Kat Bastion - Forged in Dreams and Magick

The desk’s immaculate, shining surface showed that MacLaren had been in residence within the last few days. Iain and I had no idea if we’d arrive alone or shock the hell out of my mentor, but the risked chance outweighed the not knowing.

Iain stood behind the desk in his finest plaid. The heirloom brooch fastened to his hip gleamed in the light of the room. He lifted his gaze up to me. We owed everything to that box.

I walked to the far wall of the professor’s enormous tribute to the past. Dusty tomes were stacked neatly on their sides to protect the aged spines. Definitive proof would be found in the facsimile edition of the Codex Laurentianus Mediceus by Tacitus, but the horrific Latin scrawl was nearly illegible. My index finger hovered over the books until I found a powder-blue, unjacketed cover. I lifted three other historical first editions to free the one that would tell us everything: Clarence W. Mendell’s Tacitus: The Man and His Work .

With bated breath, I curled into a corner of the coffee Chesterfield sofa, the leather softly creaking as I tucked suede-clad legs beneath me. I flipped the pages to the second half of the book, scanning every section that mentioned Agricola. Everything had remained the same.

I glanced up at Iain who remained rooted where he stood, silently watching. “Nothing’s changed.”

He nodded once.

Satisfied for the moment, I replaced the book and methodically stacked the professor’s other collectibles into their rightful place. A light layer of dust coated the mahogany shelf. I drew a smiley face in the evidence that a cleaning lady had never touched its surface; MacLaren refused to trust anyone to care for his treasures the same way he coddled them . . . well, besides me.

A huge grin stretched onto my face. Everything I needed to assess my historical impact was hidden in plain sight. I stepped back, scanning the entire wall on a reminiscing scavenger hunt.

“What’re you doin’, Isa?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Iain had moved closer and stood with his arms crossed in front of the gilded mirror. “Shhh . . .” I cringed the moment the sound left my lips, knowing I’d pay for the inconsiderate silencing later.

My gaze roved a shelf at eye level until I’d found it: the pressed orange poppy I’d hidden for MacLaren to find, if he’d ever bothered to clean. A few shelves down to the right . . . and there was the second: the hot-pink corner of a smartass note I’d left on the virtues of cleanliness. It peeked out from between two volumes of George Buchanan’s History of Scotland . I tugged at the corner, pulling it out a bit further to announce its presence and, I supposed, mine.

I tapped a finger to my lips, trying to remember where I’d placed other clues of my existence. Firm hands gripped my shoulders, turning me around.

“Enough, Isa. You were here. To know that is enough.”

I nodded, laughing. “Yes, you’re right.”

He wisely tugged me from the modern-day static wall where I could spend days researching through books on the effects of my presence in history, all illustrating the same clear and undeniable conclusion: I’d been there all along.

Iain paused as we stood by our box. His gaze tracked left toward the mirror. Mine followed, and the reflection took my breath away.

He wrapped his arms around me. I slid a hand around his waist, tipping my head onto his shoulder, admiring the beautiful couple: his chestnut hair, bronzed skin, and white linen shirt beneath a green-and-black plaid; her wild, unbound blond locks, tanned skin, and new deerskin hunting outfit he’d had newly made for her and insisted she wear.

Iain hooked a finger under my chin, and I gazed up into his olive eyes. They conveyed trust, protection . . . love. The last time we stood together in the room, I was unsure. But I doubted no more.

He whispered, “Isa, our history had been written long before it ever began.”

I smiled, beaming up at him. He’d spoken the utter truth.

“Iain . . . take me home .”

From A Dark Corner of the Room—A Few Seconds Later

It took an obscene effort to mute my innate powers, hiding my presence from the couple so brilliantly in love with one another, a mere mortal would have to wear three pairs of sunglasses. Cue the eye roll.

I stepped from the shadows the moment the blissful pair disappeared, raising both hands as I gestured high into the air my masterful orchestration. “ Aaand . . . they lived happily ever after. ”

My heavy military boots thudded with every footfall as I crossed before the mirror, perfect peripheral vision telling me what I already knew as a black reflection blurred over the flat glass. Darkness existed, ironically epitomized in the flesh and blood of a beautiful, yet feared, creature. An abomination. A savior. A world saver.

Okay, the last moniker stretched the truth beyond even my sardonic belief. All the glory rightly went to Isobel. A facilitator, perhaps, would be a more accurate title for my unique services.

Isobel had done such a beautiful job in handwriting the heartfelt note to her professor about her experiences. The restraint she showed in keeping only to the most pertinent details—striving to keep history from unraveling again by the accidental slip of her pen—was truly commendable.

Fortunately for Isobel, I saw my mission through to the end. Lucky for the world, she had the Guardian of Time to peer over her shoulder and make certain she had a little push at the exact moment she needed it.

I lifted the perfect, ribbon-wrapped parcel in one hand and the box with the other, tucking the latter under my arm, mentally adding “cleaner” to the endless list of hats I wore without complaint.

With a single nod, I paid respect to a place in time Isobel would never see again—a world she’d left behind the moment she truly accepted her role. Priorities had a way of reordering themselves when circumstances changed. She’d almost made me believe in the human race again.

It had been a long haul. So many things had been arranged to achieve the near impossible. My deep rumbled laugh echoed into the room as I vanished, reflecting on my favorites.

Sheep across a road . . .

A push into a stream . . .

Stealing away a box . . .

. . . or a beloved, seven-foot-tall Highlander Viking . . .

I’ve been blessed to have numerous people provide me with insight and guidance during my journey as a writer. To all those who offered support, in gestures big and small, I thank you. A diverse team of people were directly involved in the making of this novel and are mentioned below; however, any errors within the published novel, whether existing there intentionally or not, are my errors alone.

On a hot, muggy night at RWA Nationals in 2010, in an overcrowded restaurant with three of us huddled around a tiny table as we practiced pitching our manuscripts, a new friend asked what other story ideas I had. When I shared the rough synopsis of Forged in Dreams and Magick , she looked at me wide-eyed and said, “That’s the story you need to write.”

I am indebted to that now-dear friend and critique partner Heather, aka “City Beta,” for all the advice, support, tough critiques, laughter, and commiserating every step of the way.

Appreciation goes to my dear friend Misty, aka “Swamp Beta,” for the endless support and love, for trying out a Highlander time travel romance for the very first time, and for texting me while reading with every OMG!, sigh, and character-rooting shout.