by Beth Trissel
“Yes. And you must be Elizabeth.”
“Please, call me Beezus. My mom loved the Ramona books.”
“That accounts for the unusual nickname.”
Beezus had never told Fergus her real name. How did Mrs. Fergus known?
Fergus glanced at his mother. “Is it safe to let go of the door yet?”
A nod of her graying sandy bob and Mrs. Fergus straightened her round figure. She waved the smoldering herbs over Beezus as if to bless her with the sacred smoke, then smothered any danger of fire and laid the fragrant bundle down with the others. “I’d say we could all do with a nice hot cup of tea.” Her farseeing gaze fixed on Beezus. “While you enlighten us about that reliquary.”
She shifted uneasily. How much did Mrs. Fergus already know? Not only that, but Fergus studied her with a gleam in eyes that missed nothing. Scrutiny from this seer and her genius son would be tough to ward off even for one accustomed to deception. Not that Beezus was proud of her ability at guile, but deception had been necessary, and still was, like a protective shield.
The only thing that matters is the end game, she reminded herself, repeating the mantra drilled into her. Somehow, she must lay her hands on that reliquary and go. But the unsettling sensation stirring inside made her want to stay with Fergus, not leave him.
Quite the opposite of what she’d expected to feel. He intrigued her as no other man ever had. Even stranger, until a short while ago she hadn’t considered him fully male in the true adult sense. Now…geek had taken on a whole new sexy.
Chapter Three
Seated at the round kitchen table, Fergus ran his gaze over the periwinkle tiled floor, yellow checked curtains, and red geraniums on the windowsill just as Neil, now Niall, had left it when he’d passed through the door to nowhere—or how Neil’s murdered housekeeper had left it. Poor Mrs. Dannon, killed at the hands of that fiend the Red MacDonald.
Two autumns later and Fergus still sorely missed his best friend who’d gone to live in the early 17th century Scottish Highlands, all for the love of a woman, Mora. Fergus had also grown fond of her. Oddly enough, he even missed Neil’s contentious brother, Calum. Though that gruff Scotsman had softened by the time they’d parted.
Having to declare Neil missing had placed Fergus under suspicion by the police. All he needed was a wild Highlander on the loose in the house. Legally Neil had left it to him along with their computer graphics business, but running that without a partner and no logical explanation for his disappearance left Fergus in an awkward position financially and legally. Any excuse to go snooping around for a body and Lieutenant Hale and his sidekicks would be back, as if Fergus had murdered Neil himself and buried him in the back yard. Lieutenant Hale hated a cold case. Technically, he had two: Mrs. Dannon’s unsolved murder and Neil’s disappearance, neither of which Fergus could explain without being committed to a mental ward.
After selling his townhouse, he’d moved into Neil’s family home—no way he’d let go of his best chance of ever seeing him again—and with his mother’s assistance had hung on. Just. But the message Neil promised to get through to him never came. At least, not yet. Unless Fergus overlooked it, and he’d searched every inch of the house.
Fergus hadn’t allowed himself to research what might be recorded on Neil and Mora MacKenzie for fear of discovering something terrible. He had to get back to them; had to know they were all right. They might need his help. Now that the portal had opened again, maybe—
Beezus choking on her tea jerked Fergus back to the precarious present. Setting her cup on the saucer, she launched into a coughing fit. Either she was unaccustomed to hot beverages or decidedly ill-at-ease. That made two of them. As usual, his mother remained her unruffled self.
“Too strong, is it, dear?” she clucked. “I should have added more milk.”
His mother never clucked.
Laying a sympathetic hand on the young woman’s fisted fingers, she waited for Beezus to recover her breath. But Fergus knew better. Those perceptive eyes targeted the unsuspecting, or maybe suspecting girl, and the kindly touch gave this psychic heightened insight from the connection between them. Wary, Beezus might be, but he doubted she was savvy enough to realize her mind was being probed at this very moment.
Few were. His mother was an unlikely seer, and her gifts extended even farther than that. Fergus didn’t even grasp them all. Well aware of how difficult it was to guard secrets from her, such as his attraction to Beezus, the alluring thief, he hunched in his chair and slid his gaze from one to the other. He noted the pucker at the seer’s brow and the flicker in her eyes. Beezus must’ve unwittingly revealed something she didn’t expect.
“Now, about that reliquary, what miraculous relic does it contain?” his mother gently prompted as though in the dark, which this intuitive woman rarely was.
Hesitancy in her eyes, Beezus cleared her throat. “It’s believed to hold a piece of the robe Christ wore before the crucifixion, said to bring healing.”
This much Fergus had anticipated. Religious relics were usually associated with healing. One thing puzzled him. “Why the uncertainty over its contents?”
“Because it’s currently under glass in a Scottish museum and they’re reluctant to force the lock.”
“They could bring in a locksmith.”
She looked smug. “They tried that.”
“Don’t they x-ray these things? I saw them do a mummy on a documentary.”
“The gold on the case is too thick for x-rays to penetrate.”
“You might offer this mysterious key of yours to the officials and have a look together,” he tossed back.
Scorn crossed her pale face, brushed with the ethereal beauty of a Raphael painting. “They won’t let me keep a sacred bit of cloth, whether or not they believe in its power.”
“And you know one in need of healing?”
A faint “Yes” escaped her lips.
Fergus opened his mouth to ask who, but his mother leaned toward Beezus. “It will heal only once.”
He shouldered back in his chair. “Why’s that?”
“It’s not a Christian relic, but a charmed cloth taken from an ancient Shaman with a spell woven into the fabric.”
Chills ran down his spine.
Beezus flushed. “How do you know this?”
The woman read her evasive eyes. “Because you do.”
He rounded on Beezus. “How the heck did you come by such knowledge? I must’ve missed that documentary.”
No reply. Beezus sat staring at his mother.
The resident psychic considered her for a long moment. “I see darkness behind you, Beezus, and keen intelligence. He’s blocking me from exploring you too deeply.”
“Hold on. What he?” Fergus pressed.
Still no answer from Beezus.
Reaching over, Fergus gripped her hand. Ice-cold. “Tell us who he is.”
She blinked as if coming back to herself. “I suppose you must mean my Uncle Ru MacDonald, short for Ruen.”
Or ruin. Fergus had a bad feeling about this dude.
Her eyes implored him. “I didn’t know he could block your mother. Or that he has powers. He’s just super smart like you, Fergus.”
Tension at her mouth, his mother said, “Not like my son.”
Beezus rushed to her relation’s defense. “It’s just that he’s done all this research on the MacDonalds and MacKenzies.”
A quiver of apprehension crawled over Fergus. “What do the MacKenzies have to do with anything?”
“The two clans feuded. Not only them, of course, but these are the main ones Uncle Ru focused on. He’s poured over their history and mapped where it intersects.”
Fergus sat bolt upright. “And?
“Calum MacKenzie died in the clash between them in the fall of 1604. But he didn’t before.”
A pang at this revelation, and Fergus asked, “Before what?”
“Neil went back to the MacKenzie Castle of Donhowel in 1602. His return must
have altered events. Maybe Calum didn’t fight in the original battle, or in the same way.”
A cold shiver stood the hair at his nape on end. “What will Calum’s early demise mean?”
Beezus lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I’m not certain, but Uncle Ru noted the change in the old annals and cast his eye on you, Fergus, and this house after Neil MacKenzie’s unexplained disappearance.”
Cue the creepy music.
His mother swept a gesture at the room. “This home was built by Calum’s, not Neil’s, descendants. If Calum doesn’t have a son, all of this will disappear.”
Fergus muttered, “Great Scott, Marty.”
His mother’s eyes flashed to his. “I’m deadly serious.”
Fear sharpened his sarcasm. “Right. That whole time continuum thing.”
With an astute gaze, she said, “Exactly.”
A sobering realization spread through Fergus; he couldn’t hide behind biting wit as he usually did.
“You won’t be who you are now,” she continued. “Nothing you ever did in connection with Neil will happen. Your memories of him will be gone, and the person you’ve become will cease to exist.”
Fergus raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know who I’d be if I never met Neil, where I’d be living, what I’d be doing…” Probably the king of nerds, and he’d lose his best friend forever.
She gave a nod.
Squaring his shoulders, Fergus asked, “So what must I do to make things right?”
Reluctance shadowed his mother’s face. “Go back through the portal and take the reliquary with you. Calum will have need of it. Their time is running concurrently with ours and the two years will soon be up.”
Tears filled Beezus’s eyes. “But my uncle is dying of heart failure. He badly wants it and has spent years searching. Is there no other way?”
“What about a heart transplant?” Fergus asked.
“I fear it will come too late. Any other ideas?”
The plea in her liquid gaze cut through him. “One. Keep Calum from being killed in the first place. If we know when and where the battle is.”
“Uncle Ru has that info."
“Great. We’ll hasten back through the portal, past Red MacDonald and his clansmen, and head to the MacKenzie castle of Donhowel beforehand to sound a warning. Assuming Calum will even heed us, that is. Easy breezy,” Fergus added with the irony that was his mainstay.
Their grim-faced seer shook her head. “No, it won’t be. And I sense more to Ruen MacDonald’s desire for this reliquary than healing alone.”
So did Fergus, but Beezus cried, “Uncle Ru isn’t a monster! He’s cared for me half my life. He’s all I have.”
Fergus squeezed her chilled fingers. “Not anymore.” Later, he might kick himself for letting Beezus deliver the ancient chest to this relative. But he hated to keep her from aiding the only surviving member of her family if his life depended on whatever powers the gold box might yield.
A warning glance, and his mother mouthed, Don’t trust him. Or her.
He didn’t. But that didn’t keep Fergus from wanting her.
Chapter Four
Illuminated by streetlamps and porch lights, the brick townhouse where Beezus and her uncle lived appeared ordinary from the outside. The handkerchief sized lawn, nipped by frost, black railing at the low steps leading to the front, and autumn wreath on the olive green door were almost identical to the other homes in the quiet residential neighborhood. Fergus had recently sold a townhouse much like this one, but the moment he stepped inside nothing was as he expected. And he sensed it never would be again.
The interior was more spacious than his former abode. Despite the extra floor space, the heavy furniture crammed into the foyer and living room made them seem smaller. Beezus and her uncle must’ve moved here from a far larger establishment. Like a Gothic manor.
The décor and mood inside the townhouse was darkly Victorian, more so than Neil’s old home. Certainly the vibes in the MacKenzie homeplace were better, and that was even with the murder and mysterious portal, or in spite of it. The atmosphere in here suited a werewolf transformation. Fergus glanced around warily. Full moon tonight, and the wolfsbane was at home, assuming the potent herb really did ward them off. Better than nothing. And where were the silver bullets when you needed them?
Beezus broke into his ghoulish thoughts. “Come meet my uncle.”
Fergus wondered if he’d resemble Anthony Hopkins in The Wolfman.
Hugging the reliquary in her arms concealed beneath the sheet Fergus had supplied to transport it discreetly from his home to the car, back out again, and into the townhouse, she led the way to the main room. Much of her former bravado had faded and she was a more subdued Beezus than the one he’d known, or thought he knew. Tumbling down the rabbit hole had that effect on a person, he supposed. He’d landed on his feet, as he recalled, but couldn’t expect everyone to adapt so quickly. But then, he’d never entirely lived in the real world anyway.
The room they entered was a combination parlor/study and overflowed with antique furnishings. A massive bookcase laden with leather-bound volumes, old maps, a world globe that spun at a touch and looked as if no one had spun it for a century, and bookends in the shape of gargoyles leered at him from one wall. Beside this eclectic mix rose a glass cabinet crammed with curios.
He doubted any of this stuff had been in existence before 1900. Much of it dated back to a far earlier era, like the miniature of the ill-fated Marie Antoinette. Holy cow. A fossilized dinosaur egg.
In true Victorian style, an oriental vase filled with plumy ostrich feathers fluttered beside a stuffed owl on the top of a mahogany—Cripes! Its head turned.
The white heart-shaped face, ridge of feathers above the bill somewhat resembling a nose, and black eyes like slits in a flat mask were startling, to say the least. And then it flew. Fortunately not at him.
“What the—”
“He’s Blimey.” Beezus interjected, her voice low.
“Who is?” Probably everyone in the house.
“The owl. And I said blimey not balmy.”
He assumed she meant its name. The British expression for surprise suited the creature sailing across the richly patterned oriental carpet. The brown speckled bird landed on the headrest of the high-backed armchair positioned before the hearth and tucked its outstretched wings close to its feathered body. Orange flames crackled in the fireplace. The homey sight and woodsy scent lightened the gloom in the otherwise cheerless room.
And there, hunched among the fringed cushions in the wine-colored upholstery, was an older man, his feet propped on a leather hassock with a plaid wool blanket tucked around him from the waist down. On one side of him stood an IV pole, such as they used in a hospital, and an oxygen canister with the thin tube affixed to his nostrils. On his other side, a small table held pill bottles, lozenges, a glass of water, and large linen handkerchief embroidered with initials. Not something you saw much these days. Nothing in here was, like the owl perched above the invalid.
“What does Blimey eat?” he whispered to Beezus. “Hunting indoors must be slim pickings.”
“Frozen mouse nuggets. Just nuke and serve.”
“Yum.”
Despite her tension, she gave Fergus such a luminous smile it went straight through his heart and he understood why Cupid shot arrows, the sneaky little cherub. Then she turned and hailed the dozing man.
“We’ve come, Uncle. Mission accomplished.”
He stirred among the cushions. “Good lass. Ye do me proud.” His wheezy reply had a distinct Scottish burr.
A flush of pleasure pinked her face. “Angus Fergus is with me.”
“Most welcome ye are, Angus.”
“Please, call me Fergus. Everyone does.”
“As ye like. I well know of the Fergusson clan, and the ‘Sons of Fergus’ are famous the world over for their mighty deeds.”
He warmed a little to her peculiar relative.
“I couldn’t have succeeded without Fergus,” Beezus admitted with uncharacteristic modesty.
“Much obliged to ye, lad.” Bony fingers beckoned. “Come near.”
Fergus drew closer to the sunken figure. In his dark blue, nearly black robe, its hood drawn over his head, he gave the impression of the evil Emperor in Star Wars which did nothing to increase Fergus’s confidence. However, the failing man didn’t appear a threat in this state, seemingly too weak even to rise unaided. Blue flames weren’t likely to crackle from his crooked fingertips. And he’d spoken kindly to Fergus. Though that might be a ruse.
Blaming an overactive imagination while bearing his mother’s caution in mind, Fergus stepped beside him. The owl regarded him with unblinking yellow eyes as he gazed down at the hooded features dappled by firelight. “Good to meet you, sir.”
“And I, you.” A stiff lifting of the head and eyes so pale blue they were almost silvery scrutinized Fergus in return.
Although Ruen MacDonald was probably on the younger side of old, illness had carved furrows into his gaunt face and made him appear ancient. His pinched lips were bluish despite the oxygen supplied by the tube in his nose and his cheeks hollow. No wonder Beezus was worried. He wasn’t long for this world.
“Sit you down,” he rasped, waving at the couch.
Fergus lowered himself onto the plush upholstery that matched the armchair.
“Here it is, Uncle.” With near reverence, Beezus set the reliquary before the hearth and slipped off the cover. Orange flames enhanced its golden sheen and the tawny glow in her brown gaze.
A smile at his thin mouth, the invalid wheezed, “At last. And not a moment too soon, my bonnie lass. Fetch the key.”
Fergus thought she’d spring to action. But she didn’t. Darting a glance over her shoulder, Beezus asked in hushed tones, “Where’s Morley?”
“Who?” Something in the name, and the change in her demeanor, made Fergus uneasy.
“Morley is Uncle Ru’s aide,” she explained. “He helps him bathe, dress, tends to his medications and stays with him when I’m gone. I’m more of a research assistant than a nurse.”
