by Beth Trissel
With a slight frown her uncle said, “Morley also helps with research. Has a sharp mind, that one.”
“I never said he didn’t.” But clearly Beezus had misgivings about including Morley in the grand culmination of all their efforts.
The sick man looked pained. “He’s in the kitchen making the tea.” Every word cost him and he paused to catch his breath.
Her smooth brow creased. “Maybe we should wait until he leaves to open the chest.”
Which meant, whoever Morley was, he didn’t live in this overcrowded townhouse.
“Now lass—he’s yer cousin—if you’d claim him,” Ruen chided between gasps.
“Distant cousin. And I don’t.”
When it came right down to it, Fergus didn’t trust any members of this strange household, but was mightily enticed by one of them. “Better get on with it, Beezus. We’ve come this far and have little time to spare.”
“Aye, make haste,” the ailing man prompted.
A reluctant nod and Beezus straightened in her red T-shirt dress and hoodie. Hood down, glossy brown hair flowing over her back, she walked to the roll top desk in a faintly lit corner of the room. Just watching her made Fergus’s heart race, and wondering what she’d retrieve from the antique furniture quickened the palpations in his chest.
She rolled back the top and slipped her hand up under the front. The flip of a hidden switch and out shot a shallow drawer. Dipping her fingers inside, she closed them around an unseen object and withdrew it.
“Beezus back, is she?” a convivial male voice inquired. “Who have we here?”
Tensing like an affronted dog, she stopped where she was.
Fergus swiveled his head at the man emerging through the doorway. In his hands, a tray with a flowered teapot, china cups, saucers, cream, sugar, and a plate of scones, all the fixings for a proper English tea. A throwback to Ruen’s former life in the British Isles Fergus assumed, which must’ve been before he took on Beezus and became her guardian. She had no accent. Besides, she’d said they’d come here from Richmond, Virginia, not Great Britain.
The newcomer didn’t appear much older than Fergus, mid-twenties, early thirties tops. But he was vastly more rugged. He wore his shoulder length red hair caught back in a ponytail. Broad shoulders stretched the dark leather jacket he’d paired with fitted leather pants. A motorcycle buff, or just buff?
Possibly both. A glance told Fergus the man was powerfully built and probably stood a head taller than him. Blue eyes in a lightly freckled face fixed on Fergus, the expression in their depths not entirely cordial. He couldn’t fathom why he’d elicited this reaction from a virtual stranger.
Or was he? The man’s looks were pure Scots and unaccountably familiar, though he couldn’t think when or where their paths had crossed.
Their winded host gestured at Fergus then fluttered his fingers at the newcomer. “Angus Fergus meet Morley MacDonald.”
“Good to meet you Mr. MacDonald.”
“It’s Morley.”
Fergus could swear he detected a hint of disdain in those blue eyes. It seemed personal, yet he’d only just met the man. Hadn’t he? And why did Beezus dislike him so intensely? He seemed the macho sort women were drawn to, like moths to a flame, and if only a distant cousin, then fair game. Was she jealous of sharing her adored uncle’s attention? Perhaps, but she wasn’t a child.
Maybe this Morley fellow resented any potential rival for her affection. Fergus couldn’t imagine being considered one. As far as he knew she only tolerated him for his intellect and ties to the MacKenzies. And the portal, of course. Without that, he wouldn’t be a blip on her radar. Baffled, he watched Morley, as he’d asked to be called, set the tea tray on the coffee table.
“Care for a cup, Ruen, while we see what Beezus is about?” Morley’s tone struck Fergus as overly casual for such an auspicious occasion, as though forced, and his gaze continually strayed to the reliquary.
The invalid waved him aside. “Later. Fetch the key, lass.”
His gaze as unwavering as the owl’s, Morley honed in on Beezus as she crossed the room and knelt by the chest. Misgiving stirred inside Fergus at the fixity in the big man’s expression. But Fergus was intent on her too, and with good cause; maybe that accounted for Morley’s rapt preoccupation. To his surprise, and Morley’s as well judging by the arch in his brow, she opened her palm to reveal a gold signet ring, quite old, possibly Medieval, and the kind used by nobles to seal their letters by pressing the crest into hot red wax dripped onto the parchment. The circular emblem embedded in the seal on the ring fit perfectly into the lock on the chest.
So this was the key. Ingenious. No wonder the museum couldn’t open it. Fergus thought the lock had rusted shut after all these centuries, but the secret lay in the ring. Beezus sprang it open with a twist.
Everyone bent forward, their anticipation palpable. Ruen breathed more heavily as she lifted the lid on the reliquary that hadn’t been opened in a millennium. From inside the chest, she drew out a long woven cloth embroidered in blue, purple, and scarlet that reminded him of a stole, the liturgical vestment a Catholic priest draped around his neck. His mother had said this wasn’t a Christian relic, yet it appeared sacred. Might she have been mistaken?
Doubtful. Though she’d also said someone blocked her from gaining full knowledge.
Awe in her eyes, Beezus held the stole up to the firelight. “So beautiful.”
The vivid cloth shimmered with the iridescence of butterfly wings, more lustrous than any butterflies Fergus knew of, unless they were radioactive, and more colorful than fabric should still be after countless centuries—or any fabric, for that matter. Was a miracle about to take place, or some sort of magic, and would it be entirely good if it did?
All that beckoned with such beauty now might later turn to horror, like the terrible effect opening the ark had on the treasure seekers in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Granted that was only a film, but the warning it carried seemed suited to this ancient relic. He wondered if he ought to close his eyes and caution Beezus to do the same. She seemed disturbingly entranced.
“Here, Uncle.” Getting to her feet, she extended the stole to place the glistening lengths around his neck.
An expression of peace in his watery eyes, a sigh whistling through bluish lips, Ruen held himself in readiness for the cure. Suspense charged the air. Like a spectator at an unknown play, Fergus had no idea how the ending would turn out, but doubted the likelihood of a happy one. Should he intercede and stop Beezus, inciting an infuriated backlash, or sit by and let her enfold the dying man in the unnaturally colored cloth?
What more might it do than heal? There were worse things than succumbing to a natural death, such as living under a curse. Should he act, advise caution, consult his psychic mom?
What was wrong with him? He felt strangely mesmerized.
Before Fergus shook himself from the peculiar trance, Morley sprang to life. More bizarre than anything he’d yet witnessed was the feral expression transforming his countenance. He’d halfway expected a transformation tonight, though not from Morley. But the control Morley had displayed before Beezus revealed the stole now fell away like a mask torn free. With the wild laugh of one who’d suppressed it for a long time, he cackled unreservedly.
Ready to thrust himself between Beezus and this new deviltry, Fergus looked on as Morley snatched the cloth from her. A brilliant shimmer slipped through Ruen’s feeble grasp and Morley whipped the stole up out of reach.
Eyes stark with disbelief, the invalid gasped, “Morley—what are ye doing?”
“Calum MacKenzie wasn’t the only one killed in battle before his time. Another fell that day, old man.”
Fergus was on his feet. “Who might that be?”
Blue eyes swept him scornfully. “Don’t ye know me laddie?”
Morley’s voice had taken on an eerily familiar accent. And the eyes. Fergus knew those eyes. He staggered back. No. It couldn’t be.
A sneer and Morl
ey said, “Thanks to Ruen I knew where to seek for m’ lost relic, and that Beezus took it. I’ll be taking it back now.” Turning on his heels, he dashed toward the door.
Beezus stared after him. For one who hadn’t trusted Morley to begin with, she seemed stunned by his betrayal.
Not Fergus. He recovered himself and hurtled after the sprinting figure. Grabbing Morley around the waist, he bore him crashing to the floor in the entryway. Effective for a geek who’d never played football.
“Git off!” A meaty fist cracked Fergus in the jaw and slammed his head back onto the floor boards.
Giddy from the blow, he couldn’t stop Morley from wrenching free. Where were his super powers when he needed them? He’d left his bag of tricks at home with the wolfsbane and never thought he’d need a taser to meet her sickly uncle.
A blur of movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. With an earsplitting shriek, the owl swooped at the traitor in a flurry of beating wings. Morley flung up his arms to ward off the sharp talons, but was unprepared for the frenzied attack. Only the leather coat protected his flesh from deep tears.
Beezus broke from her stance. “Give it back!” Rushing at Morley, she flailed him with her fists.
“Get away ye thieving lass!” He dodged the owl, though not before it gouged his cheek. Face bloodied, he flung Beezus reeling into the living room, fortunately not into any furniture. She skidded on her knees across the carpet while he ducked out the door—rather, the 21st century reincarnated version of the Red MacDonald did—slamming it against the enraged bird.
Holy crap. Now Fergus had two of them to deal with. And what a shambles he’d made of it thus far.
Beezus scrambled to her feet. Squinting against the throbbing ache in his head, Fergus called, “Let him go, Beezus!” before she tackled Morley on the front steps and wound up in the Emergency Room. Or worse.
Then he realized, it wasn’t Ruen McDonald who’d blocked his mother from seeing more deeply. It was Morley, and he’d bet that menace was en route to his house intent on getting back through the portal.
“Beezus call Mom!” Not yet seeing straight, Fergus fumbled in his jean’s pocket and tossed her his cell phone. “Warn her Morley’s coming!”
If Morley passed successfully through the wormhole and traveled back to the early 17th century Scottish Highlands, he’d occupy the same time and place as his former self. There was no precedence for this. Well, Fergus knew of one man who’d pulled that off, but it had taken a miracle to fuse Neil and Niall together. And neither Morley nor the Red MacDonald deserved a miracle.
A line from The Fellowship of the Ring returned to him, where the great wizard Gandalf said, “There is only one Lord of the Ring…and he does not share power.”
Two Red MacDonalds in the same time period simply wouldn’t work.
Chapter Five
Her senses humming like high tension power lines, Betty Fergus hovered in the shadows of her bedroom on the second story of the home she shared with Fergus when she was in town. Living here was more of a guardianship than dwelling in a real home. They were keepers of the portal, she and Fergus.
And now He was coming. She’d sensed this even before Beezus made that frantic call, but she hadn’t foreseen two of him.
Only a short time remained before his arrival. Should she oppose this evolved version of the Red MacDonald or let him pass? If she got between him and the door, she might hold him off for a while, but his physical superiority would ultimately win out. She’d fall and the portal would be breached, forcing Fergus to deal with this madman alone. If she stayed back, she could aid her son in the quest that had once more fallen to him.
The yellow tabby that had belonged to Neil MacKenzie crouched nervously at her ankles. “Come Sebastian.” Scooping the cat into her arms, she poised in the darkened room. Waiting. Watching.
A cycle roared to a stop outside the house. The engine cut off. Footfalls slapped up the walk to the porch and the front door opened. She’d seen no point in locking it and having the beautiful 19th century wooden barrier broken down. Again. The Red Macdonald had kicked it in two years ago and she’d had the door restored. Always, she valued artistry and preserved what she could.
The tread of feet mounting the stairs and the creak on the landing confirmed what she already knew. Then a tall red-haired man came into sight. He resembled a younger Red MacDonald, dressed in black except for the colorful cloth wrapped around his neck and flowing like an elongated scarf down either side of his front. How brightly it shone. No hallowed stole, this. As she’d thought, magic was at work, and she instinctively mistrusted the source. There was no goodness in this radiant glow.
A growl rumbled from the cat—a warning she fully shared.
Purpose in his tight jaw, the man called Morley MacDonald strode past her. Blood ran from the crimson stripe marking one cheek. He hadn’t left the townhouse unscathed. That wound needed stitches, but was fairly minor. Unless it festered. Too bad the owl hadn’t inflicted worse damage.
In moments, Morley stood before the door, left like a sacred trust to her and Fergus, and Neil before them.
No respect. A swipe of his black boot sent the herbs and stones she’d placed at its base flying. He scattered the salt. Grasping the knob in his big hand, he wrenched it open.
If the portal remained closed, only moonlight from the back garden and the illumination of neighboring homes would shine through; he’d have come for nothing. But the flickering light she glimpsed through the opening came from the torch on a sooty stone wall. The smoke and mustiness of a castle wafted through the entryway. And there waiting to greet Morley was their old nemesis, the original Red MacDonald.
The most improbable meeting in the world. One that should not, could not, be. But there they stood, face to face.
True to form, the glint of an upraised sword caught the light as the incensed Highlander swung his blade at the intruder. Had he any notion whom he opposed? She’d sensed the Red MacDonald had some psychic abilities when they’d last met, but whatever his powers, they were magnified tenfold in his successor. It also crossed her mind that this might’ve been Fergus on the receiving end of that steel if he’d passed through the portal first, but the lethal edge recoiled off Morley as though a forcefield surrounded him. When he pulled the dagger she wasn’t certain, or whether it came from his jacket or boot. She was too distracted by the disbelief in the MacDonald’s outraged gaze.
No. Big Red hadn’t seen this coming. Then Morley thrust the blade deep into the Scotsman’s chest.
Hurling his predecessor into the hall, he yelled, “You’ve a new chieftain now, lads!” and rushed through the door. The house jarred as he slammed the wood behind him.
She imagined the shock that must have seized the onlookers. One moment their kinsman is poised at the threshold, and the next, he’s stabbed and this bizarre stranger descends on them. Whether they liked it or not, this MacDonald clan did indeed have a new leader; one spiraling into madness and protected by an unearthly relic.
Betty stared at the prostrate Scotsman bleeding all over the floor, a snarl at his lips, unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling. There could be no doubt. He was dead.
She was hard-pressed to imagine how Morley could go back in time, kill his former self, and take his place. Was that even possible?
As long as the genetic link that eventually led to his conception remained unaltered, she supposed it was. What’s more, he’d done just that and left them with a bloody great body to dispose of. Calum was still in peril and must be rescued from death, and now they were faced with an even more powerful adversary. That cloth had lent Morley abilities beyond her reckoning, and its strength was growing as it fully took hold. The owl wouldn’t be able to tear at him now. No one could.
There was only one element that might destroy the stole. Not earth, nor wind, or water. Fire. And the grace of God. They’d need all the Divine intervention they could get.
And human. Betty could not yet foresee with
clarity how Beezus would figure into all of this. That outcome was murky. The girl might join forces with Fergus and remain loyal to him or be lured by her own selfish desires. She sensed Beezus could be swayed either way, and Fergus badly needed her on his side.
The situation had ratcheted to a far more critical height. And Betty still hadn’t told her son the whole of it.
Chapter Six
What on earth? Roused from the shock that overcame Beezus upon realizing Uncle Ru’s inevitable fate, she lifted her head from Fergus’s shoulder. They’d slumped together on the couch, but that changed with his mother’s abrupt arrival and the bizarre tale she’d imparted. In a few words, Mrs. Fergus turned their already upside-down world even further topsy-turvy.
Beezus hadn’t thought that was possible.
Fergus stared at the woman perched across from them in a leather armchair. “You seriously want us to bury a body in the backyard?”
Trying to fathom what Mrs. Fergus had just proposed, Beezus asked, “Won’t that risk arousing suspicion?”
An icepack pressed to the back of his head, voice drenched in sarcasm, Fergus said, “You think?”
Not quite as calm as she’d been earlier this evening, Mrs. Fergus shrugged beneath her lavender sweater. “I’ve thrown a sheet over him and mopped up the blood as best I could. But he can’t stay where he is. And we can’t just ring up the morgue. Unless you prefer we give Lieutenant Hale a call and report the dead Highlander in 17th century garb lying in our upstairs hallway. I doubt he’ll conclude our unknown guest died from a self-inflicted wound.”
Fergus curled his lips. “Men have been known to fall on their swords.”
“Generally Japanese Samurai committing hara-kiri.”
“One thing’s for certain, Hale won’t find the murder weapon with Morley on the other side of the portal.”
“Unless Hale goes through the looking glass too,” Beezus mused.
“That cannot happen,” Fergus emphasized. “I suppose we could roll the body back through the door. But if the portal’s closed by then, he’ll land in the backyard with quite a thud.”
