Page 16

Chapter Sixteen

D espite the warmth of the crackling fire and the thick rug beneath him, pain pulsed through Padraig’s battered body, each wound felt as if his skin was on fire. His eyes fluttered open to the dim light of flames in the hearth flickering across the cabin’s interior.

A violent shudder shook through Padriag, his body trapped in the cruel cycle of fever one moment burning from the inside out, to the next seized by a bone-deep chill that made his teeth chatter.

He swallowed against the raw dryness in his throat. He would give anything— anything —for a cup of water. The thirst clawed at him, nearly as unbearable as the pain cutting through his back and hands. Frustration burned behind his eyes, and a few stray tears splashed onto the rug beneath him. He did not weep out of self-pity but out of sheer helplessness.

If only he had strengthened the wards on the house. If only he had stayed in Esland. His life would have been boring, perhaps even lonely, but at least it would not have been an unrelenting game of survival, a constant struggle against Meliot’s sadistic whims.

If he was to remain in this cursedalter-world, he would have to find a way to disappear, to vanish so completely that even Meliot’s unnatural reach could not drag him back to his torture chamber.

Padriag did not believe for one moment that the guard had freed him out of kindness. No, this was Meliot’s design, to release him, set him free just long enough to recover, and then send his soulless guards to retrieve him.

A sharp pain sliced through him as he shifted, pressing both palms to the floor and forcing himself upright. His back screamed in protest, torn flesh stretching painfully, but he clenched his jaw and endured it. The simple act of sitting drained what little strength he had, leaving him breathless and trembling.

His gaze drifted toward the adjoining room, where a pewter pitcher of water sat atop the rustic table. He imagined gripping it, tilting it to his lips, and drinking every drop. Another form of torture because in his current state, it was impossible to get that far.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something—just within reach. A mug, tall and sturdy, sat beside the hearth.

Dragging himself forward, ignoring the sharp protest of his wounds, Padraig stretched out a shaking hand and grasped the handle. The heat of it stung his palm, but he hardly cared. Lifting it to his lips, he caught the sharp scent of herbs— willow bark and bog myrtle . He knew their properties well. Pain relief. Fever reduction.

Poison? It could be, but he doubted Meliot would allow him a merciful death.

The tea was bitter and strong, steeped far too long, but he welcomed its warmth as it slid down his throat, easing the unbearable dryness. He let his head fall back against the nearest chair, eyes drifting toward the wooden beams above. He needed to get off the floor, needed his strength back.

A flicker of memory surfaced.

The guard.

What had he said? Something about Padraig beingsafethere?

He turned his head slightly, eyes landing on the coat of arms mounted above the fireplace. Dutch. That made sense—the guard’s accent, his features.

Janssen.

When Padriag had been in Esland, Sterling had mentioned Janssen and called him afriend. If that were true, then once, perhaps long ago, Janssen had been an honorable man. Had he, too, been cast into this cursed realm by Meliot? And if so, what had broken him? What could turn a man into the loyal servant of a monster?

Padraig let his eyes slide shut, the fever dragging at him. He had to find out more about Janssen. He had to talk to Sterling.

If there was still a shred of the man Janssen had once been, perhaps he would help Padriag thwart Meliot’s plans.

A day or two passed. Padriag managed to pull a thick blanket over himself. From the stinging of the wounds on his back, he’d torn some open. They were probably bleeding. The tea had given him some relief from the pain, and the fever had finally broken.

How many hours or days it had been since he’d been returned to the cabin, he couldn’t be sure of. He worried about the aurochs, that they’d been penned in the stables for who knew how long and whether they had food and water.

Judging by the dimmed light outside, the suns were setting, marking the end of the current day. Padriag promised himself he’d be well enough to go out and see about the animals in the morning and allowed himself the respite of sleep.

“Padriag. Padriag.” Something or someone was shaking him awake. Clenching his jaw at the pain that would come, Padriag closed his right hand into a fist and swung.

“Ouch. That was bloody unnecessary,” Liam yelled.

“Shit. Sorry.” Padriag looked up at the Brit massaging his jaw. “I am so glad to see you.”

Liam gave him a droll look. “You could have fooled me.” A frown formed as his friend looked at him. “You look like ... horrible.”

“And you haven’t seen the best parts yet,” Padriag replied. “I need water. I would get it except my legs don’t work that well and I may be stuck to the rug.”

Instead of retrieving the water, Liam leaned forward to examine him closer. “I should have stayed here. To help. What happened?”

Glancing toward the pitcher, Padriag closed his eyes. “Water please.”

He waited for Liam to pour water and bring him a cup. He drained it and held it out for a refill. “Is there any food left?”

“I’ll cook something,” Liam said. “First let me look at your wounds and clean them.”

For what seemed like an eternity, Liam meticulously cleaned his wounds adding a poultice to help keep infection away, then wrapped Padriag’s upper half with strips of fabric cut from a thin blanket.

It was only after helping him into a tunic that fell to his knees that Liam helped Padriag to one of the overstuffed chairs and then pulled a small table close.

The aroma of whatever bubbled on the wood stove made Padriag’s mouth water. The bowl of steaming stew Liam placed on the table brought actual tears to his eyes.

“Can you see about the aurochs? I am not sure if they have any feed or water,” Padriag asked.

Despite obviously wishing to know what had occurred that left Padriag so injured, Liam stood and left the house. Alone again, Padriag sagged. Grateful did not begin to describe what he’d been through at the moment. If not for Liam, he wasn’t sure how long he would have had to wait before being able to walk to fetch water and food for himself. He would have forced himself, but it would have been slow going.

When Liam returned, he lowered across from him. “They had feed left, but I had to refill their water. I’ll let them out in the morning.” The Brit shook his head. “They are menacing creatures. The way their eyes shine will take time to get used to.”

“You can’t stay,” Padriag stated. “It’s too dangerous. I am certain Meliot will send his minions again. I am sure the only reason I was released was so that I can suffer more, having to take care of myself.”

“He didn’t ask about me?” Liam gave him a quizzical look. “As far as we know, he is not aware my curse was broken.”

“He did. I told him you’d gone to Esland. Since it wasn’t exactly a lie, he believed it.”

“What else did he ask about?”

Padriag met Liam’s pale blue eyes. “He insists there is a tear in the wall between the realms. He demanded I tell him where it is. I overheard him telling one of the guards that he had to be the first to find it.”

Liam’s eyebrows flew upward. “If that is true, he wants to be able to go to the other side. To wreak havoc there, to spread his darkness.”

“That would be bad.” Padriag was aware ‘bad’ was a vast understatement. If Meliot was able to move between the realms, he could possibly gain more power through the energy of the gateway. If it happened, the warlock would be unstoppable.

“I am here to stay,” Liam said motioning to a large sack on the end of the table. “It’s been foretold that all of us must return if we are to stop him.”

Ire rose and Padriag pushed his bowl away. “It could be that you and the others return only to die. Don’t do it. Please go back and keep the others from coming.”

“I believe the tides are turning. Everything is in motion for what comes and what happens next is part of a larger plan. We cannot stop what must be. The others will come even against their will. No one can stop the progression of what is foretold.”

Rolling his eyes, Padriag looked at Liam. “You ruined the entire delivery of your little speech. Should have put on a hooded cloak and added a cackle at the end.”

“There is something you should know,” Liam said ignoring his comment. “A man called Gunther came to Scotland, the castle, with a message.”

“That Viking looking man is who helped me escape. This must be his cottage. I don’t trust him,” Padriag replied. “What did he say?”

“He appeared outside, scaring Aubrey, Erin’s cousin, half to death. He informed her that you were injured and required help.”

“I still don’t trust him,” Padriag insisted. “I believe the only reason they let me go was so that I can suffer through healing and then they’d come for me again.”

“Aubrey said he seemed genuinely concerned for you.” The Brit got up and served himself stew. “Whether he is trustworthy or not, the man did come and ask that we help you.”

Padriag yawned. “I am going to try to get some sleep.”

“Drink this first,” Liam lifted a kettle from the stove and poured more of the same tea into a cup. “I assume the tea was left here by Gunther.”

“Probably,” Padriag quipped then drank every drop of tea.

Men talking woke Padriag the next day. By the brightness of the suns, he could tell it was late morning. Someone was there. Every movement was excruciating, like claws scraping down his back. When he finally managed to sit on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor, he had to take several breaths, willing the throbbing to stop.

Not that he stood a chance against an able-bodied opponent, still Padriag held a dagger in each hand as he slowly made his way to the voices. It was only after hearing a soft chuckle that he relaxed, recognizing it was Tristan.

It was happening. What Liam had foreseen, that the others would return, would face an enemy so strong, it could cost their lives. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or pride that filled him. If they were to die, then they would die together. None of them, for one instant, backing down.

The sorceress who’d granted them powers to defend themselves had predicted that on the last day of the three hundredth year in the alter-world, they would become mortal. It was a price they’d gladly accepted, convinced they’d find their way back long before the deadline.

“You should be in bed,” Liam said when Padriag limped into the front room. “Your wounds will heal if you stay still.”

Padriag ignored him and looked at Tristan. The laird was a different man since leaving, his hair was cut into a modern style. Unlike the man who’d been trapped for three hundred years, his tunic, leather breeches and animal hide boots were replaced with sturdy denim pants, a thick pullover and a jacket that could withstand artic temperature. On his feet, Tristan wore rugged mountain boots. He was more than prepared.

“After we leave, you can plan a trip to the north pole,” Padriag quipped by way of greeting.

Tristan gave him a puzzled look. Sometimes Padriag forgot that they were from another time and had so much to learn about the world. Unlike him who’d often gone to Scotland, had sat in university classes, kept up with the changing times, the others had for the most part remained separate from their homeland.

“Liam told me what happened. We should have been here to defend you.” Tristan’s tone was flat, his gaze roaming over Padriag.

Padraig shrugged. “Been there done that. Although I must admit, Meliot was very creative this time.” He held up a hand with its half-healed wounds. “No fingernails.”

Ever methodical, Liam motioned to the table. “Come sit. I made more of that tea for you. Tell us everything you remember about the surroundings at Meliot’s.”

Liam took Tristan outside to see the aurochs as Padriag sat in front of the hearth feeling restless. He wanted to prepare for the battle ahead, but it proved difficult since he was barely able to move without pain. Besides moving too much would reopen the lash wounds.

“This is not what I expected,” Gavin stated, materializing. When he took a step forward, his boot caught the edge of the rug, and he stumbled forward.

“If you land on me, I will kill you,” Padriag held both arms out hoping to stop the huge blond man’s fall.

Somehow Gavin managed to not fall and gave Padriag a triumphant grin. “How are you?”

“Excited that I don’t have to worry about trimming my fingernails for a while.” Padraig held up his hands.

“He tries to be creative.” Gavin said with a grimace.

Blowing out a breath, Padriag shrugged. “He wanted to keep things fresh between us.”

“I have a new power,” Gavin said. “Last night, when I was working at the stables, the sorceress appeared to me. She told me to hold my arms out.” He removed a jacket like Tristan’s and rolled up his sleeves. Then he held out his arms that had what looked like tribal tattoos had formed from the wrist upward. “I can send energy bursts from my palms. Much like yours.”

“Holy shit,” Padriag exclaimed. “That’s amazing.”

The Scot studied his arms. “Need to practice.” He looked around the room. “Where are the others?”

“At the stables, looking at the Esland aurochs.”

After stating he’d return, Gavin hurried from the house. Nothing like a new creature to get men’s attention.

“You look like shite.” Niall’s deep voice cut through the still air, startling Padriag from his daze. His tone was laced with wry amusement, though concern flickered beneath it. “Let’s hope my power of healing returns with me.”

Before Padriag could form a reply, Niall stepped forward, his presence steady and resolute. Warmth radiated from his palms as he pressed them against Padriag’s battered skin, and the reaction was immediate—like fire and ice colliding in his veins. A sharp, tingling sensation raced through him, then a rush of relief, as if invisible threads were knitting his torn flesh back together.

Without even glancing down, he knew—the wounds were closing.

His fingertips mending.

Healing completely.