kristin’s will, bend to mine.
“Tell me more,” Tabby said softly. She was wondering if the amulet’s magic was helping her powers. She was acutely aware of the talisman.
Kristin looked at her, clearly bewildered. Tabby thought she was about to step into the chamber, and she prepared to assault her. But before she did so, a big, dark-haired man filled the doorway. He smiled slowly at her.
Tabby’s pulse skipped and raced. She instantly recognized a much older Coinneach. He had turned into a handsome Highlander. He had to be well over two hundred years old, but he looked about forty. “Coinneach,” she breathed. Surely he would save the day!
“Hello, Tabitha,” he said softly. “Are you trying to enchant my sister?”
Tabby froze. She’d forgotten that they were siblings. He was Criosaidh’s son—and obviously not exactly mortal.
Kristin started and her expression changed and hardened. “I almost fell under her spell.”
“I can see that.” He continued to smile, but it did not reach his eyes.
He hadn’t been evil when he was a boy, and he didn’t feel evil now. She would bet he did not have any demonic DNA. But his eyes were ice-cold and the look in them reminded her of Macleod at his most ruthless. She was afraid that he was burning with the need for Highland revenge. “Coinneach!” She needed him as an ally. Surely he would help her—he owed her. “I have to find Macleod. I helped you once, surely you remember? Please, help me now.”
His cold smile vanished. “Ye brought me bread an’ water. Ye cared. But that was long ago, Tabitha. I have been fighting Macleod for two hundred years.”
She realized he wasn’t going to help her.
“That’s right, Lady Tabitha. An eye for an eye. He murdered my father and I will bring your head to him now.”
She backed up. “You would never murder me.”
His eyes blazed. “Think as ye wish, as if it comforts ye!” He turned to Kristin. “If ye torture her, make sure ye silence her. I dinna wish to be annoyed with her screams.”
“Hmm, torture. How did you know I intend to enjoy myself fully?” Kristin laughed.
Coinneach looked at her with distaste and hurried down the stairs. Before he was even gone, Tabby put a protective spell around herself. He wasn’t into sadism, but she couldn’t count on him, either.
Where was Macleod? Wasn’t he ten or fifteen miles to the north at Blayde, centuries older and, maybe, centuries wiser?
“Is it getting stuffy in here, or is it my imagination?” Kristin murmured.
“I can breathe well enough.”
“Really? Noose, tighten.” Kristin smirked. “I murdered my roomie this way.”
Tabby tensed, briefly sickened by the snide remark, which she was certain was the truth. But she did not feel any pressure around her throat, which meant her protective spell was rock solid—for now.
“And I almost got your sister. Did you know that? I’ll bet my spell felt like a butcher knife going through her stomach.”
This was the second time that Kristin had mentioned hurting Sam. “I am not vindictive, but you will pay for hurting Sam.”
Kristin sneered. “Oh, I let the bitch live.”
Tabby was so angry she had to close her eyes for an instant. Anger would only interfere with her magic, and she needed her power now. She needed it as never before. It had to work.
Because as much as she did not want to fight Kristin—especially if Kristin really had the source of evil she claimed—there might never be as opportune a time. Once Criosaidh arrived, it would be two against one. And Kristin had hurt Sam.
She wished Macleod would sense her distress and help her out. She didn’t care if it was her Macleod from 1298, or the older man who was currently a few miles away.
But she couldn’t count on him, or anyone.
She could do this. Tabby looked coldly at Kristin. “Fire await my very command. Fire be my weapon and my plan,” she murmured. And heat seemed to tickle her fingertips, the way it might spark from the tip of a matchstick. She glanced down at her chest. The moonstone on the gold palm was as brilliant as a laser-cut diamond now.
Kristin’s eyes widened. “Noose, obey me. Noose, tighten!” she cried.
There was no effect. Relieved, Tabby ordered, “Fire arise.”
Fire blazed between them.
Kristin cried out.
“Fire arise!” Tabby cried louder.
And the fire became an inferno, cutting Kristin off from the doorway. Where Tabby stood, there was not a single spark, and the air was pleasantly
cool.
Kristin began to choke. Then her skirts caught on fire and she screamed, beating at them with her hands. She screamed again, the guards rushing into the room, but before they could reach her, her skirts blazed.
Tabby knew she couldn’t go through with this kind of violence and cruelty. She wasn’t a Slayer. Her magic was meant to be used to help others, not hurt or destroy them. “Fire obey me, fire go out.”
The fire died.
Kristin staggered back, her skirts falling apart, looking at Tabby, her eyes glazed with pain, fear and hatred. Then she rushed from the room.
The two soldiers backed out, slamming the door.
As it closed, she felt Criosaidh’s evil welling up from the lower floors.
Tabby’s spine hit the wall. She grasped the pendant, and repeated her protection spell. The chamber shifted. The air glimmered. And Criosaidh began to materialize.
“YOU HAVE CERTAINLY improved your ability to leap. You do know, don’t you, that by now MacGregor has put out a Code Red, since we’ve overstayed our historic welcome by an entire seventy-one minutes and five seconds.”
As they paused in the central courtyard of a much more lavish and modern Melvaig Castle, Nick seized Jan’s arm. “How could I not follow Tabby here?”
Jan went still. They both watched Kristin run into the courtyard, coughing, her skirts badly singed and burned. She fell to her hands and knees, gasping for air. “I wish you weren’t right ninety percent of the time.”
“Actually, I’m right ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.” Nick grinned. But the words weren’t even out of his mouth when fire exploded in the sky above them.
“Must be June nineteenth,” Nick muttered, but he was striding toward Kristin.
“Tabitha’s up there. What should I do?” Jan cried.
Kristin froze on all fours, and her gaze locked with Nick’s. Slowly, with malice, she smiled. “It’s not June nineteenth, Forrester. We will change your history today.”