Braving Fate (The Mythean Arcana 1)

“It’s been a long time since then, hasn’t it?”

He hesitated, a frown pulling at his mouth. “Over three hundred years.”

“Wow, that’s an incredibly long time.”

He nodded, shifted in his seat. “You have family back in America?”

“No.”

“At all?”

“No. My parents died.” Her hands tightened into fists.

“I’m sorry.”

I’m not. She almost clapped a hand to her mouth. What a terrible thought. She was an awful person. “Thanks.”

“Do you miss them?”

“My mother died in a car accident when I was an infant, so I never knew her. I’d have like to, though. And my father was—” She racked her brain for a nice way to describe her father. “—very controlling. Very. He cared. I’m sure he did. But he was a difficult man to live with.”

That was the nicest way she could possibly put it. He’d suffocated her with a million tiny little rules that dictated every aspect of her life, from her clothes to her friends to what she ate for dinner. The yelling and throwing things that resulted from not following his rules had made teenage rebellion not an option. The rules would be followed. But he had cared for her, in his way. She had to think so.

“He died of a heart attack right before I went to college.” And his death had allowed her to study whatever she’d wanted. The sudden freedom had been exhilarating, the adjustment difficult. Over time, she’d managed.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She could do nothing but nod, caught up in memories of the past.

They neared their destination for the night an hour later. It would take two days to reach his home on Mull. The ferry only ran occasionally at this time of year, on the edge of the wilderness of Glencoe. Because this part of Glencoe was closer to the coast, the mountains had become more rolling and less peaked. The valleys had supported flocks of sheep for hundreds of years, shepherds tending them as the sun rose and set countless times on the faces of mountains that never changed. Now, the sun shone through the low, wispy gray clouds, spreading dim beams of light across the valley.

He turned right off the main road. After about ten miles on one of the tiny lanes, he pulled up to the old inn he’d been staying at for centuries. Ownership hadn’t changed, nor had the interior, and he appreciated the familiarity. Watching the world change could be as wearying as it was exciting.

“Is this where we’re spending the night?” She scanned the stone front that had been carefully built so many years ago. Flowerboxes were fixed to the windowsills, but frost had killed the plants that awaited the first winter snow. What had originally been a four-room mountain inn had been expanded over the years until there were nearly a dozen rooms from various periods fitted together in a hodge-podge beneath the slate roof.

“Aye. There aren’t many visitors to this part of Scotland so close to winter. There shouldn’t be many other people here, which is good.”

“In case there’s another attack?”

“Aye. It’d be better to be away from people so there’s less to explain.”

“I see.” She adjusted her sweater nervously.

They checked into their room at the pub bar, which also acted as an informal reception desk, and with her overnight bag slung over his shoulder, they walked through the winding corridor to the back of the inn. He slipped the skeleton key into the lock, jiggled it, and the old door popped open. He ducked under the lintel as they walked inside and slung the bag onto the small dou

ble bed.

“Are you staying next door?” she asked.

“Nay.”

“Down the hall?”

“Nay again.”

“You can’t stay here.” She glanced pointedly at the bed, but as she did so, she wondered how much she meant it.

“Aye, lassie, I am. I’m no’ leaving your side ’til I know that you’re safe.”