Time’s Curse: Highland Time-Travel Paranormal Romance

by Ann Gimpel

  Taking care to be unobtrusive, he wound a few tendrils of power into the spell that had him in thrall. All he needed to do was push it slightly in one direction or the other, and he’d roll out in a spot his tormentors didn’t expect. In the time it would take them to track him down, he’d be long gone.

  “Long gone,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “I shall be as elusive as the wind. Those fuckers won’t trap me a second time.”

  He pushed harder with his magic, edging the spell closer to modern time. He had no idea where he was headed, but he wanted to avoid where he’d been last time. The early 1700s had been a bitch to live through, and not much of a picnic to visit, either. Not with Hunters running amok, murdering magic wielders with the full sanction of the Church.

  The tunnel surrounding him took on a grayish hue. Wherever he was going, he’d be there soon. He readied power. In case he had to fight, or cast an obfuscation spell, the moment he emerged. With far less warning than he had with his own spells, this one frittered to nothing, leaving him suspended midair. He windmilled his arms and redirected the magic he had at the ready into a layer to cushion his precipitous descent.

  At least he was by himself. Fields stretched in all directions, tilled land that suggested he was near a major town. He touched down and sank to a crouch. Anything to make himself less obtrusive.

  At least he was still alive, a benefit that might not have much permanence if the spell’s owner found him. He spread power in a rough arc, running a quick test, but nothing magical pinged back at him. His ragged breaths eased. He hadn’t been at all sure his efforts to queer the spell would have the desired effect, but if someone was hot on his heels, they hadn’t landed here.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Before the thought finished forming, he got his feet under him and loped toward a dilapidated hovel about a quarter kilometer distant. The neat fields, lying fallow for winter, looked as if they’d been tilled using the time-honored combination of man, horse, yoke, and plow. He took a moment and sniffed the air, analyzing it for chemicals and pollution residue.

  Sean nodded to himself. Wherever he’d landed, it was before gasoline-powered engines were in common usage. He crafted a glamour to make himself less noticeable, trading his tailored suit and tie for tattered trousers, a shirt made from homespun, and a patched cloak. He couldn’t make his polished loafers vanish, so he altered their appearance into a pair of scuffed boots.

  If he was where he thought, no one of his ilk could have afforded boots, but it couldn’t be helped. He hoped to hell the farmer he planned to grill for information wouldn’t accuse him of theft and turn him in to the local constable.

  Dawn streaked the clouds, turning them iridescent. Time travel never altered the season, so it was winter here too. Probably around ten in the morning. The sound of raised voices drew his attention. Something was transpiring on the far side of the hut. He slowed down and turned his magic to making certain he heard the exchange.

  “Ye must come, right now,” a man insisted.

  “It ’tis truly a witch—and I doubt it is—ye have her in irons. What’s the rush, mate?”

  Sean rolled his eyes. Of course it would be men. Women rarely offered opinions outside their homes. Now that he’d heard a snipped of Gaelic, he knew more or less where he was. Late 1800s. The speech pattern was close to its modern variation with only a few differences that were holdovers from the previous century.

  Witches, eh? Was it possible his intrusion into the spell had derailed whoever was following him? For a long, delicious moment, he hoped so. Hoped the witch in question would swing from a gibbet.

  Except they’d stopped torturing witches around 1865. He shrugged. A push here and there with judiciously applied magic might change a few minds.

  “The rush, mate,” voice one continued with a patronizing undertone, “is Father Abernathy specifically requested your presence.”

  “Aye, he did, did he? Why dinna ye say so at the front end?”

  “I figured ye’d be so curious about yon witch, ye’d jump out of your breeks to hurry into Glasgow and see for yourself.”

  Glasgow. Solved the problem of where he’d landed. Now that he had both time and location nailed down, nothing stood in the way of following the men. The least he could do before heading back to his own time was ensure the pesky witch in irons met her doom. He edged closer until he could peer around the hut. A buckboard with a scrawny horse sat nearby.

  Sean wound invisibility around himself. Seemed like a waste of magic after he’d gone to so much trouble building a credible glamour, but he didn’t want to be seen.

  One of the men cupped a hand around his mouth. “Brigid.” Greasy dark hair fell around his dirt-streaked face, but his dark eyes shone with keen intelligence. A moderate level of power shimmered around him. Nothing earthshattering, but not bad for a human. No wonder the priest had summoned him to deal with a suspected witch.

  Sean trolled through his memory banks. Hunters had fallen out of fashion in this time period, but the church still did its damnedest to stamp out anything magical.

  A very pregnant woman spilled through the door, tangled red hair trailing around her patched frock. Her bare feet were streaked with dirt and muck. “Aye, Roger?”

  “I’m going into the city with Donnell. Might not be back for a day or two.”

  Two naked red-headed toddlers, both girls, tottered through the door and stood next to their mother, burying grubby hands in her skirts.

  “Doona be gone for much longer. The bairn’s close to coming.”

  “Ye’ll be fine.” Roger dropped a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  She shook her head and raised a set of bloodshot blue eyes to meet his dark gaze. “Nay. I fear not. I havena felt it move for a fortnight. I fear the child has died within me.”

  Donnel made a forked sign against evil.

  Roger hauled off and slapped him across the face. “Ye will not point the demon’s sign at my wife.”

  Donnell rubbed the red spot on his face but didn’t raise a hand to fight back. Blonde curls fluffed around his head in an unbrushed riot. Upon closer scrutiny, Sean figured he wasn’t much more than sixteen. His clothes weren’t patches layered atop patches. Perhaps he worked for the local monastery, which would offer the advantage of regular meals and sturdier clothing.

  “I’ll be in the wagon,” Donnell said sullenly.

  “Be right there.” Roger nodded. “Just need to get my kit.”

  “No need. I’ll fetch it for you.” Brigid turned and waddled back inside, her two children sticking to her like glue.

  Sean eyed the wagon. He needed to sequester himself in the back. Was Roger’s magic strong enough to detect his presence?

  Guess I’m about to find out.

  He gave his invisibility warding one last tweak and strode around the house, careful not to make any noise. Crossing to the opposite site of where Donnell sat in the wagon, he walked to the sloppily constructed wooden box and waited. He needed to time this just right. The wagon would sink under his weight, and that sinking had to coincide with Roger jumping onto the box next to Donnell.

  Roger stood, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for his wife. He frowned and lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he scented the air.

  Sean froze, did what he could to ensure his magic was contained. Another Druid would have known he was there, but Roger was no Druid.

  “Here ye are, then.” Brigid stopped in the doorway and tossed a cheaply tanned leather bag Roger’s way. He caught it midair and turned toward the wagon, moving quickly.

  Sean timed it as close as he could, vaulting over the wagon’s rear staves just as Roger jumped onto the box.

  Donnell didn’t wait until he was settled. The whip whistled and the poor, old horse, who had one hoof in the glue factory, lurched forward. Roger stumbled but righted himself and sat heavily.

  Sean settled into a crouch and hoped to hell they weren’t too many miles out of town. For one thing, the horse would
n’t make it. For another, he had to remain absolutely still. The wagon didn’t have anything as sophisticated as springs, and any movement on his part would reveal his presence.

  It wasn’t easy. The road was muddy and filled with rocks and ruts. All that would change with the advent of cars, but they weren’t here yet.

  Roger twisted his head from side to side. Sean didn’t have to see his face to know his nostrils were still flared.

  “Is aught wrong?” Donnell asked in a thin, nervous voice.

  “Not sure. I sense something, but ’tis far from well-formed.”

  “Must be witch crud clinging to me. She tried to claw my eyes out.”

  “She did, eh?” Roger laughed and leaned closer to Donnell giving him a good sniff. “Aye, lad. ’Tis exactly what I sense.”

  Sean would have blown out a tense breath if he weren’t committed to total silence. Things were working in his favor. He’d see that the witch in question ended up deader than dead. And then he’d find a way back to his rightful time.

  Chapter 3

  A Few Hours Earlier

  Liliana was so relieved when her spell developed wings, she spent her time in transit replaying precisely what she’d done. After all, she had to get back. If she was successful locating her mother, the return trip wouldn’t be a problem, but there was no guarantee Gloria had stayed put. After all, she’d been “dead” for well over a decade. Closer to two, actually.

  The blackness surrounding her developed gray edges. She steeled herself for just about anything. At least it would still be nighttime, which might offer some level of concealment. Had she constructed the spell properly? Would it truly spit her out in Glasgow?

  “Guess I’m about to find out,” she mumbled as the grayish edges developed streaks, turning lighter fast. She’d traveled to other times, but not since she was a curious teenager, drunk on magic and reveling in her burgeoning ability.

  She gathered power, balancing it between her hands. Soon, very soon, the time-travel casting would fritter to smoke around her, and she had to be ready.

  The distant clatter of horse hoofs on cobblestones reached her about the time she tumbled into a filthy alleyway, landing in a mud puddle that was probably teeming with an array of bacteria. She’d spent her years in medical school blitzing microbes with antibiotics. Something about seeing them under a high-powered microscope had forever altered her view of them as relatively benign.

  An outraged howl from behind her was followed by, “Begone, devilspawn. Begone, I tell ye.”

  Oops. Goddamn it all to hell.

  The man’s deep voice spoke antiquated Scotch Gaelic, so at least she was in Scotland, and perhaps she’d hit close to her target timeframe.

  She thought she’d done a fair job of masking her physical presence, but either she’d lost her touch—or someone else with magic of their own shared the narrow byway clotted with garbage. She breathed shallowly to cut the stench. Footsteps clacked—hobnailed boots hitting stone.

  Did she have sufficient magic to convince whoever was hurtling toward her they’d never seen her? Once upon a time, maybe, but like any other unused skill, such a spell required time—and thought.

  While nothing was amiss with her mind, she lacked the luxury of time to select just the right approach. One that might actually work, not dig her in deeper. She scrambled upright. Her cloak was soaked through where she’d fallen on it and smelled of rancid grease and piss.

  If her situation hadn’t been so precarious, she’d have laughed. Nothing like a tumble through a puddle to help her blend in with the locals. Turning, she saw not one but two clerics hurrying toward her, black robes flapping around them, heavy gold crosses suspended from their necks. Escape was out of the question. She might be able to outrun them, but the far end of the alley was blocked by a collection of crates. Even if she got that far, they’d nab her while she was climbing over and through the welter of wooden boxes.

  Bowing her head, she crossed herself, cringing at the use of anything symbolizing those who’d persecuted witches. “Thank goodness,” she murmured in what she hoped was passable Gaelic, keeping her gaze downcast. “Please. If ye could be so kind as to escort me to safety, I’d be forever in your debt.” She threaded compulsion and believability into her words, and sucked in a tense breath, waiting. Would they fall for her gambit?

  The men halted a couple of feet from her. Both were scrawny, and the one to her right was much shorter than her, but people had been smaller then. She felt the heat of their gaze as they looked her up and down. “Liar.” The taller one spat the word.

  She swallowed back a protest. Now was a time for silence. Women from this era didn’t volunteer much, particularly not to strangers.

  “Ye’re being hasty, brother,” the other monk said. Something sly ran beneath his words, but she couldn’t quite tease it out.

  Liliana didn’t move. The surest path was making these men believe she was cowed by their presence. It didn’t require much acting, since she was frightened to her bones. If it was truly the end of the nineteenth century, they wouldn’t kill her for being a witch—assuming they figured that part out—but they might well throw her in a monastery dungeon, wrap her in iron chains, and leave her there to rot.

  No judge. No jury. And certainly no possibility of appeal. No one would know where she was. The iron would erode her power sufficiently to nix any possibility of telepathy.

  Panic threatened to swamp her. She pushed it aside. A clear head was essential. If she gave in to hysteria, she may as well drag her dirk out and plunge it into her own breast.

  She’d lived through this time, been born into it, and she knew about the seamy underbelly of the church all too well. They’d only given up hunting witches in the 1940s because whoever had been Pope then finally outlawed it.

  The men took a step closer. She resisted an urge to stand tall and stare them down. It would be an enormous mistake. Instead, she shrank into herself and kept staring at the ground.

  “How is it ye come to be here?” The taller monk sneered showing rotten stumps of teeth.

  “I was pushed from up there.” She gestured above her head at one of the buildings. Up, but not too far up. Otherwise, she’d have to explain why she didn’t have any broken bones.

  “Ha. I doubt that.” He leaned nearer, showering her with spittle.

  Anger bubbled hot from her guts. How dare he spit on her? She scraped the back of one hand across her cheek, wiping the saliva away. “’Tis a sin to lie to a priest. I told ye true enough.”

  “Ye’re requesting an escort?” The other monk raised a bushy black brow. Both he and his companion wore cowls, so all that was visible were their faces. Nothing warm or compassionate about these clerics. Suspicion thickened the air around them, turning their auras a dark, ugly gray.

  “Aye, if ye’d be so kind. I’ll not trouble ye further once I’m well away from this spot.”

  “No decent women are out by themselves at night.” Brother Hasty smiled nastily. “We’ll see ye to a place ye can wait out the dark hours.”

  She cast a furtive glance around her. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Not here. Maybe once they got out of the alley, she’d have more to work with. “That would be most appreciated,” she mumbled.

  “Follow me,” Brother Hasty instructed.

  “I’ll be behind you,” the other monk said.

  Liliana got the picture. She’d be hemmed in from the front and the back. At least her heart wasn’t thundering against her chest any longer. She’d been in worse spots, not many but a few. There’d be a way out, but she needed to be vigilant, not bypass any opportunities.

  As she trudged forward, sandwiched between the men, she employed what she hoped was subtle magic to assess if they had any power of their own. It was remotely possible they’d happened past the alley at an inauspicious time.

  Remotely.

  More likely, they’d sensed expended magic as her spell first wound down, and then ejected her. The man in the lead di
dn’t seem to be in any hurry, so she was exceedingly gentle as she probed. Fascinating. The man behind her was the one with power—not much, but enough to sense magic in others. The loudmouth in front of her was as bedrock human as they came.

  They cleared the dank passageway. It opened onto an empty street. It couldn’t be much past seven—or eight at the outside. Where was everyone? The monk had stated women weren’t out and about on their own, but what about men? Surely shops remained open, and how about eating establishments?

  Bells pealed, probably from a distant church. Liliana counted until she got to ten and the bells quieted. How could she have lost two entire hours? She refocused fast. It didn’t matter what the hell time it was. What did was freeing herself from her captors.

  Her gaze darted from side to side. She needed an opening, and then she’d run like a gazelle. She was better fed than either cleric. Probably stronger. But they were men, and that pesky Y chromosome always offered an edge. A lone carriage clopped by, a uniformed driver on the box and the curtains closed.

  A policeman trotted by on the other side of the street. Swathed in a clan tartan, he sported a badge hung around his neck. A billy club swung by his side. For one wild moment, she considered screaming, but it wouldn’t do any good. The monks would trump up a lie, say they’d apprehended her stealing from the collection plate or some such thing. Church justice was an entity unto itself. She’d always assumed local authorities were delighted to have help dealing with miscreants.

  Even if she pitched a fit, said she was being held against her will, no one would believe her, and she would have thrown away whatever slender edge she might have. Right now, she was cooperating. Whether or not the monks doubted her story about being tossed from a window was inconsequential. She waited until both carriage and gendarme were well past them. A fast scan with magic told her no one else was coming either up or down the street.

  She examined every side street, aware she couldn’t be too picky. Yet she had to be careful not to end up trapped in a dead end. If the monks caught up with her, they’d be furious. Angry enough to beat her…