by Hazel Hunter
The laird frowned. “Another time? There is no other time but this.”
Cailean cringed a little. Of course he would think that. The Pritani lived completely in the now. Even after twelve hundred years of existence they had no understanding of the fluidity of time, or how the druids could use it.
“My lord,” Cailean said, “there are infinite times existing all around us. The past, the present, the future are but separated and held apart by the gods, and their apotheoses on this…” He stopped himself and turned to his master. “Master Flen, she couldnae have used the grove, and if we didnae–”
“Aye, and that path will be traveled later,” Bhaltair warned him before he regarded the laird. “Cailean went to the oak grove where this woman first appeared. He found spellmark left by that which dragged her to our time.”
“Dragged?” Lachlan said sounding alarmed. “She didnae come willingly?”
The old druid pursed his lips and tried to out-stare the laird. Finally he said, “Spellmark, such as was left where the female appeared, cannae be made by any magic of ours. It must be the work of the grove itself. It took her from her time, and brought her to ours. She doesnae belong here.”
“’Tis very rare for such a thing to happen,” Cailean put in hastily. “That grove hasnae been used since the awakening, so the magic absorbed by the soil must have leeched into the oaks themselves–”
“Cailean, close your mouth now,” Bhaltair said, “or I shall remove it from your face.” He stood. “Lachlan, I must consult with my fellows in the conclave to determine why this female was thrust upon us. Until we have more knowledge of that, you must imprison her.”
The laird loomed over the old druid. “I shall do no such thing. You will take Kinley Chandler back to that damned grove, and return her to her own time. Today.”
Chapter Seventeen
KINLEY WALKED BLINDLY away from the kitchen garden, entering the stronghold through the scullery door. Fury pounded away at the inside of her skull, as if it had made a hammer of what she had overheard in the kitchen garden.
You will take Kinley Chandler back to that damned grove–
“Mistress, come and have a sit,” Meg said. The chatelaine wiped her hands on her apron as she bustled over to her. “I’ve a nice new press of cider–”
“Not now, Meg.”
Kinley gritted her teeth to keep from snarling as she went around her and strode into the back passage.
Return her to her own time–
“Kinley, there you are,” Raen said. His huge form loomed in front of her. “I’ve time for a bout, if you’ve a mind to bruise yourself–”
“Already did,” she said curtly. She dodged him. “I’m really tired, Raen. I’ll be in the tower, taking a long nap.”
Today.
Raen must have believed her, for he didn’t follow her to the map room. There she found Tormod examining a moldy piece of parchment he’d unearthed from the archives. For a moment she thought she might upend the table in front of him and kick it across the room.
It wouldn’t be enough. She felt ready to explode.
“The Caledonians were idiots,” the tall Norseman told her as he spread out the crude drawing. “You see thus? They think Germania and Abyssinia were giant islands floating around Norrvegr and Svitjod. They must have been drunk when they drew this. ’Tis why Scotsman are such ninnies. All that drink diluted their bloodlines and addled their brains. Why do you look as if you wish to eat my nose?”
“Do we have a map of that oak grove where I saved the laird’s life?” she demanded. “You know, right before I punched him in the face?”
“Aye.” His eyes went wary as he glanced at a shelf by the wall. “Why do you need it?”
Reining in her temper took all her self-control. “I want to see where I was in relation to our search grid,” she lied. “If it’s central, we might set some pit traps in it.”
Tormod retrieved the scroll, and pointed out a small, leafy circle on the mainland. “’Tis no’ far from the center, but the undead avoid the groves. We’d do better to dig traps around it, but you are lying to me, so there will be none. If you try to eat my nose, Kinley, I will call for Evander.”
“I’d love that, if I had a blow-torch and a shovel. As for the traps, you never know. The laird might grow a brain in another century or two and think of it himself. You know, after he kicks me out of the castle. That’s happening today, by the way.” She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “I have to get out of here and find some answers on my own.”
“And that is truth.” His expression softened a few degrees. “Is it the laird? What has he done? Taken away your pitchfork? Demanded you dress like a lass?”
She eyed him.
Tormod heaved a sigh. “If you go down to the village, one of the fisherman will take you across to the port. You’ll need a horse to reach the grove before dark. Ask Jens in the Red Ox Stables to give you my white gelding. Say I will kill him if he doesnae.”
Now it was her turn to be suspicious. “Why are you helping me?”
“I didnae help you,” Tormod said. “You held a blade to my neck, you vicious wench, and forced my counsel.” He put the map room key, his belt sheath and his purse in her hands. “Then you stole my coin and my favorite dagger, and left me locked in here.” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “I think you bashed me over the head, too. That is why I didnae cry out for help.”
She tucked away his gifts and rolled up the map. “How long before you’re missed?”
“Sunset, when I dinnae report for guard duty.” He studied her face. “Kinley.”
“He doesn’t want me here. He told the druids to send me back to San Diego. Right now.” She would not start crying in front of the damnably helpful Viking. “So I’ll save him the trouble of whatever that takes.” She held out her arm, which he clasped in a warrior’s hold. “Keep working on narrowing the grid, and you’ll find the undead nest. I’d burn it at high noon. That way any that try to escape get torched by the sun.”
“You’ll always be a bloodthirsty wench,” he said, and smiled a little. “Walk with the gods’ eyes at your back.”
Taking Tama from the stables to ride to the village was easy. Seoc liked to flirt with the girls in the kitchen, and telling him the prettiest one had asked for him sent him hurrying off. She saddled the mare and rode her out to the entrance of the trail, which her mount could probably traverse blindfolded. Once she reached the glen she loped Tama across the fields to the little village by the fishing docks.
Kinley left her mount with the village stable master, asking him to keep her overnight before returning her to the stronghold. Since he had been one of the men who had seen her on the red deer hunt with Lachlan, he didn’t even question her instructions. From there she walked down and picked the sturdiest-looking boat, and asked its owner to take her to the mainland. The coin she pressed in the fisherman’s callused fingers convinced him to agree in a heartbeat.
Since she was a kid Kinley had always been steady on boats, but the farther they sailed away from Skye the sicker she felt. It served her right for eavesdropping on Lachlan and the druids, but if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t know how little her lover cared about her. Could she even call him that when they’d been together less than twenty-four hours?
One-night stand Lachlan. She’d never have imagined it would be nothing but that.
Of course it was her fault. She’d fallen for him last night, him and his damn snake, and this morning woke up feeling like she’d finally found her reason for living again. How could she be so naïve? This wasn’t her first rodeo. She’d had flings in the military with guys who were one-nighters. As soon as they thought she was asleep they’d sneak off, and the next day act like strangers. Kinley had kept her game face on, but it had always hurt. Lachlan had actually been crueler. He’d lured her out of her emotional shell when all the while he’d just wanted to get laid. Was his heart made of ice? Did he even have one?
Jesus. Her life
had turned into a bad young adult romance novel.
The port on the mainland proved to be busy enough that no one noticed her, but Kinley kept her cloak hood pulled forward and her head down as she searched for Tormod’s stable, which she found marked by a rickety wood sign painted with a crude red cow.
“Aye, I’ve Tormod Liefson’s nag,” said Jens, a much older Norseman with a crooked shoulder, showing her all four of his remaining teeth. “Stingy whoreson owes me for three months stabling and feed. I mean to stab him in the heart, next I lay eyes on him. What of it?”
“I’m borrowing the horse, and a saddle.” Kinley handed him enough coins to make his eyes widen. “Unless you want Tormod to come here and kill you, in which case, give me my money back.”
“What do you mean, woman? Tormod is an auld, dear friend.” Jens fisted the coins, turned and hobbled off, and a few minutes later led out the Norseman’s huge white gelding.
Kinley’s jaw dropped. “Holy crap.”
“You’re too wee to ride this behemoth.” His jaw sagged as she swung onto the gelding and scooped up the reins. “Right, then I’m abed at midnight.”
“Sweet dreams,” Kinley said as she guided the horse out of the open stable doors, and walked him down the busy road. Once she reached the outskirts she took out her map and studied it for a moment. “Well, No Balls, we’ve got to cover about ten miles, but if I let you gallop, you can’t toss me into the dirt.”
The gelding turned its big head to eye her.
“You’re right, that’s a terrible idea and a nasty nickname. We’ll try a nice trot first, Snowball.” She situated herself in the too-big saddle and gave the reins some slack.
The horse started forward, his long legs smartly clopping, and when she leaned forward began to pick up his pace. By the time they covered the first mile he was loping with a rocking-chair gait that made Kinley appreciate the extra room in the four-horned saddle.
No one crossed their path on the way to the grove, but Kinley knew from history that the common people in medieval times generally stayed within the confines of the village. Some never left it until they were buried. If she ran into anyone they were likely brigands or highwaymen, or whatever they called the muggers of the era. She had Tormod’s dagger, but hoped she wouldn’t have to defend herself. In the state she was in any kind of a fight would probably shove her over the edge into a full-blown breakdown.
“I’ll tell you what, Snowball,” she said to the horse as she slowed him to a walk to give him a breather. “I might not go back to San Diego. I might set up a medieval counseling business, so I can warn all the wenches around here to steer clear of Lachlan Heartless User Bastard McDonnel. Or maybe I’ll just invent moisturizer.” She blinked hard to keep the tears at bay. “Oil of Kinley. Chandler’s Cream. No, they’ll probably think it’s candlewax-based.”
The sun dropped behind the tree line when Kinley found the scrolling dirt road that led directly to the entrance of the oak grove. She dismounted by the stream running parallel, where she let the horse drink.
“We made good time.” The longer she stared at the road, the less she wanted to get back on the gelding. “What do you think will happen if I go back? Will I arrive barely alive? Or will I still be healed?” If she was like this she could go on another tour. Maybe this time she’d have the good sense not to survive it. “Great, I’m suicidal again.”
Snowball lifted his head and shook it, splattering her with some water drops.
“We’ll take a look and then we’ll decide,” she assured him. With the twilight rising now, she’d have to move fast.
“Help me.”
Kinley turned around to see a skinny adolescent boy standing at the edge of the tree line. Blood streaked the front of his tunic from a deep neck wound, and he held onto a tree trunk as if ready to collapse. She tethered the horse to a branch and took off running. As soon as she reached the boy he fell to his knees.
Slipping into rescue mode, Kinley quickly checked the surroundings—all clear.
“What happened?” she asked, as she examined his neck wound. Two puncture wounds were bleeding freely.
“The undead,” he gasped. He looked up at her, his blue eyes swimming with tears. “They came and took my mam. I fought them but…” He clutched at her, his small hands tight with desperation. “Please, Mistress, we have to get my mam!”
“I need to see to your wound first,” she told him, and tore the sleeve from her tunic, wrapping it around his neck to staunch the bleeding. “You saw the vamp…the undead take your mother?” When he nodded she peered into the forest. “You live back in there?”
He shook his head and tried to swallow. “I followed them. There’s a cave.” His voice broke on the last words. “Oh, please, Mistress,” he cried, grabbing her arm. “They’ll kill her!”
His shrill voice pierced the air, and suddenly Kinley remembered a very different child. On the outskirts of a dusty desert village, another boy had shrieked for her help in a language she didn’t know. He’d grabbed her arm and pointed at one of the houses, but she’d been ordered back to the bird. The rest of her team was already gone. The orders for evacuation came through her comm unit, loud and clear. Then they came again, the pilot screaming her name. She pried the boy’s little fingers loose and ran, but couldn’t help but look over her shoulder. The hopeless look on his face was burned into her memory.
“Please!” the injured boy screamed as he shook her. “My mam!”
She blinked at him and stared at his terrified, tear-streaked face.
Screw the orders.
“Can you walk?” she said. When he nodded, Kinley helped him to his feet. “Take me to her.”
The boy staggered as he led her through the woods, following a newly-churned path through the moss and dead leaves that carpeted the soil. In the growing darkness, he lurched forward toward a dim light. Next to a recess in the side of a slope was a flaming torch that had ben rammed into the earth. He collapsed to his knees and pointed, his hand trembling with the effort.
“In there,” he gasped. “He took her in there. Please. Hurry.”
Kinley drew her dagger as she peered into a dark tunnel, but when she glanced back at the boy, the light from the torch shone on his neck. Her makeshift bandage had loosened, and the bleeding wound had vanished. He smiled at her.
“Let me guess,” Kinley said, backing away. “Your mother isn’t in there.”
“No, but I ate one earlier,” he said and two long, sharp white fangs extended down from his gums. “And her son.”
He flew forward, almost too fast to see, and tackled her against the tunnel wall. As the air left her lungs in a whoosh, her hand hit the rock and the dagger dropped. With a cold, merciless grip he took her by the throat and hair and dragged her deeper into the cave. As she fought to free herself she saw his clothing and body blurring and changing, reshaping into a tall, lean man with short-cropped brown hair and bloodless white skin. The undead Roman hauled her up against his chest as he crushed her arms against her sides.
“My men and I have been waiting here for you for weeks. Our prefect thought you might return, but I doubted him. I shall have to apologize when I am done with you.”
More undead emerged from the shadows, their black eyes gleaming with hunger as they trailed after Kinley and her captor. To conserve her energy she stopped resisting, and instead studied the walls of the cave around her. She saw no other tunnels but the one he was carrying her through, and from the look of this one it had been recently dug out. No one but Tormod knew where she was going, and he was probably still locked in the map room.
She was going to die here.
Panic gnawed its way from her belly to her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. She had to focus.
“Why would you wait…for me?” she managed to get out. “I’m nobody.”
“You butchered six of our hunters,” the Roman corrected her, and slammed her against two wooden posts nailed together with a cross beam. “For that I would pe
rmit my men to fuck you to death, but you have knowledge I must possess.” He leaned in, close enough for her to smell the stink of blood on his breath. “Once I have it, then I will give you to them, and watch.”
Kinley twisted her arms when he tried to lash them to the beam, and her face exploded with pain as he backhanded her. Another Roman came to help him, and the two of them bound her wrists, waist and ankles, immobilizing her.
“Now,” her captor said as he backed away. He reached out to catch a coil of braided leather that one of his men tossed to him. He shook out the whip, snapping it as he did, and Kinley saw that it had been studded with huge, thick thorns. “Where did the McDonnels take you after the battle?”
She gulped in enough air to say, “Candyland.”
The Roman moved, and pain slashed across her from shoulder to hip, tearing at her tunic and flesh.
Kinley tried to scream, but her throat tightened, and all that came out was a garbled wheeze.
“We know you were taken to their castle and kept there for weeks.” He cracked the whip in front of her nose, flinging drops of blood against her face. “Where is it located?”
Kinley panted through the needling pain, watching his eyes as she forced her lips to smile.
“Rome.”
She knew he would whip her again, this time in the face, and squeezed her eyes shut. The leather blazed a white-hot path across her forehead and nose and cheek, thorns tearing at her skin.
But the pain tore her away from the tunnel, dragging her through the sandy dirt. The downwash from the bird sprayed small pebbles in her face. Her body was riddled with bullets, and her face was a smashed ruin. She couldn’t breathe. She was choking to death.
“No more,” Kinley muttered through a clenched jaw. “No more of this.”
Power rammed through the pain, blazing out from the cold core of rage burning inside her. The white-faced torturer dropped his whip and spun around, shouting to the others. Little thuds made her look down at the scorched cords that had fallen from her wrists and ankles to the tunnel floor. Flames danced over her bloody skin, sealing the ugly weals. As she stepped away from the burning posts, she turned toward the pale men.