Chapter Thirty-Three
Joey
How hard is it to sprint through a museum while people are screaming, the lights flicker on and off repeatedly, and the patrons are frantically trying to flee the building? Well, picture the movie Jurassic Park ---after the dinosaurs escaped---and you'll have a pretty good idea of what I'm going through right now.
I can't stop, not for anything. That book is the only weapon to prevent another vile monster like An Bodach from obliterating the past. Rachel has fulfilled her role. Now it's my turn to snatch that damn book.
"Joey! On your left!" Rachel's voice slices through the chaos, her Gaelic-tinged warning barely piercing the pandemonium engulfing us.
I whip around with a sharp pivot, narrowly evading a security guard whose eyes are wide with terror, more petrified by the supernatural chaos than intent on capturing me. The museum's grand hall unfolds before me like a twisted obstacle course from hell---display cases casting sinister glows in the stuttering lights, shadows writhing as if possessed by demons.
The MacTaggart book of magic lies tantalizingly close, just a few steps away. I smash my elbow through the glass case, shards flying bits of stars. But then I freeze, panting, transfixed by the ancient leather tome nestled among the wreckage. Its binding, worn by centuries, is exposed beneath the jagged glass. Whatever spell Rachel cast outside is working beautifully---if you can call this pandemonium "beautiful." The electricity surges erratically like a wild beast unleashed, as centuries-old artifacts quiver violently on their pedestals. Somewhere in the distance, the haunting wail of bagpipes echoes eerily, as if played by spectral hands.
A woman, her designer handbag clutched tightly like a lifeline, crashes into me. Her face is a mask of abject terror.
"The paintings! They're moving!" she shrieks, her voice slicing through the din before she bolts past me, a desperate blur heading for the exit.
She's right---the Highland landscapes on the walls have burst to life, clouds roiling across painted skies, heather dancing in an unseen tempest. In one particularly vivid battle scene, tiny warriors clash as their miniature swords ring out, their war cries a faint yet fierce undercurrent to the bedlam.
I seize the book, its leather radiating an odd warmth and throbbing in my grip like a heart torn from its chest. As I lift it from the shattered display case, the entire building seems to release a deep, collective sigh.
"I've got it!" I roar, though the tumult makes me question whether Rachel can hear my triumphant cry from wherever she is concealed.
Her voice fills my head rather than my ears: Run now, Joey. They're coming.
I don't need to ask who "they" are. The cops are after me.
As I race toward the main doors, I realize everyone has evacuated the museum---except for one beautiful, redheaded lass.
"Rachel, are you okay?" I ask while struggling to catch my breath. "I heard you shouting."
"Trying to get your attention, gràidh ."
"Let's get out of here."
Rachel pulls me close and begins to chant in Gaelic.
The world spins around us, and the museum fades away. I feel like I might vomit from the high-speed whirling, but I squeeze my eyes shut in the vain hope I won't upchuck all over the woman I adore. The sounds of the city gradually return.
I open my eyes to see Rachel grinning. "You think my nausea is funny?"
"No, leannan . I'm smiling because we escaped unscathed." She tucks the book inside her cloak. "Would ye mind if we studied the book later? I would love for you to show me your world before we go home."
"How can I turn down an offer like that? I'd be honored to act as your tour guide. New York City is like nowhere else on earth."
"That's why I want to see it through your eyes, Joey."
"Let's get started, then."
Rachel's eyes light up with that infectious curiosity I've come to love. Even after all we've been through---medieval battles, time portals, and now museum heists---she still looks at everything like it's magical. Coming from an actual witch, that's saying something.
"Is that one of your steel dragons?" She teases, pointing at a yellow cab screeching around the corner.
"That's just a taxi. The steel dragons are much bigger and fly through the sky."
Her laughter bubbles up like champagne, melodic against the harsh city soundtrack. "You're teasing me again, Joey Finnegan."
"Only a little." I grab her hand as we merge into the crowd of pedestrians. "Stay close. New York has its own kind of magic---mostly the kind that makes your wallet disappear."
Nobody bats an eye at the Scottish hottie wearing medieval garb. A few guys give her salacious looks, but Rachel pays no attention to that. She has eyes only for me, and vice versa. I love watching her reactions---the wonder in her eyes, the thrill she gets from visiting the modern world.
We duck into a small coffee shop to catch our breath and take stock of our situation. The café's warmth envelops us like a shield against the chaos we've left behind.
"You're certain no one followed us?" Rachel whispers, her fingers still clutching the ancient tome beneath her cloak. The book seems to pulse between us, a living connection to her world---to our world now, I suppose.
"Reasonably certain," I reply, scanning the busy New York street through the steamy window. "The city's got millions of people. We're just two more faces in the crowd."
Rachel's eyes widen as a barista calls out an order with the theatrical volume unique to Manhattan service workers. "TRIPLE SHOT CARAMEL MACCHIATO FOR brAD!"
"What manner of beverage requires such an announcement?" she asks, leaning closer to me.
I can't hold back my smile. "That's just coffee with extra stuff in it. Wait till you try it---it's like your morning tea, but if your tea could punch you in the face with energy."
Rachel's eyebrows arch with intrigue. "I should like to experience this face-punching beverage. Is it anything like a venti latte? My mother told me about that, but I have never tasted such a beverage."
"Let's get you one, then."
She grins.
While we wait in line, I notice her hand keeps drifting to where the book is hidden. The weight of it seems to tug at her, both physically and mentally. I lay my hand over hers, steadying her nervous fingers.
"It's safe," I whisper. "For now."
When we reach the counter, the barista---a guy with more piercings than I can count---barely glances at Rachel's medieval attire. This is New York, after all. He probably assumes she's headed to a Renaissance fair or costume party.
"What can I get you guys?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly to Rachel's cloak before returning to his screen with practiced indifference.
"Two vanilla venti lattes," I say, then glance at Rachel, whose eyes are fixed on the pastry display. "And...two chocolate croissants."
Rachel pastes herself to my side as we wait, her fingers still protectively curled around the book beneath her cloak. The café hums with the white noise of modern life---espresso machines hissing, phones chiming, dozens of conversations overlapping. To me, it's the soundtrack of normalcy. To Rachel, it's a symphony of wonders.
"Your world moves so quickly," she says in a hushed tone while watching a businessman juggle his coffee, phone, and briefcase while arguing with someone on his Bluetooth earpiece. "Everyone seems to be running from something or to something."
"That's New York, baby." I accept our drinks from the barista, holding them in one hand while using the other to give the guy a nice tip. "Everyone's chasing something---dreams, deadlines, dollars. Sometimes all three at once."
Rachel takes her first sip of latte, and her eyes widen in delight. " Bod an Donais ! This is..."
Damn, she's adorable. I want to hug her, and fuck her, right now. But I don't care to get arrested.
Rachel searches for the right word, biting her lip while her eyes light up. "Magical. That's the word. But 'tis not like my magic. It's different."
"The magic of caffeine and sugar," I laugh, guiding her to a small table in the corner where we can keep our backs to the wall and our eyes on the door. Old habits die hard, even when you're thousands of miles---and several centuries---from the Scottish Highlands.
Rachel takes another sip, then leans forward conspiratorially. "The book is... restless," she whispers, her hand still pressed against her side. "I can feel it pulsing, like a heartbeat growing stronger. It wants us to return to the Highlands."
"Guess we better find a private place where you can decipher the magics." I lift her hand to my lips. "I'm ready to go home, Rach."
"So am I, mo chridhe . But I'm grateful I was able to experience a wee bit of your world."
I shake my head. "This isn't my world anymore. My life with you and your family, that's where I belong now."