Dark Victory (23 page)

He smiled coldly. “It’s long overdue.”

“Do you even have the power?” Tabby’s worry escalated wildly. “And what is that going to accomplish? Her ghost will be born in the thirteenth century, instead of at An Tùir-Tara?” She realized what murdering Criosaidh would do—it would change a future historical event if she died now. She would not be at An Tùir-Tara in 1550. “This isn’t a good idea! We can’t mess around with history and you know it.”

He was thoughtful now.

“Macleod…how powerful is she?”

“I dinna ken.”

That was not the answer she had wanted. “If you go, I am going with you! And what if you fail? What if you can’t destroy her?” Tabby thought that a likely possibility.

“I need the power to leap,” he said softly, more to himself than to her.

And Tabby knew what he meant. “To do what? To leap to Melvaig to go after her? And when that doesn’t work, to go to An Tùir-Tara to protect me? To make certain she dies, in one time or another?”

“Damn the gods,” he said softly, his eyes blazing.

“That will hardly help! And changing the future is as bad an idea as changing history!”

“I willna let ye die! I will get the power, if I have to beg fer it or steal it!”

The gods were already angry with him. They’d be furious if he went to Melvaig now to interfere in their handiwork—and just as furious if he went to 1550 to intervene in An Tùir-Tara. “Changing Fate is not allowed!”

“Do ye think I care?” he raged.

“If I am meant to die there, it’s over, Macleod!”

“I willna let ye die—not now, an’ not at An Tùir-Tara,” he said. “An’ if the gods dinna like that, to hell with them all.”

M
ACLEOD WAS DOWNSTAIRS
in the hall, brooding over wine. Tabby hoped he wasn’t trying to bargain with the gods for the power to leap.

Tabby couldn’t sleep either. They’d just made love again—frantically, as if their time was running out. She lay in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. She was going to have to admit it. She was scared.

She was afraid to die in that fire and she was afraid for Macleod, too.

It was so much easier worrying about him. He was so reckless, so arrogant—so defiant! He wanted to change Fate and she had to stop him. She couldn’t imagine what his Fate would be if he dared to make that attempt, either at Melvaig now or at An Tùir-Tara.

Harmless shadows drifted across the ceiling. Outside,
wolves howled and the moon was high and full. She tossed and turned restlessly. It felt as if they were in over their heads, with no way out. But Macleod was becoming reasonable. He was considering releasing Coinneach to ease tensions. Maybe she could convince him to go along with her plan to lure the ghost to Melvaig. The only problem was that the plan scared her a lot. But his idea of hunting Criosaidh was even worse.

The shutters scraped the wall. Tabby’s tension soared but it wasn’t Criosaidh, it was the wind. Either plan would be worth it if they vanquished her damned ghost in the process. But destroying her ghost wouldn’t necessarily change An Tùir-Tara. Getting rid of that spirit would buy them some time…maybe. Macleod’s plan to simply kill Criosaidh and prevent her from ever being at An Tùir-Tara could save Tabby’s life—if she was the witch Tabby would fight there. And Tabby was certain that she was, although she wished she had doubts.

She closed her eyes and felt hot tears. Tabby realized she wanted time with Macleod. Wanting two-and-a-half centuries was absurd—she didn’t think she had that kind of life span—but she wanted time to really get to know him, to talk to him, spend time doing all kinds of silly things like ice skating and picnics and pizza while watching John Wayne movies.

She felt like crying now. Macleod wasn’t going to go ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza, but he might like a John Wayne movie and he’d love pizza—except he belonged at Blayde and she did not. Her heart thundered, trying to tell her something. “Not now,” she whispered.

They were in trouble—or, she was in trouble, and a few things were clear. Getting rid of the ghost was a great idea and freeing Coinneach wasn’t a bad one. But she had to stop Macleod from going to either Melvaig or An Tùir-Tara. Not allowing him to interfere in history was the biggest priority of all. Even if it meant she would die.

It can’t be soon, Tabby thought desperately. Just thinking that made her feel selfish. But she was thinking about Macleod. She had so much to do. He needed her so much.

But Fate could be very cruel, and bad things happened to good people all the time.

The chamber’s open door slammed closed.

Tabby sat bolt upright as evil and hatred swarmed into the room.

Criosaidh had come back.

Even as she knew that the witch’s ghost was present, the evil closed in on her like quicksand. Tabby slowly stood up, everything except her adversary forgotten.
Just how powerful was the ghost?

Her evil filled the room.

Tabby felt herself slip into a sea of calm. Focused as never before, she said, “Show yourself, Criosaidh.”

Nothing happened. Instead, Tabby felt the hatred growing.

She closed her eyes as several shutters began banging, casting a spell to reveal the spirit. Its anger and hatred intensified. When Tabby opened her eyes, a dark and sultry woman shimmered in the chamber, her eyes burning with hatred, so transparent that Tabby could see through her. And then she smiled.

Against the wall, Tabby tensed, preparing for a terrible onslaught. She began to put a protection spell on herself.

But Criosaidh vanished.

Stiff with tension, Tabby looked around the interior, and the shutters slammed open, a huge blast of frigid air gusting into the room.

It was so strong that Tabby was hurled across the entire chamber and against the far wall. She cried out as she was smashed against the stone, and then the energy died.

On her knees, Tabby straightened slowly, her eyes wide,
every hair on her body standing on end. Even though the chamber was absolutely still, she felt the spirit’s evil and hatred gushing about her. She couldn’t see Criosaidh, but she was still present.

“Evil get out, evil be gone. My white power, keep you away,”
Tabby murmured.

The energy returned with blazing force, crushing Tabby against the wall. She gasped, but focused on the spell. The force beat her there, battering her as an insane man might with a stick of wood.
“Evil get out, evil be gone. My white power, keep you away!”
But even as she chanted, she knew that Criosaidh’s ghost wasn’t harmless after all.

The energy shifted.

Tabby collapsed to the floor.
“Evil get out, evil be gone,”
Tabby cried.

And suddenly Criosaidh took form again, standing there in the center of the chamber, murderously enraged. They faced each other.

“Evil get out, evil be gone!”
Tabby screamed.

She vanished and a hurricane force swept into the chamber as the shutters blew off the windows, and her pallet slammed into the wall. Tabby braced herself, but she was hurled backward, and then Criosaidh’s energy pinned her brutally to the wall.

In that moment, she thought of Macleod, and knew death would take her now if he didn’t save her.

H
E WOULD NEVER LET
Tabitha die in the fires of An Tùir-Tara. He would do whatever he had to in order to change her death. And damn the gods, because the knowledge of her death by fire was so familiar to him, as if he had somehow known all along that this was how she died. But if Kristin had spoken the truth, they would both be there.

She could not leave him.

It was a terribly dismal thought.

Was he coming to care for her?

Did that make him weak?

He was actually considering freeing his prisoner, but it had nothing to do with giving up his vengeance. Tabitha might be right and Criosaidh might be momentarily appeased. He saw no reason why he couldn’t protect her and fulfill his duty to the dead at the same time. Coinneach would live another day, but not for much longer after that. And returning Coinneach gave him the perfect excuse to get inside Melvaig—so he could murder Criosaidh and end this once and for all.

Where was Ruari? Hadn’t he heard him? He needed the power to leap to An Tùir-Tara, just in case he was incapable of destroying Criosaidh now.

Macleod sighed, his head hurting—his heart hurting. An Tùir-Tara was two-and-a-half centuries away. But the deamhan ghost was there in the present with them. He should not stay downstairs for too long. Criosaidh’s ghost had breached Tabitha’s protection spell, even if she hadn’t tried to use her black power. The failure of the spell was ominous; it did not sit well with him. He had the instincts of a hunter, but now, he almost felt like the hunted. And to make matters more dire, he sensed that the sands of time were running out.

He heard a sob behind him—or he thought he did. He whirled.

A thin fourteen-year-old boy faced him, standing before the hearth, crying in despair, weeping in rage, wanting to know why.
Why?

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look away, incredulous that the boy would dare to make his presence known at such a dangerous time. He wanted the damn boy gone.

It was so clear that the boy was terrified, but not of evil or his enemies. He was afraid of being alone.

Macleod had forgotten that.

The boy fell to his knees, crying. Mixed up in the fear, there was rage. That boy was furious with the world, but instead of ranting and raving, he wept. When he was finally done, he had to take that rage and bury it at sea with all of his loved ones, so he could become a man and do his duty and live a life of soulless revenge.

He had forgotten that, too.

The boy stared at him as if bewildered. Why?

Why?
Every man had his duty, his burdens, his responsibilities. Macleod strode to the boy, intending to kill him with his bare hands, because he did not want to recall any of this, ever! But the boy vanished, so he seized the chair and hurled it at the wall with all of his strength. It struck the stone above the hearth, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces.

That boy was pathetic. He pitied him—hated him. How dare he question his life!

And then he heard Tabitha call him.

Too late, he felt the evil and her pain.

“A
RE YOU ALL RIGHT
?” Nick asked. He did not bother to lower his voice, as they were in the midst of a thick forest and entirely alone. He glanced upward to locate the sun. Although he saw slivers of blue sky, he gave it up and reached into his pack for his GLD, a palm-size device that would instantly tell him where they were—but not if he’d made it to the right time.

Jan was also clad in camouflage, carrying a small pack with her gear, and she stood, brushing dirt and pine needles from her thighs and seat. She had resisted going back until liftoff, arguing that she was needed at HCU to hold down the fort. But, never one to hold a grudge, she said, “I’m fine. Where are we?”

He smiled. The best thing about Jan, other than the fact that he considered her family, was that she was all business when it counted. He glanced at the LED screen. His smile vanished. “Motherfucker. We’re just north of Loch Gairloch.”

Jan didn’t bat an eye. “You know how hard it is to pinpoint a landing. How far are we from Blayde?”

He tapped the screen and a moment later, an estimate had come up. “About twenty miles. And there’s a few big puddles between us and them. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have an inflatable raft in my pack.”

Jan folded her arms, appearing cross. “Come to think of it, considering the high percentage of water in the Highlands, why didn’t we pack one?”

“Last time I flew by Scottish Air, I landed right on target.” He tapped the screen. “We’re really close to Melvaig.”

“Tabby’s at Blayde. Or that is the most likely scenario. My money says Kristin’s wherever Tabby Rose is.”

“What would I do without you?” He grinned. He liked going back in time, especially to medieval Scotland, even if this was only his third trip back. The air was so damned invigorating. And he loved the fact that he couldn’t predict what the hell they would encounter. Now they’d have to borrow a vessel from Melvaig.

Jan said, “You should have told me about the flashbacks.”

He shrugged as if he didn’t give a damn, even though his gut clenched. There’d been four—when he’d hoped that first one would be the last one. They were getting more intense and closer together.

“You need a psych evaluation. You should
not
be here, now, damn it,” Jan said, her beautiful green eyes flashing.

She’d been arguing about the mission when he let the information slip. She kept telling him to take Sam or MacGregor or the new Russian guy. She’d had that steely look in her eyes that meant she was never going back in time again, not for anyone, not even for him. And that was when he’d told her he was having flashbacks.

They’d almost killed him once.

They’d killed an agent instead.

He couldn’t do this alone and he couldn’t tell anyone. They’d put him back in psych. And he had HCU to run.

“No one has ever been able to determine how long a leap takes. For all we know, it takes years.”

“You should not be in the field! You cannot afford to have a flashback in the middle of hand-to-hand combat with some six-foot medieval demon. We both know you are
incapacitated
during a flashback.”

“That’s why you’re here, sweetheart.” He glanced at his GLD again. “I know you’ll take care of your old boss.”

“Don’t you dare
sweetheart
me. I can’t stand this.”

He became concerned. What looked like static covered the screen. What the hell? He looked up. “You went through hell, Jan, but you made it, and that last trip was a long, long time ago. Time to move on.” He glanced at the screen. “Shit. Look at this.”

Jan came to stand beside him and her eyes widened. “I’d say an energy source is nearby.”

He slid the useless GLD into his vest pocket. “Yeah, but is it friend or foe?” He looked upward. There was no way to discern where the sun was. He knew they should head down the forested ridge toward Melvaig and Blayde, which lay to the north, but without guidance from either nature or the GLD, they would probably lose their way.

Jan pointed at the towering pine behind him. He got it. They decided on a patch of black far below, and started in silence down the ridge, using both markers to keep going in a straight line. Suddenly shadows consumed the forest. Clouds had blown in, and their black object was gone.

He tried the GLD again. Nothing.

“We’re going to get lost,” Jan said, stating the obvious.

“Not if I can help it.” Nick was determined. He was going to nail Kristin, no matter what it took, and make her talk about her unholy connections.

They started in silence down the ridge, brushing branches out of their way. Above them a deep-throated owl hooted. Birds sang. It was actually a helluva pleasant day, except for the fact that they were not alone. Nick kept checking his GLD every few minutes, but the static remained. A source of energy was nearby—and it had lots of power. But Nick didn’t sense evil. Neither did Jan; she’d say so otherwise.

When he looked at the screen again, it was a frenzy of static
activity. “We have company,” he began, when thunder boomed. Not from overhead, but from up the ridge, behind them. The earth moved beneath their feet.

There was power, lots of it, but it was the good kind.

Her eyes sharp with interest—Jan was rarely afraid—she touched his arm as they turned to face the slope above them. He was damned curious, too. The forest was dark now, silent, unmoving. The snow on the GLD screen continued to dance like crazy.

The trees shifted and branches parted. Nick watched a rider on a horse emerge from the shadows and his eyes widened.

A woman sat a white stallion, her reddish-gold hair falling down her back, a huge sword in one hand, her muscular arms ripped. He took one fast look at her face and his heart lurched hard. She was shockingly beautiful. He quickly looked at her bare muscular thighs, wrapped around that horse—he couldn’t help himself. She was dressed the way the Highland men dressed, which meant she was showing a helluva lot of leg, and she had frigging great legs.

Jan breathed, “Chill.”

He caught himself. The woman was a warrior and she had power—lots of it. She halted the horse a dozen feet from them, unsmiling. Her eyes were green, he realized, and un-blinking. Her demeanor could not be called friendly. In fact, it was cool and wary.

He smiled to disarm her and said in Gaelic, “We’re lost. Can you help us?” She’d know that they had power, too, so there was no point in stating the obvious, that they were all on the same side.

She did not return his smile. “Aye. Ye wish to go to Blayde,” she said flatly, in Gaelic. Her horse moved restlessly but she did not seem to care.

“Yes, we do.” Now he became a bit perturbed. He was
acutely aware of her but she was as cold as ice. Not that it mattered, except that he was used to stopping women in their tracks. He lurked and was shocked when he couldn’t get into her thoughts. His gaze returned to her.

She stared, and he thought the corners of her mouth had lifted ever so slightly in triumph.

So she meant to keep him out of her mind. Two could play that game. He envisioned her stark-naked on that stallion, really liking the mental image, and then blocked his thoughts from her.

He could have sworn that a hint of a flush came to her face, but it was hard to tell, because her eyes turned to ice. “Ye’re goin’ east, Outsider. Ye need go north. There’s a trail that will take ye toward Melvaig and on to Blayde.” Her power seemed to seethe. “The witch is at Melvaig,” she added.

A new excitement began. “The witch from my time—Kristin Lafarge?”

She gave him a look of pure disdain. “I dinna ken her name. I dinna care fer yer future time. She’s evil—an’ great evil is with her.”

“I need a guide. I’m sure there’s something I can offer you in return.” He did not want his thoughts to zip into the bedroom, but they did.

Jan jabbed her elbow into his ribs. “Cut it out,” she said.

“You have nothing to offer, Outsider.” She tightened her reins, flushing. “Domnhal!”

A huge, dangerous-looking, very human Highlander rode out of the woods.

She finally smiled at him, coldly. “Domnhal will show ye to Melvaig so ye can vanquish the witch an’ go back to yer time. Outsiders are nay welcome here.”

Their gazes finally held. Nick smiled slowly at her; she did not smile back. He reminded himself not to alienate her. “I ap
preciate it,” he finally said softly. “But you should know that you are welcome in my time.”

Although her eyes were ice, her color seemed to deepen. But he wasn’t having entirely dirty thoughts. He wanted to know who she was and what she was capable of and her part in the war—and if she was somehow associated with the Masters. But she whirled the horse, galloping into the forest, before he could try to entice her into a dialogue. It thundered as her army joined her.

He became thoughtful. That woman was a warrior and she seemed fearless, but he’d had the odd notion that she just might be afraid of him.

“What is wrong with you?” Jan cried. “Do you have to come onto everything in skirts?”

“That wasn’t in a skirt,” he said thoughtfully. His blood continued to pound. She was
hot
. “She has a lot of power. I wonder what, exactly, she can do. She is one of us. She needs to lighten up, though.” His mind couldn’t help moving back to the medieval bedroom.

“Oh, and a few hours in your bed will do the trick?”

He had to smile. “Probably.” In fact, he had no doubt he could ease her mind, among other things. He looked at Domnhal. “Who was that?”

“The Lady of An Roinn-Mor…a daughter of the gods.”

M
ACLEOD REACHED
the chamber’s threshold. In horror, he saw Tabitha pinned to the wall.

A huge, vicious demonic force had her imprisoned there. Her feet did not even touch the floor. That force had every item in the chamber on end. The shutters had been ripped from the window and were in bits and pieces, thrust against the ceiling; the chest, table and chairs were in broken pieces, too, and plastered to the walls. Even his bed was upside down and broken, affixed to one wall. And Tabitha was in agony.

He instantly understood that it was as if she was caught within a terrible vise. Her face was deathly white and strained, her eyes were bulging, and the sheer force that had her pinned to the wall had her clothes pasted to her skin. Her pain struck him, pierced through him.

He roared in fury, attempting to battle through Criosaidh’s energy, but it was so strong it was an invisible wall and he could not get inside the room.

Her terrified eyes met his.
I love you.

It was déjà vu—he’d heard her before—her last dying words.

“Nay!” he roared, blasting the chamber with his power. The room shuddered but the cyclone only intensified and Tabitha screamed in more agony.

His power would do nothing. Macleod pushed against the wall of wind, determined to get past it and inside. Tabitha’s screams kept sounding as he fought to get into the chamber. He somehow pushed across the threshold, the effort so monumental, his own tears fell. He grunted, refusing to give up, fighting his way through the demonic force—and Tabitha’s screams abruptly stopped.

He didn’t dare look up at her. He fought his way through Criosaidh’s power, step by painful step. And suddenly the shutters that had been on the ceiling came raining down in pieces around him. The bed fell to the floor from the wall, as did the tables, chairs and chest. The wind had vanished; she had vanished.

Macleod looked up as Tabitha fell to the floor, eyes closed, as limp as a lifeless corpse.

He rushed to her and knelt, terrified now. “Tabitha!”

She was so badly beaten, so bruised, her neck at such an odd angle, that he was afraid to touch her and take her in his arms. Worse, her magic and power, her life, suddenly felt weak and fragile—and by the moment, it seemed to be ebbing. Slowly, he reached for her pulse.

She lay unmoving, as if dead. “Ye willna die,” he said fiercely. “I willna allow it!”

He thought her lashes flickered.

He tried to stay calm so he could find her pulse. And then, finally, he felt the slow, faint beating of her heart, barely fluttering in her chest. And now, below her breasts, where the velvet dress clung to her torso, he saw that her ribs were broken.

“Tabitha.” He had never been this afraid. How badly was she hurt? She was so pale but the skin around her eyes was turning black and blue.
She could not die.
He found his will. “MacNeil can heal ye. I need MacNeil.” He was frantic. He dared to clasp her hand. “MacNeil!” he roared.

She moaned.

He jerked. “Ye will be fine, Tabitha. MacNeil will come an’ heal ye an’ I will kill Criosaidh!”

She lay so still, so beautiful and so fragile, her power slipping further away.

“Fight to live,” he begged her. He raised his head.
“MacNeil!”

And then, suddenly, he felt her weak grasp on his hand as he held her palm, and the shockingly brutal waves of her pain. She was becoming conscious. MacNeil should be on Iona. He needed the power to leap to him because he could not simply stay there and watch her die. He did not know if MacNeil had heard him. It crossed his frantic mind that MacNeil journeyed often and he might be in the past or the future. Macleod did not know if he was even in this time, or if he was able to hear him and come to them. But MacNeil was the only healer he knew of!

And then he recalled something Tabitha had said to him. Her best friend was a Healer, and she was at Carrick Castle with Ruari—but in the fifteenth century.

The gods had denied him the power to leap for his entire life.
Damn it, he must have it now! But should he try to find that woman or find MacNeil?

“Help us,” he gritted, looking up. “Help her. Tabitha is good an’ she deserves to live!”

There was no answer. Not only that, he did not feel a single god or goddess anywhere close by. Damn them—they did not care!

If ye dinna take yer vows soon, the gods will turn against ye.

Continue to displease the gods an’ they will take from ye what ye cherish most…

Nay, he thought, trembling in fear. MacNeil could not have foreseen this moment. The gods could not be so angered with him that they would destroy Tabitha, who was kind and gentle and good.