Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER Two

UCLA Archaeology Department—A Couple of Weeks Later

As I walked through the poorly lit, tiled hallway toward Professor MacLaren’s office for the millionth time in my life, I was laser focused; none of the usual feelings of anticipation and excitement flowed through my veins. I barely registered the bleach scent lingering in the air. I found it impossible to concentrate on anything other than the cloth-wrapped box I clutched so tightly under my arm that I’d lost sensation in my fingertips. Like a running back cradling a football with tunnel-vision sights on the glory of the end zone, I made my way toward the haven posing as my workplace.

I usually counted the steps, the closed doors on either side, and the tiles on the floor before arriving at my favorite destination, but not today. I was so completely distracted by the mysterious, heavy box in my hand, I almost missed the doorway. On the wall, next to the door, hung his-and-hers nameplates—his above mine, of course. Kindred in both his Scottish bloodline and passion for the ancient past, MacLaren had taken me under his wing and tutored me to achieve what no other grad student had in such a short timeframe: Assistant to the Head of the Archaeology Department. And if I had my determined way, my discovery would catapult me to Assistant Professor. I shifted my precious cargo, cradling it protectively in my left arm, and fished my key ring out of my purse. A click of the lock, a turn of the knob, and the creak of the heavy wooden door marked the preparatory cadence for me to step into my otherworldly realm.

No amount of focus could take away from the comfort that washed over me as I entered. I turned, shut the door behind me, and closed my eyes, ritualistically inhaling scents of the past. Leather, wood, and the staleness of a place in need of a thorough dusting filled my nostrils as everything I obsess about in near-constant perpetuity welcomed me home. I flicked the light switch on the wall. My eyes opened to the cavernous room MacLaren had turned into a comfortable space, with an entry living area showcasing a burgundy-and-gold Aubusson rug surrounded by a coffee
Chesterfield sofa and matching wing chairs. Wooden built-in bookcases lined one side and the back wall. MacLaren’s desk and large leather chair sat a dozen paces ahead. Flanking the space behind the desk were two locked, glass display cabinets boasting the finest treasures of his collection.

But not one of those artifacts could ever hope to surmount the shadow of the priceless one I held.

I stepped forward and gingerly placed the box on the corner of the desk, taking care not to mar the polished wood surface with its metal corners. With bated breath and trembling hands, I unwrapped the relic of my dreams.

Recently installed, museum-quality lighting cast the perfect protective glow on everything collected and displayed within the room, but nothing prepared me for the vision in flawless illumination. Yes, the actual discovering, retrieving, and transporting had turned into an adventure like no other—carry-on luggage took on a whole new meaning when I refused to take my eyes off what I believed was potentially the most important discovery in history. Yes, I’d spent countless hours carefully cleaning it in my small apartment-turned-laboratory. Yes, I’d packaged samples of both the surrounding peat and fine particles cleaned from the box into marked bags for analysis—the results of which were astounding.

I’d even taken my find to the chem lab where a materials chemistry specialist agreed to meet me under the quiet cover of night. The clandestine meeting had been arranged from my end, but Darren, who I’d only spoken to over the phone, had no idea what I’d brought. From my perspective, his requisite ignorance had enabled our meeting last night.

* * *

“Isobel, this is amazing.” Darren skimmed his hands over the box with gloved fingers.

His eyes grew wide, making me wonder if I’d been wrong about his nonexistent archaeological knowledge. I stood at the table’s edge, watching his expressions instead of the top of his bleach-tipped head, as he conducted his examination from a metal stool. Impatient, I put my hands on my hips, calming my voice, hoping to sound dumb and only mildly interested.

“How much can you tell me about it without taking samples?” I asked.

“Well, by the looks of it, the intricately laced layers along the edges are gold, silver, platinum .
 . .” He leaned over, grabbing a small, silver pointing device from the table. “These carved disks on the corners here beneath the latticework seem to be copper. Bronze, lead, brass, steel . . . I’m struggling to find a metal not represented here. This is a metallurgist’s wet dream.”

I’d already cleaned the box with dry brushes and a detailed gentle-solution bath designed to preserve the integrity of metal pieces. As I listened to his analysis, I received the confirmation I’d been seeking. My novice eye suspected the number of materials and their intertwining detail on the one piece stood unprecedented. The different heats and expertise required to craft each metal made the work amazing to behold, irrespective of the elaborate designs and weaving.

“What about the material fashioning the sides?” I asked as he turned the item around and around, visually noting every one of its many facets like I’d done so many times before him. The one almost-breadbox-sized item held so much beautiful detail, it took several days worth of viewings to take in; I still noticed new things daily, like a small etching or a concealed motif.

Darren tapped his chin with the pointer, clearly as intrigued as I by the unknown material of the sides. It had sheen but didn’t reflect. It had a bluish-silver hue and the slightest sparkle. He opened a side-cart drawer, withdrew a magnet, and held it against one side of the box. When he released his hold, it fell into his hand. He repeated the process on every side, verifying what I already knew: it had no magnetic properties. Without a word, he stood and left the room.

I whispered to our subject, “Guess you stumped him, too.”

He returned with a Geiger counter.
Radioactive?
He floated the device over the box. The handheld meter crackled. He rubbed his goatee-covered chin, furrowing his brow.

“What?” I wondered aloud.

“I thought it might’ve come from space because the color and density resembles unique meteorite samples I’ve tested.” He tapped a side. “The low reading discounts that theory.”

“Doesn’t radioactivity of an element decrease over time?” I conjectured.

“Sure,” he replied, “but not to this level. This would have to be thousands of years old. Plus, the quantity of ore needed to constitute the density of the sides and the craftsmanship required to fashion all of this together into one piece . . .” He trailed off, lost in his confusion.

While he grappled with his new mystery, my excitement skyrocketed. He’d told me all I needed to know. No other artifact like it existed on Earth, because it held properties not of this Earth. Its age exceeded our historical record of metalworking craft, and the peat and dust samples I’d analyzed pointed to one undeniable conclusion: never-before-imagined skill and materials created the object I’d found.

“Great, thanks Darren. I appreciate your having a look so late.” I carefully pulled the cloth around the box and lifted it out of his reach. He stared at the new void on his metal work table. I almost laughed. I knew the sleepless night he’d have obsessing for answers to questions now plaguing him. I’d had those same restless nights all week.

* * *

The special lights bathing the artifact before me, however, captured minute nuances, bringing the inanimate to brilliant life.

“You and I have been through a lot, haven’t we?” I said to my dazzling new friend. I laughed, dancing precariously close to the edge of becoming one of those crazy professors who is socially inept with people but perfectly suited for lifelong companionship with the objects of their insatiable desire.

In the private enclave of MacLaren’s office while I cast my gaze upon the gleaming box, the Universe revolved around me as the rare object took center stage surrounded by a collection of its archaeological descendants. I grew lightheaded and realized I’d been holding my breath. I inhaled deeply as the exhilaration of the moment gently released its hold.

My iPhone chimed its factory-installed text tone, pulling me out of my awestruck daze. I glanced at the screen.
Iain Brodie.
My friend. Also a modern-day Highlander and global movie star. I quickly read the message that populated the display beneath his name.
Oh shit!
I’d invited Iain to meet me at MacLaren’s office; the entire purpose of my quest today hinged on his reaction to my find, and his text alert said he’d be here in a few minutes.

I went to the antique gilded mirror hanging on the far wall. Vanity may never have played a role in my life before, but Iain’s opinion of me had grown more important with time. My image came into view on the silver-backed glass. I tucked an unruly lock of my wavy, pale blond hair behind my left ear. The reflection staring back had never been knockout gorgeous, but I’d been called pretty often enough to believe the words. A small nose, heart-shaped face, and cute dimples when I smiled likely prompted the compliments I’d received. My simple, forest-green mohair sweater matched my eyes in the room’s light. I straightened the pleat in the ankle-length, wraparound plaid skirt that skimmed the tops of my favorite calfskin boots.

A rap at the door diverted my attention. I turned as Iain stepped through a doorway barely accommodating his enormous frame. Even from my five-nine height, the man always appeared huge with his six-foot-five, brawn-built-by-physical-exertion body.

I knew what’d created those bunched muscles. We’d met last summer when I’d been drawn to
Highland games festivals with my love for all things Scottish. The ease of his mastery in every event left no member of the audience ignorant of his extraordinary skills. The movie industry had also taken notice. They’d snatched him up long before he’d ever set foot in the States, and his busy film career was the reason he lived in Southern California.

Television coverage of premieres, not to mention the covers of magazines and tabloids, proclaimed his social status: playboy. He rotated starlets and models more often than I grocery shopped to see the printed evidence.

I’d garnered Iain’s attention with my regular attendance at every scheduled festival within driving distance of the greater Los Angeles area while remaining the only single female at the games not to fawn all over him. He’d gained my interest, too, but not in an isn’t-he-dreamy romantic way. My awe bore resemblance to a damn-that-warrior-would’ve-ruled-the-Highlands reaction.

“Well, Isa,” he said in his rich, deep tone, luring me back from my thoughts. “You inviting me in, lass, or am I to continue to decorate your entry?” His thick Scottish brogue rolled off his tongue and danced in my ears.

I’d long ago stopped trying to correct him on my name. After several attempts explaining I preferred my full name,
Eeee-sooo-bellll
, I’d given up. Now it warmed my heart to hear him call me something no one else in the world ever had.

I walked toward him a few steps, laughing. “Sorry. I’ve been distracted today. Come in.”

He closed the door, and I saw something I’d never seen before—
his tight ass in jeans
. At the games, he wore the plaid of his ancestral clan which, interestingly, had a one-of-a-kind woven pattern. The way he filled out street clothes made me take notice; broad shoulders pulled his long-sleeved shirt taut, the crisp white setting off tanned skin and chestnut hair. He faced me again, his lips curving into the crooked smile he often wore. He came closer, and the lighting in the room struck his hazel eyes, flecks of burgundy sparkling amid greenish brown.

“Did you have a good trip? You were visiting your grandfather, right?” he asked.

Iain’s eyes searched mine. He tilted his head slightly, holding his arms relaxed at his sides as he took lazy steps forward. He was reaching out to me, showing he cared about my welfare. It was a concept I’d found foreign in my life from everyone except my parents, who’d died years ago, and my
seanair
, who’d passed before my plane touched down at LAX last week.

Countless thoughts filled my head, from the pain of a precious goodbye I’d held sacred, to the thrilling discovery I’d only shared with Iain in a vague, brief phone conversation. Unaccustomed to men outside of my family showing concern over my well-being, my instincts ran with keeping my barriers up and feelings in.