With those quiet orders given, Michael finally guided Libby outside. He opened the driver’s side door of his truck, all but tossed her inside, and climbed in after her.
He didn’t immediately start the truck but sat staring out the windshield, his features drawn and his whole body as still as the night. “There was a lot of blood, lass,” he said quietly, still looking forward. “And palm prints the size of Robbie’s.” He finally turned to her. “He wrote something on the window, in blood, that I can’t make sense of.”
“Wh-what?” she whispered, covering his clenched hand on the steering wheel with a trembling hand of her own.
“Three words, in Gaelic. One was spelled wrong, but I’m thinking he was trying to tell me what to do.”
“What were the words?”
“The first one is simple.Pet. He was saying his owl could find him.”
Libby shot her gaze to the porch rail. “Yes. Mary!” she cried, looking back at Michael.
“She was here. Earlier. But she’s gone now.”
“She might be with Robbie,” he speculated, finally starting the truck and backing it up, turning it around, and heading it down the driveway.
“And the other words?” Libby asked. “What did they say?”
Michael watched the road, deep in thought. ‘‘Feargleidhidh.It’s Gaelic for ‘guardian.’ I think he was telling me his duty to Rose. Andfiodh, which could mean ‘a piece of wood.’
Or it could mean ‘forest,’ like the path he intended to take. Hell,” he growled in frustration, looking over at her. “It could damned well mean anything, for all I know. It was spelled wrong.”
“But why would he write in Gaelic?” she asked, quickly fastening her seat belt as they sped down the snow-covered road, traveling faster than the headlights could shine.
“Robbie might be born of this time,” Michael said roughly, downshifting as he turned, skidding onto an unplowed logging road. “But he has the soul of an ancient. He’s in crisis, Libby, guided by an instinct as old as his ancestors.” He shot her a desperate look and then quickly returned his attention to his driving. “The boy knows Gaelic, but he’s not been taught to write it.”
He stepped on the accelerator, pushing the truck dangerously fast over the narrow tote road. “Dammit,” he growled, slapping the steering wheel. “He’s been out there for hours.”
“Hours?”
“Aye. When Dwayne found their truck, the engine was cold, and there was nearly four inches of snow covering it. Leysa was hypothermic as well as seriously injured. Which means the accident happened at least three hours ago.” He looked at Libby, his eyes dark with anguish. “How long can he survive in these temperatures, if he’s losing blood?” he asked thickly.
“It really depends on his injuries,” she told him, laying a hand on his arm. “Sometimes very little blood looks like gallons when smeared around the inside of a vehicle. And he
’s smart enough to try to stop the bleeding. And he’s good-sized, Michael. He has enough body mass to hold heat.”
Libby squeezed his arm and then fell silent, fighting the fear rising inside her, letting Michael cling to the hope she’d given him.
Wood. A piece of wood. What was Robbie saying?
“Wait!” she suddenly shouted, grabbing his arm again. “Stop the truck!”
He slammed on the brakes, bringing them to a sliding halt, and stared at her.
“The staff. Daar’s staff. Did you destroy it?”
“Nay. I tried, but I didn’t dare. Why? What has it to do with finding Robbie? Mary will help us.”
“A piece of wood, Michael. What if Robbie meant Daar’s staff? What if he was asking you to bring it?”
“It probably means something else, Libby. That he’s traveling through the woods.
Robbie’s not even aware of Daar’s staff.”
“Michael, we have to get it anyway,” she said, tugging at him in frustration. “Remember Alan Brewer? I couldn’t help him because I was not powerful enough to get past his defenses. But Daar said that with his staff, I might have been able to.”
“Robbie will not fight ya, Libby. He trusts ya.”
“But what if we’re too late?” she whispered, looking down at her folded hands on her lap.
Only the sound of the idling engine and the beat of the wiper blades broke the sudden silence inside the truck. Fat, flickering snowflakes bombarded them with growing intensity, disappearing into raindrops on the heated windshield. The dash lights glowed in ethereal colors that only added credence to her unthinkable words.
With nothing more than a growl for answer, Michael slammed the truck into reverse and turned on the narrow road, spinning all four tires to gain traction, heading them back in the direction they’d come from.
In silence, they sped through the night, and Libby prayed they were doing the right thing. She knew Michael’s reluctance to expose the powerful staff, but even if they all got zapped back to medieval Scotland, it wouldn’t matter as long as Robbie survived.
She’d go with them, she decided, sliding her hand gently onto Michael’s thigh.
Anyplace, in any time, being with the two men she loved was better than staying in this time without Robbie.
They sped past her driveway and continued to Michael’s home, coming to a sliding stop in front of his workshop. He set the brake with a jerk and was running inside before the truck had stopped rocking.
Libby was one step behind him.
The woodworking shop stood patiently silent in the sudden glare of the overhead lights Michael snapped on. Without breaking stride, he went to his workbench, reached up, and took down a small chain saw. He gave one violent tug on the starter cord, and the miniature engine screamed to life.
Libby gasped in surprise when she saw him shove at a beautiful oak bureau, sending its polished face crashing onto the floor. He set the roaring blade of the saw against the back panel and cut through the wood. Sawdust and choking engine fumes filled the workshop, the whine of the deafening blade making the destruction horribly easy.
The top half of the bureau separated cleanly, rolling onto its finished top. The air continued to hum with bone-chilling echoes long after the noise ceased abruptly. And Libby could only stand and watch in horror as Michael used his bare hands to rip apart the bottom half of his beautiful creation.
He stood up, the two-foot-long, thick, gnarled piece of cherrywood clenched in his fist.
He grabbed Libby’s hand and, without giving the destruction a second glance, pulled her back out to the truck. He lifted her in, handed her the staff, and climbed in and had the truck moving before she could fasten her seat belt.
Libby stared at the heavy, warm-feeling wood in her hands.
It still hummed with lingering energy—from the whine of the chain saw? Lord, she hoped so. They could well be playing with fire, trying to use this ancient piece of old magic to save Robbie’s life.
Libby carefully set the staff on the seat by the door and put her hand back on Michael’s thigh as she watched the blinding snowflakes rush past the hood of the truck, their reflection in the headlights all but shouting urgency.
This was taking too long.
They might be too late.
Michael suddenly slammed on the brakes when a white blur of feathers crossed the beam of the headlights, swooping low and then lifting back into the forest. The truck slid to a stop, and Michael shut off the engine and rolled down his window. Together, they sat in absolute silence and listened.
A sharp, distant, haunting whistle came from the woods.
Michael looked down the road in the direction they’d been traveling, then over at Libby.
“We’re still three miles from the accident,” he told her, looking back at the woods.