Read Online Night Visitor by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online
Authors: Melanie Jackson
Tags: Fiction
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and ammunition belts, which she wore criss-crossed on her chest in the style of the Texas banditos. Nor could she visit another century and not take her camera and a supply of plates! Unthinkable!
“Bloody hell,” she muttered as she again found herself wedged in the tight passage.
And then there were her bulky satchels divided between bandages, photographic plates, and sandwiches, fruit, chocolates—and a purloined flask of whisky.
Many women had a casual attitude about meals, but Taffy was not one of them. Hiking always left her ravenous, and assuming that she survived this rescue attempt, she suspected that fortifications of both solid and liquid varieties would be needed soon after.
There was one last item tucked down in a pocket: a small weapon she had picked up on a lark from a street vendor in New York. It was actually a piece of heavy jewelry worn over the four fingers of the right hand. The item was sometimes called brass knuckles by the brawling underclasses, but the ones in her pocket were an exceptionally pretty set, made of silver with a carving of a mermaid on the front. The part of the jewelry that rested against her palm bore the amusing inscription: Savage-Trainer.
At the time she had purchased them, they had been a curiosity; the notion of ever having occasionto use them had been a ridiculous one. After all, Taffy had always assumed that she would run a mile in a corset and high heels to avoid any violent situations where she would be called upon to defend herself in some physical manner.
The knuckles were less amusing now. There were places in the world where women had need of such weapons, or they would never have been made. And it seemed she was being called to one of them.
Taffy didn’t feel much like the feast for the eyes she wished she might be upon the occasion of meeting the famous piper of Duntrune. She wore her dark jean dress and hiking boots because they were the practical choice, though under other circumstances, she would not choose to play ambassador to Malcolm and the seventeenth century wearing such undignified clothing.
She supposed that her attire was a minor consideration when weighed against the fact that she was either completely mad, or truly following an inhuman omen brought in a dream that she might travel to the long-dead past. Still, it bothered her that she was dressed so unbecomingly for the trip.
Two hundred and forty-four years! Could she really get there—and back—on the low road of ancient legend? Her father would give everythinghe owned—probably even his life—to have these questions answered. If such travel was possible, he could go and see his precious Picts and live among the ancient Gaels.
But she hadn’t told him a thing. Not a word, because without more evidence than her dreams and a lone bizarre photograph, there was nothing to convince him of the truth. And she felt, also, that while the way was temporarily open to her because of some magical dispensation of Malcolm’s, her father would never be allowed to pass through. Not while he still lived, at least.
Suddenly, before her loomed the door she had seen in her daytime dreams, a giant carven panel of black stone. The writing upon it was not that of Celts, not Ogham, not Pict, not Norse rune. Faerie-script, that was what she had to believe it to be; a permanent marker for those who would travel the way of the dead.
She stretched out a finger, but the door fell back before her hand ere she made contact. Darkness, thick as tar, yet not so still, lay beyond.
Exhaling slowly, Taffy summoned up her courage. This was it, a point beyond which she was committed to the course. The choice, in plainest terms, was a simple one. She could either intervene in history and attempt to save Malcolm—sparing him an agonizing death and herself a lifelong haunting—or she could hang out the black crepe and mourn for the rest of her dream-haunteddays, which were likely to be few in number, if what Jamesy said was
“Bloody hell,” she muttered as she again found herself wedged in the tight passage.
And then there were her bulky satchels divided between bandages, photographic plates, and sandwiches, fruit, chocolates—and a purloined flask of whisky.
Many women had a casual attitude about meals, but Taffy was not one of them. Hiking always left her ravenous, and assuming that she survived this rescue attempt, she suspected that fortifications of both solid and liquid varieties would be needed soon after.
There was one last item tucked down in a pocket: a small weapon she had picked up on a lark from a street vendor in New York. It was actually a piece of heavy jewelry worn over the four fingers of the right hand. The item was sometimes called brass knuckles by the brawling underclasses, but the ones in her pocket were an exceptionally pretty set, made of silver with a carving of a mermaid on the front. The part of the jewelry that rested against her palm bore the amusing inscription: Savage-Trainer.
At the time she had purchased them, they had been a curiosity; the notion of ever having occasionto use them had been a ridiculous one. After all, Taffy had always assumed that she would run a mile in a corset and high heels to avoid any violent situations where she would be called upon to defend herself in some physical manner.
The knuckles were less amusing now. There were places in the world where women had need of such weapons, or they would never have been made. And it seemed she was being called to one of them.
Taffy didn’t feel much like the feast for the eyes she wished she might be upon the occasion of meeting the famous piper of Duntrune. She wore her dark jean dress and hiking boots because they were the practical choice, though under other circumstances, she would not choose to play ambassador to Malcolm and the seventeenth century wearing such undignified clothing.
She supposed that her attire was a minor consideration when weighed against the fact that she was either completely mad, or truly following an inhuman omen brought in a dream that she might travel to the long-dead past. Still, it bothered her that she was dressed so unbecomingly for the trip.
Two hundred and forty-four years! Could she really get there—and back—on the low road of ancient legend? Her father would give everythinghe owned—probably even his life—to have these questions answered. If such travel was possible, he could go and see his precious Picts and live among the ancient Gaels.
But she hadn’t told him a thing. Not a word, because without more evidence than her dreams and a lone bizarre photograph, there was nothing to convince him of the truth. And she felt, also, that while the way was temporarily open to her because of some magical dispensation of Malcolm’s, her father would never be allowed to pass through. Not while he still lived, at least.
Suddenly, before her loomed the door she had seen in her daytime dreams, a giant carven panel of black stone. The writing upon it was not that of Celts, not Ogham, not Pict, not Norse rune. Faerie-script, that was what she had to believe it to be; a permanent marker for those who would travel the way of the dead.
She stretched out a finger, but the door fell back before her hand ere she made contact. Darkness, thick as tar, yet not so still, lay beyond.
Exhaling slowly, Taffy summoned up her courage. This was it, a point beyond which she was committed to the course. The choice, in plainest terms, was a simple one. She could either intervene in history and attempt to save Malcolm—sparing him an agonizing death and herself a lifelong haunting—or she could hang out the black crepe and mourn for the rest of her dream-haunteddays, which were likely to be few in number, if what Jamesy said was
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