Knight's Blood by Julianne Lee

hard to keep the bile down, but in the end was forced to raise his head and vomit on the grass. That made him sicker, dizzy as well, and he rose up on his hands to vomit again. Gummy strings dangled from his mouth to the ground as his stomach continued to heave and jerk. Now he was glad for the rain, and he wiped his face with his wet fingers. He spat as he struggled to keep from throwing up a third time, and turned away from the steaming puddle before him.
     
    There would be no standing up for him. Not for a while. Elbows trembled under his partial weight. He continued to shiver and his stomach hitched in an effort to rid itself of whatever might be left in it. This time he was able to keep the heaving under control, but knew it was probably because there was nothing left to hurl. Rain ran from his hair down his face, down his back, down his arms. It sprayed from his lips with each shivering gasp and dribbled from his chin to his chest.
     
    He looked around. It was a small clearing, and it appeared familiar. He’d been here before. Grass mingled with black fungus patches and a line of toadstools.
     
    Toadstools. The familiarity of this place clicked, and he looked around to find the toadstools surrounded him. He was in the middle of a faerie ring, one he’d seen before. And off to his right was the log. The one eaten up with moss, that had graced Danu’s place on Eilean Aonarach. Not only was this his island, it was also his time. Or near to it, in any case. Within a few decades.
     
    Excitement surged in him, causing his stomach to hitch again, and he choked up dregs from his gut. Nothing there to speak of, and he spat mucus onto the grass in front of him. Then he sat up. Hunched over to keep the rain from his eyes, he thought he might yet collapse back onto the ground. Deep breaths seemed to help the pain, and he took several long moments to settle his stomach. But the cold was monstrous and the shivering uncontrollable. He needed help.
     
    “Danu?” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed to clear it.
     
    His query was met only with silence. He tried again.
     
    “Queen Danu? Are you there?” He hated the pathetic sound of need in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her. But she wasn’t responding.
     
    “Bitch.”
     
    Neither did that bring her from hiding. So he looked around in hopes of finding his clothes, but those damned faeries had left him nothing. Not even his tote bag with the medieval clothing, which was probably still in the twenty-first century. They’d thrust him into this time, more than likely almost killing him, with not so much as a swatch to cover himself. And if he didn’t get to shelter soon, he might end up dead in any case. Painfully, the shivering voiced with each breath, he began to pull himself together and rise to his feet.
     
    His knees buckled, and he knelt in the soggy grass. The rain had increased and now was beating his back rather than just dropping on it. A steady stream came off his chin, a smaller one from his nose, and he gasped for air as he watched the water dribble to the ground. It was miles to the castle, and he had no guarantee there would be anyone there. An equal distance in the other direction would be a farmhouse, but without knowing the year he couldn’t say whether it was occupied either. No telling what the year was. He recalled that before he’d taken possession of his award there had been a long-running feud over the island between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods. God knew who was in control just then, and he wouldn’t put it past that crazy little freak Brochan to have set him in the midst of a war in this condition.
     
    But Alex wasn’t getting any stronger just sitting there. He had to do something—go somewhere—and dear sweet-heart Danu obviously was not going to be of any help. So he pulled himself together once more and rose to his feet. This time he was able to stand without collapsing, feet splayed like a colt, his concentration