Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  “Oh, man ...” Margo clapped a hand to her breast.

  She felt such a wash of relief, she laughed out loud.

  The old woman smiled and waved.

  Clearly a museum volunteer, she must’ve been working late to close out the gift shop. Or maybe she was just tidying up after a busy day. Either way, Margo felt ridiculous for letting nerves get to her.

  The tiny woman cracked the museum door, beckoning Margo near. “We be closed since five”—she opened the door a bit wider, letting cheery light spill out onto the path—“but you can have a wee peek if you’re quick.”

  “I was just leaving.” Margo didn’t want to get the woman in trouble.

  She’d guessed right. The lady could be only a staff volunteer. A bit stooped, she had a whir of frizzled white hair and bright blue eyes. She was clearly pushing eighty, if not more. But she looked sprightly in her ankle-length tartan skirt and matching vest. And her white blouse was crisply ironed. She also had the contented air of someone who really loved her work.

  “I only wanted to see the lighthouse.” Margo seized the first excuse that popped into her mind, and then started to turn away.

  But somehow, her feet carried her forward and she was crossing the threshold, into the museum’s display-case-crammed entry.

  “Och, a few minutes’ nosey will nae hurt anyone.” The old woman—her volunteer name badge read DEV DOONIE—twinkled at Margo. “We have a wealth of Highland history within these walls. And there’s no one who knows these hills better than me.” Looking proud, she smoothed her tartan skirt. “Truth is, I’m older than the hills, as you can see.” Her bright blue eyes crinkled at her joke. “If there be something you wanted to know, just ask.”

  “Well. . .” Margo hesitated. “Do you anything about Magnus MacBride?”

  “The Viking Slayer?” Dev Doonie beamed. “I know of him, aye.”

  “So he was real?” Margo’s pulse quickened. “I’d heard he was just a myth.”

  “Mythic would be more apt.” The old woman’s eyes lit with pride. “And, aye, he’s real. No one hereabouts would tell you otherwise.” She spoke as if she knew him. “Folk remember how he protected these parts with his sword, a huge gleaming brand called Vengeance.”

  Margo blinked. “He was liked around here?” Dev Doonie hooted. “Lass, to the folk up and down this coast, he was a god.”

  Margo wasn’t surprised.

  The old woman took on the air of a conspirator.

  “Those days were bloodthirsty and folk lived in fear.

  When Vikings raided these shores, Magnus MacBride filled his warship, Sea-Raven, with his best fighting men, mounds of weaponry, and then came beating down from his stronghold, Badcall Castle.” She leaned close, her eyes glittering. “He brought other ships with him, a small fleet. They left stout warriors in each village along the coast. They were fierce, good-hearted men who taught sword-craft to the local lads so they’d know how to protect their homes and families if they were attacked again.

  “The Viking Slayer also made sure the villagers had enough men and fuel to light balefires on the hilltops.” Admiration filled her voice. “He wanted beacons lit if the Northmen were spotted off the shore.”

  “He did all that?” Margo had known he was that kind of hero. She’d felt it when the book Myths and Legends of the Viking Age sprang from the shelf and she’d picked it up, opened to the illustration of Magnus standing in the surf, raising his sword.

  She’d known then he’d been larger than life.

  Dev Doonie confirmed it. “Och, aye, he did all that.

  And he did more than see that the villagers had balefires. He sent swift help each time such flames reddened the sky.” She nodded sagely. “That’s the kind o’ man he is.”

  “Is?” Margo blinked.

  “Heroes ne’er die, do they?” Dev Doonie rubbed her hands, smiling again. “It’s a pity”—her gaze went to the still-open door—“dark comes so quickly this time of year. There’s a little strand not far from here where you’d have a fine view of the bay. A stroll there would put you close to the scene of some of the Viking Slayer’s greatest battles.

  “But ...” She hesitated, tapping her chin. “It’s a bit of a wild and remote place—”

  “I love wild and remote.” Margo didn’t hesitate.

  Wild places were her dream.

  Remote was her middle name. Solitary and isolated became her.

  Dev Doonie angled her head, considering. “Thon strand would be treacherous this time of night, the rocks slippery. But the moon is high now—you’d see well enough. . . .”

  Margo glanced at her feet. “I have sturdy shoes.”

  ’Tis a sturdy heart you’ll be needing.

  Margo started. She wasn’t sure if Dev Doonie had spoken, or if she’d imagined the words.

  The old woman had already moved to the door.

  She’d picked up a duster, hinting tactfully that it was time for Margo to leave.

  She looked at Margo and winked. “Just follow the coast road about a quarter mile and you’ll see a footpath down to the strand.”

  “I will. And”—Margo impulsively hugged her—“thank you so much for telling me about Magnus MacBride.” you so much for telling me about Magnus MacBride.”

  “Och!” Dev Doonie wriggled free, her eyes dancing.

  “My like doesn’t need thanks.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, lassie.” Dev Doonie wagged a finger.

  “Just you hie yourself to thon strand and do what you must.

  “And remember”—she patted Margo’s shoulder as she stepped out the door—“a true Heilander needs a woman of strength and courage.”

  “What?” Margo turned, but Dev Doonie had already closed the door and flicked off the lights inside the museum.

  Margo stood in the darkness, frowning. She was sure she’d heard the woman’s last words before.

  She just couldn’t recall where.

  So she set off down the moon-washed path, taking the opposite direction along Loch Gairloch from the Old Harbour Inn. Dev Doonie’s parting comment kept circling in her mind, keeping pace with her as she climbed the road, walking past a huddle of stone houses on the crest of a hill above the harbor.

  “A true Heilander needs a woman of strength and courage.”

  Who said Heilander these days?

  Even Wee Hughie MacSporran used Highlander.

  There had to be something significant about those words.

  She could feel them scratching at the edges of her memory. Much like a dog will scrabble at a door when he wants to go out. Or tap at your knee with his paw if you’re eating and he wants table scraps.

  If only she could remember ...

  Still puzzling, she paused at the top of the rise to gaze again at the sea. Rich, velvety darkness now cloaked the little harbor town and its quay. But she could see the hills, black outlines against the deeper night. Lights glittered along the docks and shone in the windows of the Old Harbour Inn, off in the distance.

  Yet she felt as if she were alone in another world, surrounded by nothingness and with no real trace of the twenty-first century anywhere for miles.

  It was the all-enveloping silence that transported her. No city noises intruded on the stillness. Wind and the surge of the sea ruled here.

  And the sweetness of such quiet almost broke her heart.

  “Damn.” Margo fisted her hands and blinked against the stinging heat at the backs of her eyes.

  Scotland made her fragile.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the heaving seas, the rush of the wind. Her throat burned and she swallowed hard. Her heart ached and she wondered if anything could stir a soul more deeply than a Scottish night wrapping around you like a caress.

  She wanted to stay here so much.

  “Damn.” She cursed again, blinking furiously.

  Then she sat on a roadside boulder to shake a pebble from her shoe. But the instant she leaned down to
untie her boot’s laces, she jumped back up again, so many chills streaking through her that she felt as if she’d thrust her fingers into an electrical socket.

  “Oh, my God!” She stared at her feet, not seeing her own clunky walking boots, but remembering the tiny high-topped black boots worn by the white-haired, rosy-cheeked Scotswoman from Donald McVittie’s A Dash o’ Plaid booth the day of the Scottish Festival.

  Dev Doonie at the crofting and fishing museum wore the very same boots.

  And she tied them with red plaid laces.

  Margo sank back onto the stone, almost dizzy. The world was spinning around her and her blood rushed in her ears, loud and ringing.

  Dev Doonie was the little old lady at A Dash o’

  Plaid.

  The woman had even claimed to have come from a nonexistent Hebridean isle called Doon. She’d been the one who’d made the Heilander comment.

  Twice now.

  There could be no mistake.

  Margo should’ve recognized her at once. But she’d been sporting a typical museum-volunteer outfit and even an official-looking name badge.

  People believed what they expected to see.

  Margo knew that well.

  The phenomenon probably also explained why a whirling, dark luminance was beginning to form across the road from her. It was the same weirdness she’d seen on the waterfront, and this time, she had no doubt as to the shape’s malignancy. The smell of rotten eggs thickened the air, the stench burning her eyes and making her gag.

  Rolling blackness blotted the road, cutting off her escape as the night came alive, seeming to breathe clouds of tiny jet-colored spangles.

  Margo leapt to her feet and started to run.

  The only place she could go was down the footpath to the strand.

  Chapter 9

  Margo ran like a gazelle.

  The foul-reeking luminance at her back put wings on her heels as she flew down the rough-hewn steps carved into the steep headland. Her rotten luck definitely enjoyed the sticking power of gum on the sole of a shoe, because whatever horror had tried to materialize on the road swirled everywhere now. She could feel it swelling on the wind, pressing against her until she could hardly breathe, and even clawing at her back as if terrible, talon-tipped fingers were reaching for her.

  Panic flooded her.

  Adrenaline kept her legs pumping.

  She’d always loved the paranormal, even priding herself on her acceptance of things like ghosts, time slips, Wiccan beliefs, and magic.

  She’d felt sorry for people so narrow-minded they couldn’t believe in the unseen and unproven.

  Now...

  She was ready to rescind her opinion.

  If this was the supernatural, she wanted nothing to do with it.

  This wasn’t amusing.

  Margo . . .

  A hollow-sounding female voice called her name, the cry echoing along the headland.

  “Oh, no!” Margo’s heart slammed against her ribs, terror gripping her.

  She ran faster, one hand pressed to her breast.

  Halfway down the cliff, the path curved and seemed to end in a tumble of broken rock, thick with nettles.

  Margo sailed over the rubble in one leaping bound and tore down the remaining steps at light speed.

  Relief was hers when she reached the strand. The air was cold and fresh here. Moonlight gleamed on the water and the tide was coming in, breakers foaming white up and down the coast as far as she could see.

  No miasmic clouds hovered anywhere and the only sound was the sea. She didn’t see a single stir of movement that wasn’t natural.

  “Thank God.” She braced her hands on her thighs and leaned forward, struggling to catch her breath.

  Night wind rushed past her, cooling her brow and bringing the clean tang of the sea.

  For the moment, she was safe.

  And she wasn’t going anywhere until she was sure that the thing up on the road was gone.

  Just now ...

  She straightened, pulled a still-shaky hand down She straightened, pulled a still-shaky hand down over her chin. The strand was beautiful and any other time, she’d have swooned to be here. Incredible rocks were spread up and down the beach. Great masses of the loveliest stones she’d seen anywhere in Scotland. Most were the size of a man’s fist, though some looked as large as a cantaloupe. They were all round or oval-shaped and perfectly smooth, each one well polished by the surf.

  Every hue imaginable seemed represented. Many of the stones were speckled, some banded, and all of them sparkled or gleamed. They were so remarkable that each one struck her as more appealing than the last.

  She wanted them all.

  Unfortunately, her carryall was already so crammed with Scottish rocks that the seams were splitting. Her suitcase was no better. She’d used every available inch of space, even stuffing smaller stones inside her extra pair of shoes. Some of her toiletries and makeup had been sacrificed so a few stones could be wedged into her cosmetics case.

  Who needed eye cream or a change of lipstick when you could hold a little bit of Scotland in your hand?

  Not her, anyway.

  Precious memories clung to each rock and she couldn’t bear to leave any behind.

  Still...

  Margo tapped her chin, glancing at the temptation all around her.

  Surely she could find room for just one more? A really special stone she couldn’t resist and that jumped out at her, begging to be taken back to Pennsylvania.

  A stone that was so hers, she’d carry it home in her hand if need be.

  Glad for a distraction—and hoping to convince herself she’d only imagined the nightmare on the road—she clasped her hands behind her back and began walking the strand. A few times she held her breath and closed her eyes, certain that her stone would leap out at her when she looked again, scanning the lovely selection.

  It was impossible to choose just one.

  Until her gaze fell on the dazzling quartz band circling the large, round stone a few feet ahead of her.

  Similar to the other banded stones on the strand, this one somehow stood out from the rest. Just looking down at the stone made her skin prickle with awareness.

  This was the one.

  She could almost feel its power, the stone’s heartbeat matching its rhythm to hers. A sensation that heartbeat matching its rhythm to hers. A sensation that strengthened the longer she looked down at the stone, drawn by its spell.

  She shivered, stepping closer to the stone. Dark gray in color and smooth as polished glass, it bore an inch-wide band of snowy white circling its middle.

  Pure quartz, she was sure, though the band sparkled with the brilliance of diamonds.

  She tried to walk away, testing the vibrations, but her feet wouldn’t move. Her fingers itched, burning to close around the stone.

  When she started to reach for it, the band around the stone’s center started to move, coming to life.

  “Gah!” Margo leapt back, her eyes widening as strange symbols appeared and disappeared on the stone’s broad ring of white quartz.

  The characters shifted and glowed, blazing like the sun one moment, then gone the next.

  She saw why when the moon slipped briefly behind a cloud, darkening the strand. There weren’t any glowing symbols forming on the quartz band.

  She’d been fooled by a trick of moonlight.

  But she still wanted the stone, magical or not.

  So she bent again to retrieve it, curling her fingers around its cold weight.

  The stone turned white-hot in her hand.

  “Agh!” Margo jumped. Her fingers tightened around the stone, unable to let go.

  Oddly, the fiery heat didn’t burn her. But a loud humming noise filled her ears and a series of shocks surged into her hand. The tingling jolts streaked up her arm, and raced across her shoulders and down her back, sizzling through her entire body.

  It was like sticking wet fingers into an electrical socket.

&
nbsp; Except that it didn’t hurt.

  It was just weird.

  And when the strangeness ended, she heard a faint jangling behind her. The light crunch of footsteps on stone and—she was sure—the soft rustling of a woman’s skirts. She also caught a distinct whiff of some kind of exotic, musky perfume. Almost like she imagined a Byzantine tomb might smell: dark and mysterious, with a hint of cold ash and lots of stale incense. The scent curled around her, intense and cloying.

  Chills sped down her spine, icy and unpleasant.

  Anxiety rose in her throat, almost choking her as the weird jangling came nearer and the rich, ancient-smelling perfume grew stronger.

  The evil from the roadside was on the strand.

  Margo . . .

  Her name rode the wind again, the voice calling her, sounding pleased to spread such terror.

  Whoever— or whatever—the entity was, she definitely knew Margo’s name. There could be no mistaking this time. This was for real.

  The presence was coming for her.

  Heart thumping, Margo turned to face the long stretch of moonlit strand behind her. Her blood iced when she saw what was there.

  It was a solid black mass.

  A humming, inky cloud of malice that hovered about a foot above the ground, and—her stomach clenched—it was the same shadow she’d seen near the bookshelves the afternoon at Ye Olde Pagan Times.

  The day she’d “met” Magnus MacBride.

  Margo clapped the stone to her breast, staring. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. The presence brought the same dreaded energy. Worse, something pulsed inside the cloud. Iridescent specks spun at its heart, forming a vortex.

  It was the small shapely form of a woman.

  “Dear God.” Margo felt horror sweep her. The manifesting female looked frighteningly like Dina Greed.

  Margo’s greatest rival in all things Scottish.

  Except that was impossible.

  Margo knew that her diminutive archfiend was already back in New Hope. And she couldn’t have died and moved on to another plane, thus having the power to appear now for the sole purpose of frightening Margo to bits. If anything dire had happened to Dina, Marta or Patience would’ve called with the news. Maybe even Ardelle Goodnight of Aging Gracefully.