Blocking Philip’s escape was a fierce coyote. He stood at attention, hair standing on end, and a growl rolled low from its gut.

“Oh, screw me,” he murmured as his hand slowly removed the knife. What was the protocol for chasing off wild dogs? Was he supposed to make himself big and yell, or hold still and wait for the dog to consider him a non-threat and move along?

The coyote stared him straight in the eye and pulled his lips back to bare his teeth. The growl and ensuing yip-like bark frightened Philip more than he cared to admit.

“Go!”

The coyote continued to yip and pierce the night with sound, becoming more fierce with every passing second.

Philip took an unconscious step back.

A noise behind him made him stop.

Another coyote paced to his right.

Movement to the left indicated more of the pack wanted to play.

Fear reached up and squeezed his neck in a death grip. He wouldn’t get to the car without injury.

“Fuck off!”

The animals stepped closer, slowly.

He shoved the knife in front of him like a sword. A useless tool in his current situation. The animals would have to be on him to use it.

He twisted to his left and the coyote there lifted his face to the sky and cried. Each step away from the animal brought Philip closer to the fire. Any closer and he’d be licking burns along with the bite wounds he undoubtedly would be suffering soon.

“How does it feel to be the hunted and not the hunter?”

The question came from behind him, close to his ear, in a voice so low and deadly, Philip felt his bladder spasm and the warm liquid spilled down his leg, puddling in his boots. He spun in a circle, intending to gut the man behind the words. But with lightning speed, the man towering over him removed the knife from his grip and held it against his throat.

The night grew still. Within the sudden eerie silence only the breath Philip expelled from his lips in short, staccato pants made any sound.

He recognized the man holding the knife to his throat. He was one of Helen’s friends, one Philip remembered from casing Mrs. Dawson’s home.

“What do you want?”

The knife pushed closer to the pulsating vein in his neck.

Philip went deathly still.

Hatred rolled off Helen’s friend with physical force. He could almost feel the man’s piercing eyes drill holes into the back of his skull.

“You. Are. A. Dead. Man.”

One of the coyote’s snarled and caught the man’s attention.

“Simon?”

Philip heard Helen’s voice but didn’t dare move his head and risk having the knife slice into his flesh.

“I told you to wait in the car, lass.” The coyotes started to snarl.

“Call ‘em off,” Helen said from the darkness.

Simon glanced beyond Philip, and the knife slipped away from his neck. It could be the only chance Philip had to escape. At the distraction, he ducked and twisted, catching Simon off guard.

He managed only two yards before the force of a freight train tackled him to the ground with a warrior cry.

The world spun. A fist smashed into his face. Everything threatened to go dark. Coyotes filled the night with sound, and another fist pushed his stomach up somewhere near his heart.

Simon shoved off Philip. “Get up.”

Philip was out of his league. With one look into the man’s eyes, he knew Simon would kill him if given a chance.

“Simon? C’mon. We need him alive.” Helen stood a couple feet beyond them, her voice soft. Her eyes shifted from Philip then quickly back to Simon.

Philip didn’t press for reasons.

Simon reached down and grasped Philip by his shirt, hauled him to his feet, and shook him until his teeth rattled. The fierce expression on Simon’s face slowly slid into a grin. “We won’t need you for long, Philip.”

Helen moved behind Simon and placed a hand on his back. “We should go.”

“Aye. Let’s take this bastard where he’ll learn what happens to men who accost defenseless women.” Simon put his hand to Philip’s neck and grasped tightly. Only when Philip sputtered did Simon ease his grip.

As Simon waved his free hand around in the air, fire from the pit spread into a circle, surrounding them, and Helen started to chant.

* * * *

They arrived at the Keep in the dead of night. The main halls were littered with men, most of whom slept while the guards kept watch.

Simon changed into proper clothing and donned his sword. The weight of the weapon felt right on his hip. Philip had been gagged and bound, waiting for Ian to assemble the right men to accompany them outside the Keep.

Fin met them and approached from the bottom of the stairs. “’Tis good to see you, lad.”

“She’s fine,” Simon offered before Fin could utter his unspoken question. “They are all fine.”

They embraced briefly.

Fin nodded. “I wondered after Helen arrived, battered the way she was.”

“She was the only one who suffered at his hand.” And Simon swore no one else ever would.

“Yet he lives.”

“A necessity.” Simon tilted his head to the side. “For now.”

Fin grasped Simon’s shoulder. “We will finish this battle and call our family home.”

...and Helen will return to her time. Simon didn’t want to think of that now.

“Fin!” Ian’s voice called from above stairs. They both looked up and saw Ian wave for them to move upstairs.

They kept silent until they made their way to the small, hidden chamber the women used. Duncan and Todd were inside with the ladies. Helen had found a gown, her hair was now fixed in the traditional braid.

“We have a problem,” Ian announced the moment he closed the door.

“As always,” Helen muttered as she slid to Simon’s side. He automatically wrapped his arm around her.

Duncan stepped forward. “Seems the man we captured from Malcolm’s camp has met with an unfortunate accident.”

“Accident?”

“Seems he fell on one of the guard’s blades while trying to escape.”

Simon dropped his head with a sigh.

“What does that mean?” Helen asked.

“He’s dead, lass.”

“No, not that, Simon. I got that. What does it have to do with finding Philip’s brother?”

“We’ve no way to do it. Our prisoner was our beacon,” Fin explained.

“Simon found him before—”

“I found small parties of men who worked for him, but not the man they called Malcolm.”