Page 34 of The Speed of Lightning
Half-blind with tears, she stumbled upright, the broth still searing her as the cauldron lid flew past her head, shattering the floorboards before rolling through the door.
“Get out!”
He roared from the threshold, his voice battering her down the path. “Get out! GET OUT!”
She hobbled toward the fence, sobs tearing through her lungs, steam from the hot, sodden gown rising around her as she fled into the cool night.
Panicked, she began to run. The fabric tore at her blistered flesh with every step, pain lancing up her legs until she couldn’t stand it. She stumbled toward the Ardlussa River, gasping, sobbing, her voice breaking open into the dark.
“Jesus—please…if you are there, save me. I need you. Save me. Save me, Jesus. Save me…”
Chapter 9
INVERLUSSA, JURA - OCTOBER 10, 1386
Calum’s spirit floated over the waters of Lochbuie to a point far along the horizon. Above, the sun wheeled across the sky, stars flaring and vanishing in an instant. He soared over the roaring Corryvreckan,?1 along Jura’s rugged coast, and into Inverlussa. Racing inland, past cottages and longhouses, his course turned toward the river.
There, standing waist-deep in the current, was Freya—her shoulders shaking, her face hidden in her hands. The sight struck him like a mighty thunderclap. And then—darkness.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, cracking toward him. A majestic voice shook him, rattling his bones.
Calum, GET UP.
He jolted awake, clutching his skull as though it might cleave in two. His chest heaved, heavy as stone, his kyrtill plastered with sweat. The nausea of sudden sea-sickness overwhelmed him and he toppled from the bed to his knees, gasping, desperate for air.
From her bed across the room, Maw sat up. “I heard you cry out.”
Dragging on his trousers, he rasped, “Only a dream. I need air.”
Murdoch stirred, his voice hoarse with sleep. “Do ye want me tae come wi’ you?”
Calum shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”
Da grunted from his pillow, throwing an arm over Maw. “Please—will ye stop screaming? My head’s done in.”
Maw chuckled. “Make sure to close the door tight on the way out and keep the chill at bay.”
Nodding, he headed for the door, then went back for his sword, feeling a bit foolish as he belted it on but unable to escape the feeling of doom strangling him.
Outside, the village slept. No torches burned, no footsteps sounded, nothing to suggest danger had come to Jura. Yet his heart thundered as though chased, his body compelled forward. Something—someone—pulled him up the road, and before he knew it, he was running, feet pounding the earth in the direction of Freya’s longhouse.
He paused outside her home. All was dark, too quiet. The gate hung open on its hinge, swaying slightly in the wind. His gaze swept the path noticing the scuffed gravel, as though dragged feet had stumbled across it. At the bottom of the steps lay the iron lid of a cauldron, blackened and out of place.
Cold certainty washed through him. Something was wrong. A force slammed through his chest, and he broke into a run, his legs struggling to keep pace with the frantic pounding of his heart.
He remembered the way she had left the ceilidh—her father red-faced, eyes smoldering, her words trembling: Papa, I’m sorry.
If Ragnall had whipped his daughter for a misstep in dance, what would he do now, when she had defied him again before the whole clan?
Rage sharpened into purpose. He drew his sword as he plunged into the wood, the unseen threat pressing closer, impossible to ignore.
The river lay just ahead when he heard raw and unguarded weeping. He burst through the trees and found Freya waist-deep in the freezing current, the crimson damask of her gown bunched in her arms, her body shuddering with cold.
“Freya?”
Her head snapped toward him, streaks of tears catching the moonlight.
He jammed the blade back into its scabbard and charged into the river. The water was a shock of ice, numbing his legs, but he slogged forward.
