Page 43 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CRAZY ABOUT LILA

PROLOGUE

The clearing lay silent under the waning light, the scent of lavender heavy in the air.

But beneath the sweetness, something rotted.

The soil in the far woods, blackened and withered, pulsed once—then again—like a heartbeat no living creature should possess.

It had waited. Buried deep. Nursing hunger, nursing hatred.

Its progenitor had been vanquished—torn from this world by silver and fire—but its legacy remained. Smaller. Younger. Weaker...for now. But patient.

It remembered.

The taste of fear. The scent of blood. The thrill of the hunt.

It remembered the warrior bloodlines. It remembered the MacTyre clan—the branded ones whose blades had pierced its parent's form. It remembered the song of rage and magic that once bound its kind to the earth—and the human flesh it had been denied too long.

Now new prey stirred above. Soft-footed humans. Warm blood. Laughter and life—things it hated. Things it craved.

And from somewhere nearby, the faint echo of an ancient melody—a storyteller's voice lifted in song. The bard-warrior. The one who sees.

The creature writhed beneath the earth, recognition coursing through its shadowed essence. The one called Tavish. The MacTyre with the sight.

A shift of earth. A ripple of shadow. The thing unfurled itself deeper underground, pressing closer to the roots of the ancient trees.

It would grow. It would hunt. And when the time was right, it would feast.

* * *

The sun glared off the freshly poured concrete, baking the air until it shimmered over Tavish's little kingdom: twenty by thirty feet of solid foundation, smelling like progress and possibility. He squatted down, patted the slab like a loyal hound, and smiled. The rough scrape under his palm grounded him in this strange century better than anything else had so far.

"Still starin' at it?" Lachlan called from across the clearing. "It's not goin' to sprout legs and dance, ye know."

Tavish rose to his full height, six-foot-four of displaced Highlander crammed awkwardly into stiff denim. "Laugh now," he said. "But when I'm sleepin' under my own roof and ye're still starin' at stars, we'll see who's laughin'."

Lachlan snorted. "Perhaps—if the builders dinnae flee first. Ye've scared off three already with your 'suggestions.'"

"They dinnae understand rain," Tavish grumbled, jabbing a finger at his construction plans. "Their roofs are flatter than a drunken bard's song!"

The rumble of a truck cut him off. Tavish's muscles tightened instinctively, the old urge to reach for sword or shield rising—until he recognized Jill's familiar battered pickup bumping down the trail toward Highlander Hollow.

She drove one-handed, waving at them with casual confidence that still amazed him. Women commanding metal beasts—aye, he'd seen stranger things, but not many.

"Are ye two arguing about roofs again?" she called, cutting the engine with a practiced jerk of her wrist.

"He started it," Tavish said, managing to sound far more innocent than he felt.

Jill grinned, hopping down from the cab. "Good. You'll need that fighting spirit at the library. Lila Mitchell needs help moving some display cases for Heritage Days."

"Why would a library—" Tavish began.

"She asked for you specifically," Jill interrupted, smirking. "The music teacher? The one you've been pretending not to ask about?"

"I havnae been askin'!" Tavish protested, too quick.

"Four times," Lachlan said, betrayal pure and gleaming.

"Three times!" Tavish corrected—then cursed under his breath.

Jill tossed him the keys to one of the farm's four-wheelers. "Think you can handle the ATV without another incident?"

"That was one time," he muttered, catching the keys. "And the man said his eyebrows would grow back."

He grabbed his hammer—not because he needed it, but because solid weight in his hand still felt like home—and mounted the four-wheeler. The machine roared to life under him, shuddering like a nervous stallion.

"Remember!" Jill called as he pulled away. "Modern women don't like being called 'wenches' or challenged to duels!"

"That was Macrath!” Tavish yelled back, but their laughter chased him down the trail.

The ride into town was pure battle strategy. He white-knuckled the handlebars, muttering Gaelic curses every time the wheels hit a bump. Modern machines, like modern customs, clearly wanted him dead.

When he reached the library—a sturdy old church refashioned to house books instead of prayers—he parked the ATV with exaggerated caution. Then spent several minutes trying, and failing, to tame his wind-blown hair.

Inside, the chaos of furniture rearrangement reigned. Tables shoved against walls. Chairs stacked like drunken sentries. And at the center of it all, perched precariously atop a wobbly step stool, was Lila Mitchell.

For weeks, he'd seen her flitting around town - sometimes at the coffee shop with her sheet music, other times hurrying to her car with armfuls of books, her honey-colored hair caught in the wind. Something about her quiet grace and the way she hummed to herself had drawn his eye long before today, though he'd never found the courage to approach her.

She stretched high to hang a banner reading "Celebrating Our Heritage," her yellow sundress fluttering around legs that made Tavish's ninth-century brain short-circuit.

The stool wobbled dangerously.

"That doesna look verra safe," he called.

She yelped, spun toward him—and the stool tipped.

Tavish dropped his hammer and lunged.

She landed against his chest with a soft "oof," her arms instinctively clinging to his shoulders. Her scent—books, sunlight, and something sweetly floral—wrapped around him and nearly knocked him flat.

For a moment, he forgot what century he stood in.

"Nice catch," she breathed, glasses crooked on her nose, lips parted in surprise.

"Easier than catchin' a sheep on a steep hill," he said—and immediately wished for death.

But she laughed, bright and easy, and the knot in his gut loosened.

"Tavish, right?" she asked as he gently set her down. "The Scottish guy who knows all the old songs?"

"Aye," he said, pleased she remembered. "Jill said ye needed help."

"She did, did she?" Lila tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Interesting. Because I only asked if she knew anyone with a truck."

His stomach dropped. Jill. Matchmaking fiend.

Still—he wasn't about to squander a rescue like this.

She pointed at his hammer. "And that? Planning to build me some new bookshelves?"

He tucked it sheepishly back into his belt. "For persuading stubborn furniture."

"Furniture persuasion," she repeated, grinning. "Is that a traditional Scottish technique?"

“Aye," he said solemnly. "Passed down through generations."

"Good." She hopped off the newly placed table. "Because I've got some very stubborn cabinets that need convincing."

Lila gestured toward an enormous oak display case against the far wall. "That's the main culprit. We need it moved to the center of the room for the History of Aberdeen exhibit."

Tavish approached the cabinet, running his hand along its intricately carved surface. The thing was massive—at least eight feet tall and six feet wide, solid oak from top to bottom. For an ordinary man, an impossible task. For a berserker, merely a challenge.

"Has anyone tried moving it yet?" he asked casually.

"The janitor and I couldn't budge it an inch," she sighed. "Everyone's busy with festival preparations, and they want it done today."

Tavish nodded, a slow smile forming. This, at least, was something he could do—something useful in this bewildering modern world.

"Stand back," he said, rolling up his sleeves.

"Tavish, you can't possibly?—"

But he was already bracing himself, hands positioned at the cabinet's base. He took a deep breath, letting just enough of the old power stir in his blood—not the full berserker rage, but enough of that ancient strength to flow through his muscles.

With a controlled grunt, he lifted.

The massive oak cabinet rose from the ground as if it were made of balsa wood. Tavish shifted, adjusting his grip, and began walking it toward the center of the room, his steps measured and careful.

Lila's mouth fell open. "That's—that's impossible," she whispered. "It took six men to bring that in last year."

"Just good leverage," he said, setting the cabinet down precisely where she'd indicated, trying to downplay his strength. "And stubborn Scottish determination."

She stared at him with undisguised wonder, her eyes wide behind those delicate glasses. "Are all Scottish men like you?"

"Nay," he said, a strange pride stirring. "I'm one of a kind."

She handed him a stack of books—Scottish history, appropriately—and their fingers brushed.

The world disappeared.

Light burst behind his eyes—not pain, but vision, sharp and clear as mountain water. Lila running through dark woods, terror on her face. A writhing shadow pursuing her, something ancient and malevolent with glowing red eyes. Her dress torn, blood on her arm. Her voice screaming his name. The shadow lunging, its form shifting from mist to beast, reaching for her with elongated, blackened claws. His brothers fighting alongside him, battling the creature that seemed to swallow light itself—a Brollachan's offspring, hungry for fear and flesh.

Tavish gasped, the books tumbling from his hands as reality crashed back into place. Cold sweat broke out across his forehead, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Tavish?" Lila was staring at him, concern etched across her features. "Are you okay? You went white as a ghost."

"Aye," he managed, throat dry as desert sand. "Just a...moment of dizziness. Not used to the heat."

She studied him carefully, not quite believing. "Let me get you some water."

As she hurried away, Tavish steadied himself against the bookshelf, the vision still burning in his mind. This wasn't just any prophetic glimpse—this was a warning. The Brollachan they'd fought wasn't the only one. Its offspring hunted in these woods, and somehow, Lila would be in its path.

When she returned, adjusting her glasses, he blurted without thinking, "Have ye family here? A husband, mayhap?”

Subtle as a thrown axe.

"No husband," she said, not missing a beat. "No boyfriend, either, if that was your next question."

"It might've been," he admitted gruffly, accepting the water with hands that still trembled slightly.

She laughed again, the sound wrapping around him like sunlight through the stained glass windows.

"Think about the storytelling," she said over her shoulder as she walked away. "And Tavish? Thanks for the catch. And the superhero cabinet-moving. Very impressive."

Tavish stood alone among the ancient books and crooked furniture, Lila's laughter lingering in the dusty air. For the first time since the portal had ripped him from everything he'd known, he felt not just the ache of what was lost—but the thrill of what might yet be found.

Maybe it was time to stop surviving.

Maybe it was time to start living.

But the vision haunted him. If his sight spoke true—and it always had—the woman walking away from him now, with her bright smile and clever eyes, would soon be in terrible danger. And he would be all that stood between her and a monster born of his own world.

He tightened his grip on the hammer at his belt. Some things hadn't changed across the centuries. A warrior protected what was his. And though he'd only just met her, he knew with bone-deep certainty that Lila Mitchell was meant to be his.