Donna Grant: Wicked Highlander

The Warriors throughout the cavern began to stomp their feet, banging them like a drum against the stones. Marcail raised her eyes to Deirdre as the two guards stopped in the middle of the cave.

There was a hint of fear in Marcail’s gaze, but not the usual terror that Deirdre was used to. Marcail could be a problem, which is why she was being thrown into the Pit. Few Warriors survived in the shadows. There was no way a mie would last a day. Whether the Warriors raped Marcail or killed her, all that mattered was that the Druid would be dead — of course, those same Warriors would die for harming Marcail, but Deirdre didn’t care. She wanted to focus on other things. Like Quinn.

With a nod, Deirdre bade the trapdoor open. Marcail screamed as the floor shifted and titled beneath her. The Druid’s feet slid out from underneath her. She clawed at the stones, looking for a way to keep herself from falling into the gaping darkness below her.

Deirdre wasn’t worried that Marcail might get free. Her Warriors loved a good show, and they wouldn’t be denied.

She wanted to watch what Quinn and the others would do to the Druid, but she knew the anticipation of seeing Quinn would make their joining that much better.

Deirdre turned her back on the Pit and the shouts and whistles of the Warriors. She headed toward her chamber so she could dream about Quinn. Already her body throbbed for his touch.

But it wouldn’t be long now. He was succumbing to what the Pit was best for — beating away hope. Just a few more weeks and he would be hers.

Isla, hidden high above Deirdre in the shadows, gazed at the action below her with interest. As one of the few Druids who hadn’t been killed, Isla was interested in what made Deirdre stay her hand with this newest Druid — Marcail.

It hadn’t taken Isla long to discover that Marcail had buried in her mind the spell that would bind the gods in the Warriors.

That alone was what prompted Deirdre to have Dunmore, her mortal huntsman, seek out Marcail. It had taken Dunmore much longer than Deirdre had expected to bring Marcail to the mountain.

Isla had observed Druid after Druid die beneath Deirdre’s magic. Deirdre enjoyed spilling a Druid’s blood since it gave her magic added power, but she usually preferred to do it in her special chamber where she could be sure no magic escaped. Isla had sensed Marcail’s potent magic as soon as the Druid had entered the mountain, so why then had Deirdre gathered everyone in the cavern?

No sooner had that thought crossed Isla’s mind than the Warriors hauled Marcail to the entrance of the Pit. Isla’s fingers dug into the stones, causing her nails to bend backward. She didn’t feel the blood oozing from the sensitive skin beneath her nails as she watched Marcail fall into the Pit.

She gazed into the Pit, waiting for the Warriors to pounce on Marcail and tear her to shreds as they normally did anything that had the misfortune to be thrown into the darkness. Isla glanced at the place Deirdre had been only to find her gone.

When Isla turned her attention back to the Pit, she saw a black-skinned Warrior leap on top of Marcail. Isla had never figured Quinn MacLeod would give in to his god so easily. After everything she had heard of the MacLeod brothers, she was disappointed.

She began to turn away when she saw Quinn toss something out of the way, something that looked suspiciously like the body of a woman.

A slow smile spread on Isla’s face.

The scream lodged in Marcail’s throat as the floor slanted under her feet. She was falling. Into the Pit.

Stay strong. Focus. Think!

Her body hit the stone with a loud smack, and she scrambled to hold on to the sloping rock. She ignored the pain throughout her body and concentrated on not falling. Her fingers kept slipping on the smooth stone, the darkness rising up to meet her faster and faster with the lowering of the door.

Then, thank the saints, she found a handhold. She held on for dear life, her fingers aching with the effort. She wanted just a moment to get her bearings before she clawed her way back out.

But she should have known better.

She had forgotten the Warriors and wyrran surrounding her. Too late she saw the Warrior come at her out of the corner of her eye. His foot connected with her ribs, the pain sharp and terrible.

Her fingers released their hold at the same time her brain screamed at her not to let go.

And then she was falling.

She hit the ground on her side with a thud that left her dazed and her head spinning. She didn’t move, afraid of the aches she would find. Seconds ticked by as the crowd above her shouted and roared their excitement. What did they know that she did not?

Then she heard it.

She wasn’t alone in the darkness.

Marcail pushed past the hurt of her body and rose up on an elbow to peer into the shadows. Who was there? Or rather… what ? She could feel them watching her. And waiting.

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as she heard the first growl. Her stomach flipped then fell to her feet as fear took hold of her with a cold hand. She knew then what surrounded her. Warriors.

Her entire body hurt, and she feared her ribs might be cracked. There wasn’t time to think about that, though, not when certain death faced her.

The first Warrior stepped out of the shadows at her feet. His skin was bright green, like the color of the first buds of spring. He crouched before her, his lips pulled back to bare his large fangs. His hair was matted and of indistinguishable color with all the filth in it as it hung in his face hiding everything but the blazing green eyes.

He was going to pounce on her and rip her flesh with his long, green claws. She had used all her courage with Deirdre. Now, all that was left was the terror that settled around her like a heavy cloak, preventing her from moving or even breathing.

Get up. You’re a Druid. Act like it.

But she had no weapons, nothing to defend herself with other than some magic that would do no good against these Warriors. She wanted to curl in a ball and let the tears come.

What would Grandmother think?

Another Warrior joined the first. This one had skin the color of her favorite gray mare. The Warrior tilted his head to the side and licked his lips.

Please, God.

A Warrior of white stepped out of the shadows and regarded her with his pool of milky white eyes. He seemed almost uninterested in her, as if he cared more about what the other Warriors were doing.

A deep, feral growl filled with menace and death sounded to her left that made all the other Warriors look in that direction. A cold sweat broke out over Marcail’s skin as dread overtook her.

It happened so fast. One moment the Warriors were looking in the darkness, the next the growling began in earnest. It grew and grew until her ears rang with it.

And then something large and black leapt out of the shadows to land on top of her.

Marcail swallowed a scream and braced herself for the pain she knew was coming. Only there was nothing.

Something grabbed her about the waist and tossed her into the shadows as if she weighed nothing more than a leaf. Marcail’s already injured body shook with renewed pain as she landed against the stone walls. Her head banged against something hard.

She tried to focus her eyes, but all she saw was a mass of colored bodies flaying each other alive.

And then darkness took her.

Quinn waited until the other Warriors realized he would battle them forever if he had to. One by one, they drifted back to their caves. It wasn’t until he was the only one left standing that he moved back into the shadows. It had taken him days to fight each one of the Warriors in the Pit to stamp his dominance on them after he’d first arrived.