Highland Shifter

by Catherine Bybee

  “What’s your name, lass?”

  “Helen.”

  When she didn’t offer more, he asked. “You were looking for me?”

  Helen shook her head.

  It was his turn to look confused.

  “You’re not looking for me?”

  “I’m looking for a child. Y-you look like someone I’ve seen before.”

  Her gaze moved to his plaid, her cheek was firm against his thigh. Helen scrambled to remove herself from his lap, but her eyes never left his. “Who are you?”

  “’Tis you who showed up from nowhere, and you who needs to answer my questions. Where did you come from?”

  She took in the woods around her, her eyes pitching together again. “I was walking in a…. I don’t know, meadow, I guess. I dropped something.” Helen glanced down at her hand. In it was a paper crushed within her palm. She uncoiled her fingers and flattened the paper to her other hand. “Then everything went crazy.”

  “A meadow?” Simon glanced at the trees above their heads.

  “Maybe I did hit my head.”

  Simon didn’t think the confusion on her face was false, but he didn’t dare say anything that would damn him or his family. Better to keep quiet and learn.

  Kong, he called his horse in his head.

  The massive animal started toward them. Helen’s focus changed from the woods to the animal.

  “Where did he come from? Where did you come from?” Helen backed up a few steps.

  Simon took a step toward her, and she scrambled out of his reach. Stopping, he placed a hand in the air.

  “I’ll not hurt you, lass.”

  “You weren’t here. None of this was here.”

  “Right. You were in a meadow, chasing that paper, then noise erupted, and darkness fell.”

  She was nodding now, eyes full of hope. “Right.”

  “Then everything stopped, and you were standing here.”

  Helen’s head bobbed on her neck. “Exactly.”

  “Only you don’t know where here is, do you?”

  “Scotland. You said Scotland.”

  Where wasn’t the right question, but Simon wasn’t about to ask her the harder one.

  “Helen?” He approached her slowly, as he would a child. His hand lifted to hers.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Spunk, he loved a woman with passion. “I have answers, but I think you’d feel better in the presence of other women.”

  Even from her time, a woman alone in the woods with a man would be frightening. Unless the woman was a fighter, or police officer. This one looked soft and vulnerable. It was a very good thing he’d come upon her instead of any other medieval man.

  “You’re not a woman.”

  He laughed. “Nay. That I’m not. But my family is full of them. They can help.”

  * * * *

  Helen had never been on a horse in her life, let alone with a man as solid as Fort Knox at her back. Yet here she was sitting ram-rod-straight on a huge horse with a huge man flush against her.

  He looked nothing like any man she’d ever seen. Every ounce of his body looked as if it had been carved from stone, every muscle firmly in place. Dark locks of hair draped around his face, a scruff of facial hair afforded him a mysterious look any woman would appreciate.

  The skin on her bare arms tingled, not in the way it should considering she had no idea where she was, or more importantly, how she’d come to be there. It was because of the man whose muscular legs tensed against hers as they rode.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Helen thought she knew him. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over her every time he spoke. She supposed it was like thinking you knew a celebrity simply because you’ve seen them on the big screen. Yes, that had to be it. The picture in the book resembled the man at her back, therefore she thought she knew him.

  Get your head out of that book, she chastised herself. She ought to be thinking about where she was, or where her car had disappeared to. Maybe she’d fallen when she’d reached for the picture and hit her head when she fell. That would explain a lot.

  Helen reached for the top of her skull, feeling for a knot.

  Nothing.

  “You didn’t hit your head.”

  Statement, not a question.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve not hit your head. Everything you see from this moment on is real. Remarkable, but real.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and stroked upon her back in a hauntingly familiar caress.

  “How do you know my thoughts?”

  He laughed. “I’ve been where you are.”

  The horse under her stuttered in his step.

  “What’s your name?”

  He leaned back on the reins. The horse stopped.

  Every noise in the forest waited for her next breath. Without being told, Helen lowered her voice. “What is it?” she whispered.

  The man behind her went rigid. The reins in his hand fell to the side of the horse, raising alarm in Helen’s blood. What if the horse bolted without its master holding him tight?

  Helen bent over the horse, grasping for the leather.

  “Shhh.”

  Crouched over the animal, Helen’s gaze wandered beyond the trees, deeper into the forest. A forest that hadn’t been there before the strange storm swept her away.

  Heat inched up the right side of her face. She turned toward it and caught movement in the wood.

  The man beside her turned his head to follow hers. His hand drew the sword strapped to the costume he wore.

  The same clothing the man in the picture wore.

  “What is—?”

  His free hand clamped around her mouth, silencing her.

  Every nerve in her body stood on end waiting for release.

  Helen held still when the man behind her let go of her mouth and reached into a small pouch strapped to his thigh. He drew a jewel-encrusted dagger and pressed the hilt of it into her palm.

  She started to tremble. Helen couldn’t help her body’s shudder any more than she could stop blinking her eyes. The forest seemed to wait, quiet with anticipation. Her breath held in the back of her throat for some sort of action.

  Nothing prepared her for what she saw when it came.

  On their right, three men bounded from the forest, two on horses, and the other on foot. They wielded swords and wore armor that should have been in a museum instead of on their backs. Still, they filled the air with battle cries and charged toward them.

  The horse she rode stood perfectly still. Helen would have run for the nearest exit. Only when the closest man fell on them did the animal move. When it did, it backed away, and her dark hero took aim at their enemy’s sword.

  Metal scratched against metal while Helen grasped the dagger in her palm and held onto the horse’s mane for balance.

  This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. No one fought with swords any longer. The closest thing she could recall was knife fighting, like with the one in her hand.

  Without looking, she knew this knife wasn’t like any she’d held. And before her misguided youth decided on her current path, she’d held plenty. She now turned to that instinct. The one that had kept her alive on the streets of Hollywood when she’d run from the last foster home.

  The men charging them meant to hurt them.

  From the force of their strikes, they meant to kill them.

  Helen refused to fall victim to anyone before she had answers to the many questions burning inside her head.

  While her hero beat down one man with a sword, another descended upon them. Hardly fair, but these giant men didn’t seem to care.

  Black eyes met hers and skimmed to her legs astride the horse.

  Helen couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face because of the strange mask he wore, but laughter lit his eyes.

  She drew the knife in her hand in front of her, ever mindful of the man behind her beating his sword against the man trying to kill him.


  The horse bolted forward, and Helen held on for dear life.

  An arrow caught in a tree to her side, right as the horse skidded to a stop. It missed her by inches.

  Three more men bolted from the forest, all more dire than the next.

  Six to two.

  Within seconds, they were surrounded.

  The horse she rode stamped his foot on the ground.

  Helen held her dagger in a fist, knuckles white.

  “Hold your tongue,” her hero breathed into her ear.

  Not that she needed the advice. If there was ever a time in her life to close her mouth and open her ears it was now. These men stepped from the pages of time, each of them regarding her with a mixture of lust and speculation.

  Helen had an uncanny desire to pull her shorts lower on her legs.

  “MacCoinnich?” one of the men shouted.

  Her hero shifted his gaze toward the voice.

  “Looks like we’ve captured one after all.”

  The men circling them started to laugh.

  The sound grated on her nerves.

  “And with a lassie, too.”

  What was up with the lass thing? Unlike any time the man at her back had used the term, the man stating it now did so with vulgar intent.

  Her hero sensed it too, or so she thought as she felt his body move closer to hers. Without thinking, Helen moved her hand from her thigh to his in acknowledgment. Hold your tongue, he’d told her.

  She could do that.

  “Put down your sword, MacCoinnich, and we’ll let you live to see another day.”

  The man’s accent was English, not the thick, Scottish brogue she’d heard since arriving in Scotland.

  The animal under them pranced.

  Helen held her breath.

  A fight would be futile. They’d die. The men surrounding them were similar in stature to her hero, yet all of them had a deadened gaze behind their eyes. Haunting.

  One man aimed an arrow straight at her chest. The thought of outrunning it would mean suicide.

  “What do you want?” MacCoinnich asked.

  “You, to start with. And then your companion. She appears quite inviting dressed as she is. Wouldn’t you say, men?”

  The leader led the laughter erupting around her. She knotted her fist into MacCoinnich’s thigh.

  This was bad. Very, very bad.

  MacCoinnich’s breath brushed against her ear. “Follow Kong, my horse,” he uttered.

  Maybe he had a plan. A plan of escape.

  Yet as the thought solidified in her mind, their enemies drew closer.

  Her hero lowered his sword, but his body screamed with tension.

  The predatory cry of a bird filled the air and several of the men shot their attention above their heads. The horse carrying the warrior holding the bow pitched onto his back legs, forcing the man to lose his aim to stay on the animal.

  MacCoinnich drew his sword high, and wrapped his free arm tightly around Helen.

  All the horses started to prance, their riders struggled to get them under control.

  Kong leapt toward an opening between the men, and it was all Helen could do to stay mounted. The other horses didn’t seem to be able to move, but that didn’t stop the men from fighting. One threw himself off his horse and clashed swords with MacCoinnich.

  “Grab the girl!”

  Kong’s exit was blocked and the horse spun around.

  Helen’s gaze collided with one of the men trying to kill them. From the ground, he reached for her leg. She pulled her leg back, retreating from his fingers. And when he moved closer, she thrust her heel as hard as she could at the side of the man’s head. When he fell back, another man took his place. This one slashed at her with a sword. The skin on her leg started to burn.

  “Hold on, Helen,” MacCoinnich said behind her. “Trust me.”

  The words left his mouth and the sky started buzzing with noise.

  The man who’d sliced her leg open didn’t stop to glance at the sky. He descended with death in his eyes.

  Suddenly, her hero jumped off the horse, and Kong ran at breakneck speed into the forest with Helen crouched low over his back. She tightened her legs around his flanks, but still didn’t think she could hold her seat. The voices behind her started to fade, but Helen didn’t feel any relief from it. She didn’t dare look back.

  This was a nightmare.

  Dammit, she wanted to wake up.

  Kong’s gait shifted from a full run to a slower gallop. The change jarred Helen and sent her tumbling off the side of the horse.

  Air rushed from her lungs when she hit the ground.

  Kong continued to run away, leaving Helen less than a half a mile from the fighting men and struggling for breath. Alone on an open path, she stumbled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her leg, and scrambled behind a large tree.

  She needed to focus. Her breath came in short gasping pants, while her heart raced in her chest so quickly she could hear her own blood gushing through her veins.

  The knife MacCoinnich had pressed into her hand was her only defense if the men returned. Helen held it in front of her, and her eyes darted, following every noise in the forest.

  As adrenaline started to subside, the pain from her leg started to scream. Unable to avoid facing the injury any longer, Helen glanced down at the three-inch gash on her calf. It wasn’t horribly deep, but it hurt like hell. Some gauze and an antibiotic was all she needed. She colored herself lucky since the sword that did the damage was large enough to amputate her leg with a single blow.

  Using the knife, Helen cut away a portion of her shirt and pressed the cloth into her wound. With blood seeping through her fingers, she wondered if the scent would attract animals from the woods.

  She had to keep moving. But where?

  With the loose ends of the cotton tied together, she attempted to stand. Everything hurt.

  After moving only a few yards in the direction the horse had run, Helen tripped on a stump.

  Anger and frustration welled inside, threatening tears. “Dammit!”

  Boy, did she want to sob big fat tears that would serve no purpose.

  She didn’t. Instead, she picked herself up off the ground and began walking again.

  A twig behind her snapped.

  She spun.

  Two sets of angry eyes, belonging to two equally angry men, stared at her.

  If these two managed to follow her, Helen couldn’t help but wonder if MacCoinnich had died in the fight.

  The thought of her life ending in a foreign land, at the hands of men dressed in ancient warrior garb, had her blinking back tears. One managed to escape, trickling down her cheek.

  At the sight of her weakness, the men laughed. “No need to fret,” one of the men said as he stepped closer to her.

  “Oh, she should fret,” said the other man who’d met her foot with his face. He didn’t hold back his anger.

  Helen backed up with each of their advancing steps.

  Why had she left home?

  More tears clouded her eyes.

  She thought she heard a growl in the woods behind her, but couldn’t risk turning away from the men to look.

  Instead, Helen curled her arms into her chest and wept, “I want to go home. Please, just let me go home.”

  The world around her tilted and once again fell away.

  Chapter Four

  Amber MacCoinnich cried out in physical pain. “Not again.” Grief swelled in her gut, doubling her over until she had to sit or risk falling. Her empathic gift suffocated her. The loss of Simon blanketed her with sorrow. She’d only experienced this feeling once before in her short life. It had happened years ago, when Grainna cursed her older brother Fin and his wife, Lizzy, sending them into the future. The memory of that loss swelled in her mind, even though Lizzy and Fin eventually made their way home.

  The door to her room sprung open, her sister-in-law Lizzy tumbled through. “Simon’s gone.”

  “Aye.”


  Her body ached with his loss. The void of a loved one’s death was the only thing that compared.

  Desperation marred Lizzy’s face. Her son was gone. In a heartbeat, in a one blink of an eye—gone.

  Amber closed her eyes and willed the pain gripping her stomach to recede. She focused her gift, reaching for some hope. But she didn’t feel any. She had no way of knowing if Simon was dead, or swept away by some magical force.

  She prayed it was the latter. The family would depend on her to reveal hope of Simon’s safety. And each year her empathy grew, nearly crippling her.

  “Mother?” Selma MacCoinnich pulled at Lizzy’s skirts. The ten-year-old’s blue eyes clouded with unshed tears. “What is it?”

  Lizzy shook her head and patted her daughter’s head. “It’s okay. Find your grandmother and aunts.”

  Selma ran off and Lizzy closed the door behind her staring blankly at Amber with fear etched in her face.

  Amber pulled Lizzy into a chair, although the physical connection caused Amber more pain. Her empathic gift felt like a curse during times of grief. It was as if she harbored the misery of everyone around her.

  “Can you feel him at all?” Amber asked. Lizzy and her son shared a bond that once allowed them to speak to each other in their heads. As Simon grew, that bond severed. Left in its wake was what Lizzy described as a simple hum. A buzzing sensation told her, her son was well.

  “No.”

  Amber didn’t press. Soon her mother Lora and sister Myra rushed into the room. “What happened?”

  Tara was fast on their heels.

  “’Tis Simon. Lizzy can’t feel him.”

  Lizzy sobbed. For Amber, the sound renewed her deepest fear, for Lizzy never cried. She was as strong as any Highland warrior.

  Lora knelt beside Lizzy and gathered their hands together. “Shh.”

  “I can’t feel him.”

  “I know, lass, but hold hope. I’ve not had any premonitions of death.”

  “If not death, then what?” Tara asked.

  Myra ran her palm over her swollen belly as she spoke. “Could he have turned himself into an animal so small you’re not able to sense him?”

  Lizzy shook her head.

  “What if he used the stones?” Amber posed the question, and the women all turned to stare at her.