Page 53 of An Unlikely Knight

It was happening. What Liam had foreseen, that the others would return, would face an enemy so strong, it could cost their lives. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or pride that filled him. If they were to die, then they would die together. None of them, for one instant, backing down.

The sorceress who’d granted them powers to defend themselves had predicted that on the last day of the three hundredth year in the alter-world, they would become mortal. It was a price they’d gladly accepted, convinced they’d find their way back long before the deadline.

“You should be in bed,” Liam said when Padriag limped into the front room. “Your wounds will heal if you stay still.”

Padriag ignored him and looked at Tristan. The laird was a different man since leaving, his hair was cut into a modern style. Unlike the man who’d been trapped for three hundred years, his tunic, leather breeches and animal hide boots were replaced with sturdy denim pants, a thick pullover and a jacket that could withstand artic temperature. On his feet, Tristan wore rugged mountain boots. He was more than prepared.

“After we leave, you can plan a trip to the north pole,” Padriag quipped by way of greeting.

Tristan gave him a puzzled look. Sometimes Padriag forgot that they were from another time and had so much to learn about the world. Unlike him who’d often gone to Scotland, had sat in university classes, kept up with the changing times, the others had for the most part remained separate from their homeland.

“Liam told me what happened. We should have been here to defend you.” Tristan’s tone was flat, his gaze roaming over Padriag.

Padraig shrugged. “Been there done that. Although I must admit, Meliot was very creative this time.” He held up a hand with its half-healed wounds. “No fingernails.”

Ever methodical, Liam motioned to the table. “Come sit. I made more of that tea for you. Tell us everything you remember about the surroundings at Meliot’s.”

Liam took Tristan outside to see the aurochs as Padriag sat in front of the hearth feeling restless. He wanted to prepare for the battle ahead, but it proved difficult since he was barely able to move without pain. Besides moving too much would reopen the lash wounds.

“This is not what I expected,” Gavin stated, materializing. When he took a step forward, his boot caught the edge of the rug, and he stumbled forward.

“If you land on me, I will kill you,” Padriag held both arms out hoping to stop the huge blond man’s fall.

Somehow Gavin managed to not fall and gave Padriag a triumphant grin. “How are you?”

“Excited that I don’t have to worry about trimming my fingernails for a while.” Padraig held up his hands.

“He tries to be creative.” Gavin said with a grimace.

Blowing out a breath, Padriag shrugged. “He wanted to keep things fresh between us.”

“I have a new power,” Gavin said. “Last night, when I was working at the stables, the sorceress appeared to me. She told me to hold my arms out.” He removed a jacket like Tristan’s and rolled up his sleeves. Then he held out his arms that had what looked like tribal tattoos had formed from the wrist upward. “I can send energy bursts from my palms. Much like yours.”

“Holy shit,” Padriag exclaimed. “That’s amazing.”

The Scot studied his arms. “Need to practice.” He looked around the room. “Where are the others?”

“At the stables, looking at the Esland aurochs.”

After stating he’d return, Gavin hurried from the house. Nothing like a new creature to get men’s attention.

“You look like shite.” Niall’s deep voice cut through the still air, startling Padriag from his daze. His tone was laced with wry amusement, though concern flickered beneath it. “Let’s hope my power of healing returns with me.”

Before Padriag could form a reply, Niall stepped forward, his presence steady and resolute. Warmth radiated from his palms as he pressed them against Padriag’s battered skin, and the reaction was immediate—like fire and ice colliding in his veins. A sharp, tingling sensation raced through him, then a rush of relief, as if invisible threads were knitting his torn flesh back together.

Without even glancing down, he knew—the wounds were closing.

His fingertips mending.

Healing completely.