Kilty Secrets Read online

  Catriona’s eyes popped open as she dropped the half-finished water. The bottle landed right-side up and shot a tiny geyser against her shins. She made a fist with her liberated right hand, readying for attack.

  Fiona laughed. “Jumpy much?”

  A mass of dark hair and a familiar face stared at Catriona from her living room sofa. Releasing her curled fingers, she felt her fear morph into relief. She dropped her forehead into her hand to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart.

  “You’d be jumpy too,” she mumbled. Catriona looked back at her surprise houseguest. “Why are you here?”

  Fiona’s head tilted. “You sound drunk. Are you drunk?”

  Drunk? Catriona scowled and then remembered she’d wiped out the Parasol Picture’s private plane’s collection of tiny booze bottles trying to soothe her aches and erase the horrors of her trip to Las Vegas.

  Could I be drunk?

  No…

  She didn’t feel drunk. She felt confident she wouldn’t ache as much as she did if she were. She licked her lip and tasted blood.

  Oh right. The football on my face.

  “I wish I was drunk. My lip is swollen.”

  Fiona stood and ran her hands through her mane of ebony hair as she walked forward like a catwalk model, lithe and composed. Catriona looked away, disgusted by her sister’s natural sexy.

  Why did she get all the feminine wiles?

  Fiona drew close, inspecting her sister’s lip. Catriona retracted her own neck to avoid bumping noses with her.

  “Get your face out of my face.”

  Fiona grimaced. “You look like you had an overzealous pre-Oscars Botox touch-up.”

  “Thanks. You’re not exactly Miss America in the morning either.”

  It was a lie. Fiona always looked together. It was nice to see her a little rumpled in the morning. It meant she might be human. A terrible human, but human, nonetheless.

  Catriona glanced down to be reminded her water had landed right-side up.

  Hm. I couldn’t do that again if I tried.

  She stooped to retrieve it, groaning with the effort, and took another swig from the left side of her mouth.

  “Why are you here?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Daddy tried to kill me, remember? Sean thought maybe I’d be safest here.”

  Catriona recalled a fuzzy memory of Fiona arriving the previous evening, panting and frazzled and yapping about how their father had tried to kill her and how she’d… what? Done something to him…

  “Did you stab him?”

  Fiona nodded and pantomimed the action. “In the throat. Pen.”

  “And you think he’s dead?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Never dead. But gone. I hope.”

  Catriona closed her eyes. There were so many things to deal with in the real world. This new reality, where she, Fiona, their father Rune, Sean and Broch were all supposedly some kind of tribe of time travelers really felt like too much to process with what had to be a cracked rib on her right side screaming for attention.

  It might be a four-aspirin day.

  Something Fiona had said earlier bounced back through Catriona’s brain and she cocked her head.

  Sean thought maybe I’d be safest here.

  “Wait. Since when does Sean care what happens to you?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Since he realized we’re all in this together.”

  Catriona rolled her eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Fiona stood and stretched her arms over her head with an exaggerated yawn. She wore a familiar t-shirt and it rose to expose her naked thighs as she reached for the ceiling.

  My t-shirt.

  Fiona motioned to the bedroom. “That moving mountain slept in there with you. You saw him, right? I don’t imagine you could miss him.”

  “I saw him.”

  “Like a Great Dane. I couldn’t have gotten near you if I tried. I got up once to go to the bathroom and I swear I heard him growl.”

  Catriona nodded in Fiona’s direction. “That’s my t-shirt.”

  Fiona scratched at her ribs. “No kidding. Cheap cotton. Itches.”

  “It’s not cheap.”

  “Trust me. It’s cheap.”

  “It’s not cheap—”

  “Guid mornin’.”

  Both women shifted their attention to find Broch standing at the doorway of Catriona’s bedroom, still wearing nothing but his plaid boxers, the scar on his abdomen more visible than usual.

  Fiona made a little whooph noise and Catriona glanced at her. It seemed Broch’s physical charms weren’t wasted on her sister. Fiona might have called him the moving mountain, but right now she looked as if she wanted to wrap herself around him like the snake she was.

  Catriona eyeballed Fiona as she pointed at Broch’s scar. “I don’t think you’ve got a shot with him, considering you almost killed him.”

  Fiona shrugged. “Gives him character. He should thank me.”

  Broch ran his fingers over the scar as he padded into the kitchen. “It itches today.”

  “It’s because of her,” said Catriona as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. “If you spend too much time near her it will start to open again. We have to get her out of here.”

  Fiona clucked her tongue. “Jeeze. I’m right here. I can hear you, you know.”

  “Then take a hint.”

  Broch unscrewed the top of the orange juice and was about to raise the bottle to his lips when both sisters spoke in unison.

  “Glass.”

  Broch lowered the bottle.

  “Richt. Sorry.”

  Broch opened a cabinet to retrieve a glass and Fiona gathered her clothes from the chair beside the sofa. “Can I at least get a shower?”

  Catriona sighed. “Sure.”

  “And while I’m in there, you think about where I’m supposed to go. I think Sean wanted me to stay here with you until we figure out whether or not Dad is dead.”

  “He must have forgotten about how your presence agitates Broch’s wound.”

  Fiona glanced at Broch. “Or maybe he thought the big monkey would be in his own cage.”

  Catriona gently pushed Fiona toward the bedroom, the location of the only bathroom in the small apartment over Parasol Pictures’ payroll office. “You’re about to be out on the street with no shower.”

  “Fine, fine. I’m going.”

  “Dinnae use mah shampoo,” Broch called after her as she disappeared.

  Catriona moved to the kitchen island. “Why has your shampoo migrated to my shower?”

  “Ah didnae wantae lea ye alone with her lest nicht, bit ah wantit a shower, sae ah fetched it fae mah abode.”

  “You couldn’t just use my shampoo for one day?”

  Broch looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Right. Stupid question.” She nodded toward his stomach. “How are you feeling. How fast is that thing opening up?”

  Broch glanced at the angry scar and finished his OJ as if it were a shot of whiskey. “’Tis fine.” He placed his glass on the counter and reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her swollen lip. “Mair importantly, how ye daen?”

  Catriona shivered at his light touch. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep away the rest of the day curled against his body. She considered telling him, but instead, shrugged and smiled as best she could. “I’m sore. I’ll be okay.”

  “Ye shuid gang back tae yer kip.”

  “Too much to do. We have to figure out what to do with Fiona, find out if Rune is actually dead, talk to Sean about whatever happened to him yesterday—”

  “Throw her o’er the hall,” suggested Broch.

  Catriona glanced at her own door, considering the guest apartment across the hall from their apartments. She assumed that’s where Broch thought Fiona should move, and that he wasn’t suggesting they chuck her down the hall—not that she was against that idea.

  “That’s probably still
too close to you.”

  “Nah. It ainlie seems tae itch whin she’s in the identical room. Richt noo it feels fine.”

  He glanced down at his tummy and Catriona did as well, happy for an excuse to stare at his ridiculous six pack a moment longer.

  “Did they have sit-ups in ancient Scotland?”

  “Whit?”

  “Sit-ups. Did you do them?”

  Broch scowled. “Ah dinnae ken whit ye mean?”

  “Nevermind.”

  Broch smiled, his eyes soft, and Catriona could see in his expression he thought of her as a wounded bird.

  “Yer a weirdo, but yer bonny.”

  She laughed and covered her swollen lip with her hand. “I’m not pretty. I look like beef that’s been left out in the sun.”

  “Na. Ah dinnae see a single maggot oan ye.”

  “Ew. It disturbs me maggots came to mind for you.”

  “That’s whit happens whin ye leave oot meat.”

  “I know but—”

  Something rattled at the front door and both their heads swiveled. Catriona took a step toward it.

  “Wait.” Broch came around the island as Catriona peered through the peephole. “Ah said hauld yer horses ye hard-headed wummin.”

  “It’s fine. It’s just the FedEx guy.”

  Broch turned to glance out the window. “’Tis early.”

  Catriona unlocked her door. “Did you just look out the window to see what time it is by the light? There’s a clock on the stove, you know. We need to get you a watch.” She opened the door and bent down to retrieve the thin white package, her ribs throbbing as she moved. She straightened and closed the door behind her as she pulled the tab to open the package. She’d never pulled a tab so slowly. It seemed she’d torn her Package-tab Muscle.

  “Whit is it?” asked Broch.

  “I don’t know. Papers.”

  “Whit kind of papers?”

  Catriona turned over the sheet in her hand and began to read. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks, another ounce for every sentence she scanned.

  “Oh no.”

  “Whit is it?”

  “They can’t be serious.”

  “Whit?” Broch snatched the paper from her hand. She reached to grab it back but he held it over his head and stretching for it made her body ache.

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “Och. Let me read it.”

  Catriona tried one last lunge for the papers and then grimaced, holding her aching ribs. “You can’t. We’ll get it fixed. It isn’t real.”

  Broch moved far enough away so he could read without Catriona interrupting. A moment later he looked up at her, agog.

  “Tis a marriage document?”

  Catriona closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  “This says we’re man and wifie.”

  She nodded. “Apparently, when we stopped in Vegas for our fake wedding, I forgot to emphasize the fake.”

  “Sae we’re married?”

  Catriona had stopped listening, her mind trying to recall every step they’d taken at the little Vegas chapel. “I thought there were too many papers to sign. It should have hit me… ”

  “Ye did it fer me?”

  Catriona heard Broch talking and snapped from of her musing. “What?”

  “Ye did it fer me?” He moved toward her and wrapped his arms around her, careful not to squeeze her bruised flesh, his chin resting on her head.

  He’d been asking to marry her since they’d met. She felt it was ridiculously too soon, and his revenge had been to refuse to sleep with her, even though the sexual tension between them was enough to drive her mad.

  But if we’re married now...

  Hm.

  She pulled back and stared up into his hazel eyes.

  “I guess you won,” she said.

  “Ah ken we both did.”

  Catriona braced herself, certain they were about to throw themselves at each other and unsure how her battered body would take it. Not that she cared. She’d been waiting to climb this particular mountain for—

  “Ew. What are you two doing?”

  Catriona tilted to the left to see past the giant in her arms. Fiona stood at the bedroom doorway wearing the previous night’s clothing, fluffing her damp hair with her fingers. Her lip curled with what looked like disgust.

  Nice timing, Sis.

  Broch mumbled in her ear. “We hae tae get rid of her.”

  Catriona nodded.

  “Yep.”

  Chapter Four

  Rune’s tongue touched something dry and granular. Pulling back his neck, he spat and raised himself to his elbows. Dirt rained from the side of his head.

  Where am I?

  He felt weak and suffered a bout of dizziness as he shifted into a sitting position. Brushing his cheek, he chewed his tongue, summoning as much saliva as he could muster to swish the grains of sand crunching between his teeth. A pain throbbed where his shoulder met his neck.

  He raised a hand to the ache and dabbed at the area with his fingertips.

  It felt sticky.

  Rune glanced at his fingers and found them dark with blood.

  Fiona.

  The memory of his wound’s origin swirled into his mind’s eye like a desert mirage.

  My daughter stabbed me in the neck.

  He knew the wound would never fully heal. Fiona was a fellow traveler like himself, and while wounds inflicted by average humans disappeared from his skin’s long-term story, those donated by fellow travelers never healed entirely. He stared at the metal arm attached to his right shoulder.

  Case in point.

  Ryft had taken his arm.

  What did they call that bastard in this time period? Not Ryft...

  Sean.

  Rune fingered the lumpy scar where Fiona had buried her pen. He suspected she’d nicked his jugular. There was too much blood on his shirt and in the dirt where he’d lain.

  Had she tried to kill him on purpose? He’d assumed she’d just been scared and lashed out but...

  No. She wouldn’t try to kill him, would she?

  Maybe.

  Why had she felt so threatened by her own father? She had to know she’d always been his favorite. They’d been so close, once.

  Hadn’t they?

  Rune shook his head. His memory wasn’t what it used to be. Sometimes he remembered too little. Other times it felt as if he were remembering everything at once. Living everything at once.

  He knew he was lucky to still be alive. How had he survived?

  A crunchy noise reached his ears, like something sliding across the red gravel around him. Rune turned, careful not to tug the skin near his barely-healed stab wound.

  He saw a shoe.

  No, two shoes.

  Two gray-soled athletic shoes sat propped on the ground behind him, balancing on their toes.

  How could that be?

  One moved.

  Ah.

  There were feet in them. Someone lay on their belly, fifteen feet from his position. One shoe slid away from him, pulled by the leg to which it was attached. The knee of that leg dug into the sand, propelling the body forward, the other leg dragging, still straight.

  He heard cars nearby.

  I’m still in Los Angeles.

  He closed his eyes.

  I hate this hellhole.

  He’d never been a desert person. Why Fiona had chosen this place to wait for him he’d never understand. Perhaps drawn by whatever had drawn Ryft. Maybe drawn by Ryft himself.

  His mind began to drift to his goal, his quest, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  I used to have a purpose, didn’t I?

  He shook his head to refocus and winced at the pain in his neck.

  Think.

  He needed to concentrate on his current situation. Maybe he could start on where he was. Not the year, not the country or the city, but the very plot of blood-soaked sand on which he now sat.

  Where am I?

  Rune s
canned the landscape again, finding only more dirt, scrub brush and discarded trash.

  He decided he’d collapsed in an abandoned lot.

  Sand scraped behind him.

  Right. The guy with the shoes was still trying to crawl away from him. He could hear him breathing. Wheezing, really.

  Rune had collapsed, but not before wrestling the owner of those shoes into the lot with him.

  He stood and brushed the dust from his pants with his good arm.

  The man on the ground looked over his shoulder, his face twisting with panic.

  “Get away from me,” the man croaked, clawing at the ground, trying once again to make headway in his quest to leave the lot and Rune far behind.

  Rune took a step toward him. Though his dark, thick hair and broad nose implied Hispanic descent, the man’s skin seemed pale, almost gray. His eyes sat dull and sunken in his skull.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I can’t do that.” Rune reached down to press his hand against his victim’s flesh. The man had very little life left. It was a miracle he’d regained consciousness, and doubly so he’d been able to drag himself a few feet away. Rune knew the man’s missing vitality was what had healed his own wound. It was the only reason he hadn’t been sent spinning through time and more than likely reborn, his wound too grievous to heal. He would have had to start from scratch.

  Rune closed his eyes and siphoned the man’s remaining life force. He felt the heat beneath his palm flooding into his veins. The man made a squeaking noise, one last attempt to protest his fate, before his bodily shell collapsed to ash, mingling with the desert landscape...gray-soled sneakers and all.

  A warm eddy of air swirled the man’s ashes and sent them dancing much farther away than he would have ever crawled on his own. Rune laughed at the irony.

  He stretched his neck and felt the wound.

  Better.

  Not fully healed, but better.

  Good enough.

  Rune straightened and his head swam. He reached out to steady himself but found nothing to grab. Dropping to one knee, he took a moment to collect himself.

  Maybe one more…

  He pushed himself to his feet once again and moved his lanky frame toward a metal fence. Beyond it was the street. He had a flash of himself stumbling down that street, his hand desperately trying to hold back the blood spilling from his throat. He saw the man. He fell on him. Draining him. Dragging him through the hole in the fence he now used to exit the field.