by KH LeMoyne
“Dangerous time to be here. Especially for those from foreign lands.” Grainne cut through his thoughts. She placed a bowl of stew before him, adding one for Hefin, and a last one for Robert. Then she sat again beside him, her gaze fixed on his hand, on his father’s signet ring. Oddly, it was the only thing Briallen hadn’t zapped away with their clothes. “You are well into Mackinnon and MacDougal lands here. I know all the people here, delivered many of them from their mothers.”
Logan waited for more. She remained silent.
“We appreciate your help,” he said.
“’Tis what I do,” she replied, with a knowing look in her eyes.
Bri stilled her mind and rested her fingertips at the temples of the child in her lap. So delicate and frail, yet fate had provided a protector to guide her from danger to this house.
Two protectors.
Even lacking prophetic sight, she was sensitive to both men. Their movements, the rhythms of their breaths, the subtle shift here, the prolonged silence that followed—all flowed in a warm breeze along her skin.
They were dangerous. Powerful, even. For penetrating the laird’s shields took no small magical effort. Still, she sensed they posed her no threat. Hefin’s unease with them was obvious. He’d migrated to his large chair by the door, a sign of his increased watchfulness. She considered the wooden stool on the opposite side of the door, where the cousin lingered, and conjured an identical chair.
She smiled at the muttered curse from Robert. Playing with him was almost too easy. Though he didn’t play back. Not like her brothers. Not like Logan.
The memory of Grainne tending Logan’s wound flooded back. It had been impossible to miss the hard, solid definition of muscles across his chest and shoulders. Tantalizing and sensual in a way she’d never experienced. She experienced a brief desire to trace over those hard lines. She ducked her head to hide the flush heating her cheeks and quickening of her heart. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen men without their shirts, at home or here on the isle. Men training and men in battle filled her life. And while she’d wondered what it would feel like to be held or experience passion with such a man, she’d never been tempted.
There’d never been opportunity around her brothers. She’d been too young, and they’d threatened any suitor who got close. Hefin was almost as bad. Not a hardship, since there was no man here who provoked her interest. Then again, interest led to commitment, and commitment forged bonds that made leaving difficult.
Her loyalties lay far beyond this dimension and its people. Though Logan struck her as special in more ways than his just good looks. His reluctance in sharing his story, coupled with her previous vision of him at the village, suggested he and his cousin might bear the same burden she struggled to hide.
Someone not from this space or dimension.
His temperament also struck her as different. He possessed strength and willpower, yes. And survived Grainne’s treatment with the foul paste created to draw out the devil’s fyre poison forged into foreign blades without a flinch. She’d seen lesser men in the village pass out from the pain.
Not Logan. He’d also tempered his anger when Hefin had gone for his throat on the hillside.
He’d even sought her out during Hefin’s interrogation. In the contest of wills Logan had silently issued, she’d maintained his gaze. Goddess, she’d almost lost herself in those eyes that changed from golden brown to dark hazel. He’d remained focused on her during his entire conversation.
They shared traits—the cousins—eyes of stark intensity and a uniform posture of determination and confidence. A sign she’d recognized from her brothers and other men bound by birth, blood, or honor.
She also credited Logan and Robert with intelligence, for they had saved the child. For the time being she was still alive. It would have been far easier to leave her—or foolishly stay and fight.
With a quick shake of her head, she closed her eyes.
If she’d learned even the smallest lesson in the past few years, it was avoiding distraction from her feelings and desires. She mustn’t allow two strangers to complicate her purpose. But these men’s appearances had changed hope from a figment of her imagination to a possibility. If others had found their way here, her brothers could.
For now, the child’s condition took priority.
Fever was a certainty, as well as illness. Grainne was better skilled for addressing physical ailments. But Bri could search for other damage. As well as hints at why destiny linked this child to these men. And to her. First, she needed a secure tether, a binding strong enough anchor the child to this life.
Bri ran a hand over the small, damp forehead and traced a finger over the child’s delicate features, memorizing the visible details. Fine-boned, with unhealthily translucent, blue-tinged skin, and pale lips all corresponded with the weak, pink-washed life essence she detected in the child’s mind. Despite the tiny and perhaps petite bone structure, only the maturity of the girl’s cells would confirm her true age. From years of analyzing other children and honing her skills, Bri estimated the girl at likely eleven to twelve years old. Soft skin with no calluses on her hands or feet, and no signs of malnutrition, pointed to a life of privilege. Even with the child’s illness and bedraggled clothes, her essence bespoke a lifetime of care and nurture.
Synchronizing her breathing with the faint one of the girl, Bri grounded herself to Grainne and Hefin, to the stone beneath her legs, and the earth beneath the cottage. She connected with the tiny soul first through touch, then breath, then mind. She withheld a gasp as an icy chill washed through her own lungs. Through slow tortured breaths, she encouraged the child’s lungs to expand, encouraging better absorption of Grainne’s herbal steam.
Bri drifted farther and deeper, linking with the girl’s mind. Her stronger adult body and mind provided a temporary haven as she shared her own health and comfort with the child. Control took skill, power. Finite resources. But Bri could control herself long enough to penetrate beyond the superficial flesh, beyond the conscious mind, through the doors of memory and soul.
Only the soul would reveal the truth for a person unable to speak. For a brief time, she could lock that soul to her.
Streams of golden threads radiated behind Bri’s closed eyelids, a thin visceral representation of the connection between them. Her threads insulated life and restrained the child from surfacing during their link, risking becoming lost outside her subconscious. Bri delved beyond the disjointed fragments of memories, small gray lumps that sprang to amber, desperate to reconnect, as her power passed over them.
With regret, Bri continued and staunched the wish to help where she did not have the skill. Years in isolation from her family had at least bred self-awareness. Restructuring the mind and soul were not a part of her magical gifts. She was painfully aware of the risks to the child if she stepped where she should not.
Faster and deeper, she sped through broken images and memories toward the past, a faint line of silver now paralleling her. The silver washed through Bri’s thoughts like a soft mist, subtle yet powerful and comforting.
Her fingertips whispered along the tiny, doll-like arms. The kaleidoscope of colors changed in intensity and hue with older memories. Like reflections through a raindrop, in some areas the colors were bright and vivid and in full array, while others wavered in faint, light hues drawn toward dingy gray. Several memories lacked color, a wasteland of cloud, dizzying and suffocating. The silver rope streamed stronger beside her, an unexpected guideline.
A sensation of skimming too close along the edge of consciousness struck Bri by surprise, and her heart skipped a beat. Her golden threads fell back, suddenly dropping away into a deep chasm as her stomach lurched. The safety net jerked from beneath her, leaving her psyche suspended in the void, except for the whisper of silver light. The deeper levels of the soul were always more risky. Bri forged ahead faster, cognizant of the paralyzing effects of suspension without a time reference.
For now, she was g
rounded. Her anchors would hold her, their grasp almost tight enough to feel around her body.
Within the young soul, memories of silver tigers prowled, courage and hope, pitted against equally strong gaping maws of razor-sharp teeth and the shrill screams of stark fear. Farther still, lifelike bars of thick iron contained images of other children. A cage for the soul and dreams? Conflict, duty, fear, and hope all clashed in that cage. Beyond, Bri saw the rise of the child’s power. Mutations between dark and light, colors shifted and changed like a living being, the core of the girl’s potential pulsing behind a shield of glass.
Bri probed, but the glass held firm like the iron bars of the dream cage, sealing the girl’s power from release or contact. Yet the strength felt false, like an illusion.
Retreating, Bri expanded her presence. She coiled her golden thread and retraced her path. The thread followed her instead of taking hold. Puzzled, she hovered above the tangle of memories and pitched a cable of gold amongst the scattered fragments, but again nothing took hold. A force pressed at her back. A wind from the soul pushed her out of the child’s consciousness and cloaked her in a black fog of confusion. She lost the rhythm of her breath and clawed desperately for a firm hold to guide her way forward.
Nothing cut the darkness. Her power pulsed for control. Then a silver thread wove through the black. With a glimmer and thrum it beckoned—a heartbeat’s command for her to follow.
She didn’t hesitate. The silver thread had wound through the girl’s mind. Not deep where Bri had traveled, but delicately meshed in the more recent memories. At the howl of rage at Bri’s back she hurried. The child’s consciousness shook in fear. But the silver widened and soothed until the howl dissolved in a puff of smoke.
The silver thread, a recent tether in this place to someone nearby, cushioned them both. Gentle and enticing, the silver narrowed to a fine thread as the threat diminished.
Whether it held tight enough to pull the child back to reality, she couldn’t tell.
Bri pulled back from the girl’s mind, sank into the firm embrace of her anchor, and severed her mental doorway to the child. Strand by precious strand, the connection dissipated, and she released the binding. Gold mesh floated and dissolved in the next few disorienting minutes.
She opened her eyes, focused her gaze on the child’s face, steadied her breath, and then whipped back, alert. Her anchor hadn’t released.
Strong hands framed her shoulders, supporting her.
As she glanced up, Logan’s fingers flexed open, but his hands remained ready to catch her. “You were swaying, Bri. I was concerned you might pass out,” he said, searching her face. He sat back on his heels with Grainne by his side.
She could only stare at him in shock, affected equally by his term for her that resonated within her like an endearment and what had happened. He shouldn’t have been able to touch her while she was anchored. Her shields should have kept him away. Or his contact should have torn her free. Yet it hadn’t. She sifted through the experience and realized he’d been holding her since early in her entry into the child’s mind.
He remained still, as if unconvinced she was all right, though he didn’t touch her. She was glad for his distance, but it didn’t diminish her confusion. She brushed back a strand of hair and noticed Hefin and Robert were gone. “I’m fine. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”
Grainne laid her hand on the girl’s chest and gave Bri a questioning look. “The child?”
“Her past is a jumble. I’m not certain she’ll remember when she wakes, but her will… For now she’s holding on.” She paused. The silver link to the child was close by, and Robert and Hefin weren’t in the room, leaving only Logan as a possible candidate. The child’s rescuer had done more than physically bring her to safety. He’d bound her soul to him. What would Logan’s reaction be to such a burden? “Her mind shows a history of trauma, but I couldn’t decipher details. Not even a whisper of her name.”
Grainne gave brusque nod, a sign of her relief.
Logan stood and offered a hand to help Bri up, his expression inscrutable.
She knew he’d recognized her from the village, as she did him. Yet even after witnessing her interaction with the child, he didn’t question anything she said.
Well, good then. Perhaps they were even. Each had their own secrets. But he masked his verdict of her behind his warm, yet indecipherable, expression.
Then she realized she still held his hand in hers. She pulled hers back and stepped away, shivering at the loss of warmth. “Your—the child may recover from the illness, if Grainne is successful, but we must watch her closely when she wakes.” Logan’s eyes narrowed at her comment, but she continued. “There’s no immediate danger.”
“What do you suspect?” He said as his jaw hardened. “They didn’t harm...she’s a little girl.” His rage and frustration were palpable. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the child as if he would kill to erase her pains.
Bri reacted without thought and gripped Logan’s arm in comfort. “She wasn’t physically assaulted. It’s emotional trauma. Perhaps she witnessed a horror or something beyond her comprehension, leaving her disjointed inside. The pieces I viewed are too jumbled to make any sense. They may never find their way together. Her abilities seem locked behind a shield.”
His expression mutated from anger to concern. Uncertain how he would react, she continued. He needed to know. “She is held here. Conscious or not, she is sharing your strength. It’s a fragile line, but one she allows and holds on to tightly. It’s keeping her alive.”
He nodded, acknowledging her unspoken point. She blinked in surprise as he accepted the responsibility without hesitation. He must not understand.
“However limited your interaction with the child, she senses your protection. Your tie grounds her until Grainne helps her body recover.”
The harsh lines on his face eased, though his jaw remained clenched. Whatever concerns or doubts boiled beneath the surface of this man’s control, he considered new information without fear. Adaptability and change were as much weapons in his arsenal as muscle. Her respect for him surged. And she wasn’t the only one who sensed his true character.
The unconscious child had trusted his will enough to let him reach her. No small feat. She hadn’t established that bond, even with her power.
“I’m grateful.” He looked at Grainne, busy across the room, and back. “But we have no idea her real danger, and her health doesn’t allow many options. Healing will take more than prayer and patience. I need answers. Honest answers, not partial, guarded truths.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where are we?”
“The Isle of Mull.”
His brow rose at her lackluster explanation. She repressed a sigh. “The dimension of Loci.”
He took a deep breath and again gave no outward sign of disbelief, though his eyes narrowed. “Explain. Please.”
“You entered here through a portal.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment, and she continued. “Into, conceivably, one of a hundred dimensions throughout space.”
“Not time—space?”
He was a quick learner. With a curt nod, she opened her hands at a loss for an explanation. “Legend tells of one dimension that existed until the time when all the powers of magic fled. The portals created doorways, and those magical beings created new worlds. Some dimensions bear resemblance to their home world. Many do not. The evolutions among these worlds differ, as does their physical layout and their…” She frowned, searching for the right word.
“Evolution of magic.”
“Yes.”
Logan turned and ran a hand down the back of his neck. “The towers on the island, the magical wall we penetrated on our way here. Who rules those?”
“All are under the rule and oversight of Laird Mackinnon—and his mages,” she said. Her response brought his gaze back to her.
“Great. So, how do we get back home?”
She crossed her arms over her ch
est. “I hoped you had the answer.”
5
The cottage grew more claustrophobic with each passing hour. The raging storm—explained by Hefin as the mages’ method of flushing invaders from the isle’s shores—played on Logan’s nerves.
He leaned against the wall. The child on her pallet, as tiny as a doll, lay framed by the flicker of flames in the pit, a roasting funeral pyre. He blinked away the horrific image and reminded himself that every hour she survived was a step closer to recovery. Knowing that gave him no satisfaction.
Everyone had settled into his or her own space. Only Grainne slept. Her snores beat a low and steady rhythm from a bed in the loft.
With a nod, Robert had settled into a large chair by the door. The twitch of his fingers every few minutes near the knife Logan knew he’d secured beneath the waistband of his pants belied his casual pose. Even off the battlefield, Robert remained ready for any threat. Logan had searched unsuccessfully for him after Bri’s disclosures. He’d arrived later, soaked, but at least hadn’t snapped at Bri when she’d conjured dry clothes for him with a satisfied smirk.
She sat awake, combining bits of plants from various herb bundles into small wooden bowls at the table. Logan watched her for a long moment, studying the delicate arch of her brows and graceful lines of cheekbones.
A rustling noise caught his attention, and he glanced over at Hefin, who lay curled on a mat of blankets in the far corner of the room. Even with his eyes closed, Logan doubted Hefin slept any more than Robert did.
As Logan gazed back into the fire, the ring on his finger warmed and tingled. He knew the sign now, but what the signal from the ring would bring, or even if it continued enough to help him remained uncertain. His eyelids grew heavier, but the cold press of the insides of his eyelids soothed the weary burn of his eyes. Fatigue and pain thrummed through his head, forecasting another visit from the conspirator voice in his mind. Yet, here, her connection with him felt more like an invasion than a dream.