True to the Highlander(2)
Alethia frowned as her legs carried her toward the chair. She didn’t want to sit, much less stay, but she couldn’t seem to turn herself around to march out that door. “You thought about me?”
“Oh yes. I’ve been thinking about you for a very long time.”
“A long time? This is the first festival we’ve ever worked together, and we’ve never even had a conversation. How—”
“Time is relative, Alethia, and completely malleable for one such as myself.”
What the hell does that mean? Despite her desire to bolt, Alethia stayed planted where she was. Giselle mumbled to herself while she rummaged through a plastic bin full of her fortune-telling paraphernalia. Alethia shuddered as she listened.
“Ah, here it is.” Giselle turned back with a pendant on a gold chain dangling from her hands. The charm was an animal effigy made of Celtic knots with a green stone mounted in the middle. “You’ve been so kind, stopping by to cheer me up even though I’m a stranger to you. I want you to have this.” She slipped the pendant around Alethia’s neck.
Alethia traced the intricate design with her finger. The knots formed the image of a crane. Among her father’s people, the Anishinaabe, she belonged to the Crane clan. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t keep this.” She lifted the chain over her head to return it. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“It’s yours.” Giselle caught her hands and pushed the pendant back down around Alethia’s neck. “This was crafted in the Highlands of Scotland eons ago. It is fitting that you should have it. Don’t you think?”
Her mother had been Scottish, a MacConnell, but how could Giselle know so much about her life? The gold chain came to rest with unnatural warmth against Alethia’s skin. Every instinct she had screamed at her to get the hell out of there. Now. “Thanks. Can I pay you for the necklace? I didn’t really do anything to deserve it.”
“Ah, but you will.” Giselle laughed. “I don’t want your money. The pendant is a gift.”
Alethia grabbed her things from the ground, relieved to find that her body finally obeyed her mind. “I hope everything turns out all right with your relative.”
“I am certain it will. Go, child. Your destiny awaits.”
Giselle had obviously played the role of the gypsy fortune-teller far too long. Alethia’s future had nothing to do with destiny and everything to do with hard work, determination and careful planning.
Alethia took a step toward the tent’s exit, and every hair on her body stood on end. An eerie electrical charge filled the tent, along with the distinctive scent of ozone. All the familiar sounds associated with the closing fair faded. A loud clap made her ears pop, and everything flattened in an impossible two-dimensional way.
Pulled by a powerful current, she lurched forward. It took all of her strength to hold on to her things, and she fought to remain upright against the invisible force pressing in on her from all sides. A blur of light and color flashed by in microsecond increments. Nausea and pressure made it hard to breathe. She gasped for air, and pain ripped through her. God, she was being torn apart. I’m going to die. I don’t want to die!
Blackness edged its way in around her as she struggled to remain conscious. No use. The vortex pulled her under.
Northern Scotland, 1423 AD
Malcolm leaned forward in his saddle and glared down at the well-dressed stranger asleep on the ground. On MacKintosh ground. With an important missive to deliver into his father’s hands, he had no time for problems not his own. “What devilry is this?”
“She looks far more angel than devil,” his cousin Robley remarked. “Who could she be?”
“She’s no’ Sassenach. ’Tis certain. Her complexion is far too dark. Mayhap she’s Italian or Basque.” Malcolm glanced at the tree line.
“Aye, no’ English, for certes. Mayhap she’s fae. She’s lovely to look upon,” Angus murmured. “Enchanting.” He cleared his throat, and his face turned as red as his hair.
“Nay. The fae are always fair skinned,” Galen argued. “’Tis why they’re called fairies.”
His men grunted as they contemplated the possibilities, and Malcolm kept a wary eye on the edge of the forest. The lass wore clothing and jewels proclaiming her nobility. Where were her servants and escort? Something was amiss, and it turned his foul mood to pitch. No doubt this sleeping apparition was some new mischief conspired by fate to beleaguer him further. Between the Comyn clan’s never-ending treachery, the greedy, ruthless rule of their regent, and his parents’ expectation that he make an advantageous marriage, ’twas a wonder he slept at night.