Page 98 of Dark Victory

And he hated the vengeance.

It served no one now.

The chamber became stunningly still and he felt their presence.

Light was pouring through the chamber’s single window: white, bright, shimmering light. He inhaled. The figures in the light were vague and indistinct, like ghosts. The power was so bright, so holy, so fierce, so majestic, power he had never encountered this closely before, that he was mesmerized. He could not look away, even as the light intensified, hurting his eyes. “She canna die,” he cried.

There was no answer.

His life flashed before his eyes. The massacre at Blayde in 1201—the day that he had lost everyone he loved, the day that had changed his life. The first time he had seen Tabitha, when she had come to him through her spell, an apparition summoning him with her magic to her time. And then he saw the face of every MacDougall he had ever murdered in the name of vengeance.

There was so much regret.

The brilliant white light became blinding.

He could not find the power because the gods were furious with him.

And he was furious with himself. Why had he fought this war for so long? Yes, his father had been betrayed and murdered, and it had been his duty, but he had had more than enough revenge. Had he given up the clan war against the MacDougalls long ago, she would not be dying now. He was certain that Criosaidh’s ghost would not be stalking her so obsessively.

Tabitha was more important than his damned war of vengeance.

“Fine,” he screamed at them. “I will give up my vengeance. Ye have my word. But give me the power to leap!”

And the gods briefly became visible—a handful of powerful immortals, male and female, in long, flowing gowns, all striking in power and beauty. And then they vanished.

The white light faded.

Silence fell.

He jerked his gaze to Tabitha, who remained still and silent on the floor. He could not feel her life now.

Horror consumed him anew. This was how he would feel at An Tùir-Tara….

The floor tilted.

The air moved.

Macleod cried out as he was hurled through the stone ceiling, through the clouds, and past this sun and too many other ones to count.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TABBY SLOWLY BECAME conscious, swimming in pain. Criosaidh had hurt her this time, she managed to think. She had almost died. But as she opened her eyes, warmth began seeping through her entire body. With the warmth, there was so much relief.

“Don’t move, don’t speak, just let me heal you.”

Tabby blinked and saw Allie Monroe kneeling beside her. Her surprise vanished. She was so happy to see her best friend in the entire world. She wanted to hug her and hold her, hard.

“Do not move yet,” Allie murmured. She was a tiny, beautiful dark-haired woman, who was now radiating intense white light. Tabby smiled at her, but Allie was entirely focused.

She had never been this powerful when she had lived in New York. Tabby was stunned by the intensity of her healing power, her pain already easing. As it receded, her recall of the recent attack returned. As excited as she was to see Allie, she instantly thought of Macleod. As Allie hovered over her, pouring her white healing power into her, Tabby started to sit up. But Macleod wasn’t in the room with her. Instead, she saw Royce standing behind them, watching them carefully, his massive arms folded across his powerful chest, that gold cuff glinting.

“Hey, I’m good, but not that good,” Allie said with a cocky smile. “Can you relax and give me another moment?”

Tabby looked at Allie. She realized she was worried, but couldn’t quite pinpoint why. And now she saw that Allie was wearing tight jeans, high-heeled boots and a tiny leather jacket. But of course she was. “Are you a medieval fashionista now?”

Allie grinned. “That would be you—no longer the country-club hostess but lady of the manor! I hate medieval clothes. I refuse to dress like a medieval woman and that is that.”

Tabby was hardly surprised. She glanced at the velvet gown she was wearing, thinking of Macleod. “I love this dress.”