Page 45 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

Night had come too quickly, bringing with it a biting chill and the miserly half glow of a crescent moon.

Haley wanted MacColla. Missed her father, her family. What she was about to do terrified her. What if she landed in some other strange time or place? She could get stuck with no means to return.

She was desperate for a kind word, some protection, and was grateful to see Rollo’s usual stoicism soften momentarily.

“I’m scared,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Haley. So like that ‘Frail boat of crystal in a rocky sea.’” Rollo tilted his head. He smiled quietly at her confusion, his teeth an eerie white in the black shadows. “Not my words,” he said. “Drummond’s. A poet.”

“Quoting poetry to me?” She tried to muster some bit of good humor. “MacColla would be jealous.”

“You’ll see him soon, lass.” Shifting his weight, Rollo brought his cane to his other hand. Grinning, he added, “You can tell him yourself how gallant you find me.”

She was startled, and despite the trepidation that clutched at her chest, she laughed.

“You do the right thing,” he said, growing serious.

“When I look in your eyes, I can almost sense MacColla, so bright is his place in your heart. The man loved you more than reason. And it’s just that sort of madness that will return you to him.

I cannot imagine you landing anywhere but back by his side. ”

A sharp exhale announced Finola, her readiness, her impatience, and her annoyance most of all.

“Come now, or don’t,” she snapped. “We must work while the moon is high.”

“A man is of little use when his wife’s a widow, aye?” Rollo said with another smile, ignoring the witch. “So go now, dear friend. Go save MacColla.”

But she didn’t move, and so he reached a single hesitant finger, touching her chin gently. “You are brave in your heart, Haley Fitzpatrick. Fear not the bravery of your deeds.”

It struck her that only she would remember this moment. She was traveling back to a time before, and she hoped she and MacColla would be walking a new path. One that didn’t end with him dead and her standing beneath a watery moon, Will Rollo and a witch as her only company.

She was the only one who’d remember Finola’s crackling fire, Rollo’s kindness. And the realization made her feel even more alone.

One thought came to her, amusing her and giving her strength. Rollo’s bolstering smile and kind words had betrayed him as a true friend to Haley. And though chances were good the stoic would never demonstrate as much again, she’d always have memories of this thoughtfulness as proof.

She gave him a quiet smile and, nodding, turned to face Finola.

Fire danced behind the witch, the flames blazing whiter and hotter than a bonfire should.

It cast Finola’s face in blackness, made her seem larger than life.

Long shadows cut along the dirt, reaching toward Haley, and their blackness subsumed her feet, her calves.

She wondered if the chill prickling in their wake was merely imagined.

Finola’s sinewy arm stretched toward her, fingers reaching.

Haley took a deep breath. She was terrified now. But there was no other choice.

She turned her head, looking once more at Rollo. She wanted a nod, one last smile, some reassurance that this was going to be all right. But he merely locked eyes with hers, his gaze sympathetic. He’d lend her strength, but Haley was alone now. She alone could make this choice.

Flexing her fingers, she turned back to Finola and let the witch take her hand.

With a sharp inhale, the woman’s head snapped back. Her face pointed to the sky, and despite the dimness of the moon, the whites of her eyes glowed eerily bright.

Haley heard humming, so low at first, it seemed to originate from inside her own head. It grew louder, and she realized the sound came from Finola.

The witch was in a trancelike state, muttering. The susurration gradually coalesced into words, growing louder and louder.

Her fingers seized, clawing Haley’s skin. Haley gave an instinctive tug, but the woman’s grip only tightened.

She pulled Haley to the fire.

God help me.

She could stop it all now. Live her life, find her own little island and make do from that moment on. This seemed . . . wrong. A dark thing, an evil thing.

MacColla. Turning back now would mean good-bye forever.

Haley rolled her shoulders back. The only way. She stepped slowly, letting Finola lead her.

Stopping before the fire, the witch dropped Haley’s hand suddenly. Backed up.

And then she began to dance.

Finola whirled around, the sleeves of her robes fluttering over and through the fire as she spun like a dervish around the blaze.

Nonsensical staccato sounds popped from her mouth, bits of spittle landing with a hiss in the fire.

The flames licked at her cloak now, but rather than catching fire, it only glowed brighter, whiter.

The woman opened her mouth wide, a black maw in the darkness. A horrific cry erupted, a sharp, steady ululation sounding her dance around the flames.

Haley clutched her skirts in her fists. No choice, no choice.

The witch stopped short. Pulled something from her robes. It was the painting. Magda’s painting.

She thrust it into Haley’s hands. Firelight licked the edges of the portrait, illuminating the face of Magda’s dead brother. He looked up at her, so innocent, with bright red hair and a slight smile curving his mouth.

Guilt stabbed her. It seemed an abomination. As if she were somehow sullying the memory of this boy. Peter, was it? An image of innocence, defiled by this witch.

She grabbed Haley’s hand once more. Finola’s fingers were cold now, icy and dry, the skin of her fingertips thin, like an old woman’s.

Finola took Haley’s hand and rubbed it over the portrait. The paint smudged with the pressure and Peter’s image blurred. He was a surreal face now, still looking up at her, the memory of that once-captured innocence an indictment.

MacColla. MacColla, what am I doing?

Magda had given Haley the painting. It was her only hope. Magda had known what this meant. No guilt. No choice. Magda would want it this way.

Tiny splinters bit into her palm. Haley’s reflex was to pull back, but Finola’s grip was like steel. She intoned,

Gaoth o’n rionnaig Earraich, Teas o’n rionnaig Shamhraidh, Uisg’ o’n rionnaig Fhogair, Reothadh o’n rionnaig Gheamhraidh. Wind from the Spring Star, Heat from the Summer Star, Water from the Autumn Star, Frost from the Winter Star. Hear me.

The last resonated long and low through the night.

The witch took Haley’s finger and used it like an instrument, forming strange, abstract shapes along the surface.

Gooseflesh shivered along her body like ice. What the . . .

She stole a backward glance at Rollo, standing in the shadows, watching. The way he stiffened, putting his hand to his sword, spoke to the terror in her eyes.

I must. Haley gave him a small nod, and turned her head from him for good.

“The hero sleeps in his tomb,” Finola chanted. Her hand dragged Haley’s finger faster, mercilessly etching out shapes along the wooden panel. “The hero chose a path to doom.”

She felt the tackiness of her own blood on its surface.

“A hero’s cairn, and fates that were. The star road, to him, take her.”

Even though Haley knew her head was immobile, it felt as if it whipped back and forward again. Vertigo.

Adrenalin kicked in, making her hyperaware of every sensation.

“Take her, take her.” The witch’s voice was low now. An inhuman rumbling that seemed to come from the trees all around, from the lake water, from the sky above.

“Think her on her love. Become one with stars above.”

What? Was she supposed to be thinking about MacColla? Finola hadn’t given her instructions. She tried to speak, but her tongue was thick and dead in her mouth. Wait. Did she need to think something specific to go back to him?

“To dissolve into skies. To save him who dies.”

The vertigo seized her again, and this time didn’t let go, propelling a dull click-click in her head, spinning, spinning.

The flames at her back felt suddenly cold, her lungs breathing the smoke of dry ice, not fire.

Haley was chilled, her body bloodless and insubstantial, and her heart fluttered lighter and lighter, until she thought it a hummingbird set to flit from her body.

God help me.

“Take her. Take her. Take her.”

The humming stopped, and she sagged abruptly.

She felt sapped, saddened. She was steeped in heightened emotion, felt thick with it. Didn’t it work?

The whirling in her head subsided and she struggled, her eyelids fluttering.

She felt hands holding her. Warm hands.

Rollo? Had she collapsed?

Haley shuddered a deep inhale. Managed to give her head a shake. Opened her eyes.

She stood before MacColla, her chin in his hands. “This is farewell, leannan ,” he told her. “Do you not have a kiss for me?”

Haley shrieked.