Gavin

by Hazel Hunter

  Gavin nodded, but when they emerged from the passage he didn’t see a boat or a shore. A huge grove of trees encircled a wide clearing, the center of which had been decorated with carved stones. The carvings appeared to be smaller renderings of the symbols from the tunnel, and each had been topped with a leafy spiral.

  He felt a tug in his chest as he stared at the very center of the place, a pull that felt almost pleasant, as if he were wanted.

  Catriona stopped at the edge of the clearing. “My tribe planted oaks here to grow and protect the place from the shore. Only through the passage can it be reached now.” A flicker of worry passed over her pretty face. “Do you trust me, Gavin? I cannae take you with me unless you do.”

  “Aye, but I dinnae see how we may leave Everbay.” He glanced around. “Do you perform a spell here to fly away to another island?”

  “No, lad, ’tis all done by the gods. They’ve made open the door. We’ve only to take a few more steps to go through it.” She pulled on his hand, urging him into the clearing.

  Every step Gavin took felt heavier and slower, and the tug in his chest became a frantic thud. At the same time his legs didn’t stop moving, even when he tried to lock his knees. Whatever was going to happen, he couldn’t avoid it now, he thought, his heart hammering as he stepped with her into the center of the stones.

  The ground dissolved beneath them, and Gavin plunged into a dark, whirling tunnel of curving, thrashing oaks. He was crossing over again, just as he had when he and Jema had fallen into the pit at her dig in the future. He could hear Catriona laughing, and felt his body stretching and then shrinking, as if he were dwindling away. Pain seeped into his joints, and his muscles locked. Finally, he landed on a hard, grassy surface, his chest sinking under his tunic as he struggled to breathe.

  All around him the mountains of the highlands rose, as ancient and majestic as Gavin remembered them. A tractor blooming with rust sat not two meters away behind a wire fence, which stretched out on either side of a utility pole with a boxy distribution transformer bolted on one side. A shadow passed over him along with a quiet roar as a jumbo jet soared through the clouds above.

  They were still in Scotland, but no longer in the fourteenth century.

  Catriona took several steps, her arms flinging wide as if she meant to embrace this new world. Her long fiery hair had been shorn away into a delicate pixie cut that spiked all around her head.

  He did his best to stumble after her, but only made it a few paces before his spindly legs collapsed beneath him.

  “Welcome to my other home, Gavin. ’Twill seem odd to you, but ’tis the same Scotland you ken, just older.” She spun around, showing him a slightly different face, with a small scar dividing her right brow, and a light sunburn pinking her cheeks and nose. Under the bangs of her bob haircut, her blue-violet eyes flared wide as she stared in horror at him. “Mr. McShane?”

  “Iona,” he breathed, finally understanding why she’d somehow seemed familiar. He took as deep a breath as he could, for if he passed out like this she wouldn’t know what to do. “How?”

  She shook her head helplessly, and then flung herself down on the ground beside him. “’Tis you. But how can you be… Oh, gods, no.”

  “The same man. Gavin McShane. You ken.” He struggled for more air, hating the way he had to gasp out his words. “I dinnae have…ALS in your time.”

  She went so white her sunburn looked blazing red now. “You’re a traveler, like me.”

  “Crossing over healed me.” Spasms racked his legs, and he gritted his teeth. “Coming back did the opposite.”

  Two middle-aged people in modern clothing appeared behind her. One Gavin recognized as Ennis, Iona’s father and the head gardener at his family’s old estate. They had to be the couple she’d told him about that had taken her in—when she’d crossed over from the past, he now realized.

  “Master McShane,” Ennis said, his eyes wide. He turned to Iona. “Moggy, how is he here? He vanished with his sister a year ago.”

  “Aye,” Senga said flatly. “And now he’s back, and he can’t breathe.”

  Catriona seized Gavin’s hand as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Never did I dream… Oh, gods, Gavin, what have I done to you?”

  “You’ve brought him for a visit,” Senga said as she lowered herself beside Gavin and propped him up with her arm. “’Twill be a short one.”

  Catriona hadn’t told him she’d come from the future for the same reasons he hadn’t admitted the same, Gavin thought, wanting to laugh over the irony.

  “’Tis why you didnae ken so much on Everbay,” Catriona said. “Why you’d never caught sandies or made baskets or ken the basker wouldnae harm us. You never learned it.”

  “I couldn’t tell you. I believed you would have thought me mad.” It depressed him to hear the modern English coming out of his mouth. “You were a fine teacher, Iona.”

  “And your sister?” Senga asked.

  “Aye,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “We traveled back together but…we were separated.”

  “I’d never dreamed you were that poor man in the window,” Catriona said.

  “She watched for you every time I went to the estate,” Ennis said.

  “Even when I could sneak in the house,” Catriona said, “the maids never let me come close enough to see your eyes.”

  “I never suspected that the pretty lass who brought lavender for my room was my island beauty.” He gulped some air and managed to lace his fingers through hers. “Some days all I had to hold onto was watching you work in the gardens.”

  “Cat has told us crossing over heals all of her wounds,” Senga said. She tapped her eyebrow in the same spot as his lover’s scar. “Once there I reckon you’ll go back to being a great strapping highlander.” Sympathy filled her eyes. “And I fear you cannae be that here, Mr. McShane.”

  “Oh, aye,” Catriona said as she sat up. “On Everbay you’ll be well and whole again.” As quickly as she had become elated, her face fell and her shoulders slumped. “Only there is Uncle, and if he finds us–”

  “He willnae touch you,” Gavin promised her even as pain lanced through his legs. “In your time I can protect you.” He looked at Ennis and Senga. “You’ve my word on it.”

  “That’s what I wished to hear,” the older woman assured him.

  “Daimh is dangerous to more than the two of you,” Ennis said. “I’ve thought a great deal on it since she came to us as a wee lass. Cat told us her uncle was made to leave the tribe because of his use of dark magics. Mayhap he planned the massacre as part of some evil ritual. A man capable of killing all of his kin is a monster.”

  “One who should be brought to justice,” Senga said, and regarded Catriona. “I ken how your uncle frightens you, lass. He murdered your family and took your people from you. But think on it. What if he tried to do the same again to others?”

  Catriona’s mouth went tight. “’Tis been twenty years, and still I’ve nightmares. I wouldnae wish it on anyone.”

  “Nor I,” Senga said. “For I’ve held you every night here that you’ve woken screaming.” The older woman kissed her brow. “With Gavin to protect you in your time, you can go to those in authority, and tell them what you witnessed. Daimh will be made to answer for what he did.”

  Gavin saw the fear that tightened Catriona’s expression, and expected her to refuse. She surprised him again when she said, “Aye, I can, and I will.” She smiled at him. “Then we never have to hide again.”

  Though Daimh would like to have seen the legion’s lair on the Isle of Staffa, the captain had informed him that his orders were that the druid would remain aboard the black ship. Though disappointed at first, the older man found other ways to occupy the day until the tribune and his men could board that night. In the brief time he’d been on deck, the furtive glances of the crew had not gone unnoticed.

  Daimh lingered on the companionway, just below the quarterdeck. Above him the sound of clanging metal
and boots hurrying back and forth drifted down.

  “Swords here and cudgels there,” said one rough voice. “Where’s the sense in hiding them?”

  “’Tis no’ for ye to ken,” said another man, sounding tired but irritated. “’Tis orders of Prefect Strabo.”

  As the footsteps stopped, Daimh heard the clatter of weapons being dropped, followed by a loud thump.

  “Och, that one with but half a face,” said the first man, as the footsteps resumed and crossed back the way they’d come.

  “Cap’ns orders too,” said the tired voice.

  “Look lively there!” said a third voice, cutting off more conversation. “Quit your dawdling!” The two sets of footsteps hurried off.

  By Daimh’s count, that had been the third trip.

  He sat down on the ladder, easing his aching joints, but smiled to himself. It didn’t take scrying or spellwork to hear that the tribune had a fair amount of trouble on his hands.

  Chapter Eighteen

  KINLEY CAME OUT of Bhaltair’s bed chamber, and gestured for Lachlan and Cailean to join her in the front room. Other druids waiting there had joined hands and were murmuring invocations to the gods, so she led her husband and the ovate outside.

  “The healer says if he survives the night, he’ll live.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Which sucks, but at least he’s got a chance.”

  “I’ve sent word around the settlement about my master’s sickness,” Cailean told her. “Did the healer say what ails him?”

  “It’s not any sickness she recognizes.” Kinley glanced back at the cottage. “The vomiting is similar to food poisoning, but she said that takes some time to set in. Bhaltair went down while he was eating.”

  Lachlan’s nostrils flared. “Deliberately poisoned.”

  Cailean rubbed his brow. “But I checked everything in the house. There’s naught that could have done this.” He dropped his hand. “And why? Bhaltair is much-loved and respected. No one would…” He stopped and stared at Kinley. “Never would he take his own life. He’s happier now than he has ever been in my memory.”

  “That old man knows more ways to die quickly than I do,” Kinley told him bluntly. “If he wanted to go, he wouldn’t have picked this route.” She regarded her husband. “We need to send for Diana. She used to process crime scenes. She’ll know what to look for.”

  “Aye, but she’ll no’ rest until she tears the settlement apart looking for the poisoner,” the laird said. “I think ’twill have to be us to do this, Wife.”

  “All right,” Kinley said and walked around for a moment. “This Daimh Haral guy left for Everbay this morning. Then we find Bhaltair half-dead on the floor. Diana would not think that was a coincidence. Let’s go have another look at his last meal.”

  They returned inside and went to the table, where the food and half-filled goblet still sat. The wilted greens and congealed stew looked all right to Kinley, but since any hope of a forensics lab lay seven hundred years away, she turned to Cailean.

  “Is this what he usually has for dinner?” When the ovate nodded she picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Okay, this definitely has alcohol in it. Maybe he just drank too much too fast.”

  “’Tis called perry,” Lachlan told her. “Fermented pear juice, only just more potent than ale. Master Flen isnae a small man. ’Twould take a cask of it to sicken him.”

  Cailean took the goblet from her. “No, it cannae be perry.” After he sniffed it he groaned. “’Twas in the water.”

  “Now you’ve lost me,” Kinley advised him.

  “My master only has water with his evening meal,” the ovate said as he set the goblet down. “Anything more gives him the headache and a restless night. He would never touch perry after sunset.” He tried to smile. “Indeed, he keeps a jug for me.”

  “So, the bastard doused his water, dumped it, washed the goblet and refilled it with perry.” Kinley slowly walked around the table. “He knew we’d find the old guy, but he didn’t give him enough to kill him. He also didn’t want us to know he used poison. What’s his game?”

  “’Tis a delay tactic,” Lachlan said. “We intended Bhaltair to come with us. Finding him near death prevented that, and our own departure. He wished to reach the island before us.”

  Kinley nodded. “As Diana would say, I’m liking Daimh Haral for this.” She saw Cailean grimace. “And you really don’t like this guy at all. Your lip does the curl thing every time you say his name. Why does he get on your nerves?”

  “My own feelings dinnae matter.” The young druid gripped the back of his master’s chair. “’Tis no’ the druid way to harbor ill feelings toward others, and certainly as the last survivor of the Moon Wake tribe, he deserves to be pitied. And yet…”

  Kinley rolled her hand.

  “Something about him grates on me.” Cailean looked to the laird. “When the conclave sent me to Everbay to attend to the tribe’s remains, he came. He wept and wailed about his great loss, and ’twas very convincing. Yet when it came to do the work, he offered no aid to me or the other brothers. He stood back and said naught and simply watched.”

  Kinley thought of the one McDonnel funeral she had seen, where every member of the clan had come forward to pay their respects to Seoc Talorc. The McDonnels had touched the body and spoken of the dead man with affection and respect. Not one of them had stood back and simply watched.

  “Did he cry when you put them in the ground, or after, when he was with you?” Kinley asked.

  “After,” Cailean said, sounding stricken. “After and always, with us.”

  “Then ’twas a performance, done for your benefit.” Lachlan put a hand on the druid’s shoulder. “I ken druid kind rely on magics and learning to deal with such things. All of that ’tis beyond me, but I ken betrayal only too well. You were the last druid to attend to Everbay. Your son, now stolen to be taken there. Daimh Haral, gone there as Bhaltair is struck down.”

  Kinley stared at him. “Why would this be about Cailean?”

  “I think I ken, but I must be sure.” The young druid took in a deep breath, and straightened. “I dinnae wish to leave my master in such a state, but we must go to Everbay. This very moment.”

  Lachlan retrieved his weapons and their packs from their horses while Kinley went with Cailean to fetch his pack. She knew he was blaming himself—he could barely look at her—but that wasn’t her main concern.

  She waited to ask him as they were walking to meet Lachlan at the settlement’s sacred grove. “Do you know why the undead took your son?”

  Cailean stumbled, nearly falling over, and then took her offered hand. “Danyel is the last of my bloodline,” he said, his voice tight with worry. “Bethany hasnae yet conceived again.” He gave her a sheepish look. “We have been trying for another bairn.”

  “Good for you guys.” She wasn’t going to judge a woman who had married a gay man with his boyfriend living in the house with them. “So you’re worried Bethany won’t have any more children.”

  He looked away from her again. “I think if Danyel dies, ’twill kill her as well.”

  By then they were at the grove, where Lachlan stood waiting. Another druid, one Kinley recognized as a member of the conclave, stood talking with him. The older druid bowed to her and Cailean before he hurried away.

  “What was that about?” she asked her husband.

  “I made inquiry as to when Daimh used the portal to travel to Everbay this morning. The conclavist tells me he hasnae.” The laird eyed Cailean. “In fact, no’ once since he came to live here has Daimh used the grove.”

  Kinley felt perplexed now. “Why would he avoid using the portal. It works for anyone who has druid blood. No other form of travel in this time is faster. If he wanted to get to Everbay before us, no way is he riding a horse to the nearest dock.”

  “Unless he had to meet a ship,” her husband said. “Mayhap he is in league with the undead now.”

  “Or he is no longer a druid,” Cailean said slo
wly. “Bhaltair told me once that Daimh doesnae participate in the rituals held here. He claims that he doesnae out of respect for his tribe, but there have been whispers about it. Some say he willnae because it would reveal what he truly is.”

  “What’s that?” Kinley asked.

  “One who follows the dark path,” he told her. “Worship of gods from other lands, those that demand sacrifices of blood. Magics forbidden to us because they are evil, or destructive. ’Twould explain why Daimh wears body wards. He says ’tis to protect him against the undead, but it blocks any from sensing his magics and powers. If he does such evil things, then it would change him. We would ken that he was no longer one of us.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  JEMA WIPED THE sweat from her brow and leaned back from the pit. The excavation of the Late Bronze Age site had yielded several exciting finds, including a gold-decorated bronze spearhead, a bronze sword, scabbard fittings, and a ruby pin. It was quite the haul, especially considering her excavation tools weren’t all that much more modern.

  But as she often did at the edge of the pit, her thoughts went back to Gavin and how they’d found their way to fourteenth-century Scotland. Despite knowing that he’d died on that wretched island, her dreams of him seemed so vivid that she often found herself believing he was still alive—until today. She touched her chest as she looked down into the rectangular pit. For the first time in her life, she felt he was gone. Truly gone.

  “Here’s your empties,” Tormod said. Jema blinked away her thoughts as he set down two dirt-caked baskets next to her. “Those mounds of dirt I’m making will soon make fine fortifications.”

  Jema smiled up at her Viking, stripped to the waist, his glorious body covered in grime and sweat. With the sun behind him, his golden hair shone white.

  “We’re saving that dirt,” she said for possibly the third time. “We’ll use it to backfill the excavation pits.”