Dark Truth

by Lora Andrews

  “No.”

  “—well enough… Did you say no?”

  “No.” Faolan’s voice reverberated between the stone walls.

  Mari pulled the blanket to Callum’s chin, her brows wrinkled above her charcoal-colored eyes. “The boy is too weak to be moved. Surely, you’ll reconsider.”

  “I am beholden to no man.” Faolan directed his stone cold eyes to Caitlin. “Name your quittance.”

  My what now?

  “Faolan, please reconsider,” Mari began.

  Ian held up a hand and interrupted his sister’s plea. He gave her a quick shake of the head in the universal “let it go” gesture that only served to lighten his dear sister’s eyes with defiance.

  Lifting herself off the floor, Mari straightened her skirts. “You owe us no debt. We would do no different to any other person who came to our door.”

  Ignoring the Lady of Buannachd Mhòr, Faolan kept his dark eyes locked on Caitlin. He jutted his chin to his son. “A life for a life. I leave no debt unpaid. Name your quittance.”

  Ah, so a quittance was like paying a favor with a favor.

  Caitlin stood. “I don’t want—”

  The blacksmith growled, cutting of her response. He wasn’t settling for no.

  Ooookay. This was shaping up to be a wild morning.

  “You’re a blacksmith, right?” she asked.

  He didn’t blink. “I forge metals,” he said, stating the obvious like Caitlin was a dimwitted fool for asking.

  Maybe he had a point.

  “So…” Caitlin glanced around. Was it possible for the room to get any quieter? “Would you have any extra swords lying around for someone my size?” Bres’s jeweled dagger had gone missing after the Fomorian attacked her. If she planned to seek out Brigid and the MacEwens alone, she’d need protection.

  Faolan cocked his head and assessed her in a squirm-worthy, head-to-toe sweep. “I accept. Arrive at the forge at sunrise to collect your quittance.”

  Her mouth dropped.

  The blacksmith strode passed her to kneel before the cot. He lifted his sleeping son into his arms amidst the protestation of Mari and Deidre.

  “It is too soon to take him,” Mari argued. “Wait until he wakes.”

  Ian stepped back to allow Faolan to leave.

  Deidre darted to the table and poured the remaining foxglove solution into a small leathery-looking bag. She grabbed a slew of jars and herbs and then ran out of the room after Faolan, murmuring under her breath about stubborn oafs who refuse to listen to reason.

  Caitlin sagged against the wall and let out a breath. Not only had they not arrested her, but they’d left her alone. In the room. With the door open. She ran a shaky hand through her hair then covered her mouth.

  Holy freaking cow. A sword. She’d secured herself a sword.

  Yes! Score one for the scaredy-cat.

  She knew better than to let her guard down, but she couldn’t help the tiny spark of hope that bloomed in her heart. Maybe she had what it took to save Ewen and the team after all.

  ELEVEN

  THE IMAGES struck, one after the other, hammering against Ewen’s mind like waves crashing against a cliff. The jeweled dagger protruded from his chest, the blade embedded between his fourth and fifth rib. Black blood seeped across his shirt, the dark color a stark contrast against the bright white of the fabric, rousing a strange panic to stir deep in his gut.

  A panic that wasn’t his to feel.

  Odd.

  Stranger yet were the small hands—his?—that extended out toward a man wearing his face. A roaring wind muffled a woman’s soft cries and mixed with the telltale clamor of combat happening somewhere inside the cavern. Somehow, he was trapped inside another body watching himself die. And when something hard pressed against his back, he didn’t have to turn his head to know a stone altar dug into his flesh—an altar hidden inside a cave in Arran.

  Fear, loss, and grief burned his throat.

  Find me.

  His voice. His words.

  He woke with a start, sweat dampening his skin. He sat up, the pallet squeaking beneath his weight, and rubbed his chest. To the right, Rupert slept undisturbed, curled onto his side on the floor. Donald’s loud snores pierced the air to Ewen’s left. Mouth open, his brother slept with one arm draped over his face and the other splayed across the floor.

  Ewen shook his head. Whether it was a blood-soaked battlefield or a pile of urine-reeking hay, Donald MacLean had the uncanny ability to sleep anywhere. Yet if an enemy approached, he’d spring to his feet to attack the poor wretch before anyone else had a chance to draw their weapons. No wonder he sailed through life happy as a clam.

  He envied his brother’s ease. Unlike Donald, sleep had eluded Ewen these last few days, fouling his mood to the point where he couldn’t stand himself. His clanspeople already feared him. Now they’d avoid him altogether like the Black Death.

  Dorcha Dion, my arse.

  Quietly, he rolled off the pallet, careful not to trip over the monk’s big feet. He reached for the dagger nestled among the other weapons on the floor. His gaze snagged on the jeweled hilt. Was the dream a premonition? Would the lass stab him in the heart?

  Stepping around the sleeping villagers sprawled upon furs and woolens across the great hall, Ewen slid the dagger into the sheath strapped to his thigh. The stench of tobacco hung thick in the air. They had joined the wake out of respect for the dead, but the time had come to return to Ardgour.

  To return home.

  Yet the thought of home pinched his gut and reeled his mind back to the strange woman who’d fallen from the sky.

  Bluidy hell.

  He needed to get his head out of his arse.

  Ewen grabbed the jug of whisky near a trencher of bread and cheese on the table he passed. Tomorrow, they would follow the burial procession to Jamie’s grave and then bid their farewells to Alan. With Lochaber behind him, Ewen would turn his full attention to hunting the bastard responsible for these senseless deaths.

  Yanking open the door with more force than he’d intended, he stepped outside. The cold night air dried the perspiration from his face. After raising the jug to his mouth, he drank, taking a long pull of the uisge-beatha before lowering his arm and striding to the edge of the courtyard.

  Tor Castle sat strategically on a bluff overlooking the River Lochy. The Camerons had seized the property after the Mackintosh chief relocated to Comyn lands that King Robert the Bruce had awarded him. One hundred years and thousands of deaths later, the bloodshed between the Camerons and the Mackintoshes continued. Ewen didn’t always side with the Camerons who had betrayed their allies in exchange for the king’s favor, but he understood their motives. They were not so different, the MacLeans and the Camerons. They were both fighting to carve better lives for their clans. The MacLeans just went about it more honorably.

  He dragged his gaze from the spotters manning the tower behind him to the river below. The crumbling stone triggered the memory of the cave in his dream. He scrubbed a hand across his face. The woman—Caitlin—was tied to this whole mess. He just needed to figure out how.

  A moving shadow along the courtyard’s edge drew his attention. A man. One of Alan’s crofters. Slim and gray-haired, he was dressed in a brown cloak and boots. During the banquet, Ewen had noticed him sitting alone by the fire, lost in his ale.

  The crofter came to a stop, an arm’s length from Ewen’s right shoulder, but said nothing.

  This was no chance meeting.

  “Fine night for a stroll,” Ewen murmured.

  The old man squinted at the dark water rushing below. Weathered skin framed the man’s profile. “I came to tell ye they came from the loch.”

  “Who did?”

  “The three.”

  “The three?” Ewen had wondered when the whispers would start. Highlanders were a superstitious lot. ’Twould seem he’d found his answer.

  “Aye.” Sharp, wizened gray eyes took stock of Ewen. “Three.”

>   “Sea maidens?”

  “It was no’ sea maidens that lured Jamie and Hamish to the coast.” He extended a gnarly finger in the direction of the Loch. “They.” The man stabbed his finger in the air. “The rulers of destiny. The shapers of fate.”

  Ewen shook the jug. He’d need more whisky.

  “They will usher great sorrow as foretold by our forefathers. The sun will fall. Winter will unleash her fury upon the land, and man will have no choice but to seal his fate in blood.”

  “More blood?” Ewen took a long swig then offered his visitor the jug. “Haven’t we paid enough, old man?”

  Refusing the drink, the old man turned hard eyes to Ewen. “We haven’t even begun. Watch the shore. Look for the signs.” His gravelly voice clashed with the wind. “The three will reappear, and when they do—”

  “They’ll taste the might of Cameron steel.” Alan’s confident voice shot out from behind Ewen.

  The old man spun. “My laird.” His cheeks reddened. Averting his eyes, he said, “I did not mean to overstep.”

  “Your concerns are warranted, Oscar.” Smiling, Alan approached the man. “When the wise speak, I do listen. Doesna mean I always agree.”

  Oscar chortled. “Were my own kin so kind.”

  “Worry not, seann charaid. We’ve triumphed over the Macintoshes, and we’ve outplayed the mighty MacLeans.”

  Ewen snorted. “Outplayed, my arse.”

  Alan’s mouth quirked. “And should these fabled gods of old threaten what is ours, they’ll meet the same fate. That they should take, who have the power—”

  “And they should keep who can,” Ewen finished reciting the warrior’s creed.

  It was too bad he and Alan were usually on opposite sides of a fight. The man wasn’t half-bad.

  “Well, then,” Oscar said quietly, “I’ll leave you to the planning.” He shot Ewen a parting look. “Bear in mind what I’ve told ye, boy.”

  A cold tingle passed over Ewen’s skin. He eyed the old man anew. “So noted.”

  Oscar turned and started down the well-traveled path leading to the river. Ewen and Alan followed the downward slope of the man’s back until Oscar’s outline blended into the copse of trees beyond the castle grounds.

  Tired lines ringed the laird’s eyes. Ewen passed him the jug. “You probably need this more than I do.”

  Alan raised the whisky in salute. “May the best you’ve ever seen be the worst you’ll ever see.”

  Another breeze blew against the ridge, and although the sky was free of clouds, Ewen could smell the storm brewing in the air.

  “I think that’s our finest batch yet.” Alan let out what sounded like a satisfied grunt and then settled his eyes on Ewen. “What think you?”

  Ewen shrugged. “I’ve tasted better.”

  Alan’s hearty laugh echoed over the bluff. “’Twas not what I meant, but I’ll accept the challenge of proving you wrong.”

  Ewen bit back his grin.

  The laird’s smile faded. His gaze wandered over to where the old man disappeared. “What think you of Oscar’s warning?”

  “Matters naught what I think,” Ewen said. “He has the right to his opinion.”

  “So you don’t believe in the Second Sight?”

  Ah, so that explained why Oscar had sat alone and not partaken of the meal. Fear of the Doubleman. The sith were said to attend funeral banquets, wearing the guise of a neighbor or friend. Only those gifted with the second sight could see the fae’s true form. As a boy, his mother had warned him to never commune with the fae. The wily creatures enjoyed poisoning a man’s meat. But Ewen didn’t subscribe to that fear. If a magical being wanted him dead, he was sure it would find a way that was a hell of a lot faster than tampering with his meal.

  Alan took another drink from the jug. “Oscar’s kin have farmed these lands for centuries. Well before the days when the stones of this castle went by another name. They are descendants of the Northmen and have a memory twice as long.” He finished what was left of the whisky and then tossed the jug to the ground. “These old prophecies are slow to die, but after yesterday…” He shook his head. “Tell me more of this witchery. I’ll no’ lose another man. Not if I can help it. What’s your plan?”

  Ewen rubbed the burning skin at his nape. “To stop the killer before he kills again. This is personal. Someone with the motive and the means to attack my clan. Someone who wants to see us destroy ourselves.”

  “That could be half of Scotland.” Alan threw a rock over the cliff and watched it fall into the dark water. “You made enemies when you took Ardgour by force, and we”—he rolled a shoulder—“are no saints, either.”

  The man had a point. “Whoever masterminded these rituals has an agenda. One that is changing.”

  Scrunching his brow, Alan turned to face Ewen. “How so?”

  “The victims of the earlier rituals were left for dead inside the circle. The killer drained them of blood and arranged their bodies in the form of the crux ansata. We have reason to believe someone was copying the magic of old.” Ewen had yet to get the full details out of Rupert. “From what you’ve told me, this was not the case with Hamish. This ritual was similar in parts, yes, but blood was not drawn from his body, nor was he arranged inside the circle like the others. Instead, it appears that those who did not fall under the weaver’s spell were discarded and left for dead, while the others were sent to attack the keep.

  “I am no’ versed in Druid magic. I doona have solid evidence to prove all I’ve told ye. But I can tell you one thing with certainty.” Ewen felt it in the marrow of every bone in his body. “Someone is raising an army.” An army of men devoid of will. “And I don’t need to tell you what that kind of power can do in the wrong hands.”

  Alan forced a breath through his lips. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “No, you do not. I’ll no’ lie to you. Were I in your brother’s shoes, I would have attacked first and asked questions after the deed was done.” He glanced back at the tower. “Perhaps the old man wasn’t too far off the mark.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is not the first to come forward with tales of strange happenings.” Alan drew another breath into his lungs. “Two of my warriors encountered a group of villagers fleeing Argyle.”

  Ewen perked. Argyle was Campbell territory.

  “Talk of witches, demons, and portals to hell. Whirlpools appearing in lochs. Phantoms haunting the skies. I didn’t pay much heed to the reports at the time, but now”—he shrugged—“who is to say? And, oh, I thought you might be interested to know your monk sought passage back to Iona earlier today. Alone.”

  Damn Rupert.

  “He was denied.” Alan’s mouth twitched. He stared ahead, beyond the riverbank to the small homes dotting the fields. “My people deserve retribution.”

  “I will not rest until they do.”

  Alan cast him a sideways glance. “At risk to your own life?”

  “Aye.” Honor demanded it.

  “Good. I wouldna expect less.” He rocked back on his feet then pulled a parchment from his tunic.

  Ewen stilled.

  The betrothal contract.

  Donald’s seal was still intact.

  Alan handed Ewen the document. It weighed twenty stone in his hands.

  “’Twould appear an important missive from the great MacLean chieftain never found its way into my hands. More’s the pity. I would have enjoyed having you as kin.”

  There wasn’t much that shocked Ewen, but this?

  This knocked the wind from his lungs.

  Alan winked.

  Ewen shut his mouth and watched the Cameron laird amble back to the castle. For whatever reason, one his mind grappled to understand, fate had just handed him an unexpected gift.

  His freedom.

  Frowning, he tore his gaze from Alan’s retreating form and slid the betrothal contract inside his tunic.

  TWELVE

  DEIDRE STARED at the stone structure situated at
the edge of a field fifty yards ahead. Dark smoke funneled above the roof as shades of pink broke across the morning sky, signaling the rising sun. As if agitated, her mouth twisted back and forth.

  Nerves shot into Caitlin’s ribcage. This had to be the smithy.

  To the right of the edifice sat two buildings with thatched roofs, and on the left, a small lake or lochan.

  “I don’t feel right leaving you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Caitlin said with more confidence than she felt. “Faolan doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who would appreciate uninvited company.”

  “I’ve no care for the blacksmith’s comfort,” Deidre groused. “Do you remember what to look for?”

  Patting the supply basket at her hip, Caitlin said, “Yep. Check Callum’s vitals, um, I mean, feel for the beating of blood in his veins. Look for dilation of his eyes or yellowing of his skin. If any of these symptoms are present, I’ll administer more of the potion. Other than that, he needs plenty of rest and I’m to inform his dad that there is to be no running or horsing around until you give him the all clear.”

  Deidre gave her a funny look. “You have such a strange way with words.”

  Caitlin shrugged. Apparently, tapping into Valoria’s knowledge of Gaelic didn’t guarantee proper elocution or word choice. Go figure.

  “Now, do you remember the way back?” Deidre adjusted the strap slung over her cloak. The thick sack was filled with more of her specialty herbs, poultices, and healing supplies. She’d been called to assist a birth shortly before she and Caitlin had left the keep.

  “Mm hmm.” The manor was about three quarters of a mile from where Caitlin stood. “Head west until I hit the stone wall.” Or she found a route out of Ardgour that wasn’t heavily guarded by either Donald’s men, the fifty or so warriors who’d arrived from Mull yesterday, or the MacLean sailors manning the Viking-like boats still moored in the harbor.

  Deidre’s hazel eyes lit with amusement. “Well, should you break your nose when you hit the wall, press here”—she squeezed the bridge of her own—“like this, and by the time I return, there should be naught to heal.”