Bound by Dreams

He had made a crossing that night, bound by a dark world with new rules and new enemies.

Now they were coming for him.

Boots hammered on cold rock. Sharp voices cut through the silence. Though the boy in him wanted to flee, the braver heart bade him stay and face what lay before him. So he stood tall and proud when the door opened and a light fell on his bruised body.

His uncle first, always scowling, missing nothing as he raised his light higher. The others muttered as the beam touched Calan’s shoulders, gashed and bloody.

“I’ve come for you, Calan Duthac MacKay of Na h-Eileanan Flannach, son of the Grey Isle. Get yourself dressed and be fast about it. You sail with us tonight.”

Calan dug in his heels and did not move. “Sail where, Uncle?”

Mutters raced through the men behind Calan’s uncle. The boy dared to speak? What ill-born creature stood before them?

His uncle glowered at him. “You question me, when all on this island are sworn to my bidding?”

As if in response, the wind howled outside Calan’s window and the boy heard the snarl of the sea below the hill. He wanted to protest, but the locked faces of those who should have been friend and family cut off all words. He took his sweater, looked at the spartan little room where he had spent nine years, and followed his uncle outside.

Down to the beach, the wind in his face, the spray of salt mingling with the tears he fought to contain. The water was gunmetal, all light swallowed in the hours before dawn.

They pushed him into a boat, and his uncle tossed sand over the bow, murmuring words in the oldest tongue. Only one man protested when his uncle dropped fresh sand on Calan’s shoulders, in a meaning the boy did not understand.

“This is wrong.” It was Kinnon, the older brother of Calan’s best friend. “He’s just a boy. The ordeal was never meant for one his age, Magnus. He’ll ne’er swim so far. We must wait—”

“We?” Calan’s uncle cursed the man, slapping him hard. “There is no we. The choice is made, and he will go.”

There was nothing more to say. All was the True Book and the old laws. Silently the dozen men rowed straight out into the worst of the storm. After that, all Calan remembered was the sea. Almost alive now, rocking and sucking and snarling, pulling at anything on the surface to drag it down beneath its swells. They had taken him out into the worst of it, and all the while his iron-faced uncle told him why, grimly explaining the secrets of the clan and how those secrets were kept hidden at the pain of death.

Closed against all insiders, closed against all change or questioning, the True Book of the clan was clear: since Calan had begun the process of transformation every clan male experienced, he must now be tested as an adult.

They threw him overboard into the biggest swell, and the blast of icy water stole his breath. As the cold seeped in, his vision blurred. Saltwater scoured away his tears.

“You’ll survive,” his uncle had growled from the prow. “If you have the true skill, you’ll survive. Now by all the laws of Clan MacKay, the Old Way of Testing is begun.” Then his uncle turned, washing his hands of the boy who had Turned too young, an anomaly who had to be destroyed before he brought discord to the isolated island.

Calan had lashed out wildly, fighting the waves, but the big boat dipped and turned, vanishing into the storm the way it had come.

Leaving him absolutely alone, fighting to survive.

Somehow he had forced his mind to alertness, and with a brutal logic he realized that only his other, wilder form could save him. He forced the Change, felt the flood of raw strength and the snap of muscles. Driven by a blind urge for survival, he fought on toward the thread of light to the east where the sun had begun to rise.

His strength had given out just before sunset. The rest Calan knew only from those who had found his body. Exhausted and unconscious, he must have changed back on the brink of death.

By a miracle, his pale and frozen form had been discovered by a Swedish supply ship headed south for a delivery.

He had buried his family and his dark past that day. All that remained was the rough urge to survive. No longer a MacKay of the Grey Isle, he had made a new life, never returning to those who had betrayed him so bitterly.

He cursed them all.

CALAN’S HANDS LOCKED at his sides. He remembered the suck of icy water. The weight of his shoes pulling him down, down to the hungry death that was already closing in. With the memories came the old fury.

Only the most wretched of species tossed out their young to die in a rite of passage. Most animals had far too much sense and decency.

But the past was done.

Standing in the sunlight of an English morning, the tall Scotsman forced his body to relax, forced the knot of pain at his shoulders to recede. He was angry that the past could still hurt him, despite all these years.

But he willed the past away as he had done so often since he was a boy of nine. His anger, too, was pushed deep, buried so it could not impede him. He was no longer bound by the rules of the Grey Isle.

He was free, and his power would always be used in the service of those too weak or too young to protect themselves. This promise he had made to himself.

And now his oldest friend needed him.

If the abbey did become a war zone, as Nicholas feared, they would face that danger together and defeat it.

At the door, Calan turned back, glancing down the hall.

The curtains moved gently, casting restless shadows. Time seemed to freeze.

Beware your Changes, Scotsman.

“MY TERMS WERE MADE quite clear, Brigadier. Your team was to start work here in a week, not before,” Nicholas Draycott snapped. “Why this change of schedule?”

Brigadier Allan Martingale shrugged muscular shoulders. “The timetable has been pushed up, Lord Draycott. We’ve had some pings on the radar from half a dozen Baltic extremist groups active in our neck of the woods. The Prime Minister wants everything here at the abbey swept clear before the summit, and my people need security images ASAP.”

“I’ll provide whatever documents you require. But my wife and daughter will be arriving soon.” A lie, Nicholas thought. But with luck it would spur the man’s departure. “I cannot permit any security teams in residence until next week. As we planned,” Draycott added with clipped emphasis.

Irritation flared in the security officer’s eyes. “I need access before that. When my attaché was here last, there were all kinds of security questions. Your backup generator looked out-of-date, too. We’ve got to drag this place into the twenty-first century, even if I have to take down some walls to do it.”

Nicholas had a curt suggestion about where the brigadier could drag himself and what he could do to himself there. But he kept his face expressionless. Diplomacy was supposed to be his strong suit, after all. “Draycott Abbey has withstood civil war, plague and bombardment. I am certain it will be ready for the Balkan economic summit here next month.”

“Your confidence is remarkable, Lord Draycott. But then your type always is confident.” The officer made the word sound dirty. “And then it falls to me and my people to see that nothing goes awry. Rest assured, I will do exactly that, even if it becomes invasive. Wires will go everywhere they need to go.” A warning.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Brigadier. Your efforts should stand us all in good stead when the Croatian, Serbian and Albanian delegates arrive here. But procedure is still procedure. I’m sure you understand that.”

The security officer made a flat sound, then swung around, studying the abbey’s manicured lawns and lush heirloom roses. “I’m surprised you consented to host this summit, Lord Draycott. Your home is a rare piece of English history. William the Conqueror passed over that hill. Some of the greatest artists of our country have worked here under your family’s patronage.”

“That history is always with me, Brigadier. But so is my family’s sense of duty. The delegate from Serbia went to Oxford and we became friends there. Using the abbey was the only way to secure his participation in this summit. He seems to feel this is safe ground.”

“Anyone would enjoy the abbey’s luxuries.” The brigadier turned, watching a small bird soar over the distant moat. “Do you know as a boy, I came here for picnics and hikes up to Lyon’s Leap. After forty years, I still remember those walks. And the legends.” He glanced narrowly at Nicholas. “Your family has had a singular history and not all of it pleasant. Is the house still haunted?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Brigadier. Only in things that I can pinpoint in my government assessments or track in a range finder.”

“My old nanny told me the abbey ghost is said to walk the parapets on moonless nights. And there was a story about thirteen bells, but the details elude me.”

The viscount’s brow rose. “Right now I’m only interested in recent history,” Nicholas said flatly. “Things that might affect our preparations for the summit.”

The brigadier didn’t turn. “But your family history may become very relevant, Lord Draycott. You may have forgotten enemies from your work and arrest in Asia. I believe you were held captive in a place called Bhan Lai for several years.”

Nicholas nodded coldly. This was not a subject he would discuss casually with the brigadier or any other person. And Nicholas didn’t believe his long-finished work in Asia would affect the summit in any way.