All in Time (2 page)

Chapter One

Sara’s eyes were glued to the image on her computer screen as her fingers worked at her clit, stroking faster and faster, feeling the impending approach of climax. In her mind, it was not her hands that urged her toward release, but those of the man on the screen.

Come for me, baby,
he crooned in her mind.
Show me how much you want me. Come for me. Now.

With a shudder that raked through her whole body, she did, her hand cupping her pulsing sex as wetness streamed from her.

She fell back into her chair, letting the sensations subside. No sooner had it waned than familiar loathing took hold.
Masturbating to an image on a computer
, she thought with scorn for herself.

Kind of the story of her life. No real passion. She was not yet thirty and already her love life had gone the way of the dinosaur. Extinct. The only physical satisfaction she achieved these days was whatever she could give herself, and that was getting old.

Not only was her love life a desert of massive proportions, it was starting to affect her work. She’d landed a nice account, developing ads for a start-up cosmetic company, and for the last three days had deleted every attempt she’d made.

Thinking she’d go fix a pot of coffee in the hopes it would jump start her creativity, she rose and walked out of her office.

And into another world.

In the space of a breath, her heart was beating like a jackhammer, she’d broken out in a cold sweat and her eyes were darting around in fear, taking in her surroundings.

This can’t be real. Through an opened doorway of stone, she could see a wide parapet. Beyond lay a land from a dream. Dissipating fingers of fog snaked over the landscape as rays from the sun broke through the clouds, sending shafts of brilliant light to illuminate the rolling waves of the dark sea and the lush landscape that met at its rocky shore.

Fear claimed control, grew like a sponge filling with water and consumed her. What surrounded her was an image from a dream, a place she’d painted many times over, a place that had originated in her imagination. It could not be real. Which left only one alternative.

“Oh god, oh god,” she whimpered. “Am I dead?”

“Hardly,” a female voice answered from within the room behind her.

Sara whirled around and gasped. The face of the woman seated on the divan was almost as familiar to her as her own. She’d been painting and drawing it for years. Blonde hair that was best labeled platinum cascaded across her graceful shoulders, haloing a face that would have done far more than launch a thousand ships. It was the face of true beauty, housing eyes that were no defined color but seemed to change depending upon the surroundings and the light.

“Oh shit, I’ve gone over the edge, haven’t I?”

The woman laughed a husky yet musical sound that seemed to hang in the air like dancing notes from a plucked string. “Hardly, my dear,” she said as she stood and glided across the room to Sara.

That’s the only way Sara could describe the woman’s movements. Smooth and sensual, her body seemed to glide forward, her unusual eyes holding Sara pinned in place like a bug on a specimen board.

“Have no fear, Sara.” The woman took Sara’s hand. “You are perfectly safe. And yes, this is all quite real. Come, let us sit.”

Sara let the woman lead her to the old-fashioned divan. “How?” She paused, looked around the room at all of the odd items it contained. “How did I get here? Who are you?”

“Why, I brought you here, dear. And I am Danu.”

“Who?” Sara still wasn’t convinced it was real. “Danu? What kind of name is that? How did I get here?” People didn’t just spontaneously vanish from their homes and appear somewhere else. “And just exactly where is this place, anyway?”

“This,” the woman gestured around with one graceful hand, “is Grian Ròs Castle. My fortress. It lies on the magical Isle of Sàbhail.”

Sara gaped like a fish out of water, her mouth opening and closing but no words emerging. It was…incomprehensible.

“Yes, it can be a bit much to assimilate in the first moments,” Danu agreed and patted Sara’s hand. “Whilst you gather yourself, let me explain.

“There was a time when humanity was in its childhood. It was a time of innocence, when man and beast lived as one with the earth. It was the time of my people, the Ancient Folk. It was a time of peace and plenty.

“But time saw change to our world. The one god came to drive out the many false gods. It was a tumultuous time for man. To assist and guide man’s evolution, there was created a great society. The Order of the Hussies, a society of women who acted as hunters, finding warriors in peril and ensuring that these men did not fall to the dangers that threatened them.

“These women dedicated and risked their lives to assist me in a quest to guide mankind’s destiny, preserving life that would have a positive and vast effect upon humanity.

“My people were endowed with abilities that humans of your time would consider supernatural. Such as my ability to sense a man in great peril. A man who is destined to change his world for the better.

“It is that ability I used for centuries, with the help of my beloved Order of the Hussies.”

“Hold on,” Sara said. “Excuse me if this sounds…rude, but do you seriously expect me to believe that you’re some…some magical creature thousands of years old and that this…this fairy tale you’re reciting is real? Look, I know I’m not a rocket scientist or anything, and yes, I do tend to live in a fantasy world at times, but even I’m not gullible enough to fall for this.

Danu smiled and patted her hand again. “Good, girl, very good. I would have little respect for you if you did not question.”

“Well, thank you,” Sara replied. “And by the way…hussy? Ugh. Do you have any idea what a hussy is?”

Danu chuckled. “Clearly you have no idea of the etymology of the word. While rarely used today, the word comes from Old Norse, meaning ‘mistress of the household’. Before the seventeenth century it carried the connotation of a thrifty, orderly or capable woman.

“Only in the seventeenth century did the sense of the word shift and take on the meaning of a rural woman of a low class. As is unfortunately often the case, the term unfairly degenerated to connote a woman of less than sterling character or moral standards. By the nineteenth century it had become a slur.

“The degradation of the original word is of no consequence. My Hussies were women of honor. Women who wore the title proudly as they undertook their missions to protect the warrior put in their charge.”

Sara nodded. “I didn’t know that. About the meaning of the word, I mean. But the rest of it…well…look, it all sounds fabulous. Like some fairy tale come to life, but I kind of lost my belief in fairy tales awhile ago. So what’s the real scoop?”

Danu clasped Sara’s hand in both of hers. “Look into my eyes and see for yourself.”

Sara did, and suddenly she was sucked into a vortex of spinning images and sounds. She saw history play out before her eyes, moving steadily backward. Her mind swam with the enormity of it. It was too much. Blackness claimed her.

When she woke, she was reclining on the divan, with Danu still holding her hand. She blinked several times and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her mind was still in a whirl from all she’d seen. But inside her was a certainty that what she’d witnessed was real.

“Oh!” She looked at Danu in awe and a bit of fear. “Oh my.”

Danu laughed that musical sound again and it was like a balm, soothing Sara’s fears. “Yes, it is rather overwhelming. You will soon assimilate it and it will be as if it was always a part of you, which indeed it always has been. Humans have simply lost the ability to tap into their genetic memory.”

“But…I still don’t understand. If you’ve been awakened to rebuild your—army, then why am I here? I’m no hunter. I can’t even find my car keys most of the time much less some warrior in need. And when it comes to battling dark forces or danger…well, I have to tell you, I’m a bit of a chicken. Heck, I’m still a little scared of bugs.”

“Oh my dear child,” Danu laughed. “You have abilities far beyond what you imagine. Lie to yourself if you must, but please, not to me. You know you are far beyond ordinary despite your current social and professional status. The ability you possess is maturing. I will help you to understand it. And more importantly, to not fear it but embrace it and discover the importance of it in your life. And while you do so, you will help to save someone who will prove to be quite important to the world.”

Sara shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t want to help. I just…well, it’s…see, my life is—”

“A mess?” Danu asked.

“To put it mildly,” Sara answered. “I’m not very good at the dating game, and the only power I seem to have is to create marginally good images that pay my rent. And then there’s my—”

“Do not say it,” Danu interrupted. “Your ability is not an affliction. It is a gift.”

Sara laughed scornfully. “Some gift. So far the only thing it’s netted me is trouble.”

“My dear, that is so far from the truth that it is laughable,” Danu replied. “And I can show you. All I need is for you to agree. Join with me. Become one of my Hunters. Release the Hussy within and together we will help to ensure that man is not denied his potential destiny.”

Sara got up, crossing her arms tightly over her chest to walk to the opened door leading out onto the parapet. She went to the stone rail and stood there a long time, watching the waves pound the shore, birds dart and swoop over its surface. As the minutes ticked by, something grew inside her. A need. To belong. To have her life count for something. To understand what had caused her gift.

She realized that what Danu offered was like a dream. To be handed the chance to make a real difference, to live a life of purpose.

Suddenly she turned and reentered the castle. “Yes.” Her eyes shone with new conviction. “I’ll join you. What do I have to do?”

Danu smiled and extended her hand. “Come then. We have much to do.”

Chapter Two

My father was a man of his word. He promised that my twelfth birthday would change my life. It did. That was the day my father died.

Morgan pushed back from the keyboard, staring at the words he’d just written. Where did that come from? he wondered. Then his eyes fell on the desk calendar. Today was his father’s birthday.

A feeling of oppressiveness pervaded the room, pressing on him with a near tangible force. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and hurried outside.

Cold autumn air ruffled his dark hair and crept into the open neck of his shirt, prompting him to pull his fleece jacket tighter around him. Trees bare of all but a few stubborn leaves rustled in the wind, the less tenacious losing their battle and riding the air in a spinning ballet. Overhead, the sky was the color of steel, the heavy dark clouds threatening rain.

Morgan’s eyes moved over the scenery but his mind was blind to his surroundings. Pulled back in time, he was once again twelve years old.

“Where are we going?” Morgan scrambled around the rear of the pickup to the passenger door. “How come Mom’s not coming?”

“You’ll see.” His father smiled over the bed of the truck as he pulled open the truck door.

“Dad, come on!” The three words drew out long enough to occupy space enough for several more.

Morgan’s father, Tom, laughed and climbed into the truck. He put the key into the ignition but paused to reach out and slap Morgan’s knee, the affectionate gesture obvious by the additional pat of his hand and slight squeeze.

“All I can tell you is that today your life will change forever.”

Morgan couldn’t imagine what his father had planned. What would change his life forever? Tickets to the Super Bowl? A seat on a NASA mission? With each new question, a scenario played out in his mind. He saw himself as a famous photographer, a rock star, an astronaut, an actor, an athlete and a rodeo rider. Morgan was so caught up in his fantasies that he was unprepared for the sudden deceleration of the pickup.

Tom’s leg straightened out in a rigid line, the brake pedal pressed against the floorboard. While steering with his left hand, Tom’s right arm jerked out to keep Morgan from making contact with the dashboard.

Tires screamed and churned noxious smoke, brakes squealed in protest, adding their own burned vapors to the charged air.

Morgan jerked back to reality to turn his eyes to the road ahead. Without warning, time altered. Like a slow-motion film sequence, the sights swam at him. His mind had trouble reconciling what he saw as reality.

A small recreational vehicle lay on its side in the curve of the road, nearly cut in half by the tractor trailer that straddled it like a trick rodeo rider, its weight steadily crushing the lighter vehicle.

And it was getting closer with each second. Morgan jammed his hands against the dashboard as Tom fought to stop the pickup. Despite his best intentions at manhood, Morgan let loose a yell.

Tom was out the door the moment the truck came to a stop, shouting to Morgan as he raced toward the crushed camper. “Check the truck driver!”

Morgan didn’t think to question. At the moment he wasn’t really capable of independent thought. It took a bit of climbing to reach the door of the semi. When Morgan peered over into the window, his breakfast demanded an immediate release. Tears streaming down his face and stomach heaving from what he’d seen, he scrambled from the wreckage and fell to his knees on the pavement, retching.

Through the sound of his own heaves he heard his father calling him. Morgan swiped his arm over his dripping mouth and clamored unsteadily to his feet. Tom was trying to pull a lovely blonde woman from the wrecked camper. Blood stained one side of her head, the red a stark contrast to the wheat tresses. The woman cried and fought against him.

“No, please—my child. I have to—”

“Please, ma’am, just let me get you out and I’ll get your child. Morgan! Help me.”

Morgan moved to do as he was told. Together they got the woman free and moved her to one side of the road, behind Tom’s pickup.

“Stay here.” Tom directed Morgan to cradle the woman in his arms.

“My daughter!” The woman struggled to rise.

Morgan didn’t know what to do except hold on to her tighter, not let her move. It seemed to hurt her for she cried out. “I have to get my daughter.”

“My dad will get her. Don’t worry.” Morgan hoped he sounded confident. At the moment he didn’t feel it. All he really felt was a sick fear.

The words had barely passed his lips when an explosion blinded him. He had time only to register the sudden lurch of his heart before everything went black.

When Morgan woke, he was lying across the injured woman. He lifted his head and saw the blood-soaked material of her blouse. It wasn’t until blood ran into his right eye that he realized the blood was as much his as hers.

She blinked and fumbled for his hand, unable to sit. “My daughter…my—”

Unprepared for coherent thought, Morgan didn’t hear her at first, but somehow her weak, desperate voice filtered into the chaos, offering an invitation, a lifeline to grasp to be pulled from the panic and confusion that held him paralyzed and helpless.

Morgan reached for it. He would have reached for any lifeline. But there was a price. He couldn’t deny it when he turned fear-filled eyes to the blazing wreckage. Tears carved tracks in the blood and grime that marred his features.

“My daughter?” The woman’s fingers tugged weakly at his hand. “Please.”

Morgan turned his eyes from the inferno. The woman’s blue eyes were awash with fear and tears, blood hampering her vision. Incredibly, Morgan suddenly felt responsible for her pain and loss.

“I’m sorry.”

One frail cry escaped her lips. Her eyes closed. Morgan squeezed her hand, shaking it gently. “Ma’am? Ma’am, please, don’t—”

Somehow he couldn’t force the word “die” from his lips, even though some hidden source of knowledge inside told him that was exactly what was going to happen.

“My baby.” Her whisper was barely audible.

Morgan didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

She seemed to see him for the first time and gave him a sad smile. “What’s your name?”

“Morgan. Morgan Nicholaus.”

Her hand tightened in his for a moment. “My name is Hope. Thank you for trying to save us, Morgan Nicholaus.”

Morgan nodded, unsure how to respond. Her smile vanished to be replaced with a grimace of pain. Without thinking about her injuries or his, Morgan pulled on her hand, desperate for contact with someone in the midst of all the horror.

“Don’t go, ma’am. Please, don’t—don’t leave me here alone. My dad…”

All at once the enormity of it descended upon him, crippling him with its weight. His chest pounded and ached, his head swam in dizzy circles. Using the last of her strength, the woman pulled him down, cradling him against her, his head against her bloody breast.

“Shhh,” she soothed. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be fine. Just close your eyes and hold on. I’ll take care of you. Just sleep, honey, just sleep.”

Giving in to the promise of her soft voice, Morgan closed his eyes.

With a jerk, Morgan returned to the present. Raindrops glistened in his hair, dripped from his thick brows and into his eyes. At the moment he didn’t care. The water of nature mixed with the water of his tears as he stood in the cold rain and cried.

* * * * *

Morgan slapped his cell phone closed then hurled it across the room in a fit of fury. Why he had thought talking to his mother would help his disposition was a mystery. During the entire two hours, not once was his father mentioned. By either of them. Doris, his mother, was interested only in relating all of the gripes she had with everyone in her life.

With a snort of disgust, for himself and his mother, Morgan stormed into the kitchen and snatched a bottle of chilled vodka from the freezer. He filled a tumbler to the brim but didn’t drink from it. Instead, he took it into the den to stand in front of the picture window, looking out at the rain.

Morgan wondered why it was so hard for him and his mother to talk about his father and his death. Why it was hard for them even to mention him. But then maybe he shared as much of the blame for that as his mother. He’d never even told his best friend about how his father died. As irrational as it was, Morgan still felt guilty that he’d lived and his father had died. Maybe that was because his mother’s favorite comment for years after his father’s death had been, “If he hadn’t been taking you on some birthday outing maybe he’d still be with us.”

As an adult, Morgan understood that nothing about his father’s death was his fault and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. But his mother’s comments of the past had instilled a sense of guilt not even the reasoning of adulthood had erased.

The phone rang. Morgan ignored it for the first two rings, raised his glass in a silent toast to the rain, and then set it down on a coffee table. The phone stopped ringing. Morgan looked down at the full glass, hearing its invitation in his mind, its promise of escape. If he was going to drink, the time would have been
before
he talked to his mother. At least then he wouldn’t have spent the last two hours with a chest full of need to talk about his father, to ask his mother the question he’d never had the courage to ask. What was it about that birthday that made his father say it would change his life?

His father couldn’t have known what was to come on that day. Morgan had rationalized that out years ago, when a cheap psychic told him that his father must have known he was going to die. Morgan had demanded his money back from the woman. She was obviously no psychic or she would have known that his father would never have led him willingly into a situation that would see four people dead. His father would have done anything to keep him from such horror and loss.

The phone rang again. This time Morgan pounced on it. He needed a distraction, any distraction to help him climb out of the black pit of his own thoughts.

“Hello?”

“What’s up?” his best friend Chris drawled.

“Not much.”

“Want to hit JT’s?”

“Might as well.”

“Cool. Meet you there.”

“On my way.”

Morgan pocketed his phone and picked up his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair. It was still soaked. That annoyed him. The fleece was his favorite. He snatched his leather jacket from the closet. Something fell to the floor—a small scrap of paper.

He put on the jacket then scooped the paper from the floor. On it was a phone number and name—Kelly. Morgan tried to remember, with no success. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. He missed. Ignoring it, he headed out of the house.

* * * * *

Sara looked up with a smile as a woman entered the room. “Hey! You look great!” she greeted her best friend Kelly.

“I wish you weren’t such a liar. I look like shit. I started my period, my hair refused to do anything and I just found out that they’re giving the promotion to that bitch Cheryl.”

“Youch!” Sara saved her file on the computer, exited the system and reached for her purse. “Listen, don’t sweat it. You’d probably have hated the job, and there really isn’t that much more money—just more responsibility, hours, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

“I know,” Kelly griped. “But I wanted the damn title. Project Director Kelly Martin.”

Sara chuckled. “Come on, Kel, you don’t need a title to be somebody. That Cheryl isn’t half the person you are, and doesn’t have near as much going for her. Your time’s coming. It just isn’t here yet. And besides, there’s more to life than a job and title, isn’t there? Please, please, please tell me there is or I’ll be forced to hurl myself in front of a bus.”

Kelly finally laughed. “Okay, maybe I am overreacting. But I did want the title.”

Sara linked arms with Kelly and started for the door. “But you’ve already got one Kel. Kelly, Queen of the BowlaRama.”

Kelly shoved her away in mock fierceness but laughed despite herself. “Don’t even go there—Sarafina.” Her title as queen of the local bowling alley was a joke between them, since she’d earned the title by breaking the all-time worst score in the history of the place.

Sara laughed and made a sweeping curtsy for Kelly in front of the door. With a dramatic flourish of her short jacket, Kelly swept through the opening. Sara smiled and followed her friend.

She’d been back from the Isle of Sàbhail for nearly six months and still she had no idea who the man was she was supposed to help save, or what she should do to try to find him. Danu had instructed her on history and the importance of trusting her instincts, and urged her to continue to develop her abilities, but she would not give Sara the name of the target. That, she’d said, was the role of the Warrior Hunter.

Sara had been looking. Everywhere. But so far nothing. No one she met made a bell ring in her head or lightning strike. She was beginning to despair. Sure, she’d made some progress in understanding the nature and mechanics of her ability, but she was supposed to be helping save the world and she couldn’t even figure out who she was looking for.