Page 21 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 21

A lasdair's muscles tensed as Hank's truck bounced along the rutted dirt road. The vehicle's rumbling engine still unsettled him, though the initial terror had given way to a wary fascination. His tunic and leather breeches felt strangely out of place against the truck's modern fabric seats. He inhaled deeply, catching the scent of pine and salt air drifting through the open window. It was familiar, yet different—sharper, somehow. Less smoke in the air than the peat fires that had always perfumed Scotland's winds.

"Just over this rise," Hank said, gesturing ahead. "I found her in the south pasture."

Alasdair nodded, his mind racing. The dead cow confirmed what they already knew—the Brollachan was hunting.

The truck pulled up to a fence line, and Hank cut the engine. As they exited the vehicle, Alasdair's hand instinctively went to his side, reaching for a sword that wasn't there. He clenched his fist. The absence of steel at his hip was yet another reminder of his displacement.

"It's through the trees there," Hank said, his voice gruff with worry. His eyes darted to Alasdair's unfamiliar clothing, but he asked no questions. "You folks sure you want to see this? It ain't pretty."

"Aye," Conall replied smoothly. "Alasdair here's got experience with all sorts of wildlife. Thought he might help identify what did this."

A clever half-truth, Alasdair thought. He had indeed dealt with the Brollachan before—just not in a way this modern farmer would understand. He inclined his head, grateful for Conall's quick thinking. He managed a gruff, "Lead on."

The men trudged through a field, the long grass whispering against Alasdair's legs. Every rustle set his nerves on edge. The Brollachan could take any form—perhaps even melting into the grass itself. He'd seen it shift shapes the night they'd arrived, melting from solid to mist and back again.

"Had anything strange happen before the cow?" Alasdair asked, scanning the landscape with wary eyes. "Livestock acting peculiar? Cold spots in the air? Dreams that felt too real?"

Hank gave him an odd look. "You some kind of mystic or something?"

Alasdair bit back the truth. "Just thorough," he replied, not meeting the man's gaze. How could he explain that he was hunting something that had haunted the nightmares of his own people for centuries?

Conall caught his eye and gave a subtle nod, a wordless reminder to be careful.

As they neared the treeline, the briny scent of the ocean grew stronger, mingling with something else—something foul and ancient. Alasdair's stomach churned. He knew that smell. The stench of the void between times, of the maelstrom that had swallowed him and his brothers.

"Just beyond those trees," Hank said, pointing. "Found her this morning. Never seen anything like it."

They pushed through the undergrowth, and Alasdair's breath caught in his throat. The cow lay on its side, its black and white hide marred by wounds that no natural predator could have inflicted. The flesh wasn't merely torn—it was partially dissolved, bubbling at the edges like wax held too close to flame. A viscous black fluid pooled in the deepest wounds, neither blood nor bile but something far more sinister. The grass around it was withered and blackened in a perfect circle, as if the very life had been sucked from the earth.

"By all that's holy," Conall muttered, his face paling.

Alasdair knelt beside the carcass, ignoring the squelch of blood-soaked earth beneath his knees. He traced the air above one of the wounds, feeling the lingering chill of otherworldly magic. The cold that radiated from it was unnatural—a void rather than mere coolness. "No wolf did this," he said softly.

The signs were unmistakable—the same marks he'd seen on the bodies of those unfortunate enough to encounter the Brollachan in the highlands. Ancient memories surfaced: a shepherd found half-consumed on a misty hillside, the elders speaking in hushed tones of shadow-creatures that fed on both flesh and terror.

Hank shifted uneasily. "That's what I thought. But if not a wolf, then what? Black bears are common around here, but usually not this close to the farms. And this...don’t look like no bear. Maybe something rabid? Or...I don’t know."

Alasdair stood, wiping his hands on his tunic—the rough-spun fabric familiar against his skin, a small comfort in this alien moment. He chose his words carefully, aware of Hank's scrutiny. "In the highlands," he began, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue, "we have...legends. Of creatures that hunt in the mist."

"Legends?" Hank scoffed, but there was a tremor in his voice. "This ain't no legend, son. This is real."

"Aye," Alasdair agreed, meeting the man's eyes. "It is."

Reaching for a modern hunting rifle, Conall checked the ammunition. "I've adapted to some modern conveniences," he explained to the warriors with a grim smile.

"Keep your livestock in at night," Alasdair added, his voice grave. "And your family. Whatever did this...it hunts in darkness."

"And ye know this how?" Hank asked, suspicion creeping back into his voice.

"Experience," Alasdair replied simply. "Hard-won and bitter."

As they made their way back to the truck, Hank and Conall fell into conversation about fencing and security measures. Alasdair half-listened, his mind still on the mangled cow and what it meant. That creature was growing bolder. In his time, it had kept to the shadows, preying on lone travelers and lost children. But here, it seemed less cautious, as if sensing the lack of belief in such things.

Once they were alone in the vehicle, Conall switched to Gaelic once more. "It's exactly what you feared, isn't it?"

Alasdair nodded grimly. "The Brollachan. And growing stronger, by the look of it." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "We brought this evil to your doorstep. I'm sorry for it."

"It's not your doing," Conall said firmly. "You were cast through time against your will, same as I was."

"What do you know of the creature?" Alasdair asked.

"Enough to be wary," Conall replied, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "In my training, we learned of the formless ones—creatures that feed on fear as much as flesh. They were ancient even in my day, rare enough that many thought them mere stories."

"This one is no story," Alasdair said grimly. "I've faced it before. It attacked our hunting party in the northern highlands. Three men lost before we drove it back."

“How did you defeat it then?”

Alasdair stared out the window, watching the landscape blur past. So different from his homeland, and yet now, it was tainted by the same ancient evil.

“We didn’t,” he admitted. “We wounded it with blessed iron and fire. Drove it away, but never found its body. We didn’t have any silver.”

“I have weapons,” Conall said thoughtfully.

"If only 'twere that simple," Alasdair muttered. "The Brollachan feeds on terror—the more frightened its prey, the stronger it becomes."

Conall's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Then we’ll need more than guns."

"Aye," Alasdair said grimly. “Silver tipped weapons, fire...and courage enough to deny it its feast."

He sat back, thinking aloud. "We’ll need to bless the weapons. Find a way to trap the creature—to weaken it before we strike. We cannot face it in open battle. Not yet."

Conall nodded slowly. "I'll see what I can gather."

As the truck bumped along the rutted road, Alasdair's thoughts drifted—to the lass who had, without knowing it, become his anchor in this strange new world...

Her face appeared in his mind—not just her smile or the warmth of her eyes, but her entire being. The way she had welcomed them without question, her willingness to share her knowledge, the gentle strength with which she navigated both his world and hers. In just a few days, she had become his anchor in this swirling sea of strangeness.

A pang of longing mixed with fierce protectiveness gripped his heart. The thought of the Brollachan anywhere near her made his blood run cold. He would rather face a hundred battles than see harm come to her.

"We shouldnae tell the others everything," he said suddenly. "Not the lass or your sons. They need to be cautious, but not terrified."

Conall shot him a sidelong glance. "Jill knows of such creatures already, from her studies. She's no ignorant lass—she's spent years researching our history, our legends."

"Knowing of something from books is not the same as facing it in the flesh," Alasdair's voice dropped. "I wouldnae have her look upon the Brollachan with her own eyes. Such sights...they change a person."

What he couldn't quite articulate was his need to be worthy in her eyes. To be the protector, the guardian against an evil from his time. If he could defeat the Brollachan—this creature that had followed them through centuries—perhaps he could prove himself more than just a displaced warrior. Perhaps he could be a man worthy of her regard.

Conall's expression softened. "You care for her already, don't you?"

Alasdair didn't answer, but he didn't need to. The truth was written plainly on his face.

The vehicle rolled forward, silent but steady, carrying them back to the ranch and the impossible task that lay ahead. As the road wound through the forest, Alasdair caught a glimpse of movement in the deepening shadows between the trees. Just an animal, he told himself. Or the wind moving the trees. But the chill that ran down his spine told him otherwise.

The hunt had begun.