Dark Victory (13 page)

Macleod stood innocently on the other side, awaiting his turn to go through.

The metal detector was still.

Her heart pounding, Tabby looked at everyone present. Yes, a few people were whispering and staring with wide eyes at Macleod. How could he use his powers so openly? It was too dangerous!

Macleod was still as a statue. Even his impassive expression was set in stone.

“What the hell?” the security inspector exclaimed. The cop ran over, as did two other museum security guards, but their attention was on the machine, not Macleod. One of the guards
started calming the crowd. Tabby glanced at Macleod as they began trying to figure out if the machine still worked or not. Someone suggested it had been shorted. The cop revealed his shoulder holster and gun, and went through. The metal detector did not go off. Macleod looked at her, his blue eyes satisfied. Tabby gave up. She shouldn’t have doubted his ability to get by a simple metal detector. He had known what he was doing. She couldn’t help admiring him. In a crisis, he was as cool as a cucumber.

She hated to admit it, but he would make a terrific partner for anyone in the war on evil. It was a shame and a waste that he hadn’t taken his vows. With that kind of courage, he should be on the streets, defending the Innocent, every single day.

“Oh, great. Now we have to frisk everybody,” the security inspector said. He turned. “Call Mel and tell him what happened.” He waved at Macleod. “Come here, buddy. We have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Tabby held her breath, certain that Macleod would keep the inspector enchanted, and she was right. The balding inspector patted his chest and thighs and said, “Go on.” It was the worst frisk job ever.

Macleod smiled pleasantly at him and walked into the museum lobby.

Tabby breathed. Then she turned and saw the off-duty cop staring at her closely—no, he was watching Macleod as he joined her, and suspicion was written all over his face.

Her heart skipped too many beats to count. “He’s onto us,” she whispered.

“Aye, he suspects me, but I can destroy him easily enough,” Macleod told her softly.

“What if your powers fail you?”

He looked at her. “I could choke his life from him with my bare hands.”

She stared into his cold eyes. He meant his every word. If push came to shove, he’d break that cop’s neck as swiftly as he’d beheaded Angel.

She’d spent most of that morning thinking about having sex with him. What was she doing? The fact remained that he was a medieval man. Last night she had forgotten it. There would not be evenings at wine bars and trendy restaurants. There wouldn’t be movies or ice skating. There wouldn’t be weekends at a cozy cottage in the Hamptons. She almost laughed at the idea of his doing any of those activities! The only relationship they could possibly share was a sexual one—or a martial one.

Suddenly she was depressed. “Come on. The exhibit’s upstairs.”

His gaze turned searching as they started across the lobby. “Ye should stop thinkin’ so much.”

“I wish I could.” She realized she meant it.

It was too early for a line, and it was Tuesday, so the museum was quiet. Macleod left her behind, heading rapidly to the display case. Tabby hurried after him. She wasn’t surprised when she saw that he was staring at the gold amulet. Disbelief and shock were written all over his face.

“What is it? You recognize the talisman, don’t you?”

He began to tremble. Tabby was stunned by his agitation—and by the grief that flickered in his eyes and the anguish that crossed his face. Her head ached. She saw the fourteen-year-old boy, covered in blood and choking on grief, standing not far from an inferno.

“I am so sorry for what you went through,” she said softly, thinking about how terrible it must have been to lose your entire family and be the only one to survive.

He turned to look at her. For one more moment, she saw him as that grief-stricken and enraged boy. Then it was Macleod
standing there, the grief replaced by fury. Behind them, the display case rattled. “The amulet is mine.”

Tabby went still and then dread arose swiftly. “Macleod, no! The pendant was found in the ruins of Melvaig quite recently. Apparently it was in the fire of 1550. It belongs to the British government.”

His expression was ruthless. “’Twas my mother’s. It belongs to me.”

She clung to his hand with both her hands now. “Don’t do anything rash. Please, let’s go and calmly discuss this.”

His smile was chilling. “There’s naught to discuss, Tabitha.”

This was not going well, Tabby thought. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the off-duty cop and his girlfriend across the room, wandering about the adjacent exhibit. Her unease escalated. Had they followed them? “Macleod. Let’s go. Let’s grab a coffee and talk about Melvaig, your enemies, the fire, and try to figure this out.” She hadn’t even finished speaking when a security guard rounded the corner.

Macleod turned. The display case shattered. Alarms screamed.

“Damn it!” Tabby cried.

Macleod seized the pendant through the broken glass case.

“Hey, you! Halt! Put your hands up!” the security guard cried, training his gun at them.

“Let’s go,” Macleod said calmly to her.

“Put your hands up!” the guard screamed.

Tabby closed her eyes and thought,
Good over Macleod, good around him. Good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting him.

Macleod seized her arm, ruining her concentration. “We have no time fer magic now!” he said, already hurrying her toward the hall and staircase.

The guard began speaking on his radio, behind them.

“Halt right now, before I blow your fucking head off.”

Tabby knew it was the bad cop and she was horrified. She tried to halt. Macleod tightened his grasp on her, saying, “Come!” He started to run, dragging her with him.

Tabby screamed, “He’ll kill you!” She was certain he could not survive a bullet to the back of his head.

“Fuck you,” the cop snarled, behind them.

Macleod roared, turning, flinging his arm as the gun fired, but no power blazed. Tabby cried out as the bullet hit him high on the chest, but he only flinched, when a mortal would have gone down.

The cop’s eyes went wide. “One of them,” he said, about to shoot again.

Macleod moved faster than the human eye. His dagger, which had been in his boot, beneath the jeans, landed in the cop’s heart as the gun went off again. The bullet went astray, hitting the wall, as the cop collapsed.

The guard shouted, “He’s killed Frankie!” He ran up the hall toward them, gun in hand.

Macleod marched forward, his face savage. Tabby thought he meant to murder the guard with his bare hands. She screamed at him. “He’s an Innocent! Don’t!”

But then he tore his dagger from the cop and straightened, staring at the guard. The security officer hesitated, his face pale, his gun trained on Macleod.

She had to save him.

And suddenly the morning became still, silent. Suddenly she was so calm, so detached.
“Good over Macleod, good around him. Good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting him,”
Tabby chanted. The air shimmered around Macleod. Vaguely she heard the sirens outside and booted steps pounding madly up the stone stairs.

Tabby focused her entire being on the spell as the guard pulled the trigger. Only a loud click sounded.

The guard blanched, clearly in disbelief.

Had her spell worked? “Macleod, we have to run,” she said, trying to shake herself free of her trance.

Macleod lifted his arm and, this time, his energy blazed, hurling the guard backward. As Macleod strode back to her, a man materialized between them in a whoosh of golden dust that formed into a huge, towering golden Highlander. Otherworldly power filled the hall.

“Ye took yer time,” Macleod said.

“Aye, I wondered how ye might manage this crisis,” the golden Highlander said calmly. He nodded at Tabby as if he knew her.

“I willna go back without Tabitha,” Macleod warned.

Tabby tensed, coming fully out of her trance now. Only two things were clear—Macleod was leaving and she could not go with him. “No, wait. I am
not
going back to Blayde with you.”
He was leaving.
She forced her dismay aside. She could not go back in time with him!

He reached her, seizing her hand and pulling her hard to his side. His gaze locked with hers. “Hold on verra tight.”

Panic overcame her. “Macleod, no!” She had never meant “no” more.

But he nodded at the golden Highlander and suddenly Tabby was crushed to his chest and they were hurling toward the high ceiling above. She screamed.

Blayde, Scotland
June 10, 1298

T
ABBY COULDN’T BELIEVE
she would survive the pain. She had gone through the universe, probably at the speed of light. Maybe she wouldn’t survive—maybe she was dying, even though she lay on the damp ground in Macleod’s arms, moaning. Every bone in her body had been shattered into a
zillion pieces, or that was what it felt like. If the pain didn’t stop, she would explode and die.

He spoke against her ear. “’Twill pass soon, Tabitha.”

Tabby didn’t think the torment would ever pass. She wept against what felt like wet grass, grateful that his arms were around her.

“Will she survive?” Macleod asked, sounding worried. He didn’t release her.

“Aye. If ye let me touch her, I can heal her quickly enough.”

The golden Highlander could heal her. Tabby somehow moaned.

Tabby felt strong but gentle hands on her and great warmth began seeping into her, through her. She continued to cry, but started to realize that the pain had become tolerable. In fact, her broken body began to throb with the force of a headache. She was no longer crying. She dared to try to take a breath and it felt like a miracle when she could breathe deeply.

More warmth filled her, a powerful healing light. “Take yer time, lass,” the golden Highlander said softly.

“Ye can take yer hands off her now,” Macleod said.

The pain vanished. Tabby opened her eyes and saw the brightest, bluest wildflower she had ever seen, inches from her nose. She inhaled and the most amazing, freshest scent of earth, grass, flowers and pine filled her nostrils, so strong it could have been a perfume. Then she identified the tang of the sea. Her mind clicked into high gear.
She was in the Highlands.

No, she was in the
medieval
Highlands…because Macleod had brought her back with him.

Tabby slowly sat up. Macleod steadied her, but she didn’t look at him. The tall golden Highlander stood behind them, and her gaze veered past him, too.
She was in medieval Scotland. Oh, my God.

As dark as ebony, Blayde was situated above them on a
stark hill, its walls and towers butting up against the sky and the sea.

And it was familiar.
She knew Blayde.

The headache began. The fortress changed, flames shooting from the parapets, the towers, the ramparts. Men, women and children were shouting, screaming, crying. An inferno blazed and she saw Macleod as that skinny fourteen-year-old boy, stumbling down the hill, away from it.

Tabby inhaled and blinked. Blayde became a dark shadow on the hilltop again, silhouetted against the Highland skies. Nothing should be familiar, not Blayde as it was just then or as it had been in 1201, when it had been razed to the ground, but it was.

She inhaled again, shocked at the fragrance of the summer afternoon. She could smell every blade of grass, every petal of gorse, every pine needle and cone, every wildflower. But then, there was no pollution in 1298.

And the afternoon was filled with birdsong. Dozens of different types of birds were chirping, and she heard the buzzing of insects, too.

A rasping sound made her turn her head and she saw a magnificent young buck, rubbing his immature antlers on a tree. There was no noise pollution here, either, she thought. Being in historic Scotland would be incredible—under other circumstances.

She trembled and turned, meeting Macleod’s gaze. “So you brought me back to 1298.”

“Aye,” Macleod replied, his gaze holding hers. “With MacNeil’s help.”

Now Tabby recalled every moment they’d spent at the Met. She trembled with anger, getting to her feet. She had said no. She had told him that she would
not
go back in time with him. But he hadn’t listened. Of course not.

She looked at Macleod’s chest. Now he was an incredibly incongruous sight, in his sweater and jeans, standing in front of a castle in thirteenth-century Scotland. The blood on his sweater had already dried, perhaps from the speed of time travel. The sweater was torn from where the bullet had struck him. “Are you hurt?” she asked tersely. She thought she knew the answer.

He shook his head, his expression a bit wary. “MacNeil healed me, too.”

“Good.” With that established, she saw red.
She did not want to be there! He had ignored her completely.
Her hand lashed out, as hard as she could, and she struck him across the face.

His eyes widened as the slap resonated like the crack of a whip in the quiet afternoon.

“How dare you!” she cried, shaking with fury. “I was very clear. I said in plain English that I would not go back in time with you!”

He rubbed his jaw. “’Tis the second time that ye’ve hit me.”

“So what?” A part of her was shocked that she had struck him again. But mostly, she was so angry she didn’t care—even though the ground seemed to shift a bit beneath her feet. “Oh, wait! You’re a savage brute so now you’ll beat me for my sins? Because that’s what big macho medieval jerks do to their women, right?”

The ground moved violently beneath them. “’Tis nay safe in yer time.”

“Like it’s safe here?” she shouted. She simply didn’t care that his temper was igniting.

“I dinna wish to leave ye behind to fight the deamhan ghost alone,” he snapped.

“And that makes you my hero? I don’t think so!” He darkened. A wind kicked up. “I am not a piece of baggage, to be shipped here or there at your whim! I am a modern woman, and modern women control their choices, their lives, their
Fates. Damn it, Macleod, I do not want to be here. I do not belong here. Send me back.”