Chapter Two

"W here do ye want me to put these?" Callum asked, lifting the box of dusty pamphlets with a grunt.

His supervisor, Thelma, tore her gaze from the table she'd been fussing over all day to look at him from across the room. "Ye can place those down in the basement for the night. Everything is looking great in here. I know ye are anxious to join the festivities tonight, but I'm just so nervous about tomorrow!"

Callum shifted the box in his arms and smiled at the older woman, whose gray hair frizzed around her reddened face. "Everything will be just fine, Thelma. Murielle and Samuel have been here for book signings before. It gets packed, but we have enough books to sell. Once these pamphlets are out of the way, I think everything will be ready."

Thelma nodded and took a deep breath. "Ye are right, lad. It's just that their work has truly inspired this village. They are celebrities! Everything must be perfect." She tittered to herself as she shifted a stack of books toward the center of the signing table, stepped back, cocked her head to the left, then moved them back where they had been.

Callum had become close friends with Murielle and Samuel, the couple who had discovered an ancient book about Pictish life in the caves just below their shores. Before that discovery, little was known about the people whose ruins now rested beneath Burghead's paved roads. This visitor center stood upon the ancient hillfort's ruins. He valued Murielle and Samuel's work as much as the next person, but he knew they'd never fuss because a stack of books wasn't perfectly centered on the table.

Thelma's phone buzzed in her pocket, and frowning, she slipped her readers on and squinted at her screen. "Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no…"

Callum watched as Thelma's face blanched, and she leaned against the table, knocking her perfect stack askew. "Is everything okay?" Had Sam and Murielle canceled their signing tomorrow? He couldn't figure out what else could make his boss turn as white as a ghost.

"I wish it was something so trivial. Ye ken how I told ye my great-niece from San Francisco moved here to start at university?"

Callum creased his brow and nodded. Thelma had talked his ear off about her "beautiful" great-niece she hoped to set him up with soon. Their family had been in or around Burghead as long as his, but her sister's family had moved to California two decades ago when Sophia was a baby.

"I… she… I need to go." Thelma grabbed her purse from the counter and ran toward the door, talking as she moved. "She is in hospital. A damned drunk driver plowed into her and ran her off the road. She… well, the text I received from Sophia's mother said I needed to hurry. It doesnae look good. Once that last box is stored away, just lock up behind ye, aye?" Thelma's voice shook, and she didn't wait for him to speak before heading out the door.

Callum stood as still as a statue for a few moments as he processed what had just occurred. His heart ached for Thelma. Having no children of her own, it had seemed that her great-niece, Sophia, was like a daughter to Thelma. He silently prayed that Sophia would pull through whatever injuries she'd sustained as he walked toward the stairs leading down to the basement.

As he carefully traversed the stairs, Callum recalled his first meeting with Murielle when she had visited the Burghead Visitor Centre and appeared quite distressed. Callum had called Samuel to pick her up, but before Sam had arrived, Callum had learned that Murielle was not from this time. She had lived in the year 686, right here in this village.

It was rumored that the caves along the Moray coast held ancient secrets and served as a portal between times, but Callum had never believed such nonsense—until he met Murielle. Now, the scared and lonely Pictish Princess he had met last year had embraced her place in this time with her new husband, Samuel, a professor of archaeology and a man from this time.

Though Callum was excited to see them again tomorrow, he was anxious to lock up the visitor center for the night and join his village in their annual Samhain fire festival. Reaching the basement, Callum carefully placed the box onto the last step and pulled his keys from his jeans pocket to unlock the spring-loaded basement door. When the keys became jammed in the old lock as they sometimes did, Callum jiggled them futilely before giving up and using a nearby stool to prop the door open. He'd have to remind Thelma to change this lock again, though he'd reminded her many times already. Grabbing the box from the step, Callum walked into the musty room. He crinkled his nose, always put off by the damp smell that permeated the walls.

A stack of boxes littered an old folding table in the corner, and Callum plopped the pamphlets atop the others. They'd all need to be set out again once the signing was over, so he made a mental note to keep everything in one place for easy retrieval.

When an earthy-herbal scent suddenly overpowered the usual musk, Callum sniffed the air and looked around the room for its source. It wasn't the first time the distinct scent had caught his attention in the basement, but he'd yet to find the source. Though it was similar to sage and wholly more pleasant than the smell of what he suspected was mold, Callum was a man who preferred not to ignore odd things but to seek answers.

Bending over, Callum opened a box that appeared to have been forgotten beneath the table for long enough to gather a thick layer of dust. Torn books and old office supplies filled the box, but there was nothing that would produce such a scent.

"Och, ye do have a nice arse, Callum."

With a startled yelp, Callum smacked the back of his head on the table as he attempted to jolt upright. Then he spun around, looking around the dark room, wincing as he held his head with one hand as he scrambled to pull the string hanging from the mounted light overhead. When the light flickered to life, Callum looked around the room, finding himself alone.

"Who said that?" he whispered, looking beneath the table again.

A disembodied gasp echoed off the walls, like a startled woman, though he saw nothing. "Hello?" He wouldn't be surprised if the visitor center was haunted, for it quite literally rested on the remains of the old Pictish hillfort where Murielle's brother once ruled over many centuries ago. Still, he'd never seen or heard anything while down here.

And certainly, never anything that complimented his arse, of all things.

Turning in a circle again, Callum saw nothing but the peeling white paint on the walls, old periodicals, and a broken diorama he still needed to repair. Illustrated posters of Pictish villagers plowing fields, dying cloths, and tending to cattle were pinned to the wall, their yellowing corners curling at the edges. But, he was sure the only living creature in this basement was him, and perhaps that wee rodent that he'd seen periodically popping its whiskered nose out of the hole behind the desk.

Pulling out his cell phone and checking the time, Callum realized that the Samhain festivities in town were well on their way. His people took All Hallow's Eve seriously, as did he. Deciding he could investigate the basement another day when he had more time, Callum walked toward the door, where the keys still dangled inside the lock. As he reached for them, the stool holding the door open flew to the side, crashing against the wall. Callum yelped.

And the cursed spring-loaded door slammed closed, locking him inside.

Shaking the knob lock, Callum cursed. The herbal scent hung heavily in the air, and the single overhead light flickered as if it were deciding whether or not to give up on life. He knew the feeling.

When the room's temperature dropped, and the hackles on his neck stood on end, Callum straightened his spine and closed his eyes. The way that stool had flown into the wall? That was not normal.

"Ye have my attention, whoever ye are," he whispered as he turned around, only to be met with sad hazel eyes framed in thick black lashes.

"Ballocks!" he shouted and jumped back, his heart beating wildly as he looked at the slim, pink-cheeked young woman standing before him with waves of rusty hair floating about her round face. "Who the bloody hell are ye? How did ye get in here without me noticing?"

She blinked and opened her mouth slowly, only to snap it shut and take a step back. She was bonnie, he'd give her that. But the shock in her eyes left him uneasy. Wasn't he the one who was supposed to be frightened?

"Ye can see me?"

"Aye. I see ye. Do ye know what ye've done? We cannae get out of here now!" he groused. "It's locked from the outside, and there arenae windows down here!" Pulling out his phone, Callum cursed when he saw the dreaded "x" beside the signal bars. "Of course. Why would I get reception down here?"

Looking back up at the lass, Callum scanned her length and frowned when he took in her dark blue tunic with long sleeves and a wide neckline—much like those the Picts once wore. Was she some history fan-girl who arrived a day early for Sam and Murielle's presentation? She wouldn't be the first to arrive in historical clothing.

"Are ye here for the book signing and presentation? It isnae until tomorrow."

She shook her head and took a step closer to him. He almost stepped back but decided to stand his ground and get some answers. "Ye do realize we are now stuck down here, aye? 'Tis AllHallow's Eve. Nobody will be coming back 'til morning."

"I have been stuck down here for… ages…" she said. "Ye can see me. Ye heard me!"

"Aye and aye. Why wouldnae I?" He narrowed his eyes. "What do ye mean ye've been stuck down here for ages? I've been in and out of this room many times and never seen ye."

"I've seen ye , Callum," she responded, stepping closer, holding out a pale hand. When her fingers grazed his arm, the chill of her flesh made him shiver. She appeared healthy and hale, yet she felt as clammy and cold as death. Maybe she had been down here all day with the frigid air chilling her bones, and he simply hadn't noticed.

Then, he remembered the words she'd spoken that had caused him to hit his head. Was that what this was? A hallucination? Had he cracked his head that hard? Nay, he knew he hadn't. "Why did ye say I have a nice arse? And…how do ye know my name?" He looked at his shirt to verify that he wasn't wearing his name tag, which still sat on his nightstand. He wasn't meant to work today but had to come by to set up for tomorrow.

She shrugged and raised her brows. "I have watched ye come and go many times over the past year when ye first arrived. It used to be only auld people before ye showed up. Yer name is Callum. I've heard it spoken. But ye look like Ronan." She tilted her head curiously, and his heart stopped before it began beating wildly and thundering in his ears. Ronan! He'd heard that name before from Murielle.

Another time-traveler? Had she come through the cave, like Murielle had? "Do ye know where ye are?" he asked her slowly.

"Aye. The Burghead Visitor Centre's basement. That is what it is today."

"What was it before today?" he asked slowly, afraid he didn't wish to know.

"It was our home. Me and Father's." Her voice grew soft and whimsical as if she conjured a distant memory. "Before… before he killed me."

She was killed? A sick feeling fell over him. It was not every day a woman stared you in the eyes and told you she'd been murdered. "Your father murdered ye?"

She shook her head. "The new cleric. He called me a heathen for believing in the old gods. Said we survived the illness in our home because I worked for the Devil. I dinnae understand this new religion or why they wish to destroy us. Tell me, Callum. What year is it, and does the new religion still exist?"

"It's the year 2023, and if ye speak of Christianity, aye, it still exists."

She nodded sadly. "I wasnae evil, ye ken. Truly, I wasnae! I tried to tell him that Queen Caitriona healed Father. He came home with a terrible illness after his journey, but the new queen knew how to help him. He wouldnae listen. He accused me of praying to the heathen gods—which I had done, of course, but I needed to save Father! The cleric burned mugwort to repel my evil, but when nothing happened, he drowned me." She shuddered when the memory became too much, and Callum noticed her cheeks reddening.

Mugwort. He knew that herbs were often used to repel evil spirits in her time and even in this era. That explained the herbal scent wafting through the basement.

She appeared as alive as any lass. But she'd mentioned Queen Caitriona, Murielle's brother's wife. In the year 685, King Brodyn married a time traveler from modern days named Caitriona, who'd passed through the cave in early 2023. He knew this from his talks with Murielle. He also knew that he looked very similar to his ancestor, Ronan, a well-respected warrior of King Brodyn's and Murielle's guard. Murielle had mistaken Callum for Ronan when they first met here and believed Callum to be a reincarnation of him.

"I believe ye," he said. And he did. "Did ye know Ronan well? Murielle says I look like him. He is my ancestor."

The lass's eyes widened, and she nodded. "Aye! Ronan was a great man but always too busy fighting for King Brodyn or guarding Princess Murielle to pay me much mind. I cannae tell ye how relieved I am that ye can finally see me. I have seen ye walk past me many times and always longed to talk to ye. Why can ye suddenly see me?"

Callum looked at her curiously. "Maybe because it's Halloween? Or Samhain, as ye may call it?" He shrugged. "They say the veil between the living and dead is lifted on this day."

"Aye, that makes sense!"

"As much sense as the fact that I'm locked inside the basement with a woman who died well over a millennium ago," Callum said, looking around the room for any way out. There wasn't one.

"Ye arenae afraid of me." The woman stepped closer and looked at him with those hazel eyes. She looked so real—so alive. Wee freckles dotted her nose, and flecks of gold reflected in her irises. She was absolutely beautiful.

"When ye grow up in a village built on ruins, ye see things. However, I've never seen a ghost as real as ye. 'Tis hard to believe ye arenae alive. I've also never heard a ghost talk about my arse." Callum pursed his lips but couldn't prevent the smile from gracing his lips.

Her pale cheeks pinkened as if blood still coursed through her veins. "Ye werenae meant to hear that." She looked away shyly, and he found himself thoroughly intrigued by this woman. Bold one minute and shy the next. "When nobody can see ye, ye speak yer mind freely and frequently."

So, she thought he had a nice arse, eh? Callum shouldn't be flattered that a dead woman was attracted to him, but something about her made his heart beat erratically, and not from fear. He was as attracted to her as if she were a warm, living human woman, and he found he needed to learn all he could about her.

"Well, if we're stuck in here, we may as well get to know one another," Callum said, sitting on the creaky wooden floorboards. Nodding, she sat beside him and tucked her red waves of hair behind her ears.

"What is yer name? Tell me about yerself."

"My name is… or was… Sorcha."

"Is," Callum said with a smile. "Yer still here, aye?"

She smiled and nodded. "I was nineteen summers old when Queen Caitriona arrived. As I said, she saved my father from certain death, and I was eternally grateful. She and Murielle both helped me greatly."

"So, ye know Murielle?" Callum asked. "She will be arriving tomorrow. Do ye know she lives in this time now?"

"Aye, I have heard what I can from here."

Callum filled her in on the cave's odd portal through time and those, including Queen Caitriona, who had passed through it. "'Tis how she knew how to save yer father," Callum said.

Sorcha listened with rapture to everything he said, smiling, laughing, and tilting her head back as she did so. Callum took a secret moment to observe her while she spoke of her life in Pinnata Castra as a merchant's daughter. She'd lit up with joy with her recollections, and Callum found himself wishing to touch her again—just her hand—to see if she still felt cold. She looked so pink and healthy now.

Still, he dared not cross such a boundary, even if their connection felt natural. After all, they had known one another in his former life. They spoke freely to one another, and her years spent trapped in this place had taught her a thing or two about modern times. Aside from her thick brogue, her ability to speak their language was impressive. He knew Picts spoke a combination of Celtic, Gaelic, and Latin—a language lost until recently when Samuel and Murielle had discovered an ancient book created by monks that explained the Picts in great detail, including their language.

Though Callum had done well enough with the lassies in his short twenty-one years, he'd never met one he felt so drawn to. Was it because she was unavailable? He'd heard that men only want what they can't have. But that didn't feel right—because she felt right—different.

"May I speak honestly, Callum?" He nodded and looked into her eyes, a nervous smile forming on her pink lips. "When Father Emmitt began accusing me of consorting with dark powers, I tried to tell him that Pa and I survived the illness due to Queen Caitriona's healing. He said she was also wicked and that he would come for her next, then her sister, Emilie. He says they arenae like us. They are sent from the Devil. When I tried to warn them, he…"

Callum's throat constricted as the mood darkened in the basement, and any remaining warmth vanished. It was as if her life force diminished when she spoke of her death. Her features dimmed, and her eyes, still beautiful, lost all their sparkle. "He… what, Sorcha?" Reflexively, Callum placed a hand on Sorcha's knee to both support and encourage her while she spoke. A spark of strange energy shocked his fingertips, and he hissed, pulling back. But it didn't truly hurt. Nay, he was simply startled, not only by the sensation but the images it provoked.

Suddenly, no words were necessary. Sorcha didn't need to tell Callum what had happened, for he saw her memory in his own mind. Sorcha, bending over near a stream, collecting a green-leafed plant with blooming white buds, was suddenly pushed from behind. With a yelp, she landed face down in the water. Water flooded her—no, his lungs. He began to cough and struggle for air. An angry voice shouted at him from the surface, accusing him of conspiring with the evil spirits who saved her from God's wrath. For, in Father Emmitt's mind, the illness Sorcha and her father had evaded was a punishment from the Almighty for worshipping heathen gods.

Callum thrashed and kicked, struggling for air as cruel accusations filled his ears. "I shall rid this place of yer kind! Ye will be first, but ye shallnae be the last! 'Tis God's will!"

A final desperate gasp left his lips as his lungs filled with water, and everything went black.