Time Everlastin' Book 5 (4 page)

"Tis nearly midnight," Gil
grumbled. "Hold up yer bloody end, Flan, lest ye want to look into
the eyes o' the devil, hisself."

"Och, no."

Taryn detected fear in
Flan's thin voice.

"Here we go," said
Gil.

Something heavy hit the
ground. Taryn didn't dare risk peeking around the stone.

"Are ye no' curious,
though?" Gil taunted.

"No. I'm goin', Gil. Stay if
ye like."

Flan took off in the
direction of the inn. Gil held back for a good minute, time seeming
more like an hour to Taryn. Shivering erupted in her body. The rain
fell harder, colder yet, stinging her skin wherever it
touched.

Gil muttered something in
Gaelic and waddled off, his feet making slushing sounds in the
boggy earth. Taryn eased around the menhir then back up to the
tallest one, not taking her gaze off the men until they were
pinpoints in the distance. She swiped a wet arm across her face and
crouched next to what they had deposited.

It was a large duffle bag.
Running a hand over the lumpy surface, she determined multiple
objects inside. She was about to reach for the oversized zipper
when the ground quivered beneath her.

Something prompted her to
glance at her watch.

The green luminous numbers
read
12:00.

Midnight.

For some inexplicable
reason, Taryn wanted to giggle. She didn't, but only because her
throat felt closed off. The quiver became trembling. Seconds later,
she was slowly straightening when the ground released a gush of air
resembling that of a gargantuan's breath. And it was a breath
expelled as the earth separated fifty feet away, forming a long,
black rectangle stretching toward the end of the main body of the
cross.

A hollow, echoing clacking
followed. Then snorts.

"What the hell...?" Taryn
breathed.

From out of the fathomless
rectangle, a man on horseback sprang onto the plateau and galloped
off in the direction of the loch.

Taryn's legs turned to
liquid beneath her. She sank to the ground, her eyes riveted on the
figure riding like a madman released from the bowels of
hell.

With a fierce war cry, the
rider pulled on the reins, urging the horse to rear up. Its own
voice penetrated the night, the shrill cry promoting an image in
her mind of a banshee caught between the pinchers of an enormous
insect. The front hooves struck the ground and the animal danced in
a narrow circle.

She shrank back against the
central menhir. Her eyes were so wide, the surrounding muscles
ached. A putrid odor tainted the air. Rain came down harder,
seeming like needles pricking her skin through her
clothing.

The horse reared up again
and bucked, much to the delight of the rider, whose encouraging
sounds reminded Taryn of one of those evil villains in a B movie
who lacked the theatrical training to produce a believable
diabolical laugh. And he looked the part. From her vantage point,
he resembled a Neanderthal, a fur-covered throwback from another
era.

Man and horse galloped
toward the loch. Swallowing hard, Taryn tucked her knapsack behind
one of the smaller standing stones, and ran after him. She barely
glanced into the black abyss as she passed it, telling herself she
would check it out after she got a closer look at the man. It
struck her how the stones to each side lent the impression she
traveled along a runway, stones guiding her to a mystery that had
literally come up through the ground.

She came to a stop just
beyond the end of the last set of stones. Horse and rider were
nowhere to be seen, but she could hear gusts of breath coming from
the animal. At least, she hoped it was from the animal. She looked
up as something dark moved across the horizon, blocking out the
surrealistic sunlight and casting the site in eerie, bluish
moonlight. The temperature dropped significantly. Her breaths
billowed out in vaporish clouds, and she rubbed her arms vigorously
for warmth.

If only she'd thought to
wear a jacket.

Coming to the ledge, she
looked down to see the man galloping along the loch's embankment,
the water resembling a gray-blue metallic maw. The stranger rode
hard, like a man possessed, his tattered dark cape flapping behind
him.

After a short distance, he
urged the horse to turn, and prompted it into another gallop. When
he passed beneath her, Taryn recoiled then peered down to see him
direct the horse up a narrow path to the ledge. He was nearly on
level ground before it occurred to her that she stood in plain
sight.

Taryn dashed for the
menhirs, unaware that her route was in line with his own until the
sound of beating hooves driving into the ground was suddenly upon
her. She whirled and fell at the same time. A Gaelic expletive rent
the air as the horse reared up. Her vision zoomed in on the hooves
punching the air above her. A shrill whinny ensued.

A wail of fright ripped from
her. She rolled to her right. One hoof hit the ground mere inches
from her left shoulder, splashing water into her face. Sputtering,
she scrambled onto her hands and knees. She swiped the arm of her
soaked jumpsuit across her eyes and staggered to her feet. Before
she could gather her wits, fingers dug into her left shoulder, the
pain wrenching another cry from her.

It was instinct that made
her lash out with a fist.

Although it slammed into the
arm of the stranger, his hold didn't lessen until he forced her
around to face him.

Five facts flooded her brain
at once: He stood over six-foot; the cape was in fact very long,
matted hair; the lower part of his face was concealed behind a
beard that reached the middle of his chest; he reeked as if he
hadn't bathed in years; and he was furious.

To add to her consternation,
he belted out a series of Gaelic. With each phrase, his deep,
booming voice held more anger and impatience.

"I don't understand you!"
she shouted back, her temper overriding her fear.

One large hand shoved her
shoulder. Astounded at his aggressiveness, she slugged him in the
arm. This time, the flat of his hand pushed her hard enough to send
her to the ground, and a booted foot landed atop her chest,
anchoring her. Rain pelted her face. She felt as if she were
drowning, sputtering and gasping until finally a coherent sentence
passed her lips.

"Get the hell off
me!"

Several seconds passed
before the foot shifted to the ground. Again, his movements too
swift for her to calculate, he gripped the front of her jumpsuit
and hauled her to her feet as if she weighed little more than bag
of cotton balls.

"My hands are registered as
deadly weapons!" she sputtered, and swayed drunkenly.

More Gaelic spewed from him,
the anger in his tone slicing through her head. He shook her,
released her then gripped the front of her jumpsuit again, his
unrecognizable words punctuating his actions.

With all the strength she
could muster, she pushed against his chest, the move coinciding
with his hands letting go. He fell to the ground on his back, his
kilt flipping up high enough to reveal he wore nothing beneath it.
She was about to kick him in the left shin to prevent him from
going after her when, with a snarl, he rolled to his side, grabbed
her right ankle, and yanked.

Taryn went down with a yelp.
Instead of crashing to the moist ground, she sprawled across him.
Rancid odors choked off her air supply. One moment she was
attempting to scramble off him, the next, she was on her back, the
stranger straddling her lower torso. Twice her flailing fists
connected with his jawline. Twice he grunted then furiously pinned
her wrists above her head. She kicked his back repeatedly with the
inner side of each foot while releasing a stream of colorful
invectives.

The rain pounding on her
face and the man's incredible stench, made it increasingly
difficult to breathe. A fit of coughing and gaging seized her. Her
wrists were released. Twisting to one side, she coughed forcefully
to clear her throat and lungs. More angry and frightened than she
could ever recall, she clenched her right fist, knowing her upper
body hid it from his view. His labored breathing rang in her ears.
She had smelled wet dogs that were considerably more pleasing than
this man.

"Mo nàire!"
For shame!

Locking her teeth against a
retort, Taryn swung around, throwing her all into her sailing fist.
She'd held her own against men her whole adult life, at times
stooping to their levels to survive working among them. There had
been a few in the past eight years who had tried to force
themselves on her, and they had limped or crawled away, never to
bother her again. In those cases, fear had never entered the
equation. Instinct had fueled her aggression. This time, she was up
against an unknown, a man evidently incapable of speaking or
understanding English, and who was reacting as if she had violated
his personal property, his land.

Her driving fist was within
an inch of reaching his face when the hand came to a jarring stop.
Blinking hard, squinting to see better through the curtain of rain,
she saw that his right hand enclosed her own. Pain radiated into
her wrist. His hold was tenacious, threatening to crush the bones
unless she stopped resisting.

Forcing her anger back, she
decided to use another method that had gotten her out of a few
scrapes. "Please," she whimpered, "you're hurting me. I won't fight
back if you let me go."

She could only see his eyes.
Black as night. Penetrating. Boring into her with such contempt, a
shudder coursed through her.

He quickly climbed off her
and stood. Taryn released a hoarse breath of relief. Her limbs
suddenly leaden, she eased her legs beneath her and started to
stand. Another cry escaped her, one of surprise, outrage, and pain,
when a large fist grabbed a handful of hair at her nape and hoisted
her to her feet.

"Dammit to hell!" she cried,
shoving at his chest.

"Fàg!"
he roared, forcing her to face the direction he
pointed.
"Fàg!"
Leave!

"I don't understand you, you
moron!"

He shoved her to the ground.
Taryn landed in a sitting position, propped up by her hands. Tears
burned at the backs of her eyes, but she refused to release
them.

What did he want?

He was certainly not a
ghost, but looked enough like the mural to be a deranged relative.
If his intention was to rape her, he certainly knew by now she
couldn't do much to stop him.

Panting, she looked up. A
spasm of shock hit her when she found him gone. Her gaze shot off
to her left, where the horse restlessly tromped the ground with its
front hooves. The man removed something on the side of the animal.
It took a moment longer for the object to register and, with a
gurgle of a cry, she jumped to her feet. Before she had the chance
to run off, he stood in front of her, the point of his claymore a
hairsbreadth from touching her throat. He shouted at her in Gaelic,
his tone and bearing teeming with hostility, his unoccupied hand
gesturing in the direction of the inn.

He ended the long-winded
tirade with,
"Fàg, fàg!"
his free hand punching the air to emphasize his
words. Leave, leave!

Taryn ran. She didn't look
back until she reached the end of the stone wall where a painful
stitch in her side brought her to an abrupt halt. Wheezing, she
folded her arms against her middle, bent over, and sank to her
knees. She trembled violently from shock and cold, her stomach
threatening to eject its meager contents.

When she finally looked up,
she couldn't see the man or the horse. That didn't mean he wasn't
in the area.

Her drenched clothing clung
to her like a second skin. Although she believed the coldness
should make her numb, everything ached. She stood unsteadily. For
several seconds, she wasn't sure her legs would support
her.

The inn
. She could make it back.

With her second step she
froze, and a whimper of utter misery escaped her. Her knapsack lay
at the base of one of the standing stones. It contained her money,
credit cards, her passport and cell phone.
Everything
. If she returned, the
Watchdog-MacLachlans would surely know she had been at the site.
She had no way of paying her bill or of leaving the
isle.

Shivering uncontrollably,
she forced herself to face the site. The stones looked more ominous
now, living entities, devils waiting to ensnare her. Invisible eyes
watched her. Soundless words condemned her for violating the
stones' sacred turf. Inner voices screamed at her to run and worry
about her possessions another time.

Run and don't look
back!

Run and be grateful the
barbarian let you go!

Instead, she ran toward the
site, concentrating on nothing but the backpack. Within ten yards
of reaching the central menhir, sounds registered through the dense
haze cocooning her mind. At the same instant she saw the horse and
rider charging, she dashed on, running as fast as her sore legs and
the slick ground permitted. She was about to reach for the knapsack
when an object whizzed past her and embedded in the ground between
her feet and the waterproof canvas sack. She jerked back, slipped
and fell on her bottom, and stared wide-eyed at the sword jutting
up in front of her, moonlight winking off the blade's
surface.