Page 65 of Dark Victory

“Why?” Tabby asked with some dread.

“I dinna ken, but the consequences are dire—or so I have been told.”

Tabby looked at the pendant in her palm. The moonstone was flat and lifeless. “This has lost its power. It had magic, Macleod, but it’s gone.”

He had heard her but he didn’t respond. He reached into the open chest and, to Tabby’s shock, produced the identical pendant. Even though he held it, she instantly felt its warmth and power, its protective magic. The entire talisman glowed. She looked more closely; the moonstone was as bright and alive as a star.

Suddenly she cried out, dropping the pendant she held. It had become so cold it had burned her hand. Incredulous, she looked at the patch of frostbite on her palm. Then she saw the pendant on the stone floor, turning into white-gold dust…and it was gone.

Macleod seized her hand. “Ye’ll be fine. A wrapped rag with loch water will take the chill from yer hand.”

“That was pure physics. One object cannot be in two different places at the same time.”

He said, “Take my mother’s amulet, Tabitha. I want ye to have it.”

Tabby went still. “What?”

“Elasaid was a priestess an’ a Healer. She had great white power—like ye do. She dinna cast spells, but her power an’ faith made the Innocent strong. My father used to tell her she’d be lost without the amulet. She dinna deny it.” Suddenly his face hardened and he looked away from her.

Tabby felt a surge of grief coming from him but as suddenly as she had felt it, it was gone. She touched his bare arm. He still had pain deep within him, even ninety-seven years after the murders of his family, and that anguish had to be faced and released. Suddenly she wanted to help him, comfort him, as urgently and passionately as she had when she’d first glimpsed him at the Met. It felt like the most important thing in her life.

She was shocked by the powerful feeling.

“What happened to Elasaid, Macleod?” she asked softly.

He said, “Ye dinna ken? I have the amulet…she is lost.”

Tabby started. He pulled away from her. He spoke dispassionately now, the way a curator might recite facts to a museum audience. “She died in a fire here at Blayde, an’ her body was never found.”

“I am so sorry,” Tabby whispered. Suddenly she wondered if she’d been unfair to him from the first moment they’d met in her loft. She’d been judging him and condemning him incessantly. He was a product of his times, but he was a good man and he had suffered terribly in his life—and more suffering was to come.

“I want ye to have the pendant.”

Their gazes locked. What did such a gesture mean? She could not fathom why he’d give her a family heirloom, especially a magical one. She did not delude herself by thinking that it had anything to do with their personal relationship. “Macleod, why? Why give it to me?”

“’Twill keep ye safe. It has power, Tabitha, power ye should have. An’ with the pendant, ye’ll never be lost.”

Tabby shook her head. “I can’t take it, Macleod. It’s all you have left of her.”

His face darkened. “Tabitha, I dinna think ye ken how grave the attack was.”

She didn’t like the sound of it. “No, I do. She almost broke my back.”

He said softly, “She dinna wait fer the night.”

THE GREAT HALL WAS FILLED with Macleod’s men and their women, the evening meal concluding. Voices were raised in mild debate, laughter, song and conversation. The hounds had been let in and they were scrounging for leftovers, but they were big, beautiful dogs, and they only added to the unusual warmth of the medieval scene. Tabby sat alone at the table, near its head, where Macleod had been seated while they were eating. She had been starving, but she’d eaten rapidly and mindlessly, too upset to enjoy the wild salmon.

She was exhausted. She was worried about Sam, and about what was going to happen later that night—and she was not thinking about sex, she was thinking about evil. At least it couldn’t get into the bedchamber, even if it could slam a shutter and keep the door closed.

Demons only came out to rape, murder and maim at night. But this vanquished demonic spirit had attacked her in broad daylight.

She felt sick. Okay, she was afraid. That thing could appear at any moment, at any time, in the broad light of day. She would have to be on guard now all the time—there was no respite.

Tabby was sipping red wine and staring at Macleod. She couldn’t help herself. He had turned into her anchor, in a way. If she had to be back in the past, in this kind of predicament, then she was sort of glad he was with her. It was sure better than being alone when the thing came back.

Macleod stood before the fire with several of his men, and firelight emphasized his sculpted features and impossibly muscular body. He’d changed his clothes and was dressed in his leine and his red-and-black plaid—which she had learned was called a brat—and he had come to dinner fully armed. But he was smiling and pleasantly relaxed, a mug of ale in his hand, apparently enjoying being with his friends. It was as if an evil ghost hadn’t just assaulted her inside his home—or assaulted them last night in her New York City loft.

Would any battle of any kind ever unsettle him? Tabby didn’t think so.