by Lora Andrews
Her legs wobbled when her feet finally struck land. And for a perilous moment, she almost lost her stomach on the lawn of the Iona Abbey in front of the big-shot abbot.
“You took to the air like a pigeon, girl.” Dyn laughed. He’d not only changed back to his human form, but he donned his mustard robe, too.
“Ha. Ha. I should have puked on your back, but I like Deidre too much.” The healer looked as green as Caitlin felt.
Dyn belted out another hearty laugh. He cleared his voice when Brigid threw him a stern look over her shoulder as she walked across the field to where a crowd of monks had gathered.
The arrival of mystical creatures was an event the brothers were sure to never forget. Several of them clustered on the grass. They turned their faces to the sky to witness the landing of the red-gold dragon with Ewen and Ian aboard, while another circled overhead carrying Brother Rupert. A Highlander stood beside a man in a fancy robe, who Caitlin assumed was the abbot by the huge golden cross he wore around his neck.
The Highlander broke away from the small group of monks, his bushy eyebrows smooshing together when Ewen climbed off the dragon. He glared at the abbot and then stared at Ewen.
Heaving Ian’s body gently over his shoulder, Ewen nearly dropped his best friend when he caught sight of the older man. “Lachlan?”
“Son?”
Blow me over with a feather. This highlander was the Lachlan MacLean, the mighty chief of the entire MacLean clan?
What was the MacLean chief doing at the abbey?
Lachlan’s shrewd eyes took in Ian’s condition, then darted from Ewen to Deidre before swinging back to his son. “Were ye attacked?”
From behind Caitlin, Brother Rupert rushed forward, stumbling a bit here and there. Apparently, dragon flight didn’t agree with him either. “Abbot MacKenzie. We’ve an injured man needing your assistance.”
The abbot was a tall man, close to six feet tall, broad shouldered with a lanky build. His stern, hawk-like brown eyes and hooked nose made him look more like Charles Dicken’s scrooge than the leader of a holy order.
He assessed Ian over Ewen’s shoulder. “Come,” he said before giving Ewen his back. “Brother Rupert, prepare the chamber. Quickly.”
As they hurried across the field, Caitlin caught sight of another Draconian gliding overhead, and by the shouts carrying on the wind, Ailbeart and Eiric weren’t faring much better than she had.
Brother Rupert entered the building and scurried down the narrow hallway before stopping short before two large double doors he pushed through. He stepped aside to allow the abbot and Lachlan entry into the chamber. Deidre followed after Ewen, who carried Ian, then Brigid, her guard, Braern the dragon-shifter, and Caitlin.
Brother Rupert lit candles around the room despite the light filtering in from the windows. The ceiling soared above their heads. A massive round pillar with arches on each side divided the room into two sections. Stone slabs where built into parts of the walls with wooden chairs occupying the rest of the room. It looked like a meeting room, but Caitlin couldn’t be sure.
“Lay him on the table,” the abbot said.
Without delay, Ewen laid his friend on the hard surface and stepped back.
Ian moaned. Deidre hurried to his side.
Caitlin hung by the door. She pressed a hand over her queasy stomach, preferring to watch from the sidelines.
The abbot lifted a medallion from beneath his habit. It fell against his chest, inches above the heavy gold cross. Two monks hurried from the hall, skirting around her to quickly enter the room. They flanked the abbot, forming a human wall at the foot of the table.
The skin on Caitlin’s arms pebbled. When the abbot pulled his pouch from his robe, the hall spun. She braced a hand against the doorjamb. A hazy image flashed in her mind. A room with bookshelves. Lots of books. Old books. The kind you find at a museum.
She shook her head. Something felt off.
The abbot began to chant, softly at first, one word flowing into another until the syllables formed a song. His partners joined in, the low tenor of their voices serving as the bass to the abbot’s song.
Pain spliced through Caitlin’s brain.
Warm hands on her arms. A voice in her ear. But she couldn’t focus on the words, or the heat of the touch, not when the pictures rocketed through her mind until the scenes blurred.
She grunted. Then doubled over and clutched her middle.
A car chase.
Fomorians wielding magic in a junk yard.
Run, Caitlin.
Lila struggled against the hand wrapped around the base of her neck. The mage lifted his right arm, and his fingernails—no, his freaking claws—extracted from the tips of his fingers.
Another image.
A rusted tire iron in her hand. Blood splattering as the tip struck the mage’s head, over and over, the vibrations shooting up her arm.
Her stomach roiled.
Everything I’ve had to do for the past twenty years to keep you alive is wasted if they gain control of you or the pendant.
Reliving the pain of her best friend’s betrayal was just as bad the second time around.
You are not taking my memories. I do not give you, or any other person in this house, permission to tamper with my mind.
Standing before Lila and the abbot inside that Hingham study, it had felt damn good to say those words out loud. Not that it made any difference. The abbot went ahead and wiped her mind and stole her memories anyway.
But now it all made sense. How she knew to run from the destroyer magic. Why she’d told Janet that the Fomorian wouldn’t die before he’d shape-shifted. And how she knew to be wary of the monks and the magical herbs inside their leather pouches. The pain in her temple should have been her first clue. Like the pain in her heart knowing her best friend, Lila, had been an accomplice.
Wiping her memory had been about more than erasing any stray influences that would shape her future behavior. She was sure of it. As sure as she was that the monks of her time knew she was meant to arrive here, now, at Iona Abbey, the birthplace of the Brotherhood of Lumen.
Bile flooded her throat. She hissed a breath through her teeth to calm her stomach. She would not lose her marbles in front of the damn monks—or Brigid—inside this freaking monastery.
“Lass, open your eyes.”
She was on the floor outside the healing chamber.
Ewen crouched before her, his fingers tilting her chin, and his beautiful blue eyes filled with worry. “Speak, Caitlin. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“My memories.” She glanced inside the room to the chanting abbot swaying over Ian’s body, singing the words that would heal the bite in his shoulder. That song had healed her once before, too.
She lowered her voice. “I remember everything, Ewen. They stole my memories.”
He touched her lip and shook his head.
Caitlin bit back the words begging to be released. He was right. It would have to wait for another time. A time when she was safe from the monks and their memory-wiping schemes.
TWENTY
ABBOT DOMINIC MACKENZIE lowered his considerable body into the chair behind the large table he used to conduct the day-to-day business of the abbey.
His table.
Ewen averted his eyes. How many times had he slaved away, hunched over that wooden surface, left hand tied behind his back while his right dipped quill into ink, scrawling the words The left hand does the devil’s work over and over until his fingers cramped?
He rubbed the back of his neck. Christ, he was tired. “You still have no’ answered my question.”
Rupert’s calm demeanor was gone. He paced the width of the room then stopped, eyeing Ewen ruefully. “You have to understand”—the monk stabbed his hands into the pockets of his clean robe—“my loyalty is torn between you and the Brotherhood. I sent word to the abbot by owl before we left for Lochaber.”
The abbot cleared his voice. “Brother Rupert, know thy place.”
Ewen ignored the urge to shove his knuckles into the abbot’s sour face. His mother had taught him better. But knowing the good father harbored a deep hatred for him only inflamed Ewen’s agitation. The last place on earth he wanted to be was here, standing before the great Dominic MacKenzie inside his private chamber, flanked by his father, a goddess, a woman who fell out of the sky, and a man he’d considered a friend.
Rupert cast a sideways glance at Brigid.
The raven-haired woman stood at the corner of the room dressed in leather armor like a Roman warrior of old with her first in command by her side.
“When I recognized the goddess in Ardgour, I worried the covenant was in peril. Magic is to be hidden from the eyes of man. Fomorians are mythical creatures that should not be roaming this plane. And then, there is the matter of the rituals… Ewen, I was bound by my duty.”
“These matters belong within the confines of the Brotherhood,” Abbot MacKenzie growled. “I will ask you all to leave save Lord MacLean, his son. And the goddess, of course.”
“I think we are beyond secrecy, Dominic,” Lachlan said. “Clearly, this situation transcends the Brotherhood’s authority.”
The abbot rose from his chair and leaned his fists into the table. “This is my domain. You would do well to remember your place, Lord MacLean.”
Ewen rolled his eyes. Apparently, fools came dressed in black robes.
Lachlan smiled his affable grin—the one his closest advisors feared. The one that should be wrenching an apology from the abbot’s mouth. “How good of you to remind me, Dominic. As faithful stewards of our blessed Lord, no man should lay waste to his God-given talents, no matter his opposition.” He casually rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t you agree, Your Holiness?”
The abbot’s nostrils flared. His mouth clamped so tight Ewen wasn’t sure the man could breathe.
Lachlan shrugged good-naturedly and looked around the room as if to collect nods of approval. Foolhardy was the man who let time skew his assessment of the clan’s mighty chief. Although he had aged—he’d grown heavier, his face haggard, the spark gone from his vibrant blue eyes, and his once proud shoulders now sagged—the man was ruthless, a leader through and through.
He was also a man whose counsel was sought by many, including the Lord of the Isles, the abbey’s patron.
Abbot MacKenzie wisely slammed his arse back into his chair.
Mayhap the man wasn’t a total idiot.
After a pause, Lachlan said, “There has been another death.”
Ewen’s eyes snapped to his father. “Where?”
“Not far from Dunollie. A young lass of ten and five found in the same condition as the baker’s boy. Bound and bled in a ritual circle.”
“Ah, Christ.” Ewen clenched his fist. Bres would rue the day he stepped onto Scottish soil. “You came here seeking the abbot’s counsel about the rituals?”
“No. I came about a promise I’d made years ago.” Lachlan focused on Brigid’s guard. “But in light of present company, it seems I’m too late.”
Ewen tensed, not liking the look on his father’s face. “And what kind of promise would that be?”
“Tell him,” Lachlan told the abbot.
The abbot’s eyes flashed in warning. “Lord MacLean, a word. In private.”
“No.” Lachlan slammed his fist against the table. “No. There will be no more words in private. By the saints”—he sliced his hand through the air—“the guardian is here.” He spun around to face Ewen. “I should have told you the truth years ago.”
Ewen’s blood went cold. “The truth?”
“Aye, son.” Lachlan’s expression lent no clues to the words he would soon speak.
Except…
The tell-tale rubbing of his middle finger against his right thumb. Those short, quick strokes said more than those tired old eyes ever could.
“The truth about your mother.”
Ewen took a step back. His legs hit the seat of a chair lining the wall. He crossed his arms, bracing himself against the memories forming a lump in his throat.
“Your mother, she…” Uncertainty clouded Lachlan’s eyes. “I don’t know how to tell you.”
“Tread carefully, then. This is my mother ye speak of.”
Lachlan scrubbed his face. “Ealasaid was unlike other healers. She was special.”
Special?
Ewen bit back his anger. “My màthair was brave. She didnae follow the path forced upon so many disgraced women of her station. No thanks to you.”
Lachlan shot Ewen a suffering look. “We’re back here again, are we, lad? I grow weary of repeating the same words, over and over, time and again.” He huffed. “You were no mishap. Or misfortune.”
“Nay, just one of the many fruits of your many dalliances outside of your marriage bed.”
Lachlan didn’t respond to Ewen’s comment. Instead, he turned his steely eyes to Rupert with a do-you-see-what-I-must-endure jolt of his graying head.
Gods teeth. The man plucked every ounce of patience Ewen possessed. “Go on. My màthair was special. How?”
“When my illness took hold, your mother administered her herbs and potions, but the poison had been too long in my body. The damage too great. Weeks passed without change. I became…despondent. But, over time, her tender smiles filled my heart, giving me hope. Giving me a reason to fight. And her laughter—”
He shook his head and expelled a heavy sigh that filled the room. “Her laughter was contagious. It filled a man with joy. As I lay dying, my body wracked with pain, I wished for another destiny. One where I was no laird saddled with a wife I did no’ love. One where I was but a simple man who could marry the woman of his dreams. I loved your mother like I have loved no other.”
Eyes glistening, Lachlan paused and drew in a slow breath. “I don’t know what she saw in me, or why she thought me worthy of saving, but she did, lad, and it wasna by flower or plant, nor mead or wine. It wasna by any means born of this earth. My Ealasaid shared her light. Golden light that swirled from her palms. A light she forced into my body, and as the magic seeped into my skin, the poison oozed from my pores.”
Ewen’s mouth went dry.
His mother was a witch?
“When my pain ceased, I opened my eyes to find your mother collapsed beside me, overcome with exhaustion. Curing me weakened her. Your mother languished for days afterward.” Lachlan pursed his lips, his eyes tight. “She chose me, a man who hadn’t lived a single moment of joy in all his pitiful days. Until her.”
Pressure built in Ewen’s chest, tripling in the short time it took him to keep his eyes from shifting off his father’s face. It canna be, he wanted to scream. Why, after all these years, would his father choose to confess this tale now? What subterfuge would motivate him to lie?
By the saints, Lachlan MacLean was no angel, but he was no simpleton either. He was a methodical and careful leader who’d strategically navigated the treacherous waters of Scottish politics. To accuse this man of madness would be wrong. Especially after what Ewen had witnessed this very day.
But...magic?
Ewen pinched the bridge of his nose. Every word out of Lachlan’s mouth resonated with something in his soul. His mother’s gift, the calling that was as much a part of her spirit as her beautiful smile, had beckoned the evil that took her life. Magic, whether used for good or bad, attracted darkness, and his mother had paid the ultimate price.
Shutting his eyes, Ewen attempted to erase the vision of her mutilated body from his mind.
Caitlin slid her hand into his, her strength warming the chill in his blood.
He held tight.
A frown marred the goddess’s face.
Beside her, the man-beast’s vigilant eyes never wavered from Ewen, triggering an old memory. Ewen angled his head, imagining the guardian dressed in peasant clothing instead of his yellow robe.
“You visited my mother.” Once, after the sun had set. The knock at the door had jarred Ewen from sleep
.
The guardian glanced at the goddess, and after a slight hesitation, he inclined his head.
Ewen pivoted back to Brigid, now certain she was the young healer who’d visited the cottage a handful of times. But the woman had barely aged. “And you traded herbs.” And the poultices that had healed the strange rash that had run rampant through the village the year before his mother died.
Brigid didn’t answer.
A breath escaped Ewen’s lungs.
Bluidy hell. He’d been living among supernatural beings his whole life.
The abbot sat behind his large table, returning Ewen’s scrutiny with the same coldness he’d shown Ewen for as long as he could remember.
He knew.
All this time, he’d known.
And Rupert?
The monk’s lip curled, his golden eyes boiling with a red-hot rage funneled at the abbot. A reaction Ewen took to mean Rupert had no foreknowledge of his past. Some of Ewen’s anger toward the monk receded, but betrayal or no, he’d tread carefully in the future until he knew exactly where his old friend stood.
Where are you, my sweet boy?
His màthair’s words rang in Ewen’s head. Words she’d sung during the many hiding games they’d played.
Christ, she’d been teaching him all along.
Pulling his hand free from Caitlin’s grasp, he faced his father, balling his hand into a fist. “You never asked me how she died.”
“I didn’t have to.”
“She warned me to no’ be frightened by the banging. I remember her rising from her chair to glance at the door. She said not to fear. That what was coming was part of what the gods had written.” My beautiful màthair. “Then she kissed my forehead and shooed me away to my hiding spot, a hole in the floor covered by loose boards you never came home to fix. She had a habit of stomping her feet loudly, knocking over chairs like a drunkard in her wake to find me. I watched from between the cracks in the wood, waiting for her sing-song voice to call out my name.”
