KINLEY’S TRAINING KICKED in as she took cover behind one of the stones. She hunkered low to make herself as small a target as possible. When she heard no gunfire being exchanged she took a chance and peeked around the edge at the fighters. As she took in their strange clothing she blinked, sure she was having some kind of psychotic break. She ducked down, rubbed the rain out of her eyes, and took a long, deep breath. As the rain slowed to a drizzle, she forced herself to look again.

This time they were only fifty yards away. Even in the darkening twilight she got a very good look.

“What the hell?”

One side appeared to be ancient Romans wearing red tunics under iron and bronze armor. The men had GI-cropped hair, and short, broad swords. But that’s where the resemblance to Romans ended. Their eyes were strange, almost reptilian, and their skin was so unnaturally pale they appeared to be painted white. They fought viciously against huge warriors in white, gold and black Scottish tartans belted over brown leather vests and trousers. Judging by their ruddy, tanned flesh they were human, but Kinley had never seen an entire army of towering, brutally muscled men. They looked just like the medieval highlanders she’d seen in the documentaries her grandmother had loved watching.

Why were there Romans and Highlanders fighting in a San Diego canyon, of all places? Maybe it was some kind of ghastly alternate history matchup reenactment. The next wave might be Nazis and Spartans.

“I’m dreaming,” Kinley muttered, sinking down behind the stone. “That’s why I’m healed. I must be in a coma or something.”

But then a decapitated head rolled past Kinley to stop and stare at her feet. Beneath its death-blinded eyes thin lips grimaced to reveal long, thick, white fangs. Then, incredibly, it dissolved into smoldering ash that gave off a rotted stink before it melted into the mud.

“Jesus,” she gasped, backing away from it. She clung to the stone as she stared at the puddle that a second ago had been a severed head. “Oh, man,” she muttered, covering her nose with her hand. “If I’m dreaming, why do I smell that?”

“Clan McDonnel,” a deep voice shouted, and then bellowed, “Heid doon, arse up.”

Thanks to years of listening to her grandmother’s brogue Kinley had no trouble translating: Head down, ass up. She looked out to see that the men were almost on top of her. The savage words seemed to electrify the Scotsmen, who surged forward in a deadly wave of slashing iron. Their fury cut down every Roman in their path as they fought toward the center of the grove. In another minute they’d swarm around the stone behind which she crouched.

Kinley blinked as buried memories burst inside her head. Stark and vivid, images and sounds bore down on her one after another: landing the bird by the smoldering wreck of the transport plane; grabbing the carry-alls and the portable Jaws of Life; bullets suddenly pinging off the Hawk; heart hammering, hands cold, voice tearing out of her throat as she shouted to her crew to take cover; the crackle of the radio as her lieutenant called to base; the body pile inside the wreck; the stink of fuel and plastic and death; slipping in the blood pool; the smash of glass, the huge waft of heated air, and then the world on fire.

“No,” Kinley gasped.

She wasn’t there. That was then. She pushed down the pulses of churning panic. Though fear and confusion threatened to sweep her away, she focused on the battle. She was here, she was present, and she was not going to lose it.

One of the largest Scottish warriors plowed through the Roman line, hacking through with long swords in both hands. Despite her shivering terror Kinley couldn’t stop watching him. She’d never seen any man move the way he did. He had a sinuous suppleness, as if his bones were made of water. How could such a huge man move like liquid?

The big Scotsman flung back his sodden mane of dark hair as he kicked a wounded Roman aside and skewered two more. Lightning blazed across the dark sky, illuminating his handsome face for a moment. His lack of hesitation told her that he felt no pity for his enemy, but the bitter disgust in his expression assured her that he took no pleasure in killing, either.

He’s not a machine, Kinley thought, her heart clenching as she recalled the same expression on the faces of her fellow soldiers. He hates it, but he’s doing what has to be done.

One of the Romans danced around him, thrusting his heavier broadsword at the Scotsman’s legs. “Why do you persist, Lachlan McDonnel? Your clan shall never kill us all. We are too many.”

“Aye, you’re a plague,” Lachlan agreed. His dark eyes glittered as he chopped off the Roman’s sword hand, and impaled him with his second blade. “And now they’ve one less leech.”

As if they’d overheard him dozens of Romans surged out of the trees, swarming around and cutting off McDonnel from his men. Kinley saw how most of them drove back the Scotsman’s comrades, while six of the largest Romans encircled him.

“Well, well, we’ve caught the Laird of the McDonnel,” one taunted, and licked his lips. “We’ll feed well on your carcass, Pritani swine.”

Romans holding the line suddenly started flying through the air like toy soldiers, and Kinley saw one huge Scotsman knocking them out of his way with a giant hammer as he plowed a path toward Lachlan.

“They call us Scots now,” Lachlan yelled, then beckoned to him. “But I’ll let you have a try at the first nibble.”

They all bared their fangs, and crouched as if to spring on him en masse—except for one who stood behind him, his sword pointed at the Scotsman’s neck.

Even with all his courage, strength and skill, the laird of the McDonnel would never survive the attack. He would be stabbed in the back and dragged down by the cowards, helpless to stop them from tearing him to pieces. Fury boiled up inside Kinley as she shot up from behind the stone, and ran toward the ambushed Scotsman. She couldn’t think, not with the roaring in her head and the pounding in her chest, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did but this brave fellow soldier.

Lachlan McDonnel couldn’t die like this.

Her body heated as she reached out, and something raced through her arms and exploded from her palms. Kinley froze as two streams of fire shot from her hands, blasting all six of the Romans back from the laird. The stench of burning flesh and melting armor wafted over her as she gaped, completely stunned. The flaming streams stopped as instantly as they had started, but one by one the fanged men dropped to their knees and keeled over to melt into the ground.

When Kinley turned her hands palm-up she couldn’t see a mark on them.

Her bones shook inside her limbs as she felt the shock sinking in. She’d just murdered six men. Burned them alive. Burned them to death. With her hands.

“No, I can’t…no.” Kinley frantically shook her head. “This isn’t real. I can’t do this. I want to wake up.” Forget the perfect body, the new face, all of it. She was going back to the real world, the world where she wasn’t a murderer. “I want to wake up right now.”

All of the men stared at her for a frozen moment before the Romans collectively turned and ran for the trees. Kinley curled her fingers over into fists, and looked up to see the Scotsman whose life she’d saved, now striding over to her.

“Come here to me,” he said.

He snatched her up in his arms, and before she could speak kissed her, his mouth hard and hungry.

Kinley hung suspended as Lachlan ravished her mouth, his tongue bold and hot against hers. A cool scent flooded her head, something like the rain but more, so deep and dark that she felt as if she were being held under water. When she realized it was coming from him she snapped out of her trance. Then terror spiked inside her, crashing through the delicious sensations like a rampaging animal. He was kissing her like a lover but smearing her with the blood of the men—the things—that he’d killed.

Horrified, Kinley shoved with all her strength against his chest, wrenching her face aside to scream.

“Gently, now, gently,” he said. His huge biceps bulged as he set her down, but he wouldn’t release her. “I’ll no’ harm you. None shall for as long as I draw breath, faodail.”

Twisting out of his grip, Kinley staggered backward and turned to run, but his men had surrounded them, and they looked at her the same way the Romans had…the same way the insurgents had…the same way the medics had…

The laird caught her arm and spun her around. “Lass, you cannae–”

Kinley punched him in the face, hard and fast. It hurt like hell, crunching her knuckles and jamming a pool cue of pain up to her shoulder. A heartbeat later something came down like a cinderblock on the back of her neck, and she collapsed at the Scotsman’s feet.

Men shouted over her, and strong hands lifted her from the mud to cradle her against a broad, hard chest. Dizzy and confused, Kinley listened to the heavy thud under her cheek until it lulled her into oblivion.