by Hazel Hunter
“Still awake?” Dr. Stevens asked.
Kinley nodded as the old guilt dragged at her. Bridget had taken care of her for the first few years, but as the old lady aged and grew frailer the situation reversed. A month before graduating high school Kinley had come home to find her grandmother under her oak tree, looking as if she had fallen asleep. The stroke she’d suffered had been so massive that it had killed her instantly.
At the funeral at Bridget’s church, Kinley had sat alone in the family pew. Both of her parents had been only children born to older parents. They hadn’t had her until they were in their mid-forties. Her grandmother had been her last living relative.
There hadn’t been much money left after the funeral expenses, so enlisting in the Air Force had allowed Kinley to go to college and get her degree, and make a new life for herself.
The military had become her family after that, and now they were gone too. Kinley had no friends outside the service, and no hope for the future. Reconstructive surgery could restore some of her face, but the nerve damage would always make her resemble a post-party piñata. Once they took her leg she’d be crippled for life. No man would fall in love with a disfigured amputee. She’d be alone, again, and this time it would be forever.
There really is no coming back from this.
Kinley had always thought as much, but when she saw the oak grove, and what lay beyond it, she understood.
“I think this is a good place to take a break,” Dr. Stevens said, breathing a little hard. She set the hand brake and looked around before she eyed Kinley. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” Her back screamed, her leg throbbed, and her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she also felt oddly, utterly calm. Letting her expression go soft and wistful, she asked, “Can I borrow your phone? I’d like to call home.”
“Of course,” Dr. Stevens said and reached to her jacket pocket, but then she glanced back to the lot. “I left it in the van.” For a moment, she studied Kinley’s face. “I’ll go and get it, if you promise to stay right here.”
One last lie, and she would never have to tell another. “I’m not going anywhere, Doc.”
The shrink hurried off, no doubt elated by what she thought was a break-through. Kinley felt a little guilty as she watched her go, but that melted away as soon as she looked through the oak grove. Once the other woman was out of sight, she released the hand brake, gripped the left wheel and rolled herself forward into the trees.
The incline of the trail sloped down, helping her propel the chair toward the edge of the cliff. The overlook was a drop of at least seventy feet onto the rocks. Death would be instantaneous, and the whole thing would look like a tragic accident.
Kinley didn’t feel afraid.
Gran, I’m coming. Please, please be waiting for me with Mom and Dad.
Bits of dandelion fluff caught on her eyelashes, somehow spangling her vision. The roar of her heart in her ears turned to the sound of wind through the trees, whispering all around her. This was good. She was going to have a good death. Since her life had sucked, that was a nice surprise.
Suddenly, halfway to the edge, her wheelchair stopped, hurling her to the ground—but Kinley never landed. Inexplicably she kept falling, her broken body plummeting through endless shadows, with the old oak trees stretching and curving until they formed a tunnel around her.
I must be dead.
But if she was, how could she still think?
Memories began pouring through her, from the blurry images of her parents waving goodbye to the years with her grandmother to the morning she had set out from base on her last search and rescue mission. Her sucky life had been too short, but Kinley had only one true regret: she’d never shared it with someone.
She’d been too busy taking care of her grandmother to get involved with anyone in her teens. At college she’d had a brief fling with a jock, who had turned out to be a selfish ass. The service had supplied an endless amount of men, and as much sex as she wanted. But the stress of being in a war zone had made real relationships impossible.
If only I’d met someone to love!
The tunnel of trees closed over her as she headed into darkness. But as she plunged downward a strange warmth spread through her body. As her pain vanished, relief flooded through her. Tears sprang to her eyes at the sudden and sweet release. But in moments, a new, powerful energy replaced it. It surged down her body and into her limbs until sparks flew from her fingertips. Kinley screamed as she emerged from the tunnel and landed in darkness on her hands and knees.
As she struggled to catch her breath, Kinley stared at the ground. It wasn’t rocks at all, but…mud? Stinging, icy rain poured over Kinley as she scrambled up from the slush. But as she looked down at herself, she froze. All the surgical pins holding together her shattered leg had disappeared. She was putting her full weight on it and all she felt was strong, sturdy support. Her back felt brand-new. She pressed her now-unbroken right hand against her abdomen, which felt flat, firm and unmarked. The last time she had touched her belly it had been spongy and latticed with long, stapled incisions.
Kinley’s hands shook as she brought them to her face. She felt her straight nose and high, curved cheekbones. Smooth skin covered everything, and she could feel her fingers against it.
“Oh, my god. How…?”
Drenched and shivering, she wrapped her arms around her miraculously healed waist and turned around, squinting against the downpour. She stood in a clearing of wild grass surrounded by oak trees, but nothing looked like Horsethief Canyon. Thick stone posts poked up from the grass in a rough circle around her. They resembled oversize gray bullets and on each were primitive carvings of swirls, animals and huge, sideways letter Z’s. The symbols glowed a fiery orange-red that quickly faded.
From beyond the dark oaks came the sound of metal clashing and deep, male voices shouting, and then dozens of men fighting with swords burst into the clearing.
Chapter Two
KINLEY’S TRAINING KICKED in as she took cover behind one of the stones. She hunkered low to make herself as small a target as possible. When she heard no gunfire being exchanged she took a chance and peeked around the edge at the fighters. As she took in their strange clothing she blinked, sure she was having some kind of psychotic break. She ducked down, rubbed the rain out of her eyes, and took a long, deep breath. As the rain slowed to a drizzle, she forced herself to look again.
This time they were only fifty yards away. Even in the darkening twilight she got a very good look.
“What the hell?”
One side appeared to be ancient Romans wearing red tunics under iron and bronze armor. The men had GI-cropped hair, and short, broad swords. But that’s where the resemblance to Romans ended. Their eyes were strange, almost reptilian, and their skin was so unnaturally pale they appeared to be painted white. They fought viciously against huge warriors in white, gold and black Scottish tartans belted over brown leather vests and trousers. Judging by their ruddy, tanned flesh they were human, but Kinley had never seen an entire army of towering, brutally muscled men. They looked just like the medieval highlanders she’d seen in the documentaries her grandmother had loved watching.
Why were there Romans and Highlanders fighting in a San Diego canyon, of all places? Maybe it was some kind of ghastly alternate history matchup reenactment. The next wave might be Nazis and Spartans.
“I’m dreaming,” Kinley muttered, sinking down behind the stone. “That’s why I’m healed. I must be in a coma or something.”
But then a decapitated head rolled past Kinley to stop and stare at her feet. Beneath its death-blinded eyes thin lips grimaced to reveal long, thick, white fangs. Then, incredibly, it dissolved into smoldering ash that gave off a rotted stink before it melted into the mud.
“Jesus,” she gasped, backing away from it. She clung to the stone as she stared at the puddle that a second ago had been a severed head. “Oh, man,” she muttered, covering her nose with her hand. “If I’m dr
eaming, why do I smell that?”
“Clan McDonnel,” a deep voice shouted, and then bellowed, “Heid doon, arse up.”
Thanks to years of listening to her grandmother’s brogue Kinley had no trouble translating: Head down, ass up. She looked out to see that the men were almost on top of her. The savage words seemed to electrify the Scotsmen, who surged forward in a deadly wave of slashing iron. Their fury cut down every Roman in their path as they fought toward the center of the grove. In another minute they’d swarm around the stone behind which she crouched.
Kinley blinked as buried memories burst inside her head. Stark and vivid, images and sounds bore down on her one after another: landing the bird by the smoldering wreck of the transport plane; grabbing the carry-alls and the portable Jaws of Life; bullets suddenly pinging off the Hawk; heart hammering, hands cold, voice tearing out of her throat as she shouted to her crew to take cover; the crackle of the radio as her lieutenant called to base; the body pile inside the wreck; the stink of fuel and plastic and death; slipping in the blood pool; the smash of glass, the huge waft of heated air, and then the world on fire.
“No,” Kinley gasped.
She wasn’t there. That was then. She pushed down the pulses of churning panic. Though fear and confusion threatened to sweep her away, she focused on the battle. She was here, she was present, and she was not going to lose it.
One of the largest Scottish warriors plowed through the Roman line, hacking through with long swords in both hands. Despite her shivering terror Kinley couldn’t stop watching him. She’d never seen any man move the way he did. He had a sinuous suppleness, as if his bones were made of water. How could such a huge man move like liquid?
The big Scotsman flung back his sodden mane of dark hair as he kicked a wounded Roman aside and skewered two more. Lightning blazed across the dark sky, illuminating his handsome face for a moment. His lack of hesitation told her that he felt no pity for his enemy, but the bitter disgust in his expression assured her that he took no pleasure in killing, either.
He’s not a machine, Kinley thought, her heart clenching as she recalled the same expression on the faces of her fellow soldiers. He hates it, but he’s doing what has to be done.
One of the Romans danced around him, thrusting his heavier broadsword at the Scotsman’s legs. “Why do you persist, Lachlan McDonnel? Your clan shall never kill us all. We are too many.”
“Aye, you’re a plague,” Lachlan agreed. His dark eyes glittered as he chopped off the Roman’s sword hand, and impaled him with his second blade. “And now they’ve one less leech.”
As if they’d overheard him dozens of Romans surged out of the trees, swarming around and cutting off McDonnel from his men. Kinley saw how most of them drove back the Scotsman’s comrades, while six of the largest Romans encircled him.
“Well, well, we’ve caught the Laird of the McDonnel,” one taunted, and licked his lips. “We’ll feed well on your carcass, Pritani swine.”
Romans holding the line suddenly started flying through the air like toy soldiers, and Kinley saw one huge Scotsman knocking them out of his way with a giant hammer as he plowed a path toward Lachlan.
“They call us Scots now,” Lachlan yelled, then beckoned to him. “But I’ll let you have a try at the first nibble.”
They all bared their fangs, and crouched as if to spring on him en masse—except for one who stood behind him, his sword pointed at the Scotsman’s neck.
Even with all his courage, strength and skill, the laird of the McDonnel would never survive the attack. He would be stabbed in the back and dragged down by the cowards, helpless to stop them from tearing him to pieces. Fury boiled up inside Kinley as she shot up from behind the stone, and ran toward the ambushed Scotsman. She couldn’t think, not with the roaring in her head and the pounding in her chest, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did but this brave fellow soldier.
Lachlan McDonnel couldn’t die like this.
Her body heated as she reached out, and something raced through her arms and exploded from her palms. Kinley froze as two streams of fire shot from her hands, blasting all six of the Romans back from the laird. The stench of burning flesh and melting armor wafted over her as she gaped, completely stunned. The flaming streams stopped as instantly as they had started, but one by one the fanged men dropped to their knees and keeled over to melt into the ground.
When Kinley turned her hands palm-up she couldn’t see a mark on them.
Her bones shook inside her limbs as she felt the shock sinking in. She’d just murdered six men. Burned them alive. Burned them to death. With her hands.
“No, I can’t…no.” Kinley frantically shook her head. “This isn’t real. I can’t do this. I want to wake up.” Forget the perfect body, the new face, all of it. She was going back to the real world, the world where she wasn’t a murderer. “I want to wake up right now.”
All of the men stared at her for a frozen moment before the Romans collectively turned and ran for the trees. Kinley curled her fingers over into fists, and looked up to see the Scotsman whose life she’d saved, now striding over to her.
“Come here to me,” he said.
He snatched her up in his arms, and before she could speak kissed her, his mouth hard and hungry.
Kinley hung suspended as Lachlan ravished her mouth, his tongue bold and hot against hers. A cool scent flooded her head, something like the rain but more, so deep and dark that she felt as if she were being held under water. When she realized it was coming from him she snapped out of her trance. Then terror spiked inside her, crashing through the delicious sensations like a rampaging animal. He was kissing her like a lover but smearing her with the blood of the men—the things—that he’d killed.
Horrified, Kinley shoved with all her strength against his chest, wrenching her face aside to scream.
“Gently, now, gently,” he said. His huge biceps bulged as he set her down, but he wouldn’t release her. “I’ll no’ harm you. None shall for as long as I draw breath, faodail.”
Twisting out of his grip, Kinley staggered backward and turned to run, but his men had surrounded them, and they looked at her the same way the Romans had…the same way the insurgents had…the same way the medics had…
The laird caught her arm and spun her around. “Lass, you cannae–”
Kinley punched him in the face, hard and fast. It hurt like hell, crunching her knuckles and jamming a pool cue of pain up to her shoulder. A heartbeat later something came down like a cinderblock on the back of her neck, and she collapsed at the Scotsman’s feet.
Men shouted over her, and strong hands lifted her from the mud to cradle her against a broad, hard chest. Dizzy and confused, Kinley listened to the heavy thud under her cheek until it lulled her into oblivion.
Chapter Three
BENEATH THE BLACKEST skies in Scotland a large, rocky island awaited the dawn. Shaped like an immense claw swatting the icy strait that embraced it, Skye had been known by many names over the millennia. Norse invaders called it the isle of cloud, while the Celts had dubbed it the winged island for the sweeping shape of its coast. Since the Scottish had taken it back and settled it they had the final word in naming it: Skye, the misty isle.
To the south, in the heart of the island’s Black Cuillin mountain range, lay two ancient secrets: Loch Sìorraidh, the largest body of fresh water on Skye, and Dun Aran, the stronghold built by Clan McDonnel. No outsider had ever beheld the mirror-still waters of the magical loch, or the immense, broad stone towers and soaring ramparts of the castle. Its foundation, hewn from the veins of basalt and gabbro that made up the Cuillin, lay deep within an extinct volcanic crater. From far below the earth a subterranean spring, heated to boiling by the molten stone beneath it, surged up to feed a huge cistern that warmed the rest of the stronghold.
Lights shimmered in the depths of the loch, growing brighter until they took on the shape of warriors. Waves churned as the McDonnel men began to rise from the waters to walk to shore, their wound
s rapidly shrinking and disappearing as they were healed by the life-giving waters. Each man took up one of the torches they had left burning on the rocky shore. From there they mounted the hidden stone stairs and climbed up to the entrance of Dun Aran, where the clan’s mortal servants waited to welcome them home.
Evander Talorc’s tall, lanky form moved with silent purpose as he caught up with Lachlan McDonnel. He handed off his spear to a clansman as he regarded the soaked, unconscious woman in his laird’s arms.
“You need not attend to the wench, my lord. Give her to me.”
Lachlan eyed his stern-faced seneschal. While Evander was one of his most lethal fighters, he had a hard head and a cold heart. “You’ve done enough, man.”
“Have you forgot I am seneschal, my lord?” Evander said. His tone suggested the answer was a resounding yes. “This wench attacked you. She is a threat. ’Tis my duty to deal with her now.”
“Do you no’ ken when to piss off, Evander?” said Tharaen Aber, Lachlan’s bodyguard, as he moved between them. His dripping, silver-streaked black hair framed a face made jagged on one side with thin, gray lighting tattoos. “Shall I explain with my boot and your arse?”
The seneschal took a step closer. “Since you’re an arse watcher, I reckon it’ll be a change.”
“Leave him be, Raen,” Lachlan warned before he jerked his chin toward the loch. “Stand first watch, Talorc.”
The seneschal gave them both a narrow look before he turned and walked back toward the shore.
“There’s stew and bread set out in the main hall for ye,” Margret Tally, the clan’s chatelaine, called out to the men before she smothered a yawn. “More in the kitchens as well if ye’re a mind to waste the night drinking again. Saints defend us.” Her drowsy eyes widened as she stared at the limp form in Lachlan’s arms. “Who is this, milord? One of the legion’s blood thralls?”
