by Olivia Norem
His lips parted to whisper an agreement to her offer, and just as he was sinking into the dark pool of no return, Simeon was jolted by a stark clarity to his consciousness. Truth welled inside and grew brighter. Hotter. He was raised from the inky depths of acquiescence and propelled upward within a bosom of golden light so dazzling he had to squeeze his eyes tight. The brilliance poured over him, molten and pure. Simeon’s eyes flew wide. His senses returned and snapped the strings of her enchantment.
“I’ll take nae part in this… this evil.”
“Ye’d refuse this gift?” Isobel’s face turned to astonishment.
“Aye, I refuse. A Campbell makes nae accord with a devil.”
Curse these stubborn Scots! It was critical he remain oblivious to her desperation. He had to agree, he must. He alone had to speak the words of their pledge or no pledge could be struck. She hadn’t thought he’d battle her with resistance of such righteousness, such virtuosity against her simple spell of coercion. Obviously, the stubborn veins of Simeon Campbell ran deeper than she’d calculated and would require a different tactic to seal this covenant. She’d attack where it would hurt him most. She’d assault his morality. His honor.
“Och, I did no’ just heal ye in order tae accept a refusal. But ye will accept,” she snarled. “Tell me true, Simeon Campbell, whot bargain will ye make tae see yer blood and kin spared?”
“Explain yersel,” he demanded.
Isobel reached into her cloak and withdrew a stone the likes of which Simeon had never seen. Balancing in her left palm was a jewel so large it could barely be contained within her hand. It shimmered and danced with the cut light of a thousand facets. The thing seemed to pulse with a life of its own and glowed brighter in a bluish-white light. In her right hand, Isobel held a mirror — a dainty hand mirror — worked with intricate scrolls of gilt.
“Look well, Highlander.” She extended the mirror close. His reflection in the mirror clouded over then slowly cleared, revealing images of pure horror. It was him. Yet it was not him. He stared back at the image of himself, in the bailey of his own castle, cutting, hacking, burning members of his clan. His people.
He had transformed into a crazed warrior, killing with an unquenchable blood-lust of rage, so much so he appeared gripped in the maddened throes of a Viking Berserker of old, and spared no one within the reach of his blade.
Simeon stiffened as far as his bonds would allow and watched the terror unfold in the space of the mirror, as Isobel punctuated the images with threatening speech.
“Ye kill yer own.” She waved a casual hand. “Obliterate yer clan.” She smiled as the man in the mirage gutted women. And children. “Acts so heinous, everything the Campbells once controlled is passed tae the English tae govern. And yer name remains cursed throughout history.” She chuckled.
Simeon looked away, no longer able to bear witness. He could not let this happen. He would not allow this massacre to occur. And though he may be bound and weak, and the cards dealt him in this ill-fated deck were stacked heavily in Isobel’s favor, the fact remained, he was still lying on the ground. He was still alive. And while he yet drew breath, no matter what brutality she forced him to watch or threatened to execute, something in him sensed she was plying him with tricks to secure a voluntary accord.
He would never. Ever. Agree.
“I do believe ye leave one o’ them alive,” she laughed cruelly. “He’s nae blood relation however. Left behind tae tell the tale o’ how the once devoted Laird Campbell betrayed and murdered his own clan. That ye hae nae honor,” she mused. “But this… och, this deed Campbell, is one o’ me favorites…”
Simeon’s mouth dropped open as a “Nae” sprung involuntarily from his lips. The vision in the mirror of the man who was him, but not him, dragged his screaming and clawing sister across the yard by her hair. She was bruised and bleeding, her eyes swollen shut from abuse. The creature, who wore his face like a mask, had bound her securely with ropes. Hoisting her higher and higher, his sister screamed and writhed in protest. With an unhurried pace, the creature laid a pyre of sticks and straw beneath her feet. Tossing its head back, unholy laughter erupted in monstrous triumph as it tossed a torch onto the pile and engulfed his sister in flames.
“Ye could… save her.” Isobel canted her head to the side at a saucy angle. “Ye could… save them all.”
“And whot is the price o’ such… mercy?” His eyes glittered with unadulterated fury, unfaltering, and held a disturbing promise of vengeance.
“Say the words, Simeon. Give yersel tae me. Pledge yer mine. For all time.” She tucked the stone away within the folds of her cloak. The silent space that stretched between them was interrupted only by a groan from Alastair.
“Time,” Simeon hedged. He was stalling now. He banked the fury of his rage until he could grasp something useful to barter against her ruthless request. The witch, unknowingly, had handed him a trump card.
“Speak the words!” Her eyes sparkled with impending victory.
“’Tis indeed a weighty choice given whot I’ve just seen.”
“Dinnae do it, bràthar,” Alastair rasped.
“Haud, Alastair. Think o’ it, mon. A Campbell. Immortal.”
“Speak the words.” Isobel breathed in his ear.
“Nae, Simeon,” Alastair cried out and seemed to expel the last of his energy from the effort.
“Immeasurable power ye promise?”
“Armies will be yers tae command.” She husked in a sultry voice.
“I will become immortal?”
Sensing her conquest was at hand, she whimpered her reply in excitement akin to a lass teetering on the pinnacle of sexual release. “Naught can harm ye.”
“’Tis a fool who would strike such a bargain without assurances, and I’m nae fool. Ye could rip me legs from me body and leave me lame and immortal. Ye’ll hear me terms first.”
“Ye’re in nae position tae negotiate, Highlander,” she sneered, and drew to an imposing height. Curse these Scots! Always rat-a-tat-tat with their bloody blustering and arguing in haughty claims. Demanding their opponents yield something, nae for their wants, but just for pure spite.
“Whence we speak aloud, we are bound by our troth?”
“Aye. Now be quick aboot it,” she huffed.
“Ye’ll leave Alastair in peace. ‘Tis me ye want, he goes unharmed.”
“Agreed.” Isobel waved a dismissive hand. “Now speak yer pledge.”
“Clan Campbell comes tae nae harm. Ever. Vow ye’ll no’ hae a hand in this destruction ye showed me. In any way.”
Isobel regarded him with a cold stare.
“I’ll hae yer assurance now, sweeting. Ye’ll nae harm me kin nor me clan,” he demanded.
“Agreed,” she snapped hastily. Isobel regarded the tips of her fingernails in abject boredom and expelled an annoyed breath. “Onythin’ else?” She rolled her eyes.
“Aye. Turn me loose and let me stand. I wish tae greet me fate on me own two legs as a mon, no’ lying upon the ground like some beastie.”
Isobel cocked an arrogant brow. He was a proud one. No matter. She had him now. And just to take his arrogance down a peg, soon she’d keep him chained like a dog. At least for the first century or two…
“Nae, Simeon! Nae!” Alastair sputtered, shaking his head vigorously as he rose to his knees.
Simeon stood in silence and looked overlong across the wood. Left. Then right. He inclined his head to Alastair in a respectful nod.
“Leave us, uncle.”
“I’ll nae abandon ye,” Alastair swore gruffly.
“Leave!” Simeon urged and gave his uncle a covert squint of assurance.
“Begone little Alastair. Away with ye, like a good lad,” Isobel chirped and shooed him away with waving fingertips.
When he marked Alastair’s distance at least fifty paces, Simeon extended his hand to her. “Come. Witch. We meet our fate together.”
She disappeared and reappeared before him in a flas
h and placed her hand in his.
“I’ve done all ye wished. Now speak yer vow.” She smiled triumphant.
His body pitched close as the corners of his lips quirked up in amusement. “I need time tae consider yer offer.”
Her eyes flew wide. He thought to deceive her? Her? Just as her mouth opened to unleash the full rash of her temper, Simeon plunged his dirk deep into the witch’s belly, throwing every shard of his wrath, his fury and the full weight of his body into the thrust. A ghastly howl of pain exploded into a tornado of black smoke, obliterating the pair.
Alastair stumbled back, shielding his face as the cyclone stormed and wailed through the clearing. He crossed himself, unable to do anything else.
As quickly as the cyclone roared and raged in terrible power, it vaporized, leaving behind a solitary figure. Calm. Serene. Standing victorious in the shaft of light that broke through the leafy bower overhead.
Isobel held a hand mirror aloft and tilted her head to the side, preening into the gilt-edged glass as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
“And time… ye shall hae.”
Chapter 2
Boston, Modern Day
“You’re sending me where?” Kat thundered.
Several heads snapped in her direction, despite the fact that the Beacon Hill café thrummed noisily with clinking dishes and a lively drone of patrons.
“For God’s sake, Katherine, lower your voice.” Murray’s thin lips pressed into a tight line as he chafed uncomfortably. “Scotland. And don’t make me repeat myself.”
Kat stiffened. She couldn’t resist provoking Murray’s social sensibilities at every opportunity, but the admonishment still needled.
“You can’t expect me to drop everything and just take off… to… to Scotland?” Kat huffed with a dismissive wave. “My schedule—”
“Your schedule,” Murray interrupted, “is my business. I am completely aware of your workload, and you’re not dropping anything.” Murray smoothed his tie as he lifted his espresso cup. His body pitched forward, and he stole a glance left and right before he spoke.
“This is for a very important client. In Asia,” Murray stressed, his voice low.
Kat snorted. She could see the greedy stacks of yen dancing in his soulless eyes. “Oh please, Murray,” she rankled and rolled her eyes. “They’re all important.”
The man would sell his grandmother’s walker and make her limp home if there was a buck to be made.
Despite the shadowed interior of the swanky bistro, Kat longed to pull her sunglasses over her eyes as she willed her brain to fire on all cylinders. She took a healthy swig from her wine glass and let her attention wander around the crowded room.
Day drinking irritated Murray. She’d ordered the Merlot not only for spite, but to soothe the vestiges of last night’s Katy Perry concert. Her brother Colin had surprised her yesterday afternoon, flaunting tickets.
Blow off a little steam, he’d said. But blowing off steam Colin-style hadn’t simply included a concert. True to form, Colin wheedled invitations to the after party with Katy’s entourage at an underground club. They took a deep-dive plunge, headlong into a fifth of Crown Royal, and — if her clogged memory was correct — somewhere she broke up a sunrise fight between her brother and a drag queen at a greasy, all-night diner. The altercation started with something about sausage and grits… not that it mattered now in the throes of a full-fledged hangover.
Fucking Colin.
The silky liquid slid down easily, and Kat welcomed the restorative balance. A calm washed through her limbs. Neither Murray’s impromptu meeting, nor keeping pace with an Irish brother, was going to knock her off her game. There were only two other people known in the world who had her skill set, and her track record.
She was a professional, damn it. Despite her sour stomach and her body screaming for sleep, Kat wasn’t about to compromise the perception of her authority. She set her glass down carefully and folded her arms on the cool wood.
“I have questions.” Kat leveled him with a hard look.
“I expected nothing less,” Murray sighed imperiously, and sat a little straighter. The gray, wiry man, who had been an unwanted part of her life for the past twenty years, crossed his bony legs at his bony knees. His familiar pose reminded Kat of a bored monarch, reluctant to hear the pleas of his peasants. An arrogant swipe of his fingers indicated she could proceed with the inquiry.
Whether it was Murray’s posturing, or the lingering remnants of a hangover, Kat’s patience was thin. Today, of all days, she was in a dark mood and her bullshit meter had reset to zero. Even with the pain throbbing in her head, Murray’s urgent summons to meet was plain suspicious.
“You have never sent me in to the field before without conducting weeks of preparation and recon. How long have you known about this?”
“I received notification two weeks ago. Irrelevant,” Murray dismissed.
“Two weeks? And this is the first I’m hearing about it?” Her voice rose an octave. Murray glared at her through his watery eyes.
“I didn’t want to distract your attention from the Jameson job. Trust me, Katherine, this is the easiest money you will ever make. Next.”
Kat snorted again in a rebellious and unladylike manner. “Since when does Goldman and Associates hop over to Europe for a single acquisition?”
His eyes flickered up to hers and he cleared his throat. “Since this.” Murray extracted a brochure from his breast pocket and slid it across the table.
“Relics of the Ancient World?” Kat mused as she trailed a fingertip over the scripted title. The glossy cover was a ménage of coins, weapons of antiquity, and old paintings. By habit and training, she’d already committed the exhibit dates and location to memory.
On page six was a photo of the Fasque Castle Hotel. The castle looked as if it was lifted straight out of a Highland fairytale.
Kat pressed her lips together in a frown. She studied Murray beneath half-lowered lids and thumbed through the pages with feigned interest. She searched for his tells, yet nothing in his body language hinted he was even close to pulling her chain. And Kat knew all of Murray’s signals.
If anything, Murray looked… nervous.
“I am not double-booking you, Katherine. You will complete your transaction with Mr. Jameson and his bearer bonds on Thursday, and then board a plane for Edinburgh in the evening.”
“It’s too close. I’m not going,” Kat straightened. “You’re leaving me no time in between assignments. Why don’t you send Colin to—”
“No,” Murray interrupted. “You are perfectly suited for this field assignment. Colin will provide the necessary intel and computer support from his office.” He leaned back with a disapproving sigh and sipped his espresso.
Kat rolled her eyes at his use of ‘field assignment.’ Screw propriety and screw the man seated across the table from her who complimented her skills and criticized her in the same breath. After all, he’d summoned her to meet him at this upscale bistro, filled with snooty patrons, and overpriced brew served in gold-rimmed porcelain.
Letting the silence hang between them, He appeared totally inconvenienced as he waited for her to ask for details, the calculating prick.
Hell, this was his meeting. The man seated across the table from her, in one of Boston’s most posh coffee and wine bars, was stoic, dispassionate, and incredibly formal. He was also, (at least according to the State of Massachusetts), her father.
And he was a thoroughly, degenerate bastard.
“So what’s the score?” Kat released a bored sigh.
“Six gold coins. Viking in origin.” Murray flipped to the back of the brochure and tapped the page. “And this painting.”
“Shit, Murray! I hate lifting fucking paintings!”
“Watch your language, Katherine,” Murray warned. He reached for a napkin and broke into a fit of coughing. Kat didn’t like the sound. At all. Her brow furrowed in closer scrutiny. Murray did appear a little pastier than
usual…
“What’s wrong?” Kat put a hand on his arm. Murray brushed it away quickly.
“Just a little chest cold. Colin has all the details for you, schematics, plane tickets, and you are registered as a guest at Fasque Castle. The merchandise is arriving on the tenth of this month. That’s three days from now. Crews are scheduled to start setting up the exhibit the following Monday.”
“Wait. Colin knew about this?”
Murray arched a brow, and Kat knew he wasn’t about to divulge any additional information. He would deem it unnecessary to include feelings in this discussion. All that mattered to Murray was the job.
Her mind already calculated the plan. She’d rob the merchandise while in storage and reseal the crates. By the time the theft was discovered during setup, she and the goods would be long gone. The ensuing investigation would initially focus on the transit and later the hotel guests.
But Kat wasn’t worried. Colin would make certain she was a ghost. She had to admit, going to a Scottish castle sounded more like a vacation than work. Now all she needed were the details.
“Okay, sounds like an easy boost. What’s my cover?”
“There’s a wedding taking place over the weekend. You’re one of the guests. You are an American history teacher and a distant cousin to the groom. Colin has the dossier prepared on the family so you can memorize it.”
“Great. What did you do this weekend, Kat? Oh, went to Scotland, crashed a wedding, stole a few priceless relics…” she drawled.
“Focus, Katherine!” Murray frowned mumbling something like, “after all I’ve done for you children—” Kat tuned out the rest of his diatribe. She’d been hearing his homily for years.
“Okay, okay,” she interrupted and held up her hand in protest.
“Are you ready for tomorrow night?” Murray was just making conversation now. He knew damned well she was ready.