Page 92 of Dark Victory

He spoke harshly. “She has to be the woman who dies in that fire, Tabitha. ’Tis when she becomes a ghost. Ye dinna die there—she dies there.”

He was distressed and not trying to hide it. “She is associated with that fire and that is all I am sure of. If the fire did result from a war of witches, maybe it was me and Kristin.” Tabby didn’t think so. “Maybe she dies afterward.” Meaning that Tabby had died first. Macleod made a hard sound. Tabby tried to sound casual. “Maybe she hates me so much that her ghost takes up the war where we left off.” That was a dismal thought.

He stared at her. Tabby felt his mind racing.

“I hate not being able to read your mind!” she cried.

“This needs to end now. I will go to Melvaig.”

She inhaled. “To kill her?”

He smiled coldly. “It’s long overdue.”

“Do you even have the power?” Tabby’s worry escalated wildly. “And what is that going to accomplish? Her ghost will be born in the thirteenth century, instead of at An Tùir-Tara?” She realized what murdering Criosaidh would do—it would change a future historical event if she died now. She would not be at An Tùir-Tara in 1550. “This isn’t a good idea! We can’t mess around with history and you know it.”

He was thoughtful now.

“Macleod…how powerful is she?”

“I dinna ken.”

That was not the answer she had wanted. “If you go, I am going with you! And what if you fail? What if you can’t destroy her?” Tabby thought that a likely possibility.

“I need the power to leap,” he said softly, more to himself than to her.

And Tabby knew what he meant. “To do what? To leap to Melvaig to go after her? And when that doesn’t work, to go to An Tùir-Tara to protect me? To make certain she dies, in one time or another?”

“Damn the gods,” he said softly, his eyes blazing.

“That will hardly help! And changing the future is as bad an idea as changing history!”

“I willna let ye die! I will get the power, if I have to beg fer it or steal it!”

The gods were already angry with him. They’d be furious if he went to Melvaig now to interfere in their handiwork—and just as furious if he went to 1550 to intervene in An Tùir-Tara. “Changing Fate is not allowed!”

“Do ye think I care?” he raged.

“If I am meant to die there, it’s over, Macleod!”

“I willna let ye die—not now, an’ not at An Tùir-Tara,” he said. “An’ if the gods dinna like that, to hell with them all.”

MACLEOD WAS DOWNSTAIRS in the hall, brooding over wine. Tabby hoped he wasn’t trying to bargain with the gods for the power to leap.

Tabby couldn’t sleep either. They’d just made love again—frantically, as if their time was running out. She lay in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. She was going to have to admit it. She was scared.

She was afraid to die in that fire and she was afraid for Macleod, too.

It was so much easier worrying about him. He was so reckless, so arrogant—so defiant! He wanted to change Fate and she had to stop him. She couldn’t imagine what his Fate would be if he dared to make that attempt, either at Melvaig now or at An Tùir-Tara.

Harmless shadows drifted across the ceiling. Outside, wolves howled and the moon was high and full. She tossed and turned restlessly. It felt as if they were in over their heads, with no way out. But Macleod was becoming reasonable. He was considering releasing Coinneach to ease tensions. Maybe she could convince him to go along with her plan to lure the ghost to Melvaig. The only problem was that the plan scared her a lot. But his idea of hunting Criosaidh was even worse.

The shutters scraped the wall. Tabby’s tension soared but it wasn’t Criosaidh, it was the wind. Either plan would be worth it if they vanquished her damned ghost in the process. But destroying her ghost wouldn’t necessarily change An Tùir-Tara. Getting rid of that spirit would buy them some time…maybe. Macleod’s plan to simply kill Criosaidh and prevent her from ever being at An Tùir-Tara could save Tabby’s life—if she was the witch Tabby would fight there. And Tabby was certain that she was, although she wished she had doubts.

She closed her eyes and felt hot tears. Tabby realized she wanted time with Macleod. Wanting two-and-a-half centuries was absurd—she didn’t think she had that kind of life span—but she wanted time to really get to know him, to talk to him, spend time doing all kinds of silly things like ice skating and picnics and pizza while watching John Wayne movies.

She felt like crying now. Macleod wasn’t going to go ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza, but he might like a John Wayne movie and he’d love pizza—except he belonged at Blayde and she did not. Her heart thundered, trying to tell her something. “Not now,” she whispered.

They were in trouble—or, she was in trouble, and a few things were clear. Getting rid of the ghost was a great idea and freeing Coinneach wasn’t a bad one. But she had to stop Macleod from going to either Melvaig or An Tùir-Tara. Not allowing him to interfere in history was the biggest priority of all. Even if it meant she would die.