Dawn Marie Hamilton -- Writer of Romance

Present Day, Manhattan

Humid July air slammed into Finn MacIntyre as he rushed from the steel and glass high-rise of his family's prestigious business consulting firm. The fine linen shirt he wore instantly stuck to his chest. He tugged at the fabric and surveyed the heavy afternoon traffic with annoyance. The shrill horn from a passing vehicle blared, starting a frenzy of honking.

Finn released a heavy sigh and loosened his silk tie. If he didn't find a cab right away, he'd be late for his flight.

He flicked his gaze at the empty curbside stand and then hurried along Madison Avenue in search of a taxi. The tingling on the back of his neck alerted him someone followed. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions.

Damn. To be stalked by beautiful women would be most men's fantasy dream, but it was his worst nightmare and all too real. The debutante following him was just the most recent.

His fists tightened, and he quickened his pace. He didn't have the time or the inclination to deal with the woman's intrigues.

In an effort to lose her, he sprinted along the crowded avenue, weaving in and out of the hordes of pedestrians. Several blocks away, he ducked into a side street and jumped into the first cab he came across.

"LaGuardia, and make it fast."

When he looked back, a second cabby pulled in behind them, the damned woman the passenger. Dread burned in his gut. He told her he wouldn't marry her. Why did she persist in pursuing him?

"There's an extra hundred in it if you lose the yellow following us."

The driver accelerated into the flow of vehicles. The cabs careened through midtown traffic, one tailing the other, both running red lights and just missing bystanders. Finn used his arms and legs to brace himself, determined to keep his seat. On the freeway, the two taxis raced along straight-aways, darted between cars, skidded around curves.

When he entered the airport terminal, the woman wasn't far behind. Zigzagging through the crowd, he lost her at security.

Finn boarded his flight, slumped into his first-class seat, and ordered a whisky. While the crew prepared for takeoff, he spied the woman watching through the large plate-glass window of the waiting area. She must have bribed someone to get through the checkpoint. Her audacity made him shudder.

The 737 gained altitude. He stared out the small window at the wispy clouds. He could imagine the look of defeat in her dark eyes when the aircraft pulled back from the jet way to speed him off to North Carolina.

* * *

Blue Ridge Mountains

Finn inhaled deeply. His lungs filled with fresh mountain air. For the first time in months, he was free of fawning women. Free of the awkward position they put him in.

Patrick's sword sliced past his face, drawing him from his thoughts. He needed to pay attention. If he weren't more careful, he'd be wallowing in the mud.

"Finn, you fight like a lass," Patrick taunted.

Rain drenched Finn, mixing with sweat, making the sword hilt slippery in his hands.

"You must learn to fight under every circumstance. And that includes rain. This could save your miserable life someday."

Grunting, Finn ducked the next assault.

Patrick pulled back. "Enough!" He dropped the point of his claymore to the ground and scowled. "'Tis obvious, you are not paying attention."

Trying to catch his breath, Finn gulped in air. He glared at his cousin-in-law. "This is supposed to be just for fun."

Patrick grinned. "Ach, then. You must try harder to have fun, lad."

Finn shook his head. Patrick MacLachlan was a primitive man; to him a workout with the large two-handed sword was child's play.

Patrick placed a hand on Finn's wet shoulder. "Come. The bairns are at the inn for Rory's Thursday morning story time. Let us go and warm ourselves by the fire and listen to the old Highlander tell his tales."

About twenty-five eagerly waiting children sat on the plush carpet in the parlor of the Whispering Pines Inn. Gossiping moms relaxed on overstuffed floral sofas. A few dads stood nearby, appearing disinterested. Finn knew better. Everyone loved hearing Rory's stories.

The crackling fire brought much-needed warmth to the dreary mountain morning. Finn followed Patrick to the hearth, hoping his clothes would dry.

Conversations ended when Rory MacNaughton entered from the rear door, his carved walking stick at his side. The elderly gentleman wore dress slacks, a brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, and a tam covering his white hair. He greeted individuals as he crossed the room and eased onto the tall stool at the center of the parlor. With an age-spotted hand, he motioned for his audience to move closer.

With alert eyes sparkling, Rory glanced at Finn and grinned. One of the men standing nearby chuckled. Finn silently groaned, sure he knew the yarn the storyteller would regale them with.

Taking a deep breath, Rory began his tale...

"The Sithichean, the fairies of the ancient Highlands, had a special affinity for moonstones. Enamored by the pale, lustrous, blue color resembling that of moonlight, they found the best of these unique stones on the shores of their sensuous fairy paradise Tir-nan-Óg--land o' heart's desire--having washed ashore on the tides when the sun god and the moon maiden were in a particular heavenly harmony."

Rory leaned forward. "Ye ken this miraculous occurrence happens only once in three, seven-year cycles of the moon..."

He held up his index finger. "Just once in a very blue moon," he whispered.

A hush fell across the parlor.

"Handfuls of these precious stones belonged to a beautiful flame-haired fairy with eyes the color and brightness of the most costly emeralds."

"Caitrina?" a precocious little girl, with red curls and freckles sprinkled across her nose, whispered aloud. Her blond friend giggled, and Rory smiled at the pair before continuing.

"She bestowed upon the moonstones magical powers, gifting them to deserving mortals. Some of these charmed stones had the ability to reunite lost lovers. Others gave the bearer the gift of second sight. One especially large gemstone she forged into the hilt of a magnificent Highland claymore, and with a kiss enchanted it with an extraordinary power."

His eyes wide, a boy in front pointed at Finn.

Finn glanced down at his sodden form. He must be a sight, his soaked shirt clinging to his chest and his wet kilt slung low on his hips. He'd grown his hair long and now the knotty, wet strands hung around his shoulders in disarray. Beside him, his sheathed sword leaned against the stone of the fireplace, the large moonstone in its pommel plain to see.

Rory chuckled, locking gazes with him. With tight lips, Finn shook his head no. He didn't want the kids to think his sword was the one of which Rory spoke.

"Over the ages, the sword brought many a worthy warrior fame and fortune. That was until the day a malevolent dark power used it." Rory's voice rose and his pace quickened. "This could not be borne. With green eyes shooting flames of fire, the one who fashioned the splendid weapon cast it far away to vanish in the sands of time."

Then the storyteller lowered his voice an octave and slowed his speech. "There are those who believe the lost sword of the fey has been found."

Finn didn't want to listen to any more of the man's fantasy. He signaled to Patrick he was leaving.

Patrick followed him into the foyer. "Lad, why in such a rush?"

"My claymore doesn't have supernatural powers. It's just a very old antique sword."

"Ach, well. Dinnae take offense. Rory means nae insult. He merely wishes for the bairns to believe in a wee bit of magic. Nae harm in that."

Finn shrugged. "Guess not."

"Will you be staying for the midday meal?" Patrick asked.

"No. I'm going to get out of these wet clothes then go to the mountain to take a nap before the festival begins."

* * *

Finn walked along the muddy gravel road past the travel trailers, water dripping off his rain gear. Why hadn't he thought to rent one of those? He'd be about to enjoy a dry warm bed instead of a damp sleeping bag. He continued down the road, swerving to sidestep one exceptionally large puddle.

There were few people out and about. The afternoon rain kept most from exploring. Those who had ventured outdoors huddled beneath ugly blue tarps, sat around smoldering campfires that made him want to sneeze, or were garbed in bright-colored rain gear from head to toe.

Heading down the hill past pop-up trailers, he walked into what some called Flag Town. Wet banners and flags flapped in the wind, hanging mostly everywhere, from ropes strung across the road, from poles in campsites, from the trees. Stars and Stripes, St. Andrew's Crosses, and Lion Rampants hung together among the multitude of Clan banners. The display roused his ancestral pride.

He waved to a couple of fellow reenactors then jumped over a fast running stream that hadn't been there yesterday. The flow weaved its way across the road, along the edge, through the center of someone's campsite, to cross the road again around the bend. There the water rushed into the woods, into the fairy glen where his friends, the MacRae sisters, camped.

Farther along the road, Finn's tent stood in the woods at the edge of the camping area, behind the campsite of a bunch of good ole boys, alumni of the University of Tennessee. Fortunately, he had pitched his humble abode on the hill, digging a trench around the upward side. His efforts paid off. The water flowed around the tent instead of through it. But there was too much rain, making it impossible for anything to stay completely dry.

Finn bent to unzip the fly and entered the vestibule. Hunched over, he re-zipped the flap and took off his rain gear, hanging the wet jacket and pants on the line he'd strung inside. Removing his muddy boots, he unzipped the tent and climbed in. His sleeping bag wasn't wet, just damp. He didn't care. He needed sleep. Rolling his shoulders, he tried to ease the tension in his muscles from his workout with Patrick. He reached for a ditty bag and took out an aspirin, popped the pill into his mouth, and washed it down with water from his Nalgene bottle.

He wrapped himself in his fleece blanket and lay down on the sleeping bag. The distant skirl of the pipes lulled him toward sleep. Within moments, he began to snore, the sound startling him, almost fully waking him again, before he drifted into oblivion.

She called to him.

The young woman stood alone on the heather covered hill, as if surrounded by a halo, her long strawberry blond hair aglow in the sunshine. A puff of air blew the almost sheer gown she wore, causing the gossamer fabric to cling to her feminine curves, teasing his imagination.

The lilting sound of her voice came to him on the breeze, soft and alluring.

At first, he couldn't make out her words. She spoke a language he didn't understand. And then...

"Come to me, my warrior...save me...come to me."

* * *

The POP of a firecracker jolted Finn awake. Disoriented, he blinked several times before he remembered he was in his tent at Grandfather Mountain. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late for the opening ceremonies of the Highland Games and Gathering of the Scottish Clans.

The rain had stopped and late afternoon sunshine blessed the North Carolina Mountains.

Dressed and ready, Finn sauntered up the road, taking on the persona of the reenactment costume he wore. He enjoyed impersonating a sixteenth century Highland warrior. It afforded him the chance to be someone else for a while. Forget the demands of his career. Take pleasure in the day. With the added bonus of venting pent-up energy in mock sword fights.

He passed the campsite of four women he'd met from South Carolina. He stopped and exchanged pleasantries before continuing on his way. Fortunately, his name meant little to them.

A couple of years ago, a trendy New York City magazine named him the Most Eligible Bachelor in Manhattan. Ever since, women relentlessly pursued him. He was glad only a few people at this year's Scottish gathering were aware of his status and wealth. The others knew him merely as a member of the MacIntyre clan. And damn it. That was the way he wanted it.

He didn't enjoy the attention women forced on him. He'd never been one to intentionally hurt anyone's feelings. Especially not a woman's. His father had raised him to treat women with respect. But the mad dash of so many attempting to lure him into a loveless marriage was more than a man could endure.

Amy Ferguson stepped from her tent. Dressed in hip hugging jeans, her tight strappy tee sported a Celtic logo with the words: Celtic Woman, Goddess With An Attitude.

"Finn, you look fetching this evening," she said as she joined him.

He inwardly cringed. He'd hoped to avoid her.

"Thanks," he said.

She moistened her lips and smiled. "Really, you look great."

Finn knew his outfit looked authentic. He'd donned a saffron-colored knee length leine. Over the linen, he'd draped the MacIntyre hunting plaid of green and blue. His claymore hung across his back. Even so, his outfit was nothing more than a costume.

Besides, what he wore wasn't what interested the brazen brunette. She'd made it perfectly clear on the one date they'd had last summer that her interests included marrying for money. She only toyed with him, fortunately unaware of his wealth.

"Let me see your claymore."

He didn't really want to oblige her, but to be polite he reached over his shoulder, pulled his sword free of its sheath, and held it forward, balancing the heavy weight across his palms.

Amy gasped and her eyes bugged out as she took in the size of the moonstone imbedded in the pommel of the sword. "My God! Is that real?"

Seeing the calculating glint that came to her eyes, he lied. "Nah. An imitation."

He returned the sword to the leather sheath strapped to his back. She'd not even noticed the beautiful Celtic symbols etched into the blade.

Krystle, a fellow reenactor's daughter, emerged from a pop-up trailer across the way and ran over to join them. "Hey Finn, you look way cool."

He smiled, glad for the interruption. "Ach lass, you're a comely wench."

Dipping into a quick curtsy, Krystle giggled, obviously enjoying their play. She spun around. "Do you think Jamesie will notice me?"

Even though it wasn't what she asked of him, Finn inspected her costume for historical accuracy with a critical eye. Dressed in the ancient way, a white linen leine graced her ankles with a belted arisaid overtop, fastened at her breast with a Celtic brooch. Her eating knife, secured in a decorative leather sheath, hung from the belt at her waist. When he raised his gaze to her face, her French braid pulled his attention to her expressive crystalline eyes and he remembered what she asked.

He guessed she was bound to break some hearts before she settled down. A cute college student from New Jersey on vacation with her family, she wore her Celtic heritage well. Born on St. Paddy's Day to parents of Irish and Scottish descent, she was a petite blond miss with sparkling blue eyes.

"Aye lass, I'm sure he will," Finn assured her.

He gave her a formal bow as her brother Tyler approached the group. Tyler was also dressed in costume, wearing a baggy white tunic under a great kilt of red, white and blue Hamilton plaid. He wore a dirk in a leather sheath at his waist and carried a studded leather targe.

"Don't encourage her," he said. "She's already full of herself."

Krystle punched her brother in the arm and they all laughed good-naturedly.

Although Finn usually enjoyed greeting friends, he took the opportunity to excuse himself. "I must be off. I'm meeting my cousin's family at the field for the picnic." He turned to leave.

But before he did, he heard Amy say, "I'd love to get under his skirt."

He twisted around. Tyler and Krystle rolled their eyes and walked away to leave Amy standing in the road, staring at him with a speculative grin.

Finn waved farewell, pretending he hadn't heard. However, as he headed on up the road toward the festival grounds, he distinctly felt the heat of Amy's gaze on his back. With that, an uncomfortable chill reached down deep into the very marrow of his bones.

Shivering, he shook off the cold feeling. He was lucky she didn't know he was the Finn MacIntyre, CEO and President of MacIntyre Consulting, the number-two privately held business-consulting firm in the United States.

Lately the demands of his career had become overwhelming. He understood better now why his father had years earlier dumped the responsibility of running the family firm on his shoulders and disappeared for months at a time to dig ancient artifacts in some godforsaken desert in Africa. Lately, Finn, too, found himself, more often than not, escaping the city whenever possible and leaving the running of the firm to his two new partners.

And they were more than willing to have him out of their way, encouraging him to take a less hands-on role in the business.

Maybe he should take a serious look at his life and make some major changes.

His cousin, Laurie MacLachlan, often teased him about flaunting his wealth. He tried not to do that anymore. He learned his lesson when that stupid magazine did the article on him. So whenever he visited North Carolina, he kept a low profile. He dressed down, drove and old-beater pickup truck, and slept in a tent while attending the games.

He sighed. One of these days, he'd find balance in his life.

Entering the meadow from the wooded camping area, Finn stopped for a moment to take in the view. The spectacle of all the colorful clan tents was impressive, but the view of Grandfather's summit as a backdrop to the festival grounds was humbling indeed. The bronze light of the setting sun played across the old man's features. Nature at her awe-inspiring best.

Finn crossed the running track and found his cousin Laurie with her husband Patrick, their baby daughter, and their two wild toddlers. The twins, Scott and Ian, ran around the picnic blanket, playing warrior with wooden swords. They were cute little boys, and Finn enjoyed hanging with them. Someday he hoped to have a couple just like them.

If only the woman from my dreams was real. He sighed heavily and pushed that impossible wish out of his mind.

By the time he ate and settled on the blanket it was almost dark. The torchlight ceremony would soon begin. When Laurie managed to get the boys to settle down, Scott came over and climbed onto Finn's lap. He tousled the imp's blond curls, inhaling the lad's rough and tumble, little boy scent. Finn's heart gave a squeeze. He glanced at Laurie holding her daughter, leaning against Patrick, their son Ian curled on his father's lap. This was what he craved, a harmonious family life-here in these mountains.

Darkness fell and the ceremony began. A deep voice came across the loud speaker, explaining the historic significance of the torch ceremony.

"The saltire cross of Saint Andrew is recognized as Scotland's ancient symbol. Tonight, we call the clans to rendezvous as our ancestors were once summoned to battle." The speaker went silent. Then yelled...

"Raise the Clans!"

Chills played along Finn's spine, as one by one, the resonant voice called the names. "Anderson...Armstrong...Baird...Barcley...Bell...Bruce..." As he called each clan's name, a representing member crossed the field, carrying a lit torch to add to the fiery cross of flames in the center of the field.

"...MacIntyre." Finn leapt to his feet, hugging the excited Scott to his chest. Laurie and Patrick joined them along with Ian. They all screamed as loud as they could, jumping up and down. They did the same again, a few minutes later when the call was for Clan MacLachlan.

"Life or Death." Patrick yelled the MacLachlan battle cry, his fist extended in the air.

After they sat, Scott climbed off Finn's lap to go to his mother.

Finn distinctly felt the loss, a barren place in the center of his chest. He rubbed his palm over the spot. He'd better get himself in-gear and find a woman who could love him. Undoubtedly, the task would be difficult.

The curse he choked on came from deep within that aching void near his heart.

He wanted to have children and he wasn't getting any younger. At thirty-six, he was past the age when he should have started a family. He wanted to be young enough to enjoy rough housing with his boys.

He swallowed, targeting his attention on the clan emissaries walking across the field and the rich baritone coming from the loudspeakers.

"...Stewart...Sutherland...Turnbull...Wallace...Young." When the last torch was set, the speaker called out, "The clans have come once again to celebrate who they are."

The torches burned brightly. The haunting sounds of the pipes filled the air.

Finn experienced a sense of belonging he never imagined. A feeling of rightness.

The abundance of twinkling stars overhead added to the magic.

Patrick broke the spell when he nudged Finn while attempting to gather up the twins and their belongings.

Finn bent to pick up the picnic basket. "I'll help you carry this stuff to your car."

As they walked along the path toward the parking lot, Laurie grabbed his arm. The beam from his flashlight bobbed crazily across the ground.

"I hope you didn't forget that my garden party is tonight at eleven," she said.

He nodded with a grunt.

"I expect you to be there on time and to still be in costume. And for heaven sakes, please be nice to Jillian."

Finn groaned and Patrick snorted.

* * *

The lively tunes of fiddlers greeted Finn as he parked his truck in the gravel lot near Laurie's garden center. He could just barely see a small portion of her garden through the iron gate.

The MacLachlan home and garden spread across the lush hills and glens of a large parcel of land nestled in the mountains near Anderson Creek. Laurie had discovered the original cottage and garden while vacationing at the MacLachlan's Whispering Pines Inn. The improvements she and Patrick made in such a short time impressed Finn.

He felt pride in Laurie when he thought of all she'd accomplished since handing him her resignation and moving here a mere two years ago. He hadn't believed she'd be happy in the country. But since she had her adventure and married Patrick, she proved him wrong. Her small garden center and gift shop, Foxgloves, had become a very successful local enterprise.

Finn shuddered when he thought of seeing her two business partners, Jillian and Caitrina.

Forcing his dislike to the back of his mind, he got out of the pickup and entered the garden through the front gate.

Of course, Jillian was the first guest he saw. She leaned against the side of the tool shed, watching the musicians. Whenever she and he were thrown together, she tripped over herself to get his attention. Although he knew it would make his cousin happy, Finn had no desire to pursue a relationship with the small mousy woman. He couldn't picture her as the mother of his sons.

He strolled in the opposite direction through the garden, hoping to avoid her attention.

Then he noticed Caitrina almost hidden within the lush foliage near the rear gate. Their gazes met. A small impish smile played on her lips.

She really made him edgy. He wasn't sure what it was about her. Beautiful, tall and willowy, she had intense green eyes. Her long auburn hair would set any man's heart racing. In fact, his best friend Douglas was in love with her. But there was something unusual about her. Something out of the ordinary that Finn couldn't quite ascertain which made him damn uncomfortable.

He found it disturbing the way she always seemed to watch him, staring with those piercing emerald eyes of hers, as if she knew something he didn't.

Finn tore his gaze away.

Before long, Jillian bore down on him. He sidestepped a server with a tray of champagne glasses and quickly strode off to the sanctuary of the house, to the refrigerator for a cold beer.

* * *

Caitrina stood amongst the rose-colored foxglove, alone in the shadows near the garden's rear gate. She'd seen Finn evade Jillian's clumsy attempt to attract his attention. As he disappeared into the house, Caitrina turned away to gaze up at the silvery haze surrounding the full moon. The time neared, and she'd work to do.

From her peripheral vision, she glimpsed Douglas MacKinnon watching her. He raised an eyebrow in question.

What a meddlesome man. Caitrina glanced heavenward, wishing he'd go away.

When she looked in his direction again, he gave her one of his devastating smiles, saluted her, and walked off.

Oh how she wanted to turn him into a horny toad.

But she couldn't waste time thinking about the beguiling man. She had a challenge to win.

Taking note of the other guests, she made sure no one noticed as she shimmered, faded, dissolved into a fragrant mist.

* * *

A large hand clamped on Finn's shoulder as he reached into the fridge.

At first he tensed then relaxed, realizing who'd joined him. He had practiced swordplay with Douglas MacKinnon long enough to know the man's distinctive scent.

"Grab one for me too." Douglas squeezed his shoulder before releasing him and stepping away.

Finn took two bottles of beer out of the refrigerator and faced his best friend.

Douglas scraped his palm across the late night shadow of whiskers on his jaw that gave him a hard look. Five inches taller than Finn at six foot seven, he did his heritage proud. He wore a reenactment costume similar to Finn's with his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A cynical smile curled his lips. When he stared at you through his tiger-like eyes, you knew he meant business. His one weakness seemed to be Caitrina.

Finn was glad to call the man friend. "Hey. How's things?"

Douglas took the beer from Finn and pried off the cap. "Great. This is my busiest week and sales at my shop are solid."

There was no surprise in that. Douglas owned the Celtic Image shop in the village of Anderson Creek, where he stocked all kinds of merchandise from Scotland and Ireland and Wales. Finn had bought his claymore in the store the first time he'd come to the area and he and Douglas had become quick friends.

"I bet. Everyone who attends the games visits your shop." After prying off the cap from his own beer, Finn raised the bottle. "Slàinte mhór!"

"Good health!" Douglas returned.

The bottles clinked.

"I need to tell you something," Douglas said. His tone of voice sounded serious.

Unease tightened Finn's gut. He gave his friend his full attention. "What gives?"

"You know I don't usually get involved in other people's business. But...well... Patrick told me Laurie's been anxious lately. She's having nightmares about the time she was abducted. He's worried."

"She seemed nervous the other day when she picked me up at the airport in Asheville. I sensed something was wrong, but I wasn't sure what." Finn fiddled with the label on his beer bottle. "Thanks for mentioning this. I'll talk to her again and see if there's any way I can help. I've been trying to convince her to see a professional, but she doesn't want to talk to a stranger about her experience. She's afraid she'd slip, say something about her time-traveling adventure and they'd think she's a lunatic. No one would ever believe she was tortured by a sixteenth century warrior and nearly beaten to death."

Sometimes it still amazed Finn that Laurie had simply walked through her garden gate and traveled back in time to sixteenth century Scotland.

He winced when he thought of the thin scars that crisscrossed her back. She'd met Patrick in the past, and his enemy, a man by the name of Malcolm Maclay, had kidnapped and tortured her. Fortunately, she was rescued and wed Patrick before they traveled forward in time to present day North Carolina. They sure were surprised to find his parents already living here, running a B&B. The old adage held. Truth really was stranger than fiction.

A furrow appeared in Douglas's forehead. "Can't blame her for her fear. You know she's right. We need to help her ourselves."

"Yeah. I agree. There are times when I wish I could travel back in time and do away with her tormentor."

Douglas grasped hold of his upper arm and squeezed. "Guard that thought."

Finn nodded, and Douglas released him.

"Damn that bastard Maclay!" Finn took a deep swig from his bottle, allowing the hearty dark brew to wash away his anger.

"Come on. Let's go join the rest of the party in the garden. I'll help you keep Jillian at bay." Douglas gave Finn a conspiratorial wink.

Finn adjusted the sword on his back as he and Douglas joined Patrick's parents, Mairi and Iain, and the guests standing around their host.

Patrick called for quiet. Holding up his glass, he said, "A toast to my sweet wife..." His words trailed off as he stared at Laurie. She gaped toward the back of the garden, to the gate and beyond, her face ashen.

A stranger stood there, brandishing a claymore in the air, until the man's watery image faded, vanishing back into the swirling fog.

"Maclay!" Patrick bellowed as he ran toward the gate.

Before he could run through, his father grabbed his arm, holding him back with a tight grip. "Nae son, you cannae go. You have bairns and a wife now. We dinnae ken whether you could ever return here."

Finn's temper flared. With little thought, he slipped past Patrick and bolted for the gate.

"No, Finn. You mustn't!" Laurie cried.

The entreaty came too late. He sprinted through the gate to the fairy knoll and into a dense fog. As if from a distance, he heard Patrick's words. "He will not be alone."

Then the world spun, or so it seemed. The pressure was unbearable, the pain almost more than he could endure. He pressed his hands against the sides of his head, afraid his brain would explode.

A bright light burst behind his eyelids.

He fell. A sensation of weightlessness overcame him. Changing colors swirled around in slow motion, flashing and dulling erratically. His mind separated from his physical body. He watched...as if from another realm...as he continued to fall.

Falling downward, down...down...down into a black expanse of nothingness. All color faded from existence. His mind merged with the dark. Blackness surrounded him, enveloping him, frightening him. He thought to scream, but the sound choked in his throat.

The speed of his descent increased. Colors erupted. Lights flashed. He sped toward a narrow opening, and once there was sucked through into a dull gray sky.

Still falling, he saw water below him, a rushing river. His body took on weight, becoming heavier as he fell until he slammed hard against the water and plunged into the cold, wet darkness.