Highlander’s Curse

by Melissa Mayhue

  His only doubt, in fact, was what effect those waters would have on Colin.

  Eleven

  If only the sun would chase away the dark, heavy clouds, it might yet turn out to be a decent day.

  Abby shivered and pulled the zipper on her jacket all the way up to her chin, huddling into herself against the early morning chill. The rains had finally stopped early yesterday, but the clouds hanging low over the dig site looked ready to burst open at any moment. Summer in the Highlands.

  “Okay, people. Gather round so we can go over today’s plan of action.” Mackenzie Lawrence tapped her pencil impatiently against the clipboard she held. “Come on, people! Mr. Flynn doesn’t have all day for us to waste.”

  Puh-leeze. Abby forced herself to stare at her own feet so that no one would see her eyes rolling in irritation. As if every single person out here this morning wasn’t every bit as committed to this project as that annoying little harpy.

  Like Abby, most of the others were so excited and grateful to have been chosen to participate in this dig, they’d all minded their manners and deferred to Jonathan Flynn’s every word.

  Not Mackenzie. She’d quickly appointed herself their benefactor’s right-hand woman and clearly considered herself head and shoulders above the rest of them because she’d been working as some professor’s assistant for the past year.

  Big frickin’ whoop.

  Pretty pushy, in Abby’s estimation. Especially for an undergrad. Abby herself had no illusions that Ms. Lawrence knew more than any of the others. She didn’t. It was only that none of them—including Abby—worked so hard at trying to be in charge.

  Or at kissing Jonathan Flynn’s butt.

  Besides, they’d been over this same little speech so many times, Abby could almost give it herself. After all these weeks, she seriously doubted that the item Jonathan sought was even here to be found.

  Her head snapped up when she realized Jonathan had already launched into his description, only to find his eyes fixed on her as if he spoke directly to her.

  “I have faith in your ability to locate the stone marker we seek, even though it likely will be in small pieces since the site has been so thoroughly damaged by time.”

  Damaged by time? Abby was willing to bet a full month’s salary there was more than time that had gone into the deteriorated state of this particular site. With an undergraduate degree in archaeology, she’d seen thousands of photos from more than her share of ancient sites located all over the world. This one looked like none of them. Granted, she had never been to the British Isles before, but she had firsthand knowledge of dig sites all across the southwestern United States and she’d never seen any in this shape. In fact, this site looked as if a wrecking crew had been here with sledgehammers, paid to pound the place to dust.

  The effects of a thousand years of warring tribes and wet weather, according to Jonathan. That might well be, but Abby had her doubts. This destruction looked intentional to her. Intentional and absolutely complete.

  She tuned out the drone of Jonathan’s voice and began her mental preparation for the day’s work. As she always did, she visualized herself sending out delicate tendrils of fluorescent green energy. They curled across the ground, lashing out like lizard tongues testing the air. They probed the rubble and beneath, deep into the earth under her feet, determinedly seeking their prize, the Marker Stone.

  According to Jonathan, centuries ago the stone would have stood as tall as a man, its surface engraved with strange Pictish markings. He’d shown them a rough hand-drawn sketch of what he expected to find based on his research. The drawing had reminded Abby of a snake curling around a Do Not Enter sign.

  She filled her mind with the image of the drawing but, again today, she felt nothing other than her own frustration. If the marker was here, it wasn’t in the location where she was assigned to dig today.

  Their standard pep talk ended, Abby made her way to the spot where she’d been working for the past week and stepped gingerly into the taped-off square. Down on her knees, she laid her hands on the dirt, spreading her fingers in her own private ritual.

  There were archaeological treasures somewhere below her hands. She could feel them. Lovely bits and pieces of past lives, clues to a people long gone, calling to her to expose them to the world once again.

  But no Marker Stone. Nothing with the design Jonathan sought.

  Neither was her own special treasure here.

  For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to travel to Scotland on an excavation. Something here had called to her. Something ancient. Something special meant for just her to find.

  Ah, well. There were still two months left. She might yet locate that special something.

  The locals had told them there were a few small caves in these mountains and she had hopes that she’d have a chance to explore those areas to see what they might hold. Who knew? One of them might hold the treasures she sought.

  For now, though, their dig site was centered in this little glen, which was just as well, really. As much as she wanted to see what history the local caves might hold, the idea of actually going inside a small, dark hole in the ground made her almost physically ill. It was that fear of small, dark places that had led her to study early Native American and Ancient Celtic peoples rather than to venture into Egyptology.

  The whole idea of being sealed in a pyramid was more than she could bear to entertain.

  In a matter of moments, her mind filled with variations of what might await her on this particular day. As always, she was lost in her work, completely absorbed in digging away the thin layers of dirt and debris separating her from the treasures calling to her.

  “Give me your opinion on this, Abigail?”

  Abby dragged her attention from the little trowel in her hand, so completely immersed in her work it felt as if she were swimming up from the bottom of a deep, dark pool into the bright sunlight.

  When had all the clouds burned off?

  Jonathan towered over her, clutching some small find in his hand. Light glinted off the sunglasses he’d pushed up on his forehead as he smiled down at her and held out a hand to help her to her feet.

  He really was an attractive man. Tall and broad-shouldered, with long blond hair pulled back and tied at his neck, he looked like he belonged in a commercial for expensive big boy toys. If she squinted just right, she could almost picture him standing on the deck of a yacht with some fancy drink in his hand.

  And yet, here he was, smiling down at her, his shirtsleeves rolled midway up his forearms, some muddy little prize clutched in one hand as he reached out to her with the other.

  She accepted the help willingly, realizing as she stood that she had no idea how many hours she’d spent on her knees, only that, from her stiff legs, it had apparently been a good long while.

  “What do you make of this, love?”

  Her cheeks heated as several sets of eyes turned in their direction and, not for the first time, she wished he’d stop calling her that. Initially she’d assumed he used the endearments for everyone simply because he couldn’t be bothered with remembering their names. But it had quickly become apparent that not only did he remember everyone’s names, he used them. It was only her he singled out for the pet names.

  She took the small dirt-encrusted stone from him and rubbed her thumb over it to examine it more closely.

  “I don’t see . . .” Anything. Nothing at all. It looked like just a plain old stone to her. She ran her thumb over the surface, detecting no irregularity of any kind.

  “Don’t you think that could be a bit of engraving?” He pointed the tip of the little gold pocket knife he held at a particularly mud-caked spot. “Just there. On the edge.”

  He handed her the stone, pointing to a spot with the tip of the little knife. There might be something there. She shifted the stone into the palm of her hand just as he scraped the long edge of the knife against it.

  “No!” He hissed the word as the blade slipped
from the stone and sliced into the palm of her hand.

  Both stone and knife fell to the ground unheeded.

  Abby gasped, staring at the spot where the skin splayed open, feeling strangely removed as the crimson of her own blood oozed out and the sting of the wound registered in her brain.

  It had all happened in the blink of an eye, and yet it was as if time had come to a stop, the sound of her own heartbeat echoing loudly inside her head as if heralding some momentous occasion.

  Thub-Dub.

  “No,” he denied on a whisper, clasping her hand between his own as if he could undo the accident.

  Jonathan held her hand fast in his, her strength no match for his when she tried to pull away. Murmuring a string of unintelligible apologies, he lifted her palm to his lips.

  Thub-Dub.

  Shock stiffened her body when his tongue stroked over the wound in her palm an instant before she felt the unmistakable pressure of his sucking against the site. Their gazes locked in the moment and a second shock tingled down her spine, this one tinged with an unreasonable fear, strangely reminiscent of the way she’d felt in the dream she’d had the night before she’d gone to search for Colin.

  Thub-Dub. Thub-Dub.

  His eyes, usually masked to hide whatever he felt, glittered now. The green of his irises seemed to sparkle with some emotion she couldn’t begin to identify.

  Thub-Dub. Thub-Dub. Thub-Dub.

  She tore her gaze away, focusing instead on the little gold knife he’d dropped at their feet. She stared first at the silver blade, a streak of her blood covering its edge, and then at the fancy little letters engraved on the handle, as if memorizing the scripted F.D.A. could somehow transport her away from this moment in time.

  “Jesus, what happened? Snakebite?” Mackenzie stooped to retrieve the knife, her shrill voice bringing the ordeal to an end, thankfully releasing Abby from the horrible spell she’d felt herself under.

  “No. I’m afraid my penknife slipped as I tried to clear a bit of dirt from a stone I was showing to Abigail.”

  Jonathan’s voice shook in a way that left no doubt he was upset by what he’d done, and yet she simply could not bring herself to meet his eyes again. Whatever emotion it was she’d seen there before, she knew only that she didn’t want any part of it.

  “Oh, well, for crying out loud. That’s why we don’t use things like this.” Mackenzie closed the blade on the knife and handed it to Jonathan, her irritation evident. “Put that in your pocket and keep it there. And you don’t suck the blood out of knife wounds, okay? Honestly, Jonathan. Do you have any idea how many germs live in the human mouth?”

  “Sorry,” he murmured, his eyes glazed. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Look,” Mackenzie interrupted. “I know this is your project, okay? But nothing is running to standard here. I know you’re a researcher, okay? A paper-and-pen and stacks-of-books kind of guy, okay? So please just leave the field work to those of us who know what we’re doing. You should go get yourself a bottle of water from the cooler and rinse your mouth out, too. Gross.” Mackenzie jerked Abby’s hand from Jonathan’s grasp, sparing him a glare before peering down at the cut. “That’s not so bad. You’ll be fine. It doesn’t even need stitches. Come on over to the van. There’s a first aid kit in there and we can wrap you up. After we clean it out.”

  Abby nodded mutely, trailing gratefully along behind her bossy younger coworker.

  A glance back over her shoulder revealed Jonathan unmoving, as if in shock. She should probably say something to him, tell him she was fine and not upset with him at all.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him, not even to save his feelings. She wasn’t fine. She was rattled as hell. Whatever had just passed between her and Jonathan frightened her. He frightened her. All she wanted was to get as far away from him as possible.

  Turning back, she fixed her gaze on the young woman marching ahead of her. She might have considered Mackenzie a pain in the ass from the first day they met, but that all changed as of right now. Having Mackenzie within eyesight just might be the smartest thing she could do as long as Jonathan Flynn was around.

  Flynn breathed in deeply, slowly, waiting for his equilibrium to return. The Magic had hit him hard, flooding his body with its own sweet tang.

  It had all happened so quickly. An accident, to be sure. But then, as the blood had oozed from Abigail’s wound, the Bloodlust had taken hold and he’d been unable to resist touching his tongue to that magnificent nectar. Once he’d done that, he was lost, desperate for more.

  It was glorious. She was glorious.

  He watched Abby walking away from him, unable to tear his gaze from her. To the eye, she was little more than an everywoman, certainly not a classic beauty by the standards of this time. And yet, everything about her called out to him and he wanted her more desperately than he’d wanted any woman in a very long time. He wanted all of her. Her body, her blood, her Magic.

  That glorious Magic! It rippled through him like a burst of electricity.

  He’d been right about her. The blood of the Fae flowed in her veins, and along with it the pure, sweet essence of his beloved Magic. Even now its power tingled through his body, sparkling in the synapses of his brain like fireworks.

  All around him, it was as if small, insistent voices tore at the edges of his awareness, all demanding his attention in a sensory-battering cacophony.

  Here! The pen from Mackenzie’s clipboard lay buried in a tall clump of grass off to his left.

  Here! An earring somewhere beyond in the grove of trees, lost over a decade past.

  Here! A shard of pottery, buried beneath his feet, centuries ago forgotten.

  It was too much all at once, hundreds of voices spilling over one another in a flood of noise. So many, they drowned one another out, masking the individual words, turning the sound into an indistinguishable mass of writhing colors pounding in his brain.

  Flynn lifted his hands to his ears in a fruitless effort to block the flow. How could anyone profit from an assault such as this? It would be impossible to isolate any one item from the whole.

  Unless he could learn to filter the noise, to sift out that which he sought.

  He stalked into the grove, slowing to snatch up a discarded trowel on his way. Once beyond the sight of his companions, he dropped to his knees and plunged the blade of the trowel into the soft ground.

  Here!

  Clawing into the earth with his fingers, he shoved away a handful of rotting leaves and mud. He alternated between trowel and fingers, digging like a madman until at last one of the voices ceased to call. He splayed open his hand, pushing through the clump of dirt he held until he found it, the earring that had called out to him.

  What a magnificent gift the Magic had bestowed! He needed only to figure out a way to isolate the individual voices he sought, those of the Portal pieces.

  Dropping the worthless trinket to the ground, Flynn closed his eyes, fighting to ignore the many in favor of the few. He filled his mind with the Portal as he imagined it would have looked, willing his mind to go deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of flowing color that was the noise.

  How long he kneeled on the damp ground he had no idea, nor did he care. All he was aware of was that it was working! Gradually, one by one, the voices receded, layers of color peeling back, leaving him alone in a dark cocoon of silence.

  “Come on, people! Doesn’t look like the rain is going to let up this time. Let’s wrap it up for the day!”

  Mackenzie’s voice pierced his awareness, drawing him back to the present. Somewhere along the way, the clouds had returned, bringing with them the rain that splattered against his face in large, cold drops.

  Already the Magic was beginning to fade.

  Slowly, Flynn rose to his feet, acutely aware of the spots within him which would soon be empty again. He’d not found any trace of the Portal, but he had found something perhaps just as good.

  Abigail was descended from the
Fae. Now that he had his proof, he was more determined than ever to proceed with his plans.

  Fighting the emptiness left behind by the initial rush of the Magic, Flynn made his way out of the grove and into the clearing, his eyes instantly drawn to Abigail.

  He might never find his way back to Wyddecol, but perhaps he could live with that now. He would have her, and through her he would have the Magic. As much and as often as he desired.

  Twelve

  Heat radiated off the stone RoundHouse in great sparkling waves, a promise of the physical misery to come.

  “Here is your robe, Guardian.” The tall Fae waited only until Colin had taken the garment before turning his back. “As usual, you may leave your. . . wrapping on the stool by the door.”

  “I’ve no a need for yer scrap of cloth, Odirn.” Colin grinned as he accepted the robe, tossing it to the stool before unwinding his plaid. “I’ve no a problem with my own body.”

  Surprisingly for a race of men who seemed to Colin more than ready to swive every female who crossed their path, the Fae were unaccountably modest about their own nudity around other men.

  “You may have no problem, but have a care for the rest of us. Wear the damned robe. Why must we go through this every time, Guardian?”

  Why? Because teasing Odirn was one of the few things that amused him here in Wyddecol. As always, Colin held his own counsel on the matter, grinning more broadly at the old fellow.

  The Fae placed his hands together as if in prayer, closed his eyes, and bowed low. “Blessings for a fruitful Communion, Guardian.”

  “Blessings, my arse,” Colin muttered, pulling open the door.

  The wet heat blasted him as he stepped inside, stinging his eyes and nose. He closed the door behind him but moved no farther into the small room, waiting instead for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the interior. The room itself was a perfect circle, its smooth surface broken only by a fire pit set against the wall, its top glowing red with coals. This was the only light source in the cramped space. Steam hissed from a massive kettle of water placed over the fire pit, rolling into the room and filling his lungs with each breath.