Echoes of the Highland

Lachlan The screams and moans of the damned English warriors echoed across the Highlands. Pleads for mercy filled the air—a sweet symphony to his ears on that blood-soaked afternoon. Those bastards had pillaged, murdered, and r***d women and children without a hint of remorse, all in a bid to wipe out his friend’s clan. And now they begged for mercy? Lachlan sidestepped the blade that whistled through the air, aimed for his head. His icy gaze landed on the English soldier who had attacked him from behind, and the fool was already frozen in place, paralyzed with fear. His legs were trembling, and though he was clearly ready to beg for mercy, he hadn’t fled. “Please have mercy!” the Englishman gasped. “I… I…” “Too late,” Lachlan growled, lifting his sword with deadly precision. With a single swift motion, he plunged the blade straight into the man’s throat. The Englishman crumpled to the ground, choking on his own blood, a mere casualty in Lachlan’s path. “Too easy,” he muttered, disappointed. That was always the problem—building up expectations for a good fight against the English. It never lived up to the thrill. He was never satisfied. With a roar that shook the ground, Lachlan charged toward three more English soldiers who were attacking one of his men. His left leg throbbed from a deep cut, burning for attention, but his bloodlust drowned out the pain. His muscles were tight, hot with the excitement of the kill. But still… it wasn’t enough. He needed more. The English barely had time to register his approach before two heads were already rolling across the ground. The wide-eyed stares of the dead, frozen in surprise and terror, told the tale everyone already knew. He was a monster. The third man hesitated, his eyes wide as he stumbled back, tripping over his own feet. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, barely a man, barely begun to live. Not that it mattered. When you stepped onto a battlefield, you had to accept that death could come for you at any moment. “Please… I surrender…” The boy’s voice cracked as he threw his sword to the ground and raised his hands in a desperate plea. Surrender? Lachlan almost laughed. “I don’t want your surrender,” he snarled, his voice low and savage. “I want your death.” The boy turned to run, but Lachlan was already upon him. With a monstrous, graceful spin, he drove his sword straight through the boy’s heart. Lachlan stood over him, watching as the boy gasped for breath, blood pouring from his mouth. The look of terror on his face was… satisfying. More satisfying than it should be. But it was what Lachlan had become. Mercy? He’d forgotten what that even meant. Killing was his greatest talent now. He told himself it was justice for the friends and clansmen who couldn’t fight back. But deep down, he knew the truth. He loved to kill. Or maybe it wasn’t him—maybe it was the cursed part of him, the part that fed on the blood and the terror, the part that rejoiced in watching the life drain from his enemies. Enemies? Were they even people to him anymore? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he felt the Englishman’s soul slip away, leaving behind only an empty shell. The beast inside him was taking over, slow and steady, and he found he didn’t care. “Lachlan!” A voice cut through the chaos of battle. “Behind you!” But he’d already seen it. Another Englishman, stupid enough to try stabbing him from behind. Fools. That would never work. With a snarl that echoed across the battlefield, Lachlan spun, his sword cutting through the air in a blur. Before the Englishman could even blink, Lachlan was behind him, his sword buried deep in the man’s back, the tip piercing through his chest. He tossed the body aside, already moving toward the next kill. Frustration clawed at him. None of this was enough. No death could quench the bloodlust inside him. He cut down two more men easily as he charged toward another—this one was seated, hands gripping his head as though he were trapped in a nightmare. Another child. This one couldn’t have been more than fifteen. But who cared? The boy was English, and that was enough. That was all that mattered. “Lachlan, no!” His friend, Callum, shouted from the midst of the c*****e. “That one surrendered!” Friend… Callum’s voice reminded him of a time long past. Of when they’d first met, of when Callum had saved his life. He’d been close to death when Callum had found him, cursed by that damned witch. The memory was like a poison in his veins, filling him with a fresh surge of rage. He had hunted the witch who cursed him for years, but she had disappeared. After a while, he’d started seeking out other witches, hoping one of them could lift the curse. None could, and his collection of severed witch heads grew larger than he’d intended. His grip tightened on his sword. This hunger for death had no cure. Lachlan knew he was beyond saving. “And so it will remain, until you find your salvation and death takes you in her embrace.” The witch’s final words echoed in his mind, haunting him across the years. She had been wrong. In this savage 16th century, there was no salvation for men like him. She had lied—filled his head with false hope, just to see him fall, to watch him become the wretched beast he was now. A cruel jest from the depths of hell, and he was its eternal victim. A wave of fury coursed through him. If not for that English witch, he would never have become this. He would never have turned into this monster. “I don’t care,” Lachlan spat as he advanced toward the boy, his steps firm and unyielding. “Damn it, Lachlan! He’s just a kid!” Callum’s voice was desperate as he fought his way through the battlefield, trying to stop him. The boy, who had kept his head down all this time, sensed Lachlan coming for him. When his eyes met Lachlan’s, they were wide with fear, and that fear… it thrilled him. Lachlan lived for that look, that moment when his enemies realized their end was inevitable. The power in his hands—he craved it more than anything. “Run, boy,” Lachlan growled, his voice a beastly rasp. Callum would never reach him in time. There were too many English left to kill. The boy blinked in confusion but didn’t hesitate. He scrambled to his feet, bolting for the forest as if the devil himself were nipping at his heels. Lachlan chuckled darkly. The boy would’ve been lucky if it were the devil chasing him. At least the boy wasn’t a coward, pissing himself in fear. He had the sense to run. For an Englishman, that was more than most. The boy’s injury slowed him, every step a struggle. Lachlan knew it was only a matter of time, so he gave him a few extra seconds—just enough to savor the chase. “Time to hunt...” Lachlan muttered, more beast than man, lifting his blood-stained sword as he pursued his prey. 2012 - New York City Calista “He did what?!” Lyra’s voice shot through the small cafe, eyes wide in shock. “He kicked me out,” Calista replied, frustration dripping from her tone. “Said I’m no longer ‘welcome in his class.’” She mimicked air quotes with a roll of her eyes, sarcasm lacing every word. “But why? How? When… Why the hell did he kick you out, Cal? You’re the best student in his class!” “Was,” Calista corrected softly, her gaze drifting toward the rainy sky. “The truth is, the bastard didn’t like being turned down.” She sighed, her eyes unfocused as she stared outside. It was one of those long, dreary, rainy afternoons in Louisiana. The third one in a row, and it seemed like the gloom was here to stay. “What?” Lyra nearly choked on her own breath. “Are you telling me that sleazy jerk kicked you out because you wouldn’t sleep with him?” Her pastel pink hair was swept up into a messy bun, the waves brushing her face as she leaned forward. The soft color made her sea-green eyes stand out even more, and combined with her flawless complexion, it made her look like a porcelain doll. “You know, the way you’re saying ‘what’ makes you look more like a doll than usual.” Calista smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m telling you, all that makeup isn’t good for your skin. I think I see a pimple.” She pointed to her friend’s forehead. “A… pimple?” Lyra went pale instantly. “You know I don’t wear that much makeup —did you just say pimple?” She frantically began rummaging through her purse for a mirror. If Calista weren’t so irritated about the whole situation, she would have laughed. It was always hilarious how one tiny blemish could send her friend spiraling into panic mode. “You’re evil.” Lyra finally glared at her after checking her reflection. “Lying about a pimple like that… cruel, really. Now, spill. What the hell happened?” Her perfectly arched brow lifted as she returned to the matter at hand. Calista didn’t want to drag her friend into it, but the whole mess with being kicked out was starting to get on her nerves. Worse, she knew Lyra had once had a crush on Trevor, their fencing coach. Trevor was… well, for an older guy, he wasn’t bad-looking. Calista had never seen him that way, but he carried the kind of arrogance that came with age—confidence that some found attractive. She, however, had always been immune to his charms. Maybe it was the way his reputation preceded him. Word had it he’d slept with nearly every woman in the fencing club. Except her. But this morning had changed everything. “Hey, Calista!” Trevor had approached her after training, a white towel in his hand. “You were amazing today! I still can’t believe you beat me.” He shook his head with a sheepish smile. “You let me win, Coach,” Calista muttered, still catching her breath. “Ah, you noticed. Don’t tell the others; they might get jealous.” He winked at her, his smile turning playful. “Sure,” she replied dryly. He knew she’d wiped the floor with him. Calista had been holding back too, not wanting to humiliate him in front of the entire class. But it had been amusing to see Trevor struggle to keep up with her when she hadn’t even broken a sweat. Trevor cleared his throat, as if he had something important to say. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now…” he began, tossing the towel in her direction. “Oh yeah?” Calista caught it, wiping her face as she packed up her gear. She always ended up being the last to leave the club because of the amount of stuff she lugged around. “Yeah.” Trevor’s grin spread wider, the one that always said, I’m thinking something inappropriate right now. She’d seen him use it on the other women in the group but never on her. He knew better. She was the top student in the fencing club for a reason—her aggressive nature wasn’t just limited to the sport. “So…” This can’t be good, Calista thought. “Spit it out, Trevor. I’m already running late.” “Uh… Lyra, right? Doesn’t matter.” He brushed it off with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been watching you for a while now. Not just in practice, but… in other places. Haven’t you noticed how our eyes always meet?” His smile turned suggestive. “Uh… seriously?” Calista’s voice oozed sarcasm. Of course, she’d noticed. It wasn’t like she was seeking him out, but whenever she felt like someone was watching her, her gaze would always find his. Trevor, who had mastered the art of staring in that creepy way that felt like a poke in the back of the head. It was annoying as hell. “Yeah. And you know it,” he replied smugly, lifting an eyebrow in what he probably thought was a seductive way. “What?” Calista thought, Is he seriously trying to seduce me with a raised eyebrow? The ridiculousness of the situation nearly made her laugh out loud. The old Calista would have been mortified by the encounter. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Since moving to the States, she had grown used to men trying to flirt with her, telling her how beautiful she was, and yada yada yada. It was always the same boring speech to try and get her into bed. “We want each other, Calista.” His voice dropped, trying for a husky tone but landing awkwardly low. “Don’t deny it.” He moved closer, so close that only inches separated them. “Look,” Calista said, keeping her cool. “I don’t know what you think is going on here, but there’s no ‘us.’ I don’t want you. And if our eyes met, it’s because you were staring so hard I could feel it in the back of my skull.” She took a step back, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart.” He stepped closer again. “I know you want it.” His hand reached out to stroke her cheek. “Oh man…” Calista sighed dramatically. “You’re so out of touch with reality.” She slapped his hand away, taking another step back. “Anyway, I’m leaving. Like I said, I’m late. Goodbye, Coach.” She gave him a quick wave, but before she could walk away, his hand shot out, grabbing her arm. “Don’t be a tease, Calista. You want me. Admit it.” He shook her lightly, his voice low. “Come on, it’s just one night. No big deal. I promise.” “Sorry, but…” Calista turned her head to avoid his attempted kiss. “What the f**k Trevor!.” “Damn it, woman, it’s just one night! Don’t act like you’ve never had a fling before.” He flashed a smug smile. “Go to hell, Trevor.” She grabbed her bag and spun on her heel, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “You know, maybe if you spent as much time practicing with your sword as you do trying to screw every woman in the club, you’d actually be good at fencing.” She looked him up and down, the disgust clear in her voice. “But hey, guess compensating only gets you so far, right?” She tossed the towel back at him and stormed off. Jerk. Trevor’s face reddened with fury, but he forced a laugh. “Slut!” he spat as Calista walked away. “Don’t you dare come back, you hear me?” His voice cracked, following her retreating figure. She didn’t bother turning around, flipping him the middle finger instead. Back in the present, Lyra was practically fuming. “I can’t believe he did that!” she cried. “That’s harassment! You’re going to report him, right?” Calista glanced at her friend, whose eyes were filled with alarm. She knew reporting Trevor was the right thing to do, but part of her wasn’t sure if she wanted to go through with it. “I don’t know…” she admitted softly. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Lyra asked, sounding more exasperated. “Of course you’re going to report him!” She grabbed Calista’s hand, leaving the cafe place and dragging her toward the car. “Let’s go!” “And you?” Calista asked, trying to change the subject as Lyra buckled her seatbelt. “Me?” Lyra responded, not quite getting what she was asking. “Come on, Lyra. You liked him. Don’t act like this doesn’t affect you.” Calista started the engine and shifted into gear. “I liked him,” Lyra stressed. For a moment, Calista could swear she saw a flicker of vulnerability cross her friend’s face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “It’s in the past. Now let’s go to the station. Now.” “If you’re sure…” Calista trailed off. Calista didn’t want to see Lyra upset again. Thank goodness she’d gotten over her ridiculous crush on older men. It had always been such a strange preference. Lyra had a theory that guys her own age weren’t mature enough, that they didn’t know how to handle a real relationship. “They don’t have the mindset or responsibility to take life seriously,” Lyra always said whenever Calista brought it up, even when Calista tried to explain that not all young men were irresponsible idiots. But Lyra was quick with her witty retorts. Older men were sexier, she’d say, plain and simple. Older, as in their mid-thirties, which still seemed a little too far ahead for their twenty-two years. Lyra flashed Calista a determined look and smiled. Even though Calista was two years younger, no one would guess. With Lyra’s sweet, winsome smile, she had a way of charming anyone. She looked delicate, fragile even, but Calista knew better. Only Calista had seen the fiery spirit behind that innocent exterior. “Let’s go,” Lyra said, putting the car into reverse, her expression set, determined to handle the situation. “Oh my God, I’m exhausted,” Calista groaned as she leaned back in the driver’s seat, waiting for the traffic light to change. The trip to the station had drained her more than she expected, and her nerves were stretched thin. Her head pounded, each throb like a drumbeat echoing between her temples. That headache had been there ever since they walked into the police station. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to report Trevor. Sure, the guy was a jerk, but would he have really hurt her? He was all talk, wasn’t he? Most of her hesitation came from watching Lyra. Her friend had been strangely calm about everything, more concerned with flirting with the handsome police officer taking their statement than with the reason they were there. Calista had kept her mouth shut, trying not to read too much into it, but part of her wondered if it was a good idea bringing Lyra along in the first place. Once they left the station, Calista couldn’t help but ask her what had been going on with her and that officer. Lyra, being Lyra, just waved her off, saying she was fine, that she’d long since forgotten about Trevor, and that the whole thing barely phased her. “Oh, and I got his number,” Lyra added casually. “We’re going out tonight.” Now, with her friend off on another whirlwind date, Calista was driving home alone. She frowned, recalling how easily Lyra had bounced back. She didn’t have to worry about her friend—Lyra knew how to handle herself. Years of jiu-jitsu training and a black belt made sure of that. In fact, Lyra was better at it than she was. Calista felt a little sorry for the police officer. He didn’t stand a chance. Lyra would have him wrapped around her finger in no time. “I hope she gets her life together,” Calista muttered, shifting gears. Lyra deserved happiness—after everything, she deserved so much more. Thinking about Lyra’s difficult past tugged at Calista’s heart. Her friend hadn’t shared all the details, but she didn’t need to. Lyra had let slip once that she’d been beaten constantly, and Calista had seen the scars, the way her shoulder never quite healed right. Calista knew better than to press for more. Lyra had suffered enough. She’d been born prematurely and abandoned at a hospital, sent straight into the system and quickly adopted by what the world thought was a loving family. For five years, it was. But then cancer took her adopted mother, and her father became a cold, violent man, punishing Lyra for a loss that wasn’t her fault. The abuse was visibly brutal, leaving scars deeper than just the physical ones. At fifteen, Lyra finally ran away and never looked back. They’d met in their first jiu-jitsu class four years ago, two strangers who’d quickly become inseparable. Calista never asked for more than Lyra wanted to share, but the past always seemed to linger between them. The sadness of her friend’s history weighed heavy on Calista’s heart. She blinked hard, trying to shake it off. She didn’t need to be falling into a pit of despair over something she couldn’t change. Lyra was okay now. She wasn’t sad, and she even had a date lined up for the evening. So why… “Oh, hell!” Calista cursed loudly, realizing what had slipped her mind. She’d forgotten about her assignment. “Crap, crap, crap!” she muttered, cursing again. If she didn’t turn in her work by tomorrow, she’d be screwed. Glancing at her watch, she saw she had about thirty minutes before the library closed. “Damn it, damn it!” She hit the gas, veering off the road toward the library, which was only a few blocks away. She sped up, silently praying she’d make it in time. The assignment focused on comparing modern and ancient cultural aspects—everything from technology to food to sports. Most students struggled to choose a country, overwhelmed by how drastically things had changed over the centuries. The project was on Europe, and while others picked obvious choices like England or Wales, Calista chose Scotland. She’d always been captivated by Scottish history—fierce warriors, their swords, kilts, tartans, and bold colors. Her apartment was packed with the Highland books, and she never tired of their romantic, adventure-filled stories. She arrived at the library with ten minutes to spare. Not much time to find a solid source, but enough to make a quick search. Calista hurried through the aisles, scanning the shelves, her fingers brushing over titles, hoping something would catch her eye. She glanced at the clock—only two minutes left. Damn it. Frustration bubbled up inside her as she moved faster, sweeping through another section, finding nothing of use. Then, a dull thud echoed from her left. Something had fallen. Great, the guard’s probably coming to get me. She walked past the section labeled “15th Century” and heard another sound. This one seemed to come from the “16th Century” section, which, oddly enough, was roped off with chains and cones, barring entry to the public. “Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing down the empty rows of books. Silence answered. “This isn’t funny, i***t,” she muttered under her breath, stepping over the chain barrier. “Seriously, knock it off,” she said, as she stumbled over something hard. Ready to curse at whatever tripped her, she looked down and found a book. “i***t…” she mumbled to herself, picking it up. “It’s just a book.” Her words faded when she caught sight of the worn, faded cover. A slow smile stretched across her lips as she read the title. Echoes of the Highland. The smile fell as quickly as it had come, her body stiffening, trembling all over. “No way…” Her breath caught in her throat. Calista’s heart raced as she held the worn book in her hands. After all these years, she had finally found it, tucked away on a dusty library shelf. “I can’t believe I finally found you… This is crazy” she whispered, stroking the weathered cover. She had been searching for this book for years. After it had been stolen from her home when she was only seven, she thought she’d never see it again. It was a rare edition, a one-of-a-kind, and though her memories of it were fuzzy, she knew she’d never finished reading it. She thought back to the stranger who’d given it to her, his cryptic words that still haunted her: This book is yours, and you’re destined to have it. She’d been scared of him then. Who wouldn’t be? But the man had insisted she take it. And then, just like that, he was gone. She hadn’t had a choice but to bring it home. But the next day, when she returned from school, the house had been ransacked. Nothing was missing—except the book. Calista had been heartbroken. She stayed in bed for a week, burning with fever. Her parents thought she was sick, but the truth was, losing that book had felt like losing a part of her soul. But now she was holding it again, and everything seemed… right. For a long moment, she couldn’t speak. The emotions inside her were overwhelming. Finally, after all these years, she was holding it again. Footsteps echoed from somewhere far off, growing closer. The next thing she knew, she was shoving the book under her jacket and hurrying out of the restricted section. Her heart was still racing, her mind spinning. She could hear the pounding of blood in her ears, each beat growing louder. Her breathing was shaky, and she couldn’t slow it down. What the hell was she doing? Stealing a book? Seriously? But this wasn’t just any book. It was hers. Her book. So, technically, she wasn’t stealing, right? She was just… reclaiming what was already hers. “Hey, you,” a voice called from down the corridor. “We’re closing up. You need to leave.” “Uh, right. I just needed to…” She reached out and grabbed the first book her hand landed on, not even bothering to check the title. “There, just this one. Schoolwork, you know? That’s it. Just this book.” Great, now I’m rambling, she thought. The guard frowned, grumbling something under his breath about “the strange young people these days” as he led her to check out the book she had no intention of reading. Strange Man Finally… the man disguised as a guard thought, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. At last, little Calista. You will fulfill your destiny. He removed the cap, letting his long, tangled white hair fall around his face, his eyes watching as Calista got into her car and drove away, disappearing down the street. He smiled, the kind of smile that hadn’t graced his face in years. Relief flooded his body, and the satisfaction was almost palpable. It's starting...