Timespell: HIghland Time-Travel Paranormal Romance (Elemental Witch Book 1) Page 4

  She must have adapted to its uneven surface because it seemed in better repair than it had been when she’d crossed it to check out the cellar. She reached the steps and trained her light on them.

  Her mouth fell open. These weren’t the same steps she’d half fallen down. They were in perfectly serviceable condition, the stone risers as even as stone risers ever got. The places she remembered—areas the stone had broken leaving ankle-twisting gaps—weren’t there.

  Her heart thudded dully in her chest, and she walked up the stairs and out into a blinding rainstorm. Being beneath ground had muffled the noise, but rain beat steadily from gunmetal skies, falling so thickly she had a hard time seeing more than a few feet.

  She pulled her hood over her head and zipped her jacket to the chin. Her trousers would end up wet through, but her boots were stout and weatherproof. The storm was disorienting. She listened for the rush of the River Lochy and used it to walk toward the fancy hotel that had gone up not far from here. She’d dry out in its lobby, and maybe they could use their landline to call her a taxi.

  She’d done a good day’s work and avoided Arlen MacGregor too. A vague sense of guilt jabbed her, but she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d been quite clear last night that she had other plans. They barely knew one another. She owed him nothing.

  He was kind to me.

  Nothing more than he would have done for any stranger.

  Kat sensed perhaps more than that lay beneath his chivalry but teasing it out felt quite beyond her. Besides, why bother? One more day in Inverness, and she’d catch the train to Glasgow and get on a plane back to San Francisco.

  Light was leaching from the day, but Scotland was pretty far north, and days were short around the winter solstice. She splashed through puddles, glancing at gravesites as she passed them. The stones were easier to read than she remembered; no doubt a side benefit of all this rain washing centuries of dirt from them.

  She peered through the gloom. Why weren’t there any lights? The hotel had to be close. She skirted the ruins, coming round to what had been the front of the castle. It loomed above her in flawless repair.

  No rubble.

  No ruins.

  The lights she’d sought burned in a few windows, but with the flickering glow of either lamp oil or wax candles. Kat willed herself to keep walking, but her feet refused to obey. She stared at the castle, nonplussed. If this was a manifestation of schizophrenia, she’d eat her notebook.

  An internal struggle ensued. Part of her wanted it to not be real, which would mean she was hallucinating. A slightly larger part was fascinated at the specter of actually going back in time. And to a place she’d studied until she knew it intimately.

  Either I’m nuts, or the impossible happened.

  Always one to grab the golden ring as it flashed past, she was considering how to bend her current circumstances to her advantage when rhythmic pounding reached her. Not thunder. Horses. A bunch of them were heading toward her at what sounded like a full gallop. She took shelter beneath an overhanging parapet and flattened her body against the wall. Her penlight still cast a yellow glow. She thumbed it off. Fear twisted her guts into a knot, and her efforts to put the best possible spin on things frittered to nothing. What had she done? More importantly, could she undo it?

  “This isn’t possible.” She was back to talking out loud, but softly. “I can’t have fallen backward in time. That only happens in books.” The whole Outlander series tumbled through her mind. Had Diana Gabaldon known something? How about Stephen King, H.G. Wells, Kurt Vonnegut, Michael Crichton, and everyone else who’d penned books about time travel?

  The horses drew closer, near enough to hear armor clanking. Were these men coming from battle? If so, which one?

  Her mouth split into a bitter grin. If she’d ended up a refugee, what better time than one she’d investigated so extensively, she was recognized as an expert?

  Her hands balled into fists. Her academic brain was in ascendance because if she didn’t keep a firm grip on everything, she’d curl into a ball of misery, howling hysterically. Her nails cut into her palms, but the pain steadied her. If the impossible had happened, and she’d really punched through some eldritch time warp back in the Cameron crypt, she needed a better hiding place than where she was.

  Women weren’t “experts” on anything in Old Scotland. They were wenches and serving maids and whores and nursemaids. Or ladies, and no one would mistake her for one of them. If someone found her skulking around the castle, they wouldn’t bother questioning her. Women were expendable. They’d either send her to the dungeons or murder her on the spot—after passing her around for their pleasure—assuming she was an English spy. She spoke their language, but not without an inflection that would give her away.

  Voices reached her; she listened carefully. Their speech would offer clues to where she’d landed. Part of her expected modern Gaelic because she’d stumbled into some bizarre reenactment scenario. It was a whole lot more plausible than time travel. Only problem was no reenactment could have resurrected Inverlochy Castle—or the steps leading into the Cameron crypt.

  Gaelic reached her in bits and scraps. Enough for her to know she’d ended up in the early 1700s. Breath whooshed from her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She had to remain silent. Once the men went inside, she’d return to the crypt. People from this era believed in ghosts, so she’d be safe enough there.

  Yeah, until I starve to death or die from drinking contaminated water.

  Buck up. I got myself into this. I’ll get back out of it.

  Somehow.

  Courageous words, but she didn’t believe them. She couldn’t walk up to the castle gate and knock. Her dress was odd. Her speech wouldn’t sound right, either. Her appearance was strange enough to encourage whoever was running things to strip-search her. They’d find her phone. Her tablet. Other accoutrements from the twenty-first century.

  “Fuck,” she mumbled. “They’ll label me a witch and burn me.”

  The clatter of armor told her men were dismounting. High-pitched voices joined the fray. No doubt male children from the stables. She longed to peek around the corner and lay eyes on them. See what warriors and their minions from this time period really looked like.

  Fear held her back, and she fought for breath through the narrowed place her throat had become.

  If they saw her, she was dead. She knew the clans, understood how they operated. A hound bayed, followed by another until a phalanx of doggie voices filled the air. She pretended she was invisible, willed it to be so, and prayed it stuck. The dogs weren’t in hunt mode, so she might escape notice.

  She waited, barely breathing. The men joked about a wench most of them had enjoyed. The joke was they hoped she didn’t have the pox because then all of them would have hell’s own time explaining themselves to their wives. One of the boys offered to stand in and provide stud service. Rather than laughter, his suggestion was followed by the sounds of a slap and a muted yelp.

  It took forever, long enough for full darkness to take over, before the men vanished within, leather boot soles slapping stone steps. It was anyone’s guess where the dogs, horses, and kids went. For all she knew, everyone took shelter inside the castle. Like all structures from its era, it was built to accommodate horses, but she bet the youngsters led the horses to the stables.

  Kat retraced her steps, turning an ankle in the inky night because she was afraid to use her light. The injury wasn’t bad, and she limped the rest of the way to the crypt and down its steps. At least it was dry within. She sank to the rock-studded dirt floor, glad to be out of the rain, which had done nothing but grow worse.

  She had to do something, but what?

  Out of habit, she dragged her phone out, but she still had no service.

  “Big surprise,” she muttered. “Alexander Graham Bell is 150 years away.”

  She leaned against a coffin, fighting exhaustion. Little sleep the night before was catching up with her. Light da
nced behind her partially closed lids, and she dragged them open. She must be imagining things. No candles down here. No flints. No other people. No live ones, anyway.

  The light brightened, its edges flickering. The same wrongness that had pummeled her in the crypt’s lower level was back in spades. She didn’t think she had any adrenaline left.

  She was wrong.

  A jolt blasted her upright from where she’d been slumped against a coffin. A bitter taste coated her tongue and throat. “Who’s here?” she managed, her voice thin and reedy as she scrambled upright.

  “Why shame on you, great-great granddaughter. Ye should recognize me. ’Twasn’t as if ye were but a wee bairn when I left the world of the living.”

  The bitter taste became unbearable, and her stomach lurched, painting the back of her throat with bile. “Rhea?”

  “And who else?” The light surrounding whatever was talking was too bright to see through.

  “Not possible,” Kat snapped. “You’re dead.”

  “Even as a child, ye were always too literal for your own good. Do I sound dead?”

  Something heavy and black with sharp edges settled over Kat’s shoulders. It scared the life out of her but infuriated her too. “Stop it.” She infused venom into her tone. She might go down, but she’d put up a hell of a fight.

  The sensation lessened but didn’t go away entirely. “There’s my lass. Admirable show of spirit. Ready to pick up the banner? Accept your birthright as a Roskelly witch?”

  Kat took a step toward the flickering light. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean? There’s no such thing as witches. Women don robes and dance around fires, but magic isn’t real.”

  The heavy darkness hammered her, driving her to the ground. Her knees ached where they’d slammed into dirt. Something stabbed her multiple places until she felt hot liquid run down her shoulders and back.

  “Take it back,” the apparition screeched. The more it talked, the more Kat recalled Rhea’s voice. Whatever was here certainly sounded like her.

  She started to give ground so the thing smothering her would go away, but Rhea screamed. The tack-lined shroud vanished. Kat scuttled to her feet in time to see another apparition with light streaming from it facing off against her great-great grandmother.

  Or the thing claiming to be her long-dead kinswoman.

  The newly arrived creature was male, and it chanted in Gaelic so old Kat had a hell of a time following it beyond orders to “begone” and “return through Hell’s gates.” After the first few sentences, she realized he sounded a lot like Arlen MacGregor.

  Light flashed and flared as the two unholy phantoms fought one another. Energy crackled, turning the air sharp with the scents of ozone and sulfur as balls of crackling light hurtled back and forth.

  She squeezed her eyes tight, but when she opened them nothing had changed. If she’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole, it couldn’t have been any weirder.

  The man—Arlen?—was screeching epithets in Gaelic. The air thickened, making it even harder to breathe. The light show escalated until Kat was shocked no one from the castle came to investigate. Surely flashes were visible through the crypt’s arched entry. She considered making a run for it, but where would she go?

  Rhea uttered a sharp, shrill shriek before her form broke apart into trailing red streamers. Only the man remained. Kat narrowed her eyes. Something had happened, but what would the trade buy her?

  The brilliant illumination pulsing around the other figure ebbed to a faint glow. The man stalked toward her but stopped when a few feet separated them.

  “Not sure what I expected,” he growled, “but a simple thank-you would be appreciated after all the work I went to locating you.”

  “Arlen?” It looked like him, but how could it possibly be?

  “And who the bloody fuck else would split the veils of time to go after you? Christ, but ye’re a daft one, wench. How in the hell did ye get yourself into this mess? Nay, don’t answer that. ’Twas your witchy ancestor pulling on blood ties to bind ye here. She told me as much when I staked a claim to you. Do ye know what year this is?”

  She bristled. “Aye, that I do, laddie. Close enough, anyway. I heard men returning from something, like as not a hunt. Their speech was a dead giveaway.” She returned his Gaelic stroke for stroke. “Ye have no right—”

  “I have every right.”

  She raked a hand through her unbound hair, not wanting to pursue his assertion, afraid of what he might say. If it was, indeed, Arlen, and he was rescuing her from some mayhem she’d inadvertently loosed, he was offering her a boon. Boons entitled the giver to certain rights.

  Those were the rules—in fairytale land.

  Her head spun crazily. She had her feet wedged in two vastly different worlds, and the result was most unsettling.

  The grim set to his mouth softened. “Are ye ready to leave this spot?”

  Relief raced through her in a hot tide. The return of logical thought followed. “You knew how to find me.”

  “Aye, lassie, which means I also know how to return you to your rightful time.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Now ye are. But all gifts come with strings.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll fuck you. Now can we leave?”

  He burst into laughter. When he got hold of himself, his mouth was still twitching with mirth. “The bargain I had in mind was far dearer than a momentary tryst. We have things to hash over, important things. Ye willna run from me.”

  Kat’s face warmed, but the crypt was dark enough, maybe he wouldn’t see the evidence of her embarrassment. “This not running thing. For how long?”

  “Until I tell ye we are done with one another.”

  An unexpected thrill travelled from her head to her toes; she shook it aside. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but it wasn’t sexual. She’d offered, and he’d laughed at her. Laughed. His rejection still stung.

  “Agreed.” She kept her tone formal and walked toward him, right hand extended.

  He shook it, his grip warm and firm. When he released her, she felt hollow and chalked it up to living through one too many Twilight Zone episodes—and pathetic, fawning gratitude he was going to save her from the eighteenth century. Studying it was one thing, living here quite another.

  “Ready?” He furled one dark brow.

  “Never readier.”

  A gentler variation of the odd energy that had creeped her out earlier rose around them, turning the air incandescent. It increased exponentially, pummeling her, before it fell away. Rather than asking if he was done, she peeked at her phone. When she saw the Verizon logo and a four-bar signal, tears threatened to spill over.

  But this wasn’t a time to be maudlin. “Teach me how to do that,” she demanded. “I managed to get there, but I need to know how you got us back.”

  He was still chuckling. “Frisky lass now ye’re safe.” His pleasant demeanor turned harsh, and he dropped his hands onto her shoulders where he squeezed hard enough to hurt. “What ye request isn’t to be taken lightly.”

  She squirmed, but he held on tighter. “We will go to the hotel near here, the one named after the castle, and book a room. Expended power has a price. I must eat and sleep. You as well.” He’d switched to English. “If you’re still of the same mindset tomorrow, we shall see what develops.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He let go of her. “We’ll discuss it, but not tonight.”

  “You’re treating me like a child.” She squared her shoulders and skewered him with her gaze.

  “Because you’re acting like one. Look, Dr. Roskelly, you’re not an expert on everything. Tonight, you fell into a paranormal world. It wasn’t of your doing, and you can still walk away. Maybe. Be very certain you want to crack that door with your own energy. Once opened, it will never close again.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she turned and made her way up the broken steps she remembered and out into a clear night. The
rain from her jaunt through time hadn’t followed her. She turned toward him after he followed her outside. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “You’re welcome, lass. You’d never have found a way back by yourself. You do ken that, right?” Arlen walked by her side, a solid presence.

  When she ginned up enough courage to dissect what just happened, she’d ken it plenty well. For now, she was doing her damnedest not to think about anything at all. Maybe his suggestion—the one about rest and food—was better than she’d thought at first glance.

  “I figured the mental illness that runs in my family finally nabbed me,” she murmured.

  “Och, lassie. By the time you and I are finished, you’ll long for such a simple explanation.”

  “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “I’m not trying to. Now, no more talk, at least not about this, until tomorrow.” He latched a hand beneath her elbow and guided her out of the castle grounds.

  She didn’t waste effort hunting for a snappy rejoinder. She was so tapped out, it was all she could do to shamble along next to him, holding her mind as blank as she could manage.

  Chapter 4

  A few hours before

  Arlen was driving back from John O’ Groats. It was eleven in the morning, and he was returning far later than he’d anticipated because many of the Druids offered up critical information. Information he should have known, like the prompt about the Roskelly witches.

  Morgan, a librarian who dealt in antiquities, had listened as he relayed what happened earlier in the evening. Before he was done, she’d interrupted, something unheard of for her, and asked in a thin, broken voice, “You say her last name is Roskelly? As in the Roskelly witches?”

  Why the hell hadn’t he put two and two together? Roskelly was an unusual enough name. How could he not have even considered the possibility Katerina might be related to the long, powerful line of black magic practitioners?