“And that’s bad?”
Stark shrugged. “Apparently.”
The limo took a hard left. Gravel crunched under the wheels as it crept forward toward a long, narrow suspension bridge that Stark got a glimpse of before his window automatically rolled itself up.
“You can get out here,” the driver’s gruff voice sounded once more through the speakers.
Stark and Kevin grabbed their backpacks and climbed out of the limo. They’d barely closed the door when the car pulled away so quickly that it threw gravel at them.
“Hey! Why be a dick?” Kevin called after him.
“I’m losing his damn card,” said Stark.
“Good idea. And I’ll give him a shit Yelp review,” Kevin muttered as he stared at the long, narrow bridge that stretched between an outcropping of the Scottish mainland and the island. Live torches lighted it, but they did little to dispel the mist and cold that blanketed the island.
“All right. Well, this is the place.” Stark started toward the bridge. “Anastasia described it perfectly, but it’s not like there’re a bunch of ways on and off the island.” When Kevin didn’t respond, Stark paused and glanced back. Kevin had taken a couple steps after him but was currently standing still. His gaze was completely focused on the bridge. He cracked his knuckles nervously and shook his head like a cat trying to dispel water. “Hey, you coming or what?”
Kevin blinked several times and finally turned his gaze to Stark. “You don’t feel it?”
“The cold or the wet? It’s nasty out here, but it is January in the Highlands. Not exactly tourist weather.”
“Not that … Dread. Fear. And worse.”
Stark opened his mouth to make a sarcastic response, but he could see that Kevin was completely serious. His face was so pale that his red Mark looked like fresh blood, and even though it was cold there was a film of sweat on his face.
“Hey, you feeling okay?” Stark asked him.
“Nope. Not at all. I don’t want to do anything except run—and I mean away from the island. This isn’t normal.”
“Oh, shit. It’s part of the spell that protects Skye,” Stark realized.
“Then why the hell aren’t you sweating and terrified?”
Stark shrugged and his lips lifted in a cocky smile. “Maybe I’m just a lot tougher than you.”
Kevin frowned. “Riiiiight, no. I’m about one hundred percent sure that’s not it.”
“You wanna wait here? If Sgiach lets us in, I can text you.”
“Screw that.” Kevin drew a deep breath and shifted the weight of his backpack. “I’m coming with you.”
Side by side, Stark and Kevin entered the bridge. Intrigued by the mist-shrouded isle, Stark gazed around him. Far below, the water was dark and choppy. Once in a while, a wave caught in the torchlight and looked out of place with its cheery white froth.
“Don’t fucking look down!” Kevin told Stark.
“Dude, you sound panicked.”
“You have no idea. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. With every step it gets worse. I know any second this bridge is gonna break and we’ll fall down there.” Kevin pointed at the water without looking down. “And be eaten by sea monsters.”
“Sea monsters? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. A big, bad, painful, fatal heart attack with a side of Ebola and an extra helping of being choked, stabbed, drowned, and then eaten.”
“Huh.” They’d come to the end of the bridge where there sat an arch made of white stone with veins of silver running through it. It was mesmerizing, and not in a creepy way. The silver reflected the flickering torchlight with electric beauty, like a zillion lightning bolts had been trapped within the white marble. “Wow, that’s incredible.”
“Ah, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Kevin turned his face away from the arch.
“What the hell?”
Kevin sucked in long breaths and released them like he was in the middle of trying to bench too much weight. “I can hardly look at it.”
Stark knew he wasn’t playing. Kevin looked awful—like he might puke or bolt. Or both.
From the island side of the arch a deep, disembodied voice barked, “Ha Gaelic akiv? ”
“We, uh, don’t speak Scottish,” said Stark.
Someone snorted. Loudly. “Are ye daft? It isnae Scottish. ’Tis the mother tongue—Gaelic.”
“That either,” said Stark.
“So, it’ll be the English, then. What is it uze want?”
“To run screaming in the other direction,” Kevin muttered.
“As this isle isnae fer wains—leave.”
“Shh!” Stark shushed Kevin before facing where he thought the voice came from. “We’re James Stark and Kevin Redbird from the Tulsa House of Night. Our High Priestess, Anastasia, contacted Queen Sgiach about our arrival.” He squared his shoulders and added. “And we’re not babies.”
As the silence stretched between them and the misty island, Kevin shifted restlessly from foot to foot and whispered to Stark, “How’d you know what a wain is?”
Stark only answered him because he wanted to distract the kid. “My grandpa MacUallis called me that until the day he died. He didn’t give a shit that I wasn’t a kid anymore. Actually, Grandpa was a mean old dude who didn’t give a shit about much of anything except my grandma and what he used to call a ‘wee dram’—which was actually single malt scotch, and he drank way more than a little of it.”
From the middle of the other side of the archway, a man materialized. He was muscular and built like an athlete, which more than showed because he wasn’t wearing one of the kilts they’d glimpsed as they traveled through the Highlands on their way to Skye. This man was wrapped in a thick length of woolen plaid the color of the autumn leaves. Most of his chest was bare. He wore leather forearm guards carved with knots and swirls. The hilt of a knife gleamed at his waist and as Stark studied him, he noticed a gold chieftain’s torque around his neck. His hair was shaven to his scalp except for a short Mohawk and his close-cropped beard was entirely white. Golden hoops decorated one of his earlobes. His
