by Ann Gimpel
Piss on that. They’ll rape me first.
The fear she’d shoved aside galloped back to the fore, closing in as one option after another flashed by. None of them were exactly right until a broad opening beckoned to her left. She’d always had solid instincts, and she didn’t question this one.
Wheeling, she dodged the man behind her—the one with magic—and took off as fast as she could run. Aware even weak magic could stymie her escape, she ran in zigs and zags, doing her level best not to be predictable. She started to summon an invisibility spell, but the monk had seen right through her first one, and she needed every shred of energy at her disposal.
Liliana powered her flight with magic until her feet skimmed the ground. Maybe she should try to reverse the time-travel spell. Make a run for it. She assessed her magical well. It still had juice, but she’d have to slow down to craft any kind of complex spell. The men’s footsteps pounded behind her, but they weren’t closing the distance between them.
She’d surprised them, as she’d hoped to do, and a decent interval of maybe sixty feet lay between her and her captors. Why weren’t they shouting? They had in the alley, but not now. For some reason, they didn’t wish to draw attention to themselves.
She swallowed around a tight place in her throat and poured on the afterburners. They weren’t making a ruckus because they aimed to kill her. Maybe they’d rape her first. Maybe they’d save that part for Act Two, but capture meant death.
“Mother!” She raised her telepathic voice. “Goddammit. If you’re here—” Liliana stopped talking. Screeching for her mom had been dumber than dumb. If Gloria lived here, she flew beneath the radar. Probably no one beyond other witches knew what she was.
Even worse, Rhea might have heard her. Blood called to blood more efficiently than any communications mode ever invented. Rhea was still very much alive and would relish a showdown between Black Witchcraft and the two lone clerics panting somewhere behind her.
Once she’d polished off the monks, Rhea wouldn’t just step away and wish Liliana safe travels back to the future. Oh hell, no. She’d expect gratitude—and compliance.
Never too late to embrace the dark side of magic.
A sour taste flooded Liliana’s mouth, and she ran harder.
As she’d hoped, the street continued for blocks. Which way was it leading her? Even with a magical assist, she was growing winded. After another quarter mile, it sank in the men were herding her, not trying to catch up. Fear dug chilly fingers deep into her belly. Had they summoned aid? The one with magic probably had plenty for a spot of telepathy. She’d been so wrapped up in her own angst, she hadn’t kept an eye out for power flowing from behind her.
Time for a different strategy. Next time she feinted right, she picked a likely cross street and bolted down it, looking for spots she could go to ground and shroud herself in an invisibility spell monk-boy couldn’t penetrate. Her magic was far more robust than his.
Yeah, but he uses his more.
Quickly, before the men rounded the corner, she launched herself into another narrow, stinking side street. This time, she dove into a huge pile of rotting garbage, burying herself deep as she pulled magic like a crazy person. Escape was everything. She’d conceal herself so well, no one would sense anything lay beneath the slimy bits of bone, flesh, and decaying vegetables.
Bugs, mice, and rats crawled all over her, more than happy to trade munching on cold, dead shit for her warmth and flowing blood. Her physician-trained brain started to catalog all the diseases various vermin carried, but she shut it down fast, concentrating instead on her invisibility casting.
She was scared, but she couldn’t afford to be sloppy. Once she’d sealed over the last chink in her shrouding, the cockroaches and rodents departed. She waited, barely breathing. If she’d fooled the rats, vicious, intransigent predators, maybe, just maybe, she’d elude the men.
She heard them now, cursing softly and blaming each other. Not sounding like men of god at all.
“Did ye call for Jakob?” one asked.
“Aye, ’twas the first thing I did when the poxy slut gave us the slip. He’ll be here soon.”
“Fine. We’ll wait.”
“Of course we’ll wait. What? Did ye think we’d run home, confess our sins, and be flogged for our trouble?”
If she hadn’t been committed to absolute stillness, she’d have shaken her head. What kind of man put up with being whipped? Hell, what kind of religious organization turned everything human into a sin? You didn’t even have to commit adultery. Simply thinking about it counted.
She hadn’t forgotten how things were a hundred plus years ago. Not exactly. She’d been born in the States, and magic had a far more difficult time expressing itself in the New World. Clerics had never ruled with the iron hand they wielded in Europe or the UK. Consequently, witches and other magic-wielders had never been persecuted like they were here.
Should have thought about that before I came.
The rustle of boots and robes striding up and down the alleyway told her the men had no idea if she was even here. It was the last place they’d seen her, though, and by God, they weren’t giving up any ground.
Rodents rooted in the trash all around her amid the sounds of squeaking, squealing, and chewing. It gave her the creeps, but at least they were leaving her alone. She fed power to her spell slowly, aware she had to conserve her ability.
How long before this Jakob showed up, anyway?
Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the duration.
Endless nights sitting with patients, waiting while the ones who raged against the dying of the light finally released their hold on life, had taught her endurance. She’d do whatever it took, and then she’d leave.
Who am I kidding. I’ll need to sleep—and eat. My magic won’t be up for a return trip to the future for hours.
On that sobering note, she shut her eyes. One step at a time. At the moment, it wasn’t at all clear the monks were ever going to vacate the alley.
A whoosh of potent power hit her broadside. Her eyes snapped open in time to hear a new voice, presumably Jakob, berating the other two in German accented Gaelic.
“Dolts! Ye’re two great, stupid oafs,” he railed. “She’s right here. Dig.”
The rats yowled in outrage as clumps of trash were shuffled this way and that.
Liliana threw caution aside and sprang to her feet. She’d meet this Jakob head on, not like a cringing ninny. She’d tried that route, and it hadn’t bought her shit. Power shimmered around her as she stood, staring at a tall man with long, flowing blond hair. His monk’s robes were immaculate, his gold cross studded with glowing gemstones.
“A Hunter, I presume?” She angled her head, regarding him through narrowed eyes.
A harsh smile played around the edges of his mouth. “Aye, and ye are a witch.”
No percentage denying it. “Aye, but not the type ye believe me to be.”
He rolled hazel eyes. “Since when is there more than a single iteration of witches?”
She made shooing motions with one hand. “Get on with things. If there’s a cozy cell with my name on it, lead the way.”
“Speaking of names”—he peered closely at her—“what might yours be?”
She squared her spine. “Liliana Roskelly.”
His eyes widened; his nostrils flared. She had a moment of triumph at how she’d rattled him, but it didn’t last long. Skinning his lips back into a snarl, he sashayed around behind her. One of the others handed him a length of rope, and he pulled her hands behind her, binding her wrists.
“What do ye plan to do with me?” she inquired. May as well know the worst up front. That way, she’d determine if there might maybe be a way out of this.
“Not for me to decide.” Jakob eyed her as if she were part of the trash she’d just crawled out from under. ‘These are modern times, slut. No one kens how dangerous your ilk are. Ye’ll stand afore the bishop—and his mage. ’Tis for them to mete out punish
ment.”
“But I’ve done naught wrong.” She tilted her chin at a defiant angle.
“Creeping about, jumping through the very air like a wraith, is unnatural,” the monk with weak power declared.
“I came from the future.” She kept her gaze firmly fixed on him until he looked away.
“Pfft.” Jakob wound another length of rope around her waist, dragging her forward. “Ye may be a witch, but ye’re also mad.”
Liliana jumped on it. “Aye, mad as a pregnant whore, mad as a cuckolded husband, mad as a Hunter whose gems lost their sparkle, mad as a—”
“Shut up!” Jakob hauled off and slapped her. Blood spurted from a split lip, but she grinned gamely at him.
“Do it some more, monk-boy. Been a while since I’ve had a holy man to play with.”
He almost jerked her off her feet as he took off at a lope. After the initial shock, she kept up and broke out a bawdy drinking song. If she could convince them she was insane, they’d send her to an asylum—a place she might be able to escape from. No one wanted crazy people around. They hadn’t figured out mental illness wasn’t contagious, so they locked madwomen away.
And paid them very little heed.
She tossed her head back and sang,
“It were Happy Jack’s undrinkable ale.
One mighty sup puts the wind in your sail.
The ale was a black as a night with no moon in December.
As bitter as a man who lost his pizzle in May.
As strong as six horses. As evil and wicked as Judas—”
The Hunter halted so abruptly she slammed into his back. “Enough,” he growled. “If ye keep up that caterwauling, I’ll rethink my orders. Ye could vanish into the sea, with no one the wiser. Do ye understand me, slut?”
“Yeah,” she snarled back in English. Let the fucker make what he would of that. “I understand you fine.”
He started forward again, and she let the rope extend to its full length before stumbling after him. Let them think her weak and crazy. She’d bide her time. Something would break for her.
It had to.
Chapter 4
Sean balanced on his haunches, compensating for the sway of the wagon. Town walls constructed of brick and stones came into view after about a quarter hour. Good thing. Every time the rickety wagon trundled over a rock or a pothole was nip and tuck. He considered sitting, but that would slow him down when it came time to exit the wagon’s bed. He’d have to finesse jumping out of the cart much the same way he’d managed getting into it, which meant he wouldn’t have a hell of a lot of time.
Donnell had mentioned a Father Abernathy. Sounded like a Catholic priest, but the man could be affiliated with anything from the Church of Scotland to the Scottish Episcopal Church. He probably wasn’t a Calvinist since they didn’t usually refer to their spiritual leaders as Father.
The wagon slowed at the town walls before a guard waved them through. Unlike during medieval times, the current walls were more for show than defense. Once they deteriorated sufficiently, they wouldn’t be replaced. Apparently, Donnell and his wagon were known to the uniformed guard because he called out a greeting. The wagon rumbled beneath wooden arches in need of a coat of paint. After weaving through a series of progressively narrower streets, they turned onto a wide boulevard. The skies, which had been thick and gray, spewed rain.
Sean longed to pull his jacket over his head, but he didn’t dare move. So far, Roger hadn’t so much as looked back over a shoulder. There were worse things than getting wet. Being apprehended was one of them. He’d had time to think about why he’d been conveniently swept out of the way, and he didn’t care much for the answer that jumped to the fore.
Witches all knew one another. He assumed their knowledge extended to the dead ones as well as their living relatives. He, Arlen, and a few other Druids had done a bang-up job alienating Rhea Roskelly, Katerina’s great-great grandmother. The woman was dead, but it wasn’t a showstopper, merely an inconvenience. She’d reached beyond her crypt to mobilize other Black Magic practitioners.
They were the group who’d jumped him. He offered up a small prayer Arlen and whoever else had ridden to his rescue had made hash out of the witches. There were ways to kill them so they remained dead, and it warmed him to think about every single one. Beheading was his personal favorite. Quick, clean, and permanent. Followed by a good dousing in mage fire.
From what he could piece together, a witch had died unexpectedly, leaving Katerina as the Roskellys’ sole hope to produce progeny. That was when Rhea had upped the ante and kidnapped her great-great-granddaughter, dragging her backward in time to force her to pick up the family banner.
Rhea’s motives were simple. If Katerina didn’t hurry up and supply bairns, the thousand-year-old line of witches would die out. Katerina’s mother and grandmother had told Rhea to piss up a rope. They were satisfied with White Witchcraft. Neither had any interest in Black Magic or in lapping up human misery to strengthen themselves.
Since Katerina didn’t even know she was a witch, her kinswoman hadn’t gotten very far, but that wasn’t the important part. If witches from different families were banding together to weaken Druid ranks, it had to mean the Roskellys were planning another end run to capture Katerina.
Was he the only one they’d knocked out of the equation? Had they captured others? If so, where the hell were they? Or was the plan to scatter the lot of them hither-thither throughout time?
The wagon was definitely slowing. He readied himself to jump down. By far the easiest route would be for him to get out after Donnell and Roger had left, but he couldn’t risk it. He needed to follow them, maybe through locked doors, into a place someone would probably notice expended power. The only magic that was safe at all was what he currently had himself shrouded with. Even with taking care nothing bled through his warding, Roger had sensed something. If Donnell hadn’t piped up about being doused in witch spatterings, the sorcerer would have dug deeper.
Donnell turned the nag into a courtyard. High wooden gates swung shut behind them, seemingly on their own, but Roger must have nudged them with magic.
Fucking great. I’m locked in.
Not that a splash of magic wouldn’t open the gates, but it would be damned difficult to avoid detection. Even if no one noticed his power, gates opening on their own would be sure to snare someone’s attention. And not in a good way.
Sean set his jaw in a tight line. The smart thing would have been to cast his own time spell and return to Inverness. Particularly in light of his suspicions about the Roskellys planning another attempt to snag Katerina.
Too late now. He’d set a course and had to see it through. He could lurk next to the gate and sneak through the next time it opened—or he could try to teleport and hope the burst of power didn’t bring someone running. As long as he was here, though, he may as well retreat to Plan A, which was making sure the captured witch ended up dead. If she was hanged or burned—or beheaded—it would strip her of the residual power Rhea loved to tap into.
He smothered a nasty grin. Maybe the captured witch was Rhea. Wouldn’t that be just perfect? Nothing like two birds with a single stone.
Donnell jumped down from the box. Sean readied himself. He’d missed an opportunity to match Donnell’s egress. He couldn’t afford to flub up Roger’s. Keeping an eagle eye on the sorcerer, he noted the bunch of muscles that meant the man was preparing to jump.
Donnell was unhooking the horse from its traces, crooning to the nag and promising it an extra serving of oats.
“Stop that.” Roger’s irritation made for harsh words. “Damned horse is on its last legs, and ye know it.”
“Aye, but she’s my friend.”
A sour expression crossed Roger’s craggy face. Gathering himself, he jumped to the ground. Sean was close behind, but maybe not quite close enough. The wagon rocked, canting toward the right rear, something that shouldn’t have happened.
Roger hissed, turning slowly in a full
circle, his dark eyes raking the courtyard.
Sean held his ground, standing stock-still behind the wagon. He was vulnerable, but if he let go of his warding, redirecting his magic to fight mode, he’d be even more defenseless. In the seconds it took to regroup, the sorcerer could bind him.
He may never have been much of a warrior, but he had a sound mind and was excellent at running probabilities.
Donnell looked up from cooing to the horse. “Damn. The rear wheel must have failed again. It’s been in bad shape from the winter. I’ll see it’s replaced afore I drive ye home.”
“Ye do that.” Roger spat the words and stalked toward a small door cut into the side of an imposing stone building.
Sean had been so absorbed, first in his thoughts and then in his efforts to exit the wagon unobtrusively, he hadn’t taken a good look around. The wagon sat inside a stockade that looked like an Old West fort. Built of vertical logs lashed together at top and bottom, it was about twenty feet square and backed onto a four-story building made of stone and mortar. A stained-glass window suggested this was a church.
Made sense. He tried to reconstruct Glasgow from 130 years ago and decided this was like as not the Metropolitan Cathedral. Roger wasn’t paying the wagon any further heed, so Sean hustled after him, staying close but not too close.
“Ye coming?” Roger called over a shoulder in Donnell’s direction without breaking stride.
“Nay. I’ve had my fill of witches for a lifetime.”
“As ye will.” Roger grasped a metal latch and pulled the door open. It didn’t appear to be either locked or warded in any way, so Sean afforded the other man a comfortable margin ahead of him. Easy enough to locate him once he was inside.
The smells of cedar, incense, and raw spirits wafted through the open door. He scooted through before it shut. No reason to freak Donnell out further. The boy had a compassionate streak. He’d named the old horse as a friend. It spoke well for him.