He walked down the stairs as Becky came out of the kitchen. “Anything?” she asked.
“Yes, I…” he studied her for a moment. “You knew.”
She smiled. “Come into the kitchen; I made you a sandwich.”
She led him to the kitchen table, already set with a sandwich and iced tea.
“Thank you,” he said, remembering his manners. “You have been so kind. I appreciate the hospitality.”
“You’re welcome.” She patted his hand. “Hopefully, you’ll be back to enjoy it—maybe during the holidays.”
She sat down across from him. Talbot remained standing, leaning against the kitchen counter. Dorian studied the older man’s posture. It was one he knew well. He’d adopted that same stance on many occasions—one of guarded observation.
“Tell me what happened,” Becky encouraged, waiting until he’d had taken several bites of the club sandwich and downed half the iced tea.
Dorian could feel the cold liquid fall into his gut. He took another drink. “How did you know?”
“First, I’m Morgan’s mother.” She got up, refilled his glass and set it in front of him. “Morgan mentioned she’d had dreams of you.” She laughed when he blushed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t ask for details. Sometimes, dreams can be used to communicate. I just gave you a subtle suggestion and hoped for the best.”
Dorian looked at the woman with renewed respect. Had he really thought Morgan lived devoid of her talents? Maybe she hadn’t known she’d even used them. He found it sad that Morgan’s family had had to help Morgan with her burgeoning abilities without any of the assistance that could have been available to them. Of course, he didn’t know that assistance hadn’t been offered and rejected. He doubted it. Having met her parents, he knew they would do anything to help her.
“Unfortunately, all I can tell you is she seems to be okay, for the most part.” He left out the bound wrists, not knowing how accurate the vision was.
“You couldn’t tell anything about her surroundings?”
He shook his head. “It was foggy. I couldn’t see anything but her.”
“You need a stronger conduit. Something you have in common.” She smiled sheepishly, then asked, “Want to try water?”
He thought about electricity running through water, but something didn’t feel right. “I don’t think that will work.” He returned her smile, admiring her for the calm she conveyed.
A conduit. A common link. Meadow came to mind. “I may have something.” His voice held an edge of excitement.
“What?”
“A young girl, who has abilities similar to Morgan’s. First, I need to see if she’s up to it. She had surgery recently.”
“Meadow,” Talbot nodded his head, speaking for the first time. “Morgan told us about her. I hope she’s doing well.”
“The surgery went well. She’s still recovering.”
Dorian’s phone rang. “Hi, Jenn, I’m with the Briscoes now.”
“Dorian,” Jenn said, excitement in her voice, “I thought you could use some good news. Meadow’s talking.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, she’s doing very well. I think we have a lead. It has to do with her father.”
Dorian tried to remember what Kayla had said about the native Scotsman. Other than the fact that he’d attempted to have Meadow kidnapped, the information eluded him. “Why don’t I head that way? I want to talk to you and Kayla about Meadow anyway.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Jenn said, adding, “And Dorian…hurry.”
Dorian stood. “Meadow’s talking,” he told the Briscoes. I need to get over there.”
Becky stepped toward him. “Give Jenn our love. And Morgan.” She smiled up at him, her eyes glistening with tears.
He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. It was warm and smelled faintly of vanilla. He took her shoulders in his hands, let a small warm current pass between them. “I will bring her home. I promise.”
Becky nodded, afraid her emotions would overflow. She patted his arm.
Talbot extended his hand. They said nothing as Dorian accepted the firm handshake.
Becky stood at the door long after Dorian’s vehicle disappeared.
****
When Morgan’s eyes opened, it wasn’t to the glare of spotlights. The soft light of a table lamp illuminated her cot. She sat up before she realized she was able to sit up. Unfettered. Her head swam. She grabbed the cot.
“Easy does it,” a strong male voice cautioned gently.
She blinked. The man stepped closer. She looked up. The light from the lamp shined on his form. He was shorter than Dorian. Stockier. Not in muscle. Not toned. His hair was deep red and streaks of gray. His beard was more whitish than red.
“I’m Ian MacIntosh. I need your help.” His brogue was thick, his tone melodious.
This was the man that had married Kayla. She was surprised. The man in front of her looked to be in his fifties.
She tried her voice. “Why did you drug me?”
“An unfortunate mistake.” He looked into her eyes. “I apologize. I’ve reconsidered and decided to implore you to hear me out before calling out to your mate.”
She fought not to betray the surprise she felt at his knowledge.
He smiled a knowing smile. “Let me get you some refreshments,” he said instead, as though she’d come for tea.
Her wariness heightened, but she remained silent. She wondered if there was any way she could reach out without him knowing. He walked to a sideboard near a door. As he walked out of the lamplight his outline took on a faint glow—a faint lavender glow. As he turned back, holding the tray in his hands, he looked up at her and smiled. His eyes had the same faint color as the light outlining his body. She remembered her dream. In her dream it was a human size Gulatega staring back at her. She swallowed. Her hands tightened into fists but she didn’t move. Her gaze shifted to the floor. Several violet outlines moved around his legs. Her intake of breath was audible.
“So you
are
like my daughter. Meadow can see them as well.” He walked forward and set the tray on the cot next to her, pulled a chair forward, and proceeded to fix her a cup of tea. After placing a scone on a small plate, he handed it to her.
She contemplated tossing the hot liquid in his face. His next words stopped her.
“I’m dying.”
He had her attention.
“Please hear me out. I’m desperate. If you can’t or won’t help me, I will let you go. I promise.”
Morgan looked at the cup but didn’t drink.
“Go ahead, it isn’t drugged. I use more direct means.”
Remembering the injections, Morgan took a sip of strong, sweet tea. It helped clear her head immediately.
“Eat some of the scone. It should help. I’m afraid some of the drug may take time to exit your body. I used an anti-seizure medication. It dampened your abilities.” He added softly, “ I’m sorry, but I needed time.”
She wasn’t buying the remorse. She thought of the small young girl who’d been attacked. “Do you really expect me to feel sorry for you, after what you let happen to your daughter?”
The cup stopped midway to his mouth. He blinked. She watched his eyes redden. A tear rolled down his cheek, unchecked. “I had no idea. The man was in my employ, therefore I take the blame.” He looked at her, his eyes hardened. “He won’t harm anyone again.”
“Don’t you want to know about your daughter?” her voice dripped with accusation.
“I know she had surgery for a tumor and is recovering nicely.” He saw her surprise. “I’m a very resourceful man. I know how she is and I know where she is. I promise you, I will do nothing to hurt her.”
He tilted his head and studied her. “You’re much stronger. Your help is preferable.”
Was that a veiled threat? If she didn’t help him, would he go after Meadow? “What do you want?”
“I would like to tell you a story. Maybe, after you know the facts, you will help me.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, finish your tea and scone. Then let me show you the facilities. Afterward, we’ll talk. I want your word that, until I’m finished, you won’t try to contact anyone.” He looked at her for a second before adding, “Please.” That single word seemed to come with great difficulty.
She looked down at her tea. She could feel the energy moving in her body. She let it swirl but didn’t thrust it outward. Instead, she closed her eyes, lifted her head and focused her sight on her captor. The man in front of her sat very still. She knew that he knew she was scanning him and he let her. The lavender glow was close to his body. From that, his aura spiked outward. It was jagged and imperfect. There were definite breaks in the energy field surrounding him. She closed her eyes and looked down.
“Do we have an agreement?” he asked quietly.
Morgan nodded.
He stood and motioned for her to follow him. He opened the door and they passed into an ornate hallway, wide and full of heavy dark furnishings. He led her to a bathroom off the hall. She closed the door behind her and saw herself in the mirror. Darkness encircled her eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess. She finger-combed her tresses and took some time washing her face.
It was silent in the room, as was the hallway. The static noise appeared to be limited to the room where she was being held. She reached out and let her fingers move over the wallpaper. It was cold beneath her fingers, as only stone would feel.
Ian waited for her, leaning against the wall across from the bathroom. Silently, he led her further down the hall, away from the room where he’d kept her manacled. Whether he wanted to disaffirm her previous treatment, she wasn’t sure. She followed him into an ornately appointed library. In front of heavily draped windows, a glass case enclosed a large tome. She walked over to it, drawn by its heavily embossed leather.
“’Tis the history of my clan, such as it is. I am the last of that clan. It dies with me.” There was sadness in his voice.
“Meadow,” she corrected softly.
His smile was morose. “I end the male line. When I am gone, I am turning this over to you to give to the Abbott House, in her name. I am trusting that you will do this.” His hand settled against the glass—a caress.
He motioned for her to take a seat in a large chair—its carved wood shining, the leather seat and back soft. The furnishings befitted a castle somewhere on the highland moors. He moved toward the chair’s mate, his steps slow and measured. As he took his seat, Morgan saw fragility, but only for a second. Then he sat straighter and became the very image of a Highland Chieftain. As he spoke, his brogue thickened and his eyes took on a faraway look that transported him, and her—through his story—back hundreds of years.
Chapter Seventeen
Dorian stepped into the bedroom. Adorned with clouds and unicorns, it was every young girl’s fantasy. Meadow was holding court in the canopied bed as regally as any royalty. John leaned against the wall near the foot of the bed, one eye trained on the door. Kayla sat in a chair next to Meadow and Jenn stood at the foot of the bed. Meadow’s youthful voice flowed into the hallway, catching his ear long before he entered the room. It was full of happiness and merriment, with little semblance to the frightened girl he’d first met only days before.
“Uncle Dorian,” she called, giving him an honorary title that tugged at his heart.
“Your highness,” he walked to the bed and bowed from the waist.
She giggled.
He stood and smiled at her. “You look a whole lot better than I remember.”
“I feel a whole lot better,” she chirped. “I can talk again,” she announced.
“I can see.” He laughed.
John added, “Nonstop.”
“Uncle John,” she pouted, the green eyes flashing.
“It’s okay, Princess,” John turned his own charm on her, “I brought earplugs.”
She groaned.
Meadow turned back to Dorian. “I’ve been talking to Momma and Uncle John. I think Papa has Miss Morgan.” She said it matter-of-factly. Dorian’s gut tightened. John shifted, put his hand on Dorian’s arm and squeezed.
Dorian forced a neutral expression. “What makes you think that, sweetheart?”
“Well, it’s like I was trying to tell Momma and Miss Jenn: Morgan’s like me and Papa needed my help. I would have tried, too, but the man he sent to get me started acting funny. Then Papa’s pets were attacking him—”
“Pets?” Dorian interrupted, thinking dogs.
“
You
know, the little trolls.” She tilted her head and studied him, her brow furrowed, her eyes sharp.
John whispered, “Gulatega.”
Dorian nodded to John and looked back at her. “They were attacking him?” He had never heard of them doing anything that was actually interactive on this plane. He had assumed their mere presence was enough to cause harm.
“Yes, he was holding me. I was fighting. They started swarming all over him. He let me go and I ran away. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t tell anyone. I lost my voice. I was so scared.”
“It’s okay, Meadow.” He looked to Kayla, worried about asking the wrong questions. She nodded.
“How did the man get you?”
“He came to school. He said Papa was sick and needed me. I’d seen him before—I knew he worked for Papa.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “He’d never said anything to me before.” She started fumbling with the sheet. “On the way, I noticed he was mumbling to himself. He started acting more…more…crazy. He stopped the car and started talking funny. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His eyes looked wild. When I tried to get out of the car, he pulled my hair. I tried to pull it back and hit my head on the door. Then I couldn’t talk.” She talked faster. Kayla reached out and placed her hand gently on Meadow’s forearm.
Meadow looked at her mother and placed her other hand on her mother’s. She took a calming breath before continuing. “I fought and finally managed to get out of the car. He ran after me. When I saw Papa’s pets, I turned. That’s when he caught up with me. When he grabbed me, they jumped on him. I could feel them. They made my skin tingle but it didn’t hurt.” She frowned. “I don’t know why he was screaming. When he let go, I ran.”
Dorian watched her eyes change. When she was telling the story, the pupils appeared to dilate and contract. The green facets darkened and sparkled ever so slightly.
She looked from him to her mother and back. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “If Papa needed me, Miss Morgan would be even better.” As she turned back to him, her eyes had returned to normal—or to what was normal for her or Morgan.
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s so strong—like you.”
Dorian looked at the innocence before him. He thought of Jasmine at the same age. They were so different. Jasmine had been mouthy and self-centered, so sure of herself. Meadow had a fragility about her. She seemed years behind Jasmine at that age.
Sadness gripped his heart when he thought of his lifelong friend. He hoped to see her soon, when Jenn okayed it. He pulled his thoughts back. Right now, he needed to find Morgan and he would do whatever was necessary to get to her.
He’d called John from the Briscoes’ to feel him out on using Meadow. John had talked to Kayla and called him back. They didn’t have any problem with it as long as Meadow was agreeable. It was up to Dorian to ask Meadow.
“You might be right. Meadow, I have something to ask you.” Dorian said.
“Okay.” The bandage went around her head like a headband, in bright pink gauze. He smiled at her expectant eyes.
“Remember how Morgan held your hand and I had my hands on her shoulders? Together she could see your tumor.”
She fingered the bandage over her ear. “I forgot to say thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But that’s not why I brought it up,” he said. “I think… if you and I hold hands and we concentrate on Morgan, maybe we can find her.”
“We can try. I know Papa is worried about something. I can feel that.”
“You can feel your Papa?”
“Oh yes. I can feel Momma, too. When Momma was so worried about me, I could feel it. Papa’s worried about me, too. But, he’s also worried about being sick as well. I could tell he was really angry when the man hurt me. He knows I’m okay now.” The words tumbled out.
Dorian moved to the side of the bed, took the chair that Kayla vacated, and sat down next to Meadow.
“You will feel a tingle when we touch. If it hurts, I want you to pull your hand back.”
“Okay,” she said, reaching out toward his hands.
Meadow’s small, cool hands slipped into his. He could feel her current; it was vibrant, full of energy.
Meadow closed her large, brilliant green eyes. Dorian did as well. He pictured Morgan in his mind and pushed. His current joined with the younger, slightly more erratic energy flow.
“I can feel Papa,” Meadow announced happily.
All Dorian could feel was a heaviness. He didn’t want Ian knowing what he was doing. If he had Morgan, he didn’t want to risk her getting hurt. He whispered to Meadow, “Try not to contact your Dad, Meadow. We just want to find Morgan.”
He watched her scrunch up her eyes and concentrate. It was hard not to smile. She was a joy, her energy so light. He closed his eyes again and sought the essence he knew was Morgan. He felt her. She pushed back, gently, faintly. He could almost see her. Then, he was seeing through her. He could feel her energy against him, like a soft stroke. He tried to push Meadow’s presence in so Morgan would know the child was there as well.
“I feel her,” Meadow chirped with excitement.
Dorian could see Ian. He was sitting across from her. He looked bloated, grey.
Look around, Morgan. I need to place you.
The image lifted from Ian and he was seeing a huge library, decorated in a dark gothic, renaissance fashion. He could see that Ian was speaking but he couldn’t hear. Then he felt another push and the current stopped. He frowned. He let go of Meadow’s hands. Morgan had broken the connection. Why?
“I know where they are,” Meadow bounced up and down. “I know where they are!”
Kayla put her arm on her daughter. “Meadow, you promised. The doctor doesn’t want any sudden movement. You are definitely moving.”
“Yes, Momma.” She calmed down. “But I do know where they are.”
Dorian’s heart beat faster. “Where?”
“Papa has a house at the beach. It’s a castle. It’s not on the beach but you can walk down the road and cross the highway and be on the beach.”
“He’s at Meadow’s Keep?” Kayla questioned her daughter.
“Yes, I could see the library.”
Kayla turned to Dorian. “Ian bought this place after I got pregnant with Meadow. It looks like a small castle. He named it Meadow’s Keep. He said it reminded him of his homeland. It’s a fortress. Nothing like a beach house.” She shook her head. “I thought he’d sold it. We haven’t been there in years.”
“Momma,” Meadow interrupted, “Papa’s sick. I can feel it.”
Dorian looked at Kayla. “How old is Ian?”
“Thirty-eight. Why?”
“I could see him. I would have sworn he was in his late fifties.”
Tears formed in Kayla’s eyes. She fought them, stroked Meadow’s hair, and said nothing.
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
Kayla nodded and went to her purse, wrote down the address, and handed him the paper.
She walked into the hallway and waited for Dorian to follow. Jenn and John followed as well. When they’d gathered around her, she turned to Dorian.
“I thought it was the blatherings of a madman. He was nothing like this until about three years ago.” She shook her head and let the tears fall. “If what she said is right, he is very sick. Maybe dying. Please.” She grabbed Dorian’s arm. “Please try not to hurt him.”
It was John who spoke. “If he needs help, we’ll see that he gets it. First, we have to get Morgan.”
Kayla nodded. She looked back at Dorian. “Be careful; he’s like you. Maybe stronger.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Jenn stepped forward. “Did you see her? Is she all right?”
“I couldn’t see her; I was seeing through her. I believe she’s okay. Tired. Her energy level is pretty low, for her.”
He touched her arm, “How’s Jasmine?”
“Healing. She’s been talking with our staff psychologist. I think she’s going to be okay. Give her time.”
He nodded. He couldn’t help but feel that, somehow, it was his fault she’d gotten hurt.
“Don’t do that to yourself,” Jenn said softly, reading the expression on his face. “It won’t help anyone.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek, “I can see why Morgan has you for a best friend.”
Dorian started down the hall; John caught up. “Don’t for a minute think you’re doing this alone.”
Dorian kept walking, but smiled just the same. He’d take all the help he could get.
His thoughts shifted to Morgan. He didn’t feel the fear coming from her like he had earlier. One other thing baffled him—it had been Morgan who’d broken the link. He was sure of it. He could see Morgan doing something like that to protect him, keep him away. However, he wasn’t reading it that way. He would have to see when they got there.
****
Morgan watched Ian watching her. He looked exhausted but weary. She had listened intently as he told his story—a pretty fantastic story at that. Ian claimed that his ancestors, or the ancestors of his ancestors, had come through the portal and mated with humans. Apparently, they were human-like, very much like him. Ian insisted he was a genetic regression. Whether or not he was a throwback mutation of some original “visitors,” she had no way of knowing. Certainly, Dorian hadn’t mentioned anything coming through the portal except the Gulatega. Ian was convinced that he, like the ancestors he claimed came here centuries ago, would die on this plane of existence and that he had to find a way to go through the portal himself.
It looked, to Morgan, as though the man was definitely dying. Not immediately, but he wasn’t the heartiest of individuals, either. Then there was the lavender glow that surrounded him—just like his little critter friends at his feet. Could they be causing the illness? Humans—an odd thought—seemed adversely affected by them. Well, not she or Dorian, or people with their marks.
“Mr. Macintosh,” she interrupted him.
“Please, call me Ian,” he grinned a devilish grin and she could see his charm.
“Ian, do you have a crescent moon shaped birthmark on your hip.”
“Ah, lassie, want to be seeing me strip now?” He laid on the brogue.
She scowled at him.
He waved away her rebuke. “Actually, I have a crossed crescent.” He stood and unfastened his pants.
Embarrassed, Morgan looked down.