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.”
“Not the day. The year. I need to know the year.” Chase could barely push the words past his lips.
His father had told him of the ancient Fae’s power to manipulate time. But surely those were nothing more than stories of days long gone.
Just like Faeries were supposed to be stories?
Surely they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Not after he’d faithfully waited for so long.
“Twelve ninety-four,” Halldor answered, his brow wrinkling in concern. “That blow to your head must have been harder than I thought. Best we find ourselves a healer in the next village we pass and get some herbs to put on that swelling.”
“Twelve ninety-four,” Chase muttered. “Twelve freakin’ ninety-four.”
They could, they would, and they had.
Damned unbelievable Faeries. His father had been right. Even when they gave you what you wanted, they always had to add their own screwed-up twist to it.
F ive
C ASTLE M AC G AHAN, S COTLAND
1294
T ROUBLE HOVERED AROUND her like a swarm of midges on a summer’s eve.
Syrie knew she should never have done something like this. Then again, how could she not? She had given her solemn promise.
She rolled her shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the apprehension weighing her down and strode to the big door, stopping with her hand poised above the wood.
The MacGahan laird on the other