Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  Brochan tapped her finger with his own to recall her attention.

  “How come yer rootin’ through mah hame?”

  “I told you. I was looking for food.”

  John appeared and dropped a plate of fatty meat and bread before them. No sooner had the platter left his fingertips than Fiona grabbed a chunk and shoved it into her mouth.

  Broch pushed the plate toward her. She glanced at him but didn’t slow her chewing.

  John left and returned to place two mugs of ale in front of them. Broch slid a coin towards him with a nod of thanks.

  He took a swallow of his brew and watched the girl eat.

  Whit wis it aboot Americans?

  His love, Catriona, had been mistreated by her cruel father. Now it seemed he’d found another American left in the cold by someone.

  Fiona put the last hunk of bread in her mouth and gulped at her ale. She looked up at him, breathing more as if she’d run a race than raced through a meal.

  “Howfur does an American lassie lik’ ye end up ’ere alone?” he asked.

  She licked at the corner of her mouth and grinned.

  “Who says I’m here alone?”

  Chapter Eight

  Present Day

  “Rise and shine, big boy,” said Catriona, slapping the back of Kilty’s exposed calf muscle. It didn’t appear he’d moved the entire evening.

  Groaning, the Highlander lifted his head, a string of spit linking him to the pillow like a leash.

  “Och, mah heid. Ah’m feelin’ sae groggy.”

  Catriona crossed her arms against her chest. “Pain meds will do that to you.”

  He rolled over and struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at the bandages beneath his arm.

  “Pain meds?” he said in the strange, exaggerated American accent he used when saying words or phrases new to his vocabulary.

  “Those pills you took at the hospital that Sean made you throw up.”

  “Th’ wee bitter candies.”

  Catriona clucked the side of her mouth. “Yes, see, that’s the problem. They aren’t candies. They’re medication. Imagine a kind of mushroom that heals the plague or dragon-lung or whatever you people got back then. Now imagine that mushroom is poison if you take too much of it. The same herb that could have saved you, kills you instead.”

  “Mushrooms arenae an herb.”

  Catriona threw him his t-shirt. “The genius who ate Percocets like M&Ms is going to make fun of me?”

  He stood and slipped his tee over his head, easing his sore arm through the hole. “Sae yer sayin’ that colorful wee pill is a poisonous mushroom?”

  “Not specifically, but for all intents and purposes.”

  Sean appeared in the doorway. “How are you feeling, Broch?”

  Broch rubbed at his hair. “Mah heid’s feelin’ a bit cloudy if ye mist ken.”

  “How about your wound?”

  “Sore.”

  “That’s why they gave you a bottle of pills. If you space them out, they’re safe and offer steady pain relief.”

  Broch frowned. “Bit ah ate them all.”

  “I have some here. I’ll lend you a few to take back to the lot with you. Just follow the instructions this time.”

  “Ah will. Thank ye.”

  Sean left to fetch the pills. Catriona caught Broch adjusting the fit of his jeans and giggled.

  “Sean told me what Pete said to you.”

  Broch’s head swiveled. “He did?”

  She nodded. “Pete was teasing you. You don’t have Frankendick.”

  “Whit?”

  “I’ve seen it before, remember? You’re ah...good.”

  Between finding Broch naked on the lot and his fascination with showers, she felt as though she’d seen him naked more times in the last few weeks than she’d seen herself that way.

  A smile curled the side of Broch’s lips. “That’s true. Ah hadn’t thought o' that. Ye hae seen me in all mah glory. Ye didnae scream.”

  “No. And if yours doesn’t look like Pete’s, I dare say that’s a good thing.”

  Broch scowled. “Ah’m aff tae kill that wee man neist time ah see him.”

  Catriona laughed and walked to the kitchen to find Sean slipping bread into a toaster that should have been outlawed in nineteen eighty-two. If his house ever burned down, she knew exactly where to point the fire investigators.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay for breakfast?” he asked at the sound of her footsteps on the creaky hallway floorboards.

  “Nah. We’ll pick something up on the way back to town. If I stay too long here in Shangri-La I’ll never leave.”

  When Broch entered, Sean handed him half a glass of orange juice and pointed at a pill bottle on the table.

  “Take one now and one around dinner. It will cut the pain. Keep it from throbbing.”

  Broch nodded and took a pill with his juice. They said their goodbyes and started the long drive back to the studio.

  Half way into the drive, Catriona caught Broch snorting himself awake, which explained his unusual silence. Normally when they drove somewhere, he’d spend the whole trip pointing out unfamiliar modern objects and asking, “Wit’s that?” Those were the times she realized finding a Highlander was a little like adopting a five-year-old.

  “Whit are we daein' taeday?” he asked, rubbing his face.

  “I have a meeting at ten. You’re not doing anything. You need to hold still and let that wound heal.”

  Broch groaned. “Ah cannae lay aroond in mah kip all day.”

  “Well, you’re going to lay around in your kip all day.”

  She glanced at him to find him pouting, standing up the zipper on his jeans and then flicking it back down. He was so fascinated with zippers she felt a bit guilty taking them for granted after all her years on the planet. If she’d been thrown into the future to find each morning people walked into a closet to shrink-wrap themselves instead of dressing, she imagined she’d be enthralled by the process the same way Broch was mesmerized by zippers.

  She shuddered at the idea of shrink-wrapped clothing. The pressure to stay fit would be terrible.

  “Last nicht ah dreamt aboot a lassie wi' mirk locks,” said Broch, his voice nearly a mumble.

  “Mirk?”

  “Black. Her name wis Fiona.”

  Catriona turned her head so hard she nearly jerked the vehicle off the road. “What? Was it her?”

  “Ah ken. Felt more lik’ a memory than a dream. Ah believe noo ah did meet Fiona in another time.”

  “What do you remember?”

  He scratched at his jaw. “She sneaked intae mah hoose tae rob it. She wis hungert, sae ah gave her some meat.”

  Catriona squinted. “Why does that sound like a plot line from a Scottish porn?”

  “Whit?”

  Catriona felt it was a little early in the morning to explain porn and so plowed ahead. “You’re saying Fiona broke into your house, and you felt the appropriate response was to buy her dinner?”

  “She wis hungert.”

  “Yeah I got that. What else do you remember?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing. Ye woke me.”

  Catriona pictured her last exchange with Fiona. The way the woman had smirked before walking saucily to her home made her blood boil.

  She thinks she knows everything.

  Fiona hadn’t mentioned Kilty during their conversation, but she had seemed fascinated with him. Maybe she remembered him, too? Maybe he was her brother...

  No. Wait. If I’m her sister and he’s her brother...

  She glanced at Broch.

  Oh no.

  No. That’s not possible. She and Broch couldn’t be related because they already knew Broch was Sean’s son, and Sean didn’t have any long lost daughters. He would have said something if he did. They didn’t need a DNA test to prove that. Broch was a dead-ringer for a young Sean.

  Whew.

  But Fiona did seem obsessed with the Highlander. Maybe it was sort
of a sibling rivalry? Maybe Fiona wants to steal little sis’s boyfriend?

  She glanced at Broch.

  Is he my boyfriend now?

  “Hey...” Catriona began her sentence slowly, unsure whether she wanted to hear the answer to her own question. “You know how when you saw Fiona the first time, you thought she seemed familiar to you?”

  “Aye. Ah tellt ye before ah hud her confused wit ye in mah dreams.”

  “Right, but what you just told me sounds like you did know the real Fiona.”

  Broch remained silent, staring at the dash.

  Catriona started again. “There seems to be some sort of connection between you two—”

  “Ye died.” Broch spat the short sentence as if it had been building inside him for some time.

  “What?”

  “Ye died. In mah dream. We were in love bit ye died in mah arms.”

  She gaped. “You never told me that!”

  “Ah haven’t hud the time, hae ah?” He motioned to his wound.

  “I guess not.”

  Catriona fell silent, but found it impossible to stay that way for long.

  “How did I die? Consumption or something?”

  “Ye were shot. Ah’m sure he wis trying tae shoot me, bit—”

  “He? Who’s he?”

  “Yer faither.”

  Catriona felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Fiona had said their father was searching for them—would probably find them now that they were together.

  She guessed together meant in the same year.

  At the time, being found by a father she’d never known didn’t seem like such a horrible thing, but hearing that her old man had shot her in a previous life, thrust family reunions into a new light.

  “You were there when my father shot me?”

  “Aye.”

  “So what happened? Did I disappear and come to this time?”

  Broch stared through the window, holding so still it looked as if someone had shut him down by flipping a switch in his back.

  “Broch?”

  He looked at her.

  “Did I disappear?” she repeated. “After my father shot me?”

  He shook his head. “Na.”

  She scowled. “What do you mean, na? That’s what happened when Sean rescued me as a baby. He stabbed the bad guy—who might have been my father, come to think of it—and he sort of... poof.” She raised her hands far enough off the steering wheel to simulate the dome of a tiny explosion.

  “Na. Ah buried ye. Yer faither left yer body ’n‘ bolted. A friend of mine gave me a lair tae lay ye doon.”

  “A lair?”

  “A grave.” He chuckled. “Ah lik’ hae’n to explain things tae ye once in a while.” He held up his hands like claws and continued in a scary voice. “It was a mirk, mirk, lair...”

  “Very funny, but if we could get back to the part about me being dead...you buried me? In Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  “So the bones of a previous me are laying in the Scottish dirt somewhere right now?”

  “Aye. Ah suppose.”

  She shivered.

  How creepy.

  She needed to remember exactly what Fiona had said.

  Maybe I can work on that little memory trick of mine.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined sitting in Sean’s truck with Fiona. Her hand lying flat on her thigh. That stupid smirk...

  She could hear the woman’s voice as if she were sitting next to her now.

  Who killed you? asked Fiona. If you were born here, it means you started from scratch. It means instead of jumping, body intact, you left your body behind.

  That’s it.

  Fiona knew she’d been killed. It was the reason Catriona had been a little girl, instead of arriving in this time as a full-grown person the way Broch had.

  What else had Fiona said?

  ...when he tried to kill me.

  Their father had tried to kill both of them.

  Catriona frowned.

  Daddy is turning out to be a real jerk.

  “...and then he started calling me Fiona,” she said aloud.

  “Whit?”

  “While you were in the hospital, Fiona called me. She told me I’m her sister.”

  Broch turned to face her. “Yer sister? Why didnae ye tell me?”

  “I just did. Like you said, it’s been kind of a whirlwind here the last twenty-four hours.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Aye.”

  “But that explains why, in your earlier dreams, my father called me by her name.”

  “That’s howcome ah wis muddled.”

  “But then you found out my real name.”

  “Aye. Ye tellt me right before ye were shot.”

  “And the real Fiona wasn’t around?”

  “Na.”

  Catriona sighed. She didn’t like to put too much credence in dreams, but it seemed as though Broch’s were his direct connection to his other life.

  She touched his arm to get his attention. “Be careful of her. She’s dangerous.”

  “In mah dream?”

  “Yes. And in real life. Just be careful. I should get you a copy of Nightmare on Elm Street. Teach you how to fight people in your dreams, just in case.”

  He shook his head, his shaggy hair swinging. “Ah think they’re memories. Ah cannae change them noo.”

  “Whatever. Just be careful.”

  Broch grunted and stared unblinking at the road.

  Catriona couldn’t tell whether he was deep in thought or the pain pills had kicked in.

  Chapter Nine

  Catriona pulled into the Parasol Pictures studio parking lot and after snapping Broch awake, they walked to the front gate.

  “Ah dinnae think ah lik’ the pills,” mumbled Broch, mid-yawn. “Thay mak’ me sleepy.”

  Catriona called out to have the gate opened and slid a hand up and down his back to soothe him, careful to avoid his wound. “I imagine being shot takes a lot out of you, too. Don’t blame it all on the pills.”

  He smiled and closed his eyes. “Nails.”

  Curling her fingers, she transformed her comforting rub into a proper back scratch and he writhed with pleasure.

  She called for the gate again, and once more didn’t hear the corresponding click! of the magnetic lock releasing. Peering into the guard box, she discovered it was empty.

  Catriona put her hands on her hips. “That’s not good.”

  She found the key on her ring that opened the walk-through portion of the elaborate, wrought iron front gate, but there was no excuse for the guard box to be unmanned. People tried to enter the studio all the time—both fans who needed to be turned away and VIPs who would need the gate opened to claim one of the coveted internal parking spots. She made a mental note to discover who should have been manning the box. If it was one of the old guards with whom she was friendly, she’d give them a warning. If it was someone new, she’d have to tell Luther. He was in charge of the day-to-day security and needed to know his employees were letting him down.

  A few steps onto the studio, screams caught Catriona’s ear. Panicked shrieks on a Hollywood studio lot weren’t strange. Actors were fake-murdered and fake-chased all the time. But something about this commotion didn’t feel right. She pointed herself toward the noise and broke into a jog.

  “You should go back to your apartment,” she called over her shoulder, sensing Broch was on her heels.

  He didn’t answer. He usually ignored her when she said things he didn’t want to hear.

  Catriona ran down the side of the long stage building where they filmed Ballroom Bounce, a dancing competition show. Nearing the corner, she slowed to a stop and motioned for Broch to stay as well. She pointed to the wall to draw his attention there.

  He was already staring at the spot. A bloody hand print smeared a foot and a half from its starting point, disappearing around the corner of the building.

  She reached for her gun and found
it missing.

  Damn.

  The police had taken her weapon before letting her on the ambulance to travel with Broch to the hospital the day before. She had another weapon in the Jeep and one tucked in her apartment, but neither would do her any good now.

  The shouting began again, several voices together, some screaming, some barking orders. Catriona peeked around the blood-smeared corner and spotted a small crowd encircling a body on the ground. Judging by the high-heeled footwear, she guessed the supine body female. This close to a dance competition show, though, heels and sparkly outfits didn’t confirm sex one way or the other.

  While the bulk of the crowd encircled the wounded woman, many had their attention on something beyond the scene. Catriona heard a man yelling at the top of his voice, something unintelligible.

  Catriona strode from her hiding spot. The trail of blood that began on the studio wall continued on the ground in spatter leading to the body. As she neared the crowd, she spotted a crouching woman holding the hand of the dancer on the ground. A man in a skin-tight tuxedo squatted beside her, his hands on the dancer’s throat.

  The victim’s eyes were open but dull, as if someone had spun the dimmer switch in her head. Her skin was ashen. Her throat, and the man’s hands pressing there, were covered in blood.

  Catriona caught the man’s eye. “What happened?”

  “He tried to rip out her throat!” yelped a woman behind her before he could answer.

  “Who?”

  The man in the tux adjusted the pressure on the dying woman’s neck. “Timmy—he started tearing at her like an animal.”

  “I called 911. They’re on the way,” said another woman in the crowd. No sooner had the words left her lips than Catriona heard the sirens in the distance.

  Catriona spotted a man in a guard uniform mingling with another smaller group farther down the lot. “That guard needs to get to the gate to let the ambulance in. Someone get him.”

  “I got it,” said a man in yellow Spandex, sprinting away.

  She turned her attention back to the tuxedo’d young man. She didn’t recognize him as a regular cast member and guessed he was a contestant. “Did you say Timmy did this? Timmy Grey?”

  A murmur of affirmation rose from the crowd.