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  Emma turned at a slow spin, sized up the surroundings and ticked off what needed tackling first. She’d seen much worse. She’d volunteered in squalid conditions after earthquakes and other natural or man-made disasters. Easing in an exploratory sniff, clean antiseptic air laced with the fragrance of fresh paint transmitted the clinic’s pristine status to her discerning nose. Moira spoke the truth. They’d scoured the building from stem to stern. Emma exhaled a satisfied sigh. “It’s going to be fine, Moira. I would’ve liked a little stronger lighting but that’s something easily remedied. I think you’ve all done an excellent job here. You should be very proud of yourselves.”

  “I believe ye’ll find the examination rooms have suitable lighting. We felt extra lamps in the waiting area would be an unnecessary waste of already strained resources.”

  Emma turned, taking a step back to escape the pulsating wave of scathing sarcasm attached to the deep baritone voice. “I only meant we’d need proper lighting in order to give quality care to the children. I think the result of the work here is fantastic. I meant no disrespect.”

  Rolled up shirtsleeves, paint-spattered jeans, filthy hands and graying hair at the temples. This gentleman must be another proud volunteer and she’d inadvertently insulted him when she’d vocalized her observations.

  The man’s scowl didn’t lighten. Brows knotted over a pair of eyes narrowed into disapproving slits. Apparently, her first apology hadn’t been enough.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, but if I’m trying to stitch up a child’s wound or examine a wiggling baby, I’ve got to have adequate lighting. I never meant to imply what you’ve done here isn’t outstanding work.”

  Scrubbing a squared jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard, the volunteer arched one sleek, black brow and bent a bit closer to Emma as if he were amazed. “Truly? So, ye think our work just might meet with your high standards?”

  “Uh, Dr. Emma?” Moira cleared her throat with a nervous cough as she edged her way closer and nudged the tip of Emma’s elbow.

  “No, just a minute, Moira.” Emma didn’t appreciate this guy’s imperious tone coupled with the rude defensive glare. Taking pride in his work was one thing but he didn’t have to be an ass about it. “I tell you what, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see one of these exam rooms that you report are so properly lit. I think I need to check it out for myself.” Emma lifted her chin in silent challenge to Mr. Know-it-all. He might as well find out now she wasn’t about to be buffaloed by an overly prideful local.

  “Right this way, Princess, or pardon me, I guess that would be Dr. Princess.” With an elaborate bow, the well-muscled volunteer waved Emma toward a gleaming azure-colored door to the left. “Please check the blue exam room and pray tell us poor commoners if it meets with your American approval.”

  Dr. Princess, my ass. I’ve dealt with bigger jerks than you, buddy. I interned with Dr. Albertson. Shoving through the shining blue door, Emma squinted against the sudden shift in brightness as she entered the room. State-of-the-art examination lights blazed from the ceiling over a steel exam table still draped in layers of shipping plastic.

  “So what do ye think, Dr. Princess? Will these lights meet your discriminating tastes or are we backward Scots too stupid to realize the difference between a flickering candle and an electric lightbulb?”

  The back of Emma’s neck flushed a warning tingle as she wandered about the room tracing a finger along boxes of unopened instruments. Realization washed over her in a sudden aha moment. This guy wasn’t some over-protective volunteer. Pursing her lips, she turned toward her belligerent tour guide glowering at the door. “You’re Alexander Mackenzie, aren’t you?”

  “That would be Dr. Alexander Mackenzie, if ye dinna mind. And of course, I have the papers to back up the title if ye wish to examine them for authenticity.”

  Emma lowered her chin and returned to rummaging in the ancient metal storage cabinet bolted to the farthest wall. Great. She and her new colleague had gotten off to a roaring start. “That won’t be necessary, Dr. Mackenzie. And you can call me Dr. Maxwell.”

  “I distinctly heard Moira and Alfred refer to ye as Dr. Emma.”

  “That term is reserved for friendly people.”

  When no hissing retort returned fire, Emma emerged from nosing through the depths of the cabinet to discover Dr. Smart-ass had disappeared from the doorway. “Well, we’re destined to be the best of friends, aren’t we?” The shaggy teddy bear propped on the shelf just stared back at her with shining black button eyes.

  “Dr. Emma.” Scooting through the partially opened doorway, Moira cast a nervous glance over her shoulder back into the adjacent hallway. “What in the world did ye say to Dr. Mac?” Her forehead creased with worry lines; Moira caught one corner of her lower lip between her teeth while knotting both hands in the folds of the white apron she’d wrapped about her ample waist.

  Emma studied Moira nervously fidgeting at the door and sorted through her choices. Should she catch Moira in the middle of this territorial spat or have mercy on the poor old soul? After taking in the high color on Moira’s flushed cheeks and the ever-deepening creases marching across the older woman’s pale forehead: mercy won out.

  “I just introduced myself. Why?” Emma closed the slightly warped doors to the metal cabinet. With a grunt, she leaned against the cockeyed door to the right and kicked the bottom corner with the ball of her foot to get the stubborn latching mechanism to catch. “How old is this thing?” Emma stole another glance at Moira’s tensed face and read it like the ticker readout across the bottom of a satellite news channel: Trouble in Isle of Lewis clinic. Local prima donna physician threatened by interloper from USA. Catastrophic war inevitable.

  Moira nodded toward the cabinet with a stiff jerk of her head. “That cupboard was left from the days of the barracks. We just repainted it.” A despondent sigh escaped from between her thin, painted lips. “Now Dr. Emma, ye must understand Dr. Mac only wants to get to know ye. He was very anxious about your arrival. He truly looked forward to working with a fine doctor from the United States.”

  “Oh I can tell. He relayed that message loud and clear.” Emma yanked the plastic off the table and wadded it up into a ball. She might save this plastic. It was just about big enough to shrink-wrap Dr. Smart-ass in and might even hold his ego too. If he changed his attitude, she might be nice and even punch out a few air holes.

  As though reading her mind, Moira hurried to gather the plastic away from Emma, bobbing her head until the heavily shellacked curls surrounding her face threatened to escape their sprayed confinement. “Please try and understand. Our Dr. Mac cares deeply about the clinic and above all else, ye must understand he truly is a simple man. No matter how much ye educate them and try to tame them, they’re still silly fools when it comes to speaking what’s in their hearts. Please try to see past what comes out of his mouth. I promise ye, he’s a good man. He’s just set his heart on the success of this clinic and dedicated his life to the health and well-being of the folk on this island. Sometimes he lets his drive to make this clinic survive push everything else into the background—including manners.”

  Poor Moira. A nagging stab of remorse tugged at Emma’s heart. Devotion and kindness radiated from Moira’s eyes as she stood with the balled up plastic clenched against her heaving chest. Well, dammit. Emma huffed an exasperated snort. For Moira’s sake, she couldn’t declare war on Dr. Smart-ass. Hurting Moira would be like kicking a puppy. “I’ll play nice, Moira,” Emma promised, switching off the light. “But I’m not cowing down and taking any crap.”

  “Oh no. No crap.” Moira snapped her head forward in agreement. She scurried alongside Emma and closed the exam room door with a firm click behind them. “We women have known for centuries how to bend men to our will without taking any of their crap.”

  No sooner had the words left Moira’s lips then the shining wire cages surrounding the gleaming bulbs rattled and shook with an agitated fervor. Emma stumbled against t
he smooth concrete wall as the floor lurched beneath her feet. “What the…” Pressing her back against the wall, Emma shifted to a more stable position as a potted plant rattled out of the window and shattered against the floor. An earthquake? On the Isle of Lewis? “Moira.” Emma flinched as a metal tray of instruments clattered into the stainless steel sink in the utility room. “Moira, since when does the Isle of Lewis have earthquakes?”

  Moira peeped out from under the clipboard held over her head and scowled at the swaying light fixtures. “‘Tis the beast. He’s up to no good again. He rattles the earth when he’s about to go on one of his rampages and attack the land.”

  A beast? What kind of beast? Shocked amazement replaced the uneasiness squeezing the air out of her lungs. Surely, Moira had to be kidding. “Moira. A beast? Seriously?” Emma scooted the computer monitor farther away from the edge of the desk and stretched to scoop up a handful of spilled files. “I know I didn’t find any evidence of earthquakes in this region for several hundred years but that doesn’t mean it’s some sort of beast. I mean really, Moira. This is the twenty-first century. Beasts? Come on. There’s got to be a scientific explanation.”

  “I know what I know.” Moira sniffed. Wounded pride pulled down the corners of her mouth. “And if there’s one thing I’m an expert on, it’s the history of my birthplace.” With an irritated grunt, Moira stooped to gather a scattered handful of multi-colored ink pens still spinning across the floor. “Ye’ve never heard of recent earthquakes here because we know that’s no’ what’s shaking the land. The isle trembles whenever the beast stirs from the bowels of his lair. Mark my words, Dr. Emma; a terrible disaster looms on the horizon. It happens after every shaking of the ground and ’tis becoming much more frequent of late.”

  Emma clamped her mouth shut. The determined look on Moira’s face stifled any further arguments. It was useless. No matter what scientific data Emma provided, it was obvious Moira wouldn’t buy it.

  The stubborn old woman shook her head again with firm certainty before Emma even had the chance to say another word. Obviously, Moira believed some sort of monster shook the ground whenever he awoke from his nap. Or at least whenever he decided to wander around the island. Emma had read about the Scots’ phenomenal belief in superstitions. She sighed as she tapped the edges of the mess of papers on the desk until the wad settled into a neat pile. Looked like she had her work cut out for her here in more ways than one.

  Chapter Eight

  “‘Tis time, Arach. Ye’ve served yer purpose. ’Tis time for ye to go back through the portals and torment this world no more.” The Cailleach’s solemn voice rumbled like distant thunder atop the ocean breeze wafting across the face of the cliff.

  “Go?” Arach pulled one eye open. Hoisting his head slowly from atop his folded arms, he shook it hard from side to side. The worrisome midges buzzing about his oozing jowls scattered into the air. “Why would I wish to leave such a fertile hunting ground?

  Belching a bug-zapping blaze out of one nostril, Arach curled his snakelike beard back over one shoulder. “I’ll admit I’ve grown a bit bored with the ease of the kills but I’m nay a fool. Better to grow fat from the meat of an easy kill then become thin by utter choosiness for a particular prey.” If the nagging old woman thought he was going anywhere other than off this ledge to stir a bit of mischief across her lands, then the ancient spirit of the moors was a damn fool. Life was good here. Delicious mortals abounded. He wasn’t about to leave this world.

  Lightning flickered through swollen layers of graying clouds hanging low across the horizon. “‘Tis time for ye to move on to the next reality. Your purpose here is fulfilled.”

  “My purpose?” Arach chuckled and extended a lethal foreclaw under his curled lip in search of another annoying piece of rotted meat wedged between his fangs. “I decide my purpose here, old woman. Not you.”

  “Ye were allowed to breach the portal of this realm because the mortals here sorely needed a cleansing. Ye’ve done well. Ye’ve purged the land. Now ’tis time for ye to move on.”

  “Allowed?” Arach straightened until the top of his horned head brushed against the uneven ceiling of the entry to the lair. “No one allows me anything, old woman. Do ye truly think me a fool? I would’ve easily mastered the magic of the portal with or without your help. Ye merely guided me to this world. Ye know in the heart of yer very essence that I would’ve eventually found it without ye. Ye take far too much credit for the lovely destruction we’ve both enjoyed over the years.”

  Hooking his taloned paws over the protruding curve of the ledge, Arach stretched his tattered wings to their fullest span. With a nod toward a mottled curlicue tattooed across the inside of his foremost right wing, Arach heated the mark with a well-aimed snort until the stained flesh took on an inky sheen. “Do ye see that mark, old woman? Do ye have the foggiest idea what it means?”

  “I am well aware of your status, Arach. Dinna bore me with your presumptuous theatrics. Do ye truly think I’d allow entry of anything into this world other than the highest ranking of the ancient demons? I chose carefully for a proper cleansing of my beloved land.”

  “Ye allowed nothing, ye pompous bitch.” The coals in his gullet churned with restless fury, arming for inevitable combustion. How dare the Cailleach take airs with him, Arach, reaper and annihilator of all worlds scattered among the portals. “I tire of your nattering, old woman. Leave my presence now or risk stirring my ire until I find it necessary to destroy all your pets.”

  “Fine, Arach. Do as ye will. But ye should know that I will soon awaken him.”

  “Who?”

  “Ye know exactly who. He bested ye once before.”

  “Ah.” Arach sucked in a belly-stretching breath. “Him.” Arach squinted one eye closed as he tilted his head to scratch a particularly bothersome itch behind his left horn. “I do not fear him or anyone else for that matter. I am no longer the inexperienced lower demon Torin once battled.”

  “I would much rather ye leave this place of your own accord, Arach. ’Twould be far better if ye made the choice willingly and passed through the magic without force. Ye have destroyed much in this world that I would’ve preferred ye left unharmed.”

  Arach curled back his lips and released a warning blaze out across the choppy surface of the ocean. “I dinna give a damn about your druthers, Cailleach. Neither my existence nor my pleasures are any of your concern.”

  A despondent sigh floated across the rising wind like a moaning echo through the caverns. “So it shall be then, wicked Arach. Ye leave me little choice.”

  Arach allowed himself a gloating smile as he settled his leathery wings down into ratty folds across his spiked back. “Ye made yer choice centuries ago, old woman. ’Tis the price ye pay when dealing with the devil.”

  Chapter Nine

  Emma cranked the sound louder on the television to drown out the barest hint of crashing waves pounding against the beach. Much better. With the windows shuttered, the curtains drawn and the TV blaring, she couldn’t hear the ocean at all.

  Padding her way into the kitchen, she hesitated in front of the television as the screen exploded with the latest film footage of a raging fire somewhere on the island. Orange flames licked in and out of rolling black smoke streaming from a row of houses. Yellow-coated men scrambled with gray-white fire hoses snaking across the ground. Billows of steam rose from the inferno as the jets of water evaporated from the intense heat surrounding the buildings. Barely controlled chaos clamored in the background of the news announcer’s voice.

  Moira’s warning echoed through her thoughts as a swirling orange ball of flames flew across the screen and exploded into a stand of already smoldering buildings. The roaring inferno definitely met her definition of disaster. Emma swallowed hard and blinked against a sense of gnawing uncertainty fueled by the carnage on the screen.

  A slight movement in the upper portion of the video caught Emma’s attention. Edging closer to the TV, she bent until she stood ey
e level with the screen, studying the odd-looking winged form outlined against the swirling sky. As she watched, the strange figure disappeared into the roiling black smoke. Emma shivered with a strange sense of recognition at the long-tailed apparition sporting a pair of tattered, batlike wings.

  Emma grabbed her cell phone off the back of the couch and punched in Moira’s speed dial number. Moira had recounted many times that she and Alfred watched the local news with religious fervor. When Moira answered, excitement stalled Emma’s words on her tongue because the demonic-looking lizard with ratty black wings had just emerged back out of the clouds. Blinking hard, Emma pressed the phone closer to her mouth as Moira’s third curt hello broke her words free. “Moira! Are you watching the news?”

  “Why of course, dear. The fire is just terrible. Such a loss of property and they’ve still not found several of the occupants. I fear they’ve met a tragic end. Why do ye ask, Dr. Emma? Are ye all right?”

  Moira’s sing-song voice buzzed in Emma’s ear. How could the older woman be so calm? The thing flying through those clouds looked like some evil winged lizard that the depths of hell had ejected. “Moira, look. Flying through those clouds on the right of the screen. Don’t you see it? What do you think that thing is?”

  “See what, Dr. Emma? All I see is another one of those horrid fires. We seem to be plagued with a lot of them of late but no one has the gumption to admit it’s the beast because they can no’ find any substantial evidence to prove it.”

  “Substantial evidence? How much more substantial evidence do they need? That’s it right there on the video, Moira! You were right. Your so-called beast is on television right now.” Dang! If only she’d rented that recorder she’d seen in the shops. That creature was freaking unbelievable. “Can’t you see it, Moira? It’s that lizard thing hovering close to the top of the screen. Look! It just belched a big mouthful of fire all over that tanker truck. What channel are you watching?” Maybe that was the problem. Moira must be watching a different channel and her viewpoint of the blaze was different. Emma clicked the info button on the remote. Channel seven flickered briefly at the bottom of the screen. “Turn your TV to channel seven.”