The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, her lip trembling. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps we should just…lay together. I will not stop ye. Then perhaps it will be easier.”

  Her suggestion tore through him like a blade.

  “No. Why do you say such a thing?” he said, his voice rising despite his effort to contain it. He ran his hands through his hair, then dropped to his knees before her. He laid his head down on her knees, wishing she would put hands on him to give him some semblance of hope, yet her fists remained closed at her sides. “I would never–I could not hurt you that way. When we lay together, it will be because you wish it, not to chase a ghost away.”

  “I fear the ghost of that man will always haunt me.”

  So he took it upon himself to give her time. He claimed he needed a great adventure before they could wed, but she saw through his game. In the end it was what was best for them both, he was certain of it.

  After all, he had waited two years in silence to win her heart. It belonged to him, of that he had no doubt. Now it was up to her to choose him. He could only hope that Rebecca was yet ready to walk beside him, because once he returned he knew he would never leave her again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jora

  HE WAS A BRAWN man, standing as tall as her companions, but there was something else about him that bothered her. As he sat bound and gagged in the corner of the wagon, glaring at her with his slate blue eyes, a sense of familiarity washed through her. She brushed it off, attributing it to the visions. Of course, it could be nothing but that. When she sought to see the past of a man it sometimes happened, that sickly feeling of melting into the heart and mind as if she were part of the past instead of only watching it.

  Benjamin Dixon. Yes, she knew he lied, but for now she kept that gem to herself. The others would have killed him if they knew what she truly envisioned, and she had far too many questions for the lone Norseman to let him die so quickly. She would get what she needed from him before she revealed any more of his secrets.

  She kneeled down beside him with a flask of water, raising her hand in warning to him.

  “Do not call out, or it goes back on,” she murmured. She pulled the gag down away from his mouth and raised the cup to his lips. He said nothing as he drank, his gaze locked on hers. She had no doubt he would wrap his fingers around her neck if he were free.

  “Where do ye come from, for the truth, Benjamin Dixon?” she asked quietly. She took liberties in questioning him, feeling secure in her safety knowing the others were close by.

  He clenched his jaw even tighter. Well, he was a stubborn one, for sure, but she had never met a man she could not read. A glimpse of a beautiful red-haired woman filled her, and the emotions he felt surged into her blood.

  There was a woman he left, and a child. Did the child belong to him? She did not know. The place was unfamiliar as well, she had never seen such a settlement within the confines of the English colony. Up in the hills, perhaps? She felt a hint of the Indians, and of a battle. The bow of a Norse ship, and a fiery funeral rite.

  He was a man who knew Odin, but did not fully worship him. He was a man who lost a red-haired woman, one he longed for even still. Perhaps he had lost the child as well. He jerked away when she touched his face with two hands, but he could not move while bound and she kept her hands firmly in place.

  His ache assaulted her, filling her with such yearning and despair that she drew abruptly away, frustrated at her inability to read him fully. There were few men powerful enough to keep his thoughts from her; unfortunately he was one of them.

  “Why do ye hide your past from me?” she asked.

  “Why must ye know it?” he finally answered. She sat back on her heels at his side. His dark hair fell forward over his eyes, hooding his gaze with even more menace.

  “My Chief will ask, and he will not be as polite as I. Ye’d fare better if ye tell me yer secrets, Norseman. I can see the place ye hail from, yet not where – or when – it is.”

  “Yer visions are wrong. You should have more practice in yer craft,” he replied.

  She laughed.

  “Nay. I see yer red-haired woman, as well. What say you to that?” she murmured.

  The sniping was finished with that revelation. His throat constricted and he clamped his lips into a tight line.

  “No words now?” she taunted him.

  He shifted against his bonds, his arms straining on the rope. She shook her head sadly as she turned away from him.

  “So your Chief keeps whores, now? Is that what yer about?”

  Her shoulders stiffened at his insult and she swung around to face him.

  “I’m no whore.”

  “Oh, no?” he replied.

  “I’m a Seer. Much more valuable than that,” she snapped. Seeing the smirk on his face, she leaned down in front of him, so close she could kiss him. If that had been something she was interested in, which she was not.

  “Best ye quiet down now,” she said, raising the gag back to his mouth. Suddenly his hands shot out, one around her throat, the other fisted in her hair. She let out a strangled squeak and tried to squirm away, but he tackled her to the bed of the wagon, slamming her head into the straw as her vision exploded in a shimmer of light.

  “Best ye tell me why I’m here!” he growled.

  She would have answered him then, but her ribs were strained to breaking by the weight of his body on hers. Struggling to take in a breath, she continued to thrash, and although she was fighting for air he refused to yield. With both her hands pinned to his chest and their strangled breaths nearly in unison, a vision of his past ran through her. She fought the surge of tears that threatened her own eyes, the searing force of his anguish too much for her to bear.

  What had happened to this man? And why did he hide it, even when his own life was threatened for it?

  “Please,” she whispered. His blue eyes softened when tears rolled down her face. “I canna stand it! Please, get off me!”

  He propped his weight upon his elbows but continued to hold her down, looking curiously at her as she fought back the tears. Being so close to him with their skin touching and their bodies melded like lovers, it was simply too much for her to absorb. She could not abide the force of his tortured thoughts as they twisted into hers.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Get me out of here, I’ll leave ye be.” His cheeks were flushed on his chagrined face. “I dinna mean to hurt ye.”

  “It’s not that, you oaf!” she cried. She shoved at his chest and he let her go, sitting up beside her as she wiped away the tears. “It’s yer bloody memories. I can feel them all. That’s why they put ye here with me, so I could see what’s in yer heart.”

  “Then you see the truth. There is nothing of worth there,” he muttered. He untied the remnants of his wrist bindings as she stared at him.

  If not for that moment, she would have helped him leave. The despair that emanated from him was a thick fog, drenching her thoughts to a murky confusion she thought she might never recover from.

  Until she had a glimpse of what he guarded so carefully.

  “No,” she said, staring up at him. It made no sense, but her visions had never led her astray. The lug of a Norseman sitting in front of her was no random drifter, and with a trickle of fear running over her skin like needles she realized Master Sturlusson would never let him go.

  “A Blooded One. A MacMhaolian, a powerful Time Walker. You’re hiding her,” she whispered.

  She closed her eyes when Reinn climbed into the wagon, wishing she held the power of time travel in her own hands at that moment. Her companion shoved a burlap sack over Benjamin’s head, and the wagon continued on the journey home.

  CHAPTER 4

  Benjamin

  BENJAMIN FELT THE rocking of the wagon beneath him slow to a stop. His head was covered with a hood, but when he glanced down, he could see his newly bound hands resting in his lap against the gleam of moonlit darkness. The scent of burni
ng wood drifted to his senses, evidence of a fire nearby. He knew it was still evening, and that they had taken him some distance away from the town tavern, but other than that he knew very little. Whatever his captors planned for him, they chose to do their business outside of Elizabeth City.

  “Git down, ye bloke,” Reinn ordered, jerking Benjamin off of the wagon. Benjamin stumbled but was wrenched upward by his wrists, and at the same moment someone yanked the hood off of his head. His ears throbbed from being struck and his vision was blurred as he tried to acclimate to his surroundings.

  “Stop pushing him,” another voice interrupted.

  It was the woman.

  Jora. Her name was Jora, and if he did not still consider himself a gentleman, he would wring her lying neck. Benjamin felt like a fool for falling for her plea. She had been smart enough to play on the one thing that would stir him, and that was his reluctance to see a woman harmed. He vowed he would not fall for her games again.

  Reinn led him inside a house, with Jora following close behind. It was impossible to determine where they were. It looked like a head-right property, but there were dozens of plantations on the outskirts of Elizabeth City and he had no way to determine which one it was. It was a working farm, however, with smoke curling up from a chimney and the sounds of livestock coming from the barn.

  He felt a trickle of sticky blood on the side of his head as Reinn shoved him to the ground. Reinn kicked Benjamin in his side as he glared down at him.

  “I warn ye now. Cause any more trouble, and I’ll–”

  “Ye’ll what? Ye willna harm him, ye know the Master will have yer head. Fog off, ye half-wit!” Jora interrupted. Reinn seemed to consider her words for a moment, pausing with an amused grin on his face. Suddenly he turned on Jora and grabbed her by the throat.

  “Aye, I willna harm him. But ye–I can throttle ye just as well,” Reinn snapped. “Keep him in line, Seer, or I shall hold you accountable!”

  Reinn shoved Jora away. She stumbled but quickly regained her footing, glaring defiantly at the man. Reinn muttered a few foul words under his breath and sat down at the table, where he poured himself a drink. Reinn tipped his cup to Jora as if in salute, a surly grin on his lips.

  Jora crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes set on the door. Despite the ringing in his ears, Benjamin could hear voices outside, and he could see it made Jora nervous. Whatever they had in store for him, he wished they would reveal it. He knew these were the kind of people his father had warned him of, those who would someday come for the blooded MacMhaolian. They had already recognized him as a Blooded One, so it was up to him to satisfy the duty he had sworn to Marcus on his deathbed.

  Protect the blooded MacMhaolian, above all else. The secret of time-travel was ours to bear, ours to guard.

  The door swung open. A man entered the room, and for a moment Benjamin felt his gaze swirling in a haze. The outline of the man’s body mimicked that of Marcus, and as Benjamin closed his eyes he could imagine it was his father standing there. Yet when he opened his eyes, it was not Marcus, but a stranger staring down at him with a mane of finely coiffed blond hair. The man was attired in the clothes of an Englishmen, but his demeanor was clearly Norse. He wore a heavy wool cloak that sat perched over his wide shoulders, and his square face was bereft of any sign of weakness. His stark green eyes stood out like gleaming jade beneath hooded brows as he stared down at Benjamin.

  “Yer name, sir,” the man said curtly.

  “I told them my name already,” Benjamin muttered. “Dixon. Benjamin Dixon.”

  “Yet there’s something more about ye,” the man said. The stranger unfastened his cloak and handed it to Reinn. “My apologies. We should be on a first name basis, if we are to share secrets. I am Agnarr Sturlusson, owner of this land. And ye, what people do ye hail from?”

  Benjamin swallowed hard as he considered his response. Damn the woman seer. Apparently she had shared her findings, despite seeming like she wished him no further harm.

  “I have no people. It doesna matter,” Benjamin replied.

  Agnarr nodded to Reinn, who happily yanked his knife from his belt. Rein advanced on Benjamin as Agnarr grabbed Jora’s hand.

  “Then you are no use to me. Come, Jora. You do not need to see this,” Agnarr said.

  “No!” Jora screamed, jerking her hand away from Agnarr. “He’s lying! I don’t know where he’s from, but I know he’s one of them! He knows of a blooded MacMhaolian!”

  Benjamin closed his eyes. He would have gladly taken his secret to the grave, especially if it meant protecting those he loved. It would have been an honorable death. Yet for some reason the mite of a woman would not let him meet his fate.

  “Oh, well. That makes a bit of difference,” Agnarr replied with a smug grin. He hefted his boot up and nudged Benjamin in the chest. “Then ye shall take me to them, sir. If you wish to keep yer life, that is.”

  “I willna take ye to anyone. And I care not if ye take my life. Just make it quick, so I might be finished with hearing her yammering,” Benjamin answered, nodding his head toward Jora. “You need a better seer. I think yours is broken.”

  Jora bristled at his accusation, clenching her fists as she glared at Benjamin.

  “You bloody stupid scag! You’re the son of Dagr Neilsson. Did ye think I dinna see that! I know much more than you think!” Jora spat. As the words crossed her lips, her voice faded into a hoarse whisper, and for a moment Benjamin thought it seemed she wanted to take the revelation back. Agnarr grinned.

  “Ah, so that’s it. I suppose you might be of use to me after all.” Agnarr removed the black glove he wore, plucking each finger in a methodical manner. The others remained silent. When Agnarr finished, he looked down upon his own palm, flexing it open and closed, as if he had never seen it before. Then he held his hand out to Benjamin. It was not a gesture of kindness, but one of conveyance. Benjamin felt the pounding in his head grow louder as he looked upon Agnarr’s scarred hand.

  Agnarr wore the brand of a Time Walker.

  “A Blooded MacMhaolian? One powerful enough to travel through time? Tell me where she is, in this time or another?”

  Benjamin clamped his mouth shut and stared back at Agnarr. He would not give them up. He had made his dying father a promise, he had made his vow in blood with that of his only brother. Although he did not fully understand how the magic worked, Benjamin knew that the power Maggie possessed could not fall into the hands of the man standing in front of him.

  “So ye need yer tongue loosened?” Agnarr said. He nodded to Jora. “Shall I have Reinn cut her throat? Or will ye tell me yer secrets? Either way is fine with me, lad.”

  Jora backed slowly away, her eyes frantic beneath her bold façade. Reinn grinned as Benjamin lowered his head.

  As culpable as Jora was to his detainment, Benjamin suspected she was not treated as well as she had led him to believe. Agnarr offered the woman up with little hesitation. Although Benjamin had known the man for only a few moments, he could see Agnarr would not suffer remorse over using her to further his interrogation. By the look on Jora’s face, she knew it as well.

  “She was my wife,” Benjamin said softly.

  “And?” Agnarr prompted.

  “And she is dead,” he added. “She is gone. Dead in the Indian Massacre.”

  Benjamin spoke his lie, praying it would be believed.

  Agnarr bent down on one knee in front of Benjamin.

  “Another lie. Why should I believe you now, son of Chief Dagr?”

  “He speaks the truth,” Jora interrupted. “I can see she’s lost to him.”

  Benjamin felt his breath catch inside his chest as Agnarr continued to stare at him. Agnarr cocked his head slightly to the side as Jora approached.

  “Well, that’s too bad. But ye’ll still serve me well. A fine job Jora, ye’ve been quite useful to me this day.”

  Agnarr rose onto his feet and slowly pulled his black glove back on. He glanced at Jora for one long moment, duri
ng which she met his gaze.

  Benjamin had no time to wonder why she lied for him, but it seemed he might have an ally in the woman. As he watched Agnarr leave with Jora, he let his breath out slowly in relief. He had avoided betraying his kin with his lies, but as he watched Jora walk away he could only imagine there must be something in it for her as well.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jora

  THE MAN WAS an idiot, and he was going to get them all killed with his lies.

  She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wagon as they men spoke a few paces away. She had never seen Agnarr so unhinged, and it did not give her any sense of comfort to know he had nearly served up her blood to get the truth from Benjamin. Agnarr was neither a kind man nor a foolish one, and although he had now treated her as a valued member of the clan she knew down deep in her heart that she was nothing to him. Jora had listened to Reinn’s stories, and she had even seen glimpses of the truth on the rare occasions when Agnarr had allowed her to touch him with two hands. If Benjamin was hiding a Blooded MacMhaolian, Agnarr would let nothing stand in the way of recovering her. Agnarr was a man obsessed with righting past wrongs. He would never stop.

  For a moment she wished she had no special gift, that she was just a normal woman instead of a seer. Jora wondered what it would be like to be regarded in such a simple way. Adopted into Clan Sturlusson as an orphaned child, she had regarded Agnarr as a substitute father, but as she grew into womanhood and her powers became evident, everything changed. Once Agnarr learned she could see into the hearts of men, she became nothing more than another tool for him to use in his quest. Long ago he had loved a Blooded MacMhaolian, but she had been taken from him by the Neilsson Chief Dagr. It was not the desire of a heartbroken man, however. It was merely the quest of a man who wanted control of a powerful magic.