Page 22 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 22

J ill was still a little miffed that when everyone had come back earlier, they hadn't told her anything. She knew something was going on—she just didn't know what.

The evening had been peaceful, almost deceptively normal. Jill sat at the kitchen table with her laptop, attempting to document the day's observations while the scent of cookies filled the house. The warriors lounged in the living room, fascinated by a nature documentary her brothers had chosen—their wide-eyed wonder at footage of African lions had been both endearing and amusing.

A sharp electronic beep cut through the comfortable atmosphere. Her father glanced up from his book, a frown crossing his features as he moved toward the small monitor mounted near the back door. They'd installed the wildlife cameras years ago, primarily to track the local deer population and occasional predators that might threaten their livestock.

"What is it?" Jill asked, closing her laptop and moving to join him.

Her father's expression had gone grave, his fingers tapping quickly on the screen to enlarge the image. he night-vision footage showed something moving at the edge of the northern woods—something that made Jill's skin crawl even through the grainy green display. It didn't move like any animal she'd ever seen, seeming to flow rather than walk, its shape constantly shifting.

"Brollachan," Dad whispered, his voice tight. He straightened, suddenly looking every bit the druid that Jill was still coming to terms with him being. "William, Joe—get everyone now."

Alasdair appeared at her side, his body instantly tense as he studied the monitor. "Where was this taken?"

"North pasture, near the old oak grove," Dad replied, already moving toward the basement door. "It's close—too close to the house."

With purposeful strides, her father led them down to the basement, past the laundry area and storage shelves to a solid metal door with an electronic keypad mounted beside it. Jill had known about this room her entire life—Dad's "collection room" where he kept various weapons, hunting gear, and other items he'd acquired over the years. As a child, she hadn't questioned why her father kept so many medieval weapons; it had seemed a natural extension of his interest in Scottish history.

Her heart quickened at the realization—another piece of his true identity hidden in plain sight all these years. Each new revelation about her father sent ripples through her understanding of her childhood. No wonder her interest had ended up so firmly rooted in Scotland.

Dad punched in the code with practiced ease, and the door unlocked with a metallic click. Inside, the walls were lined with swords, daggers, shields, and spears—some looking genuinely ancient, others more modern reproductions, but all meticulously maintained.

"I think we'll need these," Dad said, moving to a rack of particularly fine-looking weapons.

The relief on Alasdair's face as his hand wrapped around a sword's hilt was palpable. "A warrior feels naked without steel," he murmured, testing the balance with practiced ease.

The brothers each selected weapons with reverent care, their hands caressing the steel as if greeting old friends. The transformation was immediate—they stood taller, moved with greater confidence, their bodies instinctively adjusting to the familiar weight.

Dad took down a modern hunting rifle for himself and checked the ammunition. "I've adapted to some modern conveniences," he explained to the warriors with a grim smile.

"I'm coming with you," Jill said, reaching for one of the smaller blades. The weight of the steel in her palm felt right, solid—a connection to both her father's hidden life and the warriors' world.

"No." Alasdair's voice left no room for argument, his green eyes intense as they locked with hers. "Not against a Brollachan."

"We know how to fight these creatures," Macrath added. "In battle, we cannot be watching for your safety."

"But I have a right to see this thing for myself," she protested. "I've studied these legends for years!"

Joe stepped forward, looking equally determined. "If Jill's going, so am I."

"And me," William added.

Dad shook his head firmly. "None of you are coming. This isn't a debate."

"This isn't fair," Jill began, frustration bubbling up, but her protest lost some steam when she realized her brothers were being excluded too. It wasn't just about her being a woman—it was about experience and skill.

"This isn't about fairness," Alasdair said, his expression softening slightly. "When we fight, we become...different. The berserker rage takes us. We're dangerous to friend and foe alike if you don't know how to move around us."

"You'll be guiding us," Dad said, handing her a headset. "I'll wear the other one. You can direct us if the creature moves. That's not sitting and watching—that's being our strategist."

It was a compromise, barely, but Jill knew she wouldn't win this battle. Not when even Joe and William were accepting their father's decision with reluctant nods.

"Fine,” she said looking directly at Alasdair.

Something flickered in his eyes—respect, perhaps. "When this is done, we'll talk," he promised.

Minutes later, she found herself set up in the security room, eyes fixed on the screens with her brothers beside her. The system had been designed for security and wildlife observation, with cameras placed strategically throughout their property to track animal movements. Now those same cameras would track a hunt unlike any their land had seen before.

Her palms felt clammy against the headset, adrenaline prickled beneath her skin. All those years studying folklore and mythology, and now the legends were literally walking through her backyard, hunting a creature she'd once dismissed as mere superstition—until now.

"Be careful what you say," she instructed Joe and William, who hovered nearby. “Dad’s on the line. We don't want to distract them."

On the largest monitor, she could see the hunting party moving through the darkness. Dad led the way, rifle ready, with Alasdair and his brothers fanned out behind him in a formation that spoke of years of experience. Their movements were synchronized, fluid, nothing like the awkward fish-out-of-water time travelers who had marveled at indoor plumbing just the other day.

"Camera four has movement," William reported, pointing to another screen where shadows seemed to writhe unnaturally among the trees.

Jill leaned forward, adrenaline spiking. "Dad, northeast quadrant, camera four. It's moving toward the creek."

"Acknowledged," came her father's terse reply through the headset.

She watched as the hunters changed direction, moving with eerie silence through the underbrush. The cameras only captured snippets of their progress—a flash of Macrath's broad shoulders here, the gleam of Fergus's sword there. The night vision rendered everything in an otherworldly green glow that only heightened the surreal quality of the scene.

"I see it," Dad's voice crackled through the headset. "Stay alert, everyone. This one's larger than the texts described."

A chill ran down Jill's spine. From her academic studies, she knew the Brollachan was described in ancient texts as a shapeless entity that could possess the bodies of the unwary. But those were supposed to be myths, folklore to explain natural phenomena or dissuade children from wandering alone at night. Yet her father and these warriors spoke of it with the grim certainty of those who had encountered it firsthand.

"Can you get a visual?" she asked, frantically searching the feeds.

"Camera five!" Joe exclaimed, pointing.

The image made Jill's blood run cold. A writhing darkness moved between the trees, seeming to absorb the night vision's light rather than reflect it. It had no fixed shape, expanding and contracting like a monstrous amoeba. Two pinpricks of red light within the mass could only be its eyes, though even they shifted position within the formless body.

The sharp crack of her father's rifle echoed through the night, startling them even though they'd been expecting it. On screen, they saw the muzzle flash, followed by the creature's violent contortion.

"They've engaged it," William whispered, as another camera caught the warriors surrounding the creature, weapons raised.

What happened next left them all speechless. As the berserkers confronted the creature, a visible change came over them. Their movements became impossibly fast, almost blurring on the camera feed. Macrath charged with a ferocity that seemed inhuman, while Fergus and Lachlan attacked from the flanks with perfect coordination. But it was Alasdair who truly transformed—his face contorted into a mask of controlled rage, his sword moving so quickly the camera could barely track it.

"What the hell…" Joe breathed.

"Berserkers," Jill whispered, academic knowledge suddenly made flesh before her eyes. "The texts described their battle rage, but I never imagined..."

A strange mixture of awe and fear flooded through her. The gentle, confused men who had sat at her dinner table, who had marveled at modern conveniences, were now revealed in their true element—warriors of terrible power, more force of nature than human. And Alasdair—his transformation was the most striking. The controlled leader she'd come to know was now unleashed fury embodied, his sword carving arcs of pale fire in the night-vision feed.

"This one's stronger than the usual kind," Dad’s voice came through the headset, punctuated by another rifle shot. "It's resisting the iron."

"What do you mean, 'usual kind'?" Jill asked, unable to tear her gaze from the display.

"There were always multiple Brollachans in the old world," her father explained, his words punctuated by sounds of combat. "Rare, but not unique. This isn't the same one they faced before, but it knows them. Recognizes the berserker threat."

The creature surged forward suddenly, engulfing the camera's view with darkness.

The image from camera seven flickered, then vanished.

"Camera five is down," she reported, her voice shakier than she wanted it to be. "I've lost visual on your position."

"We're moving to the clearing," Dad replied, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "The beast is retreating eastward."

Jill switched to camera seven, which overlooked the small meadow near the eastern property line. The feed showed Alasdair and his brothers in pursuit of the shadow creature, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight. Another rifle shot rang out, the sound traveling clearly through the night air to the house.

"Did you see that?" William pointed at the screen, his voice tinged with awe. "Macrath just jumped at least ten feet to intercept that thing. How did he do that?.”

"None of this should be possible," Jill murmured, watching as Tavish executed a spinning attack that would make any martial arts master envious. "They fight like they have superpowers."

“Keep your eye on it,” Dad's voice came through. "We can't let it go to ground."

A cry of pain came through the headset, making her heart lurch painfully against her ribs.

"Cillian's hit," Dad reported grimly. "Its touch is poison. We need to end this quickly."

"Dad, be careful," Jill whispered, forgetting her promise to maintain radio discipline. The thought of any of them injured—especially her father or Alasdair—sent a wave of dread through her that surprised her with its intensity.

On screen seven, she watched as Alasdair and Macrath flanked the creature while Fergus dragged a wounded Cillian to safety. The Brollachan seemed to sense it was cornered, its formless mass expanding in what could only be aggression. It surged toward Alasdair, who met it with a sweeping arc of his sword.

The image from camera seven stuttered and went dark.

"Dad? DAD!" Jill called into the headset, panic rising in her throat. "I've lost all visual. Do you copy?"

Static answered her.

The minutes that followed were among the longest of Jill's life. She and her brothers frantically checked each camera, finding nothing but empty forest and meadow. The headset remained silent despite her repeated calls. Outside, the night seemed to press against the windows, darker and more menacing than before.

"We should go look for them," Joe said, already reaching for his coat.

"No," Jill shook her head, though every instinct screamed at her to do exactly that. "We wait. If something happened to them, us wandering in the dark won't help."

She forced herself to breathe slowly, to think rationally. Alasdair knew what he was doing. This wasn't his first encounter with such a creature. Her father had survived for twenty-seven years in this time; he wouldn't be careless now. They would return. They had to.

The sound of the back door opening sent them all rushing from the monitor room. Alasdair entered first, supporting a pale Cillian whose arm was wrapped in what looked like Dad's shirt. The others followed, looking battered but triumphant.

"What happened?" Jill demanded, relief flooding through her at the sight of them all alive. "The cameras went down, and the headset?—"

Jill guided them to the kitchen, where William already had the first aid kit open. "Is it dead?" he asked, helping Cillian into a chair.

"No," Alasdair replied, his voice grim. "Wounded, but it escaped. It'll be back."

As her mother treated Cillian's injured arm, Jill found herself watching Alasdair. There was a new cut along his jawline, a thin line of blood that emphasized the strong contour of his face. Despite the wound and evident exhaustion, he looked more alive than she'd yet seen him—a warrior who had found his purpose again.

"You fight like nothing I've ever seen," she said quietly when he crossed the room to join her. "Those moves...they weren't human."

His eyes met hers, still bright with the lingering effects of battle rage. "The berserker fury. It changes us. Enhances what we can do. It's why we couldn't have you there—we cannot always control who we strike when the rage is upon us."

Joe approached, his expression a mix of awe and newfound respect. "You guys were like...I don't even know how to describe it. Like something out of a movie, but real."

A ghost of a smile touched Alasdair's lips. "We are what we were born to be. Warriors bred for battle."

"That's why we need training," Jill insisted. "If we're going to help next time, we need to know how to move around you when you're...like that."

Something like respect flickered in his eyes, along with another emotion she couldn't quite name. "Aye," he said softly. "Perhaps that can be arranged. You have spirit, Jill Greenwood. All of you do."

Dad approached them, his expression grave. "The Brollachan will recover from its wounds and return. We've bought time, nothing more."

"Then we use that time," Alasdair replied. "To prepare, to plan. The beast may have escaped today, but it's made an enemy of the sons of MacTyre. And we don't forgive easily."

The fierce determination in his voice sent a shiver down Jill's spine—not of fear, but anticipation. Whatever came next, they would face it together.

And next time, she would fight.