Highland Shifter
Page 2
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There, in the pages of an ancient text, was a very similar timepiece on the wrist of the woman.
“Perhaps not a relative after all.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“She looks exactly like you, Helen. That necklace, where did you get it?”
“I found it in a thrift shop.” Her love for all things old brought her into thrift shops in search of hidden treasures. Lots of people threw their possessions away instead of treasuring them. The pendant had Celtic markings with a polished stone dead center. It was simply a well-polished rock set in a common metal. But the stone felt warm against Helen’s skin when she’d put it on. Somewhere inside of her soul, she knew she was meant to own the necklace.
“This woman is wearing a watch. Your watch.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s probably a bracelet.”
Mrs. Dawson pressed her reading glasses close to her eyes and peered down. “I see numbers.”
Helen noticed them, too. But it wasn’t possible. “What are you suggesting?” The woman in the picture was clearly garbed in a dress right out of medieval times, a time when watches weren’t part of any woman’s wardrobe. In fact, Helen knew wristwatches weren’t invented until the early nineteenth century.
Mrs. Dawson stared deep into her eyes before she spoke. “To coin a phrase, ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’”
“Now you’re throwing riddles at me.” Her curiosity spiked, however, and she decided a Google search was definitely in order. What was the exact date the wristwatch was invented, and who were the authors of this book?
Glancing back at the curtains, Mrs. Dawson said, “Seems something else is throwing riddles at you, dear. I just happen to be the one holding the book with the answers.”
* * * *
1596 Scotland
An unrelenting desire surged into the tips of Simon’s fingers. If only he could toss a ball of fire onto the ass of his opponent’s horse. But no, that would be cheating, and why hurt the innocent horse. Using his powers would be like bringing a gun to a knife fight. Besides, the warrior’s sword arm was tiring. Simon felt it the last time the man’s broadsword hit his shield.
Metal clashed against metal behind him, and smoke plumed above the fires in the encampment of the invaders who threatened MacCoinnich Keep. Night crept around the edges of light being cast off by the flames, bringing finality to the fight at hand.
Simon’s opponent dug his heels into the flanks of the horse he rode, his sword aiming straight at Simon’s chest.
Hold still, he whispered mentally to his horse. This skill, the one where he talked to animals, was one he’d mastered at the tender age of thirteen. Now, nearly thirty, Simon had complete command of any animal he came in contact with. Or, as his mother often said, he was a regular Doctor Doolittle.
The warrior charging him released an angry cry, his blade poised for a deathblow.
Simon waited, one hand holding his own weapon firmly, the other cradling a shield with the family crest engraved upon it.
A little closer.
Within a hair’s breadth of the sword reaching his personal space, Simon urged his mount to lunge. With that momentum, he knocked the other man’s sword aside and pierced his enemy’s chest, laying it wide open, spilling the man’s lifeblood.
A set of stunned eyes caught Simon’s as the warrior slid from his horse on his final descent from life.
Simon paused for only a second to watch him topple before quickly spinning around to assess his next threat.
The enemy retreated to the west, fleeing the losing battle so they could fight another day. Duncan, his uncle by marriage, stood beside his horse, his chest heaving heated breaths as his brother, Cian, circled the fallen. He would determine if any still lived.
The bloody battlefield stunk of unwashed flesh and dying men.
“Do any still breathe?” Duncan called out to Cian.
Cian slid from his horse and carefully rolled one of their enemies over. Even from Simon’s distance, he could see death on the man’s face.
“Nay. None.”
Several other battle-weary men gathered and awaited direction from Duncan.
“I’ll send hands from the Keep to aid in the burial of these men,” he told his men. “Did anyone see a leader?”
Simon shook his head. “No one stood out among them.”
“None.” A chorus of denial rose.
“Mayhap ye should send scouts to follow those who fled.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s gaze settled briefly on Simon. An unspoken request lit his eyes. They would scout, but not with men on horses. Sending a small party, easily outnumbered and ambushed, was not the answer.
“I’ll ride ahead and report to Ian.”
This excuse would go unquestioned by the men. Ian was Laird of the MacCoinnich clan, and he would want to know the outcome of this battle. Instead of returning to the Keep, Simon would scout ahead alone and return without anyone knowing that he watched.
Duncan lifted his chin. “Tell my Tara I’m well.”
Simon nodded, knowing he didn’t need to say a thing to his aunt. Duncan and Tara had a special mental bond that made it possible for the two of them to communicate with their thoughts. Tara was probably in Duncan’s head right now asking about his well-being.
Simon and his extended family were Druids, all of them. Each possessed special gifts—Druid gifts that aided them in life and allowed them to defeat their enemies, magical and mortal alike. He’d take the latter any day of the week. Magical enemies were much harder to fight.
Keeping to the forest, Simon reined in his horse away from any watchful eyes and slid to the ground.
He quickly removed each layer of armor and clothing and stacked them against a tree. “Keep an eye on my things, won’t you, Kong?” Simon had named his very first horse King, a massive animal that served him well. Kong was King’s son. The names were a constant joke between his twenty-first century family members.
Kong sniffed the air before moving to a patch of grass to graze. The horse was hungry and tired after the battle. Most likely, he’d eat and rest until Simon returned.
Stepping away from his horse, Simon spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and envisioned the falcon.
Familiar energy gathered around him. The air crackled and the world started to pitch.
His limbs shortened and his skin erupted and morphed.
Pain started at his head and spread to his feet, but it was brief and gone before Simon could blink an eye. The entire change took only a few seconds before Simon became the falcon.
“Perhaps not a relative after all.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“She looks exactly like you, Helen. That necklace, where did you get it?”
“I found it in a thrift shop.” Her love for all things old brought her into thrift shops in search of hidden treasures. Lots of people threw their possessions away instead of treasuring them. The pendant had Celtic markings with a polished stone dead center. It was simply a well-polished rock set in a common metal. But the stone felt warm against Helen’s skin when she’d put it on. Somewhere inside of her soul, she knew she was meant to own the necklace.
“This woman is wearing a watch. Your watch.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s probably a bracelet.”
Mrs. Dawson pressed her reading glasses close to her eyes and peered down. “I see numbers.”
Helen noticed them, too. But it wasn’t possible. “What are you suggesting?” The woman in the picture was clearly garbed in a dress right out of medieval times, a time when watches weren’t part of any woman’s wardrobe. In fact, Helen knew wristwatches weren’t invented until the early nineteenth century.
Mrs. Dawson stared deep into her eyes before she spoke. “To coin a phrase, ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’”
“Now you’re throwing riddles at me.” Her curiosity spiked, however, and she decided a Google search was definitely in order. What was the exact date the wristwatch was invented, and who were the authors of this book?
Glancing back at the curtains, Mrs. Dawson said, “Seems something else is throwing riddles at you, dear. I just happen to be the one holding the book with the answers.”
* * * *
1596 Scotland
An unrelenting desire surged into the tips of Simon’s fingers. If only he could toss a ball of fire onto the ass of his opponent’s horse. But no, that would be cheating, and why hurt the innocent horse. Using his powers would be like bringing a gun to a knife fight. Besides, the warrior’s sword arm was tiring. Simon felt it the last time the man’s broadsword hit his shield.
Metal clashed against metal behind him, and smoke plumed above the fires in the encampment of the invaders who threatened MacCoinnich Keep. Night crept around the edges of light being cast off by the flames, bringing finality to the fight at hand.
Simon’s opponent dug his heels into the flanks of the horse he rode, his sword aiming straight at Simon’s chest.
Hold still, he whispered mentally to his horse. This skill, the one where he talked to animals, was one he’d mastered at the tender age of thirteen. Now, nearly thirty, Simon had complete command of any animal he came in contact with. Or, as his mother often said, he was a regular Doctor Doolittle.
The warrior charging him released an angry cry, his blade poised for a deathblow.
Simon waited, one hand holding his own weapon firmly, the other cradling a shield with the family crest engraved upon it.
A little closer.
Within a hair’s breadth of the sword reaching his personal space, Simon urged his mount to lunge. With that momentum, he knocked the other man’s sword aside and pierced his enemy’s chest, laying it wide open, spilling the man’s lifeblood.
A set of stunned eyes caught Simon’s as the warrior slid from his horse on his final descent from life.
Simon paused for only a second to watch him topple before quickly spinning around to assess his next threat.
The enemy retreated to the west, fleeing the losing battle so they could fight another day. Duncan, his uncle by marriage, stood beside his horse, his chest heaving heated breaths as his brother, Cian, circled the fallen. He would determine if any still lived.
The bloody battlefield stunk of unwashed flesh and dying men.
“Do any still breathe?” Duncan called out to Cian.
Cian slid from his horse and carefully rolled one of their enemies over. Even from Simon’s distance, he could see death on the man’s face.
“Nay. None.”
Several other battle-weary men gathered and awaited direction from Duncan.
“I’ll send hands from the Keep to aid in the burial of these men,” he told his men. “Did anyone see a leader?”
Simon shook his head. “No one stood out among them.”
“None.” A chorus of denial rose.
“Mayhap ye should send scouts to follow those who fled.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s gaze settled briefly on Simon. An unspoken request lit his eyes. They would scout, but not with men on horses. Sending a small party, easily outnumbered and ambushed, was not the answer.
“I’ll ride ahead and report to Ian.”
This excuse would go unquestioned by the men. Ian was Laird of the MacCoinnich clan, and he would want to know the outcome of this battle. Instead of returning to the Keep, Simon would scout ahead alone and return without anyone knowing that he watched.
Duncan lifted his chin. “Tell my Tara I’m well.”
Simon nodded, knowing he didn’t need to say a thing to his aunt. Duncan and Tara had a special mental bond that made it possible for the two of them to communicate with their thoughts. Tara was probably in Duncan’s head right now asking about his well-being.
Simon and his extended family were Druids, all of them. Each possessed special gifts—Druid gifts that aided them in life and allowed them to defeat their enemies, magical and mortal alike. He’d take the latter any day of the week. Magical enemies were much harder to fight.
Keeping to the forest, Simon reined in his horse away from any watchful eyes and slid to the ground.
He quickly removed each layer of armor and clothing and stacked them against a tree. “Keep an eye on my things, won’t you, Kong?” Simon had named his very first horse King, a massive animal that served him well. Kong was King’s son. The names were a constant joke between his twenty-first century family members.
Kong sniffed the air before moving to a patch of grass to graze. The horse was hungry and tired after the battle. Most likely, he’d eat and rest until Simon returned.
Stepping away from his horse, Simon spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and envisioned the falcon.
Familiar energy gathered around him. The air crackled and the world started to pitch.
His limbs shortened and his skin erupted and morphed.
Pain started at his head and spread to his feet, but it was brief and gone before Simon could blink an eye. The entire change took only a few seconds before Simon became the falcon.
