by E. B. Brown
Kanor Bystrom, a Norseman allied to the Old Laird.
Angus Cameron, cousin to Skye.
Ian Cameron, friend to the Laird and supposed ally to the new one.
Which one would betray Malcolm? And how long before he made a move?
Dagr feared Malcolm was too entranced with his role to consider what was in front of his own eyes. If Dagr was not there to watch his back, it was likely Malcolm would be Laird for only a short time before someone struck him down.
It made Dagr’s skin crawl when he saw Angus approach Skye, for he looked at her in a way that a man should not look at his cousin. His dark eyes followed her, an unspoken aggression flaring like a beacon from his every move. Dagr let out a sigh of relief when Skye made a motion to brush Angus off; she continued dancing with her uncle, and Angus turned abruptly and left the hall.
Dagr splashed more ale into a cup, downed it, and left it on a side table before he followed Angus. He was aware the ale muddled his senses, but it did not stop him. For the love of Odin, he needed the distraction. Even if Skye would never belong to him, he would not stand idly by and allow her cousin to harm her. With the way she was treated by her kin, Dagr could see why Skye felt she had no choice but to escape to another time. Despite Skye’s refusal to tell him who had laid a hand to her, Dagr was quite clear on who was responsible.
As Angus exited the corridor into the courtyard, Dagr called out his name.
“Cameron,” he said. Angus swirled around, his face contorted in a scowl.
Dagr slammed the door shut. Icy snowflakes dotted his shoulders and head, melting into water droplets upon his skin. He wasted no time, knowing it was better to keep a man like Angus from calling for help. In two strides, Dagr met the Scotsman, grabbing him by his throat as he thrust him into the shadows against a stone wall.
“How does it feel, Angus?” Dagr demanded. There were few times that Dagr felt the need to use his considerable strength, but this was one time he was glad to know he was the image of his father. Angus was tall, but his bulk came from indulgence instead of hard work. Although older than Dagr, Angus was no match for Dagr’s raw power and they both knew it. Scrambling backward, Angus lost his footing in the fresh snow, but Dagr held him up by his throat.
“I – I know not what ye speak!” Angus stammered. The Scot began to wheeze through his choked airway, so Dagr slowly eased his grip on the man’s throat.
“If you ever lay a hand on Lady Skye again,” Dagr growled, “I will come for you. No matter where you go, you canna hide. I will find you, and I will kill you.”
Dagr shoved the man away. Angus stumbled to his knees on the frozen ground, kneeling before Dagr for a moment before he made his move. With a strangled roar Angus launched forward, pushing his shoulder into Dagr’s belly and taking them both to the ground. Dagr expected the move, blocking the blows of flailing leather-bound fists as he gained control of Angus.
It seemed another force guided his aim, some primal urge set forth from the depths of vengeance. Dagr knew his closed fists found the mark as bone crunched beneath his blows, but his vision was misted by a raging fog.
Make him suffer. Make him bleed. Make him beg forgiveness for what he did to Skye. If I can give her nothing else in this time, I can at least give her vengeance.
His Paspahegh uncle once said to take another man’s life was to take his soul; you would carry that soul with you for all your days. Dagr wanted to take the man’s life. He wanted to watch him bleed, to see him suffer. The urge consumed him, swallowing him whole as he stood up and stared down at the fallen Highlander.
Angus rolled over onto his hands and knees. His head remained bowed as he choked and sputtered, spitting blood onto the white snow until he recovered enough to look up at Dagr.
“Who are ye?” Angus asked.
“Dagr Marcus Neilsson. Ally of your future Laird and protector of the Blooded One – even if I must protect her from her own kin. Now get up, before I gut you,” Dagr replied.
Angus staggered to his feet, clutching his leather over vest as he fumbled to steady his footing. He stumbled away across the courtyard, mumbling under his breath as he went. Dagr watched him go, the words of his uncle ringing through his ears.
If it meant Skye was safe, he would gladly carry the souls of a hundred men.
Later he made his way to his chambers, navigating carefully among the sleeping men in the crowded corridors. Outside Skye’s room he paused, hand upraised to knock on the smooth wood. Instead, he dropped his hand and slumped down outside her door. The number of strangers inside the castle made him uneasy and he knew he would not find sleep in his own bed with visions of Skye running through his dreams. Using his thick cloak to cushion his head, he settled down near her door.
Dawn was close when he felt someone step carefully over his extended legs. Unmoving, he opened his eyes a thin slit and watched the cloaked figure navigate the maze of sleeping bodies in the hall. Her blonde hair peeked out beneath her hood, and he noticed a traveling satchel crossed over her shoulder.
Skye descended the stairs without waking a single man save for Dagr.
Well, at least she packed supplies, he thought with a twinge of amusement. Yet she is a fool if she thinks I will ever let her go.
Chapter 8
Escaping Castle Dunloch - again
Skye.
IF DAGR WOULD NOT help her, then she would have to help herself. At least that was what Skye told herself as she packed a small traveling satchel. The ground was frozen as winter approached, so she wore several layers and brought enough food a few days. She had learned her lesson, as least as far as what supplies she needed for an escape attempt. With regards to how to handle her feelings for Dagr – well, not so much. Leaving him was a betrayal, both of Dagr’s trust and of her own foolish heart.
Snug against her chest was her Bloodstone pendant. Many times over the last few days, she considered slicing her hand and simply placing it over her Bloodstone, letting the magical pendant take her wherever it deemed it. Yet she had been raised to respect the power, not wield it, and she feared it would take her life if she used it without direction. A Blooded One was powerful enough to use the stone in the absence of a rune, but by using a mark such as the Seventh Key one could direct it to a particular time or place. It was enough that she was going to leave the only time she ever knew, and the only man she had ever loved. She had to make it worth it. She had to get the Seventh Key.
Skye dropped her mother’s letter in the heart fire and watched it burn. The scent of singed parchment reminded her of when she was a child and she watched her mother seal a letter with wax. One might think the scent of a candlewick was much the same, but in the recess of her memories, they were two different acts.
A candlewick scent was the comfort of her mother putting her to bed. It was the sweet smell of powder as mother kissed her cheek and the softness of mother’s touch as she patted her goodnight and blew out the flame.
Singed parchment was another matter. It was the symbol of a person in distress, a woman pleading for help – and of her mother begging for her daughter’s life as she sealed a letter with wax. Skye did not have her father’s signet ring, and the broken wax seal upon the letter was the last she would ever see of his mark. It pained her to watch it disintegrate in the flames. Yet the letter was best left unseen, recorded only in her mind. The letter was long reduced to ashes before she left the castle but the words were forever seared into her memory.
The Glaistig keeps the Seventh Key. If you gift her a drop of your blood, she will release it to you.
The corridors were littered with sleeping clansmen after the cèilidh. Skye tiptoed carefully through tangled limbs, proud of herself when she made it to the stairs without waking a soul. She knew it was the last chance she might ever have to get away from Castle Dunloch.
At the top of the stairs she passed by the guest quarters when Dagr was housed. Her pulse raced madly as she stared at the door, willing it to open. Once she thought he m
ight forgive her for her betrayal, but that time was long passed. How could she leave him, when she would abandon all logic and fall into his arms if he only asked? Yet how could she stay, when that meant she must marry Malcolm McMillan?
The door remained closed, and Skye descended the stairs. Just as she hoped, the men on watch were either sleeping off the effects of too much wine or their bellies were too full to stir. She bridled a horse and mounted up, taking care to stay on the soft grass until she cleared the castle courtyard so the clatter of hooves would not resonate through the night. Once she hit the edge of the glen, she pointed her eager mount away from Dunloch Castle and broke into a gallop.
Dawn rose over the hills as she approached the ruined chapel. Frozen dew clung to her hood, making her traveling cloak stiff beneath her fingers. Although the land was waking from winter slumber, the gentle glow of morning smiled down at her, warming her skin with a kiss of sunshine while she tied her horse to a tree. It was with a pang of regret she faced her task and tried to ignore the urge to run back to Dagr.
He was employed by the McMillan’s son. For some reason he would not disclose, Dagr was beholden to Malcolm. How could she ever truly trust him? Dagr had settled into a new life in a new time without a stumble. Women were the only ones who sat around mooning over dreams unfulfilled; men simply acknowledged the loss and moved on. She had been a fool to think Dagr was different, that he truly wished to find his brother and return to his family. Why should she risk her freedom for a man who so easily turned his back on his own lost brother? He seemed so genuine when he told her his story, she never thought to question it. Although in the beginning she intended to take the Seventh Key and leave him stranded in her time, so much had changed that she hardly knew what was right or wrong.
Biting her lip as she stepped over the dusty threshold, she pushed the doubt to the back of her mind and looked around. The door stood open, hanging crookedly from the hinges as it had been on her last visit. From the thick cobwebs that littered every crevice, she suspected the place had been abandoned long before, perhaps shortly after she visited it as a child with her mother. Skye felt the plank flooring whine and bend as she crossed the room, announcing her presence to the blackbirds in the rafters. Startled by her intrusion, the birds erupted in a cloud of angry screams and flailing wings, taking flight out of the door in a rush of wind. She covered her head and ducked as the birds left. It was dark inside the abandoned chapel, but surges of sunshine shimmering in from random cracks in the walls and windows guided her way.
She ran her finger along the edge of the altar, tracing a path over the bulbous face of an angel carved on the end. There were dozens of sculptures in the chapel, each an image of a deity or devil. Memories flashed through her mind, visions of the mother she loved so much and a beautiful day they once spent having a picnic at the ruined chapel. She imagined her mother had counted on Skye’s memories when she wrote the letter, carefully choosing a riddle only Skye would know the answer to.
When Skye reached up to touch a particularly gruesome looking face, mother gently pulled her hand away.
“Ah, careful with that one, my sweetheart,” mother teased her. “Ye’ll wake the Glaistig, and she’ll gobble ye up for breakfast!”
Skye moved carefully along the creaking floorboards, searching for the carving she saw in her dreams. The grotesque Glaistig was the last sculpture set into the wall. It called to her as if it spoke, urging her closer so it might bite her. Two rounded horns protruded from its head above a human-like nose, the half-goat, half-woman image sending a shiver through her bones.
“Well, Glaistig,” she murmured. “Here is my blood.”
She did not know what would happen, but if her blood was powerful enough to bring life to the dead when combined with Dagr’s, then she suspected it would be something tremendous. Removing her tiny blade from her belt, she drew it across her palm. Bright blood welled from the cut, rapidly turning dark as it hit the air. She let a few drops hit the Glaistig.
“Skye!”
It was too late. Her blood trickled down the face of the Glaistig. She turned to see Dagr at the door, but the floor fell away from her feet in a rush of cold air and dust just as she tried to call out to him. The world exploded and blackness engulfed her, blinding her vision and filling up her lungs as she grabbed for something to hold onto. Pieces of the floor collapsed and fell into the hole around her, and when her vision cleared, she could see she was holding onto a crumbling piece of the stone foundation.
The entire floor of the chapel was gone, and her fingers were slipping. Beneath her feet was a massive pit, so deep and dark that she could not see where it ended. Remains of a splinted stairway ran down one side of the cavern, ending in a platform built flush to the wall of the pit. On the platform was the broken head of the Glaistig, staring up at Skye as if it mocked her. Split cleanly in two, the exposed edge revealed a bright silver rune mark embedded inside.
If she reached for the Seventh Key, she would fall. If she lost it, her fate was no better.
“Hold on, Skye – hold on!” Dagr shouted. Part of the wall crumbled, sending a shower of dust down on her face. The one foot she had wedged into a crack slipped, and she knew she could not hold on much longer.
Afraid to make the smallest motion, she slowly opened her dust-choked mouth and whispered, “I will.”
When she was sure her life was forfeited, she felt his hand snatch her arm. He hauled her upwards in one swift motion, wrapping an arm around her waist as he leaned into the pit. She gasped when another section of floor collapsed and one of the demon carvings plummeted into the hole, but Dagr did not let her go. As he carefully carried her over what remained of the floor, she buried her head in his shoulder and held him tight. When finally they reached the doorway, they collapsed in a heap and looked down upon the ruined chapel.
“You could have been killed!” he said, his voice hoarse. Sitting in his lap, she twisted around to look at him. The doubts she once held faded to nothingness as she looked into his eyes. His breath was warm on her cheek when he spoke, his blue eyes frantic as his gaze met hers. In the sky above, a shimmer of new snow began to fall, dappling their hair and skin with bits of dampness.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
She swallowed back her tears. “I was going to take the Seventh Key and leave. It can only be used once. I’m sorry.”
He smiled, shaking his head as he wiped the tears from her face.
“Do you think I did not know that?” he said gently.
When he took her face in his hands she raised her lips to his, savoring each stolen moment as if they might never have another. For now, at least, she belonged to him. She would think of the rest of it another time.
“I would not have let you leave, you know,” he said as she rested her head against his. His blazing blue eyes softened, almost sad as he gazed back at her.
“Why?” she asked. She did not truly need to hear the answer, for being in his arms was enough for the moment.
“Because here, in this time, is a man who loves you. One who loves you more than his family, more than his duty,” he said softly. “A man who would give anything to see you safe, even if it meant he must give his own life.”
She pulled slightly away so she might see his face better. Shrouded in pain, he stared back at her, caressing her face as if he meant to memorize every curve. She turned her cheek toward his hand.
“Never forget that,” he murmured. “Even if I must watch you from afar, I will always keep you safe.”
What was he saying? Confused, she opened her mouth to speak but he pulled away. Behind them, the rumble of hoof beats invaded the silence and he closed his eyes as horses skidded to a stop in the overgrown courtyard. When finally he looked at her again, his jaw tightened and the love in his eyes was replaced with a distant stare. He dropped his hands from her and stood up.
“Dagr?” she whispered.
Malcolm’s men pulled Skye to
her feet. Dagr did not flinch.
“No!” she screamed, slapping at the man who tried to lead her to a horse. She twisted away from him and ran, but Dagr caught her before she could escape. Slapping blindly at him through her tears, she was shocked when he grabbed her wrists and shook her hard.
“You led them here? Why?” she whispered. “Did your words have any truth at all?”
She searched his handsome face for some sign, some clue, some reason to believe he loved her, until he slowly shook his head and stared down at her. The very sound of his voice sent a shudder down her spine as her heart shattered inside her chest.
“Take Lady Skye back to Castle Dunloch. Malcolm waits for her,” he said. “Treat her gently. She will be your Laird’s wife.”
Dagr released her as one of the men took her by the arm. Stunned, she gave no further objection as the reality of his betrayal thundered in her ears.
Skye rode silently back to the castle.
She would never marry Malcolm McMillan.
And somehow – someday – she would find another key.
Chapter 9
Castle Dunloch
Dagr
HE NEVER INTENDED to let Skye leave, even if she had managed to retrieve the Seventh Key. Yes, he knew she planned to use the key and escape to a safe time, a place where no one would know who she was or what magic her blood held. He told himself a slew of excuses to justify his actions, each one sounding hollow in light of the truth. Loyalty to Malcolm was one reason. Fear of what might happen to Skye in the future was another, but inside his heart he could deny it no longer.
He would not let Skye leave because he loved her. And if loving her meant he must stay in the past to keep her safe, then that is what he would do – even if that meant watching her live a life with his brother.