Scotland? A second drink hung in the back of his throat and he choked, coughing as the big man laughed and reached over to pound on his back.
“Easy, lad. The mead is bit strong, but always good for what ails you.”
He must be dreaming. None of this was possible, no matter how real it felt. The last thing he remembered was standing in his room, in the middle of an earthquake, his skin glowing with that crazy green light like some kind of . . .
Chase’s mind froze as if he’d taken a slap to the face, an old memory shoving its way to the front of his thoughts.
Green light exactly like his father had always described accompanying a burst of Faerie magic.
Another memory followed on the heels of the first. The pounding chant of “Now, now, now!” in those last moments before he’d blacked out.
A thrill of excitement tightened his chest. That shooting star had been a message sent for him, his father’s promise to him fulfilled. He just hadn’t been smart enough to realize it.
“Not an earthquake,” he muttered, lifting the flask to his lips again. He was prepared for the burn this time, and the heady liquid flowed much more smoothly down his throat, warming his chest and belly. “But perhaps, at long last, where I’m supposed to be.”
His companion took the flask from his hand and tossed back a swallow of his own. “Where you’re supposed to be, I cannot say, only that here is where you are. What are you called, lad?”
“Chase. Chase Noble.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “And you?”
“Halldor O’Donar, at your service.” Halldor rose to his feet, a wide grin lifting his features. “Ah, yes. Noble, it is. By fidelity and fortitude, eh?”
Chase shrugged, having no idea what the big man meant. “It’s just a name.” Though the “fidelity and fortitude” line did appeal to him, sounding very much like something his father might have claimed.
“That’s an interesting mark you wear upon your arm.” Halldor ran his fingers down his beard, scratching idly like a man who had something more to say. “I’ve not seen its match worn so before.”
Chase had never seen one like it before wandering into that little dive of a tattoo parlor on a whim and letting himself get talked into getting inked.
“Yeah. It was supposed to be something else entirely. But I kind of like it now.”
“I carry naught but this one spare tunic,” the big man said, digging in a large leather bag and pulling out a roll of cloth, which he dropped in Chase’s lap. “It’ll no doubt be a bit large on you, but it’ll do until we make our way to our new laird’s castle, eh? You can use the plaid there, too. Neither of them so new or fancy, but a sight better than traipsing around in those strange little trews of yours.”
Strange little trews? Chase looked down. His boxers. How perfect was this? Absolutely perfect if you thought like a Fae, with their inherently warped sense of humor. Strand someone halfway across the world in nothing but their underwear. There must be a whole roomful of Faeries laughing their asses off about this one.
Wait. His mind raced in a whole new direction, one that didn’t offer the least bit of comfort. Trews? Laird? Castle?
No, no, no. That would be way too wild, even for Faeries. But it was Faeries, after all, so he couldn’t discount the suspicion.
“Can you tell me the date?”
Halldor paused, the flask halfway to his lips, and stared thoughtfully into the sky. “Let me think. Winternights has passed but it’s not yet Jul. I’d say we’re in early December, though I’ve lost track of the exact day.”