Into the Dim (13 page)

“You could learn this, Hope,” she called. “Doesn't matter how small you are. Aikido uses your opponent's own momentum against them.” Phoebe demonstrated a few moves, her small hands and feet flying as she once again dropped her sweating brother to the mud-slick ground of the stable yard. “Of course, if that doesn't work”—she patted the knives at her side—“you just stick them with your blade.”

Collum's weapon of choice was a short, wide gladiator sword that had belonged to his father. Watching him and Mac spar left me clenching and breathless. Even Doug was astonishingly fast with his staff, a six-foot piece of rock-hard oak.

No surprise to anyone, especially me, I was clumsy and awkward with any weapon they tried to put in my hands. After days stuck inside while the skies shed buckets onto the mountains and moors, I'd discovered the only place I was of any use at all. The library. And even there, practically every time I opened my mouth, Collum shut me down. It was getting old.

The rain had finally stopped. I peered down the misty valley toward the river and wondered if Bran Cameron would be there today.

Even thinking about the possibility that he might be there—
could
be there—made my face go hot. It was a stupid hope, I knew. But I so needed a little normal in my life just then. Not that meeting up with a boy was normal. Not for me. But I'd take what I could get.

As I watched, Phoebe flipped Doug for the third time. The massive boy landed on his back with a whoomp that shook the ground. He lay still, gasping. Eyebrows waggling, Phoebe held out a hand. “That's six to two,” she said. “Done, then, are you?”

With a move quicker than I would've imagined possible for someone his size, Doug rolled to his feet. And in one smooth motion, he'd hauled Phoebe over his shoulder and—both of them giggling madly—carried her off into the house.

Mac and Collum had finished their earlier battle. The older man was now watching as Collum eviscerated a leather-bound, straw-filled dummy that hung from a beam sticking out the side of the stable wall.

Earlier, I'd tried to chuck a few of Phoebe's knives at the figure. The few that had miraculously struck had bounced off and splatted to the ground.

“Nice work, lad,” Mac called as he sheathed his blade. “Old Angus will need some stitchin' up ere we use him again, I bet.”

He strolled toward me, the crow's feet around his eyes deepening as he called over his shoulder. “And take it easy on our lass here. Remember, this is all new to her.”

Mac's hand was gentle as he clapped my shoulder. “Ye're doin' fine, lass,” he said in a voice for me alone. “Ye're smart as a whip and twice as tough. 'Tis a lot to take in, I know. But Collum's a good lad. Ye'll be right safe in his care.”

Mac headed inside, leaving only me and Collum in the muddy yard. A fact I wasn't totally thrilled about.

The Highland mist swirled down off the far mountains and writhed across the moors like a mass of angry spirits. Exhausted from three eighteen-hour days of endless study, costume fittings, and practicing the twisty medieval dialect, I turned away to head inside. If I hurried, I could change out of the long practice skirts Collum had insisted on and be headed out on Ethel's back in ten minutes.

Collum moved to block me, dropping a knife at my feet.

“Not yet,” he said. “You didn't do so well earlier, and everyone should know how to use a blade. We're going to a brutal time. You won't be able to fend off an attacker by quoting passages at him, so pick it up. We aren't leaving this spot till you know how to use it.”

I frowned down at the slender stiletto. Nothing mattered more than finding my mom, but Lucinda had already lectured us time and time again to have as little contact as possible with the “natives.” So why he thought I'd need to use a blade was beyond me. I wasn't an idiot. I knew where we were headed was a dangerous place. But I'd already managed to nick myself three times with the miniscule eating knife I'd been rehearsing with—no forks in the twelfth century—so how the hell did he suppose I'd do with an actual weapon?

Grumbling under my breath, I retrieved the knife and balanced it gingerly on my open palm. The color of aged ivory, the hilt was carved with whorls and odd symbols. I smoothed a finger across the satiny surface.

“That's bone,” Collum said, “with a canny sharp blade. Got it off a count on a trip to 1823. It'll do for you. Now grip it like this.”

Collum wrapped his rough palm over mine, showing me an underhand grip.

“Okay, okay,” I said. I slapped at the full skirts. “But let me go change. I've tripped on these stupid things a dozen times already. If I don't get some jeans on, I'll end up gutting myself. “

I was hoping for a laugh. A chuckle. God, even a twitch to break the guy's unrelenting intensity. But Collum's expression never wavered as he looked skyward. “And will you be wearing
jeans
where we're going? I can't be with you every second. You have to be able to defend yourself. But if you're not going to take this seriously, then—”

“Fine,” I muttered. “It's just that I'm really not into the whole piercing, slicing, mutilating thing. You have to admit that's not something a normal person learns.”

He nodded slowly and slid his own knife back into its sheath. “Aye. All right, then. I understand.”

My shoulders slumped in relief. “Great. So I'll just concentrate on—”

He moved on me so fast, I stumbled back and fell flat on my butt. He danced away, smirking.

“Oh, that's just great,” I groused as cold thick mud soaked through layers of material.

He held out a hand to help me up. I ignored it. “I got it.”

I jerked to my feet, then bent over to kick up the knife. Before I could blink, Collum slapped it to the ground and crushed my hand in his iron fist. The pain sent me to my knees.

“Going to quote at me from your wee books, now?” he said. “Terrify me with a nice factoid?”

“Collum.” Irritation warred with a growing alarm as he squeezed harder. “Let go of me.”

“I thought you didn't need any help.”

I twisted and squirmed, scratching at his arm. But his biceps felt as hard as the wood of Doug's oak staff.

Collum shrugged, taunting in a voice I didn't like at all. “Aw, poor wee lass has lost her knife. Course, you say you can't stab anyone anyway. So it wouldn't have done you much good. Guess that means you're helpless, then.”

“All right,
all right.
I get it,” I said. “I'll practice with the freaking knife.”

He let go so abruptly, I nearly toppled sideways. “Good. Now—”

As if my hand belonged to someone else, I whipped his own dagger from his belt and cracked him on the side of the head with the wooden hilt.

Collum staggered back, stunned. My nerveless hand dropped the knife to the ground.

Oh crap.

He gaped at me as he reached up to rub at his temple. One side of his mouth twitched. Then, as I stared in complete and utter shock, Collum threw his tawny head back and roared with laughter.

When Collum MacPherson laughed, he did it with his entire body. Heaving and bellowing, he held his sides and just let go. Like his sister's, Collum's laugh drew you in, and soon the two of us were leaning on each other, wheezing and gasping for air.

“That's my girl,” he managed when he could finally speak. “Now, that's what I wanted to see. Looks like there's some spirit behind that wally, whinging facade o' yours after all.”

Before I could decipher his words and decide whether I was insulted or oddly pleased, he clapped me on the back with such enthusiasm, I stumbled forward.

“Good show, Hope.” He nodded, still chuckling. “Good show. Now pick that up and let's go again.”

“T
HEY SAY THE
H
IGHLAND EAGLE MATES FOR LIFE.
”

After days of being trapped by weather, and enduring every kind of time travel lesson imaginable, I'd finally gotten a chance to sneak away. When I arrived at the river to find Bran Cameron waiting for me, I'd tried to play it cool, hide my excitement. But with my cheeks still hot from two hours of stabbing practice and the breathless flight on Ethel's back, I doubted he bought it.

After a long, twisting ride up a mountain path, we'd tied the horses and made our way to the edge of a great drop-off. Legs dangling, we stared out at the green and purple valley that sprawled out before us. In the distance, a lone mountain rose up above Christopher Manor, dwarfing the huge house. I stared, suppressing a shiver as I thought of what lay at its stone heart.

The wind gusted through the valley, driving the pair of enormous eagles higher as they rode the currents, performing an intricate dance.

“They're beautiful,” I said, turning to Bran. “I've never seen eagles before.”

A pulse of quicksilver hit when his gaze dropped to my mouth.

“Yes,” he said. “They bond right out of the nest, you know. And stay by each other's side until one of them dies. The other usually succumbs soon after. Grief, they say.”

I thought of my dad and how much . . . smaller he'd seemed without my mom. He'd withdrawn from everything. Especially me. At least until Stella came along.

Staring at the birds, anger began to bubble inside me.

“But how could they just give up like that?” I shifted, rocks digging into my thighs. “What if the eagles have babies? They just let them die? I mean, sure it's tragic, but kind of selfish, too.”

“I agree. Just because they can't be with the one they love, they wither away and die? Seems like cowardice to me. Sometimes one has to muddle through, even if one isn't happy. Isn't that what life really is? Simple perseverance?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. No matter how bad it gets, you just keep plodding along. Maybe you're numb, but I mean . . . what else can you do?”

“Well”—Bran cleared his throat—“this is titillating conversation. Dead birds. A numb existence. What else can I bring up to liven the moment? Starving children? Crippled puppies?” He tilted his head, examining me through long lashes. “You know, I'd almost given up on you.”

“Chores,” I squeaked. “My aunt . . . She has lots of chores for me.”

He nodded. “Oh. Well, that I quite understand. My mother is the queen of
chores.
”

Sitting on a mountaintop alone with a strange boy should have felt odd. I'd never spent any time alone with a boy, if you didn't count my snot-nosed cousins. My mother thought dating a bigger waste of time than having friends.

Not that the opportunity had ever come up.

Still, I felt strangely comfortable sitting there next to Bran, like we'd known each other for a very long time.

“You know,” I told him, “before I got here, the only thing I knew about Scotland was from crusty old history books. Oh, and from
Braveheart,
of course. My dad loves that movie, though Mom hated it.”

“Oh yes. Most Scots detest it. Makes their national hero look like a bloody outlaw. William Wallace was actually a very educated man. More of a politician than a grimy rebel. No murdered wife, either.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Had a pretty mistress, though. Does that count?”

I scrunched my nose. “Disappointing. The dead-wife story is way more romantic.”

The breeze whipped around us, playing backdrop to the symphony of crying birds and the soprano tinkle of sheep bells in the meadow below. I closed my eyes, letting the peace of it flow around me.

“So,” Bran said, “what kind of duties does an American girl such as yourself perform all day, down there in that big house?”

My serenity flattened.

Oh, not much. Just what any normal sixteen-year-old girl does. Memorize a million books about the twelfth century. Practice speaking with a medieval accent. Learn to stab people.

And then, of course, there's the whole traveling-through-time thing.

On the way up the mountainside, Bran told me he was out of school for the summer, and on holiday with his London-dwelling mother. He hadn't offered anything further. I was okay with that. Of all people, I understood that everyone had their secrets.

“Not much,” I finally said, staring down at the sheep. “This and that. My aunt likes projects. What about you? What does Bran Cameron do when he's not out stalking?”

Twirling a twig of heather between the palms of his fine-boned hands, he huffed. Instead of answering, he said, “And what is your view on knees?”

“Knees.”

“Yes, knees.”

He grinned so wide the crooked eyetooth showed. A glowing warmth started to fill me when I saw that smile.

“Absolutely. On Saturday, you see, there is a festival a couple of villages from here. It's a small event to be sure, but the lads throw huge stones about, and there will be plenty of greasy food. Plus, bonus . . .” He waggled slim eyebrows. “I always wear a kilt to these events and thought it best to ascertain your opinion on knees. Just in case you feel unable to restrain yourself when you see mine.”

Never had a boy asked me to go anywhere with him. Ever. I'd figured this ride would be it. Just his way of paying me back for saving his life. But now, maybe . . . possibly . . . this almost-beautiful boy was actually asking me out. I had no precedent. No idea what one said in this type of situation. So, like the loser-nerd I was, I found myself blurting, “Y-you mean like a date?”

“No, Hope,” he said, tucking back a grin. “I don't mean like a date.”

“Oh.” Disappointment. Embarrassment. By the cartload. “Sorry. I—”

I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand. My skin felt like it was melting as I stared down at the inch of ground between us.

“I don't mean
like
a date,” he said. “I mean exactly a date. You. Me. Greasy food. Knees.”