Wild about the Witch (6 page)

They paused while he took a long drink from his canteen, begrudgingly offering her the dregs.

“That’s it?” she asked, positive she was stepping over a line, but unable to drop it. “This is all just a sad, abandoned son story?”

He laughed as if she’d told a hilarious joke. “Oh my dear,” he said, his laughter stopping as abruptly as slamming a door. “I see how you view me.” He waved off her attempt to deny it, his eyes completely void of any recognizable emotion. “But trust me when I say you never want to meet my father.”

She watched his back as he ducked under some low hanging branches, all desire to taunt him drained from her. Unnerved, she tried to change the subject.

“So, er, the portals. There’s one around here? Or do we have to go back to London?”

“There’s one in the village, beyond the river.” He made a long, irritated sound. “I hate that village in this time,” he whined. “But it’s there. I’ll deal with it.”

He went back to ignoring her and chattering to himself. They took a circuitous route behind the castle, ending up looking down at it from a hill near the forest. There was just a smattering of trees where they stood high above everything, but she could see it quickly became dense, and from their vantage point, it covered the land in a vast, dark green blanket.

“Look,” he said, pointing.

Two horsemen entered the woods down the hill. Quinn and Oliver, so close. The wind blew toward her and she knew if she hollered, they’d never hear. She wanted to gallop after them, but instead followed Wodge into the woods.

She could barely stay in her saddle, they were so close to Quinn, and her eyes darted left and right at the trees and underbrush. Perhaps she had enough left in her to fling herself from the horse and escape into the shadowy forest, scream her lungs out for Quinn. She could bob and weave to avoid getting shot, like they did in movies.

She leaned over the saddle, as if her body wanted her brain to get it together already and jump, and Wodge pulled up beside her, grabbing her reins away. He held his finger to his lips and pointed. He hadn’t read her mind at all, she realized with a jolt. He just wanted her to stop riding.

Quinn and Oliver were only a hundred yards away in a clearing. She squinted through the dusk light and couldn’t stop the yearning sound that escaped her lips when she saw Quinn’s tall, strong form wrapped in his dark red plaid. Oliver also wore a kilt and looked like he was doing his best to keep up. So close, but she’d never make it to them.

“Quiet,” Wodge warned, helping her dismount. The feel of his hands at her sides made her skin crawl. “Mind your feet,” he said, nodding to the twigs that might make a snapping noise if they stepped on them.

She stood frozen, gripping a tree to keep herself from bolting in a panic. She noticed Wodge had his gun in his hand. Why did he have his gun in his hand? She knew nothing about the modern day weapon Wodge must have stolen on one of his trips through time. Could it reach its target at this distance?

“I’ve got you, witches,” he hissed, taking her hand and slowly guiding her closer to the clearing.

Run, she told herself. Scream. Anything to stop this madman from killing two innocent people. And then herself.

They stopped behind a huge, decaying fallen tree and she turned from Wodge’s satisfied face to the clearing. They were now close enough to see clearly and her arms ached to wrap themselves around Quinn’s broad shoulders. If only things had been different. She had so much regret.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked, barely a whisper.

She peeked over the log and to her dismay saw Quinn and Oliver sitting across from one another in a cleared circle. Quinn shook some dried herbs from a vial and crumpled them between his palms, referring to a paper he had next to him, and pointing things out to Oliver as he scattered the herbs on the ground between them. Her eyes widened with shock as they took turns cutting their fingers and shaking blood onto the herbs. Quinn said some words, a chant of some sort, in a clear, self-conscious voice. It did look remarkably like witchcraft. Perhaps Wodge wasn’t as mad as she thought.

“We need to get closer,” he said. “Close enough and we’ll go through when they do.” He glanced down at her gleefully. “Oh, what a day this is. They’re sure to be meeting others. I can take care of them all in one go.”

No, he was madder than she thought. Her arms and legs shook as he pushed her carefully forward. She stepped on a twig, but Quinn and Oliver were so wrapped up in their spell, they didn’t notice. Quinn stopped his chant and reached over and nudged Oliver. A moment later they both began to sing, two different songs, but they looked equally embarrassed.

“Now!” Wodge shoved her into the clearing.

She swore the air around her shimmered, as if they were really about to be taken somewhere, some time else. They’d be disoriented when they arrived, just as she’d been when she came through at Belmary House. Everyone except Wodge, who was used to it, and who planned to kill them instantly.

“Quinn, stop,” she shrieked.

Wodge jerked her shoulder and slammed the gun into her back. She caught a glimpse of his shocked face. The lunatic had actually believed she would help him. Quinn and Oliver stopped singing. While Oliver remained sitting in the clearing, stunned and uncertain, Quinn was on his feet in a blink.

“Don’t move,” Wodge shouted, pressing the gun painfully into her ribs. “I’ll kill her, then I’ll kill you. Just sit back down and resume what you were doing.”

She couldn’t look away from Quinn’s face and tried to read the thoughts and emotions that passed across it in the moment since she’d yelled his name. His eyes were locked on hers, flitting over her face, which she knew had to be a bruised mess.

“Did he do that to ye?” he growled, taking a step forward.

She closed her eyes and held her breath, wondering if she’d hear the gun go off, or feel the bullet tear through her first. It struck her suddenly that Quinn still cared about her. Why would he seem so angry about her bruises if he didn’t? She opened her eyes and tried for a brave smile.

“Settle down,” Wodge told Quinn, holding up the gun so he could see it. Quinn’s eyes widened, but he didn’t step back.

Without the cold metal pressing into her back, Lizzie was able to act, if not think. She swiveled to the side and flung her arm out, hitting Wodge’s wrist and knocking the gun to the ground. With a roar of rage, he shoved her aside and dove for it. Quinn leapt forward as she fell onto her back and she was close enough to Wodge to kick him, though he didn’t seem to notice as he grappled for the gun.

As his hand wrapped around the gun, Quinn reached him and drew him up by his jacket collar, and in the same graceful, glorious movement, hauled back his arm and pounded Wodge in the face with his huge fist. Wodge’s head snapped back and Lizzie opened her mouth to squeal with happiness to be free, when a louder sound than Quinn’s fist hitting face bones reverberated through the quiet forest.

It was like a movie, just like a movie, as everything happened in slow motion for a second. She watched Wodge and Quinn fall to the ground, heard the gunshot continue to echo over and over, saw Oliver standing up as if he was under water, his mouth opening into a shout. Quinn, lying on the ground, a red stain rapidly growing on his shoulder, his eyes closed.

“No, no, no.”  This wasn’t what happened, this wasn’t happening, she told herself frantically.

She dragged herself across the dirt to Quinn’s side, giving the unconscious, hopefully dead Wodge another kick as she passed. Oliver peeled off his jacket and pressed it to Quinn’s wound. She looked into Oliver’s eyes and saw they were blank with fear. He acted on instinct, and didn’t know what to do anymore than she did.

“You need to finish it,” she said, pointing to the circle. She tried to pull Quinn closer to it but it was impossible to budge him. “Bring it all over here,” she ordered shrilly, jumping up to drag the much lighter Wodge further away. She rolled him to the other side of the fallen tree and by the time she returned, Oliver had everything set up.

“You must cut yourself,” he said apologetically, holding out a small knife.

With an impatient groan, she grabbed it from him and slashed her finger, shaking a few drops of blood onto the herbs. She got Quinn’s head in her lap and wrapped her arms around his chest, making sure not to dislodge the jacket from his still bleeding wound.

“Oliver, do it,” she cried, pressing her face into Quinn’s hair.

She was terrified Wodge would wake up, and looked around for the gun, wondering if she should just finish him. Oliver held up the instructions and shakily read the strange incantation. He cut his own finger again, then with a grimace, pulled the soaked edge of the jacket from Quinn’s shoulder and shook some of Quinn’s blood over the leaves.

“We have to sing,” he said, grabbing her arm. His voice cracked as he began something she didn’t recognize.

Clutching Quinn tighter, she saw the log move as if Wodge was trying to pull himself up. She screamed, unable to think of a single verse to any song, then everything went quiet and black.

Sunlight shone through the tree branches, blinding the eye Lizzie cracked open. The air was markedly cooler and she rolled onto her side to see Oliver on his hands and knees, retching. She sat up fast enough to make her head spin and her vision blink out for a moment, but she dug her fingers into the ground until the dizziness passed.

“Quinn?”

She scrabbled in a circle until she saw him, sprawled a few feet away. The jacket had dislodged from his shoulder, revealing a large red stain on his shirt. Once at his side, she pressed her fingers against his throat until she found his pulse, and sighed with relief. He opened his eyes and groaned.

“What happened?” he asked.

It all came rushing back and fresh fear prickled all over her body as she scanned the area for Wodge. The big downed tree was gone. Shrubs and saplings grew all around the clearing, and there was no sign of him.

“You got shot,” she told him, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Oliver did the spell and … something happened.”

She got up and after a moment to find her balance, ran around the perimeter, poking under bushes and kicking at leaves to make sure Wodge hadn’t come with them. There was no sign of him, and the horses they’d ridden in on were nowhere to be seen either.

“Did it work?” Oliver asked weakly, crawling over and inspecting Quinn’s wound.

Quinn swore and closed his eyes as Oliver prodded at him. Lizzie dropped down next to him and took his unresponsive hand. Before she could yelp with fear, Oliver held up his hand.

“He’s just passed out from the pain. Look, the ball’s still in.” He swallowed, looking like he might be ill again. “I think it hit the bone. He’ll need more help than we can give him.”

“I’ll go to the castle,” she said, noticing Oliver’s face for the first time. “Dear God, did he actually break your nose?”

Oliver blushed. “Yes,” he said shortly. He nodded his head in the direction of the castle. “Do you think we’re in the right time?”

She stood up, feeling less confident than a second before when she volunteered to go for help. “Well, we’re in
some
 time,” she said. “Someone will be there, right?”

“He told me the Fergusons and Glens were never that friendly.”

“Then we won’t tell them who he is,” she snapped, heading away.

She was as scared as Oliver, but they couldn’t sit around hoping for the best. Not with Quinn bleeding freely all over the forest floor. Nausea hit her and she rushed back. Ignoring Oliver’s questioning look, she knelt beside Quinn and kissed his forehead, then his lips.

His eyes opened again, unfocused and dark with pain. “Lizzie,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered, leaning close to hear his strained voice.

“Find Catie and make it right, aye?” His eyes drifted shut and she turned to Oliver to see if he’d heard.

Her cheeks burned with shame, even though he hadn’t said the words in a judgemental manner, she felt the weight of her guilt, even somehow feeling responsible for his being shot. She should have found a way to stop Wodge. She shoved back up to her feet and took off, determined to end this nightmare. “I’ll be back straight away with help,” she tossed over her shoulder to Oliver.

It was rough going, winding through the trees and jumping over rocks and logs. She got hit in the face with low hanging branches the second she looked down at her feet, and tripped over something if she kept her eyes up. An eternity seemed to pass and she worried she’d veered off track when the trees finally thinned out and she saw the castle in the distance.

At the edge of the forest, she leaned over, gasping for breath. She’d run flat out for at least a half hour and still had to go down one hill and up another to reach the castle’s back courtyard. Even from this distance she could make out people milling around, tiny dots that signified help for Quinn.

Lifting her skirts, she tore forward with renewed energy. After everything, she couldn’t let Quinn die. Of all the self-pitying scenarios she’d played in her head while traveling with Wodge, Quinn getting hurt had never factored into any of them. It was beyond anything she could imagine, losing him so completely.

She slowed down on the way to the courtyard, seeing with dismay that the people were all still wearing eighteenth century clothes. If they’d gone forward at all, it wasn’t far. She shuddered to think they might have gone backwards. She stopped at a low stone wall surrounding a small fruit orchard and tried to decide what to do. Run in yelling for help, or pick out one person and ask discreetly?