The Legend Mackinnon (19 page)

C
ailean looked down from her second-story hotel window, at the quaint strip of buildings on the lower port street of Portree. Boats bobbed in the harbor under overcast skies. Below, people were leaving for work, dashing in and out of the corner market, driving their cars down to the town square and disappearing beyond. Children were off to school, laughing as they bustled along the street. A classic west highland small town. The scene should have been calming, reassuring.

She shivered even though the radiator had kept her room toasty warm all night. From the moment she’d paid the toll and driven the tiny red Citroen she’d rented from Kyle of Lochalsh onto the Isle of Skye, she’d questioned her decision to come here.

Her work as an anthropologist had taken her to a wider variety of locations than even the best travel agency could detail. She’d been awed by the natural wonders of some and chilled by the sheer desolation of others. But never once had she felt such an intense sense of dread.

It was here, in the town where Lachlan had lived … 
and died, that she would stay until she put the demons that badgered her to rest once and for all.

Looking at the map the solicitor’s secretary had drawn for her, it seemed a fairly easy trek to the cemetery where Lachlan was buried. It was a bit off the track, but Miss Marchant had no doubt Cailean could find it.

But did she want to find it?

Cailean’s hands grew clammy and the porridge she’d forced down this morning rolled in her stomach. She shoved the map in her pocket and snagged her keys, trying to smile at the clerk as he waved cheerily to her on her way out.

She had no idea what she expected to find at Staffin Bay. She’d hoped to speak to Lachlan’s lawyer directly, but he was out of town until tomorrow. She knew enough about the confidentiality of wills to know that there was little chance he’d explain the contents to her, but she did want to at least question him about the third cousin.

As much as she hated her visions, Cailean hoped seeing the places where Lachlan had lived, and talking to people who knew him, might trigger a clue for her to follow. His research had claimed his attention from the time his wife had passed away, almost to the exclusion of everything else, but he’d died before finding the one thing he was after. The key that would unlock the curse.

Cailean hadn’t told Maggie about that particular aspect of Lachlan’s research and the personal conclusions he’d come to. Maggie was already dealing with enough.

Lachlan had discovered that each generation of the Clarens had produced at least one daughter with
dha shealladh
, the second sight. She was known as the Claren Key.

Stories about the curse had been handed down in tales known as The Legend MacKinnon. And Lachlan had originally believed that the Claren seer held the secret to ending the curse, but as his research continued, he’d come to believe the real key might be an actual, tangible thing, a
thing that only a Claren seer could control. He’d died without ever finding it or proving its existence.

Now it was up to Cailean to take up his quest—whether she wanted to or not.

She realized now that the visions had returned right about the time that Lachlan had died. Cailean clutched the steering wheel more tightly as she went over the rest of the history yet again. She had shivered as she’d read about Kaithren Claren, the youngest Claren daughter, known at the time for being a
taibshear
, having the second sight. A Claren Key, as was her oldest sister, Edwyna.

She knew the story of Mairi and Duncan now. Edwyna had been Mairi’s older sister, betrothed to Duncan’s older brother, Alexander, in the first attempt to bind the two clans through marriage. That attempt had ended in tragedy when Alexander disappeared the night before his wedding, never to be seen again. He’d been labeled a coward by the Clarens but there wasn’t a member of the Clan MacKinnon who believed it. They had all thought him to be their next chief and knew him worthy of the task. The MacKinnons placed the blame on Edwyna. Most, if not all of the clansmen were a superstitious lot and there had been much recorded about the Claren Keys and their ties to the faery realm, and all the havoc that could wreak upon their clans if a union was allowed.

The disappearance of Alexander brought all that to the fore and the unrest grew to the point where Edwyna was sent into seclusion. Duncan, now the heir apparent, was then betrothed to the middle daughter, Mairi. According to Lachlan’s research, after Mairi fled and Duncan left to retrieve her, the feuding between the two clans climbed to disastrous proportions, leaving them vulnerable to other, larger clans, who were also warring for more land and more power.

And still, Calum, the MacKinnon laird, resisted betrothing his sole remaining son, Rory, as John Roderick
was called. Then Edwyna’s body was found behind a brae, less than a mile away from Stonelachen, the MacKinnon stronghold.

The Clarens naturally blamed the MacKinnons and the warring escalated, continuing unabated for several years, with the Clarens always emerging victorious. Calum was ailing and could no longer lead his clan into battle, leaving Rory to that undertaking. He was a formidable warrior, yet it wasn’t enough. Calum hadn’t reached his ripe old age without understanding the power of union and the wisdom of compromise. Despite the resistance from his clan, he sought a meeting with Angus, the Claren chieftain.

Calum used his allegiance with Clan MacDonald as his bargaining chip, and after much discussion and more than one bloody brawl between members of the chiefs’ counsels, the deal was made. There would be an end to the fighting in return for his remaining son’s hand in marriage to the Claren’s youngest daughter, Kaithren.

Kaithren was rumored to possess even stronger powers than her sister, though the Clarens spoke little of it after the disastrous attempt to wed Edwyna to Alexander. The MacKinnon clansmen, wary and angry though they were, heeded their chief’s decision, as did Rory. It was just after the turn of the century and both clans began to hope for a brighter future.

Then, on the morning of the wedding, Kaithren refused to marry Rory. With both clans collected together for this union, all hell had broken loose. Calum was slain and there were many accounts stating that Rory fought with what some called demonic power. But in the end, the Clarens vanquished the MacKinnons, whose formal rights to Stonelachen and all clan properties were forfeited to the Clarens.

The Clarens had also suffered severe losses in manpower and weaponry and supplies, and shortly afterward, their lands, including Stonelachen, were taken over by the MacDonalds.

There was no record of what became of Rory or Kaithren, but all felt certain he’d died on the same field as his father, that fateful day. As the Legend MacKinnon was passed down and embellished, it was rumored that Kaithren had escaped to the realms of the faery world when the destruction began and from that time forward, the faeries would rise and destroy any union between descendants of the original two clans.

The Claren Curse had begun and only the real Key could reverse the spell.

Cailean stared out at the vista of brown hills to her left that rolled onward to the steeper mountains above in the distance. It was in those mountains, above Staffin Bay, that her destination lay. The area known as the Quiraing. Even the name evoked mysterious images.

Miss Marchant hadn’t been able to answer her question as to why Lachlan had chosen this place instead of being buried closer to his home in Portree or with his wife, who’d been buried on the other side of Skye in Dunvegan.

Her shoulders slumped. In the last ten days she’d taken a month-long sabbatical from a dream dig in Peru, she’d withdrawn a substantial chunk of her life savings, hopped a jet and flown halfway around the world, all because she was convinced a strange inheritance was the reason she was having a renewed onslaught of visions.

She wanted control of her life back.

She wanted control period. Control of her thoughts, of her mind, control over her ability to make decisions based on
her
needs and wants, and not those dictated to her by some quirk of genetics that had cursed her with the ability to occasionally see things that hadn’t yet happened.

She wanted peace. Was that so crazy?

She wound her way up the narrow road into the Quiraing. It was even more majestic up close than it had been from a distance. Steep craggy spears and cliffs jutted out of the side of the mountain, forming a bowl behind them that
cattle rustlers had used hundreds of years ago to hide their stolen goods. Spring water raced over the edge of the cliffs, only to be blown straight up and back over the edge by the strong prevailing winds. If she looked behind her, she could see the whole of Staffin Bay spread out below.

It was stunningly beautiful, but it was also incredibly desolate. Mostly rock, it was home only to sheep. Not even the sturdiest croft would survive back here.

Then she spied the tiny dirt and gravel road. It was exactly where Miss Marchant had said it would be, and in about as good a condition as she’d described. Deeply rutted and weathered, it was the only way to the cemetery, and she had no choice but to go slowly.

It was early afternoon now and days were short in November. She glanced at her watch. She had roughly two hours before she needed to head back. It would be dark when she returned, but she knew the small town of Portree well enough to find her way back.

She wound around another bend and there it was. She was surprised by the orderly cluster of headstones enclosed by wrought iron fencing. With a shaky sigh, she climbed out of the car.

The wind was strong and she had to lean forward to make any headway. She had to work at the latch to the gate for a few minutes, before finally figuring out how to open it. She shoved it forward, wincing at the squeal it made, then left it open so she wouldn’t have to fight it again later. The cemetery was well maintained. Still it was obvious which grave was Lachlan’s—all the other headstones looked weather-beaten with time. She stood at the foot of Lachlan’s grave:

Lachlan Claren, Born 1919 Died 1999.

She knew he’d died of a heart attack, but she’d always thought of him as robust and hale, younger than an eighty
year old man must be. Maybe it was his bold handwriting, which never wavered from his first journal to his last, in which he’d made entries right up until his death.

Someone had placed a bouquet of silk flowers in front of the headstone, wedging them well into the rocky earth. She wondered who’d left them. And who’d arranged for the funeral and the headstone.

He’d never mentioned anyone’s name unless it was directly related to family history. He struck her as a loner who’d wrapped himself up in his grief and spent all his time searching for a way to end it.

She edged closer to the headstone and noticed there was something inscribed below the dates.

“ ‘Born and Died a Claren, but his heart belonged—’ ” The flowers blocked the rest from view. A chill raced over her that had nothing to do with the wind. She leaned over farther and carefully brushed the flowers aside. “ ‘His heart belonged to a MacKinnon.’ ”

She looked around at the other headstones. There were a few other surnames scattered about, mostly belonging to women, she noticed, but one name showed up again and again. MacKinnon. This was a MacKinnon family cemetery. This was MacKinnon land.

How had he finagled space in what looked to be an ancient MacKinnon family cemetery?

Cailean struggled to stand from her awkward position and grabbed hold of the headstone behind her for support.

The vision struck without warning.

E
verything went black. Then, just as suddenly, there was a spear of blinding light. In the center of that white dagger stood a man.

His face and clothing were cast in shadow, but she could tell he wore a cloak of some kind. She could determine only that he was slightly above average height. His shoulders appeared broad, but it was hard to tell if it was him or the coat.