Return of the Highlander (Immortal Warriors) (24 page)

“Hmmm-mmm.” Bella tried to remember
the words from Coldplay’s latest, but they escaped her. She peered anxiously out of the kitchen window. She hadn’t moved for so long that her body was stiff and cramped, a headache developing behind her eyes.

The weather was getting worse. The rain had stopped, but now a white mist was drifting across the landscape. In places it was so thick that it was impenetrable, although every now and then it would lift to show a stretch of green moorland or the still gray waters of the loch.

Just then, her heart beating fast, she saw something moving, only to realize in the next instant that it was one of Gregor’s sheep.

Bella gave a nervous laugh. Maclean’s talk of evil and doors to other worlds had disturbed her. She wanted to dismiss such stuff as superstitious nonsense, but she couldn’t. Maclean was a man who had died and come back to life, who spoke of labyrinths and sorcer
esses. He was not like her, he was not like anyone else she had ever known. He had seen things, done things she could never hope to. Things she did not want to.

She shivered and, turning, saw the cold Aga. At least that was something she could do, she thought, as she busied herself replacing the ashes with more peats. It would take a while for the cottage to warm up, but by the time Maclean returned—with Brian—it should be cozier in here.

Just right for one of Brian’s nasty little speeches.

Bella felt anger begin a slow burn inside her.
He can’t hurt me now
, she reminded herself.
Because I don’t care anymore what he thinks of me.
Brian would never change, but Bella had.

Where was Maclean?

Anxiously, Bella turned again to stare from the window, only to stop when she noticed the folded piece of cloth on her desk. Maclean must have brought it in with him, because she hadn’t touched it. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do so.

Cautiously she approached it. There was a powerful force emanating from it, and she wasn’t sure yet whether it was good or otherwise. Her fingers tingled as she reached out and flipped open the cloth. The tatty leather strips were still curled inside, the metal disks dull with age and dirt.

The magic bridle?

It was ludicrous. But even as Bella told herself such things did not…could not exist, she knew they did. This bridle might look innocent and harmless, but it wasn’t. It was as if she could feel the thing stirring.
Waking. As if she could sense it, like a wave of warmth, enveloping her.
I’m here
, it was saying.
Look at me.

Bella reached out and rested her hand on the bridle. She caught her breath. It
was
warm. The metal pieces in particular. They seemed almost to hum. There was some polish in the kitchen cupboard, and Bella went to fetch it. Tipping a few drops onto a soft cloth, she gently rubbed the very edge of one of the metal pieces. Only a couple of rubs were needed and she could see the bright silver shining through the grime.

Carefully she cleaned more. They were engraved, as Maclean had said. Bella peered closer, turning the silver to the light. A woman holding the bridle, a woman in a shawl or arisaid. Bella swallowed, and inspected another of the silver disks. This one showed a pony that appeared very much like the strange creature she had seen by the loch. The next, when she cleaned it, represented the woman and the pony, and the bridle was being lifted over the creature’s head.

Bella was cleaning the final piece of silver—it seemed to show the pony in some sort of bother—when she heard a voice calling.

It was coming from the direction of the mist-covered loch. A drifting, mournful sound.

Bella, help me….

Maclean stood among the ruins of Castle Drumaird. He had been calling, but no one had answered, and now he wasn’t sure what to do. Brian might not be expecting another man to appear, and if he was suspicious he might not answer. It was difficult to see if anyone was hiding up here. The mist played games with him, tan
gling about his legs, blinding his eyes, so he proceeded with care, his broadsword by his side, searching the area as best he could.

He was worried about Bella. He believed she was safe in the cottage, but still he didn’t like to be away from her for too long. There was a niggling sense of urgency inside his head and it was growing. He had just decided that Brian, unless he was lying dead or injured, could not have come this way, and that he should now return to the cottage and Bella, when he heard it.

A man’s voice; Brian’s voice. Calling for Bella to help him.

It was coming from the direction of the loch, near the
Cailleach
Stones.

Maclean froze, because he knew. He knew she would respond. Bella would not stay inside, in safety, when a man needed her help. Especially a man she knew well.

She would go to him.

And that was exactly what Ishbel wanted.

Life surged through him. With a desperate shout he headed for the path and began to run down it. His foot slipped on the wet earth, and then it was as if the very ground beneath him buckled and moved, throwing him from one side to the other. He lost his balance and could not regain it. Maclean found himself sliding and then falling, tumbling over and over on the muddy ground. Ishbel’s laughter sounded in his head. He tried to save himself, reaching out to grasp at the tufts of grass, but they came away in his fingers. Then the side of his head struck the jagged edge of a rock.

Pain engulfed him. It numbed his thoughts and he couldn’t remember what he had been doing. He lay,
stunned, breathing heavily, and sliding in and out of consciousness.

Sleep, Maclean, sleep. Ye dinna need to go anywhere. Close your eyes, Maclean, and sleep.

Ishbel!

He tried to fight her, but the urgency in his head was muffled, distant.

Bella. I need to find Bella.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but gradually his own voice became clearer and louder.

Maclean knew he had to get up. He had to get to his feet and walk. He began to urge his arms and legs to bend, to move. He crawled a few yards, and then he stumbled upright, staggering and almost falling again on the steep slope. He groaned aloud at the jarring pain in his head, and then doubled over to be sick. Cursing, he wiped his mouth and spat before forcing himself upright once more.

His eyes wouldn’t focus properly, and every step was agony as he began the journey down the remainder of the castle path. At last he reached the cottage. As he pushed against the unlocked door, crashing it against the wall, he immediately became aware of the warmth inside the empty kitchen. Bella had lit the Aga.

“Bella!” he shouted, hoping that he was wrong and she was here, upstairs, maybe. He forced his hurting body to climb the stairs, leaning his back to the wall, using it for support, knocking down framed pictures as he went. Glass broke and crunched underfoot, but he hardly noticed. He was calling out her name with increasing desperation, but he knew it was no use.

His Bella was gone.

Bella picked up her pace. The ground around the loch was mushy and the misty air was cold and clammy against her skin. She felt stifled, claustrophobic, and each step was an effort, but she couldn’t go back.

Brian’s voice had come from the direction of the old stones, the
Cailleach
Stones. Or at least she thought so. It was difficult to tell in the mist, where sounds were blunted or distorted, but she hoped she was heading in the right direction.

“Brian!” she called, but her voice didn’t seem to travel very far.

Bella didn’t let herself think about what might be happening to Brian, whether he was hurt, dying, drowning. It only made her feel sick and frightened and she needed to be calm and clear-headed. She needed to think and prepare.

“I should have waited for Maclean,” she admitted to herself, but it was too late now. She’d been closer than Maclean, and Brian had called for her. She had to find him and help him. Anyway, it was Maclean who was in danger from Ishbel, not her. She should never have let him go out alone—

Abruptly one of the two upright
Cailleach
Stones rose before her. It was gone again as suddenly, but that glimpse through the mist was enough to reassure her she was where she thought she was. Confidently Bella stepped forward…straight into a patch of nettles.

She jumped back, but it was too late. Bella sucked in her breath with pain. The nettle leaves had stung her bare ankles, exposed between her socks and jeans, and
with a curse she bent to rub at the painful lumps beginning to form on her burning skin.

“Bella.”

Startled, she looked up, the nettle stings forgotten. It was Brian. He was sitting on the stone wall where she often sat, his hands folded in his lap, his head lowered. He was watching her with dull eyes and his skin was sickly white.

Her first thought was that he was injured in some way.

“Brian?” She straightened and took a step toward him, stretching out her hand. “Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer her, and for some reason she didn’t want to touch him. She dropped her hand back to her side and stood frowning at him.

“Brian? What are you doing out here?”

Slowly, jerkily, he lifted his head.

“Brian?” Bella could feel something happening. The misty air was more oppressive, thicker, as if it were coming viscous. “Why won’t you answer me?”

But he was looking beyond her. Behind her. His pupils grew larger until almost all of his iris was black, and he made a little whimpering sound in his throat.

She heard the sound behind her then. Hard spurting breaths as something heavy dragged itself over the ground, coming nearer.

Bella remembered the dream, the hag and her warning, and the monster reflected in her eyes. But this was no dream, this was real, and she could not turn. She could not look.

Brian’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came from it.

There was a smell, rank and fishy, and Bella heard water dripping. She cried out, or tried to. Whatever was behind her nudged her shoulder, and she felt a dull ache of pain as it caught her up in its jaws, holding her, securing her.

Her shoulder went numb.

Terror and shock rushed over her like a wave, deadening her senses and her mind, but she thought she heard a woman singing. Sweet, mesmerizing, the sound tugged her toward it. Not her body, her body was beyond movement, but something inside her. Her soul, maybe. The singing was drawing on her soul.

Bella felt her unresponsive body being lifted, carried, and then the loch was before her. The monster that had her slid into the water, away from the shallows and into the deeper parts. The icy loch closed over her legs, her chest. Somehow she lifted her head as the water reached her mouth, and called out the one word that meant everything to her, and then the cold water spilled into her mouth and nose, and there was no more air.

She sank down, down, where darkness embraced her.

And she ceased to be.

Maclean ran all the way to the
Cailleach
Stones.

He was still dizzy and sick from the blow to his head, but he forced away the weakness as he had been taught to do. The warrior within him took over the man, and he pushed himself onward.
I will no’ fail her, I will no’ fail her.
His legs pumped out the message as he ran. His heart beat the words over and over again through his blood. The scabbard of his
claidheamh mor
swung
against his bare leg, and he kept his hand on the handle. Sweat dripped down his face and made wet patches on his shirt. And still he ran.

The mist was lifting rapidly now, as if its job were done. It was even starting to rain again, soft and constant. Peering ahead through eyes that refused to focus, he could see the broken wall and the
Cailleach
Stones. There was a man sitting there, in Bella’s spot.

He knew it wasn’t her, but Maclean’s heart still thumped violently. Brian! Hope increased his flagging speed, and he pounded through the weeds and grass that surrounded the place where once the old ones had worshiped the goddess, before the priests and the preachers came and brought with them a scorn for all things magical.

When Maclean reached Brian he was so out of breath it took him precious moments to gasp out the words.

“Where’s Bella?”

Brian didn’t move; he didn’t even look up. Maclean grasped his arms and shook him, but Brian dangled from his hands like a dead thing. He wrenched up the man’s chin so that he could peer into his face. It was empty, as if his mind had left him. With a groan he let Brian go and turned around, searching the area, but there was nothing.

Bella was gone.

With a roar he jerked his broadsword free of its scabbard and swung it at the wild undergrowth, slicing the heads off dandelions and nettles. Violence gripped him, the need to find an outlet for his terrible pain, and as he slashed his blade he was not really seeing what he was doing. It wasn’t until he stopped, chest heaving, that he
realized he had uncovered something previously hidden beneath the long grass and weeds.

Maclean went down on one knee for a closer look.

Wool, stained and dirty, and part of the skin of a sheep. A carcass. The insides of it were gone, torn out and eaten, but the head remained. It was Gregor’s missing sheep, or one of them, and something had rent it to pieces.

The same something that had taken Bella?

Maclean knelt on the wet ground and lifted his head, gazing up into the sky and letting the rain fall into his eyes. “Sorceress,” he whispered through his aching throat, “help me. I canna find Bella. She went outside the cottage and I canna find her.”

But the
Fiosaiche
was silent.

Maclean groaned and hung his head. Bella, beautiful Bella, in the hands of the
each-uisge
. Despair overwhelmed him. He felt it pressing on him, taking away his will to live.