out about An Tùir-Tara?”
“I got in touch with the foremost authority on the subject, a historian at Oxford in Britain.”
Dread began. “What happened?”
“Well, he’s the one historian who says the clan war between the Macleods and MacDougalls was not the real reason for the fire in 1550. There’s nothing written down to support the theory, but there is another oral tradition.”
Tabby had a bad feeling.
“Folklore has it the fire was a result of a war of witches.”
Tabby cried out.
WHAT HAD HAPPENED? Where was he?
Had he just journeyed through the universe?
Macleod lay very still, afraid to attempt to move. Having landed on stone, there was pain, although he was aware of it lessening as he lay there. And there was so much noise, most of it unfamiliar. People had been screaming, although their screams were ceasing now. He bit back a moan, and realized that he could move his fingers and toes. He had been hurled across the sky, past stars and suns. Was this the leap that MacNeil and the brothers spoke of?
The torment was fading swiftly now and he became aware that the people standing around him were speaking the same strangely accented English as the golden woman. He opened his eyes. Some of the women wore the same fashion of clothes that the goddess had, their skirts knee-length. His thoughts sharpened. She had summoned him. But now, he wondered if she was a mortal like the other people crowding over him. Or perhaps she was a near immortal like him? She certainly seemed to be from this time.
Was she there? He certainly wanted a word with her now.
Somebody call 911…Is that a costume…?
He could not comprehend their words very well, but he clearly heard and understood their thoughts. Slowly, Macleod looked past the excited crowd.
Is he dead? Did he fall from the roof?
He shut out their thoughts, stunned.
The night sky was oddly starless, but still light and milky, as he had never before seen it. Hundreds of soaring towers filled it, the highest towers he had ever seen. He was in a huge city. Where was he—and in what time?
He forgot her and her summons. He gripped his sword and slowly began to sit up, realizing his body was not broken after all. The people who had gathered around him cried out and ran farther away from him. He noted that no one carried weapons but he did not relax his guard. Now, he saw that the golden woman was not amongst the crowd. He wondered what that meant and if it was some kind of trick. It didn’t matter. He would find her sooner or later. He would make a point of it.
He dismissed them all, his gaze returning to the astonishing sights around him. What kind of people could build such tall buildings, crowded so closely upon one another? Were they impregnable? And the windows within the towers were strangely lit. They could not be illuminated so brightly by rushes and candles.
He stood up, looking warily around. The men wore strange hose and very short tunics. His eyes widened. Horseless vehicles were passing along the black stone street.
He became absolutely still, adrenaline rushing. No mortal could make a wagon or a carriage move without the power of a slave or a beast.
“He’s alive!”
Macleod ignored the man. A screaming sound that did not come from any animal or human made him turn, seeking its source.
One of the horseless vehicles was speeding toward the crowd, passing the other carriages. Red, blue and white lights were blinking on the roof. The vehicle screeched to a stop and the whining noise ceased. Doors slammed as men in dark clothes stepped out of the vehicle. From the way they began to approach, he knew that they were soldiers.
Macleod tensed. He was in a strange world and he did not know what kinds of powers these soldiers had. He had never fled a battle in his life, but he was certain now that he had leaped through time. He had to be far in the future. He should try to learn the secrets of this world before any attempt at engagement. And he had to find the woman. He did not like being flung through time without his consent. He wanted to know why she had cast her magic upon him—and most of all, why she’d haunted him for so many years.
But he was not a coward. He stood absolutely still, shifting his weight so he was evenly balanced, his right hand on the hilt of his long sword. If he had to fight, he hoped his powers would not fail him—and he certainly hoped that the dark soldiers did not have immortal powers, too.
“What’s going on?” a black-clothed soldier asked firmly, his intent gaze on Macleod. From the way he stared, Macleod knew he expected a fight.
The woman in the knee-length gown ran to him and began telling him that Macleod had fallen from the sky. As she gestured, he felt the icy cold fingers of evil chill the nape of his neck.
They had deamhanain in this time and place, too.
He hadn’t taken his vows, but he had been able to instantly sense evil’s presence from the moment he’d taken his first steps as a toddler. He had instinctively and passionately disliked evil ever since he could recall, and had been vanquishing evil since he was a small boy capable of wielding a child’s dagger. Macleod gripped the hilt of his sword, slowly turning to face the deamhan. A tall, blond man stared at him, smiling with bloodlust. The deamhanain desired the death of the good and the godly every bit as much as the brotherhood wanted evil gone. Its eyes slowly turned red.
Macleod didn’t bother to smile back.
“Hey, you, buddy.”
Macleod knew one of the black-clad soldiers was speaking to him; he ignored him.
The deamhan grinned and blasted him with his black power, which flared crimson as it was hurled at him.
Macleod blocked the blast with his sword, using his other powers, and he was pleased when it blazed silver as it struck the demonic force. He hurled his power at the deamhan simultaneously and it went down, the people around it screaming and fleeing.
“Drop your weapon!” the soldier shouted at him.
Macleod ignored the command, advancing swiftly, sword raised. The deamhan leaped up and sent more energy at him, but he was weakened now and Macleod did not pause. He lunged, so swiftly and powerfully that his blade tore through the deamhan’s power, running right through his chest and out the other side.
“Put the weapon down!”
Macleod withdrew the blade. The deamhan collapsed. Standing over him, Macleod breathed hard and slowly faced the soldiers. Both men were down on one knee, and had small, strange black weapons pointed at him.
Macleod glanced swiftly around. He was at a crossroads, with lights that changed from red to green on all four corners. He glanced at the milky night sky—no moon or North Star could be seen. “I dinna wish to fight. Tell me, what place is this? Where am I?”
“Hands in the air, sonuvabitch! Weapon down!” The first soldier shouted at him, while the crowd behind them murmured in surprise.
No one had ever called his mother a bitch. It was an unimaginable
