Page 4 of Darach

“I’ve read the facking book.” The killer’s voice changed, taking on a distinct Scottish accent now. “’Tis what I most desire, for ’twill take me back so I may save them. I must save them from the master’s treachery. Tell me where you’ve hidden the sain, and I shall permit you live.”

She had known he was insane; what he demanded simply confirmed that. “I haven’t hidden anything. I don’t have what you want.”

“Must you force me hurt you so much, my precious?” He punched her in the stomach so hard she collapsed at his feet, and then he kicked her over onto her side. “Where did you hide the facking thing?” He kept kicking her, driving her back into a heap of garbage bags. “Tell me.”

Every slam of his boot into her body sent new explosions of pain through Charlotte. By the time the pile of bags fell on top of her she couldn’t breathe or move. Now she knew what her fate would be: being beaten to death. She thought of Zoey, who had been bright and vibrant and like the sister she’d never had. The police officers who had died protecting her. Detective Logan, telling her to run away and leave him to die. Anger surged inside her, pushing through the agony and fear, and filling her with blinding rage.

Get up. Hit him back. Get up and make him pay before you die.

Charlotte stretched out her hand to brace herself, and touched something like a heavy bar of metal under the bags. She worked her hand along it to one end, which slid like smooth glass against her palm, and then pushed her fingers inside a gap to take a better hold of it. An image of her mutilated body appeared in her mind, sprawled beside Detective Logan, whose throat had been cut. She looked exactly the way Zoey had when she’d found her dead. She was seeing herself after being murdered by the killer, all over something she didn’t understand.

I shallnae let you die here, child, a deep voice heavy with sorrow said. Now you must go back and save my lads.

She pushed herself up as a wonderful, gentle warmth curled around her hand, and spread up her arm to pour into her chest and belly. The pounding pain of her head wound and battered body dwindled away; the glowing heat seemed to erase the agony gripping her torso. As she opened her eyes she saw the killer, turned away from her and looking back over his shoulder. Her hair began to float in the air between them.

All the lights in the alley abruptly went out, and Charlotte tumbled over and over, as if she were falling through some endless black tunnel.

It’s over, she thought, immersed in a terrible relief. He can’t follow me now. I’m dead.

Chapter Two

Walking through the long stone passages at Dun Lasair made Chieftain Darach MacRoss long for an hour in the bathing spring to soak away the troubles of the day. The squabbles between the men had grown more frequent since the enchanted Fire sword had again vanished from its crystal case in the great hall. That sudden disappearance meant that the MacRoss Clan once again faced an unknown danger that would soon destroy them all.

The blade had been enchanted by their founder, Fae Prince Ross, who had given up his life to bespell the sword to protect the clan in such dire times. Although only the second time the sword had vanished, Darach suspected the saining blade would soon reappear with someone from another place and time, just as it had some months previous by bringing Emery Parker from the twenty-first century to them. He also knew that as soon as the sword came back he should toss the cursed facking thing into the forge’s furnace and melt it down.

Only the knowledge that the clan’s fate depended on whoever the blade brought back to the MacRoss stayed his hand.

As soon as Darach had finished his duties he returned to his chamber in the garrison to retrieve some clean clothes. There he encountered Master Sage Duine hovering nervously in the passage. The kindly man’s usually neat robes appeared stained and wrinkled, and his short fringe of brown hair almost stood on end. He stood twisting his plump hands together as if he meant to pry off his own fingers.

Darach knew the sage to be perpetually anxious and fearful, especially with all the troubles looming over the clan these last months, but he had never seen him in such a harried state.

“Fair evening, Master Duine.” Out of habit he turned his face slightly to avert the birthing mark that covered his left eye, which made even those who had known him all their lives uncomfortable to see. “What brings you so late to the garrison?”

“Forgive me, Chieftain.” The stout, round-faced sage bowed quickly. “I would speak to you on an urgent matter, if you’ve a moment to spare?”

Once inside his chamber Darach poured a mug of perry for the man, who paced about nervously in front of the hearth. Since Emery had come to them she often caused conflict, but he’d thought everyone at Dun Lasair had grown accustomed to her endless curiosity and unseemly modern notions.

“I hope all ’tis well with the enclave,” he said, and saw the sage jump a little.

“Aye, Chieftain.” Duine took in a slow, deep breath before he said, “’Tis the threat to us and the MacRoss that troubles me. Since the Fire sword vanished on the night of the laird’s wedding, I’ve no’ ken a moment’s peace. ’Tis been near two moons since the blade disappeared, and with each new day that passes...” He pressed a hand to his brow. “I cannae eat nor sleep as I should.”

“Sit, please.” When the sage sank down into the chair by the hearth Darach put the mug in his shaking hands. “Drink. ’Twill settle you.”

Duine took a sip and made an effort to compose himself before he said, “I went to the laird to discuss the matter, as I ken he’s aware of the danger. Our lord kindly listened, but told me he’s decided to wait and see what ’twill happen.”

“’Tis why we chose Luthias as our laird.” Personally he didn’t agree, but he had long ago learned to trust his eldest brother’s decisions as well as abide by them. “He shallnae act unless there’s good reason.”

“I dinnae mean to speak ill of him,” the sage said quickly. “He’s a good man, and a wise one. He but trusts too much in the word of the enemy, and I fear ’twill lead to our ruin.”

“Before he died saving our lord and lady, the Carack laird first broke the truce between the clans by posing as a woodcutter and sneaking about our lands,” Darach reminded him. “Struan Carack wouldnae accept Luthias’s account of how Callum died if he didnae believe his clan at fault for that, or truly suspected we murdered his brother. He wrote as much in the scroll he sent the day after the fire. ’Tis no strife between the clans now.”

“Aye, so the laird said as well.” The sage quickly drank down the perry and set aside the mug. “Only now rumors spread through the villages and the crofts of what ’twasnae said. Many among the Carack, they’ve sworn blood vengeance for the death of their laird. They mean to war with the MacRoss, and soon. The Fire sword, ’twouldnae have vanished if that threat to the clan ’twasnae real.”

“Before succeeding Callum as laird, Struan served as the Carack’s war master,” Darach chided. “He’ll no’ attack us without sound reason.”

“Struan Carack refused to permit his clan name him laird.” Duine sighed. “He insisted he remain their war master until such time as the threat to his clan ends. They yet regard the MacRoss as their enemies, and even now likely prepare for battle.”

This was something he hadn’t yet heard. “Who told you such?”