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ChapterOne
I am the Destroyer.
Yeah. Right.
The only thing I’ve been destroying is this mound of empty coffee cups and my sleep. It’s been a month. A long, interminable month since Dugald appeared, banishing any possibility that my experience in Scotland was a dream. A month and nothing.
“Duncan,” I exhale.
Leaning my elbows onto the desk, I rub my face until it almost hurts. I’m so tired. I should try to sleep. Shaking my head, I close my laptop and stand, turning and taking the few steps to my bed. On impulse I pull the curtain aside and look out at the courtyard.
Empty. Of course.
“You could help, Dugald,” I mutter.
I climb into bed, pull the covers up to my neck, and close my eyes. The scent of fresh heather and peat fills my nose. I breathe deep and feel the warmth of the Highland sun warming my skin. Sheep bleat and cows mewl. The stench of burning dung weaves its way through the pleasant odors. It’s so close.
“Quinn!” Duncan screams.
I jerk straight up, choking on my tears. Gasping I knot the blankets in my hands, twisting them tight. My heart pounds, my head throbs, and the room absurdly sways.
“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”
I mutter over and over until at last my breathing slows and the room finds its anchors, stopping its insane rocking. My hands hurt. Looking down at them, I have to will them to let go of the blankets and ease my death grip.
Death grip. What a concept.
I swing my legs off the bed and my feet touch the cold tile of the floor. More coffee. That’s the answer. More coffee.
Reluctantly, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Bloodred numbers taunt, wavering oh so slightly as they tease. Three a.m. Well, that’s better at least. I slept close to two hours before the nightmares woke me up. It’s a record.
I sift through the paper cups littering my desk until I find one that looks the least gross then slip out of my dorm. Walking on tiptoes I creep down the hall to the bathroom and fill the cup with water.
As I return, one of the maple doors rattles and I rush past, not wanting to see anyone. Too many awkward conversations happen at three a.m., either because the person is drunk or worse, they’re not. Most of the people in my dorm, at this time, seem to be looking for something I can’t give them. I’m not sure what it is they want, but these awkward encounters have happened enough for me to know I don’t have it.
Behind me the air pressure changes as a door opens. I’m so close to my own door. A sudden panic grips me and I rush ahead half-blind and half-crazy. I grab my doorknob at the same time I hear the person behind me take a breath. I push through the door and catch a glimpse of a sleepy-eyed, messy haired brunette as I quickly close the door.
My sleep-deprived thoughts are filled with the dangers of a world I’m no longer in. Maybe I never was. In the middle of the night doubts assail my certainty. A month without any sign of Dugald. No hints of Fae, magic, or power of any kind but the mundane. Two months since I returned from Scotland and everything is the same, but less.
Maybe it was all a dream. I’ve achieved a level of exhaustion where I’m pretty sure I micro-nap my way through most days. The world around me isn’t quite real. A little off. Like I’m trapped in a dream or maybe I’m not here. Or drugs. Maybe I was drugged.
I rest my head against the cool faux wood of the door, breathing much heavier than I should be, and only now realize I spilled some of the water on my shirt, which is clinging to my warm skin. Damn it.
I pull myself together and put the remaining water into the tiny pink Keurig, then pop in a Death Wish k-pod. Reusing the cup I got the water with, I hit the button and cross my arms while I wait. This calls attention to my wet shirt. I rip it over my head, bundle it, then toss it onto the pile of clothes I need to wash.
Pulling open my dresser, I dig through the crumpled clothes, rummaging for something comfortable to wear. I finally pull out a T-shirt that has Scottish fairies on it. I hold it up and shake my head.
“That’s all wrong,” I mutter, knowing full well now that fairies are nothing like the delightful sprites depicted on the shirt.
The Keurig makes its final sputter and beeps. I grab my coffee and sit at my desk. I grab my tattered copy ofRenfrew and Bahn’s Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice, flipping to where I’d left off. Propping my feet up on the desk, coffee in one hand and the book in my lap, I force myself to read.
Or at least I try. I can’t keep my attention on the book. The words shift around on the page and then my chin bounces off my chest. Closing the book, I put my feet back on the ground, lean forward, and rub my face.
“This is nuts,” I grumble. “Okay, Quinn. What haven’t you tried?”
Scooting up to the desk, I open the laptop and a browser. I search for every variation of MacGregor I can think of, again. Every link is marked purple, showing I’ve visited every possible site. I didn’t think it was possible to exhaust the internet, but I have. I’ve even signed up for two different genealogy sites but it’s not done any good.
“Duncan,” I sigh, closing the computer again.
