The conflicting forces threw Rachel across the room as Deardha’s field of malevolence blasted against the walls. The winds howled and roared as the demonic chaos ripped through the castle. Then all fell silent just as swiftly as the storm had risen and a fog of sorrow settled over the room. Latharn shuddered awake to an icy smoothness pressed against his spine. Finding his arms freed, he flexed his hands, wincing as he rolled his bruised and battered shoulders. Where was he? He lifted his head, staring about in disbelief at the see-through globe enclosed around his body.
Everyone eased their way out from where they’d taken cover: they crawled out from under tables, from behind overturned benches. Eyes wide with fear, they glanced about the room to see if the attack was over.
Latharn spread his hands on the curved, cold glass. What were they doing? Why did they mill around him like he wasn’t there? It was as though he sat among their feet on the floor. What the hell were they doing?
The serving lads rushed to re-light the torches lining the walls. The scattered clansmen and villagers rose from the floor, checking each other for injuries. Tables and benches lay about the room like scattered rushes strewn across the floor. Tapestries and tartans hung in tattered strips, nothing left on the standards but bits of colored shreds.
Laird MacKay shoved his way through the wreckage to his wife. Rachel lay in a crumpled heap beside the hearth, her weakened breath barely moving her chest.
“Mother!” Latharn shouted against the glass. If she was dead, it would be no one’s fault but his own. Standing, Latharn stretched to see if Rachel would move.
Laird MacKay cradled her against his chest, pressing his lips to her forehead until she opened her eyes.
Rachel struggled to lift her head, her eyes widening with disbelief as she looked across the room directly toward Latharn. Lifting her hand, her voice cracked with pain as she keened her sorrow to all who remained in the great hall. “My baby!” she sobbed. Waving her trembling hand toward her son, she buried her face in Caelan’s chest.
Latharn closed his eyes against the sight of his mother rocking herself against her pain. As her wails grew louder, he covered his ears and roared to drown out the sound.
ChapterTwo
Washington University
St. Louis, MO
2010
“Professor Buchanan,do I get extra credit for fixing you up with him? You know, the fine piece of man we met? That guy we met at last month’s conference?”
Nessa Buchanan peered over the top of her laptop, scowling from behind the pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “If you were one of my students, Ms. Sullivan, you would’ve just failed the semester for hooking me up with that so-called fine piece of man.”
“Oh, come on, Nessa. He couldn’t have been that bad.” Trish sank her teeth into the apple she’d been juggling as she sauntered around Nessa’s office.
After she tossed her glasses onto the desk, Nessa steepled her fingers beneath her chin.
“Trish, do you remember his lecture on the existence of different realities and their definitions as determined by any one individual’s perceptions?”
“Vaguely.” Trish nodded as she munched another bite of the apple and thumbed through the exams on Nessa’s desk.
“Well, it appears that his perception of all night long is my reality of maybe—and I’m really stressing the maybe part—of about, oh, maybe ten minutes.”
Nessa stretched across the desk and slammed her hand down on top of the pile of exams. “And after the questionable ten minutes of all night long, he started snoring!” Snoring didn’t begin to describe it. He’d practically rattled the windows out of her apartment.
With a grimace, Trish shuddered and tossed her half-eaten apple into the trash. Wiping her hands on the tight seat of her jeans, Trish shrugged. “Come on, Nessa. Was he really all that bad? He seemed kind of nice at the conference.”
“He farts in his sleep.” Not looking up, Nessa shoved folders of exams into her backpack in a futile attempt at unearthing her disappearing desk. The guy had been a veritable methane gas factory.
“I see,” Trish observed with a sigh. “Well, that settles it since we both know you never fart.” Trish groaned out loud, as Nessa handed her another stack of exams that wouldn’t fit in her already over-stuffed backpack.
“And he sucks his teeth,” Nessa continued, holding out two more piles of papers toward Trish.
“Before or after he farts?” Trish asked as she juggled the packets of oversized files.
Nessa grunted. “After he eats.” Dragging her backpack over into her chair, she huffed as she kneed it shut and wrestled the straining zipper.
Trish backed away from the desk with a defeated shrug. “Okay! I get the message. No more fixups. I’ll just leave you to your fantasies about your nocturnal Highlander.”
Nessa stopped grappling with her overstuffed backpack long enough to point her finger at Trish. “I will have you know my dreams of my ancient Scotsman have made me what I am today.”
The youngest Ph.D. in Archeology at Washington University, Nessa prided herself on the position she’d attained in her field. She’d worked long and hard to get this far, untold hours of solitude, sweat, and tears. She also knew the reason she’d achieved such a lofty position. Nessa owed it all to the inexplicable dreams she’d had since the summer she turned eighteen.
