by Hazel Hunter
“Hello, boys.”
She’d been trained to deal with capture and interrogation, but had the insurgents been trained to deal with her? Time to find out.
Orbs of pure blue-white heat floated around her hands, shrinking smaller as they glowed brighter and hotter. The only sleeve left on her uniform charred and fell away. She looked at the fire, mildly surprised that she felt no heat at all from it on her skin. But then flames had always moved away from her, even when she was a kid. Now fire loved her, it caressed her, it adored her. On some level she knew it wanted to fight for her.
And fire was pissed.
Kinley tossed the orbs from one hand to the other, testing her ability to control them. They were so much cooler than an M16A2. And no ammo to run out of, or a semi-auto to jam, two huge pluses. But what was this? Her captors were starting to run away, the cowardly assholes.
Flinging the orbs at the fleeing men, she smiled and watched as they enveloped them. They screamed as their bodies withered and blackened, and fell in curtains of powdery ash to the ground.
Kinley studied the little gray piles. Instant cremation. She could work with that.
Surrounded by the dust of his men, her captor stood, whole and unmarked, his insectile eyes glittering as he watched her walk toward him.
“We will find them, and come for you,” he promised her. “Nothing can stop the Ninth. And when that day comes, you will–”
“Oh, shut up,” Kinley said and impaled him with a stream of fire, twisting it as she watched his white face melt, and then his body, until nothing remained of him but another little heap of ash.
Somewhere inside her something small and helpless wailed without sound, but Kinley had no more time for that soft, silly, little bitch. As the silence of the night drifted into the tunnel, she bent down and scooped up a handful of what had been a man, and let it sift through her cold fingers.
“These things we do, that others may live. It’s not just a tattoo anymore, pal. I can back it up.”
She straightened, and looked around her. She didn’t recognize the territory, but it was obvious that she had landed behind enemy lines. Her camo had been badly singed, and she didn’t have any equipment. The tunnel around her appeared unstable, so she wouldn’t hunker down here. She’d have to scout the surrounding area to find suitable shelter for the night.
And if anyone got in her way, she would do those things again.
Chapter Eighteen
“SHE WHAT?” LACHLAN bellowed, his voice echoing in the great hall.
His men had searched the entire stronghold, from his own bed to the dungeons, and from the ramparts to the kitchen. Even the scullery maids and druids had been enlisted. But now the rushing to and fro came to an abrupt stop as Lachlan glared at Raen, Tormod, and Seoc.
“Aye, my lord,” Raen said, his voice tight. He dragged Seoc forward by the shoulder. “The stable master was the last to see the lass.”
Lachlan’s hands clenched into fists. “When?”
The shorter man flinched and looked away. “I reckon late afternoon, my lord.”
Lachlan took a step closer. “And you just let her take a horse?”
“I…I…” Seoc swallowed hard. “I wasn’t there, my lord.”
“The fack you say?” Lachlan said through clenched teeth.
Raen pulled the man back and pushed the Viking forward. “There’s more, my lord.”
Lachlan scowled at Tormod. “What have you to do with this?” As the Viking related his conversation with Kinley, Lachlan could scarce believe his ears. “The mainland?” he demanded. “Where?”
“The lass didnae say,” he replied evenly, matching Lachlan’s stare. “Only that she meant to leave the castle before you forced her out.”
“Forced her out?” Lachlan growled, grabbing the front of Tormod’s tunic. “Are you daft?”
“My lord,” Cailean said calmly, resting a hand on his arm. “Our conversation.” Though Lachlan could have pummeled the viking into the ground, he forced himself to look at the druid. “Regarding Kinley,” the smaller man said quietly.
Lachlan recalled their talk of the grove and how it had brought Kinley from the future—unwillingly. He’d ordered them to send her back to her own time.
He glowered at Bhaltair Flen. “Is this druid doing?”
Flen puffed himself up. “The lass left of her own accord.” But then he cleared his throat. “Though mayhap she has returned to the grove.”
Lachlan thrust Tormod away from him and stormed from the hall.
As Kinley made her way through cover, she decided that Robert Frost would have loved the woods outside the insurgents’ dugout: dark and deep, and silent with heavy air that seemed a bit on the frosty side for Afghanistan. She must have bailed out over a northern province, which meant she’d be all right. All the real fighting was to the south, where the insurgents protected their poppy farmers and ammo dumps.
She’d always hated the sand pit, but there wasn’t any sand to speak of here. Lots of greenery, and a fast-flowing stream where she found a massive white horse left by some local. The saddle on it made her stifle a giggle. Jesus Christ Almighty, it had four horns, and no stirrups. But the horse seemed placid enough. She used a big rock to mount the gelding. His coat made her think of the white hydrangea bushes her grandmother had called snowballs.
“You think you can find me an Air Force base, Snowy?” she asked the horse as she walked him back along the dirt road north. He answered her with a snort. “Yeah, I’m thinking no, too. Maybe there’s a combat outpost somewhere. I’ll settle for a farmhouse or a barn or even a tool shed.”
Kinley didn’t find any of those, but she did spot an orchard of apples, which made her empty belly rumble. Dismounting nearly put her on her ass, thanks to the crap saddle, but the gelding didn’t spook.
“I like you, Snowy. You may not have any balls, but I don’t think you actually need them.”
She led him to a tree on the perimeter where she tethered him so he could feast on the apples while she made camp. Gathering dead wood to make a fire gave her time to think. Her memories of Kandahar seemed weirdly fuzzy, and she couldn’t remember what had happened to her rescue bird or her air crew. Every time she tried to think of the assignment they’d been sent on, her head started to pound. She was probably in shock, which was okay. She’d survived some pretty nasty torture.
Whips with thorns. The guys back at the base wouldn’t believe it.
Slowly she lugged the armful of wood she’d gathered to a clear spot, dumped it, and crouched down to stack it properly. She’d have to sleep on the ground, but she’d been there, done that, too many times to count. If she covered herself with some of the dead leaves heaped around the trees, she’d stay warm, and blend in with the ground if the insurgent boys had friends.
The tree behind her rustled, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Snowy rooting through the branches for more apples.
“Don’t be greedy,” she told him.
She flicked flames from her fingers onto the wood. It blazed up instantly, and she settled back on her haunches. The fire would do nicely.
“Witch.”
The whispered word brought Kinley to her feet. She whirled, squinting in the dark to see who had come for her.
“You get away from me,” she told the darkness. “Get away, or I’ll send you straight to Hell, too.”
Something came flying out of the trees, striking her in the head. She staggered, almost falling into the campfire, and dropped to her knees. Blood dripped onto the back of her hand, and she frowned at the big stone by her fire. They were throwing rocks at her? Had to be villagers or farmers. The insurgents always stripped them of their weapons.
They weren’t vampires, so she couldn’t kill them. That wouldn’t be very Air Force of her.
“Okay, now,” she said and pushed herself upright. She held up her hands. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m a Joe, all right? I had to bail from my bird. I just need to find the nearest b
ase. The COP, you know? Where the other Joes are?”
Another rock came whizzing straight at her, and she blocked it with her arm, hissing with pain as it bounced off her forearm.
“We saw you, witch,” said a plump woman dressed in a bizarre peasant costume and holding a bigger stone in her hand. “We saw you cast fire with your hand.”
“We cannae burn one such as she,” a male voice growled. “It will have to be the loch.”
Why were they all talking like her grandmother? “Excuse me?”
“Never,” the woman said, and flung her rock.
It hit Kinley in the temple, knocking her down again. This time she didn’t get up. This time, she bailed.
Chapter Nineteen
“I SHALL TAKE great pleasure in killing that facking Viking,” Lachlan told Raen as they finished searching the oak grove and walked back to their horses. “It will take time, but I shall enjoy that as well.”
“Kinley would have found a way off the island without his help,” his bodyguard said. “Tormod but saw to it that she went safely. And Neac wishes to kill him first.” He saw something on the ground and crouched down to hold the torch closer. “There are fresh tracks here, from small boots and a large mount.” He stood and walked a short distance before returning. “She went north.”
“Good. She would have needed shelter for the night, and there’s a croft of orcharders two leagues from here.” Lachlan mounted and waited for Raen to do the same before riding off toward the village.
As they left the place where Kinley had first appeared, he remembered the words of the two druids. Cailean had said that magic had been absorbed by the soil of the grove. Bhaltair claimed it was no magic of theirs, but had stopped Cailean from saying more. The magic folk brooked no outside interference with their kin, or matters relating to them. Could Kinley be druid kind? No matter their looks, the druids were ancient. They were born into one life after another. Could it be that Kinley was a druid reborn from this time, and that the grove brought her back to rejoin her people?
And why did that make him even angrier?
At the village, Lachlan expected to find the mortals asleep, but all of the cottages around the apple orchards stood empty. Tormod’s big white gelding had been left tied outside a barn, sooty handprints on his neck. Lachlan scanned the area before spotting torchlight by the small loch just beyond the trees, and pointed it out to his bodyguard.
“There.”
Raen’s expression emptied, and he took off at a fast gallop, shouting over his shoulder, “Quickly, my lord.”
Lachlan saw the reason for his man’s urgency when they came within sight of the loch. The crofters stood assembled with hatchets, pitchforks and shovels around a woman and two men, who held another, slender woman who sagged unconscious between them. They were dragging her toward the water as the others shrieked their hatred.
“Douse the witch.”
“Use the poles to keep her on the bottom.”
“Drown that evil filth.”
Lachlan leapt down from his horse as Raen forced his way through the throng to reach the trio and their prisoner. The big man put himself between them and the water.
“You superstitious bastarts,” Raen said, his voice so cold it made all the mortals take a step back. “Give her to me.”
The plump woman scowled at him. “She’s a witch, Master. We saw her cast fire spell with our own eyes. We must douse her, else she torch our homes and crops.”
“Do you ken who we are?” Lachlan asked, and saw recognition on the faces that turned to look at him. “This is our clanswoman, no’ a witch. You will hand her to my man, or I will burn this place until naught is left but scorched earth.”
Raen shoved the woman aside and lifted Kinley in his arms, bringing her to Lachlan. When he saw her head injury he grew worried, but the marks on her face and torso made his gut clench.
After handing her over as gently as he could, Raen carefully plucked a thorn from her cheek. Tossing it away, he looked up at the sky, his face a grim mask of rage.
“Facking undead bastarts whipped her.”
“Find a place where we may tend to her,” Lachlan said, barely able to form the words.
His bodyguard trotted ahead to the croft, where he took charge of the largest cottage and cleared out the occupants. When Lachlan carried her inside, Raen spread a sheet over a large table and brought a brimming wash basin.
“Bring clean cloth,” his bodyguard ordered the mortal couple who came in behind them. To Lachlan he said, “Did they drain her?”
“No’ that I can see.”
He inspected the gash in her scalp, which was fresh, before he cut open her tunic to see the full extent of her lash marks.
Kinley snatched the blade from his hand before she rolled off the table and backed away, stumbling as she did.
“So you stone women before you rape them, huh? Takes the fight out of them?” She took in her surroundings before she stared at Lachlan. “Lay another finger on me and I’ll cut it off, along with your dick. Or maybe I’ll roast it. You want well-done penis? Take another step.”
Lachlan saw the same wildness in her eyes that he’d witnessed on the battlefield. She behaved as if she didn’t recognize him.
“Kinley, we are your friends,” Lachlan said calmly. “Do you ken where you are?”
“Idiot farmers jumped me,” she said and blinked as blood dripped into her eye. “Who taught you to talk Scots? Did you catch some of the U.N. troops? Torture them, too?” Her gaze shifted to Raen, who was inching forward. “You. Jag Face. Back off.” When he kept coming she slashed the air between them with the dagger. “I’ll slice you to ribbons, I swear to–” She ended with a scream as Raen slapped the blade from her hand and seized her, clamping her against his chest.
“She’ll do herself harm,” the big man said, grimacing as she kneed him in the groin. “I’ll put her out, then?”
Seeing her like this made Lachlan feel sick. “Gently,” he told his bodyguard, who gripped the side of her neck.
“Let me go,” she said and twisted against the arm holding her, but her struggles slowed and her eyes grew dazed. “Can’t. Die. Not…like…this…please…”
The moment she lost consciousness Raen released her throat and carried her back to the table. Lachlan wasted no time cleaning her wounds, and used the cloth the crofter woman brought to him to bind her head. Finally he tore off his own tunic to wrap around and cover the ruins of hers.
“We’ll tie her to the back of the gelding,” Raen said and saw Lachlan’s expression and his own turned bleak. “My lord, we cannae ken if she will wake herself. Clever as she is at escaping, ’tis too risky.”
“Aye, but you’ll tie her to me,” Lachlan said and looked at the crofter couple. “Bring me rope. Now.”
Outside the cottage Lachlan mounted his horse, and took Kinley from Raen as he lifted her to sit on his thighs facing him. She slumped against his chest, and looked so pitiful the laird rested his cheek atop her head. His bodyguard quickly bound her wrists behind Lachlan’s back, and secured her ankles to the saddle straps.
When he would have tied a gag over her mouth, Lachlan shook his head. “’Tis enough to bind her.”
“Watch her teeth, my lord,” Raen said and swung up on his own mount, tying the reins for Tormod’s gelding to his saddle, and then looked at the faces of the fearful mortals around them. “Naught ever changes with you ignorant fools. She comes here hurt and alone, and in need, and you try to kill her. ’Tis you who are evil.”
One of the oldest men lifted a torch to him. “Do I not ken you?” he said, squinting at him. But then his eyes went wide. “Aye. You came when I was a boy. But…”
He backed away, stumbled and almost fell, then hurried off.
“You’ll murder no more women,” Lachlan ordered the crowd, “whatever you think they are. If I learn you’ve done this again, I’ll come back with my men, and we will name each of you witches, and drown you in that loch.”
“That old man did ken me,” he said. “He was Bradana’s youngest brother.”
“That was her family’s croft?” Lachlan said. When his bodyguard nodded Lachlan sighed. “You should have said.”
The big man glanced at Kinley. “I still cannae speak her name so easily.”
Fifty years ago Raen had fallen in love with Bradana, a mortal woman he’d met on the mainland. Because she was an outsider he’d married her in secret, and visited her when he could. When Bradana’s family discovered she was consorting with Raen they’d assumed he was a demon, and subjected her to a witch test by dousing. Unable to swim, she’d proven her innocence by drowning.
Lachlan had never understood the mortal penchant to blame their woes on those innocent and helpless. The Pritani had always been fiercely protective of their women and children. He also hated that Raen had been reminded of his worst loss.
“I’m sorry, lad.”
“As am I,” he said. He nodded at Kinley. “I should be carrying her, my lord. When she wakes, she may take fright again and burn you.”
“She didnae in the grove, or when we first brought her to Dun Aran, when she knew naught of me.” Lachlan tucked her head under his chin. “I think the undead somehow awakened her power. Mayhap that is why the grove stole her from her time, and brought her to us.”
“I pray ’tis so,” Raen said, and looked out into the night. “They are turning more mortals every season, while the clan cannae sire new warriors to replace the fallen. Already our numbers are too few against so many, and if they find Dun Aran…”
“They will kill us all,” Lachlan said, and suddenly understood the lash marks on Kinley’s body. “And ’tis why they tortured her.”