CHAPTER FIFTEEN #3
She closed her eyes as several shutters began banging, casting a spell to reveal the spirit.
Its anger and hatred intensified. When Tabby opened her eyes, a dark and sultry woman shimmered in the chamber, her eyes burning with hatred, so transparent that Tabby could see through her. And then she smiled.
Against the wall, Tabby tensed, preparing for a terrible onslaught. She began to put a protection spell on herself.
But Criosaidh vanished.
Stiff with tension, Tabby looked around the interior, and the shutters slammed open, a huge blast of frigid air gusting into the room.
It was so strong that Tabby was hurled across the entire chamber and against the far wall. She cried out as she was smashed against the stone, and then the energy died.
On her knees, Tabby straightened slowly, her eyes wide, every hair on her body standing on end. Even though the chamber was absolutely still, she felt the spirit’s evil and hatred gushing about her. She couldn’t see Criosaidh, but she was still present.
“Evil get out, evil be gone. My white power, keep you away,” Tabby murmured.
The energy returned with blazing force, crushing Tabby against the wall.
She gasped, but focused on the spell. The force beat her there, battering her as an insane man might with a stick of wood.
“Evil get out, evil be gone. My white power, keep you away!” But even as she chanted, she knew that Criosaidh’s ghost wasn’t harmless after all.
The energy shifted.
Tabby collapsed to the floor. “Evil get out, evil be gone,” Tabby cried.
And suddenly Criosaidh took form again, standing there in the center of the chamber, murderously enraged. They faced each other.
“Evil get out, evil be gone!” Tabby screamed.
She vanished and a hurricane force swept into the chamber as the shutters blew off the windows, and her pallet slammed into the wall. Tabby braced herself, but she was hurled backward, and then Criosaidh’s energy pinned her brutally to the wall.
In that moment, she thought of Macleod, and knew death would take her now if he didn’t save her.
HE WOULD NEVER LET Tabitha die in the fires of An Tùir-Tara.
He would do whatever he had to in order to change her death.
And damn the gods, because the knowledge of her death by fire was so familiar to him, as if he had somehow known all along that this was how she died.
But if Kristin had spoken the truth, they would both be there.
She could not leave him.
It was a terribly dismal thought.
Was he coming to care for her?
Did that make him weak?
He was actually considering freeing his prisoner, but it had nothing to do with giving up his vengeance.
Tabitha might be right and Criosaidh might be momentarily appeased.
He saw no reason why he couldn’t protect her and fulfill his duty to the dead at the same time.
Coinneach would live another day, but not for much longer after that.
And returning Coinneach gave him the perfect excuse to get inside Melvaig—so he could murder Criosaidh and end this once and for all.
Where was Ruari? Hadn’t he heard him? He needed the power to leap to An Tùir-Tara, just in case he was incapable of destroying Criosaidh now.
Macleod sighed, his head hurting—his heart hurting.
An Tùir-Tara was two-and-a-half centuries away.
But the deamhan ghost was there in the present with them.
He should not stay downstairs for too long.
Criosaidh’s ghost had breached Tabitha’s protection spell, even if she hadn’t tried to use her black power.
The failure of the spell was ominous; it did not sit well with him.
He had the instincts of a hunter, but now, he almost felt like the hunted.
And to make matters more dire, he sensed that the sands of time were running out.
He heard a sob behind him—or he thought he did. He whirled.
A thin fourteen-year-old boy faced him, standing before the hearth, crying in despair, weeping in rage, wanting to know why. Why?
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look away, incredulous that the boy would dare to make his presence known at such a dangerous time. He wanted the damn boy gone.
It was so clear that the boy was terrified, but not of evil or his enemies. He was afraid of being alone.
Macleod had forgotten that.
The boy fell to his knees, crying. Mixed up in the fear, there was rage.
That boy was furious with the world, but instead of ranting and raving, he wept.
When he was finally done, he had to take that rage and bury it at sea with all of his loved ones, so he could become a man and do his duty and live a life of soulless revenge.
He had forgotten that, too.
The boy stared at him as if bewildered. Why?
Why? Every man had his duty, his burdens, his responsibilities.
Macleod strode to the boy, intending to kill him with his bare hands, because he did not want to recall any of this, ever!
But the boy vanished, so he seized the chair and hurled it at the wall with all of his strength.
It struck the stone above the hearth, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces.
That boy was pathetic. He pitied him—hated him. How dare he question his life!
And then he heard Tabitha call him.
Too late, he felt the evil and her pain.