Dark Truth (The Time Bound Series Book 3)

by Lora Andrews

  Although Donald’s words were said with his usual ease, worry marred his brother’s expression. The same worry pulling on his own.

  Ewen nodded stiffly. Once they’d verified the manor was safe from attack, he’d put together a search party to scout the woods and bury the bodies. No man deserved to be left as fodder for the crows, no matter his allegiance. Or his origin. His eyes drifted to the corpse and the wing.

  Behind them, the lass leaned against a tree. Ewen felt the heat of her stare, and damn it to hell, his body responded.

  Donald clapped Ewen’s back. “Tonight, after a warm meal, we’ll reconvene in the study with a stiff dram and the council of our good Brother. Perhaps with the vast knowledge gained from a half a lifetime’s service to the abbey, Brother Rupert can shed some light on the peculiar events of this morn.” The men turned from the wing to begin the trek back to the manor.

  Rupert snorted. “A dram or two will no more clarify or explain what we have all witnessed this day.”

  A branch cracked.

  Ewen jerked his head up. A smaller giant leaped from a branch fifty feet above their heads, landing on the ground in front of the woman.

  And before Ewen could react, it bared its fangs.

  FOUR

  CAITLIN SCREAMED. The Fomorian opened its mouth. Saliva dripped from its yellowed fangs. Bulbous red boils covered its face, and its black eyes bore into her like a man about to bite into his favorite burger.

  Holy shit.

  With the dagger held in a reverse grip, Caitlin prepared to swing. If she could stab it in the neck, she might stand a chance. This Fomorian was at least seven feet, a shorty compared to the last one.

  But what he lacked in height, he more than made up for with speed. It snatched her arm, crushing the bones in her wrist with its gnarly grip. The dagger slid out of her hand and fell to the ground. Before she could take her next breath, it bent its bald head forward, black eyes focused on the rapid beat of her carotid.

  No. No. No. No.

  She jerked, twisting away from the rotting breath brushing her skin.

  Fangs pierced the left side of her neck. Pain exploded through her collarbone and then sliced down her body, the assault shocking muscle and bone alike. She couldn’t breathe.

  Latched to her neck, the Fomorian held her against the tree, the bark digging into her back through the wool cloak. “Mm” sounds escaped its throat as it fed. Mr. Giant didn’t have a mother who would have scolded him about talking with his mouth full. Pity, because its loud swallows stirred the bile in her stomach to a raucous boil.

  Don’t get sick. God, don’t get sick.

  The last thing she needed was to deal with the smell of her puke on top of the monster’s stench and wet slurps.

  She held still. Any amount of struggle would tear her flesh. But what the hell did she care if her neck tore? The giant wasn’t letting her go until it drained every ounce of her blood to fuel its magic. That’s what these things did on this side of the veil—drink human blood to temporarily inject magic into their system. And when it finished with her, it would feast on Ewen, Donald, and the rest of the clan.

  She kneed the giant in the groin.

  It grunted, unaffected. Too bad she couldn’t say the same for her knee cap.

  Someone yelled. Then something slammed against the Fomorian’s back. The giant’s body shook from the impact. From over the giant’s shoulder, Caitlin caught the glint of iron and sapphire blue.

  Ewen.

  He stabbed the giant repeatedly, and except for the jarring of the monster’s body against hers, the Fomorian was impervious to the assault. Its mouth was still clamped to her neck, and it’s claws bit into her shoulders with the same ferocity it had a minute ago.

  Tears stung her eyes. Ewen didn’t understand this enemy. He didn’t know the Fomorian would heal from his blows, probably faster than normal thanks to her MacEwen blood.

  God, had she honestly been sent into the past to die in the fucking woods with a freaking Fomorian sucking the life from her neck?

  The Fomorian gurgled and coughed.

  Choke, you bastard.

  It pulled away. Eyes wide, it pointed a gnarly claw at her face. “Tha thu.”

  Me?

  The giant’s mouth opened, the pink-purple shade of its face deepening into blue. Twitching, its monstrous hands flew to its neck, foam building at the corners of its mouth. His freaked-out eyes bulged, staring at her with shock, disgust, and condemnation. Like she had done something…to him.

  Her body tensed, and for a second, she felt bad? The giant’s glare had had the same effect as an old song, propelling her into the past. For a moment, she was back to being a shy ten-year-old girl dodging stares, all the while praying the floor would open up and swallow her because someone had done the right thing and reported the bullying. But that’s the thing about consequences and bullies. They always blame the victim. And when you’re a kid who already hates herself for being different, you blame yourself, too.

  Oh, god…the blood loss was making her stupid.

  Gagging, the Fomorian staggered back. It’s hands clawed at its neck.

  Ewen and the others stepped away from the giant, watching warily as it collapsed, body seizing atop the damp earth, a sword protruding from its back.

  Caitlin sagged against the tree, too weak to tell anyone the sword wouldn’t kill the giant. They needed to run away. And fast. Dizziness overwhelmed her. If she could just close her eyes and take a ten-minute nap, maybe she could find the energy to—

  “Stay awake.”

  Ewen’s voice knocked around in her head. Strong fingers gripped her chin, and she opened her eyes. He was staring at her, his black brows furrowed, making the vee between his brows even more prominent.

  He shook her. “Doona sleep, lass. Stay with me.”

  She wanted too, but she wasn’t sure it was in the cards. It seemed fate had a way of pushing them apart. Find me. Weren’t those his final words before he’d thrown her through the portal? She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the look on his face when he’d said those words.

  “I can’t feel my feet.”

  “From the cold. You’ll be warm soon.” His voice was tight.

  Something pushed against her windpipe. It hurt to swallow, and her one hundred pound arms made it difficult to bend her elbow to scratch her forehead.

  Or feel her neck.

  Trees and more trees flashed by. He was running through the forest with her cradled in his arms.

  “Don’t drop me.” She was too heavy to be carried like a baby. She was probably halfway to bleeding out. “It’s not your fault.” Had she spoken out loud? “You did everything you could.”

  But knowing Ewen, if she died, he would blame himself.

  He didn’t respond, and she didn’t have the energy to talk louder. The nausea had wiped her out. Time travel was not for the light of stomach. How Ewen had survived the car chase from Weetamoo without vomiting in her Acadia was a feat of epic proportions.

  God, she sounded loopy, even inside her head.

  Noise…so many different tones blared in her ears, the volume fluctuating from loud to hushed in one continuous, jumbled note. Horses. Shouts. Pounding feet.

  Caitlin blinked. The sunlight made her eyes water. Vibrations rumbled against her cheek as Ewen spoke, soft soothing sounds she couldn’t make out.

  “Whoa,” a male voice said.

  They were out of the forest. She could see grass, but the firm pressure of Ewen’s upper arm against the side of her face prevented her from turning her head to see whose voice belonged to the “whoa.”

  Ian came into view.

  A horse snorted—maybe two—and there was rustling to her right.

  “Hold her, but keep pressure on the wound,” Ewen said.

  Cold air swept over her body as Ewen transferred her to Ian without a hitch in his breathing. The cloak wasn’t meant to be worn as a dress, and by now, her winter-white, twenty-eight-year-old American body
had been exposed to the eyes of several of Ewen’s medieval clansmen.

  Ugh. If she survived, she’d be mortified.

  Ian smiled down at her. “Does trouble find ye every place you go, lass?”

  She snorted. “Nope.”

  It hadn’t until a certain somebody fell out of the sky. Before that, her life had been as boring as plain oatmeal. Without the salt. Except for the drama of her ex cheating on her with Caitlin’s co-worker, her life had been relatively uneventful.

  Ian grabbed the ends of the wool cloak together. “Well, then, lucky for you”—he edged closer to the horse to lift her up—“we’ve a fine healer to mend what pains you.” His wink did little to hide the alarm etched in his handsome face.

  Behind him, the laird, the monk, and the twins watched. Well, one of the twins glared, but she supposed she’d earned the man’s annoyance after stomping on his foot and possibly breaking his nose.

  Ewen wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and clucked. The horse moved, jostling them across the field. The warmth of his body surrounded her, but she shivered, her teeth clacking, which made holding her shields in place all the more difficult. Despite her best efforts, random emotions that weren’t hers poked through her barriers. Worry. Confusion. Suspicion.

  Did he feel the pull of his vow?

  Through might or peril, discord or unity, my vow I give to you. My life for yours, through time or place, let my blood be the seal that binds my oath.

  The blood oath of a Draconian Warrior.

  The bond that ended Ewen’s life.

  Intense guilt shifted her line of sight to the blurring landscape. Away from the man holding her against his chest in a valiant attempt to save her life. Had the bond carried through time? God, she hoped not. Up until now, he’d shown no outward sign of being affected by his pledge. Ewen deserved a shot at life. As long as he remained tangled in her mess, he’d never be free of the consequences.

  If by some miracle she survived the Fomorian’s bite, Caitlin had to find Brigid. The goddess was part of the group that closed the veil between Earth and Neridia. She knew how to defeat Bres, and Caitlin would bet her life that Brigid knew how to sever a blood oath. Maybe the answer was keeping Ewen in this time.

  But Brigid had run from the field. Finding her wasn’t going to be easy if the goddess chose not to be found.

  The horse came to a stop. Ewen swung his long leg over the animal and landed on his feet without overly jarring her injured neck. The others followed, their footsteps sounding loudly behind them, spilling around Ewen as he climbed the stairs to a stone manor with a massive wooden door. Ian and Brother Rupert proceeded into the castle ahead of Ewen.

  From somewhere to her right, Donald shouted commands. “Find the Lady of Buannachd Mhòr. You, send for Deidre.” A pause. “Don’t just stand there, move. The rest of you, get your hides to the perimeter.” Bodies shuffled for the door. “No one gets in or out of Ardgour without my say.”

  Ewen laid her upon a hard surface. A table?

  Caitlin focused on the vaulted ceiling and the large wooden beams running across. Her right hand throbbed, but despite the pain, it became increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open, even with her teeth clattering.

  “We’ll need to clean the wound,” someone said.

  Caitlin’s eyes fluttered open. Ewen was on her left. Another scowl marred his gorgeous face. Hovering to her right were two strange women. The one closest to Caitlin was petite with auburn hair and dark, almost black eyes. And very pregnant. The second woman was about Caitlin’s age and height, with light brown hair and bright hazel eyes. Both gave her warm smiles despite the concern wedging into their eyes.

  The taller woman waved a hand in a shooing gesture. “Off to the war room with you,” she told Ewen. The weight of her hand settled gently on Caitlin’s leg. “Go on now and join the others in the solar and do what you men do best.”

  “Wage war.”

  The woman’s thought rang loudly in Caitlin’s head. She groaned at the intrusion and tightened her shields, but in her weakened condition, it would be impossible to control her gift.

  Refusing to budge, Ewen folded his arms across his chest.

  “What’s gotten into him?” The woman moved her hand from Caitlin’s leg and rounded the foot of the table. She grabbed Ewen by the arm, turned him, placed two hands at his back, and then gave him a good push. “I can’t very well work with you scowling over my head, now can I?”

  Ewen turned to the shorter woman, his face defiant, almost as if he were mentally ordering her to reprimand her friend.

  Setting a kettle on the table, the petite woman cleared her throat. “Best ye go, Ewen.” She tilted her head to the commotion at the other end of the room around the red-haired laird who was still barking orders left and right. “And now. You know how he gets when he’s in that mood.”

  Ewen’s eyes widened briefly. He hadn’t expected her answer. Frowning, he set off in his brother’s direction without sparing Caitlin another glance.

  She would have argued for him to stay, but she hurt too much. The adrenaline had worn off, and, boy oh boy, could she use a painkiller right about now.

  Dusting her hands with a satisfied grin, the taller woman returned to her spot by Caitlin’s head. “We’ll have you good as new.” She nodded to the pregnant woman, who passed her a wooden cup with steam billowing from the center. “Deidre is my name. I’m a healer, and that”—she jutted her chin to the shorter woman—“would be Mari, the lady of Buannachd Mhòr.”

  Mari?

  Caitlin thought back. Had Ewen mentioned a Mari? Or a Deidre? She couldn’t remember.

  “Welcome,” Mari said. “And who would you be?”

  The burning sensation in Caitlin’s neck intensified, the pain spreading out into her jaw. She sucked in a breath. A look passed between the two women, and for once, Caitlin’s shields held. But she didn’t need her psychic abilities to read their minds. She knew that look. Sympathy. The look people gave you when they didn’t know what to say to ease your grief after a death. Or a divorce.

  These women weren’t holding out much hope of her surviving.

  God...

  “I’m...Caitlin,” she finally said after a hiss of pain.

  “Well, then, Caitlin, pleased we are to meet you.” While holding the steaming cup with her left hand, Deidre slid her right arm beneath Caitlin’s shoulders and smiled. She brought the cup around. “Drink.”

  Caitlin stared at the steam. If this was dirty water…? “What is it?”

  “This here?” Deidre raised the cup slightly and glanced at Mari. “It is but a harmless mixture of herbs.”

  Sure. That’s what Socrates thought until he died of hemlock poisoning. “What kind of herbs?”

  “A bit of mandrake, lettuce, wine.” Deidre paused. “Herbs that will keep you asleep so we can tend to your neck, unless of course you’d prefer to lay awake while I stitch your flesh?”

  Okay. She was loopy but not that loopy. “You need to—”

  Now, how to explain disinfecting a wound to the village healer without getting herself arrested for witchcraft should she survive.

  Frowning, Deidre chewed the edge of her lip. She scrutinized Caitlin, then her brow arched, and she nodded as if she’d come to some conclusion about her patient. “Ah, so you’ve a bit of the healer in you. Well then, I can assure you, the wound will be properly cleaned. I’ll be applying yarrow to help seal the bleeding.”

  “You are in good hands.” Mari patted Caitlin’s good arm. “Deidre has tended to half of the warriors in this clan, and the rest have God to thank for their lives.”

  Ewen trusted these women, and well, Caitlin trusted Ewen. With her life.

  She tried to nod and immediately regretted it.

  Deidre brought the cup to Caitlin’s lips.

  Her stomach pinched from the smell.

  “Slowly, now.”

  Caitlin opened her mouth. The warm liquid flowed down her throat. She gagged. God, the
sweet, pungent taste was worse than the smell. Or the grossest cough syrup.

  “A bit more,” Deidre prompted.

  Squeezing her eyes, Caitlin swallowed.

  “Good.” Deidre passed the cup to Mari then grabbed a bottle filled with a dark liquid.

  Mari stroked Caitlin’s forehead and smiled. The repetitive sweep of her hand lulled Caitlin into a state of relaxation. For a second, she was a kid again, lying on her mother’s lap, watching TV as her mom smoothed her unruly hair from her face.

  She jolted awake. Sound echoed around her. The faces bent over her body blurred, fading in and out of view. Caitlin blinked. Two Maris. Two…what was her name again?

  Something cool poured over her neck, stinging her skin. She hissed.

  “Just a wee more,” someone soothed. “It’ll hurt, I know, but naught can be done about it now.”

  The room spun.

  Caitlin gave up trying to focus and closed her eyes. Soon, the pain faded, and along with it, the chatter in the room. Her limbs no longer weighed her body down. She let out a contented sigh.

  Oh yeah…I’m high as a kite.

  The last thought running through her mind before she passed out was, Damn, I need me some herbs.

  FIVE

  “FOR THE LAST TIME”—Ewen curled his fingers to keep from hammering his fist beside the prisoner’s head—“who sent you?”

  “I told you all I know,” the man spit out.

  Lies. Bluidy lies. Every single word. It had to be. The muscles in Ewen’s jaw tensed. If the man spoke true, it would mean…

  The bullwhip cracked against the stone floor.

  The man jerked, his brown eyes wary. He pulled on the chains binding him to the wall. The torn sleeve of his léine shifted up his arm to reveal a symbol branded on his skin. Age coiled the outer edges of his eyes and mouth, his brown hair sticking to the sweat and blood running down the sides of his face.

  Ian came to a full stop before the captive. Cocking his head, he stared at the man for several minutes before speaking, a tactic he often used to generate a measure of unease in both ally and foe alike. Like his sister Mari, when Ian’s mind was set on a task, he had the patience of a saint and the boundless fortitude to carry the act through.