Czytaj książkę: «Dark Victory»
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
and the Masters of Time® series
Dark Embrace “A Perfect 10. Brenda Joyce has created a tale that is full to overflowing with emotion. Passionate, heartbreaking, hopeful, and entertaining, Dark Embrace is a novel you do not want to miss. I recommend it highly.” —Romance Reviews Today
“Known for her intensity of emotion and superlative storytelling, Joyce draws you into a new Masters of Time® novel that will blow you away with its unforgettable alpha hero and a willful heroine who feels his pain across the centuries.” —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)
Dark Rival “The supporting characters are excellent, the sex scenes are plentiful … and the plot thick, making this sophomore series entry a fine entertainment, sure to gratify fans of the bestselling kickoff.” —Publishers Weekly
Dark Seduction “Bestselling author Joyce kicks off her Masters of Time® series with a master’s skill, instantly elevating her to the top ranks of the ever-growing list of paranormal romance authors … Steeped in action and sensuality, populated by sexy warriors and strong women, graced with lush details and a captivating story … superlative.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Sexual tension crackles between Claire and Malcolm as he struggles with his desire for Claire and his protective duty in this sizzling, action-packed adventure.”
—Library Journal
Also by Brenda Joyce
The Masters of Time®
DARK EMBRACE (Rose Trilogy)
DARK RIVAL
DARK SEDUCTION
The de Warenne Dynasty
A DANGEROUS LOVE
THE PERFECT BRIDE
A LADY AT LAST
THE STOLEN BRIDE
THE MASQUERADE
THE PRIZE
Watch for Book Three of the Rose trilogy
DARK LOVER
Coming January 2014
Dark Victory
Brenda Joyce
www.millsandboon.co.uk
To Sydney Chrismon and Michelle Dykes—for twenty-five years of support, love and friendship; love you guys!
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
ALL FILES CLASSIFIED
LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE ONLY
H.C.U.
AIDAN THE WOLF OF AWE
Born 1398, Dunroch, Scotland. Six foot three, fair complexion, blue eyes, dark hair, approximately two hundred and ten pounds.
Age: unknown, presumed dead.
Father—the Earl of Moray***. He is believed to be alive despite reports of a vanquishing. Mother—sequestered or deceased. Half-brother—Malcolm of Dunroch**. Wife—deceased 1427. Son, Ian—born 1427, presumed deceased 1436.
Current status—NA. He is believed to have taken the vows of the unnamed and clandestine Brotherhood. ***His loyalty to the Brotherhood has been compromised.***
His Mission—NA
Last seen—September 8, 2008, 26 Moore Street, NYC, 8:12 pm.
Brianna (Brie) Rose
Born: 1982 in upstate NY. Five foot five inches tall, 138 pounds, dark hair, green eyes.
Age—26.
Family History: Father—Frank Billings, realtor. Mother—Anna Rose, deceased.
Personal History: Status—single. Active Relationships—the sisters Tabitha and Sam Rose*, her cousins, and a best friend Alison Monroe, MIT.
Occupation: Brianna Rose* is employed at HCU in Research and Support.
Current status—Missing. Priority Level—1.
Last seen—September 8, 2008, 26 Moore Street, NYC, at 8:15 pm.
Last Updated-September 6, 2007
Aidan
All historical evidence states that the Wolf of Awe was hanged by his political enemies in December, 1502. However, prior to his death his activities were extensive and there have been numerous Sightings of him, as recently as September 8, 2008 in New York City.
Note—Proceed with the assumption that the Wolf may reappear at any time, in any place, and that he has forsaken his vows.
Warning—The Wolf of Awe is unpredictable and extremely dangerous.
*CDA agent or employee ** a Master or otherwise affiliated with the Brotherhood ***evil in any form
Last UPDATED-SEPTEMBER 10th, 2008
Brie
Ms. Rose is believed to have been abducted by the Wolf of Awe and she could be anywhere, in anytime. She has had no PES training. Ms. Rose was recently hospitalised and may be suffering from extreme empathy to her abductor, making her extremely vulnerable. It is believed she does not have the resources to survive in a past era. Her recovery is Priority Level 1.
Tabitha Rose is a practicing witch with some powers; no criminal record. Sam Rose is a classified level 5 CDA agent. Alison Monroe is MIT (missing in time).
*CDA agent or employee **A Master or otherwise affiliated with the Brotherhood ***evil in any form
Last Updated-September 10th, 2008
GUY MACLEOD/THE BLACK MACLEOD
Born approximately in 1190 at Blayde, Scotland. Six foot two inches tall, dark complexion, blue eyes, dark hair.
Age: unknown.
Father, “William the Lion”, the Baron of Blayde, deceased. Mother—Elasaid**, presumed dead, missing since 1201. Mother was a High Priestess of the Brotherhood with great healing powers.
Current status—Unknown. He is believed to have been summoned to Iona to be inducted into the unnamed and clandestine Brotherhood. His status is uncertain.
His mission—NA.
Last seen—December 9, 2008, 4:10 pm, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 Fifth Avenue, NYC.
Tabitha (Tabby) Rose
Born 1979 in upstate NY. Five foot six inches tall, 115 pounds, blond hair, hazel eyes.
Age—29.
Family History: Father—James Comines, deceased. Mother—Laura Rose, deceased. Sister, Sam Rose*, b. 1981. Cousin, Brianna Rose*, MIT, presumed alive.
Personal History: Status—divorced. Active Relationships—sister Sam Rose*, her cousin, Brianna Rose* and a best friend Alison Monroe**.
Occupation: Ms. Rose teaches first grade at PS 106.
Current status—Missing In Time. Priority Level—3.
Last seen—December 9, 2008, 4:10 pm, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 Fifth Avenue, NYC.
Guy
William of Blayde was murdered at Blayde in 1201 along with dozens of his kin; contemporary sources claim political motivations (a clan war). HCU investigators believe Elasaid escaped the massacre, but her whereabouts remain unknown. One daughter survived, Alison (Allie) Monroe**, currently the earl of Morvern’s wife, and a valuable Healer.
Note—It is uncertain if Guy Macleod has taken the holy vows required of the brethren and his appearance in the city remains unexplained. HCU currently believes that Macleod is bent on revenge for the massacre of his family in 1202. +He absconded from the Met with an artefact from the exhibition The Wisdom of the Celts. HCU believes there is vast power in the artefact. Also, on December 8, witnesses claim he was present at the PS 106 hostage crisis.
*CDA agent or employee **A Master or otherwise affiliated with the Brotherhood ***evil in any form +Open investigation.
Last Updated—October 1, 2008.
Tabby
Tabitha Rose is a practicing witch with some powers, the extent of which is uncertain. Her sister, Sam Rose, is employed by CDA, and Brianna Rose was employed at HCU before her disappearance last year. Tabitha Rose is believed to have hidden Guy Macleod from the authorities on December 8; Macleod is believed to have been at the scene of the PS 106 hostage crisis. She has not been seen or heard from since December 9. She is believed to be alive. Witnesses at the Met claim she was abducted against her will. A second Highlander might have been present.
Dangerous demonic entities, possibly deceased or from past times, seem to have followed Macleod to New York City, or, to be hunting Ms. Rose.
ALERT: Agents are instructed to apprehend Macleod and detain him for further questioning. Proceed with caution.
*CDA agent or employee **A Master or otherwise affiliated with the Brotherhood ***evil in any form
Last Updated-October 10th, 2008
IAN MACLEAN, THE BARON OF AWE
Born 1427 in the Highlands of Scotland. Six foot three, fair complexion, gray eyes, dark hair, approximately two hundred and ten pounds. Abducted in 1436 and initially presumed dead.
Age: Unknown.
Father—Aidan of Awe**. A nephew of Malcolm of Dunroch**. Mother—unknown. Status—Single. Occupation—private investments. Primary residence—Loch Awe, Scotland.
Current status—On the Most Wanted Lists of Scotland Yard and Interpol for the theft of various works of art around the world.
Last seen—he is currently residing at 1101 Park Avenue, New York, NY, and was last seen on July 19, 2008, leaving One Hemmer House.***
Alert—He is not one of the Brethren and can be sacrificed for recovery of the page.
Samantha (Sam) Rose*
Born: 1981 in upstate NY. Five foot five inches tall, 138 pounds, dark hair, blue eyes.
Age—28.
Family History: Father—James Comines, deceased. Mother—Laura Rose, deceased. Sister, Tabitha Rose**, b. 1979, MIT. Cousin, Brianna Rose*, MIT. Both women are known to be alive.
Personal History: Status—single. Active Relationships—none.
Occupation: Sam Rose* is employed by HCU as a field agent.
Mission—maintain surveillance on Ian Maclean 24/7 and if possible, recover the page.
Alert-Under all circumstances the page cannot fall into demonic hands.
Last Updated-July 19, 2009
Ian
Ian Maclean was abducted by the demon Moray in 1436, and he was held in demonic captivity for 66 years. All records indicate that he has been highly compromised by six decades of torture and abuse. He is not one of the Brethren. His loyalties remain suspicious. He currently has stolen the page of illusion (from the Duisean) and will sell it to the highest bidder if not stopped by Friday at midnight.
Warning 1—Maclean is unpredictable and extremely dangerous. He has no loyalties and no friends. He has not ties to his family. He has proven many times that he has nothing to lose, not even his own life.
Warning 2—Proceed with the assumption that Maclean has every possible power and will use them against all forces of good and evil to attain his own ends.
*CDA agent or employee ** a Master or otherwise affiliated with the Brotherhood ***evil in any form
Sam
Sam Rose was a vigilante Slayer before becoming an agent at HCU. Her only personal life involved vigilante activities with her sister Tabitha and cousin Brie, both currently classified as MIT, as well as a friend, Allie Monroe, who currently resides in Carrick, Scotland. There is some question as to Agent Rose’s objectivity in her current assignment; records indicate several previous and hostile interactions with Maclean in Scotland last year. However, Agent Rose has yet to fail to accomplish her mission. Agent Rose’s loyalty to CDA is unquestionable.
Note—Agent Rose has an active sexual life. There are no relationships, however. Involvement with Maclean is suspected and must be monitored.
*CDA agent or employee **A Master or otherwise affiliated with the Brotherhood ***evil in any form
Last Updated-July 19th, 2009
Read the complete stories in Brenda Joyce’s The Masters of Time Series:
Dark Embrace—Aidan and Brie
Dark Victory—Guy and Tabitha
Dark Lover—Ian and Sam
(available August 2009)
PROLOGUE
The Future
June 19, 1550
Near Melvaig, Scotland
HE DID NOT KNOW what caused him to awaken.
Guy Macleod sat bolt upright in his bed, his wife’s fury engulfing him. Horror began. Tabitha was rarely angry, but now her rage knew no bounds. He went completely still so that his extraordinary senses could locate her. She was supposed to be in Edinburgh, her sister’s guest. Immediately he knew she was not there—and that she was in great danger.
He would die for her without blinking. He never panicked, but now he fought to stay calm, searching for her.
And that was when he felt the familiar evil.
Black and vast, filled with hatred and malevolence, they’d lived with this evil for two-hundred-and-fifty years. Criosaidh had powerful black magic. Tabitha had equally powerful white power. But Criosaidh had been stalking his wife with growing determination, as if impatient, and with a new boldness recently. Tabitha had scoffed at Guy’s concerns. Now, maybe too late, he knew he’d been right.
He leaped from the bed, his gaze veering to the southern chamber window as he shrugged a leine over his muscular and battle-scarred body. The night sky was still and blue-black, glittering with a billion stars. His stare intensified. His senses sharpened. For one moment, even though Criosaidh’s stronghold at Melvaig was almost a day’s journey away by horse, he thought the night sky there was on fire. It was so oddly bright in the south. But that was impossible.
Or was it?
Tabitha’s power over fire continually amazed him. He had no more doubt now; Tabitha was at Melvaig—and so was Criosaidh.
His alarm vanished, his fear died. He stepped into his boots, leaping as he did so.
He had mastered the art of the leap through time and space centuries ago and he landed upright, dazed but battle ready, in Melvaig’s large central courtyard. The sky above was on fire.
Incredulous, he saw huge balls of fire falling into the bailey. Men, women and children were running for the castle’s front gates, screaming in terror and trying to escape the inferno. For one moment, he wondered if the sun was breaking apart and falling in blazing pieces to the ground, even though he knew better. His gaze shifted. Above the entire stronghold was Melvaig’s tall central tower—and it was an inferno.
Even though stone could not burn, chunks of the gray slabs were falling from the tower, the rocks ablaze, sizzling as they slammed down, only to burn holes into the bailey ground.
Tabitha screamed.
Criosaidh roared in answering rage.
The tower swayed in the fiery night and more blazing stone blocks sheered from it, crashing to the earth below.
They were at war.
He did not have the Sight, but suddenly he experienced the strange feeling his wife so often referred to—déjà vu. He felt as if he were reliving this terrible moment, although he knew he was not.
Only one witch would survive this night.
“Tabitha!” he roared, and bounded to the tower door, leaping to the uppermost floor. As he reached the landing, the heat from the fire inside the tower chamber blasted him, burning his face, chest and hands. He saw the fire scorching a solid wall across half of the tower room. His wife was trapped against the far wall by the flames, which were dangerously close to her velvet skirts.
Horror briefly paralyzed him.
Criosaidh stood on the fire wall’s other side, where the rest of the chamber was untouched by the flames. “You are too late, Macleod. Tonight she dies…at last.”
He had never come undone in battle, not once in almost four centuries. The heat had caused him to crouch; he straightened and flung all of his power at her, enraged as never before. “Ye die,” he roared, but she had wrapped herself in a protective spell, and his power fell harmlessly away from her. As it hit the floor and was diverted to the walls behind her, rock and stone cracked apart.
Macleod looked at his beautiful wife, who was never afraid in a crisis. As their gazes met, he heard her as clearly as ever.
I have known this day would come…You’ve known it, too.
She thought she would be defeated? “No!” he roared at her, blasting Criosaidh again. His life had been an endless cycle of blood and death, his heart had been stone, until she had come to him two-and-a-half centuries ago, bringing joy and happiness with her. Tabitha had saved his life.
Criosaidh smiled as his power was diverted by her spell, again.
“Command the fire,” Macleod shouted at Tabitha.
“I am trying,” she cried. “She has new powers!” Tabitha closed her eyes, visibly straining. And suddenly the fire wall shifted and moved back toward Criosaidh.
Criosaidh hissed in displeasure. Macleod stood very still. His power could not move fire, but long ago he had learned how to use his mind to help Tabitha cast her magic. Now he slipped inside her with his mind. The union always made them stronger—evil had never defeated them when they became one in their thoughts. It could not, must not, defeat them now.
“Fire be hungry, fire be quick. Get the Macleod bitch,” Criosaidh said harshly.
And even as Criosaidh spoke, he saw the tears slipping down Tabitha’s face. She was lost in this battle—and he was afraid it was a terrible portent of the outcome. “No!” he roared, blasting the black witch again. This time, taken unawares, she gasped in pain and was driven back into the untouched wall, but it didn’t matter.
Tabitha went still, eyes wide, as the flames circled her.
He seized Criosaidh, shaking her, wanting to break her. “Stop the fire or die!”
She sneered at him and vanished.
Tabitha screamed.
In horror, he turned—and saw her lavender velvet gown on fire. And then his wife was engulfed in the flames, only a portion of her frightened face visible to him.
I love you…
He knew her so well. It had been two-hundred-and-fifty-two years since he had seduced her in her small loft in New York City and then taken her to Blayde—against her very stubborn will. She was his wife, his lover, his best friend and his greatest ally in the war on evil. She was his partner in every task, both great and small, and she was the mother of his children, the grandmother of his grandchildren. She had taught him love, compassion, humanity. He had never believed in love until she’d come into his life. He’d been ruthless and merciless until Tabitha.
He knew she meant to say more.
Just as he knew these were her last, dying words.
But she did not finish speaking. Instead, the fire erupted, reaching the tower roof, consuming her completely.
“Tabitha!” he screamed.
Then the fire was gone, and there was only the charred ruin of the tower room.
He could not breathe. He could not move. In shock, he stared.
Across the room, upon the floor, he saw the gold necklace she had worn for two-and-a-half centuries, the amulet he had given her. The talisman was an open palm, a pale moonstone glittering in its center.
It had survived the fire, untouched and unscarred; his wife, who had powerful magic, had not.
“No!” He leaped into time.
CHAPTER ONE
The Present
New York City
December 7, 2008
IT HAD BEEN a really quiet weekend. Tabby wasn’t sure what to make of that as she and her sister and a friend stood in line to pass through a security checkpoint at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her sister, Sam, had even gotten off early enough last night to go out to dinner. Tabby couldn’t recall the last time the two of them had been able to go out and have a few drinks and a great meal. It made her uneasy. She was waiting for the ax to fall.
Something huge was going to happen.
She was a Rose, and while she didn’t have the Sight like her cousin, Brie, she could feel the premonition in her bones.
“It is weird,” Sam said, as they filed toward the security inspector. “There were only four friggin’ pleasure crimes yesterday. Not that I’m complaining. But it was Saturday night.”
Although they were sisters, they were as different as night and day. Sam was hard and edgy, while Tabby was soft and classic. Two years younger than Tabby, Sam wore short, spiky platinum hair, had an Angelina Jolie body and the face to go with it. Tabby was used to the attention her sister always received. Every male they passed, young or old, gave her a second glance—male radar gone haywire. Tabby didn’t mind. She knew she was conservative and old-fashioned. Although it was Sunday, she wore a wool skirt, a cashmere V-neck and pearls. She didn’t even own a pair of jeans.
Sam was being gawked at now. The tall, young male turned his gaze to Tabby next, giving her the once-over. Tabby was used to that, too. She was an attractive woman; her sister simply overshadowed her.
“There was not one Rampage, not in any of the five boroughs,” Sam said. “I mean, it’s noon and I haven’t even been called in on a case.”
Tabby knew that her warrior sister, who was an agent at HCU, was bored. Sam was at her best when she was hunting on the city streets. But the Rampages were terrible crimes. Innocent victims were burned, medieval style, at the stake. As eerie as the sudden decline in violence was, she should not be complaining.
“Why are you so uptight? I saw who you met up with at Trenza,” Kit said to Sam, smiling. “She was with Young, Dark and Hot.”
“Very young, very hot and very, very good.” Sam smiled.
“I don’t know why they never have friends,” Kit complained, but she winked at Tabby. She was slim, fair and dark-haired. Tabby had never seen her wear a stitch of makeup—she didn’t have to. Her siren’s face and sensuously buff body hid a brilliant intensity and resolve. Like Sam, her first love was the war on evil. She was one of the most serious and determined women Tabby had ever met, but Tabby didn’t blame her. Her twin sister had died in Jerusalem in Kit’s arms, the victim of demonic violence. Sometimes Tabby thought she might still be mourning Kelly. Kit worked at HCU, too—it was how she’d met Sam.
But Sam said, “He had a friend. You cut out before you could meet him.”
Kit shrugged negligently. “Had to hit the gym and take care of the bod.”
Sam snorted.
Tabby wasn’t sure if Kit was as old-fashioned as she was, or if she was simply too obsessed with work to get involved, but she had known Kit for about a year, and she was pretty certain Kit was as celibate as she was. The joke was a front and they all knew it. It was okay—they both lived vicariously through Sam. A stranger might be appalled by the way Sam used men, but Tabby was proud of her. She was a powerful and gorgeous woman; she was the one to say yes or no; she was the one who did the dumping. Sam would never have her heart broken. She would be spared that.
Tabby was relieved when the slight aching in her breast did not suddenly pierce through her heart and soul. The divorce no longer hurt. The betrayals no longer hurt. It was almost two years since she’d learned the extent of her ex-husband’s lies and adultery. She’d given him all of her love, and she’d meant every word of their marriage vows. It was the kind of woman she was. He hadn’t meant one damned word.
She intended to learn from her mistakes. Randall hadn’t been the love of her life after all. He had been a Wall Street investor—a high roller and a player. He’d cheated on her from start to finish, and to make the cliché just perfect, she’d been the last to find out. She was never going near that charismatic macho type again.
But sometimes, especially recently, she wished she was a bit more like her sister when it came to men. She did not want to even think that she might be lonely or that she needed the kind of intimacy she wasn’t sure she’d ever have again, but the evenings were getting harder and harder to deal with. She’d started dating again, being really careful to go out with intellectuals and artists, but it felt as if she was simply going through the motions. And maybe she was. When it came to dating and sex, she was the exact opposite of her sister. If she wasn’t in love, it wasn’t happening. She didn’t turn on easily, either. Maybe love and passion weren’t in the cards for her. She was twenty-nine already, and beginning to think she’d better focus on her Destiny as a Rose woman.
“You know, I wish you’d let me set you up with the new guy at CDA,” Sam said.
Tabby smiled a bit grimly at her. She’d met MacGregor once, when he and Sam had been leaving the Center for Demonic Activity Agency together. “Definitely not,” she said, meaning it. The agent had had macho written all over him.
“Let her explore the Beta side of life,” Kit said, her eyes wide with innocence. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll find a match made in some kind of odd, metro heaven.”
Tabby felt a pang, but she smiled brightly and said, “That’s the plan.”
Kit sobered and touched her arm. “I’m sorry. I never met Randall and I shouldn’t tease you for going out with his polar opposite.”
“It’s okay,” Tabby said. She smiled firmly. “What’s meant to be is meant to be. Maybe the love of my life is a poet with a Ph.D.”
Sam choked. “Over my dead body.” Then she looked closely at Tabby. “Are you okay?”
Sam always knew when something was really wrong. “It’s still hard.”
“Yeah, it is,” Sam said, and they both knew they were referring to their cousin, Brie. Kit probably knew it, too, but she pretended not to hear them, moving as the line progressed.
The Rose women were special. Each had her own Destiny, tied into the war on evil. For generations, the Rose women had been using their unusual powers to aid and abet good. It had only been three months since Brie had left them to redeem the Wolf of Awe. The year before, their best friend Allie had also vanished. Although Allie wasn’t related to them, they had become friends with her as children. That had been Fate, too—it turned out that she was a powerful Healer. Each woman had gone to embrace her Destiny in the past, because it had been time to do so. That was how the universe worked. It was a fundamental Wisdom in the Book of Roses, which had been passed down through the generations of Rose women.
Tabby missed them both, sometimes terribly, but she was also happy for them because Allie and Brie were hardly alone in the Middle Ages. Their Destinies had included powerful, nearly immortal partners—Highlanders who battled at their sides, as driven and committed as they were to the war on evil. But their absence had left a gaping hole in their lives. Sam had helped fill the void by going to work at HCU, the Historic Crimes Unit of CDA, a clandestine government agency dedicated to fighting the evil preying on society. Sam’s boss, Nick Forrester, ran HCU with an iron fist but he could be counted on to back them up. And so could Kit. But it wasn’t the same without Allie and Brie.
There was no defying Destiny. Tabby’s Destiny was magic. Every generation of Rose women had a Slayer, a Healer and a Witch. She had been practicing her craft since she was fourteen—the year her mother had died, the victim of a demonic pleasure crime. There was one big fat problem, though. Rose women usually came into their powers very, very swiftly once their Destiny was made known. Apparently, Tabby was the exception to that rule. Although she’d been practicing magic since adolescence, her powers were still erratic and, once in a while, too weak to do any good. It simply didn’t make any sense.
But as the Book of Roses said, there was a reason for everything.
Kit said, “After the gym, I went back to HCU. I was digging around in some older case files. That last Rampage has been bothering me. There were only three in the gang.”
“They were doped up on a drug we’ve never seen before,” Sam said quietly.
HCU’s jurisdiction was the past—all past demonic activity, even if centuries old. Because so many of today’s demons came from previous centuries, HCU’s agents worked closely with CDA. Rarely could a present-day crime be solved without HCU’s expertise. Tabby had already heard about last week’s Rampage. A couple had been burned at the stake in one of Manhattan’s most posh neighborhoods. These terrible murders were usually committed between midnight and dawn, with an entire gang present. But it had only been 8:00 p.m. and only three gang members had been there, two males and a female. Were they becoming bolder? Had it even been a genuine Rampage?
The press had dubbed the crimes “witch burnings,” a label Tabby particularly disliked, because the victims were average men, women and children of all ages, races, sizes and shapes. But then, evil rarely discriminated—except, of course, when it came to pleasure crimes. Then the most innocent and beautiful were chosen. The witch burnings had instilled so much fear into the general public that no one seemed to care that seventy percent of all murders were still pleasure crimes. What was really scary was how vicious the gangs of possessed kids had become.
They’d once been ghetto gang members or normal kids gone missing. Evil preyed on them, seducing these gang members, offering them power in return for their souls, and then directing them to commit violence, brutality, bestiality and anarchy. The possessed gangs were out of control, ruling the city streets through fear and might. Gang warfare was no longer “in.” Now the gangs often worked together to hunt down civilians, cruelly and sadistically. Very few “normal” gangs remained in the country now.
“Something’s been bothering me about the Rampages, across the board,” Kit said. “I feel like I’ve missed a really glaring clue.”
“I’ll go back to HCU with you,” Sam decided, “and we can check it out.”
They had reached the security checkpoint. Tabby smiled at the guard as Sam flipped her government ID. Sam’s messenger bag was loaded with weapons, and she carried a stiletto up her sleeve and a Beretta in a shoulder holster. She would never make it through the checkpoint. Kit flipped a similar ID. Although they were government issued, neither Kit nor Sam were Feds, as the IDs claimed. But CDA was so clandestine that only the top levels of the CIA, the FBI and the Secret Service worked with its agents.
As they passed through the checkpoint, Sam and Kit were both so thoughtful that Tabby had the feeling they were ready to cut out on their plans for the afternoon. She would have to wander around the exhibit by herself, and return alone to the loft she shared with Sam. She’d float around it in the same solitude she did every night—except when she was out with some sweet guy she had no real interest in. It was lonely—Sam was almost never there—but she’d deal the same way she always did. She’d outline tomorrow’s curriculum, and then work on her spells.
“So which way to the Wisdom of the Celts?” Sam asked.
Tabby smiled back, relieved. Sam knew she needed company. “Up those stairs,” she said, nodding.
The huge front hall was terribly crowded. Every New Yorker knew that visiting the Met on the weekend was a really dumb idea. They started across the granite floored hall, dwarfed by the columns and arches, before going up the broad staircase to the first level of exhibits.
There was no line.
They exchanged looks as they approached the glass displays. Tabby said, “This is too weird. There should have been a half-hour wait, at least.”
Kit murmured, “It’s an exhibit on medieval Ireland. If you ask me, medieval Scotland and Ireland are peas in the same pod.”
Allie and Brie were in medieval Scotland, with Highlanders who belonged to a secret society dedicated to the protection of Innocence. “Are you saying that you think we’re meant to go in here? That the exhibit is related to the Brotherhood?”
“The earliest Scots came from Dalriada—which is Ireland.”
Tabby barely heard them. She realized her heart was thundering as she left them debating the odd lack of a line and walked over to a large glass display case. Inside, there were numerous artifacts and objects. She vaguely saw a large sword with an intricately designed hilt, and a pair of daggers, a brooch and a cup. But her gaze was drawn to the necklace there, instead.
A terrible tension filled her as she stared at the gold chain and the pendant hanging from it. It was a talisman in the shape of an open palm, a pale stone glittering from the palm’s center.
Tabby’s pulse skittered wildly in her throat. When she touched the hollow of her collarbone, where she wore pearls and a small key on a chain, her skin there felt far too warm. She felt a bit dizzy, faint.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked.
“I feel odd,” Tabby said, realizing she was perspiring. She leaned forward to read about the amulet.
It was dated to the early thirteenth century, but had been found in 1932 among the ruins of Melvaig Castle in the northeastern Highlands of Scotland. It had somehow survived the legendary battle of An Tùir-Tara, which meant the Burning Tower. On June 19, 1550, a terrible fire had destroyed the central tower of Melvaig Castle. Most historians could not decide on the cause of the inferno, because no weapons or other signs of a battle had been found. A blaze that extensive should have been caused by medieval warfare. The most common hypothesis was that the fire was the result of treachery, the kind so often seen in the ongoing clan war between the MacDougalls of Skye and their blood enemies, the Macleods of Loch Gairloch. That bloody and bitter clan feud seemed to have originated in 1201, when a fire set by the MacDougalls razed the Macleod stronghold at Blayde to the ground, destroying the Macleod chief, William the Lion. Very few survivors were left, but amongst them was Macleod’s fourteen-year-old son.
Tabby reeled. The words blurred before her eyes. She could not breathe; she started to choke on the lack of air.
The Macleods of Loch Gairloch….
His fourteen-year-old son….
She finally breathed, gulping in air. Were the Macleods important somehow? Did she know the clan? Had they been a part of Rose history? Why did that boy seem important to her? She almost felt as if the clan name rang a bell, as if she needed to reach out to that boy. Yet she did not know anyone named Macleod. Her family came from Narne, in the western Highlands.
But she remained shaken. She could almost see a fourteen-year-old boy, covered in blood and choking on grief and guilt. And suddenly so much conflicting emotion consumed her that she could not breathe at all.
Tabby went still.
She could see the inferno.
The sky was pitch-black, and an entire castle was ablaze. There was dread, fury.
The images shifted. The sky was a brilliant robin’s-egg blue. Only a soaring tower burned….
The terrible emotions intensified. Tabby cried out, rocked by the rage and anguish, the fear, the horror, and even the love.
And there was evil, too.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked urgently. “You need to sit down!”
Tabby barely heard her sister. Tabby did not have the power to sense evil, but evil was beckoning her now. It wanted her. Tabby strained to see, horrified and mesmerized at once. And from the raging inferno on that sunny summer day, a dark fog came, slithering over the blazing tower, consuming it. Slowly the dark mists began shape-shifting into a woman—a faceless woman cloaked in swirling black.
“Tabby, damn it!”
The evil woman beckoned. Tabby couldn’t see her face but she knew she was smiling the cold, lustful smile of pure evil. Then she realized that she was afraid.
Tabby blinked. The darkly cloaked woman became clearer. Night-black hair spilled over her cloak, framing her pale beautiful face. She somehow knew this woman—a black witch or a demon. It was déjà vu. Yet they’d never met.
The woman started to drift away. She opened her eyes—or her eyes were already open and only now could she see what was in front of her. She clung to Sam’s strong arms. Her sister was pale and staring at her with alarm. “Evil,” she whispered dryly.
She felt Sam’s disbelief. “But you can’t sense evil. I can, and there’s no evil here, Tabby.”
There was so much evil. “It’s here. I’m sensing it now. It’s a woman.”
“She’s as white as a sheet. She’s going to faint—she needs to lie down and get her feet elevated,” Kit said quickly.
Tabby then saw Kit beside Sam, the display and the amulet behind them. She stared at the bright gold palm. “I’m okay,” she said harshly.
“I didn’t feel any evil,” Sam said quietly. “Is it coming from the talisman?”
Tabby wet her lips, no longer dizzy but still a bit weak. What had just happened? She’d just felt a huge and threatening black force. And it had wanted her?
Her gaze moved to the glowing white stone in the palm’s center. It winked at her and she was stunned to feel its holy power. “It has white light. The amulet is for good, not evil. It has powerful magic.”
“It has to, to survive a fire. Gold melts,” Kit said flatly.
Tabby trembled. “I think I had a vision.” And what about her reaction to the fourteen-year-old boy who had survived Blayde’s destruction in the thirteenth century?
Tabby tensed. She felt as if she could almost see that boy. When she’d read those words, she’d felt his grief and guilt.
Sam’s dark blue eyes widened. “You don’t have the Sight, either!”
“It felt like déjà vu.” She wet her dry lips again. “There was a witch—or a female demon. I know her.” She corrected herself. “I knew her. And the survivor of the first fire, I might know him, too.”
“What first fire?” Sam demanded.
Tabby realized she needed to sit down. “The clans started warring after 1201—it says so right on the plaque, Sam.” She glanced around for a bench. There was one across the hall, but she didn’t want to leave the display.
A brief silence fell, in which they all considered what had just happened. Kit said, “I get good vibes from the pendant. Maybe I can dig up something at HCU on it, and on these two clans.”
“My gut is telling me that we should see what we can find out about An Tùir-Tara.” Sam stared closely at Tabby. “Ring any more bells?”
Tabby stared at her sister. Whatever had happened at An Tùir-Tara had been frightening and horrible. What was Sam thinking? She looked far too grim—as if she knew more than she’d let on.
“Want me to dig into the destruction of Blayde, too?” Sam asked quietly.
Tabby became chilled—and even more sick. The boy’s grief felt as if it was a part of her. Had she been there?
She thought about reincarnation. The Book of Roses had one mention of past lives, in a Wisdom that had clearly been read over and over again. Tabby didn’t disbelieve in past lives, but she didn’t believe, exactly, either. “Are you thinking I was there? Either at Blayde, or at An Tùir-Tara in 1550?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said matter-of-factly. She was oddly poker-faced. What was going on with her?
“Maybe Mom was there, or Grandma Sara, or another ancestor,” Sam said. “Maybe it was you, in a different life, although I’m not really into reincarnation. Or maybe you are coming into the power to sense evil—to feel across time the way Brie did.” Sam shrugged. “It can’t hurt to check it out. You’re obviously involved with this amulet, in one way or another.”
Tabby was silent now. The Book of Roses was very clear about Fate and the fact that there was no such thing as coincidence.
“I hate to jinx ourselves, but I’ve been waiting for something bad to happen all day. I just thought it would be really bad—you know, like vampires from a Buffy episode stepping out of the TV and coming to life in our living rooms,” Kit said, eyes wide.
Tabby couldn’t smile.
“We need vampires like we need a hole in the head. Don’t give the demons any ideas,” Sam said, amused. Then she and Kit exchanged conspiratorial looks.
Kit was more of a Hunter than a Slayer, and not half as impatient as Sam. She didn’t mind spending days poring through HCU’s amazing database, while Sam couldn’t sit still for very long—or stay off the street for very long. “What are you two planning?” Tabby asked with some trepidation.
Sam put her arm around her. “You’re still really pale. I think we should take you home and start checking this out. Tomorrow would be a better time to visit here, anyway.”
Tabby knew Sam was worried about her. She stared past her sister at the pendant. The little white stone was glowing now. “I’m fine.”
“What does that mean? We can’t leave you here, not when you almost fainted,” Sam said. “You seemed to go back in time while standing right here with us. I don’t like it, not one bit.”
Sam was never this protective of her. They were a team of equals, backing each other up in crisis after crisis. They fought demons together almost nightly. Tabby straightened and took a deep breath, deciding not to worry about her sister’s odd behavior now. She needed to think about that boy and that demon-witch. “I’m staying. I have to stay.” When Sam’s eyes widened, she said firmly, as if to one of her first-graders, “I am fine. I’m not going to break like fine china. I am going to get some water and then I am going to sit down by this amulet and think—and feel.”
Sam finally said, “I am not liking this very much.”
Tabby stared closely. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Sam’s expression became bland. “We don’t keep secrets, Tab.”
Kit said, “She should stay here, Sam. We were meant to be here today. This is the first time she’s ever felt evil—and by God, she felt it across time. This is a medieval Celtic exhibit. Melvaig is in the Highlands.”
Kit thought the exhibit related to the Highlanders who were fighting this war with them—but from medieval times, Tabby thought, surprised. She didn’t buy that. This was about a suffering boy and a woman with lots of black power. And it was about that amulet.
But why did everything feel so familiar?
Sam was grim. “That was spoken like a Rose,” she said to Kit.
“Hanging around you two, I feel like a Rose sometimes,” she quipped, her eyes sparkling.
“You know I can hold my own when it counts,” Tabby said, which was true.
“Okay,” Sam said, shrugging. “You’re a big girl and this is obviously in the Big Game Plan. Don’t know what got into me.”
Tabby walked back with them as far as the closest water fountain. She preferred Giuliani Water to the bottled stuff, anyway. When Sam and Kit were gone and she’d had a drink, she hurried back to the exhibit.
The closer she got to the glass case with the amulet, the stranger she began to feel. Dizzy, expectant, nervous, afraid…and angered.
She paused before the bright gold palm, light-headed and tense, uneasy. She’d been waiting for the sky to fall and it was falling now—this was it, she thought anxiously. The white moonstone blinked merrily at her. She remained aware of the boy and the woman with black power, of all the emotions that were somehow associated with the amulet, or An Tùir-Tara, or Blayde and the warring clans. Just as she had the odd notion that the amulet was protecting her from getting too close to emotions that might be dangerous for her—or a life that might be dangerous for her—so much grief consumed Tabby that she cried out.
It sent her right down to her knees.
It was the kind of grief she’d never felt in her life. It resonated with so much male warrior power and so much rage. On her hands and knees, Tabby somehow looked up.
A Highlander towered over her. He was a huge and muscular man, dark of complexion and hair, his face a mask of fury. His face was blistered, burned and bleeding. She recoiled in fear. He was holding a long sword, his knuckles blistered and bloody, too, and a red-and-black plaid was pinned to one shoulder. Otherwise he was clad in a short-sleeved tunic that hit mid-thigh, and it was charred and sooty. She inhaled—his arms and thighs were also burned and bloody!
His enraged and anguished blue eyes locked with hers.
In his grief, the Highlander looked ready to commit murder.
Uncertain if he was real or not, she somehow got up and reached for his hand. Her fingers grazed his.
Her heart leaped as they made contact for one split second.
And then he vanished.
Tabby reeled backward, her fingers burning from the heat of his hands, until she leaned against the case. Her heart was pounding with explosive force. She somehow saw a Met security officer begin to hurry toward her, but she couldn’t move off the display. She was shaken to the very core of her soul, his blue eyes engraved in her mind. Finally, she whispered, “Come back. Let me help you.”
The security officer grabbed her arm. “You can’t lean on the case, miss. Are you all right?”
Tabby barely heard him. She pulled away, rushing to the nearest bench, where she collapsed. She inhaled, her mind racing. She had to cast a spell to bring him back to her while he was still close, before he vanished into time. She had to help him.
Tabby closed her eyes. Beginning to perspire, focused as never before, she murmured, “Come to me, Highlander, come to me now. Come to my healing power. Come to me, Highlander.”
She knew she had to help him. Somehow, it was the most important moment of her life.
Tabby waited.
CHAPTER TWO
The Past
Blayde, Scotland
1298
“YE HAVE NO HEART!”
“Aye.” The Black Macleod stared coldly down at his mortal enemy. The man crouched on his hands and knees, shaking like a leaf, as pale as any ghost, clearly terrified. Panic showed in his eyes. Macleod felt nothing in return.
Alasdair would die that day. It was that simple. He could beg for mercy, but there would be none. He had been hunting down the MacDougall kinsmen since he was fourteen years old. He had lost tally of all the MacDougall men he had wounded, maimed and killed. He did not even care what that count was. Maybe, as his enemies said, his heart was truly made of stone.
“A Uilleam,” he said softly.
Images from the past flashed. He fought them, unwilling to ever see them again. His father being stabbed, repeatedly, while he helplessly watched…his father, a still and lifeless corpse, being sent to his burial at sea…Blayde in ruins, a pile of scorched black stone, the sun bloodred as it was rising in the smoke-filled dawn…and a jumbled, unfocused image of the desperate, grief-stricken boy he’d once been.
“My wife is with child, Macleod, I beg ye!” The MacDougall of Melvaig screamed. “What happened at Blayde was long ago. I wasna even born yet! Yer father tried to make peace, Macleod. Let us do what our fathers failed to do!”
His father, William, had tried to make peace—and instead, the entire clan had been murdered in a bloody midnight massacre. His life had become revenge that day. It remained revenge now.
“A Elasaid,” he said harshly. Deep within himself, he felt the anger roiling. In war, he never allowed it free rein. “A Blayde.”
He knew better than to try to use his god-given powers to murder the other man. A master swordsman, Alasdair’s scream sounded and was cut off as Macleod’s sword sliced through skin and flesh, tendon and bone, severing his head from his body.
For one moment, Macleod stood there coldly, watching the headless man topple over and finally begin to tumble down the slope. The boy felt a bit closer now. His choked sobs became mere hiccups. Macleod looked at the wide-eyed, severed head, aware that the boy was the only one present who cared. Sightlessly, Alasdair stared back at him.
Sometimes he wished that the boy had died that day, too.
His heart was beating, though, slow and steady, telling him that he did have a heart—contrary to what popular opinion held. His expression never changing, his mouth remaining hard and tight, Macleod reached down, seized Alasdair’s head by his golden hair and flung it away, into the ravine and river below. “Join yer ancestors in hell.”
The ground rolled ominously beneath his feet. The sky overhead was the color of wildflowers, but thunder boomed directly above him and lightning split the sky. The gods were furious with him.
Again.
He did not care. He looked up and laughed at them—scorning their wishes, their commands.
They could curse him and threaten him, and even spoil his powers, but he was their grandson and he feared no one…not even an angry god. “Do as ye will,” he said, and for the first time that day, his interest was actually piqued.
Their response was immediate. Lightning split a nearby tree, and it crashed over at his feet.
He smiled with amusement. Did they think that would scare him?
Then he turned his attention to the fear and fury roiling below him.
His smile gone, Macleod turned to stare at the river below, where Alasdair’s sixteen-year-old son had fled to hide. Macleod had lurked not far from Melvaig in the hopes of preying upon Alasdair, or one of his brothers or cousins, but Alasdair had ridden out with his eldest son. Macleod had followed and eventually ambushed them.
He was a very tall man, often standing a head over everyone else, with a muscular body hewn from years of riding difficult chargers, running ridges and hills, and engaging in the kind of warfare he liked best—hand-to-hand and sword-to-sword combat. He might have extraordinary powers, but he could not depend upon them—they were often erratic. It hardly mattered. He was stronger than all the men he knew, faster, and more intelligent. He had never lost a battle, not in any kind of combat; nor did he intend to.
It was a pleasant June day, warmer than was usual this far north, and he wore a simple short-sleeved leine that came to mid-thigh. It was belted at the waist, and the bold red-and-black brat of the Macleod clan was pinned to his left shoulder with a gold-and-citrine brooch, where a lion was engraved upon the golden stone. The brooch had belonged to his father, the great William the Lion. He wore both long and short swords. His boots were knee-high and spurred. Unlike other Highlanders, his skin was surprisingly dark and his hair was almost as black as midnight, but his eyes were stunningly blue. His mother had told him that his grandfather had been the son of a Persian goddess—the explanation for his unusual coloring.
Macleod saw movement below, along the river’s banks.
As he did, Alasdair’s son’s desperation washed over him, and instantly the other boy, the fourteen-year-old who should have died, came back. He almost recalled a very similar moment of desperation, ninety-seven years ago. He decided not to think about it.
He began to move down the ridge, intent, unrushed and very aware of his prey’s fear—and his courage. Blue flashed; he heard a branch snap. He slid and slipped down the wet dirt, pausing, listening acutely to Coinneach MacDougall’s every thought.
He’ll kill me without a second thought, as he did my da’…. He’s too fast, too strong, to fight openly…. I ha’ to hide…so I can return to kill him another day!
Macleod took a few more steps and reached the rocky bank of the river. A pair of doe took flight as he paused, listening to his victim’s thoughts carefully.
He canna be immortal, as is claimed…. Someone will kill him one day—an’ ’twill be me!
As if anticipating the kill, a huge black crow settled on the upper bough of a fir, its black eyes bright with interest. Macleod knew that Coinneach hid behind that tree.
He slid his sword from its sheath. Well oiled and bloody, it hissed loudly in the quiet Highland morning.
A nearby saber sang.
The boy had drawn his sword. His thoughts were silent now. Coinneach would die fighting—a true Highlander’s death. His kin would be proud of him—and then they would seek revenge for both father and son.
He did not care. It was the way of this Highland world. Death brought revenge and more death. The cycle was an endless one and to question it would be as purposeless as questioning why the sun rose and set each and every day. He started toward the stand of firs.
Lightning sizzled in the blue sky.
Macleod ignored the warning. As he was about to step into the thigh-deep water, he felt a huge power emerging behind him, almost as holy as that of the gods. The power was so immense that it enveloped him. He instantly recognized its source. Macleod tensed.
Thunder boomed.
“Let him live. He’s Innocent.”
And finally, he was angered. He turned to face MacNeil, the Abbot of Iona—the man who had become his protector and guardian the day after the massacre, the man he had come to consider both family and friend. But MacNeil was not in the habit of calling at Blayde—except when he meant to harass him. “Dinna interfere,” Macleod warned, meaning it.
MacNeil was a tall, golden Highlander with more power and wisdom than any other man, mortal or not. “Of course I will interfere. If I dinna protect ye from yerself, who will?”
“I dinna need protection, not from ye or anyone,” Macleod said, his temper lost at last. He would never allow himself any passion during a hunt or a battle, but he was aware of Coinneach running through the forest, toward Melvaig, the hunt now ended. So he would live…only to die another day.
MacNeil’s smile faded. “Have I ever failed ye on this day, lad?” he asked softly.
Macleod’s tension increased. It was the anniversary of the murders—and the burials. “Ye need not come every single year. I never think about the past. I ceased thinking about the past an’ that day years ago.” It wasn’t really a lie, he thought. “It serves no purpose. I leave broodin’ to the women,” he snarled.
“I will always come on the anniversary of their deaths,” MacNeil said gently. “Besides, the gods are impatient. I’m impatient.”
And finally Macleod felt as if he was on firm ground again. He smiled, but without humor. “So ye say, year after year. Ye bore me, MacNeil, the way a woman does when she’s not in my bed.”
“Ye’re as stubborn as that boy was,” Macleod said, unperturbed. “But Coinneach is cunning. Ye’re a fool. Ye survived the massacre fer great reasons! And ye heard the gods just now—in a rage over yer pursuit of an Innocent.”
“No one commands me, MacNeil. Not even yer gods.”
“Now ye deny yer mother’s faith?”
He was furious, enough so that the branches on the nearby firs started waving wildly about their heads. “Dinna dare speak to me o’ Elasaid!”
“Ye survived that terrible day so ye could become a great Master—so ye could take yer vows to protect Innocence an’ keep Faith. Most Masters take their vows at an early age, but yer over a hundred years old now. Ye can hardly delay fer much longer. An’ I’ll discuss yer mother if I wish. She must be very disappointed, lad.”
Macleod was enraged. “Mention her again an’ suffer the consequences!”
“I hardly fear ye…an’ I willna fight ye, not now, not ever.”
His duty was to his father, the great William, first and always. Elasaid would understand. He had no intention of taking his vows and joining the brethren—ever. He did not mind fighting evil—he fought evil as naturally as he took women to his bed. He did both every single day. His heart might be made of stone, but his word was written in stone, as well. If he took the vows MacNeil was speaking of, those vows would rule his life. The gods would rule his life. Protecting the Innocent would rule his life. And then he would have to forgo—or even forget—his duty to his dead kin and to Blayde. And that he would not do.
“’Tis time. Come to Iona and make yer vows.” MacNeil laid his hand upon his shoulder again. “Before yer Destiny is taken from ye.”
“Let them take my damned Destiny,” Macleod snapped. “It would please me greatly!”
“Ye act fourteen years old!” MacNeil exclaimed. “We both ken ye can control that rage o’ yours. Ye do so when ye hunt an’ war—ye can do so now.”
“Ye push me more than I’d ever let any other man push me, MacNeil. I let ye do so because I owe ye still. Ye arrived at Blayde that day with yer soldiers to help me turn the enemy away. Blayde would have been lost if ye hadn’t come. Ye helped me bury the dead—ye helped me rebuild. But I watched two Frenchmen stab my father in the back. I was held captive an’ I could not go to aid him, to defend him! My mother died in the fires that day, carryin’ my brother or sister in her womb. My two older brothers died that day, fighting against all odds.” Now, the placid river was raging, racing past them. “When every MacDougall is dead, I will come to yer island and swear on yer holy books to serve the Ancients and protect Innocence. But as long as a single MacDougall lives, my duty is to Blayde.”
“Are ye nay tired of yer endless wars? Have ye never thought of havin’ a different life—a pleasin’ one?”
“Ye’re the fool now.” He turned and whistled for his horse, aware that it was but a short distance away, grazing in a nearby glen. He’d leaped from it to pursue Alasdair on foot.
MacNeil sighed. “Ye’ve had yer revenge—ye’ve had yer revenge for over ninety years. No man would ever fault ye, Guy. Ye have done yer duty to yer father an’ mother.”
“My duty will never be done.” As he spoke, he glimpsed that young boy again, and his presence infuriated him. That boy was weak and he’d failed everyone. “If ye cease yer harangue, ye’re welcome at Blayde an’ I will be pleased to offer ye wine, a woman and a bed.”
Hooves sounded. The huge black charger came galloping up the riverbank, its eyes bright with interest. Macleod seized the bridle, then gave the animal a single stroke upon its neck.
“Ye’ve enchanted yer horse. Yer powers are meant to be used against deamhanain an’ their lackeys, not on mortals an’ not on the gods’ earthly creatures.”
Macleod shrugged. Shortly before the massacre—as if the gods had known he would lose his family and become laird—he had learned that he could hear the thoughts of others and bend the will of either man or beast with a simple direct thought. It was a useful power. And just after the massacre, he had found his other, god-given powers, powers that could destroy a man or a deamhan with a single blast.
But MacNeil showed no sign of being ready to return to Blayde. “Do ye ever wonder why yer powers sometimes defy yer very will?”
It was common knowledge that he often could not control his own powers, especially when he was angry. Even those closest to him were afraid of his errant powers and his terrible temper. “I dinna care if the occasional stone wall falls when I take an extra breath.” But he was curious now.
“When ye take yer vows, ye’ll be master of yer powers, Macleod, but until then, they’ll escape ye when ye need them most. The gods toy with ye—a punishment fer yer refusal to obey them.”
He had seen MacNeil use his powers, and they never failed him. Suddenly the explanation made so much more sense than his assumption that he was simply less skillful or powerful. “I have enough power, more than any mortal man,” he said slowly. “Ye should remind the gods that I never use their powers to dispatch my enemies. I always use my dagger, my sword or my bare hands.”
“We ken,” MacNeil said. “’Tis hardly enough, lad.”
He hated it when MacNeil looked at him as if he was looking into his very heart and soul, seeing secrets even Macleod did not know. MacNeil had great Sight. He could see the future and the past. If anyone could look into a man’s most private and unspoken thoughts, it was MacNeil. “I am ready fer wine,” he said, leaping onto his horse. “Ye have no mount, but then, ye undoubtedly leaped to Melvaig.” MacNeil could leap to Blayde to meet him there.
MacNeil seized the bridle.
“Ye were spared that day because the gods wrote yer Fate. ’Tis time to take the vows an’ serve them—or suffer their displeasure.”
That sounded like a threat! “Aye, the damned gods wrote my Fate—ye’ve told me a hundred times. But the massacre was Highland madness. The gods dinna care to save my family and I’m a mad Highlander now!”
“No god can save every man, woman or child,” MacNeil fired back. “’Tis impossible!”
“Let go of my horse.”
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