by Hazel Hunter
“It feels like it’s moving.” She trailed her fingers down to his jaw before she suddenly snatched her hand from his and shook it. “Ouch. It bites.”
Raen saw the tiny, jagged mark on her upturned palm, and knew exactly what it was. But why this woman? And why now?
“Why did it jump on me?” Diana asked, echoing his confusion as she rubbed the spot. “And what kind of ink do you guys use?”
He wanted Diana, but he could not have her. Raen knew that. Once she felt satisfied that Kinley was being well-treated she would return to her own time. He could not follow her there. Even if he could convince her to stay, his heart still belonged to his dead wife.
“It will go away,” he lied to her, and placed the clothes back in her hands. “I will take you back to your rooms now.”
Chapter Eight
SPENDING MOST OF the afternoon washing her clothes and tailoring Raen’s to fit her leaner frame gave Diana plenty of time to think. Now and then she would check her palm. The little jag of ink that had jumped from Raen’s face to her skin no longer felt hot. Though it didn’t hurt, she’d tried to scrub it off, with no luck. After a lifetime of not believing in magic Diana had to deal with getting thrown back in time eight hundred years and being stabbed or bitten by Raen’s facial tat. Worse, every time she thought of the big man, her little jag tingled like a schoolgirl about to get her first kiss.
When they’d been standing a couple of heartbeats away from each other, the big man had wanted to kiss her. Diana would have bet a paycheck on it. So why hadn’t he?
Tormod brought in a tray for her close to sunset, which he thumped down on her side table as he scowled at her. As she cocked an eyebrow at him, he folded his scarred, tattooed arms.
“I am a map-maker, Red, no’ a maid.”
“I never requested room service,” Diana said. She stood and turned in a three-sixty to show him her new outfit. “What do you think? Doesn’t it scream medieval chic?”
“Clothes have no mouths and cannae scream, and dinnae tell me they do in your time. I will have nightmares.” He inspected her and added gruffly, “You sew well enough for such a mannish wench. I’ve trews that need mending, if you want more work.”
“After sitting in here all day I’m more in the mood for another run.” Diana laughed at his alarmed expression. “I’m kidding. How about we go hang with the other highlanders?” She headed for the door.
“Hang from what?” the Norseman demanded as he followed her out to the stairs.
Down in the great hall several dozen clansmen were seated around the trestle tables and talking while they carved, sharpened knives, mended various things and drank. In one corner Diana spotted a gang of men surrounding two who were playing what looked like checkers. All of the men stopped talking as soon as she came into view.
“Hi,” she said and put on her brightest smile. “And before you ask, fack, yes, I’m another one.”
One short, brutally-muscled man playing the checkers game got up to peer at her. “Be watchful, lads. ’Tis the outsider wench who makes holes in old, helpless magic folk.”
“Not deliberately,” she countered. As the short, stocky man approached her Diana noted the huge hammers inked on his arms, and the men gathering like a small army behind him. “And you are?”
“He is our sword master and armorer, Neacal, Chieftain of the Uthar tribe,” Tormod said quickly. “Chieftain, meet Lieutenant Diana Burke of the San Diego Missing Police Unit.” He frowned. “Or some such unit.”
“A too-tall wench with a too-long name,” the chieftain said. His biceps bulged as large as watermelons as he propped his fists on his hips, and stopped just far enough away not to have to look up at her. “Take her back to her room, Viking.”
“Didn’t the laird tell you?” she asked. “I’m not a prisoner.” She strolled past him and went to the gaming table to study the board. “This is checkers, right?”
“Draughts,” Tormod muttered as he caught up with her. “We can go for another run before the sun sets, Red. Come along now.”
“Tomorrow.” Diana watched Neacal, who stomped over to the other side of the table. “Want to play me, Chief?”
“Chieftain,” he corrected her. “And no. I dinnae play with wenches.” As his men chuckled he silenced them with a glare. “Females cannae call out men.”
“Come on, one game. If you win, I’ll go back and stay in my room,” she offered. “If I win, you let me hang—ah, stay here and get to know you and the clan.”
Neac glanced around at the men, all of whom were looking at the walls and vaulted ceiling.
He dropped onto the bench seat. “Black or white?”
Diana sat down. “White.” She watched as one of his men poured a measure of whiskey into two tankards. “What’s with the drinks?”
“You lose a counter, you drink,” Neac said and gave her an evil grin. “First one to lose all moves or fall down drunk loses.”
The game lasted all of ten minutes. Neac formed a defensive pyramid of counters but neglected to preserve his back row. Diana advanced by taking two counters for each one she sacrificed until she reduced his numbers. The chieftain’s tankard had to be refilled seven times, and by the time she crowned her first of three kings he was swaying on his bench.
Taking all of his pieces would have been a little mean, so Diana simply blocked in his remaining counters and met his gaze.
“You’re out of moves, Chief.”
The clansmen around them murmured and shifted positions to peer at the board.
“I’ve one more.” He raised one of his huge fists, only to open it and offer it to her. “I yield, wench. Woman. Lieutenant?”
“Diana,” she said and caught his hand. Though she half-expected him to crush her fingers, all she received was a wobbly shake. “Good game, Neacal.”
“Neac.” When she would have drawn her hand away he caught her wrist, and turned her palm up to frown at the small gray jag of ink. He turned it over again, and bellowed at Tormod, “Where is Raen Aber?”
The Norseman shrugged. “He’s no’ had her, if that’s prodding your spleen.”
“I’ll use my spleen to beat some sense in that lad if he’ll no’ honor his spirit,” Neac told her as he stood on unsteady legs. “Bring her, Viking.”
Tormod glanced at Diana. “Best we go with him until he falls down.”
The chieftain didn’t collapse, but lumbered out of the hall and through a back corridor that opened into a lush herb and flower garden. There Diana saw Raen talking with the younger druid, Cailean Lusk.
“Seneschal, a word,” Neac shouted as he staggered toward Raen. “Now. Viking, come here so I dinnae kill him.”
“Lieutenant Burke,” the young druid said. He came over and bowed to her, although he didn’t seem especially happy to see her. “I hope you are enjoying your visit.”
“Sure. I haven’t shot anyone else, either.” She glanced over at the three other men. “So how is the old guy?”
“If you mean Master Flen, his wound is slowly healing.” Cailean tucked his long, pale hands into the ends of his flowing sleeves. “You must miss your life in San Diego. The laird’s wife has told us that it is a marvelous city.”
“I bet you’d love the Central Library,” she told him as she watched Neac making some cutting gestures, and Raen’s expression darkening. “Nine stories of glass and concrete, six million books, and pretty much all the pretty co-eds you can chase. Why do Raen and Neac look like they’re about to fight?”
“They are Pritani. ’Tis their nature.” His soft eyes shifted to her face. “You have seen that Lady McDonnel is well-treated here. If you are ready to go back, I can help you return to your time. Tonight, if you wish it.”
“Everyone wants to get rid of me,” Diana said as she watched Neac take a swing at Raen, miss, and fall to the ground. Tormod helped the big man pick up the chieftain’s sagging body and carry him into the stronghold. “Why is that?”
“I cannae tell you,” Cail
ean said and gestured at a path that led out of the garden. “Shall we walk down to the loch? ’Tis beautiful when the moon rises.”
She wondered why he wanted her by the water, and decided to find out. “Sure.”
Walking through the grass to the embankment stirred up a swarm of fireflies, many of which crawled up to perch on Cailean’s shoulders. The little bugs formed glittering epaulets as the druid pointed out some of the oldest trees surrounding the loch, including one giant oak that shaded two old, upright stones.
“The trees are very pretty,” she said. “They’re your thing, right? Wood magic or something?”
Cailean chuckled. “All trees contain great magic. Did you never feel that when you were a wee lass?”
“I haven’t been considered wee since the third grade.” She stopped and turned to him. “I don’t feel magic, either. I do feel annoyed, especially when you hustle me off so you can say things you don’t want the clan to hear.”
“Druids are by nature very private people,” Cailean said, and studied her face for a moment. “I wish only to ask you some questions about matters important to us. May I?”
Diana had the feeling he felt a little afraid of her, and knew she could use that to get some answers out of him. But she was tired of playing bad cop.
“If you’ll do the same for me, sure.” She sat down on the ground and stretched out her legs. “Ask away.”
He lowered himself down beside her. “Is there anything you can do that ’tis…unusual?”
Diana thought for a moment. “I’m very good at yoga. I can wiggle my ears, and solve crossword puzzles without cheating. I can’t sing but I can whistle anything, including most bird calls.”
“This would be a powerful talent. Something you hide from others.” As she frowned at him he added, “’Tis a sign you have druid blood. In our first incarnation, as you are now, we discover our magic. It will be an ability that others in your time dinnae have.”
She thought of the sparkling trail that had led her to the castle, and smiled broadly.
“Sorry. I’m the most non-magical person I know.”
“Your power may have come to you in childhood,” he persisted. “If it frightened you, you could have locked it away inside yourself.”
“I spent a lot of time as a kid locked up,” Diana said. “But not by magic.”
She looked out at the moonlit water, and imagined tossing the druid into it for reminding her of those bad old days,
“Were you troubled?” he asked.
“I was too big,” she said and glanced at him. “By the time I was twelve I was six feet tall, and being my size is not a plus in foster care. It costs more to feed someone like me. The people who were paid to take care of me generally liked to keep all that money for themselves, so they starved me. When I got so desperate I tried to steal food, they beat me and locked me up. By the time my case worker noticed during an unannounced visit, my hair had started falling out, and I had a nasty case of rickets. My bones had grown so soft they found five unhealed fractures leftover from the beatings.”
Cailean looked stunned. “’Tis how they treat children in your time?”
“Unwanted kids, yeah, sometimes. My mother killed herself when I was a kid, so they gave me to those people. But I was lucky, too. Once she knew I was being abused, my case worker got me medical treatment, and then put me in a group home, where things were better. Not that it lasted.” She shrugged. “It never does. All right, my turn.” She faced him and held up her marked palm. “I got this when I touched the tattoos on Raen’s face. What does it mean?”
He blinked. “Naught that I ken.”
“You’re lying to a cop,” Diana warned him. “That’s about as smart as dangling raw meat in front of a hungry wolf. Also, I told you the truth, and if you don’t do the same that makes you a welcher. It’s not a good thing. Just tell me.”
“Master Aber’s tribe used skinwork to offer themselves to certain spirits. If the spirit favored the man, it bonded with his markings, and slumbers inside him until needed.” Cailean nodded at the mark. “That spirit woke up when you touched him, and it chose you. Such things were very rare even in…the past.”
Now she felt even more confused. “What did it choose me for?”
“Master Aber,” the druid said. “It marked you as his mate. It chose you to become his wife.”
Chapter Nine
TWILIGHT’S ROYAL COLORS surrounded the druid settlement, adding a dark cloak to the enchantment that had kept it concealed from mortal eyes for ten centuries. Tall, staked torches flared to life with spellfire to illuminate the paths winding around the simple dwellings. A pair of druid children stood counting livestock returning from the pastures, and watched the bespelled creatures nudge open gates and pen themselves for the night. Others returning from wild herb collecting stopped to trade some of their fragrant bunches for vegetables from those who worked in the food gardens.
Each druid who passed one particular home touched a branch of the pear tree that shaded the entry. The traces of magic they left behind sank into the fruit and turned them golden and sweet, as a gift for the old soul who had returned from the outside world wounded and troubled.
In his bed chamber Bhaltair Flen did not smell the ripening pears, or hear the murmured well wishes. He huddled under his coverlet, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids. In his mind he was again in his first life. He had been sent to perform a cleansing ritual after a plague, and had lost his heart to a young mortal beauty orphaned by the sickness. It had been such a gentle thing, that love, and yet it had consumed him. He had not returned to his settlement, but lingered, to be with her.
In his dream, as it had been in his first life, it did not end well. When the tribe’s chieftain had betrothed Yana to a brutish ally, Bhaltair had challenged the match. He had expected to discuss the matter reasonably, not be beaten nearly to death.
Yana is to be my wife, you wand-waving fool. The dark, handsome face of Oron Tanse twisted with a sneer as he raised his bloody knuckles. She carries my name and my child.
As the fist came down for another blow the old druid jerked awake. It took a moment to realize that he lay safe in his bed. He had been disgraced and nearly died of Oron’s beating, but in the end vengeance had been his. Yana and her savage husband had died as mortals, never to live again as Bhaltair did. No one even remembered their names anymore.
His heart thudded dully as he offered the gods a short prayer of gratitude. Yet the calm that should have come to him brought instead the memory of Yana’s sweet eyes, swimming with tears, and the soft sound of her voice begging him to understand the unfathomable.
Forgive me. I cannae stay with you. I am with child now.
Without thinking Bhaltair raised his hand to wipe the dampness from his own face. A sharp bolt of pain raced up into his shoulder and neck, making him yelp like an undisciplined boy.
“Master Flen.” One of the druidesses who had been caring for him hurried over to the bed, and looked all over him. “Does something ail you? What may I do?”
“Naught. I will manage.” He glanced at the window, and when he saw the sun had set he pushed back the linens and swung his legs over to rise from the bed. “Has the conclave assembled yet?”
“Soon,” she said and wrapped him in a soft, thin robe. “They now await the laird and his lady.” She hesitated before she added, “You shouldnae go yourself, Master. You are still very weak.”
“Aye, and the fate of the one responsible is being decided,” he said, sitting back down on the bed and extending one leg. “Put on my boots, Sister. I’ll no’ ignore my duty for my own comfort tonight.”
Bhaltair had the druidess fetch his cane for him, but did nothing more to tidy his appearance. He also hobbled slowly through the settlement, and for once allowed his discomfort to show on his face. By the time he reached the meeting house his breathing had grown labored and sweat dampened his silver hair.
“Master Bhaltair,” Eangus Gragor said. H
e had once been Bhaltair’s acolyte and rushed to his side. “I’ll send for a chair.”
“No,” he said and gripped his former student’s arm, leaning on him. “Help me inside. I must speak before the conclave.”
The air inside the house smelled of fresh herbs and rushes, and a trace of cool, clear water. The latter Bhaltair recognized as belonging to the McDonnel laird, Lachlan, whom he saw standing with some of the elder conclavists. Beside him Kinley Chandler, dressed for once as a female, turned her head and saw him. She leaned close to say something to the laird, and they both came directly to Bhaltair.
“Master Flen,” Lachlan said and put a hand on his good shoulder as if to brace him. “How do you fare?”
“Poorly, my lord, poorly.” He didn’t have to feign the grimace as his knees shook under his robe. “Lady Kinley, ’tis good to see you. Eangus, I would welcome that chair now.”
The men guided him over to one of the cushioned chairs by the hearth, and once Bhaltair eased into it Lachlan removed his tartan and tucked it around him.
“You make an old man grateful.” He glanced at Kinley, who was pressing her lips together. “Never worry, Lady. In time all ’twill be mended.” He cleared his throat before he asked, “Would there be a cup of wine about? It dulls the agony to a tolerable level.”
Eangus and Lachlan went off in search of wine, while Kinley sat on a tuffet beside Bhaltair. “Cailean sends his regards, and this.” She handed him a small scroll.
“You make a fetching dove, my lady.” He let her see his hand tremble as he tucked it in his sleeve. “Has my attacker harmed anyone more?”
“No, and the lieutenant didn’t attack you,” Kinley said firmly. “It was a terrible accident, Master Flen.”
“Mayhap,” he said but refused to think about how the outsider woman’s violet eyes had flared with alarm as her weapon skewered his flesh. He had come so close to retaliating and striking her dead it still made him feel sick. “The matter will be decided by my brothers and sisters.”