First things first let's make sure you don't have brain damage, Delilah, she scolded herself. Trust her to get distracted by a reenactment when she was clearly in serious trouble.
The men seemed to have come to a decision amongst themselves — one kneeled beside her, giving her a friendly smile from beneath the helmet he wore low over his face. Another kneeled at her feet, and between them they lifted her, gently but firmly, from the wet ground. It was a little embarrassing to be carried like this, but Delilah could feel that she was in no fit state to walk herself. She opened her mouth to apologize for being such a bother — and like a light switching out, she lost consciousness.
This time, waking up was a lot less damp — which she appreciated. The feeling of wet grass on the back of her neck wasn't her favourite. Delilah stirred drowsily, her eyes flickering as she tried to pull herself out of sleep — she was hazily aware that something was wrong, that she wasn't sure where she was and she needed to get to the bottom of something — distant, dazed memories of an old cell phone and a new stone wall warred for dominance in her uneasy mind. Calm down, Delilah. Focus. She sunk her awareness into her breath as her sword fighting training had taught her. Breathe first, then everything else. Carefully, she counted ten slow, measured breaths — and by the time she'd reached the end, she felt settled enough to open her eyes.
Wow. These guys went hard on the re-enactment front. Even their sick bay looked the part. Medieval, she guessed, looking at the furniture — a rough wooden side table by the soft bed she'd been installed on. Rough linen sheets, and what looked like real furs on top, keeping her warm in the chilly air. There was even a fireplace in the wall, with an actual fire set in it, embers crackling cheerfully. She felt a pang of regret that she hadn't brought any of her costumes with her — this was a fantastic little setup. Who'd have thought there were LARPers outside of Inverness? She'd better get their contact details before she left. They could organize a convention, perhaps… or at the very least she could sort out a costume somehow and come and play a few games before the end of her trip here. Her supervisor was always scolding her for working too hard, telling her she had to find a balance between her studies and the real world. LARP probably wasn’t exactly the real-world connection her supervisor had in mind, but it was better than nothing, right?
Leaving didn't seem like much of an option just yet, unfortunately. Her short sleep had helped a little with the dizziness, but it was still all she could do to sit up in bed and look around the room. There was a wooden goblet sitting on the side table with water in it — she took it and sipped at it gratefully, admiring the handiwork and the attention to detail. These walls were made of stone like the walls of Castle MacClaran. Perhaps this was a castle too — one that had been maintained with a little more care, though, if it was still able to be used for social events like historical re-enactments. That would explain the wall she'd woken up next to, as well. There was a narrow window set in the wall above the bed, and she peered out of it, fighting her dizziness in the interests of getting her bearings. Not much to be seen. Night had fallen since she'd been rescued from outside, and all she could make out was a dense blanket of stars in the night sky. Beautiful, but not especially helpful for figuring out where she was. She felt worry stir in her chest — poor Maggie would be wondering where her newest guest was. Had she remembered to save the place's number in her phone? She’d give her a call as soon as she could, explain where she was and that she’d be home soon…
Speaking of which — she seemed to still have her phone clutched in her hand. Trust a millennial to pass out multiple times but still keep a vice grip on her technology, she thought to herself with a grin. But when she lifted the phone to her eyes, her heart sank — it wasn't her phone. It was the impossibly weathered device that she'd pulled from the box. Her own phone was nowhere to be seen — and of course, the seemingly ancient phone didn't turn on, even if she'd known the number she needed to call.
Damnit. She’d have to borrow one… which would involve asking the LARPers to break character. Always a faux-pas — but they’d understand that it was an emergency. She didn’t want a search party sent out in search of her on her first night in the country. That would be rather embarrassing.
A gentle tapping at the door disturbed her from her reflections, and she cleared her throat, calling a 'come in' as she tried to sit up a little more in bed. Two women stepped into the room — she couldn't help but examine the clothing they were wearing almost before she looked at their faces. One older woman in a long, flowing blue dress — medieval style, she guessed, and beautifully embroidered. Reenactment enthusiasts did tend to spend a lot of time on their costumes. She looked at the woman’s face with surprise, reflecting that it was nice to see someone in her seventies participating in the game. Their oldest club member back in California was in his mid-forties. The woman with her wasn't wearing a dress, and had instead opted for a tunic and riding pants. Much more suited to a man, Delilah thought with a spark of disapproval. You could get into all the feminist debates you wanted to, it was just more authentic for women to wear dresses in re-enactments.
“How are you feeling, dear?” the older woman asked, her lilting Scottish accent a delight to listen to.
“Very dizzy,” Delilah admitted, suddenly conscious of her brash American voice and wishing it was softer, somehow. “But better. Thank you so much for looking after me. I'm not sure what happened, honestly.”
“It can be very confusing,” the older woman said solemnly.
Delilah frowned a little.
“What do you mean? The castle and everything? Oh, no, I'm —” She laughed a little, imagining what the woman must think. A regular civilian waking up in a castle surrounded by people in fancy dress might get a little worried that something supernatural had gone on. “I do re-enactments most weekends,” she explained, grinning. “You guys have a really impressive set-up! I wish we had castles like this back in California!”
The older woman looked nonplussed — and directed a discrete glance to the blonde woman in riding pants standing beside her, who was looking down at Delilah with an amused expression on her face.
“Oh my God, she thinks we're LARPers,” she said — and Delilah blinked to hear an accent just like hers.
“Another American?”
“Yeah. There's five of us. Well, six now. And babe, let's rip this Band-Aid — this isn't a re-enactment. More like an... Actment. Is that a word?”
Delilah frowned again. The woman seemed to be staying in character — neither of them had made the hand signal for dropping back into the real world — but it wasn’t particularly in-character to talk about re-enactments while still performing them. “What do you mean?”
“I mean time travel. You time travelled, back here, to medieval Scotland. Woah, shock, how could this be, I know, now listen —”
“Fiona,” the older woman scolded her in a hushed tone. “You mustn't rush her like this —”
“Time travel? Really?” Delilah chuckled. “Cool. Sci-fi elements. Very cool. Guys, I really appreciate the invitation to play — and I'd definitely take you up on it if I wasn't so busy — but I really need to get back to my accommodations. I'm in town to study the ruin — Castle MacClaran, nearby? — and I was looking around and I think I must've fallen and hit my head or something —”
“Nope,” the woman called Fiona said bluntly. “Didn't happen. You time travelled.” She tilted her head. “But you were in Scotland? Not San Francisco?”
“Well, yeah,” Delilah said blankly. Her head was starting to ache again. What strange script were these women running? She'd already said she didn't want to play — they should be dropping out of character about now, it was only polite…
“And you're studying Castle MacClaran?” the older woman broke in, a look of keen interest in her eyes. “The — the ruin, you said? How long has it been a ruin?”
“Now who's rushing her, Mary?” Fiona asked the older woman, her eyes sparkling. “This is cool
, though. Everyone else got yanked back from America. You were actually — there. Well, here.”
“Listen, I'm sure you have a great script and everything,” Delilah said tiredly, “but I really have to —”
“Babe, it's not a script. It's not a LARP. It's real life. These aren't costumes, they're clothes. This is Mary MacClaran. I'm Fiona MacClaran. And Castle MacClaran’s not a ruin — you're standing in it.”
“Lying in it,” Mary said softly, looking apologetically at Delilah.
“Here. Look.” Fiona jabbed a finger at the phone Delilah was still gripping in her hand. “Bet you found that in a metal box where the kitchen used to be, right?”
“I — yes, but —”
“How did I know? Witchcraft? No. Because it's my phone. Look.” She reached into the pocket of her breeches and withdrew a slender phone, reasonably new — the screen dark, but the device itself intact. She flipped it over and put it next to the worn one that Delilah was holding. They were identical. “Compare the serial numbers if you have to. Same phone. It came back with me when I time-travelled here. Battery was dead, but I kept it anyway as proof that I didn't hallucinate the future.”
“The future. You mean —”
“Welcome to the fifteenth century.” Fiona grinned down at her. “What's your name, by the way?”
Chapter 3
Delilah considered her two visitors, her mind racing. Something was clearly going on, that was for sure. These people had to know something about her — who she was, what her studies were — if they had spun such an elaborate story about the subject of her project. Even down to the century — the fifteenth century was of particular interest to her historically, as that was when the majority of the tales of witchcraft seemed to originate from, for all that they hung around and evolved through the remaining years. God, she'd be able to think so much more clearly if her head wasn't spinning and lurching like this. Could the long flight be catching up with her, suddenly? She’d never had this kind of problem with air travel before. But she’d never flown this far before, either… but surely if she was going to get unwell, she’d have noticed before now. No, that couldn’t be it.
But still, it felt like carsickness, or motion sickness, the kind you get on rollercoasters — as though she'd travelled a great distance at terrific speed. Travelled through time perhaps, she thought with a grin. God, if only. She'd spent more than a few hours daydreaming about the idea of physically travelling back to all the places she read about, hearing the stories for herself — or better yet, living them. But unless there was a lot of extremely top-secret scientific research going on, it wasn't going to be a possibility. Not in her lifetime.
Which left her with — what, exactly? These women, who clearly had come up with quite a complicated story for her. But for what? Could it be her friends at the SCA playing a joke on her, in league with local Scottish members? It was pretty good, she had to admit. The weathered phone was an especially nice touch. How had they gotten it into the ruin, though? And how had they known she'd go visiting the castle on her first day? And for that matter, how had they engineered her little fainting spell at the castle grounds? They loved re-enactments, that was for sure, but she knew for a fact that none of them would drug her. The club rules forbade even touching another player without a preliminary out-of-character discussion of consent, and they took those rules very seriously. Drugging someone… well, it was downright illegal, for a start. Nobody would dare. Would they? She felt anxiety beginning to gnaw at her stomach. Could she have been poisoned?
“She doesn't believe it,” Fiona was saying irritably to Mary, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Fair enough, I didn't either, but God. How many more of us are there going to be? How many more of these arguments are we going to have to have? Could someone just come through with a bit of faith? 'Welcome to medieval Scotland', I'd say. 'Oh, how wonderful', they'd say, 'medieval Scotland, I've always wanted to time travel'. But no. Bunch of scientists and academics. 'Oh, I must be hallucinating. Oh, this must be a trick. Oh, I've been kidnapped by weirdos.' That was Karin's theory, right? Kidnapping? What a stupid way to kidnap someone. As if it wouldn’t be difficult enough without adding a bunch of fantasy time-travel crap on top.”
“Are you hungry, dear?” Mary asked Delilah quietly, seeming to tune out of Fiona's tirade as though she'd flipped a switch. Delilah got the idea that Fiona was prone to tirades. “We've brought you up some pastries, but if you're still feeling queasy —”
“Food sounds wonderful,” Delilah said gratefully. Mary had placed an ornate platter on the table behind them, and she turned to retrieve it now, offering Delilah a collection of small pastries with what looked like a fruit filling. She took one gratefully and nibbled at it, grateful that her stomach seemed willing enough to accept the food. It had been a long time since breakfast, it felt like. Poor Maggie. She’d probably organized something wonderful for dinner, knowing how excited she’d been about offering hospitality to her new guest… and here Delilah was, stuck in some castle and unable to even give her a call. She’d have to bring her a bunch of flowers or something in apology.
“We still didn't get your name,” Fiona pointed out around a mouthful of pastry — she'd sniped one from the platter almost as soon as Delilah had taken one.
“Oh, sorry. You knew about my project, I assumed you knew about me. Delilah Cortland.”
“Delilah. Well, hey there. What's it like in New York City?” Fiona enquired, her eyes twinkling. “Bet you get that a lot, huh.”
“A little,” she admitted — the joke usually annoyed her, but there was something about Fiona that made it okay. “My brother's called Sam, that makes it worse.”
“Not Sampson?”
“Samuel, but that doesn't stop the jokes. My mother did it on purpose,” she added, rolling her eyes.
“What do you think, Mary? Does she remind you of anyone?”
The older woman was looking intently at Delilah's face. It was a little unsettling, if she was honest — she took another pastry to hide her discomfiture, glancing back at Fiona. But the other woman seemed to be waiting for Mary to pass some kind of judgment. Her confusion began to rise. What was going on? Why were they staring at her as though they were waiting to recognize her? Was this some part of the script? But she'd explicitly declined to participate in their game — any member of her society would have dropped character by now and explained what was happening. And there was something about the way they'd stopped trying to convince her that she was really in medieval Scotland that was setting off alarm bells. It felt too — authentic. As though she was going to find out the truth sooner or later, so what did it matter if she believed them now?
You're losing it, Delilah, she thought to herself. That, or they were extremely good at the ruse they were playing on her. But Mary was frowning.
“She almost reminds me... oh, but it's been such a long time, surely it couldn’t be her...”
There was a sudden tapping at the great wooden door behind the women that startled all three of them. Before anyone could react, the door was shoved open. Curious, Delilah twisted around in bed, interested to see what new player was about to enter their little scene — and she couldn’t help but take a sharp breath of surprise. The man in the doorway was enormous — at least a head taller than either of the women standing in the room, and as broad as an oak tree. He was carrying a helmet under his arm that she recognized as being identical to the ones worn by the men who'd brought her in from outside. A guard, then? Was he bringing news of some great adventure that would be the subject of whatever game they were about to play? Perhaps a witch had cursed the castle, or a dragon was eating villagers?
But the man's green eyes were fixed on Delilah, not on Mary or Fiona — and the expression on his face was not that of a man who had come to deliver a plot hook. He looked ... well, he looked deeply frightened, for a minute. Then the fear cleared, replaced by suspicion and distrust. He opened his mouth as though to address her — then seemed
to reconsider. He stared at her for another long minute, then the door slammed closed and she heard the sound of his feet marching swiftly up the corridor.
“Who was that, then?” she asked, her eyes flicking up to Fiona in an attempt to hide her discomfiture. There had been something altogether too real about that little encounter. A flare of anxiety and unease in her gut that felt deeper, somehow, than the simple confusion about where she was and what she was doing here. An intuition that something was wrong — that the man who’d barged in was important, somehow, for all that she couldn’t imagine why.
“No way,” Fiona said, wide-eyed, completely ignoring Delilah as she spun to look at Mary.
The older woman was frowning. Delilah had to hand it to both of them — they were incredibly committed and subtle actors. Among her club, the acting skills ranged from decent to woeful, but both of these women put even their most believable players to shame. The trick to it was that they were hardly paying any attention to Delilah at all, which really supported the illusion that there was something going on that was bigger than her. She almost wished she had her notebook — these were useful things to take home to her club. Not that she was here to research LARPing, of course…
Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 3
