Kiss of the Highlander
Page 52

“Drustan!” she cried.
“Here, lass.” He stumbled to her side, then slipped on the hail-covered terrain and fell to his knees.
“Drustan, what’s happening?” As he drew himself erect, she saw that his face was pale and drawn; lines she’d never noticed before etched sharp grooves around his mouth. He was looking down at his hands with horror. Her gaze flew to them, wondering what was wrong with them. Whatever he saw, she couldn’t see. They seemed to disappear into the mist.
“I erred when I sketched the final symbols,” he yelled hoarsely. A large ball of ice struck his cheekbone, raising an immediate welt. “I went back too far. I thought I could come with you, but I cannot. Forgive me, lass, it wasn’t supposed to be this way!”
“What?” Gwen could scarcely hear him, so deafening was the wind. Strands of her hair stung the skin of her neck as the wind whipped it wildly about her face. The gale was so lashing, it felt it was raking the skin from her cheekbones. The hail was bruising her scalp; her head ached in dozens of spots. She inched toward him and clutched at his arm. It felt curiously insubstantial beneath her fingers, although she could see the muscles in his arms bulging. He tried to close his misty hand around hers, but it sort of slid through hers.
“What’s happening to you?” she wailed.
“Save me. Save my clan, lass,” he yelled. “Keep the lore safe.” Christ, he could feel himself being torn in two. Talking to her, simultaneously trying to reason with his past self. It wasn’t working. It took immense effort merely to move his lips and form words. He was coming apart…two places in one time, and all the while reeling because he finally understood the next dimension…and he had to tell her what to say and do! He must tell her how to use the spell he’d taught her!
“What are you talking about?” she cried. “Ouch!” she cried, as a chunk of hail struck her forehead.
But he didn’t answer, just flickered in a way that terrified her, as if he was fading but fighting to stay. Nearly hysterical, Gwen tried to cling to him, but he slid through her hands.
His silver eyes flashed, he looked wild, forbidding, a dark sorcerer from eons past. He thrust his plaid at her, wordlessly demanding she take it.
She closed trembling fingers over the fabric.
“Listen,” he cried. His gaze swept over her and passion blazed in his eyes. Then he cocked his head as if hearing something she couldn’t hear and glanced beyond her as if seeing something she couldn’t see. His lips moved one last time.
The moment you see him you must tell him…show him—
“What?” she cried. “Tell who what?” Flying leaves and limbs rained down upon them. When he ducked and shielded his face to avert a blow from a particularly large branch, she missed most of what he was saying. Tell and show who what?
Abruptly, he was gone. Vanished as completely as the symbols had vanished from his chest in the cave days ago.
With his disappearance, the maelstrom died and the hail ceased abruptly. The night fell silent, the mist dissipated on a last, bitter gust of wind.
Gwen remained frozen, in shock, bruised and wind-burned and aching.
She didn’t trust herself to take even one step on a leg that moments ago had not been her leg at all but her leg and something else, something the bristling scientist was still pacing back and forth in a white lab coat protesting stridently. She wasn’t certain any part of her would obey simple orders, so knotted up was her mind.
“Drustan,” she called weakly. Then louder: “Drustan!”
A terrible silence greeted her. She shivered uncontrollably, belatedly remembering she was nude. Woodenly, she pulled his plaid around her and scrambled across the slippery ground toward the fire.
But there was no fire. The storm must have put it out.
She dropped to her knees on the hail-covered ground, clutching his plaid, huddling within it for warmth. Dazedly, she glanced about and was astonished to see the hail was so thick on the ground that it looked as if the heavens had opened up and simply iced the top of the mountain. It could take hours for it to melt in the warm autumn night. And then she fell still and thought no more about the strange storm, as she replayed their entire encounter through her mind, finally seeing the pattern.
He had said he would prove to her that he was telling the truth, but he could only do it at the stones. He’d said that if she didn’t believe him, she would be free of him. She now realized he’d always chosen his words cautiously, couching double meanings.
Now she understood exactly what he’d meant. “You left me,” she whispered. “You really showed me, huh?” She snorted and started crying at the same time. “Incontrovertible proof. Uh-huh. Ever the doubter here, that’s me.”