CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
A huge, vicious demonic force had her imprisoned there.
Her feet did not even touch the floor. That force had every item in the chamber on end.
The shutters had been ripped from the window and were in bits and pieces, thrust against the ceiling; the chest, table and chairs were in broken pieces, too, and plastered to the walls.
Even his bed was upside down and broken, affixed to one wall. And Tabitha was in agony.
He instantly understood that it was as if she was caught within a terrible vise. Her face was deathly white and strained, her eyes were bulging, and the sheer force that had her pinned to the wall had her clothes pasted to her skin. Her pain struck him, pierced through him.
He roared in fury, attempting to battle through Criosaidh’s energy, but it was so strong it was an invisible wall and he could not get inside the room.
Her terrified eyes met his. I love you.
It was déjà vu—he’d heard her before—her last dying words.
“Nay!” he roared, blasting the chamber with his power. The room shuddered but the cyclone only intensified and Tabitha screamed in more agony.
His power would do nothing. Macleod pushed against the wall of wind, determined to get past it and inside.
Tabitha’s screams kept sounding as he fought to get into the chamber.
He somehow pushed across the threshold, the effort so monumental, his own tears fell.
He grunted, refusing to give up, fighting his way through the demonic force—and Tabitha’s screams abruptly stopped.
He didn’t dare look up at her. He fought his way through Criosaidh’s power, step by painful step.
And suddenly the shutters that had been on the ceiling came raining down in pieces around him.
The bed fell to the floor from the wall, as did the tables, chairs and chest. The wind had vanished; she had vanished.
Macleod looked up as Tabitha fell to the floor, eyes closed, as limp as a lifeless corpse.
He rushed to her and knelt, terrified now. “Tabitha!”
She was so badly beaten, so bruised, her neck at such an odd angle, that he was afraid to touch her and take her in his arms. Worse, her magic and power, her life, suddenly felt weak and fragile—and by the moment, it seemed to be ebbing. Slowly, he reached for her pulse.
She lay unmoving, as if dead. “Ye willna die,” he said fiercely. “I willna allow it!”
He thought her lashes flickered.
He tried to stay calm so he could find her pulse. And then, finally, he felt the slow, faint beating of her heart, barely fluttering in her chest. And now, below her breasts, where the velvet dress clung to her torso, he saw that her ribs were broken.
“Tabitha.” He had never been this afraid. How badly was she hurt? She was so pale but the skin around her eyes was turning black and blue. She could not die. He found his will. “MacNeil can heal ye. I need MacNeil.” He was frantic. He dared to clasp her hand. “MacNeil!” he roared.
She moaned.
He jerked. “Ye will be fine, Tabitha. MacNeil will come an’ heal ye an’ I will kill Criosaidh!”
She lay so still, so beautiful and so fragile, her power slipping further away.
“Fight to live,” he begged her. He raised his head. “MacNeil!”
And then, suddenly, he felt her weak grasp on his hand as he held her palm, and the shockingly brutal waves of her pain.
She was becoming conscious. MacNeil should be on Iona.
He needed the power to leap to him because he could not simply stay there and watch her die.
He did not know if MacNeil had heard him.
It crossed his frantic mind that MacNeil journeyed often and he might be in the past or the future.
Macleod did not know if he was even in this time, or if he was able to hear him and come to them.
But MacNeil was the only healer he knew of!
And then he recalled something Tabitha had said to him. Her best friend was a Healer, and she was at Carrick Castle with Ruari—but in the fifteenth century.
The gods had denied him the power to leap for his entire life. Damn it, he must have it now! But should he try to find that woman or find MacNeil?
“Help us,” he gritted, looking up. “Help her. Tabitha is good an’ she deserves to live!”
There was no answer. Not only that, he did not feel a single god or goddess anywhere close by. Damn them—they did not care!
If ye dinna take yer vows soon, the gods will turn against ye.
Continue to displease the gods an’ they will take from ye what ye cherish most…
Nay, he thought, trembling in fear. MacNeil could not have foreseen this moment. The gods could not be so angered with him that they would destroy Tabitha, who was kind and gentle and good.
He jerked. The fourteen-year-old boy knelt beside him, eyes wide and filled with tears. Why?
I dinna ken.
He had never felt so helpless.
Rob ran into the room. He took one look at her and said, “Her neck looks broken. Is she alive?”
He hadn’t wanted to think it. Was her neck broken? The angle did not look right. “She’s alive, but barely.” She could not die—he could not live without her.
He had done this to her.
“Can ye use yer power to summon MacNeil?” Rob asked. But now, he was looking wide-eyed at the utter destruction in the chamber.
She was in so much pain. “Ye will live, Tabitha. Ye have some broken bones an’ they will heal.” He meant to reassure her. “I ken ye can hear me. So fight, Tabitha, fight to get well.” Where was MacNeil?
He felt the slightest pressure on his hand and then he heard her.
Allie…
She wanted him to get the Healer.
I love you.
“Ye willna say goodbye!” he cried, aghast.
Take your vows…be my hero…
And the pressure on his hand disappeared.
“Nay!” He realized his tears were falling. “Tabitha, dinna give up, damn it!” But she was still now. Her life felt distant, as if it was getting farther and farther away by the second.
“MacNeil!” he shouted, and for the first time in his life, he felt powerless and lost. But MacNeil was not coming. Because if he’d heard Macleod, he would have already come to them.
He wanted to hold on to her tightly, forcing her to stay with him. “Ye will live. I will make certain,” he whispered to her. Getting to his feet and leaving her was one of the hardest moments of his life. “Rob, ye willna move from her side.”
Rob nodded. “An’ how will ye do what ye’ve never been able to do?”
Macleod stood, ignoring him. He pushed his fear aside. He was the grandson of a great god and the power of the leap was his right. He pushed his awareness of Tabitha aside. He could not think of her now. He had to find the power, before it was too late and she died.
Everything in the chamber faded, blurring. He closed his eyes. He strained. There was only the struggle to go inside himself and grasp the power that had eluded him his entire life.
And as he delved, the crux of his life became crystal clear. It was all meaningless without her. It was his need for vengeance which had done this to her. In the end, the vengeance he was sworn to was going to destroy her.
And he hated the vengeance.
It served no one now.
The chamber became stunningly still and he felt their presence.
Light was pouring through the chamber’s single window: white, bright, shimmering light.
He inhaled. The figures in the light were vague and indistinct, like ghosts.
The power was so bright, so holy, so fierce, so majestic, power he had never encountered this closely before, that he was mesmerized.
He could not look away, even as the light intensified, hurting his eyes. “She canna die,” he cried.
There was no answer.
His life flashed before his eyes. The massacre at Blayde in 1201—the day that he had lost everyone he loved, the day that had changed his life.
The first time he had seen Tabitha, when she had come to him through her spell, an apparition summoning him with her magic to her time.
And then he saw the face of every MacDougall he had ever murdered in the name of vengeance.
There was so much regret.
The brilliant white light became blinding.
He could not find the power because the gods were furious with him.
And he was furious with himself. Why had he fought this war for so long?
Yes, his father had been betrayed and murdered, and it had been his duty, but he had had more than enough revenge.
Had he given up the clan war against the MacDougalls long ago, she would not be dying now.
He was certain that Criosaidh’s ghost would not be stalking her so obsessively.
Tabitha was more important than his damned war of vengeance.
“Fine,” he screamed at them. “I will give up my vengeance. Ye have my word. But give me the power to leap!”
And the gods briefly became visible—a handful of powerful immortals, male and female, in long, flowing gowns, all striking in power and beauty. And then they vanished.
The white light faded.
Silence fell.
He jerked his gaze to Tabitha, who remained still and silent on the floor. He could not feel her life now.
Horror consumed him anew. This was how he would feel at An Tùir-Tara….
The floor tilted.
The air moved.
Macleod cried out as he was hurled through the stone ceiling, through the clouds, and past this sun and too many other ones to count.