Time Everlastin' Book 5

by Mickee Madden

  "Are ye no' curious, though?" Gil taunted.

  "No. I'm goin', Gil. Stay if ye like."

  Flan took off in the direction of the inn. Gil held back for a good minute, time seeming more like an hour to Taryn. Shivering erupted in her body. The rain fell harder, colder yet, stinging her skin wherever it touched.

  Gil muttered something in Gaelic and waddled off, his feet making slushing sounds in the boggy earth. Taryn eased around the menhir then back up to the tallest one, not taking her gaze off the men until they were pinpoints in the distance. She swiped a wet arm across her face and crouched next to what they had deposited.

  It was a large duffle bag. Running a hand over the lumpy surface, she determined multiple objects inside. She was about to reach for the oversized zipper when the ground quivered beneath her.

  Something prompted her to glance at her watch.

  The green luminous numbers read 12:00.

  Midnight.

  For some inexplicable reason, Taryn wanted to giggle. She didn't, but only because her throat felt closed off. The quiver became trembling. Seconds later, she was slowly straightening when the ground released a gush of air resembling that of a gargantuan's breath. And it was a breath expelled as the earth separated fifty feet away, forming a long, black rectangle stretching toward the end of the main body of the cross.

  A hollow, echoing clacking followed. Then snorts.

  "What the hell...?" Taryn breathed.

  From out of the fathomless rectangle, a man on horseback sprang onto the plateau and galloped off in the direction of the loch.

  Taryn's legs turned to liquid beneath her. She sank to the ground, her eyes riveted on the figure riding like a madman released from the bowels of hell.

  With a fierce war cry, the rider pulled on the reins, urging the horse to rear up. Its own voice penetrated the night, the shrill cry promoting an image in her mind of a banshee caught between the pinchers of an enormous insect. The front hooves struck the ground and the animal danced in a narrow circle.

  She shrank back against the central menhir. Her eyes were so wide, the surrounding muscles ached. A putrid odor tainted the air. Rain came down harder, seeming like needles pricking her skin through her clothing.

  The horse reared up again and bucked, much to the delight of the rider, whose encouraging sounds reminded Taryn of one of those evil villains in a B movie who lacked the theatrical training to produce a believable diabolical laugh. And he looked the part. From her vantage point, he resembled a Neanderthal, a fur-covered throwback from another era.

  Man and horse galloped toward the loch. Swallowing hard, Taryn tucked her knapsack behind one of the smaller standing stones, and ran after him. She barely glanced into the black abyss as she passed it, telling herself she would check it out after she got a closer look at the man. It struck her how the stones to each side lent the impression she traveled along a runway, stones guiding her to a mystery that had literally come up through the ground.

  She came to a stop just beyond the end of the last set of stones. Horse and rider were nowhere to be seen, but she could hear gusts of breath coming from the animal. At least, she hoped it was from the animal. She looked up as something dark moved across the horizon, blocking out the surrealistic sunlight and casting the site in eerie, bluish moonlight. The temperature dropped significantly. Her breaths billowed out in vaporish clouds, and she rubbed her arms vigorously for warmth.

  If only she'd thought to wear a jacket.

  Coming to the ledge, she looked down to see the man galloping along the loch's embankment, the water resembling a gray-blue metallic maw. The stranger rode hard, like a man possessed, his tattered dark cape flapping behind him.

  After a short distance, he urged the horse to turn, and prompted it into another gallop. When he passed beneath her, Taryn recoiled then peered down to see him direct the horse up a narrow path to the ledge. He was nearly on level ground before it occurred to her that she stood in plain sight.

  Taryn dashed for the menhirs, unaware that her route was in line with his own until the sound of beating hooves driving into the ground was suddenly upon her. She whirled and fell at the same time. A Gaelic expletive rent the air as the horse reared up. Her vision zoomed in on the hooves punching the air above her. A shrill whinny ensued.

  A wail of fright ripped from her. She rolled to her right. One hoof hit the ground mere inches from her left shoulder, splashing water into her face. Sputtering, she scrambled onto her hands and knees. She swiped the arm of her soaked jumpsuit across her eyes and staggered to her feet. Before she could gather her wits, fingers dug into her left shoulder, the pain wrenching another cry from her.

  It was instinct that made her lash out with a fist.

  Although it slammed into the arm of the stranger, his hold didn't lessen until he forced her around to face him.

  Five facts flooded her brain at once: He stood over six-foot; the cape was in fact very long, matted hair; the lower part of his face was concealed behind a beard that reached the middle of his chest; he reeked as if he hadn't bathed in years; and he was furious.

  To add to her consternation, he belted out a series of Gaelic. With each phrase, his deep, booming voice held more anger and impatience.

  "I don't understand you!" she shouted back, her temper overriding her fear.

  One large hand shoved her shoulder. Astounded at his aggressiveness, she slugged him in the arm. This time, the flat of his hand pushed her hard enough to send her to the ground, and a booted foot landed atop her chest, anchoring her. Rain pelted her face. She felt as if she were drowning, sputtering and gasping until finally a coherent sentence passed her lips.

  "Get the hell off me!"

  Several seconds passed before the foot shifted to the ground. Again, his movements too swift for her to calculate, he gripped the front of her jumpsuit and hauled her to her feet as if she weighed little more than bag of cotton balls.

  "My hands are registered as deadly weapons!" she sputtered, and swayed drunkenly.

  More Gaelic spewed from him, the anger in his tone slicing through her head. He shook her, released her then gripped the front of her jumpsuit again, his unrecognizable words punctuating his actions.

  With all the strength she could muster, she pushed against his chest, the move coinciding with his hands letting go. He fell to the ground on his back, his kilt flipping up high enough to reveal he wore nothing beneath it. She was about to kick him in the left shin to prevent him from going after her when, with a snarl, he rolled to his side, grabbed her right ankle, and yanked.

  Taryn went down with a yelp. Instead of crashing to the moist ground, she sprawled across him. Rancid odors choked off her air supply. One moment she was attempting to scramble off him, the next, she was on her back, the stranger straddling her lower torso. Twice her flailing fists connected with his jawline. Twice he grunted then furiously pinned her wrists above her head. She kicked his back repeatedly with the inner side of each foot while releasing a stream of colorful invectives.

  The rain pounding on her face and the man's incredible stench, made it increasingly difficult to breathe. A fit of coughing and gaging seized her. Her wrists were released. Twisting to one side, she coughed forcefully to clear her throat and lungs. More angry and frightened than she could ever recall, she clenched her right fist, knowing her upper body hid it from his view. His labored breathing rang in her ears. She had smelled wet dogs that were considerably more pleasing than this man.

  "Mo nàire!" For shame!

  Locking her teeth against a retort, Taryn swung around, throwing her all into her sailing fist. She'd held her own against men her whole adult life, at times stooping to their levels to survive working among them. There had been a few in the past eight years who had tried to force themselves on her, and they had limped or crawled away, never to bother her again. In those cases, fear had never entered the equation. Instinct had fueled her aggression. This time, she was up against an unknown, a man evidently incapable of s
peaking or understanding English, and who was reacting as if she had violated his personal property, his land.

  Her driving fist was within an inch of reaching his face when the hand came to a jarring stop. Blinking hard, squinting to see better through the curtain of rain, she saw that his right hand enclosed her own. Pain radiated into her wrist. His hold was tenacious, threatening to crush the bones unless she stopped resisting.

  Forcing her anger back, she decided to use another method that had gotten her out of a few scrapes. "Please," she whimpered, "you're hurting me. I won't fight back if you let me go."

  She could only see his eyes. Black as night. Penetrating. Boring into her with such contempt, a shudder coursed through her.

  He quickly climbed off her and stood. Taryn released a hoarse breath of relief. Her limbs suddenly leaden, she eased her legs beneath her and started to stand. Another cry escaped her, one of surprise, outrage, and pain, when a large fist grabbed a handful of hair at her nape and hoisted her to her feet.

  "Dammit to hell!" she cried, shoving at his chest.

  "Fàg!" he roared, forcing her to face the direction he pointed. "Fàg!" Leave!

  "I don't understand you, you moron!"

  He shoved her to the ground. Taryn landed in a sitting position, propped up by her hands. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, but she refused to release them.

  What did he want?

  He was certainly not a ghost, but looked enough like the mural to be a deranged relative. If his intention was to rape her, he certainly knew by now she couldn't do much to stop him.

  Panting, she looked up. A spasm of shock hit her when she found him gone. Her gaze shot off to her left, where the horse restlessly tromped the ground with its front hooves. The man removed something on the side of the animal. It took a moment longer for the object to register and, with a gurgle of a cry, she jumped to her feet. Before she had the chance to run off, he stood in front of her, the point of his claymore a hairsbreadth from touching her throat. He shouted at her in Gaelic, his tone and bearing teeming with hostility, his unoccupied hand gesturing in the direction of the inn.

  He ended the long-winded tirade with, "Fàg, fàg!" his free hand punching the air to emphasize his words. Leave, leave!

  Taryn ran. She didn't look back until she reached the end of the stone wall where a painful stitch in her side brought her to an abrupt halt. Wheezing, she folded her arms against her middle, bent over, and sank to her knees. She trembled violently from shock and cold, her stomach threatening to eject its meager contents.

  When she finally looked up, she couldn't see the man or the horse. That didn't mean he wasn't in the area.

  Her drenched clothing clung to her like a second skin. Although she believed the coldness should make her numb, everything ached. She stood unsteadily. For several seconds, she wasn't sure her legs would support her.

  The inn. She could make it back.

  With her second step she froze, and a whimper of utter misery escaped her. Her knapsack lay at the base of one of the standing stones. It contained her money, credit cards, her passport and cell phone. Everything. If she returned, the Watchdog-MacLachlans would surely know she had been at the site. She had no way of paying her bill or of leaving the isle.

  Shivering uncontrollably, she forced herself to face the site. The stones looked more ominous now, living entities, devils waiting to ensnare her. Invisible eyes watched her. Soundless words condemned her for violating the stones' sacred turf. Inner voices screamed at her to run and worry about her possessions another time.

  Run and don't look back!

  Run and be grateful the barbarian let you go!

  Instead, she ran toward the site, concentrating on nothing but the backpack. Within ten yards of reaching the central menhir, sounds registered through the dense haze cocooning her mind. At the same instant she saw the horse and rider charging, she dashed on, running as fast as her sore legs and the slick ground permitted. She was about to reach for the knapsack when an object whizzed past her and embedded in the ground between her feet and the waterproof canvas sack. She jerked back, slipped and fell on her bottom, and stared wide-eyed at the sword jutting up in front of her, moonlight winking off the blade's surface.

  Gaelic descended and she grimaced. Plapping footfalls mingled with the horse's snorts. Suddenly, she was too exhausted to fight. Too exhausted to care. Her head was lowered when the sword was wrenched from the ground. Booted feet positioned by her left side.

  "My...God...you stink," she wheezed. "Kill me or get the hell downwind!"

  Silence.

  When several moments passed, Taryn leaned forward and reached for her pack. The stranger crouched with the speed of a cheetah. Cold, steely fingers encircled her extended wrist. She turned her head and stared into the depths of his unreadable eyes. Between the wet long hair plastered to his face, and the beard and mustache, his eyes and straight nose were all that were visible.

  There was one advantage to him not understanding English.

  "Not only do you reek, but I've seen baboon butts that were a damn sight prettier than you." She forced a small smile. "And we know charm is a foreign concept to you."

  Silence.

  "You're the strong, silent type." Taryn eyed the knapsack then shifted her gaze to the large hand still wrapped about her wrist. "Too bad you don't speak English. My publisher would be willing to pay big bucks for what you know about Broc MacLachlan."

  The steely fingers tightened, causing her to wince.

  "Ciarda Mac—"

  With a low growl, the stranger jerked her arm.

  "Dammit!" She sucked in a breath, rain entering her mouth. She spat off to one side and narrowed her eyes on him. "I came back for my knapsack." She pointed, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Hey!" She pointed with more force. "I'm not leaving without my bag! Savvy?"

  His tenacious hold tightened fractionally, while his eyes remained chillingly focused on hers.

  "Yeah, you savvy about as well as a rock," she grumbled then flashed him the widest smile she could muster. "I just figured you out. You're the secret. The Watchdog-MacLachlans have a bonafide black sheep in the fold, and they're making you live out here, away from the inn."

  She wiggled her eyebrows in hopes of eliciting a reaction.

  None came.

  "You're probably a descendent of the original Broc, but having a few bricks shy of a wall makes you an embarrassment." She lapped at the rivulets of rain on her lips and wrinkled her nose disdainfully. "Hey, didn't your mother ever tell you about bathing?"

  Taryn blew out a breath of hopelessness. "Fine, hairy dude. We can stay out here and freeze to death—unless we drown first."

  Her nerves spasmed when he unexpectedly stood and stepped toward her pack. She was on her feet when he lifted it into a hand.

  "That's mine!"

  She made a grab for the knapsack. Unperturbed, he swung it out of her reach.

  "I need that!"

  When she attempted to snatch it again, he dropped the pack, gripped her upper arms and pulled her against his body. Taryn froze. Eyes straining from their sockets, she stared into his, searching for a sign that she had pushed him too far. His expression remained unreadable, his bearing that of the Wall of China.

  "Oh...damn," she breathed, and released a titter of a laugh. "Don't breathe on me. Don't breathe on me." She caught a whiff of his breath and grimaced so hard, her facial muscles hurt. "Aw geez, that's bad!" She angled her face away from him. "What crawled into your mouth and died?"

  Hesitantly, she turned her head enough to look at him. There was a glint in his eyes she couldn't define, but it nonetheless made her uneasy.

  "You know what? I just decided I don't give a damn about you or this place. Keep your secrets. I'm going home, scrub off the top layer of my skin, and rinse out my mouth with lemon juice."

  Several seconds of intense silence passed. She hiked up her eyebrows. "I'm leaving, okay? Just give me my knapsack—hey!"

 
Taryn now sat in a puddle, looking up at his imposing height. When he reached for her pack, she kicked him soundly in the shin with the heel of her loafer. He released another growl as he swooped down in a crouch. She lifted her hands in a placating gesture, her heart somersaulting. There was a savagery in his features—what she could see of them—that triggered a primordial alarm in her brain. She felt like a newborn kitten trapped in the hands of an unprincipled child locked inside the grotesque form of an adult.

  His nostrils flared.

  His lips curled back exposing clenched teeth. They were surprisingly straight and white considering the condition of the rest of him.

  A horrendous gurgling howl seeped up through the ground. The stranger bolted upright and signaled the horse with a terse, shrill whistle. Taryn flung herself on the knapsack. She spied the canvas bag the brother Watchdogs had deposited a few yards away. When the stranger reached toward her, she released a squeal of protest and jabbed a finger toward it.

  "That one is yours!"

  He paused, looked in the direction she indicated, and took long strides to where the second pack lay. Although it had taken Flan and Gil to carry it, the stranger hoisted it onto his back without effort. He swung himself onto the horse's bare back and settled the duffle bag in front of him.

  "Fàg!" he bellowed, pointing toward the inn. Leave!

  Her heart pounding at the base of her throat, Taryn watched the galloping horse carry him to the far end of the chasm. Both man and beast turned in her direction then descended, the sound of hooves striking stone echoing with disquieting finality. A moment of stark silence followed, shattered by guttural tremors when the ground came together and sealed.

  Taryn wasn't sure how long she waited. Her senses were super-sensitized. Painfully super-sensitized. She tried to think of something humorous to wrench her from the stupor keeping her atop the knapsack. It was futile. The reporter Taryn was determined to answer the questions reformulating in her mind.

  What else are the Watchdog-MacLachlans hiding below? Treasure? More Neanderthal clan members?