Edge of Yesterday (Edge Series Book 1)

by Tarah Scott

  Valdar continued the light swordplay. They had left the crowd behind and, per script, the men playing Cailean’s warriors had splintered off, headed for other reenactments.

  To Cailean’s right, the town lights flickered through the trees. “How much longer do you plan to keep this up?”

  “Long as need be.” Valdar lunged.

  Cailean blocked the blow aimed at his thigh. That was a bit more than swordplay.

  “You are very good,” Valdar said.

  Cailean laughed. “You’re no’ so bad yourself.”

  Valdar advanced. Cailean retreated, allowing his opponent the luxury of easy dueling. His arm ached, but only a little, and he likely wouldn’t have the opportunity for testing his skill against such a good swordsman until, well, the next festival rolled around. If Val invited him back.

  “I hope I didn’t offend you by chasing you down in front of the crowd.” Cailean leapt aside, avoiding his downward slashing blade. “You drew a little blood back there.” He circled Valdar, trying to keep a good footing on the damp, mossy ground. “I usually save blood giving for the Red Cross.” He parried around Valdar’s vicious swings. “I thought I’d give you a taste of your own medicine.”

  “You only did what you were born to do.” Valdar jumped sideways over a fallen log, and Cailean’s jab cut through thin air.

  Cailean laughed. “If you’re saying I’m a born swordsman, I take that as a compliment.”

  “Aye, you are born to the blade, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Nae?” Cailean feinted, then sliced a hole in Val’s cloak.

  Valdar leapt back and held up a hand. “Enough.” He sheathed his blade.

  Cailean halted, more glad that Val had ended the fight than he wanted to admit. He was getting old. The ceremonial cut for the opening feast’s Blooding Stone had re-opened. Now this new jab on his left arm also ached. He had thought it a mere scratch, but maybe it was a bit more. He wanted to head back to Bain’s, have a shower and crawl into bed.

  But he flashed a cocky smile. “Can’t take the heat, huh?” He chuckled as he slid his sword into the leather scabbard.

  “We shall see who can take the heat,” Val said, then shouted. “Now!”

  Three large figures in leather and mail broke from the trees. Cailean slowed. He couldn’t discern the men’s faces, but he felt certain two of them were Rathais and Dunnett. He hadn’t known the men were going to join them.

  Val made no introductions, but simply said, “Come,” and strode away.

  Cailean fell in alongside him and the other men took up the rear. He slowed pace as the older man entered a field of large, lichen-covered boulders. After they took their bows, they would meet up on the far side of the village. There, they would play out the next scene that legend said had taken place two years after Lady Elizabeth’s death, when Valdar returned to Heatheredge as a Cistercian monk. In his newfound faith, he brought forgiveness to Heatheredge for the evil they had brought upon the village by betraying Lady Elizabeth. Thankfully, Cailean didn’t have another big swordfight tonight.

  Village lights dotted the landscape to their right. He expected to turn in that direction, but Val veered left, into the great Scots pines.

  Cailean slowed. “I’m all for authenticity, lads, but a torch would do about now. A modern one with batteries.”

  “We’re almost there.” Val kept walking.

  Cailean followed, then silently cursed when a gorse branch snapped back and pierced his side. Thorns dug into him like tiny needles. Cailean lifted his arm to shield himself, but his plaid caught on a bush and he yanked the fabric free.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the receding lights. “Shouldn’t we head toward Heatheredge?”

  “Soon enough,” Val said.

  Something in his voice snagged Cailean’s attention. He quickened pace to match Val’s long strides. The man didn’t seem bothered by stinging nettles and thorny gorse. Cailean swerved to avoid another close encounter with the fiendish gorse. Damn, but his side burned.

  Val marched on, unfazed. Cailean glanced at him. Many considered him a Highland hero. Cailean couldn’t help a swell of admiration, even awe. The modern festival had evolved from a celebration that tradition said began with his forebear’s triumphant return to Heatheredge. The older man’s ancestors revived medieval Scotland and shared their tradition with generations of others. Hell, they’d shared Heatheredge with the world. What was it like to live with a legacy that reached back in time for centuries? He couldn’t imagine. But damned if he didn’t wish he knew.

  Val murmured something Cailean couldn’t distinguish.

  “What?” Cailean asked, then growled when Val shifted and another gorse pierced his right forearm.

  Lightning unexpectedly turned the night into noon. Blinded, Cailean staggered back a pace and rammed into another gorse bush. Needles pricked his arm as a wave of dizziness pitched his stomach as if he’d dropped into a deep well. He jumped aside, stumbled, and hit the ground with a thud that took his breath.

  Chapter Five

  A light spring rain had dampened the cold ground and created the mist that twisted around Julianna’s feet as she crept forward within the shelter of the pines. The man and woman she’d followed from Haven Cottage had gone deeper into the trees, toward a clearing where a bonfire glowed. Despite the darkness, she pulled her hood tighter to hide her face. Figures moved among the thick-trunked trees between her and the fire. She continued another six paces, skirted two large Scots pines, then halted when the clearing came into full view. The flames illuminated a dozen naked men and women who twirled and leapt around the bonfire. Some raised their arms, others tossed their heads in rhythm to some wild music only they could hear.

  What in heaven’s name were they doing? She’d heard rumors of lovers who met at night in the woods and hoped to warn them to go elsewhere for their clandestine meetings. If her mother learned of such trysts, there would be trouble. But this… Was this some sort of cleansing by fire? Her great-grandfather had filled her childhood with accounts of blood sacrifices and ‘cleansings’ by fire, rites practiced to bless crops and building foundations, to change weather, or to increase the chances of a ship’s safe voyage, and more. He never mentioned they performed the rituals naked.

  A tall, well-muscled man stepped into view, his naked buttocks facing her. Julianna took a step backwards and bumped into a tree. She scooted around the massive trunk until half hidden and watched as the dancers paused and faced the man.

  He held a staff taller than him by a head. The smoothly-sanded wood gleamed reddish-orange against the fire. At its top, a large ruby pulsed as if the stone had swallowed a shining, blood-red star—or perhaps had snatched a spark from the fires of hell. Julianna squinted to discern the strange symbols that covered the staff’s length, but she was too far away to make them out. He shifted and she caught sight of the feather woven into the braid in his dark hair. Good Lord, their fierce-eyed, staff-bearing leader was Crowe, the man who wanted to marry her.

  “My people,” his deep, too-familiar voice carried on the wind, “we gather here to welcome new men into our fold. Strong and braw men ready to join our quest to right a grievous wrong.”

  Three naked men she didn’t recognize stepped forward. She grimaced at sight of their erect cocks. This was far worse than catching lovers in an illicit tryst. The men knelt before him, two of middle years and one sprouting his first beard. Crowe signaled and two women sashayed forward, their well-curved hips swaying and full breasts bobbing as they kept their gazes locked with his. The woman in the lead carried three silver talon pendants, the same design as the large silvered talon Crowe wore about his own neck, only smaller. The other woman carried a wooden pail and walked a few feet behind as Crowe accepted the pendants from the first woman.

  Thick mist slithered from the clearing in icy tendrils that reached across the distance toward Julianna. Her legs and arms felt as if they were weighted with sand. Crowe draped a pendant over each
man’s head, then leaned in and held his own much-larger talon as each of the men kissed it. When the last man straightened, Crowe raised his staff as a lord would when ready to knight a warrior, and tapped each man once on each shoulder, then ordered him to rise and go forth, to follow the crow.

  The slow, rhythmic beat of a drum lifted. Julianna glanced around for the source of the beat, but saw nothing as the sound grew louder. The three men who had knelt before Crowe rose and blended back into the group. Only the woman with the pail remained at his side, as he lifted his staff high and she was reminded of a wizard—nae, a devil.

  “Three men have joined us,” he said loud enough to be heard above the drumbeats. “Now one of you must surrender to the powers we have raised, become one with all things seen and unseen. One soul shall willingly leave this mortal world to carry our intent to the ancients, gods and entities who dwell beyond the veil. They will bear our wishes to the elements so that they of the north, south, east and west, may spread our will to all corners of the earth. The scorched wood will choose.”

  The woman with the pail began to move through the crowd, the bucket held before her. One by one, everyone reached into the pail and withdrew a piece of wood. Crowe continued to speak, but blood hammered so fiercely in Julianna’s ears that she couldn’t discern his words. Then she realized she didn’t understand because he spoke in an unknown language. His voice rose in a chant that sounded very old and strange. Yet everyone stared at him, rapt and at peace.

  Men and women reached eagerly into the pail. A stoop-shouldered man of middle years shouted suddenly and thrust his arm into the air, displaying a short length of blackened wood. Julianna ran cold when the man went to the edge of the bonfire and tossed the scorched piece of wood onto its flames.

  “As the fired wood is now returned to ash, so shall my blood replenish this hallowed ground.” He raised his arms heavenward and turned in a slow circle.

  Bile rose in Julianna’s throat at sight of his manhood thickening, lengthening with excitement. Crowe turned so that his profile faced Julianna and her stomach roiled at seeing that his cock also jutted upward. She wanted to turn and run as fast and as far away as possible. But her eyes were drawn to a length of dark-gleaming bone he clutched by a wooden handle in his other hand. About as long as a man’s thigh, the bone was thrust through a rounded, fist-sized ball of wood. Crowe held out the bone for everyone to see its hollowed center.

  A cursing bone.

  Juliana’s heart stopped.

  She’d seen the healer Malvina’s cursing bone. For a curse to work, fresh-drawn blood had to flow through the hollow channel of the bone into the waiting earth, satisfying its elemental thirst and ensuring the potency and success of the curse. Any curse she’d ever been privy to, however, had been to thwart a neighbor’s crops or to wither the shaft of an unfaithful lover. She’d only heard of frogs and toads being sacrificed to cursing bones. But now, it almost seemed they intended to sacrifice the old man.

  A tremor of fear rocked her. How much more powerful was Crowe than they had dreamed if people were willing to die for him? Who were these people? She knew none of them. Crowe thrust his staff heavenward and it vanished, replaced by a wickedly long dagger. Julianna drew a sharp breath. She hadn’t seen correctly. Crowe had to have been holding the dagger at an angle that hid it from her view. But how? Her heart began to race. He was unclothed except for the large silver talon pendant hanging against his chest, and the cursing bone clutched in his left hand. His right hand had held his staff. When he’d thrust it upward it had… She gave her head a hard shake. What was happening?

  The man who’d drawn the scorched wood remained silent, but his eyes stayed fixed on the shapely naked woman who’d held the pail as she lowered herself to the ground at his feet and spread her legs. The mist twisted upward and quickly enveloped her in thick ribbons. She opened her arms and the man lowered himself onto her. The mist blanketed them as if alive. A frisson of fear raised the hairs on the back of Julianna’s neck when Crowe crossed to them. His own penis looked ready to burst.

  He lifted the dagger and cursing bone. “Oh, Great One, we offer you this pleasure.” The man drove inside the woman and began to thrust.

  “Avenge us those we have lost.” Crowe poised the dagger over the man, and clutched the cursing bone in his left hand, ready to funnel the victim’s blood onto the ground. “

  “Nae.” The harsh whisper escaped Julianna’s lips before she could halt it.

  Crowe’s head swiveled in her direction. His fiery gaze locked on the gloom where she hid. Julianna stared at that face, an eerie dark mask of shadow that held her frozen as she felt him inch into the darkness like the mist that crept forward, slow but sure, searching for the source of the sound. Ghostly fingers skittered up her skirts like a spider. A tickle on her fingers caused her to twitch. She sobbed—then staggered back, suddenly free. For an instant, confusion muddled her thoughts and she looked around, uncertain what she was doing in the woods at night.

  Something plucked at her cloak. She darted a glance at the fire and the man staring, then she whirled and ran. Tears blurred her vision. She ran and ran. Something rustled behind her. Mother of God have mercy. She dared not look back. A branch whipped at her arm. Another stinging slap against her forehead. Footfalls pounded behind her.

  She raced on, hurtling through the night, praying she’d reach safety.

  And in the woods behind her, leaves crunched and branches broke. It sounded as if a horde chased her.

  She did the only thing she could, she kept running—away from home.

  *

  Cailean hit the ground with a breath-stealing thud. He grunted at the sharp pain that pierced his skull like an ice pick. A loud chorus of frogs singing filled his ears as ink-black spots danced across his vision. He shoved to his knees and the dots jumped into an even wilder mayhem. He jammed his eyes shut. What the hell happened? He slowly cracked an eyelid. Fuzzy images swam around him in a twist of vertigo that caused his stomach to heave. He squinted in an effort to force his surroundings into focus, but dark shapes swirled in a whirlpool of ghostly images.

  He closed his eyes again, forced calm to the count of ten, then opened his eyes. A cluster of half a dozen cottages surrounded him on a small lane. A neighborhood on the outskirts of Heatheredge? Where were the bushes they’d been walking through? What happened to Val and the brawny lads clad in leather?

  He remembered the tremendous lightning flash, then ramming into another damn gorse bush before he hit the ground. Cailean braced one foot on the ground, shifted weight, and pushed to his feet. Only a slight unsteadiness remained. He could live with that. His head still throbbed, but he counted himself lucky he hadn’t landed face down. He’d broken his nose three times in his youth, and the pain of breaking a nose that had already been broken surely rivaled giving birth.

  A sliver of full moon broke through a gap in the clouds. Cailean turned a slow circle. In the five days he’d been at the festival he thought he’d walked the entire village, but he didn’t recognize this lane. No straw covered the road. In fact, this area didn’t appear ‘dressed’ at all. Both muddy and stony, the lane bore deep ruts as if frequently traversed by heavy carts. At the far end of the road, where it curved and dropped steeply down the shoulder of a hill, sat a cluster of thatched stone huts more fit for housing animals than people. They appeared deserted.

  Slats of light leaked through the shuttered windows of the nearest cottages. The thatched cottages were whitewashed and in far better condition than the hovels. His gaze caught on—was that really a ‘warding pole’ guarding the road several cottages down? More a bundle of branches than a true pole, in the dark, the objects hanging from the ward looked like rags, bones, and a collection of indefinable charms. Magic safeguards used by medievals to prevent evil spirits from passing along the road. He shouldn’t be surprised, given Heatheredge’s obsession with historical accuracy. Still, the archaic touch gave him the willies.

  Cailean shifted h
is gaze to the roof of the nearest cottage. He drew in a deep breath and his nostrils filled with the peaty smell of the smoke that rose from the chimney. The cottage beside that one, the next and the next all chugged the wispy smoke. Fog hung in the air as a thin mist. Had they circled back to the village without him knowing? His sense of direction was usually impeccable. Where were his fellow reenactors, Rathais and Dunnett? Val? All the spectators and the Edgers?

  Running footfalls approached somewhere behind Cailean. He whirled. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a small figure shoot from the alley to his right. He started to sidestep, but they collided. As he fell, he seized the person and clenched his jaw in anticipation of another teeth-jarring fall. His mind registered the feminine form he hugged and twisted at the last instant so that she fell on top of him.

  “Bastard,” she hissed, and grabbed the hilt of his sword.

  Cailean rolled on top of her. This, he had to admit, was far more pleasant than his first fall. Wherever Val had dumped him, at least he’d been a sport to include a beautiful woman in the reenactment.

  “How dare ye attack me,” she hissed.

  “You ploughed into me,” he replied. “Then you tried to take my sword.”

  She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. Cailean seized her arm and shoved it against the ground. His head still throbbed, he was pretty sure both cuts to his arm were leaking blood, and his side blazed.

  “Get off me, ye bastard.”

  He froze. The fear in her voice sounded real. Then the truth hit him. She was part of Heatheredge, but not part of the reenactments.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, and she stiffened. “Nae, that’s no’ what I meant.” Dammit, he’d made a mess of things. He pushed off her, and pulled her up with him. She bolted, but he held fast to her wrist. “Hold on, lass. You don’t have to run. I didn’t mean anything. I thought this was part of the reenactment.”