A Highlander in Her Past by Maeve Greyson

spine.
    “Don’t talk, Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s face swam into view. The weight of his tiny hand patted with a reassuring touch against her bare shoulder. “Just close yer eyes and listen. I know it hurts ye whenever ye talk or move.”
    What a good boy. Trish relaxed her eye closed and straightened her head back into the damp dent on the pillow. She must be getting worse. She couldn’t imagine fully opening both eyes much less sitting up in the bed. Poor Ram. Before she died, she had to find a way to convince the little fellow that he mustn’t blame himself. Everything happened for a reason. Apparently, this was just the way she was meant to go.
    A large calloused hand scooped under her palm and gently lifted it off the pillowed mattress. Warmth. The hand supporting hers radiated a comforting warmth into her freezing hand. A second hand folded over the top, rubbing a work-roughened thumb across the ridges of her aching knuckles. Trish squeezed the hand. Whoever it was, their heat felt good, seemed to lessen the pain in her bones.
    “Auntie Trish.” Ramsey’s voice floated through the haze of pain ravaging through her head. Trish struggled to hear it better. Ramsay’s voice could be her anchor. For his sake, she had to hold on. She concentrated on the hand holding hers, mustering up enough strength to clench the calloused fingers with a trembling squeeze.
    “She heard ye, lad. She just squeezed my hand.”
    A deeper voice? Trish’s mind hitched trying to register on the soothing baritone rolling its “r’s” in her ear. It wasn’t Latharn. She knew his voice. Who was in the room with Ramsay?
    “Auntie Trish. Keagan and I are going to join our powers and make ye feel better. Ye dinna have to do a thing but lay verra still and relax. Keagan says ’tis the only way for ye to get to feelin’ better. But we gotta have yer full permission or the magic won’t work.”
    Trish eased in another painful breath, mulling over Ramsay’s words as they faded in and out of the painful fog clouding her mind. Magic. Spell. Feel better. Sounded like a definite hell yeah to her. Trish swallowed against the dryness scratching her throat, wincing as a sharp jolt of fresh agony sliced through her chest. If the spell didn’t work, she’d die. Either way, this endless torment would finally be over.
    “Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s voice grew louder, closer to her ear. “If ye agree to the magic with all yer heart, squeeze Maxwell’s hand.”
    Maxwell? Confusion muddied the fog wrapped around her consciousness. Who the hell was Maxwell? A choking pressure inflamed her lungs. She needed more air. Drawing in a shaking breath, Trish focused what little strength she had into her right hand. Lordy, the tiniest movement took so much effort. She concentrated on the calloused hand cradling hers and squeezed.
    “She agrees.”
    Was that Maxwell? Trish felt her body grow lighter; the pain surged with an unbearably strong stab then ebbed to a less searing throb, undulating like a cruel tormenting wave.
    Light. Soothing light flooded into her mind, a golden stream of shimmering yellows and blazing oranges flowed through her, chasing away every last remnant of pain. Trish sucked in a deeper breath. Finally. A decent breath of air. She almost laughed aloud. A lungful of oxygen never felt so good. Directly in front of her, suspended against a backdrop of stars, a flowing cloud of iridescent particles swirled into the glowing shape of a smiling, bearded man. Damn. Had she finally died and was being greeted by a hairy angel?
    Trish patted her body; her hands passed through her chest and stirred the shimmering air behind her. Holy crap! She must be dead. She peered closer at the man up ahead. Why did he seem so familiar?
    The man’s smile widened as he held out his hand. His translucent palm glowed with a blinding orb of blue-white light as though fired by a mysterious arc welder.
    Trish drew closer. She’d never seen an angel before and this