
Praise for New York Times bestselling authorBRENDA JOYCE'S
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."
---Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 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
"For intense emotions, power-packed writing, alpha males and building sexual tension, Joyce is unrivaled."
---Romantic Times BOOKreviews, top pick
"A novel that will rivet your attention from the first page to the last."
---Romance Reviews Today
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
For my readers
This one's for all of you who have helped make this series such a success. Thank you!
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoy reading Dark Lover, the last installment of the Rose trilogy, as much as I enjoyed writing it. When I started THE MASTERS OF TIME®, I really didn't realize how much this world would grow and evolve, and all the undertones it would have. I am really enjoying taking the paranormal wherever my muse leads me. Nor did I realize how exciting it would be for me to do strong, modern women, but mostly it is the damaged, dark heroes who are making this series so exciting.
In Dark Lover, both the heroine, Sam, and the hero, Ian, were departures for me as an author, and I had a blast putting the two of them together. Once they were on the same page, they pretty much wrote their own story, as I am sure you will see. I look forward to doing other strong, contemporary heroines, and heroes as dark and damaged as Ian. In fact, I do believe that Jan Bentley is in for the shock of her life....
In the previous books it has been hinted that Jan lost her lover, a fellow agent, in the field in the past, possibly in Roman times. She has been true to their love ever since, or so rumor claims. Nick was there, and as you know, he blames himself for every agent lost in time. Little did she or Nick know, the gods had plans for Alex and did not allow him to die. Nor did they simply resurrect him and turn him into a Master of Time....
Jan has lived with his death for a couple of decades. For Alex, their love died centuries ago---centuries in which he survived slavery in Roman times, bloody clan wars as early Scotland was settled, and the loss of several families. And through it all he was a mortal---as you know by now, sometimes the gods truly test the would-be masters. And when their paths finally cross, Jan can barely recognize him. Alex might have the same eyes, the same face, the same body (just hundreds of years older and heavily scarred), but he does not have the same heart or the same soul.... I can't wait to start writing Dark Resurrection.
If you haven't tried my historical romances yet, you might want to consider checking out An Impossible Attraction, on sale in March 2010. It continues the saga of the great de Warenne family and, as always, is a tale of power and passion, tragedy and triumph---and romance. Alexandra Bolton gave up marriage to her true love nine years ago, when her mother died, in order to care for her family. Now the family is in disgrace, her father having gambled away their entire fortune, and Alexandra actually sews for a living. Stephen Mowbray, the Duke of Clarewood, is the most powerful peer in the realm (and a bastard de Warenne). Haunted by his past, he lives in "splendid isolation," and is accused of being cold and heartless. His life begins to change when he meets Alexandra, whom he decides to take as a lover. As he begins his pursuit, she is determined to refuse him, but fate has other plans for them. An Impossible Attraction is about pride and passion, sacrifice and betrayal, and love won and lost, then won all over again. And, as always, the de Warenne adage holds true: a de Warenne loves once and forever, or not at all.
Happy reading!
Brenda Joyce
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
New York City, July 18, 2009
SAM ROSE WAS in a really lousy mood, until she saw the memo on her desk. "Party tonight at seven at Rupert Hemmer's. Bring stilettos and wear red."
She slowly smiled. Great, she shot back in an e-mail to her boss. I haven't been to a good party in ages.
It was three in the afternoon and she had just come into work, but she wasn't late. Evil played at night, which meant she worked at night, because her job was hunting down the bad guys and doing them in. In fact, she'd been hunting evil since she was twelve years old---since the day her mother had been murdered.
It was ancient history now. Sam could think about Laura as she'd last seen her, even recalling her pale lifeless face, without a pang of sorrow or sadness. She'd learned long ago how to turn off any impending compassion. No Slayer could get the job done if he or she started feeling sorry for evil's victims. Laura's death had been Fate. Every Rose woman had a destiny, and hers was to be a Slayer.
That day, the need to vanquish evil had been branded into her soul. Now Sam looked forward to the night. Others feared the shadows---as they should; she thrilled when the moon rose. Others feared the sound of heavy breathing behind them; she relished evil daring to pursue her. Let it try! She hunted with a vengeance---literally.
Nick Forrester had recruited her into the Historical Crimes Unit at CDA almost a year ago, ending her years of cruising as a vigilante. The Center for Demonic Activity was a clandestine government agency founded by Thomas Jefferson, who'd established the agency shortly after his presidency had begun. He'd believed then, as was believed now, that the public couldn't handle the truth.
Sam agreed. If the public ever knew that evil was a race ruled by the great Satan and intent on destroying humanity, chaos would ensue. It was hard enough saving the day as it was, without everyone running around in a state of abject fear and mass hysteria. It was definitely better that the public thought crime was simply out of control and society in a state of impending anarchy. Sometimes, listening to the news anchors and the accompanying social commentary, Sam would laugh at their politically correct theories.
Now, thinking about her boss's memo, Sam was thoughtful. Rupert Hemmer was a middle-aged developer who was on his fourth or fifth trophy wife; he was the city's most notorious billionaire. She recalled reading or hearing something about a big bash for his wife's birthday. But Nick didn't travel in those circles, and he did not do parties. This was not a social occasion. And that meant Hemmer's party had bad vibes attached to it. Hemmer, as rich and powerful as he was, might even be one of the bad guys. In any case, he was not your ordinary guy and his guests wouldn't be ordinary, either. Sam was gleeful. Tonight promised to be fun.
Sam made the mistake of glancing at the tear-off calendar on her desk and all glee vanished. She smiled grimly at the date. In four more days, it would be her birthday.
Last year, they'd all been together. This year, her sister, Tabby, and her cousin, Brie, were gone.
Abruptly, Sam brought her PC out of sleep mode. She refused to acknowledge the pang that went through her. Of course she missed Tabby and Brie. She missed their best friend, Allie, too. Allie was a Healer and Tabby was a witch, and Brie had her own gifts. They'd fought to protect and defend civilians together for years, because that was what Rose women had been doing for generations. Now she worked alone. And that was just fine. Brie and Tabby had met their destiny in the past, as had Allie. In truth, as smart as Brie had been, she'd been a bit of a klutz, and Tabby's spells had been erratic. Sam had always had to keep one eye on them while fighting off their enemies, especially after Allie had left them. Now, she could focus on evil and the Innocent. It was so much simpler.
The bottom line was that a Slayer was meant to live alone, fight alone, and eventually, die alone. And that was as it should be.
So she'd spend her birthday alone. Who cared? She'd pick up a hottie and before she even knew it, the day would have passed. Sam flipped the calendar over and Tabby's photograph faced her. It was Sam's favorite picture of her sister. Tabby wore her pearls, reminding her of how gentle and classic her sister had been.
Tabby remained gentle and classic, she reminded herself---just in another time.
She turned the photo over and started to do a search within HCU's immense database on Rupert Hemmer. As she did, someone rapped on her open door. Sam felt his power without seeing who it was and was annoyed as she looked up.
MacGregor grinned. "What happened to you last night? Only one kill and two escapes?"
"Get lost," she said. He'd brought down five full demons last night.
"Boy toy must have worn you out."
"He sure did," she lied. Everyone knew she was a very liberated woman. She used men the way a playboy used women, and why not? She liked and needed sex. Except, she'd been off her game for a few months now. Her sex drive had been lacking. She was almost ready to wonder about it. "And you can't stand it, can you?"
"You'll come around," MacGregor said with his usual arrogance. He'd been coming on to her ever since she'd begun working at HCU. "Sooner or later, you'll figure out what you're missing, Sam."
"You're too old for me." She shrugged. He was probably thirty to her almost twenty-eight.
He laughed and walked away as a young, dark-haired woman poked her head into her office. "Got a moment?"
Sam leaned back in her desk chair. "Sure." She considered Kit Mars somewhat of a friend, now that Tabby, Allie and Brie were gone. Kit was her own age, and as fervent about the war on evil as she was. She'd been recruited out of the NYPD Vice Unit, and even though she was still officially a rookie at the agency, she was tough and sharp and good to have around in the middle of the night. Once in a while, they even had a drink together.
Kit sauntered in, a newspaper in her hand. As usual, she didn't wear any makeup. She really didn't have to---she had striking, handsome features. She slapped the New York Times down on Sam's desk, then glanced at the down-turned calendar and photograph. Sam felt as if she'd been caught red-handed in a crime.
Kit hesitated. "It's okay to miss your sister."
Sam grimaced and put the photo back in its proper position and place. "What are you, a mind reader now?" She spoke calmly.
"I don't have to read your mind to know how hard it is to lose a sibling."
"I didn't lose a sibling. Tabby's alive and well, somewhere in medieval Scotland, making magic with her Highlander." The moment Sam spoke, she was sorry for her sharp words. Kit's twin sister had died in her arms in Jerusalem when they were only eighteen.
"Yes, she is," Kit said seriously. "But she's not here, is she?"
Sam stiffened. "Do you really want to get on my case?"
Kit winced. "No, I don't, but I know how close you were. I still miss Kelly. I was just trying to be kind."
Sam inhaled. "Okay. Be kind. But take my advice. Kind and caring won't get the demons dead. It will get you dead."
Kit grimaced. "I'm working on it," she finally said.
Sam couldn't read minds, but she knew Kit was thinking she was a real hard-ass. "Good. That will make Papa Nick proud. So, what's this?" Sam pulled the newspaper forward. Her eyes widened at the sight of Rupert Hemmer's photograph on the front page and then she was thoroughly diverted by the accompanying headline. Hemmer Acquires Rare Celtic Manuscript For 212 Million.
Sam dragged the paper forward, her excitement instantaneous. There had been an auction at Sotheby's the night before, and Hemmer had bought a page from a centuries-old Celtic manuscript, believed to be the oldest written Celtic text ever discovered. Sam cried out as she kept reading. Historians claimed the page was part of an ancient and holy book called the Duisean, which had been enshrined in a monastery on the island of Iona in medieval times. Some historians thought that the shrine had been guarded by a secret brotherhood of pagan warrior knights, and that the book had been the key to their power in the medieval world.
Sam looked up, her pulse racing. She happened to know that the Duisean existed. In fact, parts of it were believed to be floating around the present time. As for the secret warrior society, it existed, too. She was smiling now. "Did you get an invite to Hemmer's tonight?"
Kit nodded. "Yeah, I did. And I'd already seen this earlier today, but I didn't read it or notice the bit about the Duisean. Now it's starting to make sense. Sam, he had the page transported to his penthouse last night in an armored vehicle. He has an extensive art collection there, and apparently he keeps it in an impregnable vault."
So that was why they were going to the Hemmers'. Locating whatever they could from the ancient book was on HCU's master agenda. Sam stared at Kit as she sat down in a chair facing the desk.
Nick probably knew more about the secret brotherhood than any other person living in modern times. Last year, Brie had been abducted by a medieval Highlander who had been turned to evil. Brie had also worked at CDA and Nick was notoriously obsessed with not "losing" agents in time. He'd chosen Sam to go back to help him find Brie. When she and Nick had brought her cousin back to New York, Brie had been thoroughly debriefed. The warriors called themselves Masters; at HCU, they'd been dubbed the Masters of Time.
Of course, Brie had gone back to Aidan of Awe anyway, having fallen in love with him even before helping him return to the Brotherhood. But HCU had gained lots of new information to play with---including the possibility that the missing Duisean might be in New York City, and in the hands of a great demon.
Sam's excitement increased. She believed in the Duisean. The Rose women had their own book, the Book of Roses, which contained all the magic and wisdom entrusted to them by higher powers, and passed down through the generations. The Book was now in Tabby's keeping---it was always in the keeping of a Rose witch. One of the Highlanders had come for it, to bring it back to her. Why wouldn't the Masters of Time have a book of power? They were a warrior society sworn to protect Innocence, and they needed warrior powers to do so. It just made sense.
"Is Hemmer evil?" Sam asked flatly. Finding the Duisean---and making sure it did not fall into the wrong hands---was a priority.
"I wondered that myself. I already checked, and there is a file on him. It's flagged for possible demonic connections."
"That could make him anything---the real deal, a mixed breed or possessed." Sam wet her lips. "But it doesn't matter. He can't have any part of the Duisean. Shit." It began to dawn on her how dangerous a demon or a half demon could become, if armed with power meant for the good guys.
"It might not be authentic, Sam," Kit pointed out.
"Yeah. We need to see it up close and personal." She was wry. "Where are the near-immortals when you need one?"
Kit ignored that. "Getting into that vault is almost impossible and it won't happen tonight," she said. "No one goes into that vault without Hemmer, and he's very picky about who he invites for a viewing."
Sam deliberately folded her arms and crossed her long, sculpted legs. Her idea of a great day was competing in a triathlon. She also ran marathons, kick-boxed, biked and skied. She was wearing her usual denim miniskirt, this one gray and frayed, with a studded belt and midcalf, high-heeled tan boots, despite the heat. She wagged her booted foot at Kit.
"I agree," Kit said, grinning. "You're the most likely candidate to persuade him to take you into the vault."
Based on his memo, Nick obviously thought so, too. In spite of his new wife, Hemmer was notorious for his infidelities. Tonight, he'd be toast.
"No one is persuading Hemmer of anything tonight," Nick Forrester said, walking into their midst. He was a tall, good-looking man and a legend in the agency---for his conquests, both demonic and not, and because of the rumors that he'd been around for decades, although he appeared to be in his late thirties. He was controlling, which was annoying, but damned good at organizing and directing the war on evil---and he'd die for any of his agents. Sam hated to admit it, but she liked him. And she respected him immensely.
He was also impossibly sexist. He glanced at Sam's legs, but she was used to it. She expected men to look at her. "Tonight is strictly surveillance," he told them. "I don't know if the page is the real deal yet and we don't know just how tainted Hemmer is. I want photos, ladies, lots and lots of photos, so Big Mama can make up architectural and mechanical plans. And while you're at it, you can bring me a swab of Hemmer's DNA." He smiled at Sam. "Just pique Hemmer's interest---for now."
"No problem," Sam said, standing. Sometimes tainted humans had the barest percentage of demonic blood, but it was enough to make their evil frightening. "Are you coming to play, too?"
"Not a good idea. Hemmer and I have never met, so let's just say the timing isn't right."
The easier for Nick to catch Hemmer by surprise, Sam thought.
"I want a word with you," Nick said to Sam.
Without having to be told, Kit picked up the newspaper and left.
Nick stared, his blue eyes piercing. "Maclean is on the guest list."
Sam worked really hard to keep her facial muscles frozen.
"Give it up," he said. "You want Lover Boy, and we both know it."
NOT ONLY DIDN'T SHE want Maclean, she couldn't stand him. Sam followed Nick down the hall and into his office, aware of a new tension riddling her body and the fact that her fists were clenched. Instantly she loosened them. The only thing she wanted in regards to Maclean was payback. Because he was a son of a bitch.
"Take off the dress."
She seethed, standing with him in a fancy salon in his fancy Scottish mansion. "You are an unbelievable bastard."
He laughed. "I've heard it a thousand times. What's wrong? Are ye afraid of the bright lights?"
She didn't have a drop of cellulite on her body. Sam lifted the spaghetti straps of her silk dress and let it pool at her feet. "Take a good, long look---because it's your last one."
Oh, had he looked.
Last December, she'd gone to Loch Awe to bargain with Ian Maclean. He was Aidan of Awe's son, and as such, he had all kinds of extraordinary powers---including the power to leap through time. She had needed a way to find her sister, shortly after a Highlander had appeared in New York and taken Tabby back in time with him. But the moment she'd walked into Maclean's ancient mansion, his every innuendo had been sexual. She had expected it.
The first time she'd met him, she'd been with Brie, who'd needed his help. She'd pegged him then as an arrogant, oversexed playboy. She hadn't been wrong. He was wealthy, mouthwateringly sexy, and powerful---and he knew it. That day, they'd met for no more than five minutes, but he'd looked at her like he couldn't wait to rip off her clothes and do just about everything sexual a man could do to a woman.
But he'd left her standing on the street corner, alone, taking Brie back in time without her. Sam did not like being left out of the real action, and she had been furious.
When Tabby had vanished into time with Guy Macleod, she'd been determined to go after her. So she had gone to Scotland prepared to offer Maclean a deal---but not her body. She wasn't going to be one of a hundred women he used. She'd be the one to say yes or no. But he'd turned the encounter into another sexual contest. When she'd met his challenge and dropped the dress, he'd looked at every inch of her body with an arrogant certainty---as if he knew he'd win one day. As if he could wait. As if she couldn't. And then he'd walked out on her.
He had walked out on her.
Not only that, he'd left her standing stark naked in his salon, the doors wide open, and all of his guests had seen her.
It was hard not to spit with rage, even now. Men did not walk out on her. Men drooled over her body, most of which was muscle. Men gaped when they saw her face, with her long-lashed blue eyes, her small straight nose, the high cheekbones and strong jaw. But Maclean had been mocking. Who did he think he was?
Sam believed in payback. She held her grudges for life.
This was war---even if he was one of the good guys---and she was going to win.
But although his power was huge and white, and he was Aidan of Awe's son, his loyalties were not clear. Sam did know one thing. He was most definitely loyal to himself.
She was very doubtful that he was a part of the Brotherhood. He was too selfish.
"Why is he on Hemmer's guest list?"
Nick shoved a fat file at her. "Happy reading."
Sam started. "He's on file."
"You know Big Mama," Nick said, referring to the agency's supercomputer. "Maclean is on the ADR list."
That was automatic data retrieval. When Big Mama flagged a person deemed corruptible, she automatically began to build a file, retrieving data from all possible sources at a set time every day. Because Ian was Aidan of Awe's son, and Aidan had turned to evil for decades before being redeemed, he would have been flagged immediately. His status as corruptible could only be changed by an administrator.
"Are you going to admit you're ready to pull that short, spiky mess out by its roots?" Nick was somewhat amused.
"I don't pull hair and you know it. I'm thinking of using my Frisbee," she said. That toy had teeth that could sever a man's head from his body with a gentle toss, much less anything else she might want to sever.
"You're not doing a good job of guarding your thoughts," Nick commented, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "And I hate to tell you, kid, you put your hand between his legs and he isn't going to quiver with fear." Nick started laughing.
Sam tensed, hoping he hadn't had a visual of her standing naked in Maclean's fancy Highland salon. "If I ever put my hand there, he's going to be really, really sorry," Sam snapped.
Nick's amusement vanished and he folded his arms across his chest. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of his dark T-shirt. "I have never seen you so pissed off."
"Guess I'm mostly human," she quipped.
He ignored that. "He is not aligned with the good guys. He is not a Master, Sam," he warned.
"Somehow, I didn't think so," she said wryly. But her heart was beating a bit too swiftly, the way it did before battle---or during sex.
"He doesn't play by the rules. But you know that, don't you?"
Sam decided that Nick probably knew everything. "I don't play by the rules, either."
He smiled. "That's why I'm so proud of you." He became serious again. "I have no evidence that he's turned. I look forward to meeting him and deciding for myself. But you are almost out of control, Sam. Anger will weaken you. He'll make mincemeat out of you if you don't get a grip."
Sam was furious. "I'm not angry---I simply can't stand the sonuvabitch. He's an unbelievable jerk. He makes you look like a saint. I did underestimate him, I'll admit it. I thought he'd be putty in my hands. Well, I won't underestimate him again and I won't ever ask him to make a deal." She added, "And I won't lose."
Nick nodded, a gleam in his eyes. "I wonder why he suddenly bought property here."
She felt herself still. "What?"
"You heard me."
"He's living here?"
"Bought an eighteen-million-dollar home, right on Park Avenue." Nick smiled at her.
Sam was shocked. Why would he come to New York? She walked over to a window and stared down at the pedestrians and traffic on Hudson Street. "When did this happen?"
"Last January. A month or so after your little visit to Loch Awe."
"His deciding to live here has nothing to do with me," Sam said without thinking.
"I didn't say it did." Nick eyed the folder. "That is interesting reading, by the way."
Sam folded her arms, her instincts going into overdrive. When she'd arrived at his home on Loch Awe, he'd been expecting her. How was that possible?
"I was wonderin' how long it would take ye to find me." He was amused.
She smiled coldly. "In your dreams."
He had poured her champagne, ignoring his other guests and his Playboy centerfold girlfriend. "Welcome to my lair."
"Your father was the wolf."
"Like father, like son," he murmured, his gaze dipping to her cleavage.
"In the mood for a proposition?"
"I've been in the mood since we first met."
There's no way he'd come to New York to pursue her. No woman would ever be worth that kind of effort for him and she was sure of it. He'd come to town for other reasons. The Duisean? She wouldn't put it past him.
"You're an amazingly striking and terribly seductive woman," Nick said thoughtfully. "And you know it. Coupled with that is your power as a Slayer."
Sam stared at her boss. "Keep up the flattery and I might become frightened."
He grinned. "Nothing scares you, Sam."
He was right.
Nick added, "I can't write off his arrival in New York as a coincidence. He's dangerous and ruthless." Nick picked up the folder. "But you're dangerous and ruthless, too."
Her interest was piqued. "So he's my objective."
"If he has the wrong intentions, I'm counting on you to neutralize him."
"Goody." She fingered the folder. "What's in there?"
"Some interesting coincidences."
"I'm a Rose. According to our Wisdom, there's no such thing."
Nick smiled. "I know. He's been flagged by our agency, but he's also on Scotland Yard's watch list. Do you recall the theft of that van Gogh in Milan two years ago?"
"No, I don't."
"The painting just vanished into thin air in the middle of a working day. According to a clerk there, no one from the public was inside the gallery that morning and no alarms went off. But Maclean had been a visitor earlier in the week."
Sam paced thoughtfully, tingling with some excitement. "He leapt into the gallery and leapt out with the painting. Gee, I wonder if it survived traveling at the speed of light."
"Guess who is rumored to now have it?" Sam waited and Nick said, "Hemmer."
Sam started. "Okay. So that explains the guest list. He stole the painting, sold it to Hemmer, and now they're best buds."
"He's best buddies with various other wealthy art collectors around the world." Nick was wry. "And he's linked to five international art dealers, who have suffered the combined loss of eight masterpieces in the past decade. Several of his other friends are reputed to be in possession of those stolen works of art now."
Sam stared at Nick. Maclean was using his powers to steal. So this was how he'd acquired his wealth---and his Park Avenue address. And then the comprehension was instant and blazing. "You don't think he's here to hold Hemmer's hand."
"I don't think he's here to hold Hemmer's hand."
"He's going to steal the page," Sam said softly.
Nick stood. "And I bet you'll do anything to get in his way, won't you?"
Sam slowly smiled. "Oh, yeah," she said, with relish.
His stare hardened. "Do not let him out of your sight tonight."
Sam saluted.
"There's nothing like a woman scorned," Nick suddenly grinned. "I'm sort of glad he pissed you off."
"I'm not pissed off. And I hate to tell you, I wasn't scorned. But, Nick? I'm better than the cliché. I don't get mad, I get even---and then some."
"I'm counting on it."
CHAPTER TWO
MACLEAN WAS NOWHERE in sight.
Standing in the marble foyer just outside the brass doors of the elevator, which had taken them to the penthouse, Sam and Kit exchanged glances. Hemmer had built the building in his usual style---Las Vegas glitz meets haughty Fifth Avenue. There were marble floors, gilded mirrors and Corinthian columns. Everything was as costly as possible, screaming money. A handful of guests stood ahead of them, filing forward, and black-clad security agents were everywhere.
Sam wore a strapless red jersey dress, which clung to her every curve, and gold spike sandals. She'd added one of her mother's gold bracelets to her right wrist, although bracelets tended to get in the way during tight, hand-to-hand combat. Rings were actually useful---they could be annoying for the enemy, inflicting painful little cuts. She wore several. Most women carried a clutch, but she wore a wallet-size bag on a shoulder strap. It was almost weightless, holding only a credit card, her cell phone and her red lipstick, and couldn't possibly get in the way of anything. And she wore the diamond hoops her sister had given her last year. She only took them off to clean them.
She glimpsed Rupert Hemmer just within the doorway of his home, his blond wife with him, greeting the guests as they came in. The room beyond them was already crowded, but she didn't see Maclean amongst the glittering partygoers. Her heart was thudding oddly, slow and steady---the way it always did before she leapt into battle. He was present. She was certain of it, and not because Nick had said he was on the guest list. She felt him, somewhere in the penthouse.
Sam could sense white power, and Maclean's was obvious.
His aura reeked of sexuality, and her own answering tension told her he was nearby.
She couldn't wait to spoil his good time.
Then she poked Kit and nodded up at the thumbnail-size cameras in the corners of the foyer. Kit followed her gaze. Then she gestured at their hostess. "Is she even legal?"
Sam was amused, and she glanced at their host, who was handsome and tanned in a black tuxedo, his face obviously lifted, his hair that funny shade of medium brown that every older man seemed to sport in order to cover up the gray. While he had to be close to sixty, even if he'd been under the knife and was lean and fit, his wife looked twenty---if that. She wore a bubble-gum pink evening gown that was more of a second skin than a dress. Sam pegged it as Versace. From this distance, Rupert reeked of arrogance and wealth, but not evil. Sam could sense evil as easily as she sensed white power, and she suspected him to be human with a few drops of demonic blood.
It was finally their turn to meet and greet. Rupert looked at her, his eyes widening with obvious male interest. He looked carefully at her lush chest, which was not the obvious boob job his wife was showing off, and then at her long, hard legs. He glanced at Kit, who wore a classic black sheath and had actually put on lip gloss. He smiled slowly at them. "You must be Sam Rose and Kit Mars, from World Media."
Sam had noted that Becca Hemmer didn't care about her husband ogling other women---and why should she? Sam had read up on the Hemmers while getting dressed. She was young, gorgeous and smart enough to have signed a pre-nuptial agreement that made her one of the city's wealthiest women, no matter what happened to her marriage. And apparently, Becca liked to play as much as he did.
Sam dismissed her as irrelevant and smiled back at Hemmer, giving him a come-hither-if-you-dare look. "None other." She extended her hand. "I'm Sam Rose. I was wondering how long it would take for us to meet, Mr. Hemmer."
He grasped it warmly. "All my guests are instructed to call me Rupert."
"Rupert," Sam murmured. "It's been a while since I had instruction."
He smiled slightly as he absorbed the innuendo. "How interesting." He added, "Had I realized World Media had publicists like you two, I think I would have been persuaded to give you my business much more easily." His gaze was suddenly hooded.
Sam wondered if they'd been made. "Is the rest of the team here?"
"I believe so," he murmured. "John Ensign and Charles Dupre were two of the first to arrive."
She felt Kit's tension. "Jack Ensign," she corrected casually. "We all call him Jack."
"Ah, yes, of course, my mistake. So, do come inside and help yourself to the bubbly. Perhaps we can chat a bit later about the project. I look forward to hearing your ideas."
"I look forward to sharing them." Sam smiled pleasantly at Becca as she and Kit moved into a huge living room with gilded crystal chandeliers and modern furniture upholstered in various shades of white. Nick had told her almost two hundred guests would be present, and Sam decided that he'd been right. The men were in tuxedoes, the women sporting lavish jewels, some in long evening gowns, like Becca. White-coated waiters were passing champagne in expensive flutes and hors d'oeuvres on sterling silver trays. It took Sam a second to decide that Maclean was not in the reception area. Was he already in the vault? She shivered. She was more than ready to find out. Her pulse beat a bit more swiftly now.
"Did we pass?" Kit murmured.
"I think he's suspicious." But she didn't give a damn about their host now.
"Did you have time to read up on the project?"
"No, and I intend to avoid Hemmer. With this crowd, I don't think he can get away for a tête-à-tête anyway. Are you okay? I'm going to explore."
"I'm fine. Be careful. Hemmer stinks."
Sam smiled and drifted off into the crowd. As she did, a flash of bright pink caught her eye. She turned and saw Becca making her way alone through the crowd---no easy task, as she was constantly greeted and congratulated. Sam turned to locate Hemmer. She finally saw him, still close to the front door, chatting with the mayor and a famous woman news anchor with sinking ratings. Sam turned back to Becca, just in time to see her slip from the reception room, past two big security guards.
Now what did that mean? Becca did not seem like a party pooper. She managed to find Kit. "I need a diversion so I can canvas the rest of the place."
"You can create a better diversion in that getup than I ever could."
"Stop selling yourself short," Sam said, meaning it.
A moment later, Sam was posed not far from the door Becca had exited, where the two big security guards stood. A woman not far from the doorway cried out, "Someone just stole my purse! Someone just ripped my bag from my hands!"
As the two security guards rushed to her, Sam slipped into the hallway. It was quiet within, the lights lower. An elevator faced her, which would go up to the Hemmers' private rooms. She walked swiftly past it, her lipstick now in hand. The case was actually a camera. She started taking photos as she passed a library and a media room. She did not think she'd run into Becca---she was pretty certain she'd gone upstairs.
She passed an office and came to the end of the hall. A glass-enclosed, Olympic-size indoor lap pool faced her. On her left was a huge steel door.
She had found the vault.
Maclean's power beckoned, tangible and hot, but he was not in that vault. Sam took more photographs, aware that she was being videotaped---those thumbnail-size video cameras were everywhere. She was careful not to get too close, setting off motion sensors and alarms.
When she was finished, she put the camera away. Maclean was around, but where? And where was Becca? She'd obviously gone upstairs---but Sam didn't think she'd gone to change her shoes. "Such a naughty girl," she murmured. She would be surprised if she didn't find them together, she decided. Maclean would probably think it amusing to screw his host's wife.
Sam went quietly back the way she had come, her senses in overdrive. She did not rush---she would find him, sooner or later. Hunting put her at the top of her game. The elevator was set far enough back from the reception that she could easily get to it without being noticed. It was whisper-quiet, too. She stepped inside, her gaze on the backs of the guards, but neither one turned her way. She pressed the single button there. The elevator moved up to the building's top floor.
She felt the hot sex before she saw it. She felt him. The air was somehow thicker and humid upstairs. Testosterone filled it. Lust thickened her. Most women would drop everything to be with Maclean, and she could hear Becca now, in the throes. Sam paused. The door to a bedroom was ajar. Becca's cries became deep, uncontrollable sobs. Her own heart was thundering, her body tight. Sam pushed open the door.
She'd forgotten how damn good-looking he was. How unbelievably sexy he was. Becca wept in her climax, sprawled on her belly on the bed, her skirts pushed up to her back. Maclean stood behind her, fully dressed. He was driving hard and deep, steadily, his face strained, at once hard, cold and almost ruthless. He was intent on his own satisfaction.
Becca was out of all control. Ian Maclean was not.
She wet her lips, compelled to watch. How had she forgotten those gorgeous features? Most beautiful men looked effeminate. Not Maclean. In spite of those long-lashed gray eyes and that perfect, almost pretty nose, he had a hard jaw, and high cheekbones. But he was more than that face. She'd never seen him without his clothes, but she knew his body was all long, hard muscle. And mostly, there was his sex drive. Sam had recognized a kindred spirit, in that one way. Maclean was oversexed and probably insatiable.
He'd be hard to please.
Becca's sobs and moans filled the room. Maclean kept driving, not making a sound. Sam knew Becca had been easy to seduce. She'd bet just about anything that Maclean had never been given a run for his money.
She breathed harder. A terrible tension consumed her now. Well, there was one woman he couldn't seduce.
Maclean suddenly made a harsh sexual sound, his only one. And he looked up at her.
The moment their gazes locked, Sam realized he wasn't surprised to see her. In the next second, she saw that he wasn't blinded by lust. His gaze was gray and clear. As she stared at him, he began to smile, as if he had a secret he really liked.
Sam's heart turned over, hard.
"Ye took yer time," he murmured, stepping away from his gasping lover.
Sam was trying to comprehend the fact that, just like at Loch Awe, he'd been expecting her. But her every coherent thought vanished as he reached for his gaping trousers, because her gaze veered to his hands.
Her thundering heart slammed. She forgot to breathe.
He slowly grinned, somehow jerking the zipper entirely up.
He wore a silver ring there.
She'd seen body piercings, of course. Just not there---and not like that.
"Something got yer tongue?" he mocked softly.
She choked and her mind came to life. "Having fun? Because I hate to be the one to ruin your private party." But she wanted to wipe the perspiration from her cleavage and brow. Her body was rioting. So much for worrying about her sex drive.
"Hot?" His gaze followed her fingers as she wiped the moisture away. "Surely ye've seen a cock ring before."
Sam felt her fake smile vanish. "That was some welcome, Maclean. Too bad I'm not into voyeurism." She tried to be flippant. "Nice jewelry."
His brows lifted as he sauntered toward her. "Admit it. I make ye hot, Sam, an' ye loved watching."
Sam realized that Becca was scrambling off the bed and racing toward the door. She swallowed, Becca's exit giving her a much-needed pause. "It was a decent show," she said, recovering a hair of her composure. "Aren't you going to go after her?"
"Now why would I do that?" he asked, standing before her. "When yer right here?"
"Oh, I don't know. To piss off Hemmer? To keep an insider on your next job?" Because walking out on me is a habit of yours?
He laughed. "I don't care what Hemmer thinks an' I hardly need Becca. I know ye liked the ring, but did ye like the rest of the goods?"
She inhaled.
Show me the goods.
And she'd dropped her dress...
He was trying to make her recall that moment---his being in control, and the humiliation that had followed. Worse, his image was now engraved on her mind. "I always like eye candy, Maclean."
"Ye've never seen---or had---eye candy like mine."
Unfortunately she was completely breathless. "Sure of yourself, are you?"
"Very." His gray eyes remained mocking. He leaned close and murmured, "Ye can take the ring off any time, Sam. Just say when and where."
He'd walked out on her before, but this time, he was in pursuit. It was hard to think clearly, much less wonder why. And damn it, it was hard to look away from his smoldering gray gaze. His words intensified the currents sizzling in the room. "Gee, a come-on. Last time you weren't very interested. Why don't you give that honor to your girlfriend?"
"But I want ye to have the honor." He seemed amused. "To make up fer my bad behavior at Loch Awe."
Sam fought thinking about taking that ring off and touching him where it counted. She'd forgotten the attraction that raged between them, against her judgment and her will. But she had not forgotten their last encounter, oh no, and she never would.
And she knew that inwardly he was laughing at her. He was not repentant at all. "I don't like men coming on to me," she said flatly. "I call the shots."
His mouth curled. "Of course. Ye like to be the one seducing yer little boys. Or should I say toys?"
He was right. "Do you have a problem with strong women, Maclean?"
"Aye, I do. I like my women soft an' hot. An' we both know ye have a problem with strong men."
She slowly smiled. "My problem is I've never met a man as strong as me---especially in the bedroom."
His smile was wide. "Now who's the arrogant one? When yer ready to take a chance, ye'll find out how wrong ye are."
Sam had the disturbing notion that he'd give her the ride of her life. "I'm always ready---except when it comes to jet-setting playboys with massive egos like you."
"Ouch," he said. "So ye haven't forgiven me fer Loch Awe. Ye were insulted."
"I can't really recall what happened at Loch Awe," she snapped.
He laughed. "Ye can recall. I left ye standing naked in my salon, instead of begging fer yer favors like all your boys do. I didn't grovel. I didn't pant or drool. I didn't give ye the favor ye wanted me to. Ye were furious with me. Come, Sam, we both know the kind of woman ye are. Ye never forgive an' ye never forget. An' we both know ye didn't forget me."
Her temper soared. "Frankly, I haven't given you a thought since last December," she lied. "Can your huge ego handle it?"
"My huge ego can handle anything---anyway ye want."
"I'll pass...like last time."
"So ye do recall last time," he said softly. "When I didn't give ye the chance to say no."
She trembled, furious.
"Are ye sure ye don't wish fer a trophy? So there's no danger that ye forget this night?"
"No." There was no satisfaction in saying "no" now. Even as angry as she was, she knew she wasn't going to forget his screwing Becca, not for a long time. "As far as I'm concerned, you're no prize, Maclean, no matter what you seem to think."
He shrugged indifferently and murmured, "How will ye know if ye don't try the goods?"
Sam turned to go. "Yeah, of course, you're the best there is. I've never met a man who didn't think he was God's gift in the sack," she retorted over her shoulder.
He seized her arm. She was forced to halt and their gazes clashed. His stare never wavered. "I'm the best."
His words made her feel faint for a moment. Sam wanted to retort, but she just stood there, recalling the look on his face a moment ago. Becca had seemed to be having an otherworldly orgasm, while he was hunting his own pleasure---almost as if it were an effort. She'd heard that sex with near-immortals was really different---that the rapture was somehow endless. Frankly, she didn't believe it but she was sure he was damned good---when inspired.
He was never going to have the chance to prove it to her.
"Ye'll never want a boy toy again," he said softly.
"Your ego," she said as softly, "is off the charts. Some women might find it attractive---I don't. It diminishes any other attributes you might actually have."
He grinned. "My ego can't diminish what yer thinkin' about."
She pulled free of his grasp. "You've got the goods. Big deal."
"Yer salivating."
It was definitely time to leave before she blew a gasket. She turned to storm out, when she remembered that she wasn't supposed to let him out of her sight. In that instant, she recalled what was in Hemmer's vault---what he wanted, what HCU wanted. She slowly faced him. "Let's talk turkey. How's the vault?"
His brows lifted. "I don't know."
"Why not?"
He gestured at the bed. "I've been busy. Ye took yer time an' I decided to start the evening off with a bang."
He had been expecting her. "Did you get a peek at the guest list?"
He shrugged. "Our paths were bound to cross, sooner or later."
"I don't travel in Hemmer's circles."
"Now ye do," he said flatly. "Yer a Rose. Yer cousin married my father. Of course ye'd hunt Hemmer now."
Sam stared, finally somewhat diverted from his sexuality and virile appeal. Was he in touch with Brie? "Is the page the real deal?"
"The page?" Both dark brows lifted. "I don't know. Rupert must think so."
He sure must, to spend over two hundred million dollars on it, Sam thought.
"Are ye sure ye won't have a drink with me? We can discuss our mutual interests." His eyes sparked with amusement.
She looked at the bed behind him. "Really sure."
"Ye'll change yer mind."
"If you say so." She smiled at him, mocking him now. "Hey, Maclean? I'll be the first one into the vault---when Rupert offers me a private viewing later this evening."
He was amused. "Really? An' what if I offer ye the viewing now?"
She went still. "Are you kidding?"
His long, thick lashes lowered briefly. "I want to make amends."
For one moment, she almost believed him. She knew he was trying to play her, though, and that was as far as it went. But two could play his game. "Get me in and I might forgive you."
His lashes lifted and his gray gaze met hers. When he didn't move or speak, she pushed past him and he followed her into the elevator.
"A word of advice," he said conversationally as the elevator began its descent. "I always get what I want."
"Good. That makes two of us---we have so much in common!" The elevator was too small for them both. His big, masculine body was filling up the small space. But he was going to get her into the vault and that was what she needed to focus on. "How are the new digs, by the way?"
"Why don't ye come by an' see for yourself?"
She thought that worth a trip uptown. "Any interesting art you can show me? Maybe a stolen masterpiece or two?"
His smile returned. "So ye have been thinking about me."
"It's called homework."
He grinned, pleased. As the elevator door opened, Sam walked past him, annoyed all over again. Maybe the real problem was his looks. He looked almost exactly like his father, Aidan of Awe, and that made him nearly irresistible. If he didn't have that dark, thick hair, those pale, sizzling gray eyes, the deep dimples when he smiled and the features of an Adonis, his sexuality wouldn't be so overwhelming. He'd just be a gross horndog.
But he did look like one of the gods he was descended from. She'd be a liar if she didn't admit that he was one of the most beautiful men she'd ever laid eyes on---and she hadn't even seen his body in the buff.
Well, she'd seen the one part that counted the most---in her book, anyway. She thought about the silver ring, her insides lurching, breathless all over again. That piercing had to have hurt like holy hell.
"It's steel," he said softly. "Not silver."
Her gaze slammed to his. He'd read her mind---and proved just how telepathic he was.
She led the way to the vault, focusing on the task at hand but terribly aware of him behind her. The back of Hemmer's penthouse was as empty as before. She paused, gesturing at the steel door facing them. "I can sense evil and good. Right now, I can't feel a thing."
He gave her a look she could not decipher, then reached for the heavy door handle. Sam had expected him to leap into the vault, taking her with him. "What are you doing?" she asked sharply, waiting for the alarms to start screaming. But an utter silence remained.
He smiled and turned the lever. The steel door opened.
He turned. "Come."
"How did you do that?" Sam asked, surprised.
He slowly smiled. "It's as easy as the leap through time."
It was clear that Maclean had used his mind to unlock the door and turn off the sensors and alarms. Now that was an incredibly useful trick---especially for a thief.
"So that's how you got the van Gogh?"
He sent her a modest smile, gesturing politely for her to precede him inside.
Interior lights had come on as the door had opened. Sam walked past him, her gaze wide, scanning the rows of stunning masterpieces on the two walls. The vault was like a long tunnel. "Who would want to keep their art locked up this way?" While she was not an art aficionado, she was damned sure she recognized the work of artists she'd seen at the Met, the Whitby and the Guggenheim. Hemmer had a priceless collection, if she did not miss her guess.
Maclean hadn't answered and she glanced back at him. He had loosened his tie and was now unbuttoning his collar, as if uncomfortable. The temperature in the vault was carefully controlled. "Hemmer lusts fer art the way demons lust fer sex and death."
"Is he evil?"
He gave her a look that said, "yes."
"How much did he pay you for the van Gogh?" she asked casually, not missing a beat. Not that she could trap him into an admission he didn't care to make.
His response was as immediate. "Thirty million." He smiled, tugging at his collar again. "I gave him a deal."
Sam snorted. She looked carefully around again. "Something's wrong," she said, uncertain of what she was feeling. She strained to sense what was tugging at her and she felt the faintest wafting of evil, drifting toward them. "Do you feel that?"
He nodded. "It's within."
Sam ignored him, trying to isolate the rest of her feelings. She felt a stirring of holy power. It seemed to beckon her. It was to her left. She turned, trying to follow it, and faced a huge landscape of a lush European countryside, probably from the eighteenth century. She started to remove it from the wall.
Instantly Maclean came over to help her. The moment they lifted it up, the page from the Duisean faced them.
It was framed and under glass, but the aged and faded parchment shimmered with power and light. Some of the written words seemed three-dimensional. "It is real," Sam said harshly, holding up one end of the large landscape. "But the power is distant, somehow."
"The power is contained," Maclean said thoughtfully. "I think ye need a spell to unleash it."
They looked at each other. Sam was thinking about Tabby when Ian said, "Hemmer."
"Are you sure?" Sam didn't hear anyone approaching and she didn't feel danger. As they quickly set the landscape back, Maclean said, "My senses are greater than yours."
"Then maybe we should hurry." Sam rushed out of the vault, Ian behind her, aware now of voices farther down the corridor. Maclean pushed the steel door closed and she heard it automatically lock. The voices grew louder, and she could hear their footsteps approaching.
Sam didn't think twice about what she had to do. She seized Maclean's tie and used it as a leash to jerk him a few steps down the hall, away from the vault's door. She shoved him against the wall, still holding his tie tightly in her fist.
He knew what she was about to do and he smiled smugly.
She pushed her entire body against his and their gazes locked. His eyes blazed.
And that massive, pierced erection pushed up between them.
Sam pushed him harder against the wall, impossibly aware of his entire body, which felt like steel. She stood on her toes. In her high heels, they were eye to eye.
He waited, his mouth curling slightly with triumph.
She kissed him.
She opened her mouth, claiming his. The moment their lips fused, her heart slammed and seemed to lodge in her throat. Hemmer and his entourage turned the corner. She kept one part of her mind on them, but the rest of her mind was on Maclean---and he had her body's full attention.
He tasted so damn good. He felt even better, stiff and hard against her. The desire was so fierce, so consuming, so feral, that she was shocked. And then she couldn't stand it. Eyes closed, she forgot about Hemmer and she forced his mouth open. He laughed. Sam shoved her tongue deep.
Her body threatened to explode.
And he grabbed her by the hips, turned her around, pinned her to the wall and took over the kiss. He ground against her, pressing one huge thigh between her legs until she rode him.
She seized his broad shoulders, kissing him wildly back. It was too good to stop now.
"I beg your pardon," Rupert Hemmer said.
As their tongues entwined, as he pushed her even farther up his thigh and into the wall, she knew they had to stop. But no man had ever pinned her down this way, or been as dominant. She kissed him back, tasting blood. He made a triumphant sound, then tore free of her.
Her back still against the wall, Sam opened her eyes as he let her slide down his leg. She looked into his fierce eyes.
Maclean stepped away from her. "I always get what I want," he murmured.
He was laughing at her. Shock began---what the hell had just happened?
Maclean was facing Rupert, loosening his tie as he did so. Two men and a woman stood behind him, curious.
Sam breathed hard and straightened, stepping away from the wall.
"My home is just that---my home. My guests are restricted to the reception rooms." Hemmer's displeasure was obvious.
Sam stepped forward. Hemmer instantly gave her a quick look of male appraisal. He wasn't immune to her or what she'd been doing. She'd use that. "We're sorry, Mr. Hemmer. We didn't realize the rest of the apartment was off-limits."
Hemmer smiled back, but tightly. He looked at the short hem of her dress again. "Security will escort you back to the party, Ms. Rose."
Another wealthy, oversexed jerk, Sam thought.
As he spoke, two huge guards in black appeared around the corner. Sam nodded, telling him how sorry she was again, aware of Ian standing beside her. As she followed them back to the main reception, Ian behind her, she began to think rationally again.
She'd been out of control. The kiss had been meant to be a ploy. Her attraction to him was dangerous. No good could come of her being out of control.
She had to find a way to take charge.
Sam walked to the closest waiter, removed a flute of champagne and drank it. Then she took another one.
Maclean reached over her shoulder for his own glass. Then he looked at her and lifted his flute in a triumphant toast.
"You haven't won yet."
"If ye let me have my way with ye, ye'll be the victor, Sam."
"As I said, you guys all think you're the best in the sack."
"As I said, I am the best."
She drank the second flute and returned it to the tray. "You're going to steal the page."
He grinned. "Care to stop me?"
"I can't wait." And Sam grinned back.
CHAPTER THREE
"WHAT ARE YOU going to do with this?" Kit asked, keeping her voice low.
It was late. The party was breaking up. Sam had watched Maclean for the past few hours as he drank and eyed several pretty women, keeping mostly to himself. He was clearly a loner, no surprise there. Nick had ordered her to keep him in her sights---and because she knew he was going to steal the page sooner, not later, she intended to do just that. She had just followed him down to the building's lobby.
Sam took her messenger bag, loaded with her favorite toys, from Kit. "Thanks."
"I don't like this," Kit said, glancing past her at Maclean.
He had a woman on each arm---both tall, young and beautiful---and clearly, he meant to take them home for a very private house party.
Sam didn't care who he slept with. All she cared about was stopping his offense with her defense. She intended to be on him like glue. He was not going to get into that vault without her.
Sam and Kit still stood beneath the building's canopy. He glanced over his shoulder at her, clearly offering an invitation. Sam shook her head, smiling coolly. He seemed to sigh and then stepped into the street to hail a cab.
"Are you upset? What happened tonight?"
"Nothing happened. He's just a jerk, but he's about to take a big fall. I'll see you tomorrow. If I'm late, it's because I'm on Maclean. No pun intended."
"I think he's dangerous, even if his power is white."
Sam actually laughed. "No kidding. What are you going to do?"
"There are a few guests left. I'm going back upstairs. Maybe Hemmer will notice me and show me the vault. I'll try to chat with him."
"Hey, Kit? Work it and he'll notice you." It never ceased to amaze her how modest Kit was. Sam suspected she was celibate, but they never discussed it. She nodded now as Kit slipped back into the lobby. Then she glanced at Central Park West.
Tons of cabs were heading uptown and every one was full. Nothing was heading downtown. Considering how late it was, that was odd---most should be empty.
As the two girls with Maclean whispered and giggled, both high and drunk, Sam felt a chill slither down her spine. She tensed, instantly searching the area for a sign of impending violence. Maclean must have felt it, too, because he had dropped his arm and was looking past the traffic.
And Sam saw the couple on the park side of the street, running, five cloaked figures in pursuit.
Burnings were creeping up on the proportion of murders committed both in the city and globally. A recent study released by Interpol showed that almost 20% of all the murders committed last year had been burnings. Burning the Innocent alive had become a huge "gang" sport. The perpetrators weren't entirely human---they were possessed by evil, and commonly referred to as subs. The press had dubbed the crimes witch burnings, because the subs wore cloaks and the burnings were so medieval in nature.
Five cloaked teens chasing a couple meant one thing. Sam was already running across the street, holding the short stiletto that had been hidden in her right high heel.
Running in high heels sucked, but she wasn't about to be deterred. Sam caught one boy from behind, who screamed as he was seized. He tried to stab her with his knife and she cut his throat just as two of his friends leapt at her.
Sam dropped her messenger bag and used the side of her hand to deliver a fatal blow to boy number two's throat. He dropped like a rock. At the same time, his buddy stabbed her, the blade of his knife grazing her arm and then cutting across her rib cage.
It hurt. And she didn't like being hurt. Pissed, she gave him a flying front kick, which sent him backward across the street. She knelt, taking her .38 from the bag. As she did, the boy got up, his face a mask of possessed fury. She glimpsed Ian standing on the street corner. He was calmly watching her take on a pack of evil kids.
Her fury knew no bounds. Couldn't he get rid of one of the subs for her, at least?
She felt someone behind her. Sam whirled, firing as the girl landed on her, her face hairy. Wolflike claws dug into her body. Sam fired again and again. It took a while to kill the shape-shifting girl. The half woman finally fell dead to the ground at her feet.
"Arrgh!"
Sam turned but before she could shoot the fourth possessed teen, he had kicked the gun from her hand. His rage, combined with the evil, made him terribly powerful. Off balance, she landed hard on her ass as he tackled her, his hands going around her throat. He started choking her, intent on strangling her to death.
This would be a great time for Maclean to butt in, she somehow thought. But he didn't. Sam jammed her knuckle into the boy's carotid artery; as he choked, she took the dagger from the garter on her thigh and imbedded it in his chest. Instantly he collapsed on her. She shoved him off, and then knelt over him to see if he was alive.
He was. She dug her cell phone out of her tiny purse and dialed not 911, but CDA. Their medical center was as clandestine as the rest of the agency. Known as Five, it was in constant use. Bringing subs into a regular E.R. was a bad idea. The non-ordinary---and many at CDA were NO---could not seek treatment in a public hospital, either. The press would start to figure things out. Full-blooded demons disintegrated if left untouched within moments of their destruction, so they were rarely an issue. Five was for the very special.
That done, she closed her phone and looked at the bodies on the street. Four dead kids, all of whom had once been normal. It was routine by now. These possessed kids were mostly runaways, and they were easy prey for evil.
She looked at the boy who was still alive. "Try not to die. With a little help from the gods, we might get you back to your family." She spoke without emotion. Compassion was a bad idea, she'd learned that long ago. If she started caring about who lived and who died, she'd be the one winding up dead, really soon.
He spat at her, mostly blood.
"Are you all right?" It was the woman who had been fleeing the subs.
The man with her knelt beside Sam. "Jesus, are you a cop? I've never seen anything like what you did! You saved me and my wife!"
Sam smiled grimly. She looked past the couple at Maclean.
He stood on the corner, hands in his tuxedo pockets, regarding her thoughtfully. Their gazes locked. He hadn't lifted a single finger to help her. The anger burned.
"Should we call 911?" the woman asked worriedly.
"I'm fine," Sam said. As she started to stand, the woman's husband grasped her arm to steady her.
"You're hurt," he said with concern.
Sam looked at her bloody arm and the slashes in the bodice of her red dress. She'd been nicked on her bicep and her rib cage. It burned a lot, but she was almost certain the cuts were superficial. "Par for the course. Why don't you two go home? Have a brandy on me. I'm a Fed." The Bureau was her cover. "I'll take care of this."
"We can't possibly leave you," the man said firmly.
His wife nodded in agreement, beginning to cry. "She's so brave," she said to her husband. "I was so scared."
He put his arm around her and turned away, whisper-ing to her. They were in their forties, Sam thought, and it crossed her mind that they really loved each other. Sweet. She looked at Maclean again. What a frigging selfish jerk.
The sirens from CDA's mismarked ambulance could be heard. Maclean sauntered toward her. Sam glanced at Hemmer's house and saw that his two dates had vanished. Of course they had. Bimbos were usually chickens.
"Impressive," he said, his glance going to the tattered bodice of her dress.
"Gee, I'm so glad you enjoyed the show." She turned her back on him and knelt, gathering up her weapons and piling them into her messenger bag. She was bloody, bruised, stabbed and dirty, and he didn't have one hair out of place! He had watched the entire attack. What kind of superpowered hero was he? It was unbelievable. Even an antihero would have cut in.
She stood up. "Thanks for all the help."
He shrugged. "Yer a tough girl. Ye hardly needed my help."
"Like you'd have bothered."
"I want ye in my bed, not dead."
"You have a great way of romancin' a gal," Sam snarled.
He smiled. "Every man likes to watch a good fight. Maybe I should help ye next time. Or maybe I'll be your next target." His eyes gleamed.
Sam had the instant notion that he'd love for her to fight him with everything she had. "Don't worry. The day is rapidly approaching."
His answer was to touch her.
Sam tensed as the back of his hand skimmed the bottom of her breast. He lifted the shreds of her red dress where it had been cut. She inhaled. In spite of the pain, desire was instantaneous and acute. She knew he kept his hand pressed against her breast on purpose.
His gaze was almost silver before he lowered his lashes and dropped the tatters of silk. "Ye need to take care of the cuts."
"This isn't the Middle Ages. No one dies from a few scrapes here," she snapped, but she was trembling and rigid with tension. Damn his sex appeal.
His mouth curled, this time unpleasantly. "An' I know it very well, Samantha. I live here, remember? Not in that barbaric time."
She bristled. "It's Sam. And don't worry, no one would ever peg you as a medieval barbarian, Maclean. Just a selfish jerk." Had he been defensive? She thought so, and she couldn't imagine why.
The white ambulance from Five careened around the intersection, marked as Cornell Presbyterian. Sam dismissed her speculation about Maclean, watching as the agency paramedics leapt out. Then she glanced at Maclean again. He seemed to be noticing that his conquests for the evening were gone.
"You don't need them," Sam said. She stepped into the street, aware now that one of her spike heels was gone. Cursing, she flagged down a cab. She seized the door handle and looked at Ian as she opened it. "Get in, Maclean."
His eyes widened.
She kept her mind blank. "I want to see your digs."
A slow, hot smile began. He slid into the cab and Sam slid in with him. She shut the door. As he leaned forward to tell the driver where they were going, she reached into her bag. "1101 Park Avenue," he said.
Sam snapped the handcuff on his wrist. He started, his gaze slamming to hers as she snapped its mate on her own wrist. She smiled at him. "This should be fun."
SHE HAD JUST handcuffed herself to him.
He started to laugh, amused. Did she think to dismay him? He'd been lusting for her since he'd first seen her. He would never get over her face. Those striking features, those amazing eyes and that cropped platinum-blond hair. He looked forward to the day she rubbed her face over every inch of his body...
He raised his wrist and said, "All ye had to do was tell me, Sam. I'd have brought the handcuffs myself."
"We stay together tonight," she said coolly.
But he didn't hear. As he tugged gently on the handcuffs, his gut churned, the sensation sickening. They were speeding up Central Park West, but the old, stately apartment buildings started to swim in his vision. They became dark ominous shadows...
He could not have a flashback now.
But he recognized the shadows---the small, tight walls of a cellar. The iron on his wrist was attached to one wall. They'd left him in there, like that, for months. His only company had been the rats. He'd been nine years old.
"What's wrong, Maclean?"
"What's wrong, Ian? Are you afraid of the dark? The rats? Me?"
He stared up at the demon who had captured him. The demon who had killed him, and then brought him back to life so he could be tortured. Used.
Soft evil laughter sounded.
And although he hadn't used his voice in months, not since the beginning when he'd screamed and screamed for help, he begged. "Please let me out. Please. I'll do whatever ye wish."
"Good, because I have so many uses for a pretty boy like you," his grandfather said.
"Maclean?"
He'd lived with horror and pain---and abject fear---for sixty-six years. But he heard Sam Rose, and somehow, he looked at her.
He was sweating.
"What's wrong with you?" Her vivid blue gaze moved over him. "Hot flash?"
Her mockery brought him firmly back to the present and the taxicab they shared. He looked back at her and shook his wrist, so the handcuff wriggled between them. "Of course I'm hot. We're shackled together."
For one more moment she stared. He was fairly certain she did not believe the excuse he'd just made. He didn't care what she believed. He was aware that she thought him selfish and a user---and she was right. He had one and only one interest in her.
Pleasure was an escape. He never had flashbacks during sex.
The first time he had seen Sam Rose, she had been crossing the street in Oban, Scotland, causing male pedestrians to trip and stare. Traffic had come to a screeching stop. His mouth had gone dry and he'd become as hard as a two-by-four. He'd known then and there that he'd have her. No woman had ever denied him. He'd been honest when he said he always got what he wanted.
He'd felt her warrior power instantly and that had added to her allure and appeal. Most of the women he used were rich and bored, the highlight of their day a trip to Cartier. Now he knew even more about her. She was a powerful Slayer. The highlight of her day was a bloody fight with the devil. He would never forget the sight of her battling the possessed teens in her little red dress and spike heels just moments ago---fighting as he'd never seen a woman fight before. She'd taken down the five possessed teens effortlessly. And she had not been afraid. He'd have felt it. Evil did not frighten her.
It frightened everyone else.
It frightened him.
He hid beneath a pile of towels, trying to make himself as small as he could. His grandfather had returned and he had guests---and he was calling for him. Fear made him sick. He lost control of his bladder. He was throwing up. He knew what they'd do to him. They were bored and he'd be the evening's sport---until they went to hunt the Innocent on the streets. There was nowhere to hide and they wouldn't let him die. He'd heard Moray telling his captors that he must be kept alive---at all costs.
He prayed to his father, begging him to hear him, begging him to come rescue him.
The door opened and the lights in the bathroom came on.
He was sweating and sick now. His gut was so tight, he thought it might explode. He reminded himself that he was not a captive child now and that Sam Rose wasn't evil. He wasn't helplessly shackled and chained. Monsters weren't waiting to devour him, his grandfather's guests weren't waiting to rip him apart. This was a game. And she was going to wind up in his bed, beneath his body, and he'd be the one pounding into her. He was not a prisoner now. He was a free man---wealthy, powerful and in control of his life.
She jerked hard on the handcuffs. "If you leap into that vault, you will be taking me with you."
He had no idea if a pair of handcuffs would keep her with him during a leap. He didn't need to use that power to get into Hemmer's vault. He could open locks and dismantle alarms with his mind, but Sam already knew that. If he needed to leap to get inside, he didn't think he'd have the courage to do so. Pain still terrified him.
Ian turned to stare out of the taxi's window. He refused to go back into the past now.
"What is it? I happen to know firsthand that one person with the power to leap can bring another along. Handcuffs might do the trick."
Somehow he smiled at her. "Really? An' who gave ye the ride?"
Her gaze widened, focused on his. It was far too searching, too direct. He wasn't good at reading minds. The power came and went. Sometimes it was sketchy, as if there was static in the telepathy. Sometimes it was perfect. But he didn't need the power to know that she was determined to stop him from stealing the page.
"Nick brought me back with him. We were looking for Brie when your father took her hostage," she finally said.
He was staring out of the window at Central Park now. So she'd gone back in time---good for her. Then she knew how excruciating leaping through time was.
"You do plan on leaping into the vault, don't you?"
He wanted to tell her to shut up.
He turned to look at her instead. "Why leap when I can walk inside?"
She smiled. "Good point."
He'd never let her know that he feared pain, much less the evil causing it. From the moment his demon grandfather had abducted him when he was nine years old, taking him from medieval Scotland to the modern world, he had learned what evil really was. Evil enjoyed fear and pain, and inflicted both at will. Evil lusted for sex, power and death. He'd been kept a prisoner for sixty-six years. And evil had been merciless with him.
At first, he'd thought to escape. At first, he'd thought he would be rescued. Within months, maybe a year, he'd lost hope and wanted to die.
"Do you have an ounce of courage, Ian? Oh, I forgot---your father is a coward, too."
He tried to fight to free himself but it was impossible. Tears of rage and helplessness streamed. "He's a hero---good, not evil---like ye!"
"He is evil now, as evil as I am! Yes, your father has fallen to the darkness, Ian." He laughed. "You are the means I will use to destroy your father. You do remember that, don't you? It's the only reason I am bothering to keep you alive..."
He was released. "My father will kill you," he cried.
"No, I will destroy him. Then you will be freed---and allowed to grow up. And you will live with the guilt, the pain and all these memories---until the gods let you die."
He flinched as he was caressed...
To this day, he didn't know how anyone, much less a boy, could have survived what they'd done to him: the rape, the torture, the sick games.
Ian turned to look out of the window, away from Sam, who was clearly trying to guess his thoughts. He had been powerless as a captive, but he had control now. He had wealth. He did as he chose, when he chose---and no one and nothing could or would ever stop him. Anyone who thought to get in his way would pay.
Control meant everything to him. It was a matter of life and death---it was a matter of survival. It was even a matter of sanity.
He had spent most of his life in submission. He would do as he damned pleased now.
He had spent most of his life in pain. He intended to spend the rest of his life in pleasure.
He glanced at the woman seated beside him in the cab. Sam Rose was as fearless as he was not. If she knew his secrets, she might not be so hot for him. But she'd never know the truth. No one ever would.
"What's got you glowering? Talk about a mood swing."
"Read my mind." He managed a smile that felt nasty. But he knew what he needed to get the bitter taste out of his mouth, his gut and his soul.
"You haven't taught me."
"Then come here." He patted his lap.
"No deal." She smiled coolly at him.
He laid his hand on her hard thigh, his fingertips against her sex. Just barely, he waggled them, pressing the steel cuff into her abdomen. "Have ye ever thought to ask me to take ye into the vault again---nicely?"
She struck his hand away, but he'd felt the thick pulse there, beneath the flimsy dress. "I can tell you're amused by the handcuffs, but we'll see who has the last laugh."
"Ye can have the last laugh," he murmured, staring at her classic profile. "I'll even give it to ye."
"This is a business arrangement, but I'll help you into a cold shower," she said.
He was finally, thoroughly diverted. "The sooner, the better," he said swiftly. "Will ye wash my back? Or will ye cuff me to my bed an' watch me while I...sleep?"
For one moment, their gazes met, and he was certain she knew exactly what he'd be doing while she watched. "Your mind is one track. What a surprise. I'll be on the other side of the glass when you shower and guess what? I have no interest watching you do anything."
"Liar," he taunted.
He thought she flushed.
"We're handcuffed to one another," he said softly. "What do ye expect me to think of?"
"Pay the driver," she said tersely, as the taxi came to a stop in front of his new town house. "By the way, why did you decide on New York City?"
He handed the driver a bill and told him to keep the change. She was on the curb side and he leaned over her to open the door, pressing her back into the seat. "I moved here so I could screw ye."
"Yeah, right. Good luck," she said, slipping out of the cab and away from his body. "In case you haven't noticed, Maclean, you don't intimidate me one single bit."
"Then I'll have to change that."
The taxi drove off and she said slowly, "I can't imagine you with a bimbo for more than two minutes, except, of course, for sex."
She seemed to understand him and he smiled. "Even bimbos have their uses."
She shook her head.
"Don't ye use yer boy toys?" he asked softly. It crossed his mind that, when it came to sex, they were alike. It was late enough that no one was on the street as he went to the front door of the turn-of-the-century building and keyed in the door code. Sam stood close behind him, due to the cuffs. He'd left the lights on in the entry foyer, which had double ceilings. As he closed the door he glanced at her bleeding arm, and then at the torn dress. She seemed to be indifferent to the gash on her ribs.
He wondered if she'd even cried out a single time in pain, during the leap she'd endured.
Sam was eyeing the almost microscopic cameras that were angled at the front doors and noting the cameras in the entry hall. She hadn't missed the cameras outside, either. He waited. She glanced at him and said, "High tech, huh?"
His security system was state-of-the-art. It was not aimed at burglars. But he didn't owe her any explanations. She was now taking in his furnishings, which were mostly antiques. She put her messenger bag on an Irish library table from the seventeenth century. Even the chandelier above them was from fifteenth-century France. Only the rugs were new---or fairly new. Above the front door was a pair of genuine sixteenth-century swords. "Interesting choice of décor for a modern playboy," Sam said. Her gaze was sharp. "Come to think of it, your mansion on Loch Awe is as old world."
"I like old things," he said. That was true. He hated his time---the sixteenth century---and had chosen not to live there, but he was oddly compulsive about collecting antiques and artifacts, which made no sense. His father had once told him that a part of him yearned for the past. That was bullshit. And he didn't want to think about Aidan and his wife, Brie, now. "Yer bleedin' all over my twenty-five-thousand-dollar rug."
"Sorry. I'll get you a new one---in the twenty-second century, when I'm rich and famous."
He tugged on the cuff and she came forward, tripping in the broken sandals. He caught her by her hips, which were hard and muscular beneath his hands. He was already in overdrive. Sex would push the last of his memories away. Why wait? "Do ye want to tend the wound?" he asked softly.
"Not if it means letting you out of my sight." She seized his wrists but didn't step back. "What, no butler to wait on us?"
"Gerard is sleeping at this hour." He pulled her closer, and her eyes calmly met his as she came into contact with his huge arousal. "Afraid to be alone with that?"
She took a breath. "I'm never afraid. Hey, I have a great idea. Call Gerard and have him arrange some evening entertainment for you...before you explode."
He grinned. "Will ye watch?"
"I'm not leaving," she said flippantly.
He thought about performing for her---again. But that wasn't what his body was screaming for. He tightened his grasp on her, wedging her against a hall table.
"Don't think it," she murmured.
"I can't think of anything else. Especially with yer body shackled to mine an' quiverin' so hotly."
"You can't think of anything else, whether we're shackled together or not."
He decided not to answer. Instead, he slid his hand down her hip.
She went still, inhaling. "Make a pass at your own risk."
He smiled. It was hard to restrain himself. He wanted to put his hand between her thighs; he wanted to turn her around and bend her over the table and just do it, finally. She knew. And she wouldn't object very much. Her words were sharp and caustic, but her tone was thick, those violet-blue eyes smoldering. He could feel her pulse slamming beneath her skin. He could feel her desire building; he could feel the urgency and need.
It almost matched his.
"Why are ye so strong, so brave?" He touched the bloody, crusting tatters of the jersey dress, her left breast brushing his hand, and felt her flinch.
"I'm a Slayer, Maclean."
"Are ye ever afraid?"
She stared into his eyes. "Not for myself."
For one moment, he forgot how much he hurt. Admiration swept through him, maybe for the first time. "Then who do ye fear for?"
She wet her lips. "My sister. Brie. Allie..."
Her breast was heavy on the back of his hand. He pressed upward. Her gasp had nothing to do with pain from the gash on her ribs. "How much does it hurt?" he whispered, sliding his hand over to cup her breast.
"What are you, a high-testosterone version of Florence Nightingale?"
He took her bodice in his hands and snapped it down below her breasts.
She inhaled.
His mouth became dry. Very slowly, he looked up into her eyes. "We can tend yer cuts, if ye really wish to, or ye can turn around and let me have ye on this table, from behind, the way I like it."
Her grasp on his wrists tightened.
He shifted and pushed the weight of his entire arousal against her thigh. "Turn around, Sam."
She looked down at what was between them. "As good as that looks and feels, no thanks."
She would resist him still. He reluctantly looked past her bare breasts, her nipples taut, at the open, bleeding knife wound. She wasn't immortal. She should take care of the cut. He looked up. "Are ye sure? Because I can pleasure ye right now...more than ye've ever been pleasured, Sam."
"I'd rather pleasure myself."
"Ouch," he said, but he grinned. He was going to enjoy the hunt. Their gazes held, hers warm but fierce. His hands were positively itching, and he finally let go of her bodice. He knew he'd pay, but he cupped her bare breasts anyway.
Her single spike heel bore into his instep. He released her, cursing.
"Hands off," she warned. She jerked the dress up.
"Maybe ye should have thought twice about handcuf-fin' us together."
"If you didn't have the power to leap, I'd handcuff you to the wall," she snapped. "No, to the bed---but alone. I'll bet that would torture you."
He tensed, but hid it. Images flashed. He was hiding beneath the bed. Then he was on it, chained...He forced a smile. "Ye ken we'll have to sleep together? Bathe together? Use the bathroom together?" His tone was shaky.
She'd noticed. "I can handle it, Maclean. So let's go. It's almost one-thirty. I need to clean up and then I'm putting you to bed."
He stared at her, the need even worse. He had to escape the past. "I'm no gentleman."
"No kidding. But you're not a rapist, either."
He jerked away from her. "Ye don't know me at all."
She stared, her messenger bag now in hand. "Is that a warning? Because I'm pretty sure seduction is your MO. Let's go," she added sharply. "It's late and I need a couple of hours of sleep. After all, I am mortal. And just a reminder---if you leap into that vault, I'm coming with you. I'm a really light sleeper."
The flashback was gone. He started down the hall toward the elevator. "Do ye really think to sleep beside me like a sister?"
"Actually, my plan is to take the floor."
"How could I live with myself if I let ye sleep on the cold, hard floor when we can share the big, warm bed?" He batted his lashes at her and went past the elevator to a staircase at the end of the hall. He used the elevator often, but didn't feel up to it now. He was afraid of what would happen in that tight space, after so many flashbacks. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Ian tensed, suddenly disturbed, but not by his past.
He felt evil. It was close by---inside his home. He hadn't checked his security alerts when he'd come in.
Pausing, he glanced at Sam. She was still and alert, having felt it, too. She showed no fear, just a soldier's tension. Briefly, for the second time, he had the oddest feeling of admiration for her.
Sam seized his shoulder. "You have company, and it's not the welcoming kind."
His gut churned with fear, a reflex he could not control. It didn't matter. He started upstairs, almost running.
"Maclean?"
He fought the fear, breathing hard. He wasn't nine years old now. He relished the impending encounter. And then there was only rage, so much so that he did not hear her.
He had been expecting this predator, but he'd been so intent on Sam Rose, he'd forgotten to put himself on guard. He was prepared now.
"Ye stay back," he said quietly. It was an order. And as he spoke, he used his powers to unlock the handcuffs, which instantly dropped off his wrist.
"I thought you might be able to do that," Sam said.
The anger began to build, impossibly. He was a man---nearly immortal, with the kinds of powers only those who followed the gods should have. He hated demons, every single one of them, just as he hated the mixed bloods and all evil. He started forward furiously. Sam followed, the steel-toothed Frisbee in her hand. "Ye leave it to me," he warned her.
"Wow, what a change of heart!"
His library faced them on the next landing. The demon sitting on his brocade sofa there leapt to his feet, his handsome face registering surprise. Then, slowly, he smiled. "This must be a mistake. I'm awaiting a student of mine. He said he needed to see me. Are you Liam's father?" he said smoothly.
"There is no mistake," Ian said softly. "You were right to wait---for me."
The demon stared. "What the hell is this?" he demanded, his eyes burning. "Is this some kind of game?"
"Aye, it's a game," Ian murmured, trembling with pent-up rage now. The memories flooded him. There was so much pain and fear. "There is no Liam, John. There's only me."
"You have power. So what are you, a vigilante? I'll play." The demon laughed at him.
Sam made a sound.
Ian had forgotten her presence. He felt his mouth curl as he started forward. "Come and get what you deserve, John," he murmured. There was no feeling now, not even rage, just determination.
The demon's smile faltered as Ian paused before him. "You share our desires, don't you? Somehow you're tainted. I can feel it."
"Share this," Ian said softly. The blade had been strapped to his wrist, beneath his sleeve. He thrust it deep into John's heart.
But John had seen the movement, and as the blade went deep into his chest, his red-black energy blazed. Ian had known the blast would come and he withstood it, yanking the dagger out and impaling him again. He heard Sam cry out as the black power threw her back into the hall, but he couldn't care, not now.
This was his revenge.
Alive and enraged, John blasted him again.
It hurt. The pain engulfed him and infuriated him even more, and he tackled the demon and wrestled him to the floor. He seized the dagger, jerked it free of flesh and bone, and sent it back into the bloody heart again. The demon's red eyes blazed and rolled backward, becoming lifeless.
Ian knew it and didn't care. He stabbed him again...and again. He would never hide under his bed again, never hide in the closet, never feel pain or fear or shame...John deserved to die for all that he had done, for all those days, weeks, months and years of shocks and cords and prods and the ripping apart and the final submission. Now he recalled every atrocious act. Now he recalled the fear and the pain, merely repressed and buried deep. For fear and pain were who and what he was. But most of all, he recalled the loss of his humanity and sanity, which he would never have again. Sweat and tears blinded him as he raised the knife again.
"He's dead."
He heard her but couldn't stop, even though he realized that the demon was dead, his eyes entirely sightless now, his bloody and mangled body unmoving and still. He buried the knife to the hilt and it quivered in John's chest.
"Ian. He's dead." She clasped his shoulders from behind but merely held him that way, instead of attempting to pull him off.
He became vaguely aware of her grasp. He let go of the knife. Slick with blood, it stood up gruesomely in John's chest.
"Ian?" she asked very cautiously.
He was panting uncontrollably, straddling the corpse, wiping the moisture from his face, too late realizing it was tears, not sweat, and his hands were covered with blood. He remembered it all.
The pain threatened to kill him.
He turned away and vomited violently.
He didn't know how long he remained there, on his hands and knees, the tears sliding helplessly down his face. But by the time he sat up, the demon was half gone, his physical presence rapidly disintegrating, leaving a glowing wake of what looked like embers behind. And a terrible silence filled the library.
Comprehension began. Sam Rose had just witnessed his insanity.
He inhaled, seeking composure. Aghast, he launched himself to his feet. To his surprise and relief, she was gone.
He reeled and used a bookcase to steady himself. The relief vanished. She'd been present and had seen what no one had ever seen, except for Gerard. And she might even be smart enough to figure out the truth...
At the wet bar, he washed his hands, wiped the last drops of moisture from his face, dried his hands. As he poured a huge scotch, he heard her returning to the room. Tensing---wishing she'd gone home---he looked up.
She stood in the doorway in her bloody red dress, her expression somber. Her blue eyes were wide and trained on him.
He did not see pity or compassion on her face, for which he was thankful. He'd kill her if she dared to pity him.
He was so tired. He hated this fucking miserable life. "Leave."
She started.
He slowly smiled, hoping she would stay so he could take his rage out on her. He'd do to her what they'd done to him and enjoy it. "Ye really should take warning. My mood is foul."
She didn't move. "No kidding."
She wasn't afraid; she was being sarcastic. Briefly he was amazed.
She glanced at the mostly disintegrated corpse. "Remind me not to piss you off too much."
There was more control. Not a lot of it, but more. He didn't want to hurt her or torture her---he wanted her in his bed, catering to his every damnable desire. But he did not trust himself.
When he felt like this, he was careful to stay away from women, from humans, from the Innocent. "Go away. Before I do what I want to do."
"If you think that tantrum scared me, you're wrong." But she wasn't mocking now. Her tone was thoughtful. "You could give lessons in payback." She slowly approached.
He jumped into her mind. She wanted to comprehend him. She wanted to know why he had acted as he had, why he had mauled the demon to death. She wanted to know if he was okay?
He was fine. He might be crazy, but he had the bank accounts, cars and homes to prove he was okay. This was his life! And none of it was her affair or anyone else's! His secrets were just that. His life was just that---a dirty, dark secret.
The rage returned and he crossed the room, seizing her wrist hard. The average woman would have protested; she did not. Her gaze slammed to him. "Don't even think of manhandling me. I'll kill you," she warned.
"Try!" He relished the fight.
She saw it and backed down. "Whatever he did to you, I'm not a part of it."
The rage blinded him. "He did nothin' to me!"
"Yeah, and that's why you hacked him apart after he was dead."
He pulled her up against his hard, explosive body. "An' how will you stop me from hurtin' ye?" As adept at martial arts as she was, as powerful as she was, he was stronger---she didn't have half the powers he had. To make certain she understood that, he whirled her around and pushed her hard against the bookcase. Then he leaned into her, the position sexually aggressive, dominant and threatening. "Can ye really stop me now?" he taunted, pulsing against her buttocks.
She had become still. He delved deeply into her mind and couldn't find a single shred of fear. In spite of his rage, he was amazed. Instead, she calmly debated the worst scenario---his raping her and her killing him for it, one way or another. And in that moment, he knew she'd succeed or die trying.
He didn't want her dead.
Some of the anger receded. He had his entire body pressed against hers, from knee to shoulder, his mouth against her ear and the tendrils of hair curling there. As they stood that way, with only two layers of fabric between them, the anger shifted again, this time into an awareness of her body, what it offered him and how desperate he was for escape.
"Sam," he said harshly, tightening his arms around her waist. As desire and lust took over, he felt her response in her heavy breathing and quivering body.
He closed his eyes, ashamed. For threatening her sexually, as if he'd learned how to behave from his tormentors, and for her having witnessed him in such a maniacal moment. It was hard to breathe. There was so much pressure now. In a moment, there could be so much pleasure, so much relief. "Sam."
Her ribs rose and fell heavily now, beneath his grasp. He raised his arms until her heavy breasts rode them. "Dinna move," he said, reaching down. He freed himself and pushed between her legs, the jersey dress entangling with his length.
She gasped at the contact and grasped his hands. "Damn you."
He moved his mouth against her ear, using his tongue. She trembled violently. "I'm not one of them. Give me permission. I want ye, Sam."
For one heartbeat, when she didn't move or answer, he thought she would submit. But then she turned around---and jammed her knee into his groin.
Shocked, he gasped as pain flooded him, clutching himself.
"Never means never," she cried. "And I won't be a warm body to make you feel better."
CHAPTER FOUR
SAM MEANT IT.
He somehow straightened, flushed. "Did ye break yer kneecap?" he mocked.
"Right," she shot back. But she was instantly sorry. It had been a desperate move. She'd almost caved in to him---her body was that demanding, that hot for his. The raging attraction was getting worse. After what she'd just seen, it should be gone.
She'd never seen so much rage. She was shaken, even though she'd witnessed a lifetime of murder and mayhem, rape, torture and death. What had that demon done to him? It had to have been bad.
And he'd been crying afterward. Ian Maclean had shed tears. She was determined to hide her surprise and act as if nothing much had happened. Oddly, it felt incredibly important to pretend that nothing was awry.
It had been sheer instinct to leave him alone with his grief when he'd finished with the demon. No man, immortal or not, would want someone to see such rage, much less that shocking emotional aftermath.
And she was shocked.
He was breathing hard. "I said I am not one of them."
She was breathing hard, too. She'd heard. And while she didn't think him a rapist, he'd probably have kept trying to seduce her anyway, if she hadn't gotten rough.
And that was the problem. Having that incredibly hard and aroused body against hers had been so damned tempting. It was as if there was an unearthly pull between them. "Okay. I might have overreacted. I'm sorry I kneed you. But I'm fairly certain a little blow won't hurt that."
He gave her a really dark glance. "Why don't ye leave?" He strode back to the bar cart and poured a scotch, which he drained. Then he poured another one. "Ye can understand why I'm not bein' a bit more hospitable."
"I'm not leaving, not until the page is in Nick's custody," Sam said flatly.
He gave her an incredulous look. "I'm not leapin' anywhere tonight. Not into the vault and not into the past, or any other time." He drank half of the second scotch. He was impatient now, his stare cold and hard.
She carefully shut down those thoughts. She'd think about it all later. "And I should trust you because...?"
"Ye trust me because I'm St. Cuthbert," he snapped. "Do as ye will. Amuse yerself, Sam." He refilled his glass and strode from the library.
Sam walked to the threshold of the room and saw him go down the hall, past several impressive works of art, entering what was apparently the master suite at its far end. When he vanished inside, leaving the door open, she inhaled.
Holy shit. What had just happened...really?
She walked over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. Sipping it, she went into the adjacent guest bathroom. She set the drink down and opened the cabinet, where she found a few handy items, including mouthwash.
As she took off the dress, she became aware of her body, which was sore. The stab wounds felt as if they were on fire. Not that she hadn't had worse. Her right ankle was also sore, and she hoped it wasn't sprained, because she didn't have time to limp around. She shoved the red jersey dress into the garbage and thought about the few facts she'd gleaned with Brie last fall about Ian Maclean.
Brie and Sam had been trying to save Aidan's life. They'd assumed Ian was dead---everyone had. Aidan had helplessly watched while his own father murdered him as a boy. Sam recalled that date as being 1436. Some dates simply stuck out.
She picked up a bar of scented white soap and cleaned her arm and the cut on her rib cage. Now that she thought about it, Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, making him really old---unless he was visiting New York from another century. That did not seem likely---he acted really contemporary. But the second, more important fact was that his grandfather, the notorious demon, Moray, hadn't actually killed him.
Ian had been in demonic captivity as a child. Now she recalled that Aidan had fallen to the dark side as a result of his thinking Ian murdered. Aidan of Awe had a record of nearly demonic activity that spanned decades. She knew. She'd handed the file over to Brie herself.
Ian had been presumed dead for decades...which meant he'd been a demon's prisoner for all that time.
A chill went through her.
Demons thrived on torture, abuse, rape and murder. It was a miracle he was still alive. But the emerging facts were beginning to explain a lot. No wonder he was such a hard-ass. He'd been so unlikable, so cold and unfeeling---until he'd had the breakdown.
What had they done to him?
She was never going to forget the sight of him on his hands and knees, trembling violently, tears streaming.
Her heart seemed to stir within her chest. Sam jerked in shock, and she looked at her reflection in the mirror. For one instant, she saw herself standing there, naked and cut, and her blue eyes seemed unusually soft and worried.
Her eyes looked like Tabby's, except for their color.
Her sister was the kindest woman she'd ever known. Tabby worried about everyone. Tabby's compassion knew no bounds. Tabby often had that look in her eyes.
Damn it. She, Sam, was never concerned. She took life in stride. She fought for the Innocent, was prepared to die for them, but she never had and would never shed a single tear over an Innocent's murder. She hadn't even cried when she'd realized her mother was dead. She'd gone hunting, instead.
Her composure did not slip now. The image of her mother's murder was engraved on her mind, and she wanted it that way. She'd been twelve years old, walking home from school alone, because she'd cut her Spanish class so she could play street hockey with the boys. But they'd pissed her off and she'd gotten into a fistfight and gone home instead. When she'd walked into her front yard, she'd seen the man getting up, her mother lying prone and lifeless on the ground.
Sam had run to her mother, and had quickly realized Laura was dead. Tears had burned her eyes, but the grief had been dull because there was so much rage. She welcomed the fury, the need to strike back, the burning revenge. She leapt up and set chase. The demon had been halfway down the block. But instead of confronting her, he'd vanished, leaping into time.
She'd meant to murder him with her bare hands, even though just a skinny kid.
"Coward!" she had screamed.
She'd spent a year hunting him but he'd never come back.
Now, sixteen years later, she knew she'd never find him. He might even be vanquished by someone else's hand. But every time she brought a demon down, there was a deep, internal satisfaction. Laura would be proud.
Being coldhearted was far more than a means of survival. It was the only way to win. She was a Slayer. And that made her a soldier. No soldier could succumb to compassion, much less sorrow. There was no room in her life for regrets. She took the mouthwash and poured it over her rib cage. It stung. Compassion was not a part of her MO. And it was an especially bad idea where Maclean was concerned.
If he thought her sympathetic toward him, he'd use it to his advantage.
Grim now, she doused the wound with the rest of her scotch. It was a good thing she still thought him a complete bastard. There was no sympathy to be had. He wasn't that kid in captivity anymore. He'd survived---people survived the bad, the evil and the ugly, all the time. She took an emerald-green towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, staring at her set face in the mirror. And she made a pact with herself.
No matter what they'd done to him, it wasn't her business; she had a war to wage.
Sam picked up her cell and dialed Kit, who was back at the office. "How was the rest of the party?"
"Boring. Good caviar, though."
"As if you'd know. Did Hemmer take you on the VIP tour?"
"No, but he asked a lot of questions about you. He's either smitten or really suspicious. Where are you? I'm about to leave."
"I'm at Maclean's. 1101 Park Avenue. It's been an interesting night. Can you swing by and bring me clothes? My dress is in the trash."
"I'm afraid to ask."
"It was just subs, Kit."
"Yeah, I heard about the Rampage after you left. I'll be about thirty," Kit said, hanging up.
Sam took the small purse with her, and retrieved her messenger bag. Checking in on Maclean while clad in a towel was asking for trouble. But she was assigned to him and his PC was on the desk in the library, almost waving a red flag at her.
She smiled and went over to it and sat down. When she realized she did not need a password to log on, she shook her head, disbelieving. Then she sobered. She didn't need a password because Maclean wasn't worried about anyone invading his privacy. The bimbos he slept with wouldn't bother, and she would hazard one good guess that he didn't have friends---not even a single one.
He was that difficult, that asocial, that much of a loner.
She was a loner, too, but she enjoyed the occasional drink with Kit, her boss and some of her other coworkers. Even that jerk, MacGregor. But Maclean was just unlikable.
She had the grim notion that she might start feeling sorry for him, if she wasn't careful. She had that odd churning in her stomach again. It was nonplussing. So what if he lived a life of extreme isolation? And for all she knew, he hung with a bunch of equally unlikable jerks.
It was time to work. Shoving her speculation aside, she started to log onto HCU's immense database. It was time to become acquainted with his file.
But logging on required three different passwords. As she waited, she glanced at his desktop and then at his Documents folder. She might never have this opportunity again. Sam logged off from HCU, deciding to snoop into his hard drive instead. But it was all mundane stuff. He had numerous investments, a categorized and insured art collection (hmm), and lists of operating expenses for his two homes. He had auto insurance for five snazzy cars, and home owner's insurance. It was all so routine that it was boring, when nothing about Maclean was boring.
The red flag that had gone up began waving.
A file labeled Travel contained his various itineraries from the past two years, as he jet-setted around the world---either in first class or on privately chartered jets. For a man who could leap through time, it was really strange.
Sam wondered if he was keeping a low profile because of Scotland Yard. But his profile would be even lower if he leapt in and out of Paris, instead of flying there first-class.
Kit called and told her she'd be there in five minutes. As Sam hung up, she decided to check his Web activity. She went online and checked his mailbox.
It took her two seconds to learn that he was having an erotic conversation with a man---and another ten to figure out that he was portraying himself to be a young boy of thirteen. Liam.
And the man's name was John.
Comprehension flashed.
Was he undercover? Was he a cop?
She was stunned all over again. No authority---no agency or PD---would ever hire him into their midst, she felt certain, especially not with Scotland Yard being on his back. She went to their latest exchange, in which he gave his Park Avenue address to his buddy, claiming he lived there with his parents. "John" promised to look him up as soon as he could.
She sat back up rigidly, her mind racing. It had been bait and trap.
Ian had set up a demonic pedophile, and he had lured him to his death.
He was playing vigilante.
In spite of herself, there were the first stirrings of respect.
"Are ye enjoyin' yerself?"
She looked up, caught red-handed in his files and his life.
Maclean stood in the doorway, clad only in a pair of loose, low-hanging sweats. She was instantly diverted from her discoveries. He had a huge, broad chest, and bulging arms, with a really tight, sculpted six-pack. The man worked out---a lot. He might be an oversexed jerk but it was impossible not to look at the "goods." She stared at the swath of skin and hair below his naval and the very suggestive bulge below the waistband of his sweats. Her mouth was already dry. Sam looked away.
His mood clearly remained ugly, because his eyes were hard and burning with barely controlled anger.
"Your sweats are falling down, Maclean. Lose your drawstring?"
He walked over to her and stared at the e-mail she was reading, then reached past her to exit his mailbox. "There are laws against what yer doing." His broad muscular chest heaved.
He caught her staring and she thought she almost flushed. "Gee, no nipple ring?" Sam slowly pushed away from the desk, one hand on her towel. He slammed his hand down on the desk, blocking her from rising.
He looked at her as if finally aware that she was just barely covered up. But he didn't leer or smile that mocking, sexy smile; he was really angry.
She sank back down into the chair. "Well, you might consider devising a password."
He seized the edge of the towel. "Are ye happy now?"
She half wished she had put the dress back on. "You found John online by pretending to be a teenage boy. You lured him here so you could kill him."
"I'm tired of this game. I want sex. Now. Either put out or leave." He jerked on the towel, but didn't pull it away from her. "Which will it be, Sam?"
She understood that he was not going to answer her questions, but she barreled on. "This is about what they did to you, right? What happened to you? When you were a child in captivity?"
His eyes widened.
"I know. I was helping Brie find Aidan, remember?"
He breathed hard and harshly again. "Give me what I want or leave," he snarled.
"So we're back to the tiger in the cage?" Why was he even more upset?
For one moment, he did not speak. Then he leaned close. "Such a brave, fearless woman! Ye should fear me, Sam. Or have ye forgotten that my grandfather was a demon?"
She knew this was a good time to back off, because she was pretty certain he was going to rip the towel away---not that she couldn't handle it. Still, he was really furious. "I know your grandfather was Moray---and I also know your power is white, Maclean. I think his bad genes missed. So what are you hiding?"
His eyes widened and then he struck the papers and files from his desk, knocking over the monitor as he did so. Sam leapt to her feet, but he seized her and pulled her close. "The doorbell woke me up. Yer friend is downstairs. I will steal the page, but not tonight. Now get out." And he pushed her away, hard.
She stumbled, keeping a firm grip on the towel.
He strode past her, like a whirlwind, in fury.
Sam managed not to cry out.
His back was so scarred, it was a mosaic.
SAM WOKE UP, her neck aching. It took her a moment to realize that she was asleep on the sofa in Maclean's library, clad in the jeans and tank top Kit had brought last night. She sat up, grunting. The room's only windows faced north, showing the landscaped terraces of a neighboring building. It was bright enough out that she was certain she'd slept more than a couple of hours.
She cursed and got up, stepping into her worn biker boots. Then she hurried from the library, running a hand through her disheveled hair to comb it.
A man was leaving the master suite, but it wasn't Maclean. She recognized the gray-haired butler she'd met at Loch Awe. "Where's Maclean?"
"Good morning, madam." He was cool. "Will you be having breakfast this morning?"
Sam hurried past him into an opulent drawing room. A doorway to her left led to an exercise room with some major weight lifting equipment and cardio machines. Well, that explained the hard, packed body. His bedroom was directly ahead, the walls pale blue, the ceiling ivory, a huge four-poster bed that looked as if it belonged in a historic castle in its midst.
"Lord Maclean's rooms are private, Miss Rose," Gerard said. "He made it very clear to me that you are not welcome in his apartments, and that after breakfast, if you cared to dine, I should ask you to leave."
Sam strode into his bedroom.
So much testosterone filled it she felt confused, off balance. For one moment, she stared at the bed with its darker blue bedspread and pillows, and then she turned. "When did he leave?"
"A few moments ago." Gerard stared coldly at her.
She might need him as an ally. "I'm sorry about us having gotten off on the wrong foot last spring," she said.
He did not soften. "It is terribly impolitic to barge into other people's homes. But it seems to be a habit of yours."
"Yeah, I need a lesson in good manners." She laughed. "Has it ever occurred to you that Maclean might need the very same lesson?"
He stiffened, clearly affronted. "His lordship does the best that he can."
"Gee, so do I." She'd forgotten Maclean was titled---the baron of Awe.
"There have been exceptional circumstances." He was not going to budge.
Sam went on alert. "Really? I'd love to hear about them. How long have you been with his lordship?" She hoped she hadn't been too mocking upon uttering the last word.
"Two decades, and I do not gossip."
Sam sighed. That was for the best. Maclean had a jump start on her, and she knew where he was going. She patted Gerard's arm, who flinched as if she'd struck him. "I really don't bite. Not unless you ask me to. And even then, you have to ask really, really nicely."
He scowled at her.
SAM DOUBLE-PARKED her black Lexus sedan in front of One Hemmer House, putting a siren on top of the roof. Still in her jeans and biker boots, wearing dark glasses, she got out and went up to the doorman. He was suitably admiring of the tight denim and tiny white tank top. Sam flashed her fake ID at him. "Did Ian Maclean go up?"
"No, ma'am, but I already told your partner that."
Sam was surprised. Then she glanced into the lobby. MacGregor was seated on a plush beige sofa, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He gave her a very speculative look.
What did that mean? Almost taken aback, Sam strode inside without bothering to ask the doorman permission. "What's your gig?"
"Wow, you're in another great mood. I guess spending the night with Maclean wasn't all that great?"
"I'm going to kill Kit."
MacGregor stood. "Actually, we have the apartment wired, so Kit didn't give you up." He had a very male look in his eyes. "You're so tough on the job, Rose," he said softly.
She actually flushed. Was he kidding? Maclean's apartment was wired? They'd been on camera? "Are you on Maclean, now?"
"I think Nick is leaving Maclean to you." He started smiling.
"You're almost as much of a jerk as he is."
"You're just jealous."
"Of what? The parade of perfect ass?"
He leaned close. "No one's ass is as perfect as yours."
"Don't I know it." She walked back out to the street.
"I'm on Hemmer," he called after her.
Sam ignored him, but she was livid. Nick could have told her he was wiring Maclean's house. Damn it. They'd probably been eating popcorn and drinking beer at HCU last night---at her expense.
They were all in over their heads. Maclean might not have leapt into the vault yet, but he most definitely could and would leap out with the page and go anywhere he chose, in any time. He'd be almost impossible to find.
She tensed as she acknowledged it. That was why she'd been so determined not to let him out of her sight last night. His absence now was not good news.
She saw Hemmer first, before he saw her. She ducked into her sedan.
He looked like a happy man as he left the building, a paper in one hand, a briefcase in the other. A chauffeur opened the door of a dark sedan and he got inside.
Sam watched as MacGregor leapt into his partner's gray Toyota, parked just up the block, and cruised after him. "Have fun," she muttered. "I hope you lose him in the midtown traffic!" It was petty but she was still seething over being on videotape.
She was thinking about that when she saw Maclean get out of a taxi a few moments later. She tensed. He wore a dark gray blazer, a dark T-shirt and jeans, looking no worse for wear. And he walked right past the doorman, greeting him as if he did so every day. Obviously the affair with Becca Hemmer was ongoing. Sam looked at her watch.
It was half past eleven in the morning.
She turned the ignition on and put on the radio, oddly annoyed, and began flipping through the channels. She finally settled on a country music station, which quickly became really annoying. She switched to jazz and looked at her watch again. Only seven minutes had passed. Fox News was always a good bet. She slumped in her seat, listening to Sean Hannity defend America, agreeing with most of what he said. The minutes ticked by, really slowly, and it was excruciating. Of course, she knew what they were doing. He was tiring Becca out, the bastard, and if she didn't fall asleep afterward, he'd probably drug her or slug her. Not that she cared what he did. He was a sociopath with a really messed-up past, the kind of guy every woman should steer clear of. Someone should warn Becca.
It was a quarter past noon, now.
She changed the station.
He came out twenty minutes later, a parcel under his arm. And he was smiling---dog that he was. And he veered right toward her Lexus.
Sam went still.
Still smiling, he knocked on the window, his gaze on hers. He was wearing aviator sunglasses.
She rolled it down. "Guess I'm made."
He removed the glasses and his gaze moved over her tiny white tank top. "Ye could never pass by a man unnoticed."
"Gee, a compliment. I'm in a relatively generic car with tinted windows."
"But the doorman thinks ye look like Sharon Stone when she was in Fatal Attraction."
"Remind me not to chat with the help." Sam pushed open the door, making him step back, and she got out, turning the ignition off but leaving the key.
His gaze moved over her tight, distressed jeans. "I hope I didn't keep ye waitin' too long."
"I love country music."
"I did try to rush."
"Don't bother with the details."
"Why? Are ye jealous?" He started to laugh.
"Of a mindless bimbo having mindless sex with an unrepentant sociopath? Are you kidding?"
"Mindless is how ye like it, isn't that right? Even with a sociopath? Even with me?"
Sam felt a fist hollow her. Slowly, she said, "Mindless sex is definitely better than the other kind."
Sam looked away from his hard gray stare, which was somehow speculative, at the package under his arm. She knew what the parcel contained. "It's probably disintegrating even as we speak. That page needs climate control, 24/7. Want to share?"
He almost smiled. "Sharing is against my nature."
"Of course it is. So what's the plan?" And she reached for his cheek and dragged her nails lightly there. The gesture intensified the vibrations in her body. "What are you going to do with it? Or have you lined up a buyer, the way you did the van Gogh?"
He caught her hand and reeled her in. "I'm selling it to the highest bidder."
She moved closer, against his big, stiff body. "Somehow I'm not surprised. I didn't peg you for a patriot. Any way I can get you to play for the good guys?"
"Convince me," he said.
He was hard already---clearly, it didn't take much. Not that she should criticize, he had a similar effect on her. "Love to," Sam said softly.
She moved. He held her hand and she ducked under his arm and twisted it behind his back, at lightning speed. It was a move she'd performed hundreds of times, always with the same results---it incapacitated a man, because if she didn't stop, she'd break his arm. But he moved with her.
As if he knew what she meant to do, he went with her, preventing her from twisting his arm, and they wound up in their starting positions, face-to-face, holding hands, breathing hard.
He grinned. "I was hopin' fer a different kind of persuasion, Sam."
She went for his solar plexus. He dodged the attack and lightly blasted her with power, sending her backward, into her car. "Sorry," he taunted.
She cursed.
He hurried into the street, raising his hand to flag down a taxi. Brakes screeched. Sam launched herself upright as he waved the parcel containing the page at her. Then he opened the driver's door, pushed the driver out and got in, taking over the wheel.
Sam leapt into her car, turned the ignition on, jammed it into Drive and peeled out after him. Horns blared at her. She ignored the outrage. A Honda crashed into a parked car to avoid hitting her as she barreled through the traffic.
She hit the gas. She was not going to lose him, but there were half a dozen yellow cabs ahead, each identical at this distance. She was careful to keep him in her sights.
His yellow cab suddenly veered away from the group, turning abruptly onto a side street.
Sam cursed, weaving past two taxis to follow him. But a woman and a child were already stepping into the street and she had to slam on the brakes. Maclean was almost at the end of the block and she saw that he was going to run the changing light. "Shit!"
She leaned out of her window. "Move!" she screamed at the woman. She turned her siren on.
The woman leapt across the street, the boy in tow. Sam slammed down the accelerator. Maclean was entering the next intersection, and the light between them had turned red. She cursed and hit the gas harder, using the horn. Miraculously, the New Yorkers about to cross the street actually stopped and she drove furiously forward, into the uptown traffic.
Horns blared, tires screeched. An SUV hit her passenger side door. Sam kept going. The Lexus leapt into the next street, only a half a block between them now.
He was laughing---she just knew it.
Ahead, she saw the cab veer left, heading back downtown.
Sam drove faster, the light ahead still green. Not that it mattered---she was on Broadway now and dozens of pedestrians were jaywalking. She held down the horn, the blare incessant, her sirens still screaming, but the pedestrians ignored her. She braked hard to avoid vehicular manslaughter.
The crowd streamed across the street, blocking her way.
She leaned out of her window, firing her gun into the air. "Get out of my way!"
The men and women walking past her car ran for the safety of the sidewalk.
Sam shot through the intersection.
About twenty yellow cabs were ahead of her.
She slowed, her heart racing, scanning the mass of taxicabs. From behind, most of them looked alike. "Shit."
The light changed. The traffic moved on. She followed the pack of yellow cabs, now trying to feel him. "Where are you, you sonuvabitch? Which one are you?"
She didn't expect an answer. But she focused as never before.
And she felt his hot male power. Oh yeah, she did.
Her gaze slammed onto a cab on the right side of the mass. "Gotcha," she snarled. She turned the wheel hard, cutting off a delivery van, ignoring the driver, who hit the brakes, cursing her through his window. She slammed down the gas and drove her vehicle right into his rear fender.
The cab bounced hard at the contact, the fender crumpling. Then Maclean turned and looked over his shoulder at her.
He was laughing.
"I'm having the last laugh, Maclean," she said. "And I am staying right here, glued to your shiny yellow ass." She smiled, wondering what he would do next.
She found out two blocks later. Suddenly he swerved toward the sidewalk and she followed him, determined to stay with him. Maclean looked like he was going to hit the patrons of a sidewalk café, and the masses screamed, people diving away from their tables and chairs. He swerved again. Sam followed as he drove into the exit ramp of a parking garage---at full speed.
He was testing her, she thought grimly, her hands clamped on the steering wheel. But she did not have a death wish. The exit ramp spiraled tightly upward---making it impossible to see who was coming down.
Sam slowed fractionally.
And as she turned the corner, she saw a car swerving away from the down ramp to avoid a head-on collision with Maclean.
Maclean swerved between two pillars to avoid the next descending car and Sam came hood to hood with it. She swerved, hard, bouncing into the ramp's concrete wall, metal screaming. The oncoming Volkswagen hit the ramp wall dead on.
Breathing hard, Maclean no longer in sight, she took the next corner. She swerved to avoid another descending car and sideswiped some parked vehicles, while the passing vehicle hit the garage posts. The next car coming down the ramp swerved to avoid a head-on collision, as did Sam. She drove her Lexus hard up the ramp, against the concrete wall, sparks shooting off her car. She heard the car she had just passed collide with either the ramp wall or a pillar.
And when she turned the next corner, she was on the garage's top level. Maclean was racing the taxicab through the rows of parked cars.
Sam hit the brakes. The top level was mostly unoccupied, and she could see that the roof of the garage was a rectangle. The buildings on three sides were taller; she did not know what was on the fourth side.
Where was he going?
The only place for him to go was down, but he'd sped by the entrance ramp, and he was far from where she sat at the top of the exit ramp.
Sam realized he was heading for the open side of the garage. She shifted into gear and drove toward it.
Maclean didn't stop.
Sam was close enough now to realize that the roof of the adjacent building was about two stories below the garage's top floor. And she realized what he was going to do.
She braked hard. "Are you crazy?" she cried.
And as she spoke, the cab hit the low barrier wall, went through it and was briefly suspended in the air.
Then it fell.
And it landed hard on the lower roof.
Sam leapt from her Lexus and ran across the garage to the barrier wall. Below, she saw the cab on the asphalt roof, looking somewhat mangled. The driver side door opened and Ian Maclean got out.
He waved at her and, holding the parcel, started across the roof. A moment later he'd entered the building, disappearing from her view.
Sam dialed 911.
He was crazy. Either that, or he didn't care if he lived or died.
CHAPTER FIVE
IAN WANTED TO WAKE UP.
So much dread began that he could not breathe.
But the scene was so innocent, his reaction made no sense---except that he knew something terrible was going to happen.
He watched the children milling down the front steps of the Brooklyn public school, from a distance. Laughing and chattering, they were being met by their parents and caregivers. He did not want to watch, but his focus zoomed in closer. One boy wasn't laughing or speaking. His heart sank as he recognized the thin, sullen, dark-haired boy.
It was himself.
The focus shifted and he was that boy now, his heart hammering with fear. He liked school but he hated going home. He was always careful to never think about what might happen when he got there---until the last bell of the day rang, and there was no other choice.
A dark shadow fell into step beside him.
His fear increased. He ignored the fingertips sliding along his cheek. They walked the three blocks home in silence.
At the door of the house, he said, "Your grandfather has returned, Ian. He has special plans for you."
Ian choked, closing his eyes. Months and sometimes even a year would go by without Moray returning. Ian knew he preferred Scotland to New York. He would dream about his never coming back---that he would finally be allowed to go home.
He stood on the threshold of the dark, narrow, turn-of-the-century house, afraid.
Inside that house was his worst nightmare. He knew pain and fear and shame would greet him if he went in there. He knew he'd find his various captors in there, demons who changed over the years, and he also knew that he'd find Moray, too.
The Innocent wept and begged for mercy from the cellar.
God, he'd forgotten about them. He'd forgotten how he'd try to bring them food and water, only to be tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life for it.
He became sick. He couldn't go inside.
And the door slowly opened. Black evil poured out onto the street, cloaking him. He tensed, aware of the evil worming its way into him.
"Stop cowering and come inside." His grandfather smiled. "I have a use for you, my boy."
Ian sat up, gasping. Fear and panic clawed through him, the talons knifelike. It took him an instant to realize that he had been dreaming. He cursed.
The dreams were as bad as the flashbacks.
In that first waking moment, there was nothing but fear. He launched himself from the plush chaise where he'd fallen asleep. He was still trembling, wet with sweat. He refused to think about the dream---he did not want to go there, not now, not ever. He took a breath and saw that it was early evening. He'd arrived home a few hours ago and sat down to savor his triumph over Sam Rose. He'd thought about her reckless courage, unable to quell his admiration. He'd had three or four drinks. And he must have fallen asleep.
He glanced at the unfinished drink and sandwich by the chair. He feared sleep almost as much as he feared pain and evil, which was why he avoided it at all costs. Sleep always brought nightmares, and waking up brought horrific, vivid and recycled memories.
Sometimes he went days without sleeping. But in the end, the past always triumphed. Eventually he would fall asleep for a few moments, the way he'd just done now.
His grandfather Moray had been one of the greatest demons to ever walk the earth. Rumor had it he had ruled his evil empire for almost a thousand years. His one failure had been his inability to completely turn his son Aidan, Ian's father, to the dark side. Moray was not only accustomed to power, he was obsessed with it. Every demon lusted for power---it was the reason for their pleasure crimes. But Moray wanted to rule the world. Aidan was his worst enemy---his own son, refusing his wishes, his commands. Moray had abducted Ian in 1436, when he was nine years old, in order to use him against Aidan, intending to destroy him.
He hadn't. In the end, Aidan had vanquished Moray, and Ian had been freed.
He'd been released exactly twenty-five years ago, just before Moray was destroyed once and for all by Aidan and Brie. Although Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, he'd spent most of his life in modern times, in New York City, where he'd been kept captive. Ian would never forget the day he had been freed. His father had found him and there had been so much relief. It had been his wildest dream coming true. There had even been joy. But the joy had been so brief.
Because Moray had returned him to Scotland in 1502. The moment he'd stepped outside of Elgin's tower, he'd been in the medieval world. It should have been familiar to him, but instead, it had been strange and confusing, upsetting. He could barely remember his earlier childhood years there. Instead, he began to wonder why his father hadn't come to his rescue sooner. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Moray or one of his captors to be there, waiting to hurt him. And he couldn't sleep. When he slept, he dreamed.
And he had still been nine years old.
His grandfather had deprived him of every aspect of a normal childhood by putting a spell on him, one which had kept him nine years old for the duration of his captivity---emotionally as well as physically. But upon being released, he'd rapidly aged, becoming an adult man within months. Biologically he was one hundred years old, but he'd only been an adult for twenty-five years. None of it mattered. He felt a thousand years old.
Ian drained the rest of his scotch whiskey. No one knew better than Ian how sadistic, cruel and evil the son of a bitch had been. Even though he was vanquished, Ian still feared him. He could think of nothing worse than dreaming of his grandfather---other than actually coming face-to-face with him again.
Moray had once told him that he was Satan.
Ian believed it.
Moray had said, laughing, "Haven't you grasped the truth yet? I am Satan."
His heart had exploded with fear and disbelief. He choked, hugging the bars of the cage he'd been put in---his current punishment. "Ye canna be Satan. Satan is the father of all evil."
Moray had reached for the door, smiling cruelly. "But I have so many faces, my son. Now will you do as I command?"
Ian reached for his drink and realized it was empty. He cursed. Satan had imbued Moray's very existence and all that he had done. Satan surely had a thousand faces. Moray had been one.
How else would Moray have survived for over a thousand years? The Brotherhood and other great men had hunted him across time. They'd all failed, until Aidan and Brie had destroyed him.
And now his father, who had left him alone with evil for so long, had gone down in history as a great Master. Ian laughed. He knew the sound was bitter. He didn't care. Hooray for the great Wolf of Awe, he thought caustically.
He had almost all the powers his father had, and a few he didn't have. But Ian knew they'd never ask him to join the Brotherhood. The gods knew the truth about the years of captivity. They knew how defiled he was, how deficient, how insane. Not that he cared. If they were ever crazy enough to ask him to join, he'd refuse, because he was too different to ever be one of them. How could he ever be trusted to protect Innocence?
Hanging in the cage, the Innocent sobbed in fear.
"Do it."
He held the knife, starting to cry.
"Do it, Ian, or suffer as they will suffer."
He knew what he had to do. But he couldn't do it, not to the little girl and not to her mother. He looked up at the monk, who stood beside him with his grandfather.
"Punish him," Moray snarled.
Suddenly Ian grunted in pain. He realized that he had been holding his glass so tightly he had broken it. His hand was bleeding now. He cursed and let the cracked glass fall.
Sometimes he hated everyone---the gods, his father, the world.
At the end, when they knew he'd never try to escape---when he knew he'd never be freed---Moray had tried to turn him. It was another ploy meant to destroy his father. But in spite of his fear of them, and his fear of what the punishment for refusal would be, he hadn't ever been able to hurt anyone innocent. The boy had been heroic, but the man flirted with pain. Sometimes he had such an intense urge to hurt others, even the women he slept with. But it was nothing like the urge he so often had to hurt himself.
When he'd been on that garage rooftop earlier, he'd looked over the edge, and wondered if he'd finally die. When that day came, he'd embrace death as he'd never welcomed anything else. Others might fear death. Ian knew death was peace.
Now, he tested his shoulder. He'd suffered a few bumps and bruises in the car chase.
Sam Rose's striking image filled his mind. He hadn't expected her to keep up with him today, just like he hadn't expected her to stick around last night. But she had. That woman was a cool character. And she could drive like she fought---which was probably how she fucked.
His intention had always been to get her fighting and clawing into his bed. He wanted a savage sexual contest. But suddenly he imagined her smiling warmly, stroking him softly, gentle and tender beneath him.
And he laughed out loud at himself. If she made love to him like a pussycat, he'd be bored out of his mind. What was wrong with him? Where had that fantasy come from?
He shook his head. She was very powerful, very smart and maybe as sexually driven as he was...and so beautiful, she made it hard to breathe. He smiled. She would hold her own with him in bed. She'd be tireless, insatiable, and very demanding.
He realized he was sort of glad that she wasn't hurt.
That notion surprised him as he rang for Gerard, deciding he was hungry. His one and only interest was himself. There was no way he would care that she was unhurt, unless it was because he wanted her whole for their next encounter.
He was getting impatient for her.
He hadn't lied when he'd told her he'd moved to New York so he could screw her. Hunting her from Scotland had required more patience than even he had.
He looked forward to their next encounter. He was enjoying the opening salvo in their little war. And then he recalled last night.
He began to pace. He had banished what had happened with John from his mind. He'd gotten his revenge, even if Sam had seen him at his weakest. There wouldn't be any explanations. He owed her nothing---other than a night or two of extreme sexual pleasure. His secrets were going to stay secrets. He'd lose whatever sanity he had left, if the truth about his captivity ever came out.
The intercom buzzed, interrupting that worrisome thought. He crossed the drawing room of his master suite. "Gerard?"
"Sir, Mr. Hemmer has arrived. Should I wait to bring your supper?"
"Please do. And thank you, Gerard." He released the button, pleased. It hadn't taken his old pal very long to add two plus two.
In no particular hurry, he walked into his large walk-in closet and shed his clothes. He slipped on worn jeans and a paper-thin blue cashmere sweater. Although it was midsummer, he kept the town house cool. Then he glanced at his eighteen-carat gold Cartier watch. It was a quarter to eight. He went downstairs to greet his guest.
Gerard had served Hemmer a ten-year-old Philips Insignia cabernet wine, which he hadn't touched. Instead, Rupert was staring at his recently acquired Motherwell. It wasn't all that valuable---it had originally been sold for forty-five thousand dollars---but he happened to like the bold red and black strokes which the artist had used on the starkly white canvas. For him, Motherwell symbolized the life-and-death struggle of good and evil. He'd actually paid for the acrylic painting.
Hemmer turned, scowling and flushed.
"Having a bad day?" Ian asked, trying not to sound too happy about it. He kept his gaze as innocent as possible. He truly disliked Hemmer. Although technically human, he was evil to the core. Stealing the van Gogh for him had purely been business and he relished sticking it to him. "Ye might want to watch yer blood pressure."
"I know exactly one person who could disable my security system and get away with the Duisean page without triggering a single alarm," Hemmer snapped.
Ian grinned. "Surely there are other thieves as skilled as me in the world."
"I invited you into my home as a friend."
Ian dropped his smile. "We were never friends. Ye asked me to get ye the van Gogh and ye paid me handsomely to do so."
"That made us business partners, Maclean."
"Aye...an' possession is ten-tenths of the law, now isn't it? Ye'd know that better than anyone." Ian walked over to a seventeenth-century cupboard to pour himself a glass of the fine wine.
Hemmer followed. "So it was you! You bastard! You came to my party only to steal from me."
He was calm. "It takes a thief to know one." He sipped and was impressed.
Hemmer was shaking. "Have you bothered to consider that I am one man you do not want to cross?"
Ian shrugged. "I'm trembling."
Hemmer grimaced, eyes ablaze. "How much? How much will you extort from me? How much will it cost me to get the page back?"
Ian tried to slip into his mind, but the power eluded him. All he felt was Hemmer's fury and a sense that Hemmer meant to make him suffer for what he'd done, but he hadn't needed telepathy to comprehend that. Hemmer had to know that the page had god-given powers. Ian didn't think he'd pay over two hundred million dollars for it, otherwise. The man wasn't even Irish.
But there was more. A black shadow clouded Hemmer's thoughts---a distinct but undefined presence. Was someone else involved in Hemmer's desire to possess the page? Ian tried again, but he couldn't quite bring that other person into focus---if there were another person involved. He couldn't find a name. He merely glimpsed the black shadow, which remained. If the shadow was a demon, that certainly upped the stakes. "I'm taking bids until Friday at midnight. Make yer best offer."
Hemmer choked on outrage. "You're taking bids? The page is mine! How much do you want for it?"
"Make yer best offer," he repeated flatly. "I'm selling to the highest bidder." He smiled and added softly, "Good luck."
Hemmer breathed hard. "You'll be sorry, Maclean. I am not the kind of man you really wish to cross."
Ian was amused. He feared demons---not evil billionaires like Rupert Hemmer. If Hemmer was playing with demons, he might be afraid, but that still wouldn't stop him. Because hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake. And wealth was power. "Really? Good luck making me pay, as well."
Hemmer slowly smiled. It was a moment before he spoke. "I didn't trust you when we first met. I should have known. So, did you enjoy my wife last night? Did you enjoy her today?"
He'd known they were being taped. He shrugged. "She was skilled enough."
Hemmer went still. "I know you think yourself above us all. But you should fear me, Maclean. No one has as much power as I do in mortal realm---and I have allies. Allies that will make you seem weak and pathetic."
A twinge of wariness went through him. He'd been right. Hemmer had demonic allies. He'd intended to sell to the highest bidder, but he did not want to become involved with any great black powers.
On the other hand, he'd spent twenty-five years making himself as safe as possible, and a hundred million dollars or so would be the icing on the cake. Being safe---making his world impregnable---was the driving force of his existence. People thought he was a greedy bastard---how wrong they were.
And he didn't like threats. There'd been a thousand of them during his years of captivity. "I don't like being threatened, Rupert." He nodded dismissively at him.
"And I don't care to be mocked, and I especially don't like being duped." He started for the doorway, then turned. "I taught Becca every trick she knows. I wonder...how many tricks does Sam Rose know?"
Ian stiffened, incredulous.
"When I find out, you'll be the first to know."
Ian watched him leave, and suddenly he was livid.
SAM SLOWLY CLOSED the door to her loft and leaned heavily against it.
Her car was more or less totaled. She'd left it right where it was, taking a cab back to HCU, where she'd gone directly to Five. Her rib cage was bleeding and the doctor there had lectured her for not having it properly attended the night before. He'd added three stitches and redone the bandage. She did have a sprain, too, and he'd wrapped that. One of the collisions must have caused her to hit her head, because she had a black eye. He'd given her an ice pack---and then he'd asked her out. Sam had politely refused.
She didn't move. Her ankle hurt, her rib cage burned and her left eye throbbed. She'd managed to escape the building without being waylaid by anyone, especially not her boss. By now, Nick had to know that the page was stolen---and that one of his top agents had caused multiple car wrecks.
Damn Maclean.
What was wrong with him?
She pulled off one boot, then had to sit down on a kitchen stool to get off the other one. Sheer fatigue set in. It had been a hellish twenty-four hours. At work, they thought her a superagent, but she was human, which everyone seemed to forget. Sam half limped into the kitchen, found a bottle of red wine and uncorked it. She poured a glass and took it with her, limping toward her bedroom.
Maclean's image was etched on her mind as she'd last seen him, standing on the rooftop beside the dented taxi, waving at her. She paused, recalling his horrifically scarred back. That was a sight she'd never forget---as was his breakdown after destroying John.
Being held captive as a child by gross evil was what was wrong with him. The fact that he was alive to tell the story was miraculous.
To get to her bedroom, she had to pass Tabby's door.
Tabby's bedroom door was closed. Sam always kept it shut. When Tabby had first gone back in time, abducted by Macleod, Sam had expected her to return. Every time she'd passed by her bedroom, she glanced inside, but Tabby hadn't been there. It wasn't like her to leave without saying goodbye. But no one could resist Fate, and Tabby's was in the past. One day, Sam had shut her door, resolved to never open it again. In her heart, she knew she'd see Tabby again, sooner or later. There was simply no other possibility.
Just then, she wished it were sooner. Sam shoved her shoulder against the door and opened it, then turned on the lights. Tabby's bedroom was classic and elegant, just like Tabby. It was as neat as her sister had been. The décor was blue and white, right down to the French Etoile design of the bedding and drapes. For one moment, she could see her sister reading in that bed and Tabby smiling warmly at her.
A huge pang went through Sam. "Okay, I miss you, sis," Sam said, feeling foolish. "And I could really use your advice. Can you believe it? I need advice! So...where are you? How can I get to you? I'm getting antsy, Tabby. I really expected our paths to cross before now. Of course, you've only been gone for seven months, but it feels like years! And I do know you're happy...This is so dumb, but in a few days I turn twenty-eight, and you have never missed my birthday."
They'd always had amazing telepathy, from the time they were toddlers, only a year and a half separating them in age. But Tabby didn't answer her now, and Sam didn't expect her to. After all, she was centuries away. But she'd meant her words. If she had the ability to go back in time, she would visit her sister and talk her ear off. And she'd do it tomorrow. Enough was enough, really.
But which time should she go to?
Maclean had taken her back to the late thirteenth century. When Sam had gone back with Nick to look for Brie, they'd found Tabby in 1502 and she'd been two hundred years older.
Time-travel changed reality, big time.
While Sam considered herself and her sister perfectly human, they weren't exactly ordinary. Tabby had the power of magic, and Sam was aware that her strength wasn't average, not at all. And she'd always had a few kinetic abilities up her sleeve, too. The razor-edged DVD that she kept taped to her arm could be summoned to come down into her hand; she could will her stiletto out of her garter and move small objects around, too---like forks across the table. She could even push open the occasional door or gate. Her coworkers thought her truly skilled with weapons; Nick was probably the only one who knew she had a bit of extra-worldly help. But the interesting fact was that Tabby had lived for over two centuries, which made Sam wonder about the old family joke that a Rose woman only got better with age. That little jest had always been delivered with a wink.
Sam knew exactly how her sister would react to Ian Maclean, if they should ever meet. Tabby would feel sorry for him. She'd excuse his behavior, rationalize it all. She'd cook him a gourmet dinner, pour him really good wine, give him lectures on life, and top it off with a bear hug.
He wouldn't be immune to her kindness. Everyone liked Tabby. Ian would probably act human around her for a change.
Sam couldn't imagine that. She couldn't imagine having a normal conversation with him. Even thinking it was a bad idea---and she didn't want to have a conversation with him, not really. She closed the door, reminding herself of how selfish and screwed up he was. And he frigging owed her a car, not that she'd ever collect.
She limped into her own bedroom, which was painted brown and beige and was as starkly modern as Tabby's was genteel. She stripped, showered and slipped on gray fleece shorts and a plain white T-shirt. All the while, she thought about how insanely he'd driven that taxicab during the car chase, which kept replaying in her mind. She was certain that he didn't care if he died.
But then, he didn't seem to care about anyone or anything, did he?
She knew she shouldn't go there, but it was sort of sad. He was Aidan of Awe's son. Ian had inherited so much white power from his father---which he wasn't using. Or rather, he wasn't using it as he should. He was using his powers to steal art and accumulate wealth. There wasn't a trace of evil in him, even if his grandfather had been a demon, but there was so much indifference, as real as his shocking selfishness.
And then there was his pain.
Sam did not want to think about him on his hands and knees, crying. But she wasn't ever going to forget the way he'd vanquished that demon. The scene was engraved on her mind, unfortunately.
Sam would like to think that he had vanquished the demon out of concern for the war on evil, but that was a helluva stretch. He'd vanquished John out of personal vengeance. He didn't care about the war on evil. He'd pretty much proven that.
Her stomach was churning, and not because she was drinking on an empty stomach. She wished she had someone to talk to. Maclean remained an enigma. Tabby would encourage her to be soft and kind, which was not a good idea. Of that, Sam was certain.
Especially since he now had the page and she was determined to get it back.
The thought was barely formed when the downstairs buzzer sounded. Sam limped into the kitchen, curious. She never had uninvited callers. Everyone knew how much she protected her privacy.
"Hey, Sam, it's me," Kit said. "Can I come up?"
Kit never dropped by, but Sam was relieved to hear her voice. Kit was smart. She loved research. She was logical. Maybe she could help her figure Maclean out. "Come on up."
Kit appeared with a grocery bag and a bottle of wine. "I heard about last night and today," she said, setting the bag on the counter. She withdrew a bottle of red wine, a bag of baked soy chips and avocado and yogurt dip. She added mini soy dogs, and started to put a batch in the microwave. She was a health nut.
"By last night, do you mean the happy videos of me fending off Maclean's sexual advances?"
Kit gave her a worried look. "That, too. But that's not so odd---he's a guy. I heard he went really nuts on a demon."
"Yeah, he did." Sam poured her a glass of wine and Kit dumped the chips into a bowl. They went back into the living room.
"You look really bad," Kit said. "So what happened today?"
"I decided to chase him down, not realizing that he has a death wish. We had a car chase that ended with him driving off a rooftop."
Kit sat down and said, "Don't let him take you to the grave with him. He could have gotten you killed, for God's sake!"
Sam had to smile. That would be a travesty, because she intended to die slaying demons. Then, carefully, she said with guilt, "He won this round. I feel really responsible for his having the page from the Duisean. I have to get it back."
"It's not your fault. But I don't think he'll hand it over to you."
Sam laughed without mirth. "No, he won't. He's going to sell it to the highest bidder. And there's a good chance that bidder will be someone far more evil than Hemmer. We don't have the budget to even make a decent bid! How pissed is Nick?"
"It's a good thing you skipped out."
Sam sighed. "Maclean simply doesn't care who's good and who's bad. He doesn't care about anything except himself and his impossible sex drive."
Kit blinked. Then she blushed.
Sam looked closely at her. She'd just embarrassed her. Although she was in her midtwenties, sometimes Kit acted like a virgin. "He's into sex, Kit. And with me, he'll use it as a weapon---if he can."
"He's really attractive," Kit said.
Sam grimaced. "Until you get to know him."
"And you do?"
She sobered. "No, I don't. In fact, I bet no one knows him---and he wants it that way. But he's in the game---a game we have to win."
"Is that it? Or are you just a wee bit intrigued by all that brooding sex appeal?"
"He's hot but I am not intrigued." Kit was staring skeptically now. "I shouldn't want to know what makes him tick, except as an agent. I know that. But, Kit, I'm a bit shaken from what I saw last night. He went berserk with the demon. He was out of control, crazed. And afterward, he had a brief breakdown. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it."
Kit's eyes were wide. "You're never moved by anything or anyone. Are you telling me you feel sorry for Maclean?"
It was hard not to be moved by a man as powerful as Maclean losing it to the point of tears, Sam thought. "I'm a pro, remember? I'd never allow myself to feel sorry for him! But he's the number one player in this game, and the stakes are high. The more we know about him, the better."
Sam had the funny feeling that she was lying. It was her job to figure him out, but he turned her on and he'd shaken her up. In fact, she almost felt confused. She looked at Kit.
"How can you not feel sorry for him, as a human being?" Kit asked.
"Kit, we're trained to be objective on the job."
"I read his file."
Sam went still. She needed to know what Kit had discovered, but suddenly she wished she didn't have to go there.
"Sam? Why do you have a funny look on your face?"
Dryly, wishing she could confide in Kit, she said, "The suspense is killing me."
"What's going on between you two?"
Sam tensed. "Nothing. I mean, he wants into my pants, and I said no. He's enjoying the chase. Don't they all?"
"Why would you say no?" Kit was puzzled. "He's a stud, just the way you like them. I've never known you to refuse a hot guy and then dump him on your terms."
Sam became uncomfortable. An image flashed of her in Maclean's bed. They'd tear each other apart, use each other up, she thought. It would be off-the-charts passion. She knew it. "He's under investigation, Kit. Why are we talking about my sexual habits?"
"We're not. We're talking about you and Ian Maclean, a near-immortal with a two-inch-thick agency file, filled with flags. A near-immortal who, I might add, is a suspect in the thefts of art worth hundreds of millions of dollars. A near-immortal who spent decades in demonic captivity. He should be one of us---but he's not. But he's not one of them, either. I think it's worth talking about how you're dealing with him. And if you have feelings, I think that's worth looking at, too. And that is why I'm here." She flushed. "I'm worried about you."
Sam's first reaction was to laugh. Kit was a rookie, and compared to her, as innocent as a civilian when it came to evil. But then she recalled Maclean's attack on John and his reaction afterward. "You don't have to worry about me." But she hesitated, her gaze locked with Kit's. "I won't allow myself to wonder about him, to worry or feel compassion."
"But are you?"
"I don't know!" Sam stood and started to pace, but her ankle remained sore and she paused, wincing. "I will never become involved with Maclean. That would be suicide."
Kit stood, too. "Wow, that was an extreme answer. How could becoming involved equal suicide?"
Sam couldn't believe she'd spoken as she had; she never got involved. "I might jump in the sack with him sometime, on my terms, but that would be it."
"Can you tell Forrester you want out and let someone else hunt the page? It might be best, Sam. I mean, that car chase was nuts. Even if you caught up to him, then what? He has more power than you---he can leap. How were you going to get the page in the end?"
So many images flashed, all of Maclean in the last twenty-four hours. In half of those memories, she was in his arms.
Kit had made an irrefutable point. Chasing him had been bad judgment. She never had bad judgment, but she hadn't thought it through. Unless he'd died in the car chase, there'd been no possible way for her to accomplish her mission and retrieve the page.
Kit was right. She should bow out. Maclean was a challenge she didn't need.
Except she never refused a challenge and he intrigued her as no one ever had. "I'm not bowing out," she said. "I'm in until this is done. What's in his file? What did they do to him?" Her heart slammed as she spoke.
Kit sighed. "I didn't think you'd back down. I don't know what they did to him. That's not in the file. No one knows. What I do know is that he was abducted in 1436 and released in 1502. Do the math. He was held prisoner for sixty-six years."
Her gut churned violently. "Only a near-immortal could survive that. No wonder he's so scarred---and not just physically. No wonder he has no social skills."
"So you are feeling sorry for him?" Kit's eyes widened.
Sam stared at her. Was she going down that road to disaster? "There's a damned temptation to feel sorry for him. How couldn't there be? He was probably tortured to within an inch of his life. Demons love pain. And he was just a child, wasn't he, when they first grabbed him?" The churning in her abdomen increased.
"He was nine years old. They kept him under a spell, Sam. He stayed nine years old the entire sixty-six years."
God, it was even worse than she'd thought. Sam rubbed her forehead, which ached. Or was it her heart that ached now? "If I allow myself to feel sorry for him, I'm screwed. He'll figure it out and use it against me, then laugh in my face." But she had a bad feeling that it was too late.
Kit stood up and walked around the coffee table to stand beside her. "You're so cool and detached about evil. I think it's admirable. But how can you not feel sorry for him? I felt like crying just reading the bare facts about him. He's been messed up. He was dealt a really bad hand."
Sam winced. Kit was right. No one should have had to go through what he had. "What else is in the file?"
"It's weird. Big Mama started building his file the moment we got her, in 2002. His file goes back exactly twenty-five years. And then there's nothing, nada, zilch. It's as if he appeared out of nowhere."
"Maybe that was when he was released."
"Maybe. If so, I do believe he's supposed to be living in 1527, not 2009. That would make him a medieval man, not a modern one."
"He can time travel. He can live in whatever time he wants." But Sam tossed this new idea around. Maclean acted as contemporary as anyone.
"There are rules, Sam. The Masters are supposed to live in their time, not in someone else's. They can leap time to save the Innocent, but then they need to go back to where they belong. It makes sense. Otherwise they'd encounter their own lives in the future, wouldn't they?"
Sam had already surmised that. That would explain why Brie hadn't dragged Aidan to the twenty-first century, and why Tabby had decided to stay in the past, too. "But he isn't a Master. He clearly doesn't play by their rules."
Sam had barely gotten the words out when she felt him. She tensed, surprised. Maclean's distinctive heat and power were nearby. Her buzzer sounded, and she knew he was downstairs.
Startled, she went to answer it. What did he want?
"Can I come up?" Ian Maclean said.
Sam found her composure, except that her heart seemed to be racing. "Only if you're bringing me a check for fifty thousand dollars."
CHAPTER SIX
SAM LOOKED at Kit, who said, "What does he want?"
"I have no idea. I don't even know how he knows where I live."
"Are you going to change?"
Sam smiled. She knew her tiny shorts and small T-shirt were inflammatory. That was fine with her. Let him suffer. She'd enjoy it. "I'm sure he can handle it." Hadn't she handled him with Becca, up close and really personal?
"Do you want him to seduce you?"
It crossed her mind that, in spite of the constant back and forth, he'd never turned on the full extent of his sexuality. Which might be good, because she wasn't sure she could handle a full-scale assault. And that was unsettling.
Before she could analyze that, the doorbell rang. Sam turned and opened it. Maclean smiled at her with his usual arrogance, looking damned good and somehow elegant in fitted and very frayed jeans, Gucci loafers and a sweater he'd paid hundreds of dollars for.
There was no way he could belong in 1527, she thought. He looked like what he was---a rich, conceited, jet-setting playboy. But that didn't diminish his appeal.
And then she realized he hadn't suffered a single scratch from the car chase. She was disbelieving. "You look like you just finished brunch in Soho."
He didn't answer. His eyes widened as he took in her black eye and wrapped ankle.
Then his gaze slammed down her body again, this time with heated male interest. "What happened?" He sauntered inside.
"You should know," Sam said, closing the door. "You happened."
"If I hit ye in the eye, I dinna recall, an' my memory is good."
Sam wondered if he thought he'd lost so much control last night that he'd hit her and couldn't remember it. "I got the black eye chasing you the wrong way up an exit ramp," she said wryly. "And I got the sprained ankle fighting with a broken heel last night, while you watched."
His gaze moved over her T-shirt and her obviously bare breasts beneath. "Ye saw a doctor."
She felt the moment his body heat went up a few more degrees, because her body responded in kind. She made sure to keep her tone casual. "What's the big deal? And who taught you how to drive, anyway?"
He slowly lifted his gaze. "I taught myself."
"Cars don't fly."
His mouth curved. "I'll try to remember, next time we're fender to bumper."
His words washed through her, as soft and sexy in tone as that cashmere sweater had to be on his skin.
"Are you always a complete horndog?"
"Ye want it that way."
She stared. His gaze was blinding and intense. Maybe she did. She sure expected his bad-boy behavior now. But she thought about his scars and the sixty-six years of captivity he'd endured. No one would be normal after that.
Maybe the oversexed thing was a part of a massive cover-up.
"I think I'll go," Kit said.
Sam had forgotten that she was present. "You don't have to leave. Maclean won't be long. Will you?"
He grinned. "I'm hardly in a rush, Sam. I want to see yer digs."
She thought of him standing over Becca, in no rush. The image shifted into a graphic memory of his pressing her against the library table in the entryway last night. There'd been a ton of urgency then. The urgency was building, now. She said harshly, "Kit, this is Ian Maclean, and this is my friend Kit."
Ian smiled at her, as if he expected her to drop at his feet, too.
She flushed. "I think you two might hash things out a bit more easily if I'm not here." Kit picked up her bag. "I think a truce is a great idea." She smiled. "We're all on the same side, really."
Sam wasn't sure if she was speaking to her or to Ian. When Kit was gone, she walked into the kitchen to pour him a glass of wine, aware of his gaze sliding down her back and bare legs as he followed her. She handed the glass to him. "I'm not a good hostess," she warned, "unlike my sister, who would welcome you with open arms. I'm just taking advantage of this moment in time---although not the way you want."
"I like," he said softly, "yer boxers."
"I'll bet you do. And, Maclean? We're not on the same side. It's amazing, considering what she's been through, but Kit's an optimist. If we were on the same side, you'd have the page in your back pocket right now."
His gray eyes gleamed. "Care to see fer yourself?"
Did he have to make everything a sexual invitation? "Or you could change your mind, take the high road and give the United States government the page." She was joking, but she wanted to know where he'd stashed it.
He smiled with amusement. "And what would I gain from handing over the page?"
"Self-respect?"
He sipped the wine. "I don't care about self-respect."
Did he mean he did not respect himself? She couldn't imagine anyone living with themselves that way.
"I'm sorry ye got hurt today," he said softly. "I didn't think you'd keep up with me."
He'd lowered his voice into a bedroom murmur. It vibrated across her skin like a massage head. She took a breath, disconcerted, and smiled at him. "I'm rarely underestimated twice. I'll bet you don't do it again."
"Never," he said.
If he were just a bit less sexy, a bit less seductive, it would make her life a whole lot easier, Sam thought. And if he hadn't been a captive for all those decades, that would be helpful, too, because there'd be no excuse for his asocial and selfish behavior. She studied him, her gaze searching, and he calmly walked into the living room and sat down on her sofa. He looked really good there. He also looked somewhat pleased---like a lion in its den, about to feed.
His charismatic presence took up most of the room.
She took the adjoining chair, almost doing the Sharon Stone thing as she crossed her legs. He sat up straighter. "Are you sure I can't entice you into doing the right thing?"
He slowly smiled. "Ye can try, Samantha. Any time...any way."
Sam smiled back at him and let a heavy silence fall. "Would you consider doing the right thing---if I gave you what you want?"
He grinned, amused. "You'd surrender so easily? I'd be disappointed."
"I'm pretty good," she said, certain he'd never hand over an item worth over two hundred million dollars for a roll in the sack with anyone.
"An' what would ye do if I said I accept?"
The breath rushed out of her. A fist of desire went through her, and she stared at him in shock.
"I'm tempted. But two hundred million dollars is also tempting."
She breathed. "If you give me the page and it's checked out to be the real deal, I'll sleep with you. More than once. Anyway you want."
He stared, his eyes like smoke.
Sam tried not to think about what he might require in that deal. She stared back, trying not to appear aroused.
He broke the silence. "Yer a woman of yer word."
"Wow---you trust me." He didn't reply and she knew he was thinking about a hundred different ways to get his money's worth. "I don't trust you, by the way."
He gestured at the sofa beside him. "Are ye afraid to sit next to me?"
"This isn't a date, is it? Or do we have to hold hands? Because as far as I can tell, we haven't made a deal."
"We haven't made a deal." He smiled slowly then. "I want ye an' I want the money, too. I intend to have both."
Sam stood. "No surprise there."
He stood. "I thought we broke the ice last night."
She couldn't believe he was referring to last night, considering his breakdown. And then she told herself sternly to stop underestimating him. His MO was becoming obvious. He was adept at keeping the upper hand and keeping her off balance. He used sex as a weapon in their battle, all of the time. But two could play that game.
"Did we?" she asked. She thought about his bait and trap Internet operation. "You set John up."
"Yeah, I did."
"Why?"
"Does it matter? Have I asked why ye hunt evil every single night?" He shrugged with as much indifference as there'd been last night.
"I'm a Rose. Rose women have been entrusted with safeguarding humanity for generations. Each and every one of us has a destiny. Mine is slaying."
"Ye believe yer every word. Have ye been brainwashed?"
He was mocking. She felt her temper flare. "What's your destiny, Maclean? Stealing art and seducing wealthy wives?"
When his cold gaze held hers, she felt guilt stabbing through her. As Kit had said, he'd been dealt a bad hand. It made her life look like a summer walk in a world without evil.
He'd gone through hell because that had been his destiny. His survival had been written, too.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Your Fate stinks."
He didn't appear mollified. "Now ye feel sorry fer me?"
"I'm fighting the urge."
"Like you're fighting me?" he asked, his tone filled with skepticism. "Ye can feel sorry fer me anytime."
She knew he wanted her to feel sorry for him. He'd be ruthless in his advances then. It was a good time to turn the tables on him. "You're too much of a jerk for me to feel sorry for you. So, how did you survive sixty-six years as a kid being held captive by demons?"
His eyes turned to ice. She knew he was stunned, because he did not speak.
"Those scars---"
"I won't talk about it." He was on his feet, furious.
Sam almost backed down. Instead, speaking cautiously, she said, "It's in your file."
His eyes widened as if he were shocked. He breathed hard. "Someone has a file...about that?"
She almost wished she'd kept silent but she had to figure him out. "Checking out suspicious guys like you is our job." He seemed horrified. "We know that you were imprisoned by your demon grandfather for sixty-six years and that he kept you a child the entire time, all because of his hatred of your father."
He was incredulous now and still furious. He walked over to her. Sam stood her ground. "My life is my business," he cried. "I won't discuss it, ever."
When his brogue intensified, she'd noticed, he was either aroused or upset. He was upset now. She couldn't blame him. He didn't want to share the details of his life, and his worst nightmares, with her or anyone. It was his right. But CDA needed to find and defeat evil, to protect the citizens of this country. It was the classic clash of national security and the individual's right to privacy. Being a soldier meant she believed that the interest of national security won.
She wet her lips. "I work for an agency that hunts evil, Maclean. The Bureau is a cover. You probably know this because of your telepathy. We keep vast, detailed records. The agency goes back to the time of Thomas Jefferson. We have files on demons and demonic crimes that are centuries old. Because of your father, and your penchant for taking art that doesn't belong to you, we have a record on you, too."
He stared at her, aghast. "I want the file."
"It's classified." But her mind scrambled. Perhaps they could use his file to make a deal.
"I want to meet your boss. Immediately."
"Nick Forrester runs HCU, a department in the agency, not the agency itself. And he won't give you a copy of that file. But I'm sure he'd love to meet you. You guys have quite a bit in common." She wondered if he'd hand over the page for his file.
"Set it up," he demanded.
Sam did not like being ordered around, but she nodded. "I'll speak with him first thing." She studied him. "That page is in a safe place, isn't it? I mean, no one wants it crumbling to dust."
"It's in a very safe place." He whirled and started pacing.
Sam watched, trying really hard not to feel sorry for him.
He faced her. "Ye should have told me about the file sooner. Who else has seen it?"
"I'm not sure. Probably everyone who is working on getting the page into government hands."
"An' how many people would that be?" he demanded. "Ten, twenty---a hundred?"
He was really upset at the idea that other people knew about his ordeal. "Probably less than five or six of us have seen it. Nick likes to keep things really tight and in his control. If he could, we'd all be puppets on his really short string."
He nodded, his eyes still blazing.
Sam wanted to tell him that there were no details on his captivity in his file. It was hard to control the urge. The information would undoubtedly soothe him, but if he found that out, they'd lose their leverage---if his file could be used against him.
"I want to see Nick tomorrow," he said with warning. He was already at her door.
"Don't worry. I'll bet he wants to see you, too."
Ian stopped, his hand on the knob. He didn't turn it. "Ye need to be careful of Hemmer. I came here to warn ye."
Sam started, genuinely surprised. Maclean was warning her of danger? Why would he do that? And how could Hemmer pose a threat? "Why? By now he knows you stole his favorite new toy, unless you dismantled his surveillance system."
"He knows I stole the page. But he mentioned ye, Sam. He thinks to use ye in our little war." His eyes flashed silver all over again.
Sam wasn't particularly disturbed or convinced. "Maclean, how can he use me? Why would he use me? I'm not very easy to use, by the way." She didn't smile. "You can attest to that."
His face hardened impossibly. "He'll use ye against me."
His single statement sent a rush of desire through her. She refused to acknowledge that. She couldn't be used against Maclean---he didn't care what happened to her. "You must have laughed like crazy at him."
His expression never changed. "Hemmer is evil," he warned. "He may be human, but he has power an' he has deamhan friends. He'll do whatever he can to have revenge on me. Stay far from him."
"Like you care," she said slowly. "Because you just said it---he is after you, not me."
"I have no wish to see anyone hurt or used," he said firmly.
"Well, then you've fooled me." When he didn't speak, she added, "Are you trying to convince me that you're a good guy after all? Because I've seen you in action and we have your file. Even our supercomputer has all kinds of doubts about you."
He shrugged.
"Is it even remotely possible that you inherited some predisposition toward heroism from your father?"
"I am nothing like my father."
She'd hit a nerve. "Too bad. I liked him---once he was redeemed."
He stared at her and Sam realized he was trembling. "Why are you pissed? We can't talk about you or your dad? Why is he off-limits? He's a hero. Frankly, I'd love to see some of Aidan's drive to destroy evil emerge in you."
"I don't care what ye want or hope for! I came to warn ye that Hemmer is evil and he has plans to use ye against me," Ian snapped.
Another subject he didn't like. "Hemmer doesn't worry me."
"Of course he doesn't, because you have no fear."
It was almost an accusation. "There's no point in being afraid. One day I'm going to die. We both know I'll go down in battle. And my death will be Fate."
His face was so hard now that Sam was surprised it didn't crack. "What are you thinking?" she asked. "What does that livid look mean? I know you don't care if I live or die."
He took her chin and tilted it up. Sam went still. His grasp was brutal. She didn't flinch; their gazes locked. "Sometimes Fate isn't what ye think it will be." He dropped his hand abruptly.
Comprehension began to grow in Sam. "You expected to grow up in Castle Awe in the fifteenth century---not in modern day New York City."
His mouth twisted. "Yer a fool to drive like ye did---to have no fear---to think you'll die on yer terms."
"So are you! And I'm not the one with a death wish!" She stopped. Full comprehension finally struck her. "Wait. You don't care whether you live or die. That car chase proved it---and I know why."
He whirled and strode for the door.
Sam didn't follow. "You lived through sixty-six years of hell. And that makes death acceptable," she cried after him.
He did not look back; he slammed out.
Sam stared at her front door. She had just figured him out. He didn't exactly have a death wish. It was just that death wasn't the worst that could happen to a man---and no one knew it better than Ian Maclean.
SAM HAD JUST STEPPED OUT of the shower and was towel-drying her hair when her telephone rang. "Hello, Samantha," Rupert Hemmer said.
Sam went still, dropping the towel. What did Hemmer want? It was ten at night. "Hello, Mr. Hemmer." She went into a battle-ready mode.
"I'm downstairs," he said, surprising her yet again. "May I come up?"
Her mind raced. The last time she'd seen Hemmer was that morning, when he was on his way to his office---but he hadn't seen her. Prior to that, she'd been at his wife's birthday party, and he hadn't been happy with her or Maclean. However, before she'd left the party last night, she'd apologized. He'd been suave, displaying some male interest, as if he knew she'd put out sooner or later. She'd come on to him just a bit, as well.
In spite of the mild flirtation, she was almost certain he'd made her, not as CDA, but as a Fed. Now, she intended to find out.
Besides, there was something evil in his vault. She hadn't forgotten---it needed to be checked out.
She slowly smiled. "Sure. Why not?" She couldn't wait to find out what he wanted, and she didn't think sex was on the top of his list. He wanted his artifact back. But why come to her?
"I didn't think you'd be resistant," he murmured, hanging up.
Bring it on, you rotten sonuvabitch, she thought. She could manage Hemmer and whatever game he meant to play. Sam hung up and leapt into jeans and a sexy jersey top, adding Black Orchid perfume. The buzzer from downstairs rang. Carrying lip gloss and dangerously high heels, she ran through the loft to her intercom and let him into the building. She stepped into the sandals, ignoring her sprain. She put on the gloss, finger combed her hair, and when her door bell rang, she opened it and smiled at him.
Maclean had mentioned that he was human, but evil. Maclean wanted her to fear him. If Hemmer was your average malicious human, hoping misfortunes upon others, his evil would not be detectable to her. Except, he wasn't average---he was a billionaire. Sam decided she should proceed with the assumption that Maclean knew what he was talking about. "Come on in," she murmured. "What a pleasant surprise."
He came in, his gaze moving over her body with real relish. "I'm so glad you're pleased to see me."
"What woman isn't?" She closed the door.
"You make my wife look like a silly cheerleader," he said softly.
An interesting opening shot, she thought. "You can't buy experience, can you? Or intelligence."
"No, you can't." He handed her a bottle of wine. It was a Rothschild burgundy, which had to have cost hundreds of dollars---if you could ever find it on the shelf. Sam didn't react. Did he know she had a thing for really good red wine? That would mean he'd done some homework, or had some telepathic ability. Both ideas were equally interesting. "Just as you can't buy fortitude."
Sam's eyes widened. What did that mean?
"It's from my cellar," he added pleasantly, glancing around her loft as she thanked him. "Another room I would love to personally show you. You'd appreciate it as much as my art collection."
Okay, he was onto her. "I would love to see it---and anything else you'd like to show me," Sam said as softly, glancing at his tight midsection. He knew she was after something in his art collection. That was not good.
But hadn't Maclean warned her?
He smiled. "A woman after my own darkest desires," he said. "I hope."
That was an interesting choice of words, almost a challenge for her to demand what he meant. Did he mean he was on the dark side? She steeled herself as he reached for her. Revulsion swept through her but he only fingered her short hair. "Dark desires are so much more interesting than pure ones," she murmured.
He laughed. "Yes, they are. I wasn't sure you'd think so, daring Samantha."
She smiled, her brain buzzing. "I'm so glad we got past my little faux pas," she said. "I'm a red-blooded woman and sometimes I get caught up in the moment. Desire is desire."
"A hot-blooded woman of passion, trysting in my home with one of my guests---how could I truly object?" He murmured. "And I did promise you a private viewing."
She could feel his lust, dark and thick. She reminded herself to be careful; she didn't want to have to kill him. But she was not sleeping with him, no matter how far this game went. "I promise it won't happen again...not with Maclean."
His gaze gleamed. "I'm not sure I would mind, Samantha."
Sam stared, wondering if he meant what she thought he did.
"You arouse so much passion in so many ways. But that is your nature, is it not? To take lovers, to enjoy them, to discard them as callously as a man?"
He was letting her know that he'd investigated her. How much did he know? To test him, she murmured, "You make me sound like a femme fatale, Rupert. A girl just wants to have some fun."
He smiled. "But you are the definition of femme fatale---and you know it."
She decided to give up. "Yeah, I know it. And it is fun..."
"Then let the fun begin. You'll have a private viewing...but I need a private show, too."
Sam kept silent. Now they were getting somewhere.
He touched her cheek. "I didn't mind watching you put your tongue down Maclean's throat, but I look forward to watching you put it elsewhere."
Sam decided to divert him. "And if I say yes? What do I get out of the show?"
He laughed. "Other than the viewing? Fun."
She refused to let her smile slip. He knew she wanted into that vault and he meant to make her pay to get in---with her body. "So invite us over, Rupert."
"You'll bring Maclean and provide the entertainment?"
"Why not? Maybe I'll wind up with a case of the Rothschild if I make you really happy."
"If you make me really happy, I'll give you a painting."
He knew she wouldn't sell out for a price. She had no doubts now. This was bait and trap---and she was the prey.
"You seem taken aback. You made yourself clear at Becca's party. I realized instantly that you're an art aficionado, like I am. Surely you prefer a painting to jewels? Although most women love the trinkets I buy them."
There was no point in trying to get him to think she wanted a Bulgari necklace in return for his using her. "I actually meant it when I said some girls just want to have fun. Hot sex works for me."
He seemed amused. He touched the underside of her chin with his forefinger, then began sliding it slowly down her neck. Sam tensed, but she did not move. "And does it work for Maclean? I don't think he will be as amenable to our arrangement as you are. How is your boyfriend, by the way?"
Her tension spiraled. "Boyfriends are for teenagers. The word isn't even in my vocabulary."
"What a clever woman," he said, drawing an invisible line down her chest with his finger. He paused when his finger was between her breasts. "Clever, sexy and so secretive. I have something for you."
She knew he wasn't talking about sex, just as she knew that Maclean was right---Hemmer was dangerous. What she didn't know was how dangerous. "Don't you all?" She was wry.
"You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
"You're one of the most unusually beautiful women I have ever seen---and I have had my share."
"I'm all for flattery. It turns a girl on."
"You're hardly a girl, Samantha. You lead a dangerous life. There are cameras in front of my building." He smiled. "There are cameras everywhere. But you know that, don't you?"
She couldn't help glancing up at her ceiling. It was pristine, but she got his meaning. He'd seen her break up the other night's Rampage and destroy the subs single-handedly. She was briefly surprised and then chilled.
He hadn't made billions by being stupid. Rupert Hemmer undoubtedly knew everything there was to know about her.
She was going to have to play this game out. "Yeah, Big Brother is usually watching."
His eyes gleamed. "I am going to help you, my dangerous Samantha. I've seen how much you need pleasure. And I can give you pleasure, more than you have dreamed of. More than Ian Maclean."
"That's a helluva statement." What did he mean now?
"Tomorrow you'll find out exactly what I mean," he said.
She wanted to step away from him. The instinct was one of self-preservation. He kept his hand between her breasts and, somehow, she did not move. "Then I'm a lucky lady."
He was amused again and she didn't like it. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, producing a DVD. "I think I'm about to change your life. I truly look forward to our relationship," he said, handing it to her. "I expect it will be mutually agreeable...very much so."
Sam couldn't imagine what was on the DVD, but she knew she wasn't going to like it. "I look forward to it, too," she said.
He started for the door. "I'll see you both tomorrow at seven."
He was leaving. Apparently, he'd gotten what he'd wanted. But what, exactly, was that?
He'd stressed that he wanted them both.
"Enjoy the wine," he said at the door.
Sam stared as he left. Then she ran to her desktop and pushed the DVD into the drive.
Hemmer was dangerous; Maclean was right. He definitely knew too much about her. But this was also about Maclean. This was some kind of trap. He had to know that Maclean had stolen the page. He would want the page back, and he probably wanted to kill Maclean, too.
The orgasmic cries of a woman broke into her thoughts.
As she turned to the computer screen, her first thought was that Hemmer had sent her porn, but that was too silly.
And then she saw herself.
Sam sat up like a rocket. She was in the throes of rapture, holding on to a man as if for her life, completely lost in the cyclone of her climax.
And his back was a mosaic of scars.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK FORRESTER WAS PISSED.
It had been a really, really bad day.
He stared at his computer screen intently. The entry hall of Maclean's fancy Park Avenue town house was vacant. He scrolled through the rooms, which were all as dead as doorknobs, until he found the butler in the kitchen. Now that was an interesting fellow. Maclean was out. Nick knew that because of his video feeds and stakeouts.
He had a huge home, with state-of-the-art everything. The stolen page could be there. However, Nick's gut told him he'd stashed it elsewhere.
He smiled coldly to himself. Maclean was now in deep shit. He had the page; Nick wanted it. That put him on Nick's radar 24/7.
And Nick always got his man.
Well, almost always.
"Nick, are you working?"
He was already speed dialing one of the two agents assigned to Maclean. Maclean would have his people on him like flies to flypaper. But he'd forgotten he had company, and he was briefly startled.
Nick turned, not even trying to recall her name. He was renowned for one-night stands, but the rumors were all wrong. He liked three-, four-and five-night stands---it was so much more convenient, so much less work. He could manage to stay interested for about a week. His problem was that he could not afford any mental or emotional involvements, because mental and emotional involvement was deadly. He'd learned that long ago.
Beauty without brains, that was his motto. But a great rack could only hold his attention for so long. And the moment he lost interest, it was over.
Nick faced the woman he'd picked up a night or so ago at some local club, and he forgot about being annoyed. She was built like a playmate, and clad only in a sparkly G-string, superhigh heels and a very tight, tiny T-shirt, obviously with no bra beneath. He felt his motor ignite. He'd only spent a single night with her, so on a scale of one to ten, his interest was about seven or eight. As soon as he finished working, he could probably move up to a nine or ten.
"Just for a moment, baby," he said. Work always came first. Not that he didn't love sex. Sex empowered him. His senses were always sharper afterward, and he was always stronger, faster, more telepathic. He had decided long ago that it was some kind of quirky gift from the old gods.
She sauntered over. "What did you say you do?"
"I run a hedge fund." He cupped her silky ass and picked up his cell. When his agent answered, he barked, "Where the fuck is Maclean?"
"He just left Rose's. We're in traffic downtown."
"Do not lose him," Nick warned. He ended the call abruptly. He hated the idea, but with Maclean acting all social, he'd have to wire Sam's loft, and maybe put in a camera or two.
The woman was wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're not a cop or something?" she asked.
He sent her a smile. "Hey, I'm positive. Money's my gig, babe." Never mind that his apartment was a piece of crap. "I'll be right in. Can you warm up the sheets for me?"
She wrapped her arms around him, fluttering her fingers across his distended groin, oblivious to the contradiction. "Hurry," she murmured. "And while I'm waiting, I'll warm up more than the sheets."
Before she'd even released him, a thought had occurred to him, and he was searching through HCU's immense database. His gut told him he'd seen something recently that could be helpful in locating the missing page. He gave Big Mama some clues: Rupert Hemmer, Ian Maclean, Aidan of Awe, the Duisean and Manhattan. Then, for good measure, he added the Highlands, the Masters of Time. Sometimes the supercomputer could find the missing piece of a really complicated puzzle. Just then, he felt like he was casting in the dark, but so what?
Nick had wired Maclean's Park Avenue town house within an hour of learning that he was on Rupert Hemmer's guest list, which had been early yesterday morning. Running HCU meant that nothing and no one slipped his attention. His life was the war on evil, his agents---whom he considered his kids---and HCU, in that order. He made a point of poring over the vast streams of data Big Mama continually sent him, to consider all her flags, which were in the hundreds on a daily basis, all in the context of his agents' field assignments and reports, as well as those of the rest of CDA, the Bureau, the NYPD and the CIA---when those agencies were in a cooperative mood. Basically, that meant that he almost never slept. But sleep was a waste of time anyway.
Nick knew he was notorious within the agency. His agents feared and respected him, which was a good thing. He was both god and king at HCU, and his word was the law. Agents who understood that would retire one day with a damn good pension plan.
If they made it to retirement age.
And he instantly felt a headache coming on.
He rubbed his temples. He couldn't afford a headache now---or worse, one of those damned flashbacks. They'd started up six months ago, when Macleod had appeared in the city. Out of the blue, as clear as if it were decades ago. No good could come from remembering the past. He'd buried everything---everyone---a long, long time ago.
But some memories served him well. Some memories burned in his gut and gave him the kind of fuel no mortal should ever have. In the several decades he'd been at HCU, running it, fifty-three agents had been murdered in the line of duty. Over a hundred had been seriously injured. Twelve had been lost in time.
And he did not want to think of the collateral damage---the families who'd suffered directly or indirectly, because of the war.
He considered every fatality, every injury, and every one of the twelve his personal fault. Which was why he attended every funeral, gave every eulogy, visited each hospital room, and always went after those classified as MIT.
He hated funerals and hospitals. He dreaded them. But nothing was as bad as an agent missing in time. It was the not knowing...
He started seeing their faces, male and female, eyes accusatory, and he had to work hard to breathe properly. The last agent who'd gone missing had been Brie Rose, but he'd found her. Even though her file had MIT stamped on it, he knew she was alive and well and living with Aidan of Awe.
He hadn't had to think very long or hard about putting Sam Rose on Aidan's son, Maclean. Maclean might be the son of a powerful Master, but he wasn't one of them. His file was two inches thick. It was all flags---suspicious and ambivalent behavior. He played for himself. He hadn't gone over to Rupert Hemmer's for tea.
Nick tried to respect people's privacy. It was no easy task when he could read minds easily and fluently, no matter the time or the language. But work was a different story. At HCU, he read whatever he felt like, when he felt like it, because winning the war came first. No one at HCU had any rights to privacy, just like no one there had any right to a personal life.
Because they were losing the war, big time.
But Nick didn't want to think about the stats. He didn't want to think about the fact that evil was a race, and this was truly a war. Evil had infiltrated every terrorist organization on the globe. Those terrorists who weren't demonic were either mixed blood or the possessed.
But it was worse than that and Nick knew it. Evil had infiltrated governments. Some of the world's most ruthless dictators were demons or subs. Iran really would use the nuke once it had it. Evil meant to destroy the world, step-by-step. There were demons in intelligence agencies, in defense departments, in local police forces---in the lowest levels and the highest. Nick happened to know that there was an internal investigation going on right now in the Pentagon, because CDA had determined that one of the head honchos at State was demonic. The problem was, just which official was he---or she? It had become clear that the official was so high up, he or she had the ear of the President.
The day was coming, Nick thought, when the President of the United States would be one of them. It was a terrifying thought.
The war was so huge that it almost seemed silly to be playing these little games, day after day, killing one demon here, another there, taking out this gang of subs or that one. But evil had to be contained on each and every local front, as well as on the world stage. And right now, Nick knew the power the page from the Duisean contained. It could not fall into the wrong hands.
Which was why Maclean was going to lose.
Sam Rose was one of his best agents ever. He hadn't trained her---hell, he hadn't even had her for very long. But it was her destiny to slay. He knew that. The moment he'd met her, he'd had to have her. And there were no regrets.
But he was sorry he'd put her on Maclean now.
He knew she found Maclean attractive, thanks to his telepathy. But he also knew Maclean infuriated her---and he knew why. He was fully aware of her little jaunt to Scotland a few months ago. She'd wanted Maclean to send her back in time to her sister; he'd refused. That was okay. It had pissed her off.
She wasn't just the best agent he'd ever had, she was also the kind of woman to lead a man around by his dick. He'd put her on Maclean because he was one hundred and ten percent certain that she could manage Maclean and defeat him. But now, he was having second thoughts. Maclean was playing her. He seemed to be in control. And he did not want one of his kids winding up dead.
It was a miserable and rotten day because his best agent had screwed up and Maclean had stolen the damned page right out from under their noses. He'd waltzed into Hemmer's that morning, dismantled not just the alarms and locks but all of their surveillance equipment, apparently with the blink of an eye, and then Sam had lost him in the ridiculous car chase---which happened to be the first time she'd ever shown shitty judgment in the field. Now, they didn't know where the fuck the page was.
His agents had already checked out every possible art dealer and gallery from Montauk to Allentown. So it was time to widen the loop. The page had to be carefully maintained. It couldn't be just anywhere---or could it?
And that was one of the problems. The experts at Sotheby's claimed it had to be in a carefully controlled environment. Nick wasn't so sure. After all, the page had survived over centuries---or it might have survived traveling through time at the speed of light. He just didn't know.
And if it could survive the leap, then Maclean could have it stashed anywhere, in any time.
Nick decided it was time for him and Ian to have a little not-so-friendly chat.
His computer chimed three times.
Nick leaned forward. The alert indicated he'd received an e-mail from Big Mama. He couldn't believe it, but she'd responded to his inquiry. The e-mail read: Coincidental between Aidan of Awe and Rupert Hemmer. A document was attached.
Nick couldn't imagine what kind of involvement there could be between the Master and the modern billionaire. He opened the attachment.
It was a news article with a photograph, dated twenty-eight years ago. Rupert Hemmer was on a podium, shaking hands with someone who seemed damned familiar somehow. Nick was certain he knew him---even if they'd never met. Both men were identified in the caption below. The stranger was the international mogul, Robert Moran, who resided in New York.
Warning bells rang. He punched in a search for Moran on HCU's database. The response was instantaneous.
Robert Moran was none other than the demon who had terrorized the world for centuries, the demon once believed to be immortal, the terrifying and legendary Moray.
SHE WAS IN BED with Ian Maclean.
Sam was so shocked that she did not move. This was impossible.
He caught her waist, held her still, and moved his mouth lower and lower, taking his time. Sam moaned, long and low, writhing sensually. He slid his knee between her thighs, pushed up hard, and paused, looking at her. And he smiled...
You bastard, she said, but she was smiling, too.
Sam hit the Pause button.
What the hell was this?
She breathed hard, gripping the edge of the desk, trembling. She was in bed with Maclean. She exhaled. No. It was a fake. It had to be. She'd never been in bed with Maclean---she'd never been in that bedroom.
But she couldn't breathe properly. Her mouth was dry. She couldn't stop seeing him there at the foot of the bed, pausing between her legs, so hard and aroused. She hadn't missed that steel ring, either.
He'd never smile at her like that.
Sam looked at the screen, wetting her lips.
That was Maclean, there was no doubt about it.
She told herself not to hit the Play button. She reminded herself that it was a fake as she did so anyway.
Suddenly he moved over her, sliding slowly into her. His massive entry seemed to take forever. And the whole time he watched her and she stared back, breathlessly, until she exploded. As she wept he paused and murmured to her.
She meant to hit the Stop button, she really did. Instead, she tried to breathe, staring helplessly at his lean, hard body, every inch sculpted and chiseled, slick and wet. He was playing her, slow and teasing, and she was undone. He was giving---she was taking. He was in control---she was not.
Sam leapt to her feet, turning her back on the screen. The sound of her deep and throaty cries followed her. Suddenly she heard him gasp, the sound male and sexual.
She turned. She was on top of him now, smiling down at him triumphantly---but there was far more to her smile than that. She did not know what that smile meant. Worse, he gazed up at her, gasping in his pleasure, and their gazes stayed locked.
"Let go," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, moaning...
Sam hit the Stop button, hard.
She still couldn't breathe. Worse, she was on fire. Just then, if Maclean walked into her loft, she'd be all over him.
Sam walked over to the kitchen and splashed water on her face. She started to breathe more normally, and she started to think.
How could that be her---and him? They hadn't slept together---not yet.
If they ever did, the sex would be hot and rough. They would not be two lovers who seemed to have feelings for one another!
Her mind truly came to life. Was the woman a double? She didn't think so. But with the right makeup, the right haircut, it wouldn't be so hard to find a good double. Especially as the camera wasn't in close and never zoomed in, even though the shots had changed. Sam decided that a handful of cameras were in that bedroom, and someone had edited the various tapes.
Her insides vanished all over again. This time, there was a sick dismay.
Damn it, that woman wasn't a double. That was her face---her voice. And Maclean was obviously the real deal, too.
Her mouth became dry all over again, as she envisioned his gorgeous face and equally gorgeous body---and that gleaming steel ring.
She closed her eyes, shaken now. The hot, sexy images replayed in her mind, again and again. She had to think! Sam finally walked over to the kitchen counter to pour a double shot of vodka. "Good job, Rose," she said grimly to herself. "He wins---twice over. Jerk!" She was referring to herself.
He'd turned her on when he was with another woman, which was inexplicable enough. But he also turned her on when they were arguing, when he was smug, arrogant and annoying. He'd turned her on during that suicidal car chase, and after she'd seen him crying on his knees. The damned attraction had even been present when he was furious with her for her snooping on his PC and butting into his life. And now, damn it, he turned her on in a sex tape.
"Stay clinical, damn it," Sam told herself. The tape had to have come from the future, she thought grimly. And Hemmer had been the one to deliver it.
She went very still. That thought almost had the ability to douse the desire throbbing in her. She knew Hemmer had watched them and enjoyed it.
And now, she guessed what he intended. He wanted a partnership with her. Clearly, he meant to use her against Ian. He intended blackmail.
The urgency was under control now. War came first, always.
"Bring it on," she snarled.
HIS LIFE WAS a war of survival. He had no family, no friends and no allies. Everyone was his enemy---and now his enemies knew his worst secrets.
There was outrage, but mostly, he was horrified.
Gerard met him as he entered the marble foyer of his Park Avenue home, closing the front door behind him. "Sir? Is there anything I can get you?"
Ian barely heard him, he was so sickened. They had a file on him. They knew about the years of captivity.
How much did they know?
Were the cops out there on Park Avenue laughing at him even now?
Was she laughing at him?
He was having difficulty breathing. Did they know what that boy had suffered, exactly? What was in that file?!
"Open the windows and turn on the air," he said tersely, jerking at the soft cashmere of his sweater. He pulled the V-neck lower, as if it were constricting the passageways to his lungs. He was sweating, as if he'd run uptown.
Gerard hesitated. "Sir, it's still almost ninety degrees outside."
He couldn't get enough air. He couldn't quite breathe. He was panting like a frightened, trapped animal. "Turn the fans on high," he snapped.
But Gerard knew. "Yes, sir, and I'll open the windows, as well."
Maclean rushed to the elevator, then knew he couldn't go inside. Not just then, with the images rioting in his head.
You lived through sixty-six years of hell. And that makes death acceptable!
She had discovered the truth so quickly! He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall by the elevator, his knees weak, shaking like a leaf. Damn her for daring to understand him, for daring to unearth his secrets! What else did she know? Suddenly he recalled the maze.
He kept running and running, desperate to find freedom. He was running into walls and dead ends, the maze endless, treacherous. And when he turned at a dead end, a demon awaited him, a beautiful blond human-looking demon who was reaching out...Or he'd turn the corner to find a monster with claws and fangs, drooling in anticipation...
Ian seized his head, moaning. The monk had devised the maze on their first New Year's Eve together and it had become a tradition. He'd been promised his freedom if he could find the one way out. It had been the cruelest game of all, because he'd never found his way out. Instead there had been demons and beasts, eager to get their hands on him. The game would last days, even weeks. And when they were done with him, he was so ill that the monk would bring in a white Healer to heal him.
He hadn't thought about the maze in a long time and he wished he hadn't thought about it now. It was one of his worst memories, the most frightening one. It made him sick with fear, even now. But it felt as if he was back in it and this time, the prize wasn't his freedom. If he could navigate his way through the corners and halls, he would keep his secrets.
How could they have a file on him!
Had she seen it?
He was going to explode if he didn't get a grip---if he didn't find control. And he knew what lay on the other side of the explosion. All the repression would shatter, and there would only be the memories facing him, raw and gaping, like bleeding wounds, injuries no surgeon could ever stitch, and then he'd give in to the insanity.
He tried to breathe and failed. There was no more air to be had! Fear began, then escalated. He hadn't had a genuine panic attack in five and a half years.
"Calm down," he gritted aloud. "Calm down, think..."
Did they know about the cage? Did they know about the maze? The other Innocent? Did they know about Moray's visits?
Did they know that in those first few months, he'd been an utter coward? That he'd wept in terror and sobbed for mercy? Did they?
Did they know he'd been turned into a willing slave at the end?
What did they know?
What did she know?
And he still couldn't breathe. Now, he'd never get into that elevator, because he was shaking and moisture had gathered in his eyes. But there was a staircase on every floor, he'd made certain. If he could stop the moisture from blurring his vision, all he had to do was go down the hall to find it. But then what?
"Sir."
He felt the ice-cold washcloth against his forehead. Gerard knew. He knew because his father had sent him to Ian, not that Ian had known it at the time. His damned father had wanted someone with him who knew his secrets, who could and would take care of him.
Gerard spoke as if nothing was happening. He laid the cloth against his forehead as if he were a nurse, not a butler. An image suddenly flashed, of Sam in her bloody jersey dress, pretending she hadn't seen him stab John repeatedly, all control gone.
Remind me not to piss you off.
He almost smiled. She should have been terrified of him. She hadn't been afraid at all. But then, she didn't fear anything or anyone. She was reckless and brave...
They had been rivals from the start. He had to remember that. He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, holding the washcloth to his head now. Oddly, he had become calmer. He kept seeing her in that dress, poker-faced. He kept hearing that tone, wry and calm. She should have looked horrible, a bloody mess---instead, she looked frigging great.
Gerard held a small bottle in his hand, containing his prescription medication. Ian nodded grimly and Gerard handed him two tiny white pills. When it was this bad, it was better to take prescription drugs than blow or pot. He swallowed the anti-anxiety medication without water. Gerard was indispensable and he was discreet. "Thank you."
"You'll feel better shortly, sir. I'll bring a tray with a very fine red wine and just a bite to snack on."
He wasn't hungry. Food didn't interest him, but Gerard always insisted. But wine and Ativan were a great combination. He'd relax enough to sit down and force himself to eat. He might even enjoy Louis's gourmet cooking.
When Gerard left, he looked at the elevator door. His control was tenuous, if that. But he was clinging to that recollection of Sam in her bloody dress, acting indifferent to his breakdown. He could admit that he admired her strength.
He was still sweating. He still felt raw. He ripped off the sweater and jammed the button. The door instantly opened and he stared at the wood-paneled interior, which was lit to his exact specifications, as bright as any midtown office. He breathed harder. Every time he got into an elevator it was a matter of mind over memory. But he'd learned twenty-five years ago how to force himself to get inside and act as if he were as normal as everyone else. It was a test to do so now.
He cursed himself. He did not want to be a coward who suffered from panic attacks and claustrophobia. He cursed Sam---because she knew most of his secrets now and if she weren't so damned sexual he'd walk away and never look back. She'd figure out he was claustrophobic before long, he thought, and add it to her list of his weaknesses. Gritting, he got inside.
Panting, he stared at the Close button. Last night, upstairs, it had been easy to avoid the elevator. Sam hadn't suspected a thing.
No one would know if he got out and went to the stairs. But he'd know.
It was only an elevator, he reminded himself firmly. It was not a small, dark, impregnable and windowless tower room---or an even smaller underground cellar---or an earthen pit. He hated small, enclosed spaces. He feared them.
He pushed the damned button.
The doors closed.
He fought to breathe. Sweat poured down his face, his body. He gripped the bar in the elevator as if for his life, gritting his teeth, hard. Sam might be his next conquest, but she was the enemy. He reminded himself of that. It made him want to survive---she made him want to survive, so they could have it out in his bed, so he could finally be strong, dominant, the one in control.
The elevator slid to a halt; the door opened.
Ian left the elevator, refusing to run. It took all of his willpower to walk slowly. He walked into a large library filled with his most valuable artwork and antiques and hundreds of books, all of which he'd read. The worst was over now. He'd survived the panic attack, the elevator, his memories---and the knowledge of his goddamned file.
He shut both doors and then turned. A hazy image of a boy in a maze remained somewhere in the back of his mind, and he held the cool cloth to his head, no longer enraged, no longer afraid. He thought about Sam again, first in the bloody dress, and then as he'd just seen her an hour ago, in the tiny shorts and tank top, telling him about the file. As the drugs began to work, he breathed deeply. He'd deal with the file when he confronted her boss, Forrester. Now, his body began to hum and thrum. As the sexual need grew, he relaxed even more. He held on to the picture of her in those tiny shorts and tank, wearing nothing beneath.
The other memories finally receded, too. Gerard knocked on the doors and glanced at him as he came inside, carrying a tray with a covered dish and a glass of wine. "Will you need anything else?" he asked as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He set the tray down on an eighteenth-century table.
Ian shook his head. Not looking at him, he said again, "Thank you."
When Gerard had left, he went to the sofa and sat down, reaching for the wine. The denim of his jeans was now constrictive, annoying. She was on his mind now, front and center. And sex was always the best escape.
There was no guilt as he used his telepathy to find her. That power had begun when he was first captured. He'd thought about his father, and instantly had been able to see Aidan in the midst of his day. He'd tried so hard to communicate to him that way. Once in a while, Aidan had seen him, back. However, he'd assumed Ian was a ghost.
He'd been a boy then, and the power had been erratic. It was highly refined now. He'd even used it from Scotland to spy on Sam several times, shamelessly. He'd watched her with her lovers a few times and he'd enjoyed every moment of that. He was shameless now.
She was seated on the sofa in her loft, still in her tiny shorts, but in a different tank top. His heart picked up a new beat now, one predatory and sexual. He slowly smiled and reached for his cell phone.
He'd made it a point to obtain her numbers earlier. He dialed her at home. The moment she answered, he heard the breathless tension in her voice. His own tension, already impossible, thickened. "Can't ye sleep?"
"Maclean."
Her tone was thick, like his. "I can't sleep, either, Sam."
She was surprised. "Are we about to have phone sex?"
His mouth curled. "I wouldn't bother. Why are ye so hot?"
She hesitated. "Hemmer was here. He just left."
For one moment, he was incredulous. Then he was on his feet, enraged. "An' he makes ye hot now, too?"
"Hemmer is an evil and dangerous sonuvabitch," she said. "And you were right about him. He is going to be a problem."
His mind raced. She hadn't slept with him, he was certain. He tried to read her mind and only felt her anger. Hemmer had pissed her off. "What did Hemmer want? Other than sex?"
There was another pause. "You know what he wants. Me...the page...and maybe, revenge on you. Have you considered that part of it, Maclean?"
He was still, his gaze narrowed, feeling harder and angrier now. "An' ye care because?" He was aware of quoting her.
"I care because you have the page and we want it," she snapped. "Gee, this is great phone sex!"
"Why did ye change yer clothes?"
There was a moment of surprised silence. "How do you know I changed my clothes?"
"Because,' he snarled, "ye were wearing a white tank top, an' it's red now."
"My place is wired?"
"I don't need wires or feeds, Sam," he said softly.
She breathed hard. "Right. Forgot. You have that amazing brain---one that can dismantle security systems and see me across most of Manhattan?"
"I can see ye from Scotland, if I want."
She was silent.
He smiled, taking that little victory. "I told ye to stay away from him. Ye should have called. Did ye play him, Sam?"
"Here's a news flash---I don't take orders from you. And guess what? I did work him, Maclean. Come on! What else would I do?"
Had she listened to a word he'd said? "I'll take care of Hemmer from now on." He couldn't help himself. "Did he kiss ye?"
"Oh, yeah, Hemmer and his bag of tricks make a perfect date. Soo romantic and sexy! I couldn't wait to have his tongue down my throat."
He knew then that Hemmer hadn't touched her. He was relieved---and that was odd.
"You are playing with fire, Maclean. You stole his property. He wants it back. We want it, too. I think you need to consider an exit strategy---like handing over the page."
He slowly smiled. "In return for two hundred million dollars' worth of sex?"
She exhaled. "You said no."
"I'm starting to like the idea."
She choked. "Are you kidding?"
If he gave her the page, spent a few days with her, he could walk away from all of this. He didn't need the money, not like this. There was other art he could steal and sell. And he didn't need evil in his face. Mostly, he didn't need the growing reminders of his past.
For some damn reason, in the past day or so, he felt like he was on a precipice, about to be shoved back into the past.
And that was unacceptable.
There was one problem. He had nowhere to go, other than his Loch Awe mansion.
"Are you okay?"
He jerked. He'd been lost in thought---and that last thought had been almost dismaying. Of course he had other places to go. He'd sell the Park Avenue place. He'd buy homes in Nice, Sydney, Monaco. "Come over and have some wine with me," he suddenly said.
"I'm going to bed---alone."
"Ye only delay the inevitable. Besides, what will ye do when ye dream of me?"
"You said no phone sex."
He smiled then. "What if I come back over? Ye can go to bed alone---I'll watch."
She was silent. He knew she was considering it. Then she said, "I don't think you could keep your hands to yourself if I did what we both know I want to do."
"No phone sex," he chided softly.
"What if I tell you that we're invited to a party tomorrow---the two of us. It's a special party...at Hemmer's."
He was sharp. "There's no reason to go back there, Sam."
"Yes, there is. There's evil in the vault. If you turn me down, I'll bring someone from the agency."
"Is that a threat?" He wasn't amused. He'd never let her go without him.
"No, it's a fact. He wants us to provide him with some X-rated entertainment."
He didn't have to read her mind now. His interest was immediate and a different tension began. Anxiety hummed. "Did ye agree?"
"Do you care?"
"I've never minded an audience," he lied. He hated audiences. There'd been too many of them.
"I thought you'd be all gung ho---you get to get me in bed! He's expecting us at seven."
"I'll pick ye up at half past six."
She said seriously, without sarcasm, "What's wrong with you, Maclean? Really? You sound strange."
"Nothing's wrong. I've been enjoying my evening. Goodnight, Sam." Then he stared at his BlackBerry grimly.
Sam Rose was too astute where he was concerned. He knew he should unload the page and get out now, while he could---before every secret he had was out there in the public domain.
And he should unload her, too.
But he knew he wouldn't, not yet. Not until they'd finished what they'd started that day in Oban, Scotland.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SAM WAS ON HER WAY into her office the following afternoon when Nick's assistant barred her way. Sam was an hour later than usual---it was almost 4:00 p.m. But she'd been up most of the night, thinking about Maclean, Hemmer, the missing page and the DVD. Then she'd spent half of the afternoon arguing with her insurance agency over her claim. She was in a fairly rotten mood. Seeing Jan, it instantly got worse.
She couldn't stand the woman and the feeling was mutual.
Everyone assumed that they hated each other because they were both beautiful women, although as different as night and day. Jan was a modern-day version of Marilyn Monroe, all soft smiles and lush curves, with shoulder-length blond hair, big brown eyes, a bow-shaped mouth and a come-hither look that was as natural to her as breathing. However, that sex-kitten appearance hid a razor-sharp intellect and an unusual bio. She'd once been a field agent, one of Nick's best ever. Sam had heard him mention that many times---and it riled her even more than Jan batting her lashes whenever a guy walked by.
There was more. Jan and Nick went way back---no one knew just how far. Nick was a legend in the agency. It was said he'd come close to dying for his agents a dozen times, and had taken down some of history's worst demons as far back as Roman times. Jan was somewhat of a legend, too. Way back when, she'd been at his side through thick and thin, taking down the world's worst evil with him. It was rumored she'd lost her fiancé to a gladiator in the Roman Colosseum.
It was a long enough history that Jan could talk back to Nick without any consequences, or offer him unsolicited advice and unasked-for opinions---no matter who was present. More importantly, she seemed to know everything that Nick knew. Clearly, although a PA and employee, she was also a friend and confidante. Speculation ran wild on the exact nature of their friendship.
The bottom line was that Jan had a special relationship with the boss, and got special treatment because of it.
Sam had hated her on sight. Jan had hated her as instantly.
And last year, Nick had taken Jan back in time to find a demon witch who was hunting Tabby. He'd known how badly Sam had wanted to go. That had been the deal breaker. Jan could lie down on Hudson Street in front of a steamroller and die for her, but Sam would never get past last year.
Now she stood in front of Sam's office door, wearing a slinky, sleeveless aqua-blue dress and high heels, not bothering to smile. Sam faced her, wearing her usual short denim miniskirt, a tank top and midcalf boots. "You're in my way," she warned.
"Late night?" Jan asked, too innocently.
"They're all late nights." Sam smirked at her. Then she added, "I'm a Slayer, not a secretary, remember?"
Jan ignored that. "Was yesterday a sick day?" she mocked. "You didn't call it in but we know you went into Five." She smiled. "Too much fun and games all over midtown Manhattan with Mr. Clean? Whoops, I mean Mr. Down and Dirty." She smiled, and Sam knew she'd seen the video from the other night.
"Jealous?"
Jan actually laughed. "I am not into bad boys, Sam."
"I forgot. You live like a nun."
"Some of us can control our libido. Some of us put self-respect above sleeping around with whatever's available."
"Some of us just wanna have fun." Sam shoved past her. Her perfume was soft and sweet, like her appearance. Sam wanted to gag.
"Was last night fun, too?"
Sam decided Jan knew that Maclean had shown up at her loft. But of course she did---Maclean had been tailed. Her mind veered instantly from that encounter to the DVD and his phone call afterward.
"What's wrong? All bent out of shape because Maclean got away from Super Sam?"
"Gee, did you get demoted to Personnel?" Sam walked over to her desk. She would never understand why men went nuts over Jan. Probably because she looked like a centerfold but was holier-than-thou and never put out. Jan was some kind of morally correct male fantasy.
Rumor had it that she was mourning her dead lover. It was some kind of deathbed vow that only soul mates could make.
Jan followed her, hips swaying. "Nick is so pissed." She seemed pleased.
Sam tossed her messenger bag and briefcase on the small sofa that was on one wall, beneath several rows of bookcases. "Nick is always pissed."
"He's pissed at you." Jan smiled. "On several counts. You didn't report in. You left a wake of devastation around the city yesterday---which CDA will have to pay for. Maclean got away---whoops! And he stole the page. Nick wants to see you ASAP." She sauntered out, her ass swaying.
Sam would have slammed her office door closed behind her, but Kit stood there uncomfortably. Sam faced her. "One of us needs to go."
"She's actually a nice person."
"Don't you dare become friends with her! I will take that as a personal betrayal."
"Hey, okay. It was an observation. Are you okay? Did you survive Maclean?" Kit asked, stepping inside.
"Worse. I survived Rupert Hemmer, who came by, came on and offered me an unholy anti-Maclean partnership."
Kit started. "And you're playing?"
"Yeah, I'm playing." Sam went to her bag and handed Kit the DVD. "I know I can trust you. Find out if this is genuine or shopped. Don't let anyone here see it, either. I'll never live it down, especially not after the videos from Maclean's Park Avenue house."
"What is it?"
"A sex tape. Of me and Maclean." She spoke casually but there was nothing casual about her body now. Even thinking about him and the tape did crazy things to her.
Kit's eyes widened and she blushed.
"I haven't slept with him, Kit. But Hemmer plans to blackmail me with it, so it would help to know if this is a fake or if it came from the future."
"Okay. I'll find a consultant to analyze it." Kit was worried now.
Sam clasped her shoulder. "Don't worry. What's the worst he can do? Put it on YouTube? I can handle it." She meant it. She'd let him do as he wanted with the sex tape before giving in to his blackmail. Of course, she'd prefer the damn tape disappear. Sam turned to go but Kit caught her arm.
"By the way, a Mercedes salesman called. You can pick up your new car anytime today at their Lower East Side showroom."
"What?" Sam asked.
Kit shrugged. "I'm only the messenger. He said he left you an e-mail---as per Lord Maclean's instructions."
Sam walked swiftly to her desk, tapping the keyboard and pulling up her e-mail. She was disbelieving. "He bought me a car," she choked. "That bastard bought me an SL 500 convertible---fully loaded!"
"Wow," Kit said.
He'd owed her, but she hadn't thought he'd come through. And he'd owed her a Lexus---not a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes. Her insurance would have paid for most of the new vehicle and so would the agency. But Ian had bought the convertible right off the lot. And it was waiting for her. "Maclean is nuts."
"You shouldn't accept it. It's a conflict of interest. But what a gift! Maybe he's sorry about what happened yesterday. Sam, maybe he really likes you."
She was taken aback. "Are you kidding?" she said. "This is just another come-on. Maclean doesn't have guilt---or emotions. I have to deal with the boss." She hurried out, shaken. He didn't like her---he wanted her. Those were two different things. Men liked Jan. Men liked Tabby. She was too strong to be liked, too capable, too powerful and much too independent.
Nick was on the phone when Sam stepped to the threshold of his large corner office. He gave her a stare and said, "I'll call you later." Hanging up, he stood. "Gee, did you get enough beauty sleep?" he asked, alluding to the late hour, and pointed at the chair in front of his desk.
Sam sat. Nick remained standing. "I'm sorry he got away with the page," she said. "I take full responsibility."
"I know you're sorry. I'm sorry, too. So what? Should we hold hands and cry while he laughs at us and sells it to Hemmer, or worse?" Before she could speak, he said, "Your judgment went out the window the night of Becca's birthday party. I thought I could count on you to take Maclean on, take him down. But I can't. Your wits are addled. What are you, sweet sixteen? You're acting like a virgin around him."
"Not fair," Sam bristled, standing. "And not true. You must be referring to the surveillance tape from his house. Well, he's an ass. Most women would have caved but I'm not putting out, Nick."
Nick snorted. "You sleep with the objective and you're out."
Sam inhaled. "I screwed up. He's sharp and he's crazy. He doesn't care if he dies. Otherwise I would have had him yesterday. But I will get that page for us. I need some time."
"He's playing you left and right and I don't like my kids played." Nick's blue gaze was hard. "I don't like my kids hurt. I don't like them dead."
"He's not evil. He won't go that far. If I die, it will be incidental."
"He frigging went berserk with the demon. He snapped."
Sam was grim. Nick was right on that point, anyway. "Nick, it was personal. It was a bait and trap." She told him about what she'd found from his e-mail. "What do you know about his captivity?"
"There aren't any details in his file, but I can guess. We know that Moray terrorized Scotland for almost a thousand years. He was so powerful that he consorted with kings, queens, generals and popes. Want to know why?" When Sam waited, he continued. "His pact was made directly with Satan. He admitted it to one of our agents in the sixth century. He'd been a Master long ago, one of the first. And his power---the ten centuries of murder and mayhem---was what he got in return for his allegiance with evil."
"Wow," Sam said. "Good thing he's dead and buried."
"If there's one thing I've learned over the course of my work here at HCU, it's that the most dangerous demons have sold their souls directly to Satan. That's when evil has no bounds.
"Moray was using Ian to control his father, Aidan of Awe. As long as he kept the kid alive, he wouldn't care what he put him through. I imagine it was a living hell." Nick's gaze sharpened. "I'm getting a feeling I don't like. You can't possibly feel sorry for him. You never feel sorry for anyone."
"Of course not," Sam said as sharply. "What do I look like, a Red Cross worker? Oprah? Nick, he knows we have a file on him. He wants it. He wants to meet with you. It seems he cannot bear the idea that anyone might know about his past. We have leverage."
"There is no we."
Sam started. "What?"
"You're off this case."
Anger flared. "Are you kidding?"
"Do I look like the office clown? You heard. He's working you to his advantage, and I've seen no sign that you can work him back." Nick turned his back on her, walking to his desk and hitting the intercom.
In disbelief, she followed. "No one at HCU---no one at CDA---could have stopped him from getting away with the page yesterday."
"Probably not. But you could have died in that car chase. You're lucky you didn't kill anyone. Your judgment sucked. It sucked when you put him in handcuffs. It sucks now. I'm pulling you off Maclean before something really bad happens---to you or a civvie."
She fought her temper and her intense dismay. "I can help you make a deal, Nick, the file for the page. I know him now better than anyone. You need me."
Nick didn't respond.
"So who will you put on him? MacGregor? They'll get along just great! You need a woman agent on him, Nick. Kit? She'd be out of her league. At least I can play him while he plays me. At least I have something he wants."
"I'm putting Jan on him," Nick said calmly. "You're right---a female agent makes it less adversarial. I'm sure she can play him as well as any woman can---if not better."
She went still. "Like hell."
"I beg your pardon?"
Sam breathed. She could barely think straight or see clearly. She only knew she didn't want Maclean within a mile of Jan. The idea made her furious. She knew him better than anyone!
"Are you becoming attached to the perp, Sam?" Nick asked softly.
"He's mine. He's my mission, my target, mine. And you know I can't stand her," Sam said tersely, refusing to consider why she was so angry now. "You know I do not quit. I always win! I will admit he's a bit of a challenge. I'll even admit I am fighting the temptation not to feel sorry for him! So what? It makes winning more of a challenge, that's all. And I will win. But I will not stand idly by and have her wiggle her ass around him, and feel sorry for him, and try to comfort him! I mean it. Do this and I quit."
"Then I guess you'll have to quit. Because Jan is going to tail him now and you're reassigned as we speak." He picked up a folder and handed it to her. "You called 911 yesterday at 2:03 p.m. That's when Maclean walked into the adjacent building, right?"
Sam was so angry that she was trembling. She reminded herself to be a pro and answer his questions before she gave him the finger. She reminded herself that Jan was a prude, but then gave that up. Maclean would seduce her, she knew it. Jesus---she almost felt jealous. "Yeah, that's right."
"He was next seen at 3:47 p.m., getting out of a taxi and entering his Park Avenue home. He was carrying the parcel he'd left One Hemmer House with, which he gleefully deposited in the corner trash before going inside."
She was still seething over Jan being assigned to Maclean, making it hard to stay entirely focused. She was sick with dismay. "That's Maclean's way of saying 'fuck you.' He obviously stashed the page on his way home. I can find out where it is, Nick. Me...not Jan. I'm making progress with him."
Nick snorted. "Yeah, the thumping-mattress kind."
"We're adversaries, not lovers. But he wants me and I'm using it. Not only that, I'm figuring him out---which is incredibly difficult, by the way, considering what he's gone through. The more I know about his captivity, the better it would be. I can get that page, if I can figure out his motivation. And we've been invited to Hemmer's tonight---him and me, together."
Nick folded his arms and stared. "The evil in the vault," he said thoughtfully.
"It needs to be checked out. It could be dangerous." Sam barreled on. "I came on board the moment you crooked your finger when Brie was abducted last year. I've worked harder than anyone ever since and you know it. I am asking for a one-time favor. I am getting close to Maclean---in more ways than the thumping-mattress kind. Let me continue."
He thought about it. Nick usually made most decisions in a heartbeat. "You think you can work with Jan and not scratch each other's eyes out?"
"Oh, I won't scratch her eyes out, don't worry about that. But I might put a bullet in her fat wagging ass." She smiled coldly. If Jan dared send Maclean one coy look, she'd do it, too. "I can handle Maclean. Don't reassign me and don't make me work with that false-lashed and false-everything-else, bottle-blond secretary."
"Jan is at the top of this game," Nick said. "And my gut says you are finally in over your head." Sam snorted. "We've already checked out art dealers in the city and the surrounding boroughs, in Long Island, New Jersey and the north of Pennsylvania. We've got nothing. I'm starting to think he sent the page somewhere, maybe even out of this time, or it's in private hands. Of course, he doesn't have friends, so that might make it a bit of a problem. And it's the real deal. The photos you took when you were inside were analyzed yesterday while you guys were playing Bonnie chases Clyde."
Even though she hadn't gone into work yesterday, she'd e-mailed the photos she'd taken while in the vault from her BlackBerry. She crossed her arms and stared. "Are you going to tell me what power the page has?"
Nick smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."
Sam felt a chill go down her spine. "How bad is it?"
"Put it this way---we don't want our enemies having this power."
Sam waited.
"It's the power of illusion," Nick said. "Or, in plain English, it's the power of virtual control."
"HE'S HERE," Jan said over the intercom.
Sam's heart lurched. But that was because Jan was now her partner, not because Ian Maclean was on his way up to Nick's office. He did not have that effect on her---no one did.
"Great," she said. "Hey, don't forget to add the falsies before the big meet and greet. That is why you're on the way to the ladies' room, right?"
Jan cut her off.
Sam stood, her pulse racing, which dismayed her. She had to stay professional. And that wasn't the easy task it had once been. She opened her desk drawer and stared at the DVD in it. She'd made a copy.
She slowly closed the drawer. Jan was undoubtedly powdering her porcelain nose and applying lipstick and hitching up her control-top pantyhose. But even her falsies wouldn't distract a man from that DVD.
Not that she'd decided to show it to Maclean.
Nick claimed she wasn't in control. If she showed Ian the sex tape, she'd be in charge. Sam had not a doubt. Unless, of course, he'd already seen it.
The thought made her breathless.
She'd make the decision about whether to show him the tape or not down the road, she decided. If he hadn't seen it, the choice to reveal the DVD to him was a powerful weapon hidden up her sleeve. She'd be wagging the dog the moment she did so, and not by its tail. Sam smiled.
But it was time to think about the negotiation to come. She was thoughtful, as she'd been for the past two hours since Nick had explained the power of the page of illusion to her. They wanted and needed the power, because they had to keep it from winding up in the wrong hands. Ian wanted his file. A trade would be so perfect, except that he wanted a few hundred million dollars, too.
Did Ian know what the page could do? She hoped not. If he did, then the fact that he'd sell it to anyone made him ruthlessly selfish, with no concern at all for the welfare of anyone innocent. Maybe she was becoming attached, because she refused to believe he could be ruthless like that. Or, she didn't want to believe it.
The power of virtual control was truly terrifying.
A person would believe and feel whatever the power broker wanted him or her to believe and feel. If Sam were a victim of that power, she could be standing in Nick's office but think herself lost in a blizzard in the Arctic, freezing to death. She wouldn't see the office walls. She wouldn't even see Nick. She'd be wandering in a blizzard, blinded by the snow and freezing to death.
Sam wondered if a person rescued from the effects of such power would wind up frost-bitten and ice-burned. Nick didn't know. Neither one of them wanted to find out.
It wasn't hard to believe that such a power could exist. The question was, had the power survived the ages?
The Masters of Time believed in the Duisean, and she did, too. In fact, the Book of Roses had mentioned other great books, other dynasties and secret sects, all dedicated to the preservation of mankind in different parts of the world and other times, all with various magic and powers. The war between good and evil was as old as time. The Celtic gods had given the Duisean to the Masters centuries ago, well before Christ, when their godly powers had been strongest. In those early days, magic had abounded. The gods had frequently shown themselves to mankind.
In medieval times, not only were the Masters powerful, the gods were fairly active still, even if most of the medieval world didn't know it. The page had surely had immense power then. But near-immortals like the Masters were becoming rarer and rarer, even as evil was exploding in population and power. There was less magic in the world now than there used to be. The question was, did the page of illusion still have the same power? She'd asked Nick.
"Who knows? Can we take the chance that it does not?"
Point made, she thought, walking down the hall. If the power of virtual control existed, the U.S. government had to obtain it and keep it out of the wrong hands. As she thought about that, the elevator opened. Before Maclean even stepped out, she felt his hot male energy and his otherworldly power. Their gazes locked as he paused in the hall. He slowly smiled at her.
He wore a black polo shirt, his gold watch and those almost tight jeans. He wore a hammered Celtic cross on a leather cord. He looked confident, L.A. casual, old-world wealthy and drop-dead sexy. She thought about the DVD, when he'd looked even sexier, and had been confident as all hell about what he was doing.
Last night, he'd been furious when he'd learned about the file. When he'd called her later, when he'd somehow been spying on her from across town with his mind, he'd been in a sexy, seductive mood. It took her half a second to know his mood was good now. Lazy, interested, and as always, hot...
She really wanted to show him that DVD. She couldn't imagine his reaction. "Good as my word," she murmured.
"I never doubted you'd set up the meeting," he returned. "Did ye rest at all last night?"
"I was watching a movie," she said with meaning.
His gaze sharpened.
Suddenly Sam realized he wasn't in her mind. She just knew he was trying to figure out what she was thinking. "What's wrong? Not running on all cylinders today?"
"I'm distracted," he said, nodding at the supershort hem of her frayed skirt.
"You're always distracted. It's never stopped you before." As she spoke, she realized he might be putting on a front. In another moment, he'd be going head to head with Nick over the file. And that file meant everything to him. He was hiding behind his sexuality, using it as a distraction.
"Nothing stops me when I'm after something I really want," he murmured, pausing beside her. "Yer eye looks better." He touched her cheekbone.
Sam simply looked at him. Her body was hot. Everything was racing. His finger felt amazing on her skin---and it was only on her cheek. Tonight they were going to Hemmer's. She could use Hemmer's sick invitation as an excuse to get what she really wanted---Maclean.
He had to know what she was thinking, because his eyes smoldered.
And then she heard high heels clicking. She tensed, the sound too familiar. Jan was approaching. Sam shifted to turn, and she saw Ian's eyes widen. Then he smiled, pleased, looking her up and down.
"Ian Maclean?" Jan asked softly. "I'm Nick's assistant, Jan Bentley." She held out her hand. "If you have any dealings here at HCU, I'm your go-to gal."
"How lucky fer me."
Sam said tersely, "Yes, how lucky, you get to be another idiot panting in the long line below her pedestal, waiting to get invited into Saint Jan's bed."
He'd been looking at Jan's long legs. He met Sam's gaze, and seemed to be laughing at her. "I beg yer pardon?"
"Do line up," Sam said in disgust. There'd been no mistaking his interest.
"Sometimes I think you're thirteen, not just shy of thirty," Jan said. "Is this high school?"
"It can't be---you're forty," Sam snapped. "It's your super lucky day, Maclean. She's now my partner. We can do a threesome at Hemmer's tonight."
Ian choked, possibly in laughter.
Jan said sharply, "What are you talking about?"
"We're going to a party. But you can bow out. Feel free." Aware she shouldn't be showing just how pissed she was, and also aware she shouldn't be so livid, Sam stalked ahead of them to Nick's office. If she didn't know better, she'd think she was jealous of Maclean's typical male interest. But jealousy was another word that was not in her vocabulary. Then she halted and faced them. "Jan isn't into parties, Maclean. She's a good girl."
Ian laughed out loud.
"Lord Maclean, I'm working with Sam, even if she isn't very happy about it."
Sam watched her bat her gooey lashes at Ian, smiling and attentive, as if she really were interested in him. But Jan was always turning it on that way, to both men and women, making everyone adore her. Men thought she wanted them, women thought she was their best friend. The act was so good, everyone believed it.
He grinned and looked at Sam. "An' why would Sam be unhappy to have ye working with us? The more the merrier. And it's Ian, Ms. Bentley."
Sam didn't try to hide her disgust. "I figured you'd be doing cartwheels. So, Jan, are you ready to perform? Think you have the guts? We're booked tonight and it's X-rated. The virginal act will have to go. Either that, or you can stay home."
"But Hemmer wants entertainment," Ian replied. "I think he'd like Ms. Bentley."
Sam felt like kicking him where it really hurt. "Ian? Close your mouth. Barbie doesn't get down and dirty. It's all a sham." Sam smiled triumphantly at Jan. "The better to lead you guys on, right, Barbie?"
"Okay, what am I missing?" Jan demanded. "Exactly what are you planning for tonight, Sam?"
"Ian and I have a date with evil," Sam said flatly. "Hemmer wants us to get it on while he watches. If you're coming, you'll need to come. If you get what I mean."
Jan said tersely, "Sam, do you try to make me hate you? I believe in giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, but it's becoming impossible to do so with you. And you know what? Nick won't leave you on this case alone. So if I tell him I can't work with you, guess what?" Her eyes flashed.
Sam breathed hard. "That's blackmail."
"We work together or we won't work at all! You can mock me at every turn and make fun of my morals, but I happen to have a strong code of ethics. That won't change, not for you, not for Hemmer and not for anyone."
Sam felt somewhat chagrined. "Good. Then stay home tonight."
Jan shook her head, disgusted. "Why on earth would you agree to go to Hemmer's, on any terms?"
"Guess you missed my report. There's evil in the vault."
Jan's eyes widened.
"Rupert likes me," Sam said. "He's offered me a viewing, which will get me into the vault. And he told me to bring Ian so we can have a party."
Jan absorbed that. "We got back the labs. Hemmer is one hundred percent human. Not a drop of unusual DNA."
Sam looked at Maclean, who was seriously interested in their exchange now. He said pleasantly, "I could have told ye that and saved ye time and yer tests. But he's still dangerous."
"I have no doubt." Jan smiled. "Nick is waiting."
Sam wondered if Jan could actually play Ian. As Jan led the way toward Nick's office, she said, "By the way, thanks for the hot car."
"So ye like it." He seemed pleased.
"Oh, I like it. Maybe I'll even give you that ride."
Jan paused at Nick's door to let them walk inside past her. Nick was waiting for them, his hip on the edge of his desk. She knew from his too calm, oh-so-pleasant expression that he was in his I Am Going to Win At All Costs mode.
She forgot about Ian's interest in Jan. She tensed, glancing at Ian. Maclean wore a nearly identical poker face. But his eyes were as cold as ice.
The energy in the room was hot, male and amping up. Two superbulls were waiting to impale one another. And the worst part was, they both had the otherworldly power to do it.
"Tell the women to leave," Ian said.
"Nice to meet you, too," Nick said. "But the ladies can stay."
"I have an offer fer ye."
"Everything said in this room stays in this room."
Ian's face hardened.
"I know your father and I were hoping this day would come." Nick smiled. "Of course, I was hoping for more pleasant circumstances. How is Aidan, by the way? How is Lady Brianna?"
Ian's smile was cold. "I wouldn't know. I don't keep in touch. But then, ye know that, don't ye? It's in my file."
"Of course you wouldn't know. You're out of your time. All alone, consorting with evil, stealing what you want, when you want...Isn't it lonely, to be living like that?"
"I'm here fer my file," Ian said. "Not to discuss how I live."
"But I want to discuss how you live and the choices you've made. Because, you see, those choices impact me." He added, "Aidan must be so disappointed in you."
Ian was becoming angrier by the minute. Sam felt like interfering. Why did Nick have to dig a knife in?
"In fact, his heart must be broken."
Ian was incredulous. "If his heart is broken, that's his problem, not mine! I'm here for my file. It belongs to me. I want it." Ian seethed.
"And the old gods must be pissed. Not a good idea, to annoy any god, even an old one."
Ian laughed. "The old gods don't care what I do and if ye think otherwise, yer a fool."
"The one thing I'm not, Maclean, is a fool."
"If ye have a file on me, then yer very foolish," Ian said, softly now. "Because I won't allow it."
Nick grinned. "Here at HCU, I am king. All the files here belong to me."
"Stop baiting him," Sam said. "A war won't solve anything."
Nick glanced coolly at her. Ian turned, his gaze blazing with anger.
"A little sugar goes a long way," she added.
Ian wasn't mollified but Nick sighed. "She's right, Maclean. Let's start over. I think we can help each other."
"Really?" Ian mocked. He shuddered, and a number of photographs and plaques fell off the wall, some books tumbling from the bookcases.
"Very adult," Nick said. "I know you have power, Maclean."
"Then don't make me use it."
Jan walked over to Ian and laid her hand on his arm. Sam blinked in disbelief as Ian shrugged her off. "Ian, give Nick a chance," Jan tried. "And, Nick, please. He isn't evil. He's simply lost his way."
Ian glanced at her coldly.
Sam choked.
"Damn it, Nick. Give him a break," Jan added softly.
Ian looked sharply at her. But of course she had his attention---she was Amazing Jan.
"Are you kidding?" Nick asked. "He stole the page of illusion. And he plans to sell it to the highest bidder for cash. I am not giving him any breaks. Let's make a deal, Maclean. One that helps us both."
Jan gestured at the leather sofa and chairs at the far end of the office, her red nails still on Ian's bare arm. "Why don't we sit down? Would you like a drink, Ian?"
He looked at her, then at Sam. "No."
Jan dropped her hand. She shared a quick look with Nick. Sam wished she could read their minds.
Nick grimaced. "All right, Maclean. Let's start over. Jan is right---she usually is. My bad, but then, I'm not a diplomat. However, I'm sure you understand. I'm just a wee bit nervous over the page being in the wrong hands---and falling into worse hands. Not to mention I almost lost one of my best agents in that damned stupid car chase yesterday."
Ian folded his arms tightly across his chest. "Sam didn't die."
Nick smiled pleasantly. "Let's keep it that way. Because I'm real fond of my little Frisbee-wielding femme fatale. If Sam dies on your watch, you die."
Ian smiled back at him unpleasantly. "The one thing I don't want," he said very softly, "is our Sam dead."
"Be careful, Maclean. Because the player might get played."
"I look forward to it."
Sam stepped between them. "Time out. We're making a deal, remember?"
"How could I forget?" Nick asked too softly.
Sam lost her temper. "Then do it! Nick, he's one of the good guys, damn it."
Nick finally gave her his attention. "No, he's not. He could be, but instead, he deals with demons and mutts, the tainted, the corrupt. He'll sell the page to anyone, good or evil, as long as the price is right. And he might even sell it to evil, just to say I gotcha. Am I right, Maclean?" Nick's cold blue gaze settled on Ian.
"Yer so right," Ian said. "In fact, if ye don't give me the file and destroy all copies while I watch, I will sell it to the first demon who bids on it---with pleasure."
This was going from bad to worse.
Nick shook his head, his mouth hard and tight. "I knew it. He's played you for a fool, Sam. He doesn't need a break. He needs to be broken."
"Can you try to remember what he's lived through?" she cried. "He's already broken!"
Ian whirled. "Shut up," he told her, livid. "I don't need your help and I don't want it."
She stiffened. Damn it, she thought, really shaken. Her heart actually ached for him. He shouldn't have this kind of past to hide.
"I thought so. You feel sorry for him," Nick accused.
Sam tried to block her thoughts from him. "I'm trying to broker a deal here. No easy task, with both of you being hormonally challenged. Maybe we should bleed some testosterone out of you both the way wildlife guys milk rattlesnakes, before this meeting becomes World War IV."
Nick ignored her. "Okay, Maclean. Here's the deal. I'll give you the original file and walk you through the destruction of every copy---after you've handed over the page and it's been authenticated by my people."
Ian laughed, the sound mocking. He said, low and still flushed, "I'll consider selling the U.S. government the page. And as a sign of my good faith, I'll postpone the auction fer another week, so you can find the cash you'll need to make a proper bid. I'll even discount it. But in return, ye give me the original file now. When we make a deal, I'll destroy the copies and then give ye the page."
Nick stared. "You know we don't have the kind of money that Hemmer and his kind have. Our budget is about two cents. And I don't trust you as far as I can spit."
Ian shrugged. "I'll let the page go for twenty-five million, U.S." he said. "Hemmer paid over two hundred million dollars for it," he added unnecessarily.
Nick stared angrily at him. "I'll never get that kind of budget approved."
"Then yer out."
"Then you'll never know what's in your big fat two-inch-thick file, will you? Give us the page and you can have your file, right now. I'll destroy the backup myself, as you watch."
Ian glanced at her briefly and said, "Five million U.S. dollars. And I walk out of here with the file. When I receive the cash, we'll make the trade."
Nick said swiftly, "I'll need to make some phone calls. I don't have the authority to approve the cash and you're still out of my budget."
"Fine. Make yer calls. But I am leaving here today with the file."
Nick shook his head. "Impossible."
Nick was playing a delaying game, Sam thought. Once Ian saw his file, he'd realize there were no horrifying details in it, and he wouldn't care that CDA had it. He would then continue on with his auction. Or would he?
Ian glanced at her, and in spite of his set face, Sam saw the question in his eyes. She tensed.
She wished she could reveal that he didn't have to worry about his file. He had every right to cover up his horrific past. She wet her lips. "I told you. I haven't read it."
He faced Nick. "Are ye tired of driving a Ford, Forrester?"
Nick raised his eyebrows.
"I'll give ye one hundred thousand cash fer a copy." Ian smiled.
"Only a hundred thousand? I can't be bought, Maclean. And I like used cars, by the way. I like Fords. It's patriotic. I've never wanted a Ferrari."
"All men want Ferraris. Two hundred thousand dollars fer a copy."
Nick shook his head. "We need the page, Maclean. We need it so the bad guys can't have the power."
Sam wanted to tell Nick to give him a damn copy of his file, and that was not professional of her.
"Name yer price," Ian snarled.
"The page," Nick said.
Ian laughed at him. "The page is worth hundreds of millions of dollars---to the right demon!" He gave Sam a cold look as if she'd betrayed him somehow, then whirled and slammed from the room.
Sam fought for control. It took a moment. "That went really well," she said sarcastically. But what she wanted to do was to run after Ian and tell him that his secrets were mostly safe. He'd been desperate for just a copy of his file---he was desperate to know what everyone knew about him. And she felt for him. What was wrong with her?
Because he was probably going to make a point of selling the page of illusion to evil now.
Nick strode to his window, stared down at Hudson Street and cursed, a long string of mostly unrepeatable epithets.
Jan touched his arm. "I can break him, Nick. Without sleeping with him. He doesn't have one drop of evil in him. His father is a Master of Time. Let me try."
Sam went still.
"Go after him," Nick told Jan tersely. "Do what you think best."
Sam shook with outrage. She took a deep breath and managed not to change her expression. Jan hurried out, but not before she looked at Sam and said, "This is business."
"Right," Sam said. She turned to Nick, trying not to explode.
"What are you, smitten?" he asked. "Maclean has scars that will never heal. And that makes him a renegade."
Sam shook her head, too angry to speak, and she strode out of his office. Jan was with Ian as he waited for the elevator. He was still flushed. Tension rippled through his body.
Ian jerked away from her when he saw Sam. He strode toward her, his eyes ablaze. "Don't ever defend me again. I don't need yer help."
"Okay," she said, to placate him.
"I don't need yer pity, either. The past is the past," he snarled. "I forgot it long ago."
Like hell, she thought. "I don't pity you, Maclean. And I'm sorry I happen to think you shouldn't have gone through what you did, but then, I'm human. But hey, I will mind my own business from now on---except, of course, in regards to the page of illusion, because it's my fault that you have it and it's up to me to get it back."
Behind them, the elevator door opened. He jerked his collar open, so hard that the fabric ripped. "Then we're enemies now," he said.
CHAPTER NINE
GERARD OPENED THE FRONT door and his brows lifted with surprise when he saw her.
Sam smiled at him. It was half past six and she was due at Hemmer's at seven, but she hadn't heard from Ian since he'd stormed out of Nick's office at HCU. She was pretty sure their date with Rupert Hemmer was off. She couldn't let that happen---and not just because of the DVD.
She was fairly certain he was with Jan, or making plans with her, because Jan sank her teeth into quarry like a terrier did a meaty bone. She wouldn't let Jan work him.
The afternoon's meeting at HCU had left her with an almost sick feeling. It was unease, she supposed. Damn it. She hated his involvement with Jan but even more, she hated his distress. Nick should let him have the damn file, even though she knew it wasn't rational of her to think so.
"Hey, Gerard, how are you today?" Sam was sorry she'd been so rude to Gerard when they'd met in Scotland. If he'd been with Maclean for years, as he claimed, he must have some attachment to his job and, possibly, to his boss. She knew Maclean had no friends---because she knew about his past---and she was glad he had his butler. It was better than nothing at all.
Of course, he had his father. But Ian had walked away from his family as well as everything else. Why?
Apparently, Ian belonged in the past, not in modern-day New York City or Scotland. That idea made Sam uneasy.
If that were true, it meant that if he came to his senses one day, he'd go back. His father would be there, as would be Brie, and even Tabby. Sam was aware of missing her sister as much as ever. She knew she had to get over it. Somehow, she'd go back to see her sooner, rather than later.
Sam sighed. Control seemed to have been banished from her dictionary recently, and she really liked control. But it didn't matter. Her current job was rescuing Maclean from Jan's clutches, getting him over to Hemmer's to play out what Hemmer had begun and going back into that vault. And getting the page out of Maclean's clutches remained at the top of her priority list. However, after his encounter with Nick, she wasn't sure how she was going to accomplish that.
Whatever was going to happen next, she was certain it would surprise her.
"His lordship did not mention that you were calling," Gerard said, his brows still slightly elevated. He was clearly cool to her.
"His lordship probably forgot that we have a hot date with the dark side."
Gerard's expression became peculiar. Sam wondered if it was her reference to evil that had disturbed him. Gerard definitely knew a lot more about life than your average mortal.
Of course, Gerard might be discomfited because Ian was entertaining Jan. He seemed classy enough to get bent out of shape over such a trivial detail. Her purse, containing the DVD, almost burned her hand. "Don't worry," she told him, still smiling. "Old habits die hard. I'm a party crasher, remember? And trust me, when we're done with this evening, he won't mind the interruption, not one bit." The DVD might become her weapon of choice. A gal never knew when a sex tape might become handy. It might not matter if he'd already seen it, either. But she'd started to think that if he had, he'd have been the one to throw it in her face.
"Do come in, Ms. Rose," he said tersely.
"Aw, c'mon, Gerard. Surely this isn't the first time Maclean has had a little party with more than one lady? You must be used to his bad-boy habits by now." But her sarcasm felt forced. Guys who spent most of their lives as captives would not know how to have relationships. They'd only know the basics---like having sex---and that seemed to be Maclean.
"His lordship is not in his usual temper today," Gerard said. "And unlike you, his other caller was expected. He did not mention he would be going out for the evening."
Jan had worked him, and it rankled. She dismissed that. "Let me guess. His other caller is blond, buxom and that new forty? And her name is Jan 'Barbie' Bentley?"
"A Ms. Bentley is present, Ms. Rose. You may wait in the green room," he said. "I will tell his lordship you are here."
Gerard left. Sam breathed hard, almost dismayed. She reminded herself that she didn't care if Maclean came on to Barbie, not to mention that Jan would never put out. But no one was going to cut her out of the evening or move in on her gig. To hell with Nick. She was going to be the batter with the big home run---she was going to bring home the page.
However, as much as Sam hated to admit it, underestimating Jan was a bad idea. This was not a high-school competition. This was a job. But it almost felt like some foolish rivalry.
For the first time in years, Sam felt her confidence waver. In a way, Jan was like Tabby. She was a naturally kind person. Sam could pretend that she wasn't, but it was a lie. And that was why men went ga-ga over her. The soft smile and kind eyes were real. She was every man's dream and she wanted to be your dearest friend, too. It sucked, but that was the truth. Ian was probably drooling all over her right now. He would not be immune to the package of lush looks and an ultra-feminine, super kind heart.
Sam was proud of being a soldier. Her duty as a Slayer defined who she was, just as it defined her life. Plenty of women could be nurturing, few could do what she did. Still, she hated the idea of Ian falling under Jan's "I Am Woman" spell. It even worried her.
Sam shook off her sudden doubts. She'd take care of Jan, ASAP, one way or another. Sam glanced at herself in the gilded mirror on one wall. She was wearing a very tiny teal dress with spaghetti straps. It barely came to midthigh and it was jersey, so it clung to her breasts, torso, hips and thighs. The hefty gauze wrapping on her ribs had been replaced with a wide bandage. Not the doctor's orders, but to hell with that. She wore silver python stiletto sandals. Unlike Jan, she wore one coat of mascara and lip gloss---she did not need to mask her face to make it look better. She'd stopped traffic while hailing a cab earlier. Three Wall Street types had fought over the privilege of finding a cab for her during rush hour. A chubby married man had actually given her his cab, blushing like Santa Claus. But that might have been a surge in his blood pressure.
Her confidence back, she went down the hall after Gerard.
Gerard was in a large gold and white living room, not far from the pair of carved doors, announcing her. Sam walked past him.
Ian was standing there, at once Armani perfect and Hugo Boss sexy. He looked at her coldly.
Okay, he was still angry because she'd thrown him a pity party. Sam saw that Jan sat on an ivory brocade sofa, in an orange dress, legs crossed, her gaze watchful, an untouched glass of white wine before her. "Hot date?" Sam mocked. "Because it sure looks rocking."
Jan rolled her eyes. "Ian invited me over for a drink. I made it clear I would continue the earlier conversation."
"Gee, which conversation was that? The I'm your go-to gal one, or the let's-screw-him-over one? I hope I'm not intruding." She turned back to Ian and caught him looking at her legs. His expression hadn't eased.
Jan said, "I was trying to explain our position to him."
Sam looked Ian in the eye and did not turn to Jan. "And what position is that? The missionary one?"
Jan sighed. It was too bad that orange was a great color on her. "We're in a dangerous war. Ian is not evil. Nick was too hard on him. I'm concerned. I want to help."
"Of course you do." Sam looked at Ian. "Please don't tell me you're falling for the good cop, bad cop routine?"
"Why would I mind talking with a beautiful woman?" He stared coldly at her.
"Because you don't like talking?"
"Ye talk all the time."
"Yeah, and it pisses you off." Sam turned to Jan. "Have you pissed him off yet, or do you have a free pass?"
"I am not abrasive, unlike some people. I happen to believe in talking. It's called making a deal, by the way---not foreplay."
"I'll take the foreplay. And so will Ian, by the way. So good luck---you'll need it." Sam said flatly. Then she turned her back on Jan. "Am I right, Maclean?"
Ian's face tightened. He looked down at her supershort dress again. "Ye still plan on going to Hemmer's? Or did ye dress fer me?"
"I'm going to Hemmer's. How could I refuse that invite?"
He darkened.
"What's wrong? Is my coworker boring you? I really don't want to interrupt your rational, sex-free discussion. Maybe I should go. I didn't realize our little sex date was off," she lied.
He grasped her arm. "Ye won't go to Hemmer's alone."
"Why not? I can certainly provide enough entertainment without you. I'm sure he'll tape it. If you're nice to him, maybe he'll even make you a copy." He was still angry, she thought. She couldn't believe it, but she wouldn't mind seeing his old arrogant, oversexed self again.
"Why do ye care so much about the evil in the vault? Why not just leave it be?"
"It's my nature, Maclean, like it's your nature to have Jan over for a drink. She won't make you happy tonight, Maclean."
He suddenly pulled her close. "But ye will?"
Sam met his hard, intense gaze. His tense, muscular body quivered against hers in that way she really liked. "I've been thinking about it," she said softly. "I've been thinking about two hundred million dollars' worth of sex."
He slowly smiled. "Maybe I've let ye think about it fer too long."
"A challenge," she murmured. "I love challenges. Maybe you have." She was hollow inside. His lust was all mixed up with the anger and the fear---she somehow knew it---and it was raging.
She knew where that rage could go.
Really, really deep inside.
"So come to Hemmer's with me so we can play," she murmured.
"I'm in no mood to be teased tonight," he warned.
She did not look away from him. "Then why is she on your sofa?"
"Challenges," he shrugged. He whispered, "I'd never let ye go to Hemmer's alone."
Her heart soared. Sam was acutely aware of his hard body against hers now, throbbing. "I didn't think so."
For one moment, his gaze became searching. He released her. "Some fear would serve ye well, Sam. So would caution."
Sam laughed softly. "From one reckless soul to another." She grinned at Jan. "So have you two reached an understanding? Got the position all mapped out? I mean, all laid out?" She was aware of his hard hip, his hand still on her waist.
Jan stood, clearly annoyed. "In a way, we have. We're going to finish our drinks, Sam. Privately. He was much calmer and more reasonable until you showed up. Your evening at Hemmer's can be postponed."
Like hell, Sam thought. She opened her purse. Ian watched her like a hawk as she handed him the DVD. "I think she's kicking me out."
"What's that?" he asked warily, staring at the DVD before looking up at her.
She knew in that moment he hadn't seen it. She was triumphant. "Oh, something you might like---a lot. I'd check it before you go to bed. Hell, maybe you can watch it with her over that white wine. Meanwhile, I am really late. Why don't you come over when you're done with her?" She turned to leave.
But he caught her arm again, jerking her back against his stiff body. His gaze was narrow with speculation now. Behind them, Jan said, "What are you up to, Sam?"
"Oh, I'm pretty good at providing entertainment. Call it negotiating, call it foreplay, hey, call it sealing the deal, if you want."
"What's on the DVD?" Jan asked carefully.
"It was a gift," Sam said softly. She looked at Ian. Desire sizzled between them. "From our favorite bad guy."
His eyes widened. Then he let her go and strode across the living room with the DVD in hand. Sam saw a laptop sitting on an antique desk. Her body was humming and hot. The aching had begun some time ago, maybe way back when they'd first met in Oban. It was explosive now.
Jan followed Ian across the room, her expression distasteful. She gave Sam a dark look as she passed her, clearly not trusting her.
Sam tried not to laugh. "What are you, his shadow?"
"If I understood you, the DVD is from Hemmer," Jan said. "Have you mentioned it to Nick?"
"Not really," Sam murmured as Ian sat down at the desk.
Jan walked over to him and said, "You should be careful." She glanced up at Sam. "Why do I have the feeling that this is a trap?"
"I was given the DVD, Jan. It wasn't my idea."
Ian slid the DVD into the drive. "She can trap me any time."
Jan said, "I hope your jealousy hasn't shredded the last of what used to be your good judgment."
Sam couldn't help smiling. "Yeah, and pigs can fly like his taxicab did yesterday. I am so not jealous." She wasn't exactly certain about how Jan would react to the tape, but she hoped she'd be embarrassed---no, mortified.
And Ian was going to be on her hook, squirming. Ian was going to lose all control.
Jan looked from her to Ian and back again as the PC whirred. "You know," she finally said, "you can be a bitch---but I don't hate you---even though you hate me. You only hate me because I'm attractive and closer to Nick than you are. I actually respect you, Sam, even if you're hung up a hundred different ways."
"Gee, I'm touched," Sam said, and then she heard her own gasp of pleasure.
Ian had been waiting for the DVD to play, his gaze on the screen. He went still.
Jan glanced at the monitor and turned red.
Sam forgot Jan. She watched Ian. He was rapt. His expression was hard, his gaze riveted now. She knew exactly what he was watching. She'd replayed that first scene and a few others a few times.
Jan walked out; Sam barely noticed.
The air in the room had changed. It was charged now, on fire.
Ian's gaze never left the monitor as his eyes darkened impossibly. He sat down. She saw his chest rise and fall beneath the dark T-shirt he wore. "Come here," he said softly.
This was it, she thought. "Only if you say pretty please."
His shoulders stiffened and he tore his gaze from the monitor. His eyes were blinding, as bright as lightning. "Do ye really think ye can tease me with a tape?"
"I sort of know it," Sam said dryly. "Wouldn't you rather come with me to Hemmer's than stay here with a born-again virgin?"
His gaze skidded back to the screen. He breathed hard. "Come here."
She usually hated taking orders, but not this time. That harsh command sent desire cascading through her, from her hollow rib cage to her shaky legs. Sam walked slowly over to him, reminding herself that this was what she'd wanted to set in motion. But he was going to squirm---a lot. Not that she wanted a way out. She just wanted him to beg and plead for it.
Sam paused beside the chair where he sat. Before she even looked at the couple on the screen, he seized her wrist. "How many times have ye watched?"
Sam wet her lips, trying to speak, but she couldn't. His hand was fire on her skin. His face was hard and tight, strained. Sam looked at the monitor and inhaled, her heart thundering, her thighs impossibly tight.
He was rubbing that steel ring over her, everywhere, with his massive and broad length.
He hit the Pause button.
Sam stared at his hand. His knuckles were white. She looked lower, at the huge bulge in his jeans. It had to hurt. But that was okay, because she hurt, too, and she'd been hurting for a while...Then she looked at the screen. "Too bad the cameras were mounted. A zoom shot would have been great," she said thickly.
He slowly looked up at her. "Oh, I can zoom in."
She wet her lips. "We're going to a party."
"The party's right here."
It was hard to remember why she wanted to make him pant for her---why she'd decided to hold out until he did. He caught her hips and pulled her closer, then smiled up at her. For one moment, Sam was certain he was going to move his face against the jersey of her dress, between her thighs, against her sex.
"You can come with me, or I'll go alone."
"Threats." He released her and stood, reaching for the zipper on his jeans. Sam's heart lurched. He slid his hand over the huge bulge there, watching her, then snagged the zipper. He slowly lowered it, his gaze on her face.
Sam knew she was fixated. She could hear her own heavy, wild heartbeat. She should pretend nonchalance, but she couldn't look up.
She felt his mouth curve. She knew he smiled, and knew there was amusement, too. His arousal sprang free of the jeans. The steel ring, pierced low on the head there, glinted.
She felt her thighs clench, her knees buckle.
"What's wrong? Will ye faint?" he taunted.
She was dizzy, she thought, inhaling sharply. He made a soft sound, took her hand and slid it over the shaft, held it there. Sam tried to breathe and failed. The ring lay on the edge of her thumb now.
He caught the hem of her dress. "I'm not leaving this room," he said. "Neither are ye. Not until I say so."
It was so hard to speak. It was even harder to think. "I don't want to go anywhere," Sam heard herself say thickly. She ran her hand down his entire length. He was silent, throbbing heavily there. Her own body was on the verge of implosion. She wondered if the ring hurt. There was a fine line between pleasure and pain.
Too late, as she pushed up at the ring, making him gasp, she realized she was not the one in control. She was lusting insanely for him now.
"Dinna stop," he warned, tugging the hem of her dress up her thighs.
She somehow tore her gaze upward.
He smiled arrogantly at her. Triumph was reflected in his eyes.
"Sonuvabitch," she managed. He had won.
"Did ye really think to play me with a sex tape?" he murmured. "Who's being played now?"
Sam looked from his gorgeous, hot eyes to his full, slightly open mouth. She cursed. She bent down, gripped him more firmly, and pushed her tongue at the ring. He went still; she cried out. Then she started to taste him, the ring against her tongue.
His entire body trembled and he jerked convulsively. "How many times did ye watch the tape?"
She sucked hard, unable to speak. The ring fluttered against her tongue.
He tightened his grasp. "How many times?"
She choked off a moan. The pressure was building impossibly now. She began to tremble, her cheek pressed against him now, the ring digging into her skin. "Do you really want me to answer---and stop?" she managed hoarsely.
His hand moved to the bottom of her chin, and he forced her to look up at him. "Ye'll never want a toy again."
Their gazes locked. His was fierce, triumphant and blinding in its lust. And then he jerked her upright. Sam reached for his shoulders instinctively. She was ready to jump him. It should be the other way around. "Damn you, Maclean," she said harshly, leaning fully against him.
"But yer ready to die."
He was right. Sam hooked her calf around his waist. He turned her backward over the desk, began to force her down. Sam wrapped her other leg around him.
"Hang on," he whispered.
"Bastard," she said.
He impaled her.
His huge length and width filled her, stunning her almost senseless---except for the crescendo of pleasure that instantly began. Sam cried out. There was so much heat. The pressure was impossible. He laughed, pushed her down on the desk so she was flat on her back, sending objects and papers flying. "I told ye I was the best."
My God, she thought, he was right. Her mind glazed over as the waves of pleasure crashed and broke. He seized her shoulders, held them down and began moving urgently, into her, hard and deep. Sam felt the ring. It sent her over another precipice and he cried out, too.
He moved harder and faster now, with more urgency, his seed burning. Impossibly, Sam wanted even more, because the rapture was so raw, so intense, so otherworldly. Flying, she raked his back with her nails. He caught her hands to restrain her, growling, still thrusting repeatedly. He lost his balance as he tried to hold her still and Sam hit him with her thigh, her knee in the hollow between his ribs. When he choked in surprise, she drove him off the desk.
They crashed against the near wall and fell hard to the floor.
Maclean actually tried to break the fall for her. As his shoulder struck the floor, he pulled her against his body and on top of it.
Sam pushed a knee on each side of his hips. His eyes widened; he grinned.
She looked down at what reared between them and inhaled harshly. "That has to hurt."
He seized her wrist, his grasp brutal. "I like pain. Fuck me, Sam."
She forgot about the ring and the pain it might cause. Sam drove her body down his shaft, hard and fast.
This time, Maclean was the one to break first.
SHE NEVER FELL ASLEEP after sex. But she'd fallen asleep and Sam slowly opened her eyes.
She was on the floor of the living room and she was alone. Pale early-morning sunlight was creeping inside from the two east-facing windows which overlooked Park Avenue. And as a pain went through her lower back, as she sat up, her head throbbing slightly, she saw her broken nails. There was absolute recollection. She was coherent now. She was also stunned.
They'd had sex like it was a matter of life and death. If he wanted her on her knees, she wanted to stand over him; if he was being dominant, which he was most of the time, she had to make him submit to her. She touched her jaw, which was sore. At some point she'd hit it on the edge of a coffee table. The back of her head also ached from slamming against the wall. As for her lower back, well, she'd been on her hands and knees, enjoying it far too immensely. The moment she'd realized, she'd reared up. Man, it hurt.
They'd gone at it wildly, violently, insatiably, for most of the night---if not all of it. She was unusually strong, he had his superpowers, making him even stronger, and they'd exhausted one another by trying to control each other, by trying to overpower the other. Sitting up now, starkly naked, Sam wasn't sure what to think.
They hadn't even kissed.
It had been the rawest, most brutal, most urgent sex she'd ever had. Or had that even been sex? She was grim. She had never wanted anyone the way she did Maclean and there was no explanation for it, not when he was such a mess. The arousal was stunning, the urgency more so, and later, she'd try to figure out why she needed him so much when he was so scarred and so defective, and so incapable of normalcy. And damn it, he had won. It hadn't been the way she'd thought it would be. She'd been out of her mind with desire, as never before. He'd controlled most of the night.
On the other hand, he'd wanted her desperately.
At one point, when they'd stopped for a moment, he'd pulled her back beneath him, the oddest look in his eyes, as if he feared a return to reality.
She hugged herself, the gesture rare for her. She was truly shaken.
Because desperate was the best way to describe Maclean's passion, his sex drive, the shattering urgency. Pain and pleasure had become wrapped up together in one big ugly package---and it had begun when he was a prisoner. She had no doubt.
Her heart stirred. There was compassion...there was concern.
She recalled the look on his face she'd seen so many times last night. When he was on the brink, his expression became raw and revealing, the mocking facade was stripped away. And the emotions that cycled through him had been obvious---she'd seen anguish, confusion and relief.
Sam cursed uneasily now.
And what about the incredible ecstasy she'd experienced? She thought she felt herself flush. The sonuvabitch had been right. He'd been able to give her more pleasure than she'd ever had. Was that one of those god-given attributes, too? Mortals couldn't climax a dozen times in one night---almost ceaselessly.
She suddenly pulled her legs to her chest. Why was she even analyzing what had just happened? It was only sex! She avoided intimacy and entanglements like the plague and she never bothered to think about her conquests. Why should she? It was always fun. Easy come, easy go.
But Maclean wasn't one of her boy toys. Sex with Maclean had been savage and stunning. She couldn't compare it with any other experience. They hadn't had fun. They hadn't kissed. They'd even hurt one another. She'd been satisfied---more than ever before. But she felt an odd nagging, almost like disappointment or dismay. It almost felt as if something had been missing from the experience.
Since she couldn't possibly be disappointed, since she only wanted sex, she was mistaken.
They'd both gotten what they'd wanted, right?
There was one more thing. What they'd just done was nothing like what was on that DVD.
Sam slowly stood up, unable to shake her sense of unease. The DVD had to be a fake after all, because those two people had cared about one another. As for last night, there was no reason to brood about it or him. If she let herself feel sorry for him, she'd soon be toast on his plate. Burned toast...
Grimly Sam glanced around and saw her dress on the floor, not far from the desk. She recalled Ian ripping it apart and tossing it aside. She got to her feet. She'd known from the get-go that Maclean really was bad news. And that meant she had to stay away from him.
It meant no more hot rounds like this one. It meant there'd never be a DVD from the future.
Hemmer...They'd stood him up. He was probably furious and making all kinds of plans for them.
Sam walked over and picked up the dress; it was literally ripped in half and useless. She did not feel better. Her resolve felt shaky. Staying away from Maclean was impossible---he had the page. She started a search for her purse, which was on the console not far from the sofa where Jan had sat last night. Then she almost smiled. Jan could have never handled Maclean; he'd have been bored to death with her.
She found her cell phone. Then she decided that she couldn't call Kit again. She didn't want to have to explain what had happened---not that she really could.
He was a mess and she was confused. She, Sam Rose, a Slayer feared on all the city streets, was confused. She was never confused. She was always on course, climbing whatever mountain stood in her path. If she ever needed a friend, she needed one now. Maybe it was time to test her friendship with Kit.
She shivered. She didn't have any clothes and Maclean kept the AC on an unapologetically and environmentally unfriendly setting. She glanced at the time on her cell phone. It was half past five; she doubted she'd run into Gerard if she went up to the third floor and tried to find some clothes.
Then she felt his stare.
Slowly, her nape tingling, Sam turned and looked at the doorway.
Maclean stood there in the shadows of the dawn, wearing only his jeans, which weren't even buttoned, and the cross on the leather cord. He was watching her like a hawk. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, because his face was expressionless.
Her heart turned over. Sorrow and desire melded...
She didn't even want to try to make light of the moment.
There was nothing light about having sex like it was war.
He walked forward, his muscles rippling. Now she saw that he carried clothes in his hand. She tensed, almost expecting him to throw them at her, but instead, he handed them to her. "I called ye a car," he said.
He had a red scratch on his jaw, another one on his shoulder. They were deep and one was still bleeding.
Sam took the clothes. Suddenly modest, she held the bundle in front of her body. Prior to last night, she'd have made a mocking remark about his being eager for her to leave. Instead, she said, "Thanks."
He shrugged and walked back out.
WHEN SHE WAS GONE, Ian lay back on his bed, still clad in his jeans. He stared up at the ceiling, grim. What had just happened?
His heart was racing uncomfortably. Heated images kept replaying in jagged bits and pieces in his mind, when he never thought about his conquests afterward---not ever. But he wasn't sure that Sam Rose had been a conquest. He wasn't sure what had happened earlier that evening. He'd never been to bed with any woman and had such physical and violent sex. He hadn't ever wanted any woman the way he wanted her.
He touched himself, still aroused. She'd fought to dominate him. He'd fought back. He wasn't sure who'd won. Maybe he had. She now knew how good he was. But he was sorry he'd let her leave. He could easily take her again.
Why had he taken her so fiercely---why had he been so insatiable? So desperate?
Ian was uneasy, uncertain. He'd been extremely attracted to her from their first meeting. He'd even wandered through time once or twice after that day in Oban, when he avoided leaping like a medieval man avoided the plague. But the attraction was worse now---constant, consuming. He didn't like having an attraction he could not control or walk away from.
He thought about the DVD, and wondered how two such savage lovers could get to that other place.
His gut tightened so badly it hurt.
He never let women touch him the way she had in the DVD---with tenderness or affection. If a woman smiled at him during sex, the way Sam had in the DVD, he ignored it, pretending not to see.
The constriction of his jeans told him how badly he wanted her again. In fact, thinking about her now was making it worse. He was incredulous and confused. She must have made a helluva impression on him, because once he took a woman, he was done with her. He never wanted a repeat performance. When he returned to a lover, it was always because no new conquest was on the horizon, or the woman was a means to an end, like Becca. Often he simply used women to escape himself. He craved sex night and day and he knew it had everything to do with the sixty-six years of captivity. When he was satisfying himself, there were no memories and he did not have a past.
He was a selfish lover, and he'd been told so a zillion times. He didn't care. He really didn't care how a woman felt when she was with him. The gods were vain enough to have made sure to make themselves so virile that their lovers were always pleased effortlessly. He'd been lucky enough to inherit that genetic ability from his great-grandfather, or so he assumed. He never bothered to please his lovers, it simply happened---usually the moment he really got down to the task at hand of pleasing himself.
But Sam Rose had the kind of face and body that made a man want to touch her. He couldn't recall ever stroking a lover. When he kissed his lovers, he did so savagely---and he'd avoided kissing Sam.
He stared at the ceiling until the moldings blurred. He hadn't caressed her, not even once. He'd pounded her---she'd pounded him. He hadn't kissed her, but he'd felt her skin acutely and been as acutely aware of her mouth. Now he trembled, recalling the one kiss they had shared ouside of the vault. It had been fierce and she had instigated it.
Suddenly he wished he'd kissed her, savagely or not, and touched her, maybe running his hand up and down one incredible leg. He was becoming hotter thinking about it.
What was wrong with him? Why was he lying in bed, hot and bothered, after sex?
He'd never known a woman like her. He could admit that. It went beyond the face and body. It went beyond her ability as a Slayer. He kept coming back to her courage. She had more courage in her pinkie than he had in his entire body. Her courage amazed him, enthralled him. Maybe that was the point of obsession.
Suddenly he hoped he hadn't hurt her.
Ian launched himself into a sitting position. He was an unfeeling, uncaring man and he knew it. It was all a part of his defective nature. When you were kept prisoner for over six decades, you had damned well better care only about yourself. He didn't think to change, didn't want to change, because being heartless was the best means of survival there was. He knew it firsthand.
But he didn't want to hurt Sam Rose. And what the hell did that mean?
Suddenly he recalled her standing naked in the living room, holding the track suit he'd given her in front of her body, as if shy or modest. She'd almost looked vulnerable...Sam Rose would never be vulnerable. He could not decipher that moment. It had simply been awkward for them both. And that didn't make any sense, either.
Deliberately, he hadn't tried to read her mind. He hadn't wanted to know what she was thinking.
That has to hurt.
I like pain.
He flushed. He was going to reveal the rest of his secrets while in her bed, if he wasn't careful. He hated pain, but the flashes of pain that ring caused were as necessary to him as breathing.
The images of the boy began, hazy and hurtful, but he closed his eyes and shut them out. Instead, he saw his grandfather, cruel and satisfied. He saw the various faces of his guards. He saw the monk, the last great evil he had been with, a captor who had toyed with his mind, at times his best friend, at other times, his worst enemy.
His gut churned with sick dismay now. The desire started to recede. Afraid he'd have a flashback, Ian got up and started to dress, but he was thoughtful.
He'd used Sam Rose for sex and she'd used him in return. He was accustomed to using women. He hadn't met a woman yet who wouldn't do whatever he wished in return for sex. It wasn't conscious on their parts. It was the power given by the gods, making sexual persuasion a form of hypnosis, making the sexual desire impossible to resist. He'd used Becca ruthlessly to get into the vault and scout it out, so he could then steal the page.
Sam Rose was very powerful. And she was smart. But she was starting to feel sorry for him.
And she had access to the file.
He pulled on a T-shirt. He hated her suspecting his secrets. He hated her compassion. He was almost certain he'd seen pity in her eyes a moment ago, as he had in Nick's office. He'd seen concern, too.
She'd meant to play him last night by showing him that tape. He smiled. But he hadn't been played, not by a long shot.
Why not let her feel sorry for him?
Could Sam Rose be manipulated into giving him that file?
He tensed. The last thing he wanted was involvement of any kind. Besides, he was incapable of even the most basic and casual relationships. He had no friends.
He should stay away from her---but he knew that was impossible. He remained too agitated with arousal, even now. And he was accustomed to taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, especially when it came to sex.
He simply wasn't certain she could be manipulated just with sex.
But he could damn well try.
CHAPTER TEN
"ARE YOU GOING TO invite me up for a drink?" Sam stepped out of the shadows cast by the setting sun as she spoke.
Rupert Hemmer had just gotten out of his sedan and was about to enter his building. She'd been waiting for him. It was about six o' clock.
He slowly turned. Instead of evincing surprise, he smiled, pleased. "Well, if it isn't the mysterious Samantha. You stood us all up last night. I was so very disappointed."
Sam smiled back at him, but her insides curdled. His evil was suddenly present, as if he'd kept it disguised previously. That could be done with black power or black magic. "Something came up." Just in case he could read minds, she kept hers blank.
He looked at her now, taking in her short denim skirt, the muscle tank, and the heavy biker boots. "An interesting choice of attire for cocktails. Of course you can come up. Where's your latest toy?"
"Probably doing your wife."
Hemmer's smile didn't falter but his expression darkened. She'd hit a nerve. "I expect attitude from you, Samantha. You will hardly unbalance me with your remarks."
"Actually, it's Sam. And I expect blackmail from you, Rupert."
He smiled coldly and led her past the doorman to the four brass elevators at the lobby's other end. "Maybe Becca is with Maclean. She told me she's having drinks with the girls tonight. She has enough to go around, if you know what I mean."
"So much for true love." But her heart had lurched unpleasantly at the idea of Ian being with Becca Hemmer now.
Not that it should matter what he did or who he did it with. Last night had been casual and meaningless, for both of them. But she'd been thinking about him far too much and that inkling of compassion hadn't gone away. Worse, it seemed to have taken root beside a seed of concern.
Hemmer gave her a look. "I married her for her amazing body and the way she uses her mouth. Not to mention that my rivals all lose their wits when she's present." He shrugged. "You have enough to go around, too, don't you, Samantha?"
"I'm actually all played out. Can you believe it?"
"It must have been quite the night." His eyes gleamed as they stepped into the elevator. "You do know what it means if they're together?"
"It means we have your place all to our lonely selves. Lucky me. So, where did you get the DVD?" Hemmer had remained on the top of her to-do list. After all, he'd been the bearer of bad gifts. She'd spoken to Kit and the DVD wasn't a fake.
Which meant that one day, she and Maclean would make love. Her heart thundered.
Hemmer pressed the elevator button to the penthouse. "I collect sex tapes, Samantha. I decided to start a folder just for you."
She tensed. "How nice."
"I think so."
"You went to a lot of trouble to get that tape, then."
"Not really."
"The video came from the future."
"Clever girl."
"Mortals can't time travel. So who does your dirty work for you?"
"Actually, even though I'm very human, I do have the power."
Sam met his gaze, no longer smiling. It was not a good thing if Hemmer could leap through time at will. "Wow. So, what did it cost you---your soul?"
He led her out. "Something like that." He smiled at her, as if truly pleased.
Sam shivered.
"Cold?"
"Some evil entities bring a great chill with them."
"Yes, some do."
"What do you expect me to do for you, Hemmer? Other than to do you, which I won't, actually, good girl that I am."
He chuckled as they stepped into the large marble foyer where he'd held the previous evening's party; a handful of liveried servants immediately materialized. "I fully expect you to change your mind. I'm a very patient man and I can wait, Samantha."
"It's Sam."
He darkened again. "I so dislike nicknames."
"I so dislike demons and their offspring, full-blooded or not. In fact, I dislike evil, period, no matter the shape, form, gender or DOB."
He faced her. "You're not afraid of me. That will change."
Sam shrugged. "Hope's a wonderful thing."
"But the lack of respect, well, that does bother me. I admit it. I look forward to changing that myself...tonight."
Sam wondered what ugly tricks he had up his sleeve. She wasn't afraid. Hemmer was repulsive. The world would be a better place without him. She decided then and there to be the one to do the world a favor, when the time was right. Now she needed to know how he intended to use the DVD, and who his otherworldly connection was. "So let's cut all the crap, Hemmer. What do you want?"
"You know what I want." He led her across the room.
She kept step with him, waiting.
"I want my property back."
Sam laughed at him. "Maclean won't hand the page over to me---and if he did, I'd give it right to my boss!"
"Ah yes, the legendary Nick Forrester."
Sam followed him to the back of the apartment, where the elevators and the vault were. He continued on into the media room. "How do you know Nick?" She was dismayed. Hemmer not only shouldn't know Nick, he shouldn't be aware of CDA's existence.
He gave her a dismissive look. "I'm not a fool. Forrester has been hunting the dark side for decades. We have some common interests."
"Like the page?"
"Actually, yes, but that wasn't what I was thinking of."
"So what do you intend? To hand a copy of the tape over to Nick? He won't care. More importantly, I won't care."
He paused before the entertainment center and smiled at her. "I do my homework, Samantha, before I ever begin negotiations. How else would I have acquired my billions?"
"And that means...?"
"It means I know that you wouldn't care if your sex tape was on every movie screen in America."
This was not going well, Sam thought. "So blackmail is out."
"Actually, blackmail can be so effective, if done right."
She shivered. "And you will blackmail me...how?"
"Get me the page or I will torture Maclean---and enjoy every moment." And his eyes blazed.
Sam went still. She'd been outplayed. The DVD had been a diversion. He knew too much about her and her feelings if he'd use Maclean to threaten her. But of course he did. They'd made love on that tape and he'd seen it. She fought the sudden dismay. Ian couldn't withstand torture. She simply knew it. He'd been through enough.
But Maclean had white power, even if he didn't use it very often. She knew he was powerful---she felt it every time he was present. So the question was, how much evil had Hemmer acquired? What could he do, exactly? And was Ian powerful enough to thwart him? "If push comes to shove, I have a feeling Maclean will eat you up and spit you out in indigestible lumps."
"And you will watch," he added softly. "I will torture him until he sobs like a little boy and begs for mercy like the coward that he is. Once he's broken all over again, I can think of numerous ways to add to my power while adding to his humiliation."
A shiver went through her. "So you plan to subdue both of us?"
"I certainly do. Now, what do you prefer? You strike me as the dirty martini type."
"A virgin Mary," she said.
He smiled. "You are delightful, Samantha. Have you ever bored a man?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"I've decided to forgive you for standing me up last night. In fact, I've decided to be the one providing this evening's entertainment---if I haven't done so already."
Sam tensed. This was it---his big move. His king to her queen.
An entire wall housed a built-in wet bar and a media center. He turned and the oversize cherrywood doors opened, revealing a movie-size screen. "I do like modern technology," he said.
Just then, Sam did not like surprises. "So what's on the Free Per View?" Did he have more videos of her in the sack? With Maclean? With her past lovers? Sam told herself she didn't care, but somehow, she knew that she was not going to like whatever came up on that screen.
He sent her a dark smile and inserted a DVD. It was night and there was a full moon. She waited for a wolf to howl. Instead, there was a city skyline. The rooftops seemed old-fashioned.
She heard a horn blaring and then there were odd, rasping sounds, clawlike, maybe the sounds of rodents.
There was sharp, frightened panting.
It was human.
It was time to walk away.
He seized her wrist. "Not so fast."
Sam was about to shake him off but two demons appeared and closed in on her instead. Before Sam could move to take the two guards out, Hemmer said, "But you are so concerned for your dark lover."
Sam went still, returning her gaze to the screen.
A cage was swinging slowly in the air. And something was in it...no, not something. Someone.
The camera zoomed in.
And she saw the boy's pale face, his glazed eyes. He gripped the bars, clearly wanting to get out. But there was no expression on his face. He was so still, he could have been carved from wax. He might have only been eight or nine years old, but she knew who it was without being told.
Sam breathed hard.
A hand moved into the frame. The camera zoomed in. It was a man's hand and he wore a very large, gold antique signet ring. As it began unlocking the door to the cage, the boy seized that hand. Sam's heart lurched. The boy began kissing it...
"He's not so sexy now, is he?" Hemmer laughed.
She was sick enough to vomit. They'd really broken him. Sam felt surging anger. It consumed her and she didn't even try to control it. She whirled, impaling one demonic guard with her dagger. His eyes widened and he began to collapse. Before the other guard reached for her, she summoned the tiny, razor-edged disk into her hand. She flung it at his throat. It went through skin, cartilage, flesh and bone, severing his head from his shoulders. Then she whirled to take care of Hemmer with her bare hands.
"You really should choose your liaisons with more care. Do you really want to become involved with that pathetic bastard?" Before he finished speaking, he vanished.
Sam cried out in frustration. Then she strode to the video system and hit the power button, stopping the tape. She stood there, trembling in rage.
Hemmer was allied with an evil entity that had given him demonic power.
And that video...she wished she hadn't seen it.
She reminded herself it had only been a boy in a cage, but the reminder didn't work. Because that boy had been broken...
When they'd taken that video, had he been their prisoner for months? A few years? Or had it already been decades?
How long had they kept him in there?
Had that been Moray's hand?
And in that single moment, she knew that she'd get Hemmer the page of illusion if pressed. She would not allow Maclean to suffer again.
But they weren't at that impasse yet.
Sam hurried over to the dead demons. They were beginning to disintegrate and she gathered up her weapons. The dagger went into a thigh strap under her skirt, the disk into a case strapped around her waist beneath her tank top. His office was adjacent to the vault. Maybe she could find the code to get inside, if she were really lucky. She doubted she had a lot of time.
"I told ye to stay away from Hemmer."
Sam hadn't even felt his presence. She jerked, looking up. Maclean stood in the media room doorway, as still as a statue, his face unusually pale. "How long have you been there?"
"A moment," he said harshly.
She stared. She couldn't tell if he knew what had just happened with the video. She prayed that was not the case. "You know what they say. You can't teach an old dog new tricks. Why are you here?"
"Hemmer is dangerous. I said it before and I'm saying it again."
She stood. "No kidding. In fact, he happens to have some superbad friends who've given him some superbad powers. What brings you down to this neck of the woods, Maclean?"
"I knew ye were here."
She stared sharply. "Were you spying on me?"
He shrugged.
She was grim. If he had the kind of visual telepathy she was coming to believe he had, he could lurk on her at any time. It was unnerving. "I know you didn't come down here to rescue me."
"Yer a tough girl. Ye don't need me to rescue ye."
"Even tough girls can use a helping hand from time to time," she snapped. "Anyway, your timing is perfect. Hemmer vanished---into time. Yep, he has the power. Isn't that great?" She started toward him. He didn't move. She halted in front of him. "I'm asking you for a big, fat favor. I want to get inside the vault before he returns."
His gaze held hers. "It's a trap."
"He knew I was going to jack his chain and wrap it around his scummy throat. He left because he was afraid."
"He's not afraid of ye. It's a trap." His stare was unwavering now.
She seized his wrist and said, "Open the vault for me." But the moment she held on to him, she recalled every heated moment of the night before, much to her dismay.
He stared at her, his eyes changing, too. They became a darker gray, warming.
She dropped her hold. "Let's go. Time's a-wasting."
He seized her hand now. "Who's afraid...of who?"
Her insides vanished. "Last night was a bad idea."
He slowly smiled. "Really? Forget the vault."
Unbelievably, she was tempted. She wet her lips and shook her head. "The vault, Maclean. We can debate the merits of our having sex another time."
He released her. Whirling, he started toward the vault. She hurried to keep up.
He reached for the lever, pausing. Sam glanced at his face. It was hard and set. He was angry, but she wasn't sure why. Again, she wondered if he knew about Hemmer's video.
If he had to put an effort into disarming the security system and the locks, she couldn't tell. He pushed down hard on the lever and the steel door opened. He then stepped back. "Go ahead, Sam." He was disapproving.
Sam ignored the tone of his voice. She stepped past him quickly, excited now to find the evil in the vault. Once inside, she paused. Maclean remained in the doorway. She realized she didn't feel a thing. Softly, she cursed. "I'm not sensing it. Can you help me out here, Maclean?"
He stepped into the vault reluctantly. As he did so, his blunt fingers went to the collar of his polo shirt, adjusting it as if he were warm. It crossed her mind that he often acted as if his shirt collars were constricting.
He nodded behind her. "It's over there."
Sam turned. As she did, she felt a finger of black malice touch her and she shivered. Suddenly she knew it had been waiting for her, before making its presence known. But she still didn't know what "it" was.
Maclean walked over to a dark painting of a family gathered at a small table in a cottage. He lifted it from its hook.
Sam hurried over. An inscription was engraved on the cement wall behind the painting, consisting of hieroglyphics that glowed, as if burning embers. "What is that?"
Ian didn't answer her. Sam realized he had paled. "Ian?"
"I've seen this before," he said grimly.
Laughter sounded.
As one, Sam and Ian whirled. Hemmer stood in the doorway, grinning at them. He simply shut the vault door in their faces. The locks clicked.
Ian inhaled sharply.
Sam glanced at him and saw that he was very white now. She didn't get it. Ian could leap---or so he said. He could not be locked inside a vault.
"Ian? Hemmer's obviously toying with us."
He ripped his collar open, breathing hard.
It took Sam a split second to realize he was having some kind of attack. "Do you have asthma?" she asked.
He didn't answer, choking. He was turning red now.
"Ian!" She put her arm around him, alarmed. "Is it asthma?"
"No...I can't breathe!" He went down to his knees. Sweat streaked his brow and temples. He gasped for air.
He was either claustrophobic or having a panic attack. She knelt with him, keeping her arm around him. "Ian, there's plenty of air in here. And we're not locked in. You can leap."
He looked at her. His eyes were wide with panic.
Sam was stunned. He was truly afraid...
And then he simply vanished into thin air.
But she heard his screams.
ON HIS BACK, he stared up at the ceiling of his library, moaning uncontrollably. Tears streamed. There was so much pain. He couldn't bear it. He had to remind himself that he wasn't a child now or a prisoner. He had to consciously recall that the pain would pass. It felt like he was broken in a thousand bits and pieces. It felt like he was dying. He'd leapt before, when there hadn't been a choice. Or when a desperate and reckless urgency had outweighed his fear of the leap. But just then, he wanted to die. Not for the first time, he prayed he would finally find release.
"Sir!" Gerard knelt beside him.
He felt a finger of relief. Even as he moaned and shuddered, racked by the torment of broken bones and shattered limbs, he was vaguely aware of Gerard's presence, of a cooling compress, of pills being pushed into his mouth.
He closed his eyes tightly. The leap through space and time was horrific. Traveling at that velocity turned a man inside out. It felt as if his every limb was being ripped from each socket, as if the skin was being torn from his body, as if his muscles were shredding, the bones cracking apart and then splintering into a million pieces. His organs felt like balloons, overfilled and then bursting.
He'd begged the gods for mercy.
No one had been able to hear him, of course. He'd begged them for mercy long ago, too, but silently, so his tormentors wouldn't hear him.
The gods had ignored those pleas, too. Because they'd wanted him alive. To this day, he couldn't comprehend why.
The pain was finally easing.
"Sir, is that any better?" Gerard asked softly.
Tears moistened his face. He had the ability now to swipe at them. He hated himself.
But the pain had receded to mere tremors. He hadn't been flayed until he was more dead than alive, or electrocuted, or ripped apart on a rack. He wasn't in a dungeon, a cellar or a cage. He was in his twenty-million-dollar Park Avenue town home. He lay on a beautiful Oriental rug surrounded by works of art and antiques, with his majordomo kneeling beside him.
"It's better," Ian gasped. Then he rolled onto his stomach and vomited.
Then, somehow, he sat up, with Gerard's help. It always shocked him to find out that his body wasn't broken after all, that he could still function. Gerard pressed a glass to his lips. He swallowed aged scotch whiskey. As he did, the panic and fear finally rolled away, as the ocean did at low tide. He breathed deeply.
Sam.
Ian stiffened in disbelief. He'd left her alone in the vault. "Gerard!" He struggled to stand; Gerard helped him.
"Sir, you should rest. Whatever possessed you to leap? You cannot withstand the reminder!"
He met Gerard's concerned gaze. "Bring my car around. Now."
He should leap back to her. It would take less than a second.
He simply wasn't brave enough.
SAM WAS in disbelief.
Ian had leapt into time, leaving her a prisoner in the vault!
And Hemmer could come back at any time!
She would have laughed, because it was so absurd, so unbelievable, for him to abandon her that way, except that nothing that had just happened was funny. He had panicked.
In that moment, there was absolute comprehension. Ian Maclean came across as an arrogant self-centered jerk, at once wealthy, seductive and powerful. Most people would think he had the world at his fingertips. He sauntered about the city as if he had no cares.
It was a facade.
He'd just become unglued by being locked in a vault, when he had the power to leap through time and space and free himself. Of course he had. They'd put him in a cage. That much she knew. They had probably locked him up a hundred different ways. Being locked in the vault had triggered reactions he couldn't control.
Just the way he'd come unglued when he'd destroyed John. Facing that demon had brought another kind of reaction. He'd gone berserk in the process of destroying it, and broken down afterward. He'd shed tears. And she didn't know what those tears had meant, either.
She'd never forget what she'd just seen a moment ago---or what she'd seen in his apartment the other night.
But there was so much more. Maclean was unbelievably complicated. He hadn't been careless or indifferent when he'd been trying to bargain with Nick over his file. He'd been angry and desperate. The facade had been shattered then, too.
Ian Maclean was badly fractured. Beneath the surface arrogance and nonchalance, the indifference and who-gives-a-damn attitude, she couldn't imagine what really existed. She'd seen glimpses. There was fear, anger, pain. Just possibly, there was shame. He certainly was determined to keep his past covered up and she didn't blame him. The bad-boy image was only the tip of the iceberg.
Sam told herself that if she started giving him the benefit of the doubt, she was done. Compassion was bad enough, but trying to make him into someone okay was not. He wasn't okay. He wasn't kind or caring---not at all. In fact, he was ruthless and selfish. But she didn't feel better. Because now she knew why.
She'd be ruthless and self-centered, too, if she'd been locked up for sixty-six years by one of history's greatest demons.
He'd come all the way downtown to Hemmer's because he'd thought she was there and in trouble.
"Get it together, Rose," she warned herself. The Sam of old would be furious at being abandoned in such a cowardly way. She'd have no respect for anyone who turned tail and ran. But she wasn't angry at all. She was shaken by what she'd seen and what she was starting to comprehend. Very few human beings, mortal or not, could survive what he'd survived with any degree of sanity.
What if he wasn't half as bad as he made himself out to be?
What if a real person was buried beneath the bad-boy facade?
Sam couldn't believe herself. She shouldn't be thinking about him. None of this was her business. Her business was recovering the page.
But she was thinking about him. Worse, she wanted to know even more. And she was definitely feeling sorry for him. There was no way to avoid her feelings now.
Sam cursed.
If he wasn't a total jerk, if a heart beat in that hard, sexy chest, so what? The day the page wound up in the right hands was the day they were done. He'd go his way and she'd go hers, never mind that sex tape from the future. Something was wrong with that tape. She wasn't capable of smiling at a lover that way, and Maclean wasn't capable of making love.
She told herself to forget it. She would be thrilled when they were done. Her life could go back to normal: Sam the Slayer, alone against the evil in the world.
And she thought about her sister and Brie, then Allie. She sighed and sat down on the floor. She didn't even know what was normal anymore, she thought.
She was facing the locked vault door. She needed to think about that. There was only one way in and out of the vault, obviously. At some point soon, Ian would recover from the leap. Maybe he'd return and free her. She was fairly certain he wouldn't leave her in the vault to rot. On the other hand, she was not into relying on others or counting on miracles. She needed to prepare herself for a battle. If Hemmer came back, she'd have to take him out in order to free herself.
She lusted to destroy Hemmer now. The bastard had threatened Ian. He deserved a really good, slow, old-fashioned hanging.
Sam got back up to adjust her weapons. And that was when comprehension suddenly clicked.
Hemmer surely knew that Ian could leap if he had to, because that was how Ian had stolen the van Gogh for him. And that meant that Hemmer hadn't cared about capturing Ian. She'd been the target.
As she realized that, she felt the huge and heavy weight of evil gathering outside the vault. She tensed. Hemmer did not carry such darkness with him. Too much black power was out there.
The locks clicked.
Sam slid her disk into her hand.
The vault door was pushed open, revealing a man in dark robes.
It took her one moment to realize that the evil being wasn't a modern-day monk. His robes were from an earlier time, the wool was coarsely woven, and he wore pointy shoes. He even had a leather and cord girdle, from which hung big, awkward keys. He was medieval.
Her brain buzzed. You're out of your time. Nick had accused Ian of that. And she was standing face-to-face with a medieval man now.
"'Allo, Samantha Rose," the cleric said, smiling. He had a heavy French accent. He lifted his hood and cowl, revealing the perfect features, the blue eyes and blond hair of the purest demon. The monk would give Brad Pitt a run for Angelina Jolie's heart.
The circle was closing in on her, she thought, unafraid. First Allie, then Brie and Tabby. Now, a demon from medieval times was confronting her---and Ian might be medieval, too.
"Nice to meet you," she quipped. "So what time are you from?"
He chuckled. "I'm from 1527."
Ian had been released from his captivity in 1502. "Hey, you must know Maclean."
His brows lifted. "I am very fond of Ian."
She tensed. She got every innuendo in his soft tone. "You motherfucking son of a bitch," she spat.
"Have I hit a nerve?"
Sam told herself not to get sick. She wanted to kill him. He held up his hand, laughing.
"Kill me and you'll never have the answers you crave."
He could read minds. Her control was gone, her temper consuming. "So tell me what I want to know."
"Yes, I knew him when he was the great Moray's prisoner."
She shook with rage. "I thought so. Hey, you're in for a surprise. He's not a kid anymore, he's not helpless---and he's not alone."
"Really? And who is on his side? You?" He shook his head, amused. "In case you haven't noticed, you're my prisoner and not capable of helping anyone right now."
"Shows how much you know."
"You're so different from Lady Tabitha."
Sam breathed in. Tabby was in 1527 now. "So you know Tabby. What is she, a best bud, too?"
"I prefer to keep my distance from her, actually. I could vanquish both her and Macleod, but I don't see the point in engagement." He smiled. "His temper is worse than yours."
Ha, Sam thought, furious now. Of course he kept his distance. In the early sixteenth century, Tabby was an extremely powerful witch. Not to mention that her hubby was a superpowerful Master.
This had started with Maclean. Now, she didn't know if it was only about him or her, Tabby or all of them. "What do you want?" Sam demanded. "I'm tired of word games. Not really my style---if a medieval son of Satan like you can get my drift."
"You know what I want, Sam, as does Ian. In fact, he knows exactly what I want."
The page of illusion. She didn't think he was working with Hemmer---she didn't think he'd like to share, or vice versa. But Hemmer had locked her in---and now the monk was there, so one never knew. She wanted to murder him on the spot. She was livid, the second time she'd lost control of her temper in just a few moments. She was never angry when in the field. Angry slayers became dead slayers and no one had to tell her that.
But it was too late. She was completely pissed off. Maclean needed justice. So did she.
"You know what I think? I think you need a lesson in humility and boundaries."
He smiled with relish. "When we're done, you will know your boundaries, if you're still alive."
"Hmm. A threat. I really don't like threats..." She smiled and flung the disk at his throat.
He held up his hand. In the blink of an eyelash, Sam knew what he intended. She didn't know if he could do it but she wasn't going to stand there and find out. She ducked.
The black power rushing from his hand turned the disk and sent it whizzing back at her, so swiftly it hissed.
It sliced the air above her hair and embedded itself in a painting.
"Ouch," Sam said, glancing over her shoulder. "Isn't that a John Singer Sargent? Hemmer will be pissed." But she was stunned. The monk had a lot of black power, ranking him right up there with the likes of the legendary Moray.
Some demons were nearly invincible and lived thousands of years to prove it, as Moray had. She refused to believe them immortal, though, and this one wasn't going to live a thousand damned years.
"Samantha, you want to go back and see your sister. If you cooperate, I am sure I can arrange a meeting."
He could take her back to Tabby.
"I can and will take you back. Once you give me the page."
She came to her senses. "Moron!" Sam sent her dagger across the vault.
She had dead aim. It should have struck him in his black, bloodless heart. But he flicked his fingers as her throw began, and the blade turned 180 degrees again. This time, the weapon impaled the floor at her feet, instead.
Okay, she thought, I am in deep shit.
She came at him anyway, a razor between her fingers.
His black power blazed.
As if struck by a cyclone, she was lifted from the ground and carried across the vault, where she smashed into the opposite wall with terrific force. She heard her bones crack. For one moment, she lay on the floor, stunned.
Then a blinding pain went though her right shoulder and collarbone.
"Get up," he taunted. "I won't kill you. I have a message for Maclean."
This was a moment for all the Rose women. In the past, when she'd come across this kind of evil, Allie would be there to heal, Brie would have seen it all coming, and Tabby would work her magic. Good would win the day. But Samantha was entirely alone.
"Tell Ian I have a new maze, just for him," the monk said softly.
Gripping the very lethal razor, Sam shifted to get up and cried out, incapacitated by the pain searing through her.
The demon monk laughed and approached her.
Sam tensed, ready for his onslaught, ready to fight back.
"Laugh at me," Ian said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MONK WAS STILL STANDING over her. Sam looked up and saw Ian in the doorway. He looked like hell. But as ravaged as he seemed, he was furious. His hand trembled as he lifted it. Sam wondered what had happened to him and if he had the strength to save the day. But he sent a blazing streak of white energy into the vault.
As it raced toward the demon like a tidal wave, the monk vanished. Sam covered her head with her arms as his power struck the wall behind her. Plaster cracked. Paintings fell. A chunk of the ceiling crashed by her. When the vault quieted, she took a deep breath.
Ian knelt beside her. "How badly are ye hurt?" he demanded.
Sam looked up. She'd dislocated her right shoulder, she was certain, but it was the acute throbbing in her collarbone which worried her. The pain was blinding. She was determined not to pass out. "I'll be fine," she said. She started to sit up and instantly became faint.
He knelt and put his arm around her waist. "Can ye admit to being hurt?"
"Okay, damn it. I'm hurt. It hurts." She gritted, fighting waves of dizziness. Was he worried? "Who was that?"
His gray gaze was averted and he seemed to hesitate. "I didn't see his face." She heard him breathe harshly. "He had his back to me."
Something was wrong, Sam thought. The waves of gray became waves of black. "He came from 1527," she managed hoarsely. "He knows you---he's from your past."
Ian's expression tightened as their gazes met. "Lie back down," he told her.
"Are you sure you didn't recognize him?" But she sank down and found herself in his arms, and the dizzy feeling instantly receded. His arms were strong and so damned familiar. He was almost reassuring.
Disconcerted, she started to sit up, pushing away from him. "We have to get out of here. Hemmer might come back. The monk might come back. No, amend that---he will come back. I can get medical attention on Five."
He ignored her, his face hard and set. "Stop wiggling," he said, clasping her shoulder.
Sam choked, refusing to cry out as he touched her. She gritted, "What are you doing? Trying to kill me?"
"Shut up," he snapped.
Sam twisted to look up at him. He refused to meet her gaze, his face set in lines of fierce concentration. She collapsed against him, aware of the breadth and hardness of his chest. It was hard to think. Shit. She was going to pass out...
Suddenly Sam felt soothing warmth creeping through her shoulder and collarbone. The warmth eased the coursing pain. The moment she did, she realized what he was doing. "You can heal?" she gasped. And she saw the white rain coming from his hands.
His mouth tightened. Clearly he would not answer.
Aidan had healed Brie once, even before his redemption. Sam leaned against him, closing her eyes, gasping in relief, his healing power flowing into her. As the pain in her collarbone receded, the haze in her mind eased, too. Maclean could heal.
She looked up, lying against his hard thighs now, and studied his determined face. He hated doing this, she thought. Did he hate being a good guy?
"Why did you come back for me?"
He finally looked at her, with annoyance. "So we can go back to my bed."
"Liar," she said. Didn't this make him a good guy? She wasn't supposed to care, but she felt an odd elation---damn it. "I think you care just a little," she said. "About the war on evil, not me. The indifference, it's a part of the phony facade."
"Can ye be quiet?" His tone was harsh.
She looked at him closely. "I'm starting to get you, Maclean. Why does that bother you?"
"Really?" He dropped his hands. "Think what ye want. That's the best I can do."
She sat up. They were almost eye to eye because Maclean still knelt. "Thanks for the healing."
He shrugged. "Ye should go to an E.R. and get that shoulder set."
"You really do care. I'm touched." Their gazes met. When he didn't speak, Sam slid her fingers into the neckline of his shirt and tightened her grasp. "I wasn't sure you'd come back for me."
"I had to think about it."
Sam didn't know whether to believe him or not.
He grasped her shoulders. "I'm everything ye think I am...an arrogant, selfish bastard...a complete user. But I want ye. Come back with me to my place. I want to use ye tonight."
He was hiding behind the bad-boy facade again. "I'll think about that."
"Really?" And Ian snapped her shoulder back into the joint.
Sam gasped, reeling from the pain, but it was already gone. "Thanks for the warning," she said.
He had stood up and he just stared down at her. She slowly stood up, too. Everything seemed to be in working order. She took a moment to breathe deeply. Then she looked at him. It was time to get down to business. "The monk knows you, Ian."
He shrugged, but his long lashes had drifted down, hiding his eyes. "What did he want?"
Was there a tremor in his tone? "He didn't really say. He said you know what he wants."
Ian turned abruptly and strode away from her.
His shoulders were absolutely rigid. She followed, recalling the horrible innuendoes in the monk's taunting words. "He's probably in cahoots with Hemmer, although I can't imagine how that partnership would work. The monk threatened me, by the way." Ian was at the vault's door. He paused to stare at her. "And Hemmer threatened you. I just remembered---the monk gave me a message for you." Sam hesitated. She didn't know what the monk's message meant, but she sensed it would distress Ian greatly.
Ian glanced sharply at her. "What did he say?"
"He said something about a maze---one he has just for you."
Ian paled.
He was afraid. "We're being double teamed. The monk has too much power and Hemmer's no small fry. It's time to come clean. Who is he?" Sam demanded. "What does that mean? Why 1527?"
He breathed hard. When he shoved his hands into the pockets of the blazer he wore, Sam saw that they were trembling. "I belong in 1527," he said grimly. "You heard Nick mention that I'm out of my time."
"Yeah," Sam said slowly, wanting the truth, "I heard."
"I was released in 1502---twenty-five years ago."
"So Nick was right," Sam said slowly. "You're not modern, not at all. Never mind the jeans, the art, the cars, the fine homes. You should be living in medieval times."
"Like hell," he snarled at her.
His days in the modern world were numbered. No one could defy the gods and Fate. He was not supposed to be living in New York City. She was dismayed. She had no right to that feeling, either.
When this was over, they'd go their separate ways. More than ideals and morals would separate them---centuries would separate them.
"Let's go," Ian said suddenly, striding out of the vault.
Sam rushed after him, aware that he did not want to be locked up again. Neither did she, but there was more to discuss. "You know who the monk is, don't you?"
He never paused. "Yeah, I do."
"Why won't you tell me what we're up against? Why do you fear him?"
"Fine," he erupted, facing her. "He was my captor those last ten years! Are ye happy now?"
Sam studied him. "How dangerous is he?"
He started forward. "He's evil---a deamhan."
"If he was your captor for a decade, you must know him well."
He didn't answer. Revulsion was etched onto his face.
She hurried to keep up. "Maclean, I'm sorry for what you went through," she began.
"Like hell!" he turned and shouted at her. "Ye know nothing of my past! You know nothing of me!"
She wanted to touch him but she kept her hands to herself. "I know evil. I've fought evil for most of my life, in its every form and shape. And I'll fight this evil with you, Ian."
"Why? Because ye pity me?"
She shook her head. "Because I never run and I like payback. He did just challenge me."
But he saw through her. "Fearless Sam, as brave as always." He was mocking.
"You make it sound like a bad thing."
He shook his head, the tension still etched in every tight line of his face and body. "No. I admire yer courage. I always have."
She was shocked. "Did you just say something nice to me?"
For one moment, his gaze held hers. There was so much reluctance in his eyes. Then he shrugged. "It's the truth. But ye have the death wish now. Sometimes it's better to be a coward and run. You should run from the monk."
"Is that what you plan on doing?"
He started forward. "I didn't say that."
"Good, then it's a plan. We take on the sonuvabitch together."
He laughed at her, slowing. "That might be yer plan, Sam, but it's not mine. My only plan is to enjoy your body tonight and proceed with my auction on Friday."
"You know what? I'm not buying the coldhearted sex-is-everything act. You're shaken up, and frankly, so am I. So we need to start working together."
His gaze was sharp. "Are ye being serious? Yer never shaken."
"You weren't there in that vault a moment ago. He took my power and used it against me. I almost lost my head, courtesy of my own weapons. He has more power than I've ever seen, except of course for your buddies, the Masters. But you know what? Even the mighty fall."
Sam couldn't decipher the look he gave her. What was he thinking? How upset was he? "Have you ever come face-to-face with one of your captors before?" She thought of what he'd done to John.
His mouth curled. "No."
She decided not to make a quip about there being a first time for everything. "I owe you, Maclean. No doubt about it."
"Ye owe me nothing." He leaned close and said tersely, "I have the page of illusion. I am still planning to sell it and walk away with the millions. To hell with the monk and Hemmer. I am not a Slayer." He strode past the media room.
Sam breathed hard, watching him go. He was really good at cover-ups, she decided, and this was another one. He was on edge, no doubt about it, and she didn't blame him. She didn't care what he said, she was not letting him go up against one of his captors alone. So when it came to the page, they were rivals, but when it came to the monk and Hemmer, they were allies. If he didn't think so, it was tough luck. And if he intended to sell the page and walk away, that was okay, too. She'd take down the bad guys by herself.
He was almost at the elevators. She glanced at the media room. She couldn't leave that video in Hemmer's hands. She didn't want him using it against Ian, not in any way.
She didn't want Ian to know about it, either.
He suddenly halted and faced her. "I'm not leaving you here. Let's go," he ordered.
To hide her concern, she mocked, "But you don't care about my welfare."
His eyes blazed. "Let's go, Sam."
She somehow smiled. "I have some unfinished work to do. I'll catch up with you in a few hours. Maybe I'll even jump into the sack with you...lucky guy."
His gaze narrowed.
She blocked her thoughts, even though she was beginning to think he wasn't all that good at mind reading. "I work at night, remember?"
His gaze veered behind her, at the media room. "What are ye up to?"
She wet her lips. "Hemmer has a collection of sex tapes. He's got the one you saw and he might have others, featuring yours truly."
Ian's eyes widened. She felt his interest change.
"Like hell," she said softly. "Take a hike. This is my business, and I'll catch up with you later. Promise."
Instead of going out the door, he approached. "You're lying. I can feel it. While ye might be mad that Hemmer has seen ye with yer other lovers, ye wouldn't stay here, in jeopardy, to get the tapes. What's in the room?"
A terribly graphic image of the swinging cage assailed her before she could stop the recollection. It was followed by that male hand with the gold signet ring, reaching for the padlocked door.
Clearly, the image was so powerful that Ian saw it, too. He blanched another time. Briefly, he was speechless. He choked, "Ye saw a boy in a cage?"
"No, I didn't see any cage! What are you talking about?"
He seized her. "What did ye see?"
"It was Hemmer," she cried. "I'm sorry! It was just an old, grainy video, maybe from the sixties or seventies. It was just a cage, swinging in the night. Ian, it's okay!"
He was almost green as he released her.
Sam seized him. "Are you going to faint?"
He looked at her with horror. "He has a video...of me in the cage."
Sam kept a tight grip on him. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen someone as shocked. "Ian, it was really out of focus and it was only a cage and---"
He shook her off and cut her off. "What did ye see?" he roared.
She cringed inwardly. "Just a boy!"
"Ye saw me!"
She wanted to cry. She thought her eyes felt moist. She slowly nodded. "No one would ever be able to tell that it was you," she tried.
"You could tell!"
Sam took his hand. He flung her off. "C'mon! You have a really rotten past. I know it---you know it. Damn it, no one else should know it---I agree with you. But this is real life. Life isn't fair. Others know it, too. Hemmer showed me the one clip. I'm sorry."
Ian stormed past her, into the media room. "How many tapes of me does he have?"
She followed. "I have no idea. Did you know they were taping...you?"
He paused when he was inches from the big screen. He was trembling wildly now. "I can't do this," he suddenly said, not turning.
She did not like the sound of that.
He did not look at her. "I'm going to sell the page today."
Her stomach churned with dread. She sensed where he was going. "Ian."
"No. I don't have yer courage. I never have."
She wet her lips. "That's so unfair. What you've been through---"
He cut her off. "Let it be, Sam. I'm taking the money and leaving."
She breathed hard. He was running away. Even though she'd never run from a fight in her life, she understood with her heart and her soul why his instinct was to run. Now was not the time to argue or point out the many instances of bravery she'd witnessed. She kept silent.
He ejected the DVD and faced her, his eyes blazing with hatred and fear now. "So this is goodbye." His mouth curled. "Unless ye want to come home with me because ye owe me a thank you. In which case, I expect sex. Not talking, not questions an' not pity. Just fucking."
It was hard to be flip now. "Wow, you have a way with words. I can't wait to go home with you."
He pushed past her.
It was probably one of the worst instincts she'd ever had, but she did not want him to go back to that Park Avenue mansion alone, especially not with that video in his hand. Sam fought herself. She wasn't Tabby. She didn't know how to nurture or comfort. She knew how to fight; she knew how to get a guy laid. But maybe it was time to learn how to comfort. Because Ian Maclean was in pain.
Sam followed him out.
AS THEY ENTERED Maclean's Park Avenue home, the silence instantly disturbed Sam. Even though he lived alone with the butler, the house should have felt different. But it felt dark and empty, vacant---like a gaping hole in the universe.
Ian had been brooding darkly the entire drive uptown. He'd driven his Escalade recklessly, as if he didn't care if they crashed into another vehicle. Maybe the silence and his distress were just getting to her.
He'd used the key code to get in. The huge door closed behind them. Sam felt her gut churn with unease. "It's too quiet. Something's wrong," she said. "The vibe here has changed."
"Nothing's wrong," he snapped. He gave her a cool look. "Ye know where my bedroom is. Why don't ye go up and get comfortable?"
If she didn't know how upset he was about the video, she'd have called him on that unbelievable remark. "You need a drink. So do I. And Maclean? You might want to be nice for about a second, because I didn't come back here to do you. The jury's still out."
He strode down the hall, leaving her standing alone by the front door.
He was in a helluva mood, she thought. She probably didn't have to worry about whether to go to bed with him or not. That video had dampened his desire, and his reaction to it had certainly dampened hers.
She did not want to know what else was on that tape.
There were three floors in the town house. Maclean was going up the stairs, forgoing the elevator. Now that she knew he was claustrophobic, she was not surprised. She slowly followed. "Maybe we can ask Gerard to bring us something to eat," she said on the stairs.
He vanished at the second landing.
Sam glanced around, wondering where the butler was. Unease was slithering down her spine now. She saw an intercom by the top of the stairs on the landing, and she quickly pressed the starred button. "Gerard?"
When there was no answer, she tried the rest of the buttons, indicating other rooms, but Gerard did not answer. Her unease escalated. Maybe Ian had given him the night off.
She went down the dark, barely lit hall and found Maclean in a large theatre, the DVD in his hand.
She paused on the threshold of the burgundy room. "You don't need to watch that."
He faced her. "Wait for me upstairs."
"We're not doing the deed. We're going to have a drink, eat something, and think about how to confront Hemmer and the monk," she said firmly. Then she heard herself. She sounded like her sister!
"I invited ye here fer sex. If ye don't want to go upstairs, then get out." He marched to the entertainment center and jammed his hand on the DVD player. The tray opened.
"Why are you doing this?" Sam cried.
"Fuck off," he snarled. "Ye saw it, didn't ye?" He jammed the DVD into the tray.
He was out of control. Did he want to inflict more pain on himself? She was determined to stop him.
The screen brightened.
Sam cursed. She strode forward and wrenched the remote from his hand. His eyes widened in shock.
"What will revisiting your past accomplish? Two very evil and powerful beings are out there, and we've both been threatened. Sitting here and wallowing in what they did to you won't help us fight back. We need to prepare, and we need to call in backup."
He seized her wrist, so brutally Sam was shocked. For one moment, she thought he'd snap her bones.
But he didn't. "Get out," he said fiercely. "Get out now. There is no 'we,' Sam. There is no 'us.' So just get out and leave me alone."
Sam breathed hard, almost blinded by the pain of his grasp---or was it the pain she suddenly saw in his eyes? She nodded. He released her. She didn't hesitate. She handed him the remote.
"You're right. There is no 'us.' I've been feeling sorry for you, and I've lost sight of the fact that you're a selfish jerk. Because even though you came back to Hemmer's to help me out today, none of this would be happening if you weren't one greedy bastard. If you gave Nick the page, it would be over. The demon monk and Hemmer would have to attack CDA and the entire United States government to get it, and we'd be out of the picture."
He pressed Play.
"So go ahead, self-flagellate."
He ignored her.
She almost stayed to watch him, as he watched himself being tortured in the past. But what would that accomplish? She wasn't Tabby. And he didn't want comfort anyway. He seemed to want to suffer. He was a wounded tiger in a cage, and right now, he was dangerous. Her wrist still hurt from the way he'd manhandled her. She didn't know whether he was going to implode or explode, but a cataclysm felt imminent.
She hurried from the room as the clawing sounds began. In the hallway she halted, so tense she was ill. She hated what he was doing to himself now.
Hemmer might be human, but he was evil, and he had to go. That probably wouldn't be a problem. The monk, on the other hand, was worrisome.
She heard the frightened breathing now. Sam turned. It crossed her mind that she might not be able to comfort him, but she could distract him...maybe. But before she could go back in and begin a seduction, she heard him roar. The sound was one of rage and anguish. Then she heard the media center come crashing down.
Sam ran back to the room. Ian stood amidst the ruins of the home theatre, which he'd clearly destroyed with his powers. He held his head with both hands, shoulders heaving. She bit her lip and backed out.
He was crying.
Damn it, where was Gerard?
Sam rushed downstairs, heading into the back of the house, where the kitchens would be. Maclean would not want her to see him shedding tears, especially not a second time. The lights were on, illuminating a very contemporary kitchen, mostly black and stainless steel.
The moment she saw the refrigerator door wide open, with no one in sight, she knew something was terribly wrong.
She ran past the granite center island.
Gerard lay motionless on the floor, face up, eyes closed, his face waxen, covered in blood. She'd seen enough victims of violence to know that he'd been stabbed many times and that the blood was his own.
"Maclean!" Sam screamed. Even as she did, she knew there was no way he could hear her from the second floor. She knelt, seeking a pulse. But there was no beat in his artery, and there was so much blood...
Maclean appeared in the kitchen.
Sam looked up. "I can't find a pulse."
He saw Gerard and froze. His eyes widened, and then he choked on horror.
Sam still held Gerard's wrist. As she did, his arm jerked. "Shit, Maclean, I think he's alive!"
Ian knelt, breathing hard. As Sam reached for her cell phone, it crossed her mind that he cared about his servant a lot. "Do not melt down," Sam said, reaching for him. She gripped his arm and he looked at her, his eyes filled with panic. "Can you heal him, Ian?"
Lucidity returned. He inhaled. "I've never healed anyone until a few minutes ago."
She'd analyze that astounding fact later. "Maybe you had better try," she said, speed-dialing the paramedics on Five.
Ian laid his hands directly on Gerard's mangled, bloody chest. As Sam spoke to the dispatch, she saw Ian's color returning, which meant he was getting a grip on himself. Then she saw the wave of white rain coming from his hands, mingling with the blood. "Tell them to hurry," she said, ending the call.
Ian closed his eyes tightly, focused now. His face changed, lines of strain becoming etched there. White rain poured from his hands and began dripping off his shoulders, his neck, and his chest. Sam sat back, watching, stunned. While she could feel his desperation, she also felt his resolve. The one person he cared about was Gerard. He was terrified Gerard would die.
So Sam prayed.
Prayer wasn't her thing. But the Rose women worshipped the old deities, and it was as fundamental as observing the Wisdoms in the Book. As she prayed, she was acutely aware that without Gerard, Ian would be alone in the world.
The white rain kept coming.
Gerard's face relaxed, as if it had previously been set against pain. His eyelashes flickered. "You're doing it, Ian," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer her, shaking like a leaf now.
She took Gerard's wrist and this time she found a steady pulse. As she held it, the pulse became stronger and stronger. His chest seemed less mangled, the wounds became grayish-pink, instead of raw red. Ian moaned.
Gerard opened his eyes. He saw her and gasped with recollection.
The wounds turned pinker now, as the beginnings of infection were chased away.
"Don't move," Sam told him. "Maclean's healing you." And doing a damned good job, she thought. But she was worried about him. "Ian, maybe you should stop."
Ian gave no sign that he heard her.
Gerard glanced up at Ian now. "A monk came," he managed. "There's no more time." He took a huge breath. "I think I'm fine, sir," he said.
"You're not fine. Don't speak," Sam told him grimly. The monk had done this.
Had he decided to take out his rage on Gerard after being thwarted by Ian at the vault? Was this retribution, or a warning? He had known just where Ian lived and who to go after to get at him. And that meant that the monk had been keeping tabs on Maclean.
Ian's terrible shaking suddenly become convulsive. He opened his eyes, and looked at her, gasping.
"You need to stop," she cried, sliding her arm around him.
His eyes closed, and he keeled over, unconscious.
SAM WAS PACING when the medics from Five arrived. Nick was on their heels, and so was Jan.
Gerard knelt beside Ian. As the medics rushed in with their equipment, Sam ran up to them. "He was healing," she told them. "He began to shake and moan and then he simply passed out."
"A Healer, huh?" the big, brawny medic said, kneeling and strapping a blood pressure cuff on Maclean. "We don't see many of those anymore."
Sam felt helpless. Ian remained deathly pale and he had been unmoving for the past fifteen minutes. "There's a pulse. It's really weak."
The female medic was listening to his heart. Nick laid his hand on her shoulder, surprising her. She tensed, facing him.
His blue gaze was searching. "Since when did you go maverick on me?"
She hesitated and glanced at Jan.
"I told him about the DVD."
"Thanks," Sam said, furious.
"It's my job."
"No, it's not," Sam said.
"What the hell happened?" Nick demanded.
"Gerard, the butler, had a bit of a run-in with an unfriendly. He was as good as dead. Maclean brought him back and then he passed out," Sam said harshly.
His stare remained intense and speculative. "Did you know he could heal?"
She shook her head. "This is only the second time he's ever used the power---it's new to him. Nick, the unfriendly is from 1527. He was one of the guards that kept Ian prisoner for Moray." The medics were giving him oxygen now and the female medic was injecting him with something.
Nick knelt beside them. "Is he going to make it?"
"Can you give us a moment?" the big fellow said.
Nick stood, glancing sharply at her hands. Sam realized that she was wringing them compulsively and she stopped. He slowly shook his head. "Let's step into the hall."
She silently cursed. She didn't want to leave Ian, but wasn't going to reveal more of her feelings than she already had. She looked at Jan.
"I'll stay with him," Jan said.
"Great." Sam strode out, Nick on her tail. Then she put her hands on her hips and faced him. "I had every right to protect my privacy."
"Bullshit," he said. "Hemmer gave you the tape. That makes it CDA's business. Maclean stole the page. Hemmer wants it, we want it. This is a case, Rose. And you are involved up to your eyeballs."
She wanted to go back into the kitchen. "Fine! You know what? I feel sorry for him. Are you happy, now?"
"Not really. So fill me in," Nick ordered.
"Hemmer said the tape was a diversion. He's furious. He wants the page, and he's threatened to torture Ian if I don't get it for him." She took a breath. "But he's easy to read. He has some power---like the power to time travel---but I know I can take him down. I told you about the monk. What I didn't tell you was that he's really, really powerful. He kicked my ass, but he seemed reluctant to go up against Maclean directly. When Ian showed up to help me out, he turned tail, then came here to take out his whatever on the butler." She glanced past Nick into the kitchen. She could only see Maclean's legs, as he lay behind the center island. They hadn't changed position.
"Why the butler?"
Sam wet her lips. "Maclean has employed him for decades. He cares about him."
"That must be a first."
"Will you ever give him a break?"
"Why should I? You're giving him enough breaks for us both."
The one thing about Nick was that he was fast and sharp and always had the last word.
"Listen up," Nick said. "Moray used to live here in the city under the alias Robert Moran. And Hemmer was friendly with him."
Sam felt her eyes widen. "What the hell?"
"Two inside tracks that go right back to Moray---one of the most evil beings we've ever known at CDA."
Sam absorbed that. The monk had been a guard, working for Moray. Hemmer had been Moray's friend. "Brie said Moray had parts of the Duisean and that they were stashed here in the city. How much do you want to bet that the monk's power is coming from the book?"
"Great minds think alike. Except, if the monk got powers from Moray after he was vanquished, and he's from 1527 now, I think we can assume that whatever he has, it's back in the sixteenth century."
"I'll follow the monk back! I'm going back, Nick," she warned.
"What, and leave your poor tragic hero suffering here by his lonesome? You are working a case, Rose."
She seethed. "You denied me six months ago when my sister's life was at stake! Let me go back and hunt the missing pieces of the Duisean. You've got enough manpower here to hunt the page of illusion. And if you don't agree, I quit, and I'm going back on my own."
He wasn't perturbed. "You know, it's only our theory that parts of the Duisean are back there."
"I know you. You'll send someone back to check it out!"
He almost smiled. "I'll think about it."
That was better than an outright no, Sam thought. She'd meant her every word. Some excitement began. Tabby was back there.
"But in the meantime, you are on assignment." Nick paused, then said thoughtfully, "You know, two of his cronies have shown up here, hunting the one page. I'm surprised a few Highlanders haven't shown up hot on its track, as well."
"Maybe they have and they're lying low. Maybe they're hunting the monk's stash in 1527."
Nick studied her. "Has he told you where he's got the page hidden?"
Sam jerked. "No. I haven't even gotten around to asking."
"When he comes to, work your wiles and find out."
She thought about Nick knowing about the sex tape and she almost flushed. At least he hadn't seen it. "He's not easy, Nick. If he was, we'd have the damned page."
"They're all easy for you, Sam. Besides, that's an order. Not that I think you'll mind having an excuse to work him a bit." Nick gave her a disapproving look.
She was never going to live down the sex tape, she thought. "Are you going to fire me?"
"Probably. But not until I have the page safe and secure and in the right hands."
He reached into his pocket and handed her a torn one-inch scrap of paper. Sam was surprised. Nick never used paper. Everything was on his BlackBerry, his laptop or his PC. "I've been meaning to give this to you since we had our little tête-à-tête with Maclean."
Sam looked at a series of numbers. She instantly knew it was an international phone number. Her gut tightened impossibly. "What is this?"
"I'm not the sonuvabitch everyone says I am." He shrugged. "That's Brie's telephone number."
Sam stared at the scrap of paper, stunned. What was he talking about?
"Yeah, Sam. She's alive and well in Edinburgh---and centuries old."
Sam gasped. Then she realized that Jan had stepped out of the kitchen and was simply standing there, her expression grim.
In that instant, Sam knew that Ian was not okay. "What's wrong?"
"His blood pressure is dropping. It's not looking very good."
For one moment, disbelief paralyzed her. "What does that mean?" she demanded furiously. "He's a near-immortal! He can't die!"
"Near-immortals can die, and you know it," Nick said, stepping back into the kitchen.
Sam stared at Jan, still incredulous. Now, she was afraid.
"He gave too much white power," Jan said softly. "I guess that makes him one of the good guys after all."
With a cry, Sam charged past her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN SHE RAN INTO THE KITCHEN, they were resuscitating Ian with electric paddles. Nick seized her and jerked her back, preventing her from approaching. Incapable of drawing even a normal breath, Sam watched as the two medics knelt over him, shocking him. His entire body convulsed, and the woman said, "We have a pulse."
Sam thought she saw color returning to his deathly pale face and she thought she saw his lashes flicker.
"He's okay, Rose," Nick said.
She realized he still had his hand on her shoulder. Under normal circumstances, she would wrench away. She didn't move; she couldn't. She watched as they adjusted the oxygen, then glanced at the small monitor on their equipment cart. His pulse looked perfect now.
He'd almost died in order to save Gerard.
"His vitals are returning to normal," the woman medic announced.
Sam's knees felt weak. He was out of danger. As she turned away, she caught Nick's intent stare.
Nick followed her out of the kitchen.
She sat down on the stairs in the hallway, looking up. "Go ahead. Blast away."
"You know what? He's got some redeeming value after all, so I'm not going to say another word." Nick walked past her.
A moment later, Sam heard the front door slam closed.
SAM REMAINED SEATED on the stairs as the line in Edinburgh rang. Unbelievably, she was nervous. She and Brie had been far closer than mere cousins, more like sisters, really. They'd been best friends, even if they were radically opposite in every possible way. They'd confronted and survived so much evil together. Sam realized she was nervous because she simply didn't know what to expect when Brie picked up the phone.
It really wasn't all that surprising that Aidan and Brie were living in modern-day Edinburgh. That would make her cousin hundreds of years old. So the old family joke was true---the Rose women got better and wiser with age.
Of course, Sam had thought about time travel and the new reality it engendered, a lot. When Allie had gone back in time, she'd changed her life entirely. She'd been Allie Monroe up until that day, more commonly known as the Monroe Heiress. But once she'd vanished, the records had changed. It was as if Allie Monroe had never existed. She'd never been born, never gone to school, never had a driver's license...
But that was because Fate had been interrupted and it had been corrected. It was a Wisdom in the Book of Roses that Sam was very familiar with. Fate was always written. When it went awry, which it rarely did, it either stayed awry or the universe fixed it.
Allie had actually been conceived in the thirteenth century. Her being born in modern times had been Fate going awry. Her destiny was the past, not the present. Sam was aware that a really, really ancient Allie lived today at Carrick Castle with the earl of Morvern---a Master of Time. She'd never seen the point in visiting her. For Allie, who'd gone back in time to the fifteenth century, hundreds of years had elapsed since they'd been buddies fighting evil together. For Sam, it had only been two years. She couldn't imagine what a reunion with present-day Allie would be like.
But it had begged the question---could Tabby be out there somewhere? Could Brie?
Well, apparently Brie was on the other side of the ocean right now. She could understand why Brie might not get in touch with her---there were all kinds of rules---but her sister would surely do so, unless something dire had stopped her or she hadn't lived into the twenty-first century. Of course, Tabby had a different Fate than Allie or Brie. She'd been born in 1979 and all her records remained, even after her disappearance. Tabby was officially listed as a missing person, but the truth was that she was a modern woman who'd been meant to connect with a medieval man and go back in time with him to fight evil.
Sam wanted her sister back, not some five-hundred-year-old woman who was by now a great-great-great-grandmother, at least. It would be weird sitting down with her sister if they'd been apart for centuries. But it was worth looking into, because it would be better than nothing at all.
But Nick had given her Brie's number---not Tabby's.
She was afraid to make the inference.
"The Maclean residence," a very Scottish voice answered.
Sam inhaled. She wasn't even sure how she should address Brie now. "Lady Maclean, please," she said after a moment of hesitation. Her heart was pounding now.
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Sam Rose."
An interminable moment went by. Sam didn't know if it was sixty seconds or a few minutes; it felt like an hour. Then an older woman said, "Sam? Is that really you?"
She inhaled. Brie sounded as if she was well into late middle age. A few months ago, she'd been twenty-six years old. "Yeah, Brie, it's me." To her dismay, tears filled her eyes.
"It's been so long!" Brie cried. "No one has called me Brie in hundreds of years."
When Aidan had taken Brie hostage, he'd taken her back to 1502. Sam was certain that Brie's life in the past had begun then. If Brie had lived through five centuries, she was well over five hundred years old. "I'm sort of shaken that we're really speaking...like this. How are you?"
She felt Brie smile. "You know Allie is at Carrick with Royce, and she's been there for centuries."
"Yeah, I know. I never called her because of the years that have passed. It just seemed like it would be awkward as all hell."
"Is this too awkward?" Brie asked softly.
"Yes...and no. Brie, you left here last September. For me, it hasn't been that long. You sound like a grandmother. I'm still twenty-seven."
Brie laughed. "I am a grandmother---and a great-great-great-grandmother, too. And I am fine. I'm happy. It's been such a good life. I love Aidan as much as I ever did---impossibly."
Sam thought about the last time she'd seen Aidan, when he was dark and dangerous and furious with the gods. "How's Aidan, anyway?"
"Fine. Perfect. My other half...my best half."
Sam didn't know what to say to that. She couldn't even begin to imagine the dark Highlander as Brie's better half.
"He's spent the past centuries protecting children, Sam. It's what the gods asked of him."
Sam tensed. Aidan hadn't been able to protect his own son, but his Fate, apparently, was protecting all the other innocent children of the world. "I'm glad," she somehow said. She wondered if Ian knew what his father's duty was.
Brie said softly, "Of course, the wound Ian left remains. We've never gotten over his leaving us, just after we found him in 1502. We love him so much, Sam. Aidan tried so many times to tell him, but he was determined to turn his back on us and our love. We haven't seen him or heard from him in five hundred years."
"He's here," Sam said tersely. "And living out of his time."
"I know," Brie said. "My Sight is stronger than ever, even at my age."
Sam's mind raced. Ian should be in 1527, the year the monk had come from. If he went back, as the laws of the universe required, he'd grow old in the sixteenth century and the next centuries following it.
But he sure as hell wouldn't be in 2009---not for a really long time.
"We know that Ian blames Aidan for everything. We understand why. Aidan blames himself still. And that's a wound Aidan lives with. It's the one blemish on our life."
Sam sat up straighter. "Why are you telling me this?"
Brie hesitated. "Because Ian is with you, isn't he?"
She was shaken. There was no such thing as coincidence---he was in her life, now, for a reason..."What have you seen?"
Brie smiled. Sam felt it. "Sam, you're on the verge of fulfilling your destiny."
"What the hell does that mean?" She was bewildered. "I came into my destiny long ago. I'm a Slayer."
"Sam, your destiny is a bit greater than that."
Sam stared at the table in the hallway, thinking about Maclean. "Could you be more cryptic?"
"I can't tell you your future. It's not allowed and you know it."
Sam sighed. "Why haven't you gotten in touch with me?"
"Because I have my destiny, and I've been awfully busy fulfilling it." Sam felt another smile. Brie had changed so much. She felt so calm and deep, so secure, stable, womanly. "You're coming into your destiny. This is the way it's meant to be. I know it's probably been hard, being left alone, as you have."
"I'm fine." Sam was silent, certain that Brie had more to say, but she didn't speak. "I'm on a case, Brie. I work for Nick now. Remember Moray?"
Brie made a sound. "I'd actually put him behind us. He was a true nightmare, trying to destroy his own son, with me in his way."
"He's got henchmen running around the city, looking for the page of illusion---a page from the Duisean. I'm up to my neck in the dirty, and so is Maclean."
"Thank the gods Moray is dead. But I don't like the idea of his cronies taking up where he left off." Brie sounded uneasy. "Can you handle this, Sam?"
"I don't know. I guess we'll have to wait and see. What do you know about a monk from the early 1500s? A really powerful, really evil, demon monk with a French accent?" After all, Brie had lived in the monk's time.
"You must mean the monk of Carlisle." Tension filled Brie's tone. "I remember him well. He is the kind of demon no one could ever forget."
"He's here in New York, and he's got a lot of power."
"Moray had some of the powers that belonged to the Brotherhood, Sam. He confessed that to me---bragged, actually. You know, don't you, that the Duisean, which means the Book of Power, was given to the Masters eons ago by the Ancients, to protect humanity from destruction. Every power known to mankind is in that book. But it was stolen long ago. Moray boasted that he'd hidden some pages in your time---in New York."
"I know, Brie. We debriefed you, remember? For me, it was only seven months ago." But she shivered, thinking of such power in the wrong hands.
"The monk was terribly powerful in his time. He controlled evil in the sixteenth century, Sam."
"Great," Sam muttered. She was chilled, thinking of how he'd turned her own weapons against her.
"There were terrible battles between him and various Masters, including Aidan. He left a wake of devastation wherever he went. He ruled Carlisle and the Lowlands for a long time. Highlanders like Aidan were hurt. Some were destroyed." She paused. "I can't recall what happened to the monk in the end," she said, sounding puzzled. "But it might be recorded in the history books."
Sam stood up. Even if Brie knew what happened to the monk, it was against every rule to tell her. She'd have to play this one out. "He said he's from 1527. I guess that's his heyday. Is he still alive in 2009 or just here from the past?"
"I don't know," Brie said. "I wish I could be of more help."
"Maybe you can be."
"Sam, I'm an old woman now. And it's not my place to interfere. It's forbidden. This is your time."
"Yippee," Sam murmured, but she was thinking of Ian now.
"I'm almost afraid to ask, but how is Ian?"
"He's got the page of illusion. He's planning on selling it to the highest bidder, instead of turning it over to us. He's basically a not-quite-mortal train wreck."
Brie was silent for a moment. "No one should have had to endure what he did, Sam. I hope you can go easy on him."
Sam hesitated. "Don't faint. Not only am I giving him a break, I'm backing him up."
Sam felt how pleased Brie was.
"Thank you," she finally said, softly. "He has a good heart."
"Is that wishful thinking? Because I can't decide if he's heartless or not. His mood swings are amazing."
"I know he's good. Don't turn away from him, Sam. He needs you. He needs all the help and kindness he can get---almost exactly the way his father did, so long ago."
Brie had always been kind, she'd just been so shy and retiring, it hadn't been obvious. But Ian was her stepson, so of course she'd believe in him. Sam thought about Tabby. Her sister would also encourage her to be kind and supportive of Maclean. But Brie hadn't said a word about Tabby. Dread churned in her. "I have to ask. Is Tabby around?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Brie cried. "Tabby is alive and well. They live in a beautiful home they built about two hundred years ago, not far from Blayde's ruins. And they're constantly surrounded by generations of Macleod men and Rose women."
Sam started. There'd be more Rose women to carry on the fight. She was so thrilled. "Then why hasn't she called me, Brie?"
"Every Rose woman has a destiny, Sam. She's living hers. We're waiting for you to live yours---so you can join us."
SAM SLOWED as she approached Ian's bedroom suite. She was thoughtful now.
The conversation with Brie had warmed her, but it had dismayed her, too. She'd suspected that Brie and Tabby might be around, but she'd tried not to think about it. Well, there was no avoiding thinking about the facts now. Her sister and cousin were old and happy women, who'd lived long and full lives. Sam still missed them as she'd last seen them, with Brie being twenty-six, and Tabby two years her senior. It crossed her mind that in two more days, on her birthday, they could all be together. But her sister and her cousin were old ladies now. What kind of reunion would it be? Would she be downing Bellini martinis while they sipped tea? She'd tell stories about sex and the street, while they showed her photograph albums? God, it didn't feel right---or fair.
Sam knew there was no going back to the days when they all fought evil together, when they were a young, reckless and fearless trio of powerful females and their R & R was a wild night in the Hamptons, not babysitting the grandkids. Damn it, it made her sad. She shouldn't be whining. She was happy for them, she truly was. Brie and Tabby were fulfilled, and at the end of their lives. Hers was only just beginning---unless the monk of Carlisle was too hot for her to handle.
But now, she wanted to go back in time more than ever---and not just to find the Duisean or what was left of it.
Sam halted outside of Ian's suite. If she went back, she'd find her sister as she'd last seen her. Even if it was only for a moment, it would be such a wonderful reunion. Didn't they deserve one final time together, the way it had been? Tabby had left so suddenly.
Damn it, she suddenly felt lonely.
She looked around Ian's high-end home. How could she be lonely? She was on assignment. She was always on assignment! But this time, it was somehow different. She knew Fate had cast its net for her. Brie had alluded to as much. That was all about Maclean and the tragedy that was his life.
Ian had been hurt while trying to heal Gerard. He was, just possibly, in over his head.
She could never abandon him now, not when she knew the score.
And Nick knew what she had to openly admit to herself now. She'd been really scared when he'd passed out. He'd seemed more dead than alive. She'd been terrified when she'd found the medics shocking his heart back to life.
She thought of what the monk had done to Ian and the extent of her anger surprised her. She had to nail the bastard. There had to be justice, this one time. She knew firsthand how elusive justice could be but she boiled with the need to bring him down. She realized she wanted to avenge Ian.
And she did not want to admit what that might mean.
Sam cursed. The sensation of being lonely was gone. She was too busy to be lonely, too involved.
She refused to consider that. Instead, her priority was recovering the page for Nick and CDA. And now she had the excuse of going back to the sixteenth century to find the other lost pages. Come hell or high water, she was going back, and not just to hunt the lost powers of the Duisean.
But their current dilemma came first. Ian had apparently regained consciousness and had been moved upstairs to his own bed. His vital signs were normal, or so she understood, and he was recovering as only a near-immortal could. According to the medics, he'd simply overdone it when healing Gerard. Healers who weren't proficient could actually destroy themselves by transferring too much of their white power to the injured. It was one more thing to worry about. The good news was, Ian didn't like healing. She didn't think he'd be so swift to offer up that magic again.
He'd healed her.
She'd been his first, and she hadn't even been at death's door.
Sam crossed the living room of the suite, trying not to acknowledge the tingle of elation that brought her. She reminded herself that he was complicated. Any number of reasons could have motivated him---including his hatred of evil and the need for her as backup. It didn't mean he cared. It did not mean that he was involved. Maclean would never care about a woman. She had to be careful.
Sam halted on the threshold of his bedroom.
Ian sat in bed, against a number of big pillows, the covers at his waist. He was bare-chested. His pectoral muscles were barely dusted with hair, and the cross he wore on the leather cord remained nestled in the hollow of his collarbone. Every time he breathed, his tight six pack rippled. He looked sexy enough to make her mouth water.
With the most recent crisis averted, she had the intense urge to join him in that bed.
But Jan was with him. Incredibly, she sat on the bed by his hip, smiling and talking quietly to him. Ian lifted his gaze and sent Sam a direct look.
By now, Sam was used to his changing gears in mere heartbeats. He'd been furious and desperate an hour ago, then horrified over Gerard's near murder. Now, he was steaming.
But so was she.
Ian leaned back against the pillows. "Still here?"
"You bet. Gee, I hope I'm not interrupting." Sam looked at Jan. "Why are you still here?"
Jan didn't move off the bed. "Nick asked me to debrief Ian. But he hasn't been very cooperative...yet." She smiled at him. "So what happened when you got back from Hemmer's tonight, Ian?"
Sam was perplexed. "I thought this place was our version of Candid Camera."
Jan glanced at her. "Someone disabled all of our feeds."
Sam hid a smile and met Ian's glance. His mouth curled. "I can't imagine who could or would do such a thing."
"We want to help, Ian. We don't want to see civilians hurt or murdered in this war. It would really help if you could fill in a few blanks for us."
"Ask her." Ian stared at Sam.
Jan glanced at Sam. "Sam will file her report first thing tomorrow, or maybe even tonight. We can help you fight off the monk. Why won't you accept our help?"
"I don't need yer help. And I won't repay ye with the page." He suddenly threw the covers off and got out of the bed.
Sam inhaled. He was stark naked.
He gave her an arrogant smile. "I beg yer pardon."
Jan made a sound.
Sam looked at her. Jan stood. While she wasn't blushing, she was certainly checking the entire package out. Only a blind woman could ignore such male beauty and virility. Ian walked past her, clearly indifferent to the fact that he had not a stitch of clothing on, disappearing into his dressing room.
Sam crossed her arms.
Jan looked at her. "Don't worry. He's not my type." But she was pale now. She'd seen his back.
Jan was now feeling sorry for him; Sam was sure of it.
Jan started from the room. "I am going to debrief him, Sam, after he gets dressed. You can stay, if you want. But I can get more accomplished if you leave."
Sam decided to ignore her. She walked past her, following Maclean into a large dressing room and walk-in closet.
He'd stepped into his jeans, and she saw that he hadn't bothered with underwear. He gave her a suggestive look as he jerked the zipper up.
She swallowed. All was forgotten. The video and his reaction to it, his destruction of his own home theatre, his nastiness and anger. "Where are you going?"
"Downstairs."
Jan would be waiting for him. "Why don't you give her what she wants? I mean info."
He stared and there was no mistaking what he wanted. "I don't feel like talking with Jan. I need a drink."
She bet he did. So did she. It had been a long night.
Sam slowly wet her lips, which felt full. She knew what would happen if she stayed. She wanted it to happen. "Okay."
"Did I ask ye to join me?" He was wry.
"Yeah, you did, with those remarkable gray eyes."
"Ye just gave me a compliment?"
"You know how hot you are."
His gaze held hers. "But that's the point---I'm no boy," he murmured.
Jan appeared on the dressing room's threshold and looked back and forth between them. "I need half an hour before you two go at it."
Ian seemed amused. The facade was back. "In case ye've forgotten, I'm not one of your agents. I'm not answering any questions." He shrugged on a T-shirt.
Jan stiffened. "Sam? You debrief him, then." She left.
Sam saluted her. She didn't take orders from Jan, and she never would. She loved that Ian had dismissed her as he had.
They walked out of the dressing room and then his suite. His heat was scalding behind her. There was so much power and so much virility. But she was surprised when he paused at the elevator, clearly intent on using it. He'd avoided it the other night. As the door opened and they stepped inside, she tried not to look at him. From the corner of her eye, she watched his hands. He didn't toy with the T-shirt collar. He kept both of his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
He was in control, she thought. After everything that had happened, she didn't know how he'd managed it, but he'd gone from a skid on black ice to all-wheel drive on packed dirt. She was amazed.
He led her into a salon she hadn't seen before and paused before an intercom. "Gerard, can you bring Ms. Rose and I something light to eat?"
"Yes, sir," Gerard's voice replied.
Ian gave her a sexy look and went to a red marble wet bar. "I can open up a fine wine, or would ye prefer something else?"
Sam walked over to the bar, sliding onto a leather bar stool with antique brass legs. "That scotch looks good."
He smiled. "It is good."
He never smiled like that, without pain, anger or mocking sarcasm. As if he realized the slip of humanity, he turned away, beginning to pour two drinks. Shaken, Sam said, "I just spoke to Brie. As it turns out, she's in Edinburgh with your father."
He handed her a glass. "I know."
She hesitated. "Do you visit?"
"No." He sipped, apparently unperturbed.
She hadn't thought so. She hesitated. This was going to be a damn good night. She didn't want to blow it. She had so many questions about the monk, but that might set off a firecracker or two. "Tabby's at Blayde with her soul mate, Macleod---a Master."
He drained his drink. "Will ye visit?"
"I don't know. She's old and gray now." Sam hesitated. "It would make me sad."
He started, his gaze slamming to hers.
Sam felt like a fool. Where had that stupid comment come from? She was big bad Sam, not into self-pity parties. "She's had an incredible life. There are children and grandchildren. She's happy and I'm happy for her."
He poured himself another drink. "But ye'd visit if ye could go back."
Sam looked at her scotch. "Yeah, I would." She looked up. Their gazes met.
"Have Nick send ye," he said abruptly.
Nick wanted her to work Ian and locate the page, at least. Sam finished her drink and handed him her glass for a refill. Their fingers brushed. She shivered, tightening. Tonight was going to be off the charts, she thought, and she was glad she hadn't brought up the sore subject of the monk to blow it. She smiled slowly at him.
He smiled back.
"I do have a question," she said. "Why haven't you tried to use the power of the page of illusion to fight our enemies?"
He was unsmiling now. "Ye like warring with evil. I don't."
"You lured the demon off the Internet so you could kill him for preying on kids. I think it was revenge. I think it was about what they did to you." The moment she'd spoken, she wished she hadn't. They were having a quiet drink. It had been a hellish day. He was hot and so was she. Sex was imminent. She didn't want to awaken the tiger.
But he didn't take the bait. He sipped. "Ye can think whatever ye wish, Sam. I only want sex. It's all I've ever wanted, from that day in Oban."
Her tension was different now, as if it were dismay. But that made no sense. Sex was all she ever wanted from a guy, anyway. Wasn't it? "And now you have what you want, don't you?"
"I have everything I want," he said, nodding at the expensively furnished room.
Sam drained her scotch, suddenly feeling empty and deflated. Wanting more from Maclean was insane. "Is the page safe, Ian?"
"Am I a fool?"
"Will you still hold that auction Friday?"
He looked at her. "I meant what I said earlier. I'm going to make some calls later and find a buyer. The page will be history by dawn."
She trembled. He intended to cut and run. "Can you please tell me where it is and reconsider this insanity?"
"So ye can tell Nick?" He laughed and poured them both refills.
Sam had had enough. She pushed the drink back. "I don't get it. You're not evil, so it's not the power, and you don't need the money. You have enough wealth to go around for a few lifetimes."
"No one ever has enough power or wealth," he said flatly.
What the hell did that mean? "You never cease to amaze me, Maclean. Those layers keep peeling away, and I never find what I expect. How much wealth and power do you want?"
"He thinks that with enough wealth he will be able to keep his freedom," Rupert Hemmer said.
Sam turned and her heart stopped.
Rupert Hemmer stood there and he wasn't alone. The monk of Carlisle was with him.
She glanced at Ian as she leapt to her feet. He was pale, but his eyes blazed with fury. She did not have her messenger bag with her. She had a minidisk strapped to one wrist, and a small dagger in her boot. There was a tiny razor in her bra. That was it.
She looked at Ian again. He was angry but there was fear in his eyes.
Ian, she thought. We can do this.
He didn't look at her but he flinched as if he'd heard her.
Hemmer walked inside first. "Did you really think to get away with all that you have?" he asked both Ian and Sam. "I did warn you about my special friends. But I forgot to add that I am never crossed."
Ian trembled visibly. His face was so hard and set now, it looked as if it might crack. Sam stepped closer to him. She looked back and forth between Hemmer, so suave and urbane in his suit, and the monk in his dark robes. "I don't recall crossing you, Rupert. Last I recall, you were threatening me."
Hemmer seemed delighted. "Actually, I was threatening him." He nodded at Ian. "And to make good, I asked Carlisle to come play with us."
Sam turned. Ian was staring at the monk, who was staring back, his eyes alight with malicious pleasure. Ian snarled softly, "Ye made a mistake, seeking me here in my home."
"You were never a brave boy, Ian. Why try to be brave now? And before you use your power, let me remind you, I have many of your grandfather's powers now."
Ian wet his lips. "Where's Gerard?"
"He's in one piece." The monk smiled. "That previous spat was my final warning to you. But you knew it was me, didn't you? You recognized my handiwork---you had to."
Sam looked back and forth between them, sick with fury. Ian flinched. Breathing hard, he said, "I'm going to kill ye fer what ye did to Gerard and fer what ye tried to do to Sam---and to all the others."
"But not for what I did to you?" the monk asked softly.
Sam was afraid to even try to comprehend what Ian had meant. She registered how well-spoken the monk was---exactly like a modern man. This demon might live in medieval times, but she was certain he was as familiar with the modern world as she was. He'd been Ian's guard for a decade. Being in the present wouldn't necessarily give them the upper hand.
"Ye always enjoyed making threats," Ian said harshly. "It was easy to threaten an imprisoned boy. Yer threats have no meaning now."
The monk looked at Sam with interest. "Rupert tells me you have become allied with this woman. You know how good I am at reading minds. She wants to go back in time to find her sister, so I am going to give her what she wants. What do you think of that, Ian? I will whisk her away---as you were whisked away."
Ian was so furious he couldn't speak. Sparks shimmered on his face and arms, his hands. She touched his arm, warning him to stay in control. She wanted to avoid a supernatural battle---because she wasn't sure they'd win.
"Maybe I'll make a maze just for her." The monk laughed.
Sam didn't get that, either, but she knew Ian was about to explode. She prepared for battle.
Hemmer said softly, "Watch the woman, Carlisle. She's far more dangerous than he is---she's a Slayer and she's clever."
The monk slowly shook his head and stepped forward. "I can leave your lady love alone, Ian. Hand over the page."
Sam instinctively moved in front of Ian but he seized her and pushed her behind him. "Stay back!" he snapped.
The monk halted, unsmiling. "Give it to me, Ian, and you'll never see me again."
Sam looked at him and wondered if his fear of this man and his memories of the past, might actually move him to hand over the page.
"You know me. You know what I'm capable of."
Sam tensed. Fear actually swept through her. She glanced at Ian again, but his gaze was riveted to Carlisle. "I don't have it," he said.
The monk started. Hemmer was disbelieving. "He has it. He stole it and he admitted it."
Sam didn't move a single muscle.
Hemmer said, "He's lying through his teeth."
Ian slowly smiled. "I gave it to Forrester. CDA has it."
Sam almost reacted. Somehow she kept her surprise tamped down as she realized the genius of the ploy. The moment she did, she hoped the monk hadn't read her mind.
"Then you'll just have to get it back for us," he snarled.
Sam sensed his intention as his eyes changed, glowing red, diabolically. His black power blazed. The sizzling bolt came at them but Ian struck back. Black and white lightning clashed, rattling the walls, the ceiling. Plaster cracked, fell.
Sam flung her disk at Hemmer as Ian and the monk struck at one another again. To her shock, the disk went straight at Hemmer, and then veered away, as if pulled aside by an invisible force. What the hell was that?
Hemmer ran toward her, smiling in triumph. Sam waited, dagger in hand, as Ian sent a blast of power at the monk. Ian glanced at her. As he turned, the monk sent Ian's powers back at him.
"No!" Sam screamed.
As Ian was hurled backward by his own power into a wall, Hemmer grabbed her. Distracted, she responded more slowly than she should have, and her dagger went into his shoulder, not his heart.
"Bitch," he said, seizing her. "You'll pay for that." As he wrestled her more tightly into his embrace, Sam realized what he meant to do.
She glanced back at Ian.
He was standing and ready to use his power again. The monk was also poised for battle. Then the monk looked at her, eyes narrow, and he vanished.
Ian cried out in furious dismay.
Sam inhaled. She didn't want to leave him, but...
As she was hurled upward with Hemmer toward the ceiling, she waited for the incredible blow that would surely come as her head hit the plaster. But her skull never made the contact. Instead, the ceiling vanished as they whirled past the city rooftops, into the clouds, the night sky. And they were flung at the speed of light past stars and moons, past the sun. The pain was blinding. It began to rip her apart and shred her into pieces. But Sam did not scream.
Not even once.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Scotland, The Past
HEAVY GRAY SHADOWS WERE pressing her down. She tried to push them out of the way, but she was so groggy, so weak. Where was she? What had happened? Her entire body was on fire, hurting like hell. The wracking torment made it hard to breathe. Maybe there wasn't enough air. She couldn't pull the cobwebs of heavy gray out of her way. Suddenly determined, she tried to swim up through them to the light.
She wondered if she was drowning.
As she had that surprising thought, she opened her eyes and saw near blackness. Beneath her hands and fingers, her bare legs, she felt hard, rough stone. She lay in a pool of moisture.
Her first thought was that she lay in a pool of her own blood.
Sam sat up immediately, gritting against the pain. As she did, she felt the shackle on her right wrist. The fog in her brain lifted. She'd just leapt through time with Rupert Hemmer.
Now, she recalled everything.
It was becoming easier to breathe. Had he taken her back to 1527? He could have taken her anywhere, to any time. As she wondered about that, she had the sudden feeling that Hemmer was more than he appeared to be.
Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness. She strained to see. And she realized she was not alone.
She didn't care about the rodents, whose scurrying was audible. But then she heard human breathing. Finally, she could make out the shapes of other people huddled together, not far from her.
It took her one more moment to realize that the other people were also prisoners, and that they were behind bars.
Sam inhaled, meeting several pale stares. Somewhere behind and above her, a torch or fire was lit. Sam realized that she was in a dungeon.
The prison was a large, rough stone chamber. It was windowless, and clearly underground. Facing her were the cells with iron bars. The men and women she was imprisoned with were gaunt skeletons in rags. They looked as if they'd been left in the dungeon for years.
Sam looked at the shackle on her wrist. She was chained to the wall. She tested it, using barely any strength. It seemed solid enough.
"You can't break free," Rupert Hemmer said.
Sam looked up at Hemmer as he paused before her. He was an incredibly incongruous sight. He stood above her in his custom-tailored, pinstriped suit, with two huge, barbaric thugs. Sam felt their evil and knew they were tainted. They wore short jackets, dark hose and knee-high boots with pointed toes. Each carried a long sword and a dagger strapped to their belts, and each held an axe.
The first order of business was learning exactly where she was, and in what time. "Thanks for the ride," she said. "But I don't appreciate the scraped knees."
Hemmer laughed. "I have to hand it to you, courageous Sam. You didn't make a sound during the leap and you didn't shed a tear. I'm almost sorry we had to knock you out."
"I'll bet. And, Hemmer? I hate to say this, but you can't use me against Maclean. He'd have to care and he doesn't."
"Then we'll just use you," he said, shrugging. His smile was chilling. "I make it a point to rid myself of those like you whenever I can."
Other than a few scrapes and bruises, Sam wasn't hurt. The moisture on the floor wasn't blood, but she had become aware of the dank, stale odor in the dungeon. She decided not to think about what the moisture might contain. "I'm not afraid to die." She smiled at him. "But I promise, I will take you down with me when I go."
Softly, Hemmer said, "I don't think you'll be singing such a merry tune in another moment."
He was going to try to hurt her. Not to get back at Maclean, not to get the page and its power, but just for the hell of it. She stared at him. This man hid his evil, and that begged the all-important question, just how evil was he?
He'd admitted to selling his soul. Everyone knew Hemmer was a deal maker. Who knew what he could have negotiated with Satan? "Where am I?"
"Isn't it obvious?" He shuddered with distaste. "You're in the Middle Ages. How anyone could endure this primitive time is beyond my capacity to understand."
"Could you be more specific?"
"Are you hoping for a knight in tarnished armor?" He laughed. "Maclean won't bother to come back for you, not that he would know where to find you, anyway."
"You partnered up with the infamous monk of Carlisle. I'm probably in one of his castles---unless you own real estate this side of the law, too. And because it's not a good idea to meet oneself in another time, I'd bet my grandmother's pearl necklace I'm in 1527---a safe time for him because that's where he belongs."
"Smart girl. But there's three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. He can't possibly find you without coming to us and that's what we're counting on," he said.
As the thugs reached down for her, Sam tensed, thinking about Ian. If he came after her, they'd be expecting him. And she was fairly certain he'd come after her. He wouldn't leave her lost in time, a captive of evil.
She did not want him to walk into a trap. She didn't want him to face off again with the monk, especially not alone. She could not worry about how protective she was feeling about him. Instead, she had to escape. Escaping would effectively destroy any trap and ruin their leverage.
Hemmer shook his head. "You humans...you're in love with him. I'd have never thought you such a foolish woman."
Sam jerked. Hemmer could read minds. "So what, exactly, did you get from Satan when you sealed the deal and sold your soul? Other than the power to leap and to read minds?"
Hemmer grinned. "No denial of your feelings?"
She slowly shook her head. "Romance is not in my nature, so no, I am not in love. But I have decided that Ian's case is mine. He was evil's victim, and I intend to make things right. It's called justice."
"What I like best about you is that you truly have no fear," Hemmer said softly. "I have immense plans for you."
She knew what he intended. The one thing he did not bother to hide was his lust. She just didn't know which move he'd make first---torture or rape.
He'd probably try both, together.
She wasn't exactly afraid. She knew she could get through whatever was coming. But she'd have to be an idiot not to know there'd be lots and lots of pain.
Sam thought about her sister. They'd always had amazing telepathy, before either one could talk or walk. But that telepathy had been dependent on a few factors---like geographic location and time. For Tabby to hear her now, she'd have to be somewhere in the vicinity and in the same year.
But just in case she might be nearby, Sam sent her a distress signal. A magic spell would be really useful about now.
"Release her," Hemmer said to the huge savages with him.
The thug snapped the shackle with his bare hands, then jerked her cruelly to her feet. Sam decided not to resist...yet. She was well aware that she'd been divested of all her weapons, and she only had her bare hands. "So, do you like being the monk's lackey? Where is he, by the way? Surely he won't miss the party."
"I am no one's lackey."
"Oh, so you guys plan to share the power from the page?" she mocked.
"I never share power."
Sam smiled. A war loomed. Divide and conquer worked for her. "I'll bet that's exactly what Carlisle's thinking."
"Does anything frighten you?" Hemmer asked softly.
"You sure don't."
He smiled. "I'd be disappointed if I did."
Sam was shoved by the guards toward a very small trapdoor. As she stumbled forward, she heard a woman's cry. Sam looked back at the other prisoners. As she was shoved forward, she said, "What are they down here for?"
"I have no idea. Nor do I care."
The trapdoor was opened. Sam saw a ladder leading up to the floor above the dungeons and glimpsed familiar black pointy-toe shoes.
Hemmer pushed her hard at the ladder.
Sam grabbed it reflexively.
The monk of Carlisle got down on his knees to grin at her. "Hello, Sam. I am going to make good all of my threats."
"Lucky me," Sam said.
He added, "As for the other prisoners, they're there to feed my dogs."
"NICK, MACLEAN IS on his way up."
Nick was on the telephone, speaking with his contact at the CIA, who ran the agency's counter-evil unit. The unit was as clandestine as CDA. It fought all government-directed evil from abroad. Like HCU, it was under-funded and understaffed, in spite of the fact that it had hundreds of ongoing investigations into hundreds of foreign governments. His CEU counterpart had needed his take on a matter involving a new rash of witch burnings in Madrid. As he hung up, he was suddenly uneasy, and it wasn't because they'd both agreed that one demonic cult was responsible for all the incendiary violence across the globe.
His gut churned, a damned familiar sensation. It signaled impending doom.
"Where's Rose?" he asked. Damn it, he was worried about her. But Sam could take care of herself.
"I don't know," Jan said. "Nick? Maclean sounded strange, tense...intense."
"Send him in," Nick said, standing. He had great instincts. They'd been finely honed in the nine or ten decades he'd been fighting evil in all its forms and incarnations. Something was wrong. It wasn't Maclean, because he didn't give a damn about him. Once they had the page of illusion, Maclean could go his merry way. Interpol and Scotland Yard could have him. He might even make the intros himself.
No, his gut was telling him that someone he cared about or was responsible for was in danger.
He called after Jan, "Find Sam. I want an update." He glanced at his wristwatch. It was one thirty in the morning. Why wasn't Sam with Maclean? She was supposed to work him. By now, she might even know where he'd hidden the page.
Deciding not to wait for Jan, he speed-dialed Sam's loft. There was no answer, and his sense of doom intensified. It was Rose, he thought. She was in trouble.
Maclean strode into his office without knocking, his eyes ablaze.
"Where is Sam?" Nick shot.
"Hemmer took her back in time, probably to the monk."
Nick was furious and incredulous at once. He cursed. She could not be lost in time. "And you just stood there and let him grab her?"
"I was occupied with the monk," Maclean spat. "Will ye do something to find her? Or will ye sit there on yer ass and let her die?"
"I don't sit on my ass, Maclean. And before you start pointing that finger at me, why didn't you follow them? Oh, I forgot. You're afraid of the leap."
Maclean shook with fury. "They left so swiftly, I couldn't tell where they went!"
Nick knew he'd been too hard on him. Maclean was unused to the power and he'd only met a handful of men, all Highlanders, who could actually follow a demon through time. He reminded himself to keep his cool. It had been eight years since he'd lost an agent in time. He buzzed Kit Mars. "Get up here, please."
Maclean paced right up to him. His nose almost touched Nick's. "The monk and Hemmer paid us a visit after ye left. They're working together. How will ye find her? She's in the past. She could be anywhere!"
Nick stared, leaping into his mind, and he was shocked.
Maclean was terrified that Sam was going to be tortured. So many horrific graphic images were roiling through his mind, so rapidly that they blurred. But it didn't matter. Nick saw it all, and what he didn't see, he could assume, suspect and guess. He saw the instruments of torture. He saw chains and bars, cages, racks. He saw demon audiences. He saw beasts and monsters. He saw a maze. He saw blood, he saw rape.
"Tell me what ye plan to do!" Maclean shouted at him.
Nick recoiled. For one unbelievable moment, he felt sorry for Ian Maclean.
Then he came to his senses. "Sam is as tough as they come." But as he spoke, he was calculating the odds. He had faith in her, but he'd never count solely on faith. She wasn't immortal. She could die.
He'd rather die himself than lose another agent in the damned and shifting sands of time. Rose was his agent, his responsibility. He had to go back and help her elude the demons and return to the present.
She was not going to become one of the Twelve, or rather, the Thirteen.
He'd never forgiven himself for his agents who were MIT.
He knew he was going to flash back. This time, it was like a knife going through his temples. He fought it, breathing hard.
When Maclean remained standing before him, when the room did not shift into that horrific stormy night on the highway with evil inhabiting every shadow, when the fiery explosions did not begin---when he didn't hear the children's screaming---he knew he'd won.
For the moment.
Maclean didn't know about the agents who'd died in some god-forsaken time on his watch. Maclean didn't know about those agents who'd gone back and who were never heard from again, no matter the years of searching. Maclean didn't know he held himself responsible for the lost, the missing, the injured and the dead.
He didn't know he had nightmares about every single one of them.
He didn't know about the flashbacks.
And he especially didn't know that his guilt was well deserved. It was his punishment for failing Katie and the kids, and later, for failing Jan.
Maclean didn't know any of this. Nick smiled at him. "I'll cut you a deal, Maclean. I might be able to help you find her, but you'll have to cooperate."
Maclean was shocked. "Ye want to bargain when her life is at stake?"
"I work for Uncle Sam. Sort of like a mindless robot. I receive orders. I fulfill them. Now, my orders are to acquire the page. Hand over the page and we'll give you what we have on Hemmer and Carlisle."
Maclean's power exploded.
Nick hadn't expected such an immediate or violent reaction. He was hurled backward into the wall behind his desk. He hit the credenza there so hard he heard the teakwood crack.
"Fuck you," Maclean snarled. "I'll find her myself." He whirled, but Kit Mars stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, blocking his way out.
"Hold on, Maclean," Nick said, rubbing his back. He hadn't expected Maclean to cave. "What do you have, Kit?"
Kit looked back and forth between them. "Not much. The monk seemed to rule Carlisle with an iron fist from 1502 to 1527. He was feared wherever he went---even the king of Scotland opened his best state rooms to him. The bishop of Carlisle was under his thumb. People died whenever he was crossed---as in entire villages, Nick. The last date I have on him is August 27, 1527. He was at the Carlisle Cathedral that day and was never seen again."
"Someone must have done the world a favor," Nick remarked. "Maybe it was our Sammie."
"Nick?" Kit whispered, ashen. "Is Sam back there?"
Maclean whirled to face her. "The monk took her." He confronted Nick, seething. "That's no help. For all ye know, he went to another time an' took an alias. Demons from the past leap to the future all the time! Ye know it---half the demons in this city are from the past! What do ye know about Hemmer?" he demanded. "Why does Hemmer work with the monk?"
He was right. The monk might have simply fled Carlisle in 1527 to live elsewhere for a long, long time. "We know that he was buddies with Robert Moran. They had quite a few business dealings in the seventies, eighties and nineties." In case he didn't get it, Nick said softly, "You know Moran, right? Aka your granddaddy?"
Maclean gave him a furious look.
"Hemmer was just your average entrepreneur before he met Moran," Kit said grimly. "He had a few investors, but he was a kid from the Bronx from a blue-collar family, who just barely graduated high school. He could talk the talk, though, which was how he managed to make those first few deals. It was tough going, and most of his deals went south. But after he started with Moran, he had investors galore. He went high, high risk and his income exploded. Almost overnight, he became the name on everyone's lips. It was as if he had the Midas touch, could do no wrong. Every deal he made added millions to his coffers. And you know the rest."
Maclean stared at her. "He's not a demon. He's human and very, very evil."
"So what did he do to get the power to leap?" Kit asked.
"He sold his soul for the millions," Nick remarked. "And he probably met Carlisle through Moran. Carlisle was one of your guards."
Maclean flinched. "Is that in my file?"
"I'll never tell," Nick said softly. For one instant, he wanted Maclean to pay for not handing the page over but then he thought about Sam. "Any chance you remember him from the time of your captivity?"
"Hemmer? No. If I had, I'd never have stolen the van Gogh for him." Maclean started.
"What is it?" Nick demanded.
Maclean said slowly, "He approached me, not the other way around."
Nick stared. "This has just gotten interesting," he finally said. "I mean, you're not the only art thief in the world. Of course, you might be the only art thief with certain extra powers."
Maclean didn't speak. He seemed stricken by the concept that he'd been a target from the start.
"Nick?" Kit swallowed. "Do you remember that witch, Kristin LaFarge, that you were hunting? She met a demon we never made last October at the Carlisle Hotel here in the city. I know it's probably a coincidence, but I just thought I'd raise it."
"What is she talking about?" Maclean demanded.
"Tabitha Rose was being hunted by a witch, LaFarge, who chased her back in time. She was reporting to some higher up in the present and they used the Carlisle Hotel as a meeting place." He wondered if it was a coincidence or not. LaFarge had died before they could get any info from her, but he knew she'd been given permission and the power to go back to hunt Tabby Rose by the honcho demon she'd dallied with. He'd still love to get a make on that demon.
"The monk speaks English as well as I do," Maclean said suddenly. "He's comfortable in this time, but he's French."
Maclean was telling him that the monk could have easily posed as a modern man.
Maclean faced Nick. "We're wasting time. Hemmer's evil. I knew it when I stole the van Gogh for him. And Hemmer's working with the monk, who has great black power. Now they have Sam. Hemmer took her back to medieval times---wherever the monk is. I am certain."
Briefly, Nick slipped into his thoughts again. They were more controlled, but his concern for Sam was huge. It was the kind of concern one felt for a lover, a best friend, a family member.
Maybe he had underestimated Maclean. He wasn't the indifferent asshole he'd assumed him to be. On the other hand, Nick would categorize him as a selfish asshole until he handed over the page.
"Listen, Maclean. You don't know that Hemmer took her back to the monk. He could have taken Sam to his island off Monaco, for all we know."
"I do know. I've seen her. She's being held in a dungeon, in chains."
"What do you mean, you've seen her?"
"I have visual telepathy," he snapped. "But I can't see the date or the place name. You have agents everywhere---even in the past."
"Yeah, we do," Nick said, wondering how much he knew about HCU. "I have agents all over the map, in many different times. And then there's Big Mama. We can feed her the case details while I put the word out. Sometimes, when an agent is missing in time like Sam, we can find a clue in actual historical records. Or one of our agents might hear something---a passing reference that means nothing to the average historian or civvy, but everything to us."
Kit said, "Nick, that's like looking for a needle in a haystack and you know it. It could take a week to turn up something that might not even pan out. Or it could take years."
Maclean shook his head. "Sam doesn't have days, much less years. They will torture her. She's not afraid, but by the time they're through, she'll know fear." His face hardened. "There is only one way to find her," he said grimly. And he vanished.
Nick flinched as his screams began.
Loch Awe, Aug 11, 1527
HE'D NEVER TRIED to follow anything or anyone back in time before. But, as he recovered from the leap, he was certain he was in the right time and close to Sam.
He hesitated, slowly standing, on the threshold of Castle Awe's great room. So much tension filled him that he could not move. He'd forgotten it all, deliberately. Now, everything came flooding back.
The room was huge, with raftered ceilings, stone walls and stone floors. God, it was so familiar, even if the furnishings had changed. The hearth remained the same, as did the pair of velvet chairs facing it. And the trestle table was still there, with two long benches, an armchair at each end. But there were crossed swords and a shield with a coat of arms on one wall, a rich, red and gold tapestry on another. Small windows had been added, with iron bars, in the unlikely case of attack or a siege. There were more chairs throughout the chamber and several beautiful chests and tables, as well as a pair of fine Persian rugs.
He remembered being a small, innocent boy in that room. There had been rushes on the floor, not rugs, and the trestle table, benches and the two chairs in front of the fire had furnished the entire room. He'd been happy then. There'd been a wolfhound bitch and her pups. There'd been a small horse. Hunting trips. Suddenly he could see his handsome father sweeping inside, calling out to him, fresh from a battle. He remembered running to him, to be lifted high up and then set down, shrieking with laughter.
Maclean breathed hard. He didn't want the damned memory, even though most men would consider it a good one. But even worse was recalling Aidan seated at that table in a cloud of darkness, with the servants cowering before him, dining with his soldiers, who were demonic or possessed. He wasn't there, because he was Moray's prisoner, but he'd used his visual telepathy to go to his father, to beg him to hear him---to find him and rescue him! Instead, Aidan hadn't been able to see or hear him. It was so fucking ironic. His father hadn't been able to rescue him, but now, his life was devoted to protecting the children of this world from the evil that preyed on them.
He was already distressed, and standing in that great room was making him become even more uneasy and uncomfortable.
He shouldn't have come back.
But Brianna had the Sight. Surely she could locate Sam.
Thinking about Sam made his gut twist unbearably. He bent over, holding his midsection, breathing hard, through the pain. They were going to do to her what they'd done to him...
And he forced himself to see. He went still, horrified.
Sam was chained to a huge table in a dark room. A medieval surgeon stood before her beneath a light, holding a butcher's knife.
He began to shake. He did not want to know what they meant to do with that knife.
Then he heard voices.
He straightened, alarmed. Sweating, he recognized the sound of his father's voice---even though he hadn't seen him in twenty-five years---and his stepmother, Brianna. He didn't know if he could really face them. It seemed an impossible feat. Yet he needed Brianna's help.
Time was running out for Sam.
Aidan appeared on the other side of the room with his wife. He was a tall, powerfully built, extremely handsome man with dark, wavy hair. He wore typical Highland dress: a belted tunic that came to midthigh, knee-high boots, and a blue-and-black plaid pinned over one shoulder. He was unbuckling his sword belt as he entered the room, which a page took. Brianna wore a long blue velvet gown with gold embroidery and a gold girdle. Her dark hair was braided and coiled around her head.
Aidan saw him and halted, blanching.
Brianna saw him next. Her eyes went wide. "Ian!"
He put on the coldest, most indifferent expression he could manage, while inside, his gut churned more violently. He didn't move as they rushed to him. Instead, he braced himself.
His gaze met Aidan's. His father's regard was searching and uncertain. Ian knew his father was desperate for a sign that he cared. He couldn't give it to him. He didn't even want to. He would never care about him as he once had, as a small, innocent child.
Because looking at him now, this way, made him remember every moment of every day he had been held captive. He recalled the worst moments of torture, the humiliation, the shame. He saw his grandfather, cruelly smiling, and the handsome monk, his blue gaze lewd and lusting.
And now Carlisle had Sam.
But before he could throw up, Brianna threw her arms around him and held him. "I'm so happy to see you," she cried, clinging. Then she seized his face and held it in her two hands. "You're so beautiful! Look at you---we've missed you so much!" She stared more closely at him. "Ian, what is it?"
He stepped back, somehow controlling his nausea. "Brianna, Father." He was curt. "I've come for yer help."
Aidan's expression tightened. Sorrow flitted through his eyes. "O' course we will help ye." He reached out and clasped Ian's shoulder, hard.
He knew how much Aidan loved him, but he couldn't handle the small gesture of intimacy and affection. He tensed and pulled away. "I was with Sam in New York City. A human captured her---Rupert Hemmer---and leapt with her. Hemmer is allied with the monk of Carlisle. I tried to follow her. I think she's here, somewhere." He looked at Brianna. "She's in a dungeon, about to be tortured."
Aidan inhaled. "The monk can be found most often at Carlisle Cathedral, Ian, from where he rules most o' the Lowlands. Everyone fears him---the bishop, the mayor, the nobles, even our king. He has great powers, dangerous powers."
"I've seen how powerful he is," Ian said. He stared at Brianna. "Please help me find Sam."
"Of course I'll help," Brie said, ashen now. She reached out to Aidan, who took her hand and squeezed it. "Sam is my cousin and my dearest friend."
"She canna see on demand, Ian," Aidan said quietly.
"I know."
Brie let go of her husband's hand and walked over to the fire. She stood there, staring at it. Ian turned his back on her, ignoring his father, as well. He focused on Sam. His tension soared as he realized that Hemmer and the monk stood behind the surgeon, who was sharpening the knife. Sam. Yer not alone. I am coming.
She was unmoving, but she said something to Hemmer and Carlisle. Hemmer's face turned ugly.
She hadn't heard him. But why should she? His father hadn't heard him, either, all those years ago.
He tried again. Sam! I am coming.
She did not react. He did not want to see anymore, but had to help her. He didn't think he could unlock the shackles with his mind through space and time, not when she hadn't even heard or seen him, but he decided to try. He concentrated on the locks, when suddenly her image vanished.
He cursed inwardly and glanced at Brianna, who stared into the fire, as if in a trance. God, they did not have any more time!
He pictured Sam again. Now he noticed a small window high up on the wall behind Hemmer and Carlisle. Sunlight was coming through it. He focused on the locks one more time. And he heard a horn.
His attention jerked to the window behind the two men, because the sound came from outside the dungeon.
The horn's trumpeting was an announcement of someone's arrival.
Ian realized that he might know more about where she was if he could change his focus and get outside the stone chamber. Ian breathed hard. Sweat poured down his body as he stared past her at the window. The sound of the horn bugling became louder---closer. Suddenly he saw the white stone steps outside the entrance of a magnificent cathedral, where a pair of liveried musicians were playing their horns. A coach had arrived. Four bay horses pulled it. A cleric stepped forward from the front steps, red and gold robes flowing, huge gold cross glinting. The bishop turned to his secretary, who carried a scroll and a quill. The coach doors were opened by two liveried servants.
No! He wanted to see that scroll.
Suddenly he saw the crooked red nose on the secretary's pinched face. Then he saw the hunched shoulders of the bishop, from behind. He zoomed back. The secretary was writing.
And he saw the scripted Latin on the page.
No! He cursed, tried again.
At the top of the page, in the right-hand corner, he saw the date. August 9, 1527.
Ian stared at the date, mesmerized. It blazed now, as if on fire.
"Ian?"
He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, his eyes wide and searching. "Ye found her! We will come with ye!" Aidan exclaimed.
Ian didn't hear him---he was already gone.
"I WONDER HOW WELL you will be able to tolerate pain?" the monk asked softly.
She didn't know what they meant to do with that knife, but she could imagine. Sam smiled, somehow. "I've been shot, stabbed, cut with a razor and hurled upside down across cars. Gee, I've been hurled the distance of football fields by you guys. And then there's the leap through time. I can handle a stab wound or two."
"My dogs are hungry," he said. "And they like raw meat."
She made a sound, unable to help herself. That's what they meant to do?
"I think we will start with your fingers. Are you finally afraid?"
There was finally some horror.
If she lost her fingers, even a true Healer like Allie wouldn't be able to help her.
Sam looked at the wooden table, with its shackles at all corners. Then she glanced at Hemmer, who was impassive. She didn't think torture was his big thing.
But he didn't seem interested in helping her out, either. She reminded herself that this was nothing compared to what they'd done to Ian. As she thought that, his image shifted before her in the center of the room.
Sam went still.
He was as transparent as a ghost, but clad as she'd last seen him, in jeans and a T-shirt. His image shimmered; he was saying something.
But she didn't hear a thing.
The surgeon said something now. Sam didn't have to understand German, the language he spoke, to know that he was ready to begin.
Ian's image remained. He was speaking urgently now.
I can't hear you! She thought desperately.
"Don't unshackle her, but put her on the table," the monk said. He turned to Hemmer. "This will be interesting."
"I want her first," Hemmer said softly. "Before she's in bloody pieces."
Sam looked at Ian. His image began to fade. "No!"
The thug pushed her hard against the table.
Sam didn't think twice. She jammed the boniest part of her knee in his groin, while using her knuckles in both temples. To her shock, as she moved with lightning speed, the shackle fell off her wrist and the guard merely grunted and paused.
Sam took her index fingers and blinded him.
He screamed.
She ducked as he lunged for her throat. It was easy enough to get under his arm, as he could no longer see. She faced Hemmer and the monk from across the table, smiling at them. "Hello, boys. Wanna party?"
Hemmer was silent, his eyes gleaming. Sam knew he loved the challenge.
It was the monk who worried her. He slowly lifted his hand. As his black power blazed, she ducked, fully expecting to be incinerated.
The power rushed at her like a heat-seeking missile, changing course to find her. Then, just before striking her, it exploded and black power ricocheted against the walls and ceiling. The walls of the chamber began to crumble as parts of the ceiling fell in.
"She's using a protection spell of some kind," Hemmer mused calmly.
"She's a Slayer, she doesn't use spells," the monk snarled. He blasted her again.
Sam was incredulous. An invisible wall of some kind seemed to be protecting her now. His energy was diverted by whatever was in front of her. It streaked around the chamber again, sizzling against the walls, the ceiling. More stone fell. The monk was struck on the shoulder by a chunk of rock, but Hemmer was untouched. As dust rose up, as thick as smoke, Sam rushed for the door. She felt his power behind her, chasing her. As she skidded through it, she heard his power hit the walls on each side of her.
She was in a long corridor, lit by torches. It was empty. Sam ran hard, his power striking the walls and floors around her. As stone rained down, she entered a gallery with elegant glass windows, a runner on the floor. Well-dressed noblemen and women were strolling within. As she ran in, his power followed. As it struck the walls and windows, glass shattered. Women screamed, rushing for cover with the gentlemen.
Sam looked out of a window and saw the huge interior courtyard of what had to be a palace. It was beautifully landscaped, with paved walks, seating areas, and many elegant pedestrians, coming and going. It could have been a scene from an epic Hollywood movie. Everyone had fled the gallery by the stairs in the corner. They'd expect her to go down to the courtyard, and try to find her way out on the ground floor. Neither the monk nor Hemmer had entered the gallery yet. So Sam went up, running hard.
When she'd reached the parapets, which were open and vacant, she sank down on the stone floor, stunned.
Then she started to smile.
Her sister had come through for her.
And maybe, just maybe, Maclean had been there for her, too.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Carlisle Cathedral, Scotland---August 9, 1527
HE SLOWLY STOOD UP, still shaken from the leap and the urgency building in him. Ian stared. The Cathedral was built of red stone. It was a massive monument to God, with soaring roofs and even higher towers, with narrow pinnacle peaks and crosses set atop them. Lower square towers were on either side of the Cathedral's front entrance, which was framed by pointed stone arches that boasted more black crosses. A dozen stained-glass windows blinked from the main building. Liveried guards armed with swords and lances stood in front of the stone arches.
However, the noblemen and clergymen who were coming and going seemed to be ignored by the guards, who never lifted a weapon or moved. Good, Ian thought. The guards were really for decoration, never mind their possessed souls. Ian brushed off his jeans, staring at the Cathedral's entrance. Sam was within. The dungeons were below ground. He'd had a vision of her there, shackled to a table, about to be tortured.
He started for the front entrance. As Ian ran up the front steps, the previously benign guards regarded him closely. A pair of noblemen in frilly short coats and colorful hose also stared at him as they left the interior of the Cathedral. Ian ignored them all. He walked past the guards, realizing that he stood out like a sore thumb in his T-shirt and jeans.
"You," a guard said sharply.
Ian knew he meant him, but he didn't stop. His mood was very foul now and he itched to use his powers on anyone who would dare prevent him from finding Sam.
Ian heard the soldier rush him from behind. "Peasant! Stop!"
Ian turned and flung his power at him. The guard collapsed, unconscious. His buddy reached for his sword. Ian smiled savagely. "Die if ye try," he said, meaning it.
The guard froze.
"We have affairs here with the bishop," a voice said calmly from behind him.
Ian whirled and saw Aidan and Brianna.
The guard looked at Aidan, who was smiling pleasantly but had his hand on the hilt of his long sword. Ian realized that wasn't what stopped the guard. His father wore a signet ring that was solid gold and boasted a huge garnet. The brooch that pinned his plaid was as costly. His clothing, although simple, had elaborate and undoubtedly expensive embroidery at the neckline and hem. Not to mention that Brianna stood beside him, wearing a beautiful velvet gown and her own jewels. The guard would understand that Aidan was nobility.
The guard nodded. "Fine. Ye may pass." He knelt beside his friend, who moaned.
Aidan gestured. Ian strode past him, sorry he'd gone to his father for help. "I don't need your help."
Aidan and Brianna followed him inside. The entry hall was dark, the floors marble, the ceilings high. "Ye came to us fer help an' we're here to help ye, Ian, whether ye wish it or not."
"What's wrong, Father?" he asked darkly. "Don't ye have a poor child to rescue today?"
Aidan grimaced. "That isna fair."
"Fine," he snarled. "Now that yer such a powerful Master, ye can help me rescue Sam."
Aidan breathed hard. "I would have rescued ye, Ian, had I known ye were alive. I thought ye were a ghost!"
Ian stormed past him, across the circular entry hall. They followed, Aidan seizing his arm from behind. "We need to pause. Can ye try to feel her, instead of running off recklessly?"
His father was right, damn him. He halted, trying to feel Sam's power. Instead, he felt evil's dark, intense presence. Evil was there at Carlisle, in every stone, every rafter. But he also felt God.
Ian tensed, lifting his face to the trompe-l'oeil ceiling where a battle between cherubs and beasts raged before the glowing gates of heaven, above the crimson inferno that was hell.
And the old gods were present, too. He trembled, surprised to feel them and even more surprised that he could recognize them, with no doubt as to who and what they were. He'd never felt them this way before. Evil ruled at Carlisle---but the gods had not given up.
"Maybe we should do this the old-fashioned way, Aidan," Brie said seriously. "Room by room. It can't take that long. We'll start below, in the dungeons, because that's where you saw her."
Ian looked at his father's wife. He had always liked her. She was soft, sweet and kind, but her gentle nature hid a fierce loyalty to her husband and her cousins. Now, she smiled encouragingly at him. "Sam is the strongest woman I know," she added.
"Give me a moment," he said. He focused on Sam, but he did not see her now. There were only dark shadows...
He blinked and saw Brianna and Aidan, filled with frustration. "Let's go, before it's too late."
Brianna took his hand and squeezed it. He looked away from her dark, searching eyes. Did she know how devastated he was? He was doing his best to hide it.
Suddenly the room darkened. The temperature dropped radically, causing him to shiver. Black gusts swept through the huge entry hall. They were visible, dark harbingers of what was coming.
Ian froze.
The monk had so much more power now. He'd known that right away, from the moment he'd come across him looming over Sam in that vault. In spite of himself, his gut churned.
He wasn't just afraid for Sam. He was afraid for himself.
Ian inhaled and faced the far side of the hall. The black gusts circled the room and vanished and the monk of Carlisle appeared on the threshold. Tall and blond, muscular and handsome, he'd shed the plain dark robes for crimson and gold ones. He was smiling. "What took you so long, Ian? I've been expecting you," he said in his French accent. "And you brought company. The notorious Wolf of Awe?" He laughed, as if pleased. "I was wondering when I'd meet the Master that the bards sing of."
Aidan started forward aggressively, eyes ablaze.
Ian didn't think twice. He restrained him, seizing his arm, and he met his father's furious stare. He wondered if Aidan knew that this man had been one of his captors. "This is my war."
Aidan hesitated.
"Let Ian do what he has to do, Aidan," Brianna said.
Reluctantly, Aidan stepped back, revulsion written all over his face.
Ian slowly turned to face Carlisle. "Where is she?"
"Did you bring the page of illusion?"
"If ye've harmed a single hair on her head, I'll never hand it over."
"If you want her back alive, you will give me the page now."
He trembled and he knew there was no choice. He had no power, not when the monk had Sam. In the end, he would have to do whatever the monk wanted to get her released, including handing over the page. "Take me to her. I want to know that she's alive and unhurt first."
The monk slowly smiled. "Show me the page of illusion, sweet Ian. And then you can have your lover back."
"Not until I see Sam."
"When did you find courage? Or maybe you simply don't care all that much about her."
"Take me to her," he shouted. Aidan touched his arm. He flung him off.
"I'm afraid we are at an impasse," the monk snapped. "I want the page---you want to see her. If you think about it, you will realize you have to bring the page here."
"I don't have to think about it. What have you done to her? Take me to her!"
The monk's smile vanished and his eyes blazed red. "You can't give me orders. I have the greater power here!"
"Really?" Ian blasted him as hard as he could, before he could think to restrain his fury.
"Ian, don't!" Brianna screamed.
The monk laughed as his power forked toward him, abruptly turning back around and blazing into Ian.
He gasped as his own power drove him across the hall and into a far wall. He saw exploding stars. Pain erupted in his head, his neck, his back. More pain sizzled through his organs.
But Aidan knelt beside him, instantly laying his hands on him. Ian opened his eyes and met his father's blue gaze as his powerful and healing warmth entered his wounds.
"I'll never let ye die," Aidan said.
And a moment later the pain was mostly gone. He shrugged Aidan off.
Aidan rocked back on his heels. "Losin' yer temper won't bring her to us." His gaze narrowed. "Do ye truly have the page of illusion?"
He stood up, enraged but in control of that anger now. "And if I do?"
Aidan also got up. "Will ye use it to save her?"
"What do you think, Father?" he mocked.
"I think ye can never hand another power over to the monk."
HE CLOSED THE DOOR of another vacant bedchamber, grim and disappointed. He and his father had separated, Ian taking the dungeons, Aidan starting on the ground level. But the dungeons below had been windowless, and Sam hadn't been within them. Instead, he'd come across Carlisle's many prisoners, mostly innocent men, women and children, as well as a few political captives. He'd freed everybody.
He was now on an upper floor, determined to go through the various guest chambers. Where was Sam? Where was the dungeon with the small window that he'd first envisioned? He'd stopped repeatedly to use his visual telepathy to locate her. He couldn't understand why he couldn't find her. She'd been at the Cathedral moments ago. Had she been smuggled out or taken to another place, in another time?
This was taking too long.
And as he stood in the long corridor, a sensation of awareness went through him. Sam.
He'd just felt her. She was somewhere nearby. He tried to see her and suddenly glimpsed her pale, determined face, framed by her short, spiky hair. Something dark was blocking his view. He realized it was a part of a wall. Sam? Where are you?
The image grew stagnant, and he knew he was remembering it, not seeing her somewhere. She did not answer him. His disappointment intensified. She didn't seem hurt, but he couldn't tell if she was shackled or otherwise bound, or not.
"Ian?"
He jerked at the sound of Brianna's voice as she and Aidan hurried toward him. A maidservant was with them. "Meg has something to show us."
He looked sharply at the thin, freckled maid, who stared wide-eyed at him and then at Aidan. She blushed and darted past them. Ian fell into step with Aidan and Brianna. The maid ran to the end of the hall and then entered a small closet door. There, she waited for them.
Ian went to the threshold of another very dark, very narrow hall. She pointed down it, ducked under his arm and ran away.
Ian rushed forward, Aidan and Brianna on his heels. A single door was at the hall's end. As he thrust it open, he strained for Sam. He remained aware of her presence, but the awareness didn't intensify. Even before he saw the torture chamber, he knew she wasn't there.
He recognized it immediately.
The single window was above on one wall, and the room was dark and dank, containing two tables. The center table had restraints. The side table had too many sharp instruments and tools to count. "This is where I saw her," he said harshly.
Brianna touched his arm. "Meg overheard the monk arguing with a very strange foreigner. She couldn't understand the stranger, but the monk was livid because the woman had escaped."
Ian exhaled.
"She may still be within the Cathedral," Aidan said. "The best way to leave would be to do so after dark."
"I'm not leaving without her," Ian said.
SAM CAREFULLY CRACKED open the door, but the hinges groaned. She'd been working her way down and through the Cathedral for the past hour or so. It was slow going. Carlisle Cathedral was a busy place, filled with nobles, various clergy, and all kinds of servants. The monk had a full-scale search going for her. Soldiers were going through the premises room by room, and she had been constantly backtracking and hiding from them. In her contemporary clothes, with her short, platinum hair, she knew that if anyone saw her, she was done.
She couldn't imagine what all of these people were doing at a place of God.
Most of those wandering about Carlisle were average, ordinary humans. But they seemed oblivious to the oppressive weight in the dark halls and long corridors of the Cathedral. Patiently making her way through the palace, she was acutely aware of the heavy darkness and what it meant. Bad things happened at Carlisle, all of the time. She hadn't been the first victim to see that torture room.
She felt sorry for the medieval civilians she'd seen. They had clearly come to a house of God looking for something good, maybe even salvation, but they'd never find it at Carlisle.
I am definitely getting soft, she thought grimly, with an odd pang. And it was Maclean's fault.
He'd reached out to help her when Hemmer had come after her. If he wasn't careful, he might turn himself into some kind of hero.
She smiled at the ludicrous thought. But it had warmed her, too. She wasn't very worried about her predicament now. She'd escaped those demons, and she knew she could find her way out to safety. She just had to be careful. She had to minimize risks.
About to start down a set of stairs, she suddenly paused, tensing.
Sam?
For one instant, she was certain that she'd heard Ian calling to her. She glanced down the corridor but it was empty. She turned back to the stairwell, straining to hear him again.
A footstep fell behind her, startling her. For one moment, she realized she had let down her guard. But then she felt soft, soothing white power, encompassing her.
Sam whirled to face her sister.
Tabby looked exactly as she had the last time she'd seen her, a few months ago---in 1502. She wore a gorgeous long red velvet dress and many jewels. Her hair was pinned up beneath a medieval hairpiece. And she was radiant. Guy Macleod stood behind her, a huge, muscular and surprisingly dark man, one hand protectively on the hilt of his sword.
Her heart exploded with joy. "My lady." Sam grinned. She was too thrilled to add to the joke by curtsying. Instead, she wrapped Tabby in the biggest hug she could possibly manage.
Tabby held her back, hard. "I have so missed you!" she whispered.
Sam held on for one more moment, then pushed back. "Yeah, because you've gone centuries without your Sam fix."
Tabby flushed. "Sam, I was forbidden from going to you. Leaping is a power given to the Masters so they can protect Innocence, not so they can take their wives on jaunts through time to visit family relations!" But Tabby was smiling. "I begged MacNeil, the Abbot of Iona, to go to the Ancients and get a dispensation, but he said you were fine and that we'd be together soon. And I guess in his eyes, a few centuries isn't all that long!"
"I thought you'd come for the Book," Sam said. She couldn't get over how radiant her sister was. "It would have been the perfect excuse, but some Highlander came instead."
"I know. I tried that argument, too. MacNeil pointed out that my war with evil is here. And he's right," Tabby said happily. Then her smile faded. "Are you okay? What happened? I was in the kitchens at home helping Cook, when I heard you. I almost swooned!"
Now she swooned, not fainted? Sam laughed. "So the lady of the manor condescends to get flour under her nails with the help?"
She finally looked at Macleod. He was a big beast of a man, reeking of a warrior's savagery and an abundance of testosterone, and she'd hated him at first sight. But Tabby loved him and he, apparently, loved her. Sam squinted at him. "Is he giving you a hard time? No pun intended, of course."
Tabby took her hand. "His chauvinism doesn't bother me, Sam. I love everything about my husband. He might be overly protective, but I can handle it."
Sam scowled. "You'd better be faithful, buddy," she warned. "If I ever find out you treat my sister like the brute you appear to be, you will be sorrier than any of your MacDougal enemies."
Macleod seemed amused. "She still dislikes me," he said to Tabby, shrugging. "Masters are here. They're searchin' fer ye---and so is evil."
Sam went still. Ian wasn't a Master. She shouldn't be disappointed, but she was. For an instant, she strained to feel him---and she started, because she thought she did!
Tabby seized her hand. "Oh, no! I can tell this is going to be another five-minute reunion. That's not fair! What's going on?"
Sam felt exactly the same way. "No, I am not going back to New York so quickly! I'm in a bit of a jam, Tabby. The monk of Carlisle is after me, and so is someone from our, my, time, a really evil human, Rupert Hemmer. They were planning on torturing me when your spell showed up. By the way, thanks, sis," she added, grinning.
Tabby touched her and spoke in Gaelic. "That's an extra dose of protection," she said, seeming worried. She turned to her husband. "We have to get out of here."
Macleod's handsome face tightened. A savage light flickered in his eyes. "We'll help her escape Carlisle an' I'll make certain ye have some time with yer sister."
Tabby sent him a soft smile.
Sam smiled to herself. Macleod might be as macho as a man could be, making him impossibly wrong for her sister, but it was clear that he was protective of her and madly in love, even after two centuries.
Sam? Where are ye?
Sam jerked. She'd heard Ian as clear as day, right down to the frustration and worry in his voice. "Ian," she whispered. "I'm at Carlisle Cathedral, on the ground floor, on the north side of the building."
Sam!
"Sam?" Tabby asked.
Sam held up her hand. The moment she strained for him, she felt his hot and male white power gathering, then approaching. She turned to face south. Someone was turning the corner of the hallway, but it was a well-dressed couple, followed by a secretary and a valet. Sam inhaled in disappointment. The three men all looked at Sam. Tabby smiled graciously at the couple as they passed. She nodded at the servants. The nobleman craned his head to stare at Sam's legs, until he walked into the wall. The woman jabbed her elbow in his velvet-clothed abdomen.
"You should change clothes if you intend to stay around the sixteenth century for any length of time," Tabby said, glancing at her miniskirt.
His power was growing, she thought, having heard her sister. It was hot, seething, and so familiar.
Maclean hurried around the corner.
Sam's heart lurched wildly.
He rushed to her. "Are ye all right?"
Sam shrugged. "Like you care?" She was flippant, no easy task, when her heart was thundering madly. "So what brings you to this neck of the woods?" she asked. And then she saw Brie and Aidan, coming around the same hall corner.
"Did ye think I'd leave ye to my enemies?" He was incredulous.
She tore her gaze back to his regard. It was surprisingly searching. There was no mockery. It was as if he were really concerned. "I thought you might try to help out," she said carefully. "And you did. Thanks for the assist with the shackles."
He started. "I unlocked the manacles?"
"Yeah." Then she said, very seriously, "Just so you know, I'm starting to worry about Hemmer."
His gaze held hers.
Sam knew he understood. There was more to Hemmer than met the eye, a lot more.
"Can I interrupt?" Brie asked, but she was grinning.
"I barely recognize you without the geeky glasses---and in a dress!" Sam cried, laughing. Brie had turned from a chubby, frightened nerd into a beautiful, self-possessed woman. Sam wanted to hug her.
Brie hugged her, instead.
Sam looked at Aidan and her heart almost stopped. It was so strange. He and Ian could have been twins, except that Ian looked about twenty-five, and Aidan looked a couple of years older. But the real difference was their eyes. Aidan's eyes were not filled with anger, frustration or despair; they mirrored a deep and fundamental peace that could only come from a man's soul.
But it hadn't always been that way.
Ian suddenly seized her arm. "We have to go," he said harshly.
Sam was already chilled. She glanced behind her. Evil was close by.
Tabby seized Sam's hand. "What is going on?"
"There's no time to explain," Sam said. "But it's not a good idea for me or Ian to hang around here."
Ian looked really unhappy.
Sam knew why. "Hey," she said. "I'm too beat up to manage another leap. We're going to hoof it out of here on foot."
His gaze slammed to hers, filled with suspicion. What did they do to ye?
His mouth hadn't moved, but she'd heard him as clearly as she had when he'd been using telepathy earlier. She turned, shaken. "Maybe one of you big guys can create a diversion so we can walk out the front door?"
"I will cause the diversion," Macleod said sharply. "Aidan can cover yer flank."
Aidan was staring at Ian, as if he knew his son's painful secrets and as if those secrets pained him, too.
Macleod strode away from them, roaring.
Sam blinked, realizing he meant to confront the monk head-on. She looked at Tabby, who was pale and resigned. She gave Sam a shrug, and ran after him.
For one moment, Sam stared after her sister, who was pursuing her savagely determined husband now. Then Ian jerked her to his side.
She met his fierce gaze. As she nodded, she heard walls cracking. Macleod had engaged. She glanced at Brie, who was crying.
"Go!" Brie cried. "Go with the gods...Ian, take care of her!"
Aidan's saber rang as he drew it. Dozens of racing, booted steps sounded. "Go now," he said, his mouth down-turned, nostrils flared. His eyes were suddenly red-rimmed, too.
Ian and Sam turned and ran for the front hall.
Behind them, swords rang and more stone fell.
SAM COULDN'T RECALL the last time she'd been so out of breath. Running hard, Maclean beside her, they half crawled and half scrambled over a stone wall. The fields were wet and slick from a recent rain. They ran and slid down another hill, scattering grazing sheep. Sam looked back. She could still see Carlisle Cathedral's towers piercing the cloudy summer sky, perhaps a mile away now.
Suddenly the ground shook, vibrating beneath their feet.
An army. Sam halted, panting, looking at Ian. He jerked her arm, turning her toward the north, where she saw trees. A forest began. It looked endless.
They ran harder as the vibrations from the thundering horses increased and intensified. The damned trees were a half a football field away. Sam looked back over her shoulder.
Streaking toward them were a dozen knights in heavy armor, their visors down. Their war cries sounded. The bellows were incomprehensible, savage.
In that moment, she was positive that whatever was pursuing them wasn't human, not even remotely.
The forest was a ballroom away now. Hand in hand, they dug into the ground harder.
A kitchen away...
And Sam felt the horse's breath blowing down her nape. As if in one another's mind, still holding hands, they dove into the shield of trees. As they did, Sam heard the whizzing of some kind of weapon just behind her neck.
She fell on her hands violently and her jaw made contact with the ground. She rolled over in time to catch the knight thundering by, a spiked ball swinging from his gauntleted hand. The knight was completely covered in armor from head to toe, she saw. Peepholes in his visor allowed him to see. He hauled his horse to a stop so hard that it reared up. It was armored, too. He whirled it back around and galloped toward the trees where they'd crash-landed.
She looked at Ian. "Time to go?" She was hopeful.
His eyes were ablaze. He stood and blasted horse and rider, incinerating both.
"Way to go," she panted, doubling over. Breathing hurt like hell.
Hoofbeats sounded, approaching.
Sam straightened. "Shit." The army was coming back. There were about a dozen knights. She knew Ian really didn't want to leap. She got it, she did. It hurt. He'd leapt a whole bunch of times recently, mostly because of her. "Are you really...going to take them on...one by one?" she panted.
He took her hand and pulled her with him into the forest. The outskirts were sparsely populated with evergreen trees, tangled shrubs and brush. A horse and rider could navigate the outer edge, although not adeptly. About a hundred yards ahead, the forest was so dense that it seemed pitch-black. They ran for those impenetrable depths.
Hooves pounded behind them.
Sam glanced back and saw the knight riding like a madman, weaving through the trees, his horse zigzagging the way those western gals did on barrel racers. She didn't know if she could run any harder or faster. Her lungs were about to explode.
His sword sliced the air, close to her head and shoulders. Maclean put his arm around her, wrestling her into sudden blackness.
They stumbled forward. Sam couldn't see and she hoped he could. They crashed into a trunk, branches scraping their arms, their faces. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness. They slowed abruptly to a walk. The only sound now that could be heard was their own harsh, labored breathing.
Sam slid her hand down his arm to his hand and sank to the ground, which felt soft, maybe mossy, beneath her bottom and bare thighs. She realized what she was doing, released him and threw back her head, breathing hard. He sank down beside her. For a long time they just sat there in the near darkness, gulping air.
The birds started to sing from the treetops around them.
Sam leaned back against the trunk, and realized it was his shoulder. She hesitated.
The past few minutes were a crazy blur. But they'd done it. They'd outrun those monster knights. And his body felt awfully warm and strong, frankly male, behind her shoulder. His body felt good. "What a rush," she finally said.
He made a sound, like laughter.
Sam now saw that the forest wasn't pitch-black. It was dark with shadow, but she could make out every tree trunk and branch that was close by. She could even see the chipmunk that had paused at the base of a tree, not far from where they sat. It blinked its beady eyes at them.
She smiled and breathed.
Ian didn't move away from her.
He'd leapt through time to find her.
Her heart seemed to quiver oddly at the notion. She was almost elated. She dared to look up at his handsome profile. He glanced down at her. His gaze remained serious and searching.
"I'm all right."
"They didn't hurt ye?"
"They planned to. But those locks slipped off and then Tabby threw a really good protection spell at me. I took off." She sobered. "If Tabby hadn't heard my cry for help, I'd be dead right now."
He stared into the forest grimly.
She looked at him. She wanted to touch him, his cheek, his jaw, and the rest of his amazing, hard body. She wanted really good, really hot sex. No, she wanted really hot sex together with friendship and caring. She sort of liked Maclean.
And she wanted to thank him for his help.
But that was insane. She got down to business. "Where is the damned page, Ian?"
He looked at her. "Loch Awe."
It only took her an instant. He'd never leap back in time to hide it, not if he didn't have to. "How did you get it there?"
He shrugged. "A charter jet, a pilot, a messenger."
There was one problem, Sam thought. She was in 1527. She needed to tell Nick, who was in 2009.
Ian looked at her.
"Reading my mind?"
"Ye know by now that I can't read minds. Not often, anyway." He was sharp.
Sam wondered if she was really going to double-cross him. How could she not? They'd gone through hell because he'd stolen the page and was refusing to hand it over. She'd almost lost her short hair to a knight wielding a spiked ball because he had the page! Enough was enough.
She knew what she had to do, but it didn't sit well with her. She stared at the little chipmunk, which had been gathering up seeds, grim and thoughtful. She just didn't have a helluva lot of choices now.
"So how are we getting back to 2009?" she asked. But damn it, she wasn't really ready to leave. She wanted time with Brie and her sister.
"So ye can run to Nick an' betray me?"
"Yeah, Ian. So I can run to Nick and betray you." She stared at him intensely and his regard was as unwavering. Then she reached up and cupped his cheek. "I don't want to argue or fight. I don't want to be on warring sides. I owe you. I want to say thanks. But it's time to hand over the page before they do some terrible things to us. Before they wind up with its power. This is the real deal, Ian. We're not fighting bit-part players here and you know it."
He pulled his face away. Sam thought he was angry, but then she realized he was sitting up, listening. Alarm kicked in as she strained to hear, as well. She realized that the birds had stopped singing. The forest was so silent that she could hear their breathing again. It was unnatural.
And then she thought she heard something moving in the black depths in front of them.
Maclean took her hand and they glided backward, deeper into the forest. Sam heard heavy breathing now. It wasn't human. And that was when she felt the draft slither through the trees, brushing her bare arms, her bare legs.
Their gazes met. Then they turned as one and from behind a tree saw the shadows of man and beast.
The demon was hulking. So was its dog. The height of a Shetland pony, it had to be two hundred and fifty pounds. It was sniffing the ground, its gray coat glowing.
The nonhuman being had to be seven or eight feet tall. He stopped and looked right at them. When he smiled, his teeth flashed in the darkness.
Sam looked at Ian and jerked hard on his hand.
He threw his arms around her.
The demon dog howled and the nonhuman released it. As it charged, Sam said, "No more time, Maclean."
It galloped madly at them, eyes blazing, ready to tear them from limb to limb.
Ian cursed.
Had he lost the power? "Maclean!" Sam shouted.
He grunted and pulled her more tightly into his embrace. As the dog leapt at them, they spun wildly up through the trees, past thick branches and spikelike needles, the pines scratching and clawing their arms, their faces. Then they were being hurled through the bright blue sky, into clouds, past the bright, glowing sun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FRANKIE THE DOORMAN seemed more afraid of Rupert Hemmer than he did Uncle Sam. Nick began to lose patience as the doorman stared at his phony FBI ID and warrant, clearly reluctant to let them in. Nick sighed. "Let's go," he told his team.
As Nick walked to the elevator with his team, Frankie ran to the phone. Nick sighed again. How dumb could a doorman be? "Hold the cage," he said to Kit. He turned and strode back across the lobby in about one second flat. He smiled at Frankie, who held the lobby phone, before ripping the telephone and its cord from Frankie's hands and the wall at the same time. "Now, that was downright oppositional," he said. He started to frisk him.
The thirty-two-year-old Latino blanched. "Hey, what are you doing! For all I know, that warrant is a fake. For all I know, you're a fake!"
Having found the jerk's cell phone, Nick dropped it on the floor and stomped on it, making certain that the loyal doorman could not call his boss. "Frankie? I swear to reimburse you. Now you need to swear that you won't run down the street to the closest phone. Otherwise I'm gagging you, tying you up and sticking you in the janitor's closet."
"It's Freddie," he gasped, eyes bulging. "Fine! But he'll fire me, you know that, right?"
"I think we can make things right with the union and get you another job really, really fast."
Frankie calmed. "Okay," he said.
Satisfied, Nick hurried to his team. They were holding the elevator, not fazed by his little bout of violence. He stared impatiently at the floor indicator as the private elevator went right up to the penthouse. The clock was ticking and he knew it. There was no point in bouncing around 1527 when he didn't even know if Sam was there. Hemmer had taken her back in the first place. He'd have to come home sooner or later, and he'd sure as hell know where she was. Nick itched to get answers. He itched for a raw, dirty fight. Hemmer was going to pay for touching his agent. Oh, yeah.
He kept thinking about Jan, who'd forgiven him for Alex, and Katie and the kids, who were too dead to forgive him for anything. He kept seeing the faces of the Twelve.
Kit Mars was first out of the elevator.
Having read her mind without even trying, he knew she was really worried about Sam. Did Sam even know that she had a loyal friend in her coworker? She was beyond determined, but that was why he'd recruited her out of the NYPD. The kid was fierce. Untested, really, but fierce.
One of the guys, Cardozza, tried the doorknob first. "It's locked."
Nick tried not to roll his eyes. "Ring the bell. Missus is at home. So's the help."
Kit was already ringing the doorbell. "So what's the plan, Nick?" she asked. "I mean, Hemmer isn't here and when he gets back, I don't think he's going to tell us what we want to know."
"You've never seen me at my most persuasive." Nick smiled at her.
Kit didn't smile back.
He was expecting a butler or housekeeper to answer the door---not Becca Hemmer in her La Perla bra and panties.
His eyes widened. He'd seen photos of her, of course. She was on magazine covers, celebrity rags, the Enquirer. He knew she was a knockout, but she was better in the flesh. In the five-inch pumps, she was almost as tall as he was.
"We were wondering how long it would take you to come over, Nick," she purred.
He refocused. "Gee, I don't recall us having met...Mrs. Hemmer."
"We haven't." She smiled. "But Rupert is expecting you and you're more than welcome to wait until he comes back. We can even amuse ourselves, if you'd like."
He told himself not to get distracted. His surprise visit wasn't very much of a surprise, apparently.
She stepped up to him so his groin brushed her cute panties. "You will come in and wait, won't you?"
Cardozza snickered.
Nick slid his arm around her waist and handled her ass. He looked at Cardozza and Putney. "You know what to do," he said.
They barreled past Becca, heading across the entry hall for Hemmer's private office, Cardozza taking a drill out of his backpack. Kit followed them.
"What are you doing?" Becca cried.
"Well, since this is an official visit, we're going to break into dear Rupert's office and seize his computers and all his files."
"He won't like it," she finally said.
"But he doesn't mind his little trophy shagging the cop?" Nick asked.
She shrugged. "Are we shagging, Nick?" Her smile returned; she'd recovered.
He smiled back and blasted the chandelier that wasn't very far from their heads.
Becca cried out and jumped as it crashed to the floor, breaking into a million tiny pieces. The marble floor didn't look so good, either.
"I don't like surprises," Nick said easily, "and I bet Rupert doesn't like them, either."
She wet her lips, looking at him with new respect. Raw lust shimmered in her eyes. "Men with white power are always the best," she said roughly.
"He has my agent," Nick returned flatly. He leveled the walls in the room. Then he kicked a piece of crystal from the chandelier out of his way. "And I am not a happy camper."
WHEN SHE STOPPED HURTING, Sam sat up. She found herself in a medieval great room she instantly recognized, in spite of the newer furnishings. She glanced at Ian in surprise. He was standing above her, glowering, arms crossed. He'd apparently recovered from the leap a bit more swiftly than she had. "We're at Castle Awe," she said, becoming excited. "Are we still in 1527?"
His gaze was cold. "Yeah. It's the next day. August 10, 1527."
She stood up. His gaze went to her legs and Sam looked down. She had quite a few silly scratches, and one huge gaping tear on her calf. Now, she became aware of the pain.
"The dog bit ye," he said harshly.
He was blaming himself, she thought, for not rushing to leap away. She cursed and limped to the trestle table and sat down hard on the bench. "Can you do something about it?" The last time she'd been at Castle Awe, she'd been with Nick and they'd been looking for Brie. It had been 1502. She'd seen Tabby, too. She really hoped her sister was still around. The odds were in her favor, she thought.
Ian's answer was to walk over to where she sat. He knelt and he put his hands on her bloody leg. Sam realized that he didn't want to heal her. Maybe that was because he'd have to admit to himself that bad boys didn't heal, making him one of the good guys after all. When would he give the rebel act up? She gasped at the sensation of his healing warmth flooding into her. Instantly the pain dimmed. The warmth intensified, creeping up her leg into her thigh. She stared at him, becoming a bit breathless.
His eyes were on her knee, his huge hands wrapped around her calf. The pain was like a dull headache now. She couldn't help it---the feeling of his hands had become sensual. She wondered what it would be like to have those hands elsewhere, flooding her with their white heat.
She wouldn't mind him moving those hands higher.
He slowly looked up at her.
"I can't recall," she said softly, "if I ever got around to saying thank-you for the rescue."
His eyes had changed during the healing, telling her that he was getting off on it, too, but his face was hard. He was angry, but controlling it. Sam didn't know why. "Forget it."
What was wrong with Maclean? His comeback should have been provocative, rude and sexual. "No, I'm not going to forget it. You've come to my rescue a few times. I am not used to being a damsel in distress. I'm used to playing hero." When he didn't speak, she said seriously, "I owe you, Ian, and I always repay my debts."
"The monk took ye captive to get at me," he said abruptly, moving his hands to her thigh.
She inhaled, her heart thundering now. But she focused on what he meant. He was blaming himself. "Hemmer captured me," she said. "It isn't your fault. We're in this together. What are you doing?"
He took her arm in his hands. "Getting rid of the scratches and cuts."
"Gee, thanks," she said thickly. How far was the closest bedroom, she wondered. Was he truly upset because he thought that he was to blame for what she'd just gone through? "I've been through a lot worse. It's part of the job."
He moved to her other leg, running one hand up and down it, ignoring her comment.
"You're getting awfully good at this," Sam joked, really on fire.
"I want him dead," he said, finally looking at her.
Okay, she thought, both of her legs and one arm now unblemished. "Is that why we're here? So we can go back to Carlisle and nail him? Because I want a piece of the action."
Ian stood. "He needs to pay," he said abruptly. "And for the last time, there is no 'we.
She got up, taking his wrist. "He needs to pay for what he almost did to me, or what he did do to you for about a decade?"
He wrenched away. As he did, Tabby ran into the room with Brie. "We were hoping you'd come here!" Tabby cried.
Maclean walked away from her, arms crossed over his chest. Sam was worried. It couldn't be easy, coming face-to-face with one of his captors. He was going to confront the monk and she couldn't blame him. Vengeance was a great idea. But going it alone was not. She understood that he dreaded this particular battle. She wanted---needed---to know why. That meant she needed to know the details of his relationship with Carlisle. And she dreaded that.
But she smiled at her sister and cousin as they ran up to her.
"Okay," Brie said. "Now we can catch up!"
"SO WHAT COMES NEXT?" Brie asked.
Two bottles of wine were empty. Sam sat with Brie and Tabby at the trestle table, a small fire lazily licking the wood in the hearth. The men had left them to their own devices. Sam knew Ian had gone to a guest chamber, and she hoped he was calmer now. She had spent at least an hour bringing her sister and cousin up to speed. Tabby and Brie knew every relevant detail of the past few days. They knew that Ian had stolen the page of illusion, and that it was not his first theft. She'd told them about Hemmer and the monk, and they knew that the monk had been his guard for the last ten years of his captivity. And Sam had told them that Ian had revealed that he'd stashed the page at Loch Awe in the present. Now, Tabby reached for Sam's hand.
It was so great to be back together, Sam thought. She looked at Brie. "I have to recover the page and hand it over to Nick, which will stop some of this madness.
"Can you really betray Ian?" Tabby asked softly.
Sam tensed. "Can you read minds now, or do you still know me inside and out?"
Tabby smiled. "No, Sam, I can't read minds, except for Guy's. But I do know you as well as I ever have. You haven't told us everything, have you?"
Sam was rueful. Tabby suspected the truth. She glanced at Brie and sighed. "Okay, Maclean is hot. I caved. I laid Maclean."
"Sam!" Tabby gave her the best schoolteacher stare she possessed.
Sam smiled then. "Am I made?"
"It's obvious that you and Ian have teamed up---he has your back and you have his. You used to protect us that way. Now you're fighting for him that way," Tabby said.
"And he was so worried about you," Brie interjected. "Not to mention that he's still really upset about what happened at the Cathedral."
He'd been worried about her. He'd leapt time to rescue her---again. They'd fled together---he'd healed her twice. What did that all mean? Sam reached for the wine and realized both bottles were empty.
Tabby stilled her hand. "Underneath the anger and despair, he is a good man," she said.
Sam looked at her. That was what Brie had said, a day or so ago. "I know. He comes across as a total jerk---wealthy, arrogant and unbelievably self-centered. But I've seen the truth." She spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "He was in demonic captivity for sixty-six years. He suffered unspeakably. I'm afraid to think about what they did to him. Those wounds remain and they're raw. I think he suffers from flashbacks, from nightmares. You're right---he lives with despair." She was grim. "The arrogance, the scorn, the indifference and even the selfishness, it's all a facade, so we will never know how fractured he is, how frightened, how hurt."
Tabby's eyes were wide. "You care about him," she said softly.
"I hope not!" Sam exclaimed uncomfortably. "Not the way you mean, anyway!"
Her sister and cousin looked at her.
"Okay, I do care, but not that way! Damn it. It all started when I began to realize what he's been through. I fought the compassion, I really did. But no one should ever have to suffer what he has---and it's not even over! That damned monk is back!"
Tabby and Brie exchanged glances, smiling.
"Nothing is funny, guys. The monk needs to pay. Ian needs payback, and can you blame him? I think peace will follow, and then he can heal. Of course, stealing the page of illusion and refusing to hand it over to Nick doesn't exactly lay the groundwork for a peaceful life. So I guess that's where I come in." Sam paused.
"Maybe you're meant to be the one to bring him peace," Brie said. "The way I brought Aidan to salvation. He's certainly gone out of his way for you."
Ian had gone out of his way for her, many times, but Brie was wrong. "This isn't a karmic love connection!"
Brie smiled.
"Can you really go behind his back and hand over the page to Nick?" Tabby asked quietly.
"I hate the idea, but there's no other choice," Sam said quickly. "It will save our lives."
"And what will that do to your relationship?" Tabby seemed worried.
Sam started. "Whoa! Didn't you hear anything I just said? We don't have a 'relationship.' We're allies, but we're still rivals. We may be lovers, but it's not the real deal, Tab, like you and Macleod. It's not even close. He'll be pissed as all hell at me. We'll have great make-up sex. We'll vanquish Hemmer and the monk. And then we'll go our separate ways."
Tabby didn't respond.
Sam flushed, uncomfortable. "This is just a case for me. There'll be other assignments and lots more war. Eventually this will be an interesting memory...if that."
"Wow," Brie said. "You have your life all charted out."
Sam looked at her.
Brie just shrugged. "You've never bothered with compassion for anyone other than me or Tabby, and of course Allie. I don't think this will be as easy as you think. Ian reminds me so much of Aidan when he took me hostage. He's meant for great things, I just know it. But he can't achieve his destiny until he heals. I don't think you will find it easy to walk away, Sam, not when he needs you."
"Is that your romantic nature speaking, or have you seen something I should know about?"
"Ian has white power," Brie explained. "The gods will want him to use it to protect the Innocent!"
Sam stared. "Do you know that for certain?"
"I'm sure of it, but not because of a vision," Brie said. "I just know it."
Sam tried to imagine Ian as a Master. It was hard to do. She knew that if he ever took those vows, he'd fight evil his way---flying solo and acting as indifferent as possible about it.
Tabby touched her. "Sam, has it ever occurred to you that if he can get past his past, he might have a very different future? I think you two are peas in a pod. Aren't you his flip side, in a way?"
"What?"
"You come across as arrogant, indifferent and tough as nails. But it's all a facade---one that began when Mother was murdered."
"Are you crazy? Are you trying to piss me off?"
"Why would my pointing out that you shut down your heart the day she died infuriate you?" Tabby wasn't perturbed. "I always wondered if you'd ever come to grips with her murder."
"I have come to grips with it. I learned that being soft is for suckers and for victims. Mom was a helluva witch, but in the end, she was just another victim." Sam breathed hard. "Life sucks, doesn't it? I sure as hell learned how to be strong that day and I have no regrets."
"I think you can be strong and compassionate without being a sucker or a victim." Tabby put her arm around her. "I love you. I'm glad you care about Ian. He needs you---and you need him."
Sam pulled away and stood. Was she crazy? "You don't get it, Tabby. Let's back up. No, let's start over! We're only having sex. This isn't love. It isn't even friendship." An odd pang went through her, as if she wanted what she was denying, which was absurd. "We're not even on the same side! And we are not the flip side of one another! Right now, we're partners, but only because the die landed that way. He's out for number one and I'm an HCU team player. This is a moment in time for us. A brief moment, one that will pass." She paused to take a breath. "I love you guys. And that is the extent of my romantic nature."
Tabby stood, too. "Okay, Sam, if you say so."
Sam hated it when Tabby became that know-it-all-schoolteacher, speaking to her as if she were an ignorant child.
"I think she doth protest too much," Brie murmured.
Sam realized she'd forgotten how annoying her sister and cousin could be. She sighed, but it was great to have them around to annoy her! "Let's make a bet. Five years from now, no, one year from now---no, six months from now, not only won't Ian and I be together, I won't even recall his name."
"I'll take it," Brie said quickly. "Loser buys dinner at the best restaurant in L.A. Better yet, at the Beverly Hills Hotel."
Tabby and Brie weren't getting what she was trying to tell them, that she and Maclean were no big deal, not now and not ever.
"So what's next?" Brie asked seriously now. "In order to steal the page and hand it over to Nick, we need to get to 2009. But if we've figured out where Ian stashed the page, Hemmer probably has, too. And then there's Carlisle."
Before Sam could speak, Tabby said, "I don't want you doing this alone, Sam. Brie is right. My powers are very strong now, and we can help. It sounds like Hemmer is dangerous, the monk even more so."
Sam began to smile. She was thrilled.
"We are going to come with you," Tabby said firmly.
"Sounds like a plan," Sam said happily.
"Can I point out something logistical?" Brie asked. "Before we bop over to the future, the monk happens to be right here, right now, just a few hundred miles to the south."
"I'm almost certain that Ian kept us in this time so he could hunt Carlisle. For him, it's personal. As much as I think the page should be handed over to Nick immediately, Brie has a good point. Let's get rid of the monk before we do anything else. It will be one less bad guy to worry about." Maybe Ian's vengeance would pave the way for his healing, Sam thought.
"Since when do you worry about the bad guys?" Tabby teased.
Sam was thinking about Ian's need for revenge against the monk now. She didn't answer, because her answer would be, "Since Ian."
Tabby said seriously, "If we intend to go back to Carlisle and confront and destroy the monk, we need to bring the men into this."
Ian liked going it alone. He'd hate working alongside his father, but he would have to deal, Sam thought. "A little extra white power never hurts." She thought about the savage Macleod. "I'd sure love to sic Macleod on Carlisle."
"The more, the safer," Brie said. She was sober now. "Masters have died facing off against the monk. We need to know what we're going up against. I'd like to know which powers he has, exactly."
"No one is going to die," Sam said firmly, looking at Tabby. She didn't seem worried about Guy. "We can do this. A bit of vision, a bit of slaying and lots of magic...it's a shoo-in." Just then, it felt like it would be that easy, with them all together again.
Suddenly they all clasped hands. "Like old times," Brie whispered.
"Yeah," Sam said, smiling. "Like old times."
A MAID WHO DID NOT speak English showed Sam to Ian's chamber, but when she got there, the room was vacant. A small fire burned in the stone hearth. The bed hadn't been slept in. But a bottle of wine and two cups had been left on the table, which was beneath a window with glass panes. Outside, the night was blue-black and brilliant with stars.
Sam went back downstairs. As she approached the great room where she'd spent the past hours with her sister and Brie, she heard a man speaking. For one moment, she thought it Ian, but quickly realized it was his father.
She was about to walk in when she saw that Ian was there. Sensing the tension between them, she faltered on the threshold.
Aidan was holding out a glass of wine to his son, his expression so somber he might have been at someone's deathbed. Ian looked ready to explode in anger. He shook his head abruptly. "No thanks. I'd rather drink alone." He walked away from his father to stand before the hearth.
Sam saw Brie, sitting on the bench at the end of the table, looking distressed and unhappy. She got up and went over to Aidan, touching him, the gesture meant to be consoling.
Aidan was visibly trembling. He put the glass down and walked over to his son. "I dinna see ye fer twenty-five years. Can ye sit down with me, at least?"
"Why?" Ian snapped. "What do we have to talk about? My memories of the years I spent in captivity?"
Aidan inhaled. "If ye want to speak about the past, then that is what I will do."
"I have nothing to talk about," Ian snarled.
"Ye came back to Awe, not once but twice," Aidan tried.
"I came here to ask ye to help me rescue Sam," he said harshly. "Not because I needed a favor, but because ye owe me more than ye can ever repay."
Sam inhaled, shaken by his cruelty.
"I owe ye an entire childhood, many times over," Aidan whispered, his eyes tearing. "An' we both ken there be no way fer me to ever give it back to ye. So ye'll punish me instead, until I die."
Ian shrugged indifferently.
"He grieved for you for sixty-six years," Brie cried shrilly. "Ian, he loves you so much! He hated himself for sixty-six years for failing you! He still hates himself sometimes, for that failure!"
"Good, then that makes two of us," Ian said sharply. He turned, saw Sam and stiffened. "Are ye ready fer bed?"
Sam nodded, overcome with pity for him.
Brie put her arm around Aidan, who never took his moist gaze from his son. "We love you, Ian," Brie whispered.
Ian stormed out. Sam quickly followed. When they were on the third floor, in the chamber she meant to share with him, she debated whether to butt into his life or not. She knew any comment she might make about his relationship with his father would not be welcome.
He slammed the door closed and threw the bolt. "Don't start."
"Someone needs to start in on you."
He glared at her.
She hesitated. "Ian, he's your father and he loves you."
"I have no father." He tore off his T-shirt and flung it across the room.
"I get why you're so angry. He never came to rescue you. That sucks. But he thought you were dead. Moray made sure he believed that, Ian. Have you ever tried to lay the blame on Moray, instead of Aidan?"
He stared at her, all attention now. "I hate them both."
Sam shook her head. "Aidan is a good man, Ian. And he's your father. You can't mean it."
"I was just a little boy! An' did he save me?" he raged. Sam knew he didn't expect an answer and she didn't try to speak. "I waited, I wept, I begged, I prayed, I hoped! An' then one day, the hope was gone. One day, I knew I'd live there like that forever!"
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I don't care! Do ye know that the gods have charged him with the duty of protecting children? He spends his days saving innocent children, when he couldn't save his own son!"
"It sucks," she said. "It really does. But life is goddamned unfair."
"Unfair?" he choked, incredulous. "I was the sacrifice, so he could learn a great lesson and take on his damned destiny!"
"Thank God, you survived."
He gave her a look which said he was sorry he hadn't died.
She trembled. "Ian, you survived. You lived. And now you need to move on, because you have a lot to live for."
He started to laugh at her. "Ah, yes, my fine homes, my fancy cars, the money, the art, the sex..."
"You might like your life a whole lot more if you had a family in it."
"Well, I don't and I never will." Sweat beaded on his temples.
"I hate to argue with you, but guess what? Brie's your stepmother, Aidan's your father, and any kids they have will be your brothers and sisters." He started. "So you do have a family, one dying to be given permission to care about you."
Ian stalked to the chamber's window, pushed open the glass pane, and stared at the starry sky outside.
Sam breathed in the scent of the Highland night. She could smell the loch and pine. She went over to him. "I didn't come up here to fight."
He kept staring outside. A shadow crossed the moon. When he didn't speak, Sam took a moment to look at his perfect profile. Then she looked at his broad and bare shoulders, his chest. She was acutely aware of his heat.
He slowly said, "I shouldn't have come here, not even to ask fer their help."
"That is what family is for," Sam said, laying her hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm and smooth. Her skin was turning hot, everywhere.
He glanced at her, his eyes beginning to lose some of their anger, taking on the light of sexual interest instead. "That's what yer family is for."
Sam didn't quite smile. It had been an insane day, but they'd survived.
The night was only just beginning now.
"Did ye enjoy seeing yer sister and Brianna?" he asked softly.
Sam slid her hand down his bulging bicep, his muscular forearm. The muscles tightened beneath her caress. "Yeah. It was great. So you were worried about me, huh?"
His gaze was unwavering. "Ye can take care of yerself."
"That's why you leapt through time to save me. Brie said you were beside yourself," she prompted, teasing now. But she was breathless.
He gave her an incredulous look. "Brie imagined it...an' ye escaped."
"With a little out of the ordinary help." She couldn't look away. "I saw you. When they had me in that surgical chamber, I saw you."
His eyes hardened. "Did they touch ye at all?"
"No." She almost smiled. "You do have great timing, Ian."
His mouth curved. "An' ye want to test it again."
"I sure do. Maybe my memory doesn't serve me correctly. Maybe your timing isn't what I think it is."
The curve of his lips increased. So did the gleam in his eyes. "Ye know ye recall correctly."
"And then there's that debt I owe you. The one you have yet to collect," she whispered, smiling. Her heart was thundering.
Why even try to resist? Sam laid a finger on the waistband just above his fly, pressing down. "Come and get it, Maclean," she whispered.
His smile vanished. He leaned toward her, his eyes blazing.
It crossed her mind that they still hadn't kissed, not since that first time at Hemmer's party, in spite of all the sex.
He looked at her mouth.
Sam almost forgot about the throbbing heat beneath the pad of her finger. She stared at his mouth.
It shifted, curved. Then he slid his hand into her short hair, on the back of her head. Their eyes met. His smile faded.
It felt like an eternity was passing, as she stood there, her heart slamming, waiting for the feeling of his mouth.
He leaned closer and touched his mouth to hers. Sam's heart erupted as their lips finally made contact. It was a bare, tentative, virginal brushing.
He froze, their lips still touching, as if surprised or uncertain.
Oddly, she was as uncertain, as surprised. "It's okay," she whispered, curling her hands around his shoulders.
He trembled. His other arm went around her. Then his mouth brushed hers, this time more firmly.
Sam opened.
And Ian finally kissed her. Hot and hard, with shocking hunger, a kiss worth waiting for. Sam kissed him back, stunned by the turbulence in her chest. There was so much joy and so much excitement...
His tongue went deep. She hit the wall, their lips locked. No one had ever kissed her this way before.
She'd never wanted to kiss anyone back this way, either.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. He grunted, turning her to the bed. Somehow she went down on it, on her back. He pushed between her spread thighs, the scrap of miniskirt lifting out of the way. Their lips still locked---she didn't think she ever wanted to break the kiss---she reached for his zipper. He tore at her mouth, now frenzied.
Their tongues twisted, tasted, entwined.
His teeth grated.
Sam thought she tasted blood.
He tore his mouth from hers, panting hard. Their gazes clashed, locked. Staring at her, his eyes blinding, he reached down between them. She heard the zipper as he jerked it down.
"Can ye wait?" he demanded.
In answer, she wrapped her calves around his waist and pushed against his massive arousal, already wet and slick. He smiled, bent, licked her lips again and again, throbbing against her. Sam gave up. She caught his hips, anchored him and impaled herself.
He cried out.
It was the best damn orgasm---or series of them---ever.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, he launched himself off her, panting harshly and rolling onto his back. Still swimming in a sea of ecstasy, Sam just lay there and let the pleasure flow.
It was a while before the waves finally subsided. When she was somewhat coherent, she touched her mouth, which was swollen and bruised. No one had ever kissed her as Ian had that night. It was as if it were the last kiss he'd ever have---or it was as if it were the first kiss for him, a kiss he couldn't get enough of.
She realized he was watching her closely.
Sam turned slightly so their gazes met. His face wasn't mocking; it was carefully neutral. His gaze was lazy, but watchful.
She wet her lips. "Hey."
"Did I hurt ye?"
She was amused. "No, Ian. I'm a big, bad girl and I can handle the rough stuff."
He didn't smile back. He lay fully on his back and stared up at the timbered ceiling.
Sam felt her smile fade. A moment ago he hadn't been able to get enough of her---and it had been mutual. Now, two inches separated their bodies and shockingly, she wanted to close that gap. She actually wanted to lie in his arms and maybe rub her mouth on his chest.
She flushed. If she made the attempt, he might think her involved. He might push her away, reject her.
She'd never worried about rejection before. She'd never cared whether a guy wanted more or not. And she'd never wanted to cuddle before, either.
She was not going to turn into a mushy female. She ran her nails down his arm. "You okay, dark lover?"
He turned to stare at her. "Are ye?"
She stopped the phony smile. "That was amazing, actually."
His expression finally softened. "Yeah." His gaze moved to her mouth. "I was too rough."
"It's called passion, baby," she said lightly, hoping to hide how stunned and oddly happy she was feeling. She laid her hand on one large pectoral muscle and stroked it casually, because she had to touch him.
His eyes widened in surprise. She felt the muscle beneath her hand tense. She expected him to pull away and she was sorry she'd reached out, even casually.
But he lay very still, closing his eyes instead.
He was going to let her caress him. Opportunist that she was, she stroked his chest, going from large circles to smaller ones, closing in on his nipple. She wouldn't mind spending hours touching him, she thought. What was happening to her?
He was such a mess and she was worried about him.
But now he sighed in pleasure and enjoyment. Her body tightened, warmed. Then she sighed and let her hand drop between them. Her palm lay flat against his hard hipbone.
And he didn't call her out on the gesture of affection. "Do ye want to sleep?"
Sam blinked at what had risen between them. She hid a smile. To answer...or just act? She moved against him, kissed his navel. He grunted in satisfaction, and grunted again when she touched the steel ring.
AT FIRST, she thought she was dreaming, as she heard the harsh, heavy, frightened breathing behind her. No, beside her. Someone was chasing her, she thought groggily, but it was a dream, wasn't it? She was aware of the comfortable mattress beneath her body and the warm man beside her in the bed. No, not any man, she thought, starting to smile. She was in bed with Maclean and they'd had a fantastic night.
He screamed.
The sound was bloodcurdling. It was a sound of pain and fear. Sam shot upright. It took her one instant to realize that Ian lay beside her, tossing and turning, in the throes of a nightmare. Moonlight spilled over his twisted face, his bare torso. The covers were tangled around his hips and he was covered in sweat. He screamed again.
She seized his shoulders. "Ian, wake up!"
His hands went around her throat and he started to strangle her, his expression now a mask of murderous fury. His eyes opened and their gazes met. Sam grabbed his wrists, choking.
Lucidity returned. He released her, leaping from the bed.
Sam inhaled, sucking down air.
Ian staggered across the chamber, then straightened. Slowly, he turned. "Are ye all right?" he demanded.
Sam sat back against the headboard, nodding. "I'm fine." She had not a doubt he was dreaming about the past. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," he said swiftly, but he was still shaking, his words clearly false. He picked up his jeans, which had been on the floor, and stepped into them. Sam thought she saw his hands shaking.
She watched him walk over to the table and pour a cup of wine. "That was quite a dream," she tried.
He drank, not answering.
She was certain that wasn't his first nightmare. Just like she was certain he had flashbacks from time to time. "What did they do to you?" she finally asked.
He turned and stared at her.
Sam didn't think he would answer, and he didn't have to. She knew.
But he did answer. "Everything."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM STARED at him, shocked. He turned away, reaching for his T-shirt. He shrugged it on.
Her brain buzzed. He was actually discussing the past. "I hate what happened to you. I want the monk to pay, too."
He didn't answer. He turned back to the window. Outside, the sun was rising and the morning was pale gray.
She'd probably used up all of her spare luck, but she said, "Do you dream about it a lot?"
He gave her a dark, are-you-kidding look.
She'd thought so. Sam slid from the bed. She shivered, but decided not to bother with a blanket---she wanted a bit of female power. Naked, she might hold his interest a bit longer. He might answer a question or two. She walked up to him. "Are the dreams always that bad?"
"What is this, an interrogation?"
"No, Ian, it's not an interrogation. It's a friend being concerned." She'd been right not to put on her clothes. He watched her now.
Sam poured herself a glass of water, and took a sip as his gaze moved down her body. "Yer freezing."
She smiled and put the cup down, then laid her hand on his shoulder. "It's a bit chilly in here."
He didn't pull away. "Get dressed. Not that I mind the show."
She was offering comfort in the tiniest, most discreet way possible, and he was allowing it. She was exultant. "Aren't you going to deny it, Ian? Aren't you going to laugh at me, mock me, for calling myself a friend?"
His stare became impossible to read. His mouth curled, but Sam didn't know if it was with scorn and derision or simple amusement. It didn't matter. This was all his big cover-up. He shrugged. "If ye want to call yerself my friend, why would I stop ye? Ye can call yerself whatever ye like."
"Thanks," she said.
He looked from her eyes to her mouth to her breasts, then lower. He slowly looked up. "Ye can't play me, Sam. Ye can't work me the way ye work other men."
Sam slid her hand to his nape. She felt him tense and knew he was going to pull away.
Sam glanced around, saw her thong and T-shirt, and picked them up. She slid the clothes on and said, "When my mother was murdered, I was twelve. I didn't see the demon do it. But I saw him get up and leave her there, dead and drained of her life and power."
Ian started. "I didn't know."
"My mother was like Tabby. She was a powerful witch with a heart of gold. No one was kinder." To her surprise, Sam felt herself becoming upset. Her gaze felt moist. What the hell was that about?
"Did she look like ye or yer sister?" Ian asked quietly.
"She looked like me, except she wore her hair long, and it was champagne-colored, not platinum."
He smiled. "Ye dye yer hair---if ye can call those wisps hair."
"You like my hair," she said.
His smile vanished. He said slowly, "I like yer hair because all I see when I look at ye is yer face and eyes."
Sam went still. Her heart exploded with delight. "Wow," she said.
And Ian Maclean flushed. He started abruptly across the room.
"I had such nightmares, too, Ian."
He halted at the door, glancing at her.
"I started dreaming about how she died, when I hadn't seen it. But I knew. Even though I was only twelve, I knew." Sam felt a lump solidify in her chest. She told herself it was heartburn. "Life does suck, doesn't it? It was her time to die, or so my grandma said, but I couldn't ever accept that."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"And it was my time to start slaying." Sam shrugged.
"Are ye crying?" he asked suddenly.
"No, I'm not crying. I don't cry."
He made a sound. "How long did ye dream of her death?"
"A long time." Sam grimaced and walked up to him. "I know my dreams were nothing compared to yours. But I get how awful a nightmare like that can be."
He crossed his arms. "Ye don't have the dreams anymore."
"No. The dreams became less frequent in my early twenties," Sam said truthfully. "I haven't had the nightmare in years."
He absorbed that. "I'm glad."
He meant it. She smiled slightly. Then she said, "You've been through more than any one person should ever have to go through. The dreams need to stop."
He laughed. "No one, not even a god, can control his or her dreams!"
She waited a beat. "Ian, have you ever thought about getting help?" she asked carefully.
"Ye mean...a shrink?" He was incredulous.
"At CDA, there's a whole department filled with shrinks to help us screwed-up agents out. When Macleod took Tabby back in time last year, Nick forced me into evaluation. I had to talk to a shrink every week for an hour."
"I'm not an agent. I don't need a shrink."
She knew what was coming---and she was right.
"Sharing my bed doesn't give ye the right to tell me to go to a shrink. Yer a fool if ye think ye should worry about me now, because of some sex."
She sighed. "I was waiting for the Maclean comeback. I'm so relieved!"
He picked up the plaid throw on the foot of the bed and tossed it at her. "If ye get pneumonia, ye'll be too sick to leap home, and we don't have antibiotics here."
She was glad to be cloaked in the warmth of the plaid. "And you would care because...?"
"No one deserves to be stuck in this miserable time," he said harshly. "Ye shouldn't die because of me."
Sam felt her eyes widen. He blamed himself for what had happened to her. "Why don't you admit it, you like me, a little, and not just for sex. We're---gasp---friends."
And Maclean did not have a comeback. He simply strode from the room.
Sam found her skirt and pulled it on. She was thoughtful as she stepped into her boots, and very, very pleased. That dialogue felt like a win. She almost felt warm and fuzzy inside. Maclean could actually be normal, and he'd been somewhat honest. She was smiling as she started for the door. She was probably the first real friend he'd ever had. Life felt pretty good---and it was because of her growing relationship with Maclean.
Sam told herself she'd better start being careful. But she somehow knew that she'd ignore her own advice.
Tabby and Brie were downstairs, sipping some kind of herbal tea. Neither Aidan nor Macleod were in sight. Neither was Ian.
Sam grinned cheerfully at them.
Tabby's graceful brows lifted. "Someone had a good night."
It had been beyond good. But now, Sam recalled their conversation from the day before and all of her denials. She'd just told Ian---no, insisted---that they were friends. "I needed a good night's sleep," she said, straight-faced.
Brie smiled and pushed a steaming mug toward her.
"Where is everyone?" Sam asked, not bothering to sound casual.
"Aidan wanted to show Macleod a fortification he's building on the lake's northern shores. Awe is so large now that there's a huge spillover of men and women to the village. He's added a defensive set of walls there," Brie said. "But they won't be long." Her face fell.
Sam knew she was thinking about Ian.
Brie said softly, "Aidan asked Ian last night if he'd join them. He said no."
Sam hesitated. "I'm not going to give you platitudes. I don't know if he'll ever come around, Brie."
"I will never stop praying for him and I will never give up hope. But it's been twenty-five years. I want Aidan to be whole, Sam."
Suddenly Tabby made a startled sound, and she turned white.
Sam had tensed impossibly. The heavy weight of evil was present---and it was familiar.
It was the monk.
He had come to them, and she didn't think he'd come to negotiate. He was playing offense; the men were gone. It hit her then, how bold he was to dare to enter Castle Awe. And she still didn't have her weapons! She had one very lethal dagger, which she'd taken from the armory the moment she'd arrived at Awe yesterday.
Where was Ian?
"It's Carlisle," Sam said tersely, on her feet. She turned in the direction of the weight of his evil, but Tabby was already starting for the staircase there.
"Aidan," Brie whispered.
Sam was on her sister's heels. She turned, her dagger in hand. Brie was clutching the back of a chair. Brie was an empath. She was afraid for Aidan, then.
Brie looked at her, shaking her head. "It's not Aidan, it's Ian. His fear feels like a butcher knife, going right through the heart."
Sam ran. She caught up with Tabby and passed her on the stone stairs. As she did, she heard stone cracking and crashing. She rushed to the threshold of the ramparts, aware that the terrible battle had begun.
It might be their last one. She paused. A small army of possessed giants was scaling the walls. They were heavily armed, their eyes glowing with inhuman determination. The watch lay dead, hanging from the tower windows. And Ian was alone on the ramparts.
If he was terrified, one wouldn't know it. He was blasting the Highland giants as they crested the crenellations, his expression savage. They were an incoming tide, and they just kept coming in waves. Sam did not know how long he could keep up his one-man defense. "Ian!" Sam ran up to him.
He only glanced at her. "Get back! Get Aidan and Macleod!"
As if she'd retreat. Sam seized a sword from a dead giant.
Soft laughter sounded.
Sam looked up. So did Ian.
The monk of Carlisle stood on the highest level of the tower, grinning down at them. His dark robes swirled in the breeze. His blond hair gleamed. He slowly lifted his pointy shoe and nudged one of Aidan's watchmen off the ledge. The man's body tumbled through the air, landing not far from where she and Ian stood. "Hello, Ian, Sam."
Ian had paled but his fierce expression remained. "Bastard."
Behind them, Tabby paused and began chanting, casting a spell.
"Ian!" Brie cried.
He whirled, hurling his power at another wave of attackers.
A growl sounded.
A demon dog crouched on the crenellations. She had no idea how it had gotten up there, but as it snarled, fangs dripping, she didn't hesitate. That thing meant murder. She hurled her dagger at its heart as it sprang. She was expecting it to attack her. Instead, it leapt at Tabby.
Her dagger struck its chest, but the demon dog landed on her sister, growling in rage and driving her to the ground. Sam shouted, rushing it, sword raised. Beneath the beast, Tabby kept chanting. Before Sam could sever the damned dog's head from it shoulders, Ian's power blazed. He blasted the beast, then turned to combat the incoming giants, dropping them one by one.
She didn't know how long he could keep this up. He was breathing hard and sweat was pouring down his body. They needed reinforcements, badly. The demon dog went still and Sam seized it by the skin at its nape, pulling it from her sister, hurling it aside as the ramparts shuddered from Ian's white power. Sam seized her dagger, jerking it free of the dog's chest. As she turned back to her sister, she saw her lashes flutter. She was alive. Sam saw that her mouth moved as if she were still chanting; Tabby was in a deep trance.
"Sam!" Brie cried in warning.
A new dread began. Sam realized that it had become shockingly silent on the ramparts. She whirled.
Ian stood where she'd last seen him, dozens of dead giants littered around him. The monk smiled down at him.
They were going to go at it.
Ian needed help.
He could not do this alone. Sam knew it. Ian flung a bolt of power at Carlisle. Sam grabbed the sword and started for the stairs leading up to where he stood in the tower. But just as she expected, Carlisle raised his hand and sent Ian's power rushing back at him.
He was flung with crushing force into the wall.
She heard flesh and bone smack and crack.
"Ian!"
His face enraged, Ian launched himself forward and blazed his power upward at Carlisle again. On the stairs, Sam saw his power invert itself as the monk raised his hand. This time she screamed.
Ian was hurled back into the same ramparts wall again. This time, the monk followed up with a wave of his hand.
Black power sizzled across the ramparts, descending from the tower like a lightning bolt. Ian was struck in his chest. He collapsed, eyes closed.
Sam leapt off the stairs, running to him. He could not be dead.
"Sam!" Brie shouted again.
A giant who'd somehow survived seized her from behind. Sam turned, arcing her sword at his neck. As she did so, she saw an enraged Brie launching herself at him, a tiny dagger in her hand. As Brie's dagger went into his back, Sam felt her blade go through tendon and cartilage. She jerked Brie aside as the giant's head toppled away.
"A woman after my own heart, one I will truly enjoy," the monk murmured in her ear.
Sam turned, stiffening.
The monk of Carlisle smiled at her. "My only regret is that you weren't born a boy."
She spat in his face. "I am going to take his pulse," she told him, trembling. "And if he's dead, so are you."
The monk grinned, delighted.
She turned her back on him and stumbled over the dead giants, kneeling beside Ian. She didn't have to take his pulse. She could see that he was breathing.
"Kennar," the monk said, and it was an order.
Sam glanced up. Six giants had scaled the walls, and two approached her and Ian. She slowly stood, raising her blade.
"I wonder if you'll ever defend me that way," the monk asked. "Seize her. Impale him."
Sam felt her heart stop in shock---and then she was fighting for her life and for Ian's. She thrust, Kennar parried and easily. She needed her weapons, not a heavy sword which she wasn't adept with! Brie had been grabbed, and Tabby was unconscious now. She struck again, was blocked and struck again. From the corner of her eye, she saw a whirl of movement. Brie screamed.
Sam turned, and her sword was knocked from her hands. "Brie!"
Brie stood by the stairs, clutching her breast so badly that Sam expected to see blood pouring from her chest, through her hands. She reeled backward, as if she'd been stabbed. But there was no blood...
Brie was an Empath. It was Aidan, she thought, turning away. Then she saw Ian and cried out.
He was impaled on a pike.
It had been driven through his chest and out of the other side of his body by the other giant, who was grinning.
He was conscious now. He held the pike in his hands and his eyes met hers, stunned. Then they glazed over with pain.
Brie was feeling his pain, not Aidan's.
Sam looked at the monk furiously. "You sonuvabitch. He was unconscious!"
"And now I believe he's fairly helpless...don't you?" Carlisle mocked.
Sam turned back to Ian, who was as white as a corpse, but trying to get to his feet. Four giants were circling him. "Don't move," Sam said harshly. He needed medical attention.
He shook his head, as pale as death, getting to his knees. The sight was obscene. No sight had ever sickened her as much. His power blazed weakly at the four possessed men. The Highland giants seemed to feel the blow, just a bit, but then they realized how weak he was. They grinned and advanced, confident.
"Don't use your power," Sam gasped, sliding her arm around him. "Save your strength, please!"
Ian reeled, in spite of her body stabilizing him. Ignoring her, his power sparked weakly. One of the giants leapt toward him, sword raised.
Sam jumped, attacking the giant with her dagger. Shouting furiously, she cut his throat, but it didn't matter. The other three giants were on Ian. For one heartrending moment, she thought they were going to hack him to death with their swords while she helplessly watched.
Instead, they seized him by three of his four limbs. He screamed.
"Stop," Sam screamed up at Carlisle. "We'll do what you want!"
The monk smiled cruelly and nodded at his giants. They pulled on Ian's arms and lifted him by the pike. He fainted, hanging between them.
"What a shame," the monk said, laughing.
Sam felt a giant wrestle her backward, shackling her as he did so. She never took her eyes off the monk. She was going to kill him. She couldn't wait. Maybe she'd impale him first...
His smile was triumphant now. He came down from the tower and murmured, "And how will you accomplish that, mon amour?"
"Wait and see," she hissed.
"I wonder if he will survive the leap."
Sam inhaled. "Don't. I'll get you the page. In fact, I'll give you whatever you want. He needs healing."
He caught her by her arm. "Say goodbye, Sam."
"No!" Sam shouted, but it was too late. She was flung upward, into the sky, at the sun. And she was speeding so swiftly into another time that she couldn't even look back.
SAM FELT a rough surface beneath her cheek, almost like gravel. There were shackles on her wrists, which were bound behind her back. She recalled Ian on that pike and everything that had happened at Awe in 1527. Her body was on fire from the leap, and she felt as if she'd been ripped apart on a rack, but she opened her eyes and somehow pushed herself up to sit, a feat that required the exclusive use of her abdominal muscles. Gray walls greeted her. She blinked, swimming in pain, and saw high, glass-paned windows. Her eyes widened. The windows were industrial and modern. Daylight colored the chamber a pale gray, illuminating it, but there was nothing beneath those windows, against those walls. And then she heard him breathing.
She jerked around, using her feet and fanny to swivel herself. And she saw Ian, lying in the center of the empty room, about twenty feet from her. The pike remained in his chest, with the spiked metal tip protruding out of his back.
"Ian," she cried. On her knees, she hurried toward him.
He lay on his side. There was so much blood. She was so afraid. "Ian, it's me, Sam," she cried, reaching him. Furious now that she was bound, she fought the shackles. But she was never going to be able to break them and free herself.
He moaned.
"Ian." She couldn't use her hands, obviously. Sam sat down to get better balance and pressed her knee into his hip, so he could feel her presence. "Ian?"
He moaned again.
She cursed. What had happened to Tabby's magic? Where was Aidan, Macleod? And where, exactly, were they? The room was so plain---concrete floors and walls beneath a steel roof. They could be in 1950, for all she knew.
"Cursing...won't...help."
She met his gaze, which was feverishly gray and blinded with pain. "I'm going to promise you something. I will kill the monk, and if I don't, Tabby will. But he's not getting away with this." To her horror, tears filled her eyes. "And don't you dare die!"
His eyes flickered. "He won't let me...die."
Sam wet her lips to tell him that he didn't know that. But then she recalled that during his years of captivity, they kept him alive. Her stomach churned. Ian could not suffer again, that way. "You're bleeding," she said stupidly.
"I'm almost...immortal. I can lose a little...blood."
She decided not to contradict him. He was losing pints of blood.
"Are ye hurt?" he rasped, meeting her gaze.
"You're worried about me?"
"Why would I...worry? Yer a tough...girl."
Sam felt tears roll down her cheek.
He stared at her. "Yer crying."
"Shit," she said. She couldn't wipe the tears away. "My eyes are burning," she lied. "Maybe from whatever chemicals are in the air here."
His stare became oddly intense. "Are ye crying...because of me?"
"You're a selfish jerk. Why would I cry over you? Besides, I don't cry. Not ever."
He seemed to accept that. His lashes fanned out on his deathly white cheeks as his eyes closed.
"What are you doing?" Sam cried, alarmed. He was so weak!
It was a moment before he answered. "I'm not...dying. Be quiet."
She watched him and saw the strain on his face increase. She couldn't stand it. She thought she was starting to feel his pain, but then, her heart was in unbearable anguish. If they weren't rescued, he was going to die. She did not have to be a genius to know it.
"Ian," she whispered, carefully wiggling down so she was lying on her side. She spooned against him. As most of her body made contact with his---she was careful to avoid the head of the pike---she started to cry again.
What was wrong with her?
Images flashed, of the monk on that tower laughing down at them, of Ian impaled against the wall.
More images came, of her mother. As clearly as if it were happening in the moment, she saw her being raped. When she began to strike the demon with a stick of wood, he had thrown her aside, getting up and laughing at her before walking away.
She had seen her mother raped. She was stunned, paralyzed.
Ian cried out.
She returned to the present. "What is it? Am I hurting you?" Had she pushed on him too hard by mistake? Even brushing that pike would cause acute pain.
Breathing hard, he said, "Try the cuffs."
She understood. Sam moved her arms and the cuffs fell free. Instantly she knelt over him, removing her T-shirt and ripping it in two. The wound at his back wasn't bleeding, and she pressed half of her shirt to his chest.
He gasped and said, "Remove the pike."
Now was not a good time for a debate, but she said, "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"My father is a Master. I heal quickly. Remove it."
Sam hesitated, whipped off her belt and said, "The moment I do, do not move. I'm going to use my belt to keep pressure on both wounds."
"Give me the belt," he said.
And she knew why he wanted it. She pressed the tip to his lips and he bit down hard on the leather. Sam repositioned herself behind him and pulled.
Because she was exceptionally strong, she tore the pike free in one motion. Two horrible seconds felt like a hundred. Ian choked on the leather but didn't scream.
She threw the pike aside, wadded up each piece of her shirt against both wounds, and wrapped her belt around his chest to keep the pads in place. "You need to lie on your back so I can put more pressure on your chest," she said harshly.
He instantly did so, eyes closed. He wasn't white now. He was green.
"This would be a good time to pass out," she said, using both her hands to press down on the compress.
He didn't answer her. She hadn't expected him to.
Sam looked down at his beautiful face, now etched in pain and strain. More tears came. No one deserved the kind of life he'd been destined for, and no one deserved what he was going through now. The pain, the torment, it had to stop. Ian needed---deserved---peace. Not death, but a life with happiness. "You deserve a break, damn it," she whispered. "I will always have your back, Ian."
His lashes fluttered.
She blinked rapidly as the tears dripped. She couldn't lose him. It was too soon. They were just getting to know each other. God, this wasn't fair. She loved him.
She went still, shocked.
Then she looked at him and he was looking up at her intently.
She prayed this wasn't one of those few times when he could read minds. She looked at her T-shirt, which had been light blue, and was relieved to see that it wasn't soaked with his blood. "I think the bleeding is slowing. Don't move. I'm going to keep the pressure on."
His mouth curved. "That's a nice bra...I like what's inside it...even better."
"A Maclean comeback. You must be on the mend." She looked at him carefully. Was his color better? He certainly wasn't green now. She looked at the T-shirt between her hands. The bleeding had stopped, she was almost certain, but she kept the pressure on.
"Where are we?"
Sam glanced around. "I don't know. But we're not in medieval times. I'd say we were in the twentieth century, or even our time." Then she looked down at him. "Rather, my time."
"I guess ye won't let me off...that hook."
"Why should I?"
His smile was odd. "Yer mascara's run all over yer face."
She made a sound. "So much for waterproof. I told you, the chemicals in here are problematic."
"Let me up." He started to sit.
"Like hell!" She was actually alarmed.
"I can sit. I can also get us out of here, if the door has locks."
Sam went still. "Yeah, I guess you can." She would never let him leap in his condition.
Sam released the pressure on his chest and he sat up. To her relief, he grunted but did not pale. They both looked at his chest and the wadded T-shirt there, under her belt. There was blood, but half her shirt remained blue. Sam went behind him. The exit point was even better.
She started to stand. He seized her hand, pulling her back down to her knees. They were eye to eye, mouth to mouth. His gaze was steady and unwavering. "Thank ye."
She wet her lips. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, hard. Of course, she'd never do such a thing. "For what?"
His gaze became searching. A moment passed. In the silence, Sam became aware of the sound of cars outside. She thought she heard a horn, distantly. She thought she could barely hear a subway rumbling, too. "For having my back."
She searched his eyes. "It's no big deal," she lied.
"Yer the bravest human being I have ever met," he said.
She became still. This wasn't the time for jokes. He was being serious. He'd commented on her courage before, and she wasn't sure where he wanted to go with this now. "There isn't really another choice." But, she recalled her sudden memory of her mother's rape and murder.
"There's always another choice," he said. His hand suddenly cupped her jaw. "And yer so beautiful, so hot. I want ye, Sam."
"Now?" She was disbelieving.
He grunted in pain but he smiled. "I wanted ye in Oban. I decided that day to find ye, have ye. I still want ye, like it was that day." He hesitated.
"What?"
He shook his head, not answering.
She smiled, trying not to think about the shocking revelation she'd just had about her own past. "Well, it's mutual."
His face changed. "I'm a coward," he said, as he stood up.
Sam stood up, as well. "That is unfair."
"It's the truth. I look at a demon, any demon, and I get sick with fear." He shrugged, avoiding her eyes now. "The monk terrifies me."
"You may be frightened when you face evil, but you fight it anyway---and that makes you as brave as me, or even braver."
"Don't turn me into yer hero," he said softly.
And Sam had a terrible feeling that he'd heard her silent declaration of love. "Jet-setting playboys who become dirty rich by stealing from their even wealthier friends can't be heroes, not even on their best day, and not even with white power in their back pockets."
He smiled. "So we cleared that up."
"Oh, yeah," she said.
He was staring. Her heart did a funny flip-flop. He was so intense, so thoughtful. His gaze moved to her mouth.
He'd kissed her last night like there would not be a tomorrow. Hell, maybe he'd seen the future---their future. She was shaken. Did they have a future? He was Ian Maclean, a rich, selfish playboy, and even if he saw the light and joined the good guys, he belonged in the sixteenth century! "Let's blow this joint."
He had a funny look on his face. He reached for her chin and winced. But he pushed it up with two forefingers. Sam's heart exploded in excitement.
As if he knew, he smiled and it was arrogant, satisfied. Then the expression vanished. He leaned close; his mouth brushed hers. She trembled.
She needed to be with him again. This time, it would be different. Because her heart was bursting with love.
He plied her mouth gently, pulled back, and their gazes met.
"Are you two ready to barter?" the monk of Carlisle said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IAN'S EXPRESSION HARDENED and his eyes blazed.
Sam stepped closer to him. Three huge thugs stood behind Carlisle, all in polo shirts with poorly fitting, garishly pinstriped jackets. Their soulless eyes told Sam they were subs, but they looked like overweight and oversize Mafia bodyguards. They were even carrying. Based on their fashions, she wondered if they were in the seventies.
"Are you feeling better, Ian?" the monk asked, his smile cruel. "I am so relieved. But I didn't think you'd die that easily." He chuckled. "I know you too well."
Ian exhaled. Sam glanced at him and touched his hand in warning. Now was not the time to engage. But he was so angry, she could feel his rage. It was explosive.
"Ye always were a coward," Ian said softly. "I was too young to realize it before."
Carlisle's face turned ugly. "I am not the one who is afraid. I'm not the one who became a willing and obedient slave."
Ian shook. "I was a nine-year-old boy left in the hands of a full-blood demon!"
Sam took his hand. "Ian, don't."
He jerked away from her. "Ye used to pretend to be my best friend. Ye used to pretend to be a father figure. But every night was the same---and then there was your New Year's Eve game. Now, yer even more of a coward. Ye stabbed me with the pike, while I was unconscious," he spat, trembling. "How brave ye truly are!"
Sam cringed, sickened again by what he'd endured as a boy. "Ian, don't bother," she tried. "You won't win this debate!"
"But it amused me." The monk grinned. "Just as it amused me to be your friend when you were a child. Just as it amused me to play games with you. You were so easy to manipulate, to enslave, Ian. I'd hoped for more of a challenge now."
Sam looked from Ian's harsh expression to Carlisle's amused one. She knew Ian wanted to destroy the monk. She was afraid he'd try to do so. He'd failed earlier, before being hurt. He couldn't possibly succeed now. And she hated the fact that he was a prisoner again, pretty much helpless. "He's playing games now. He's messing with you."
"It's all the truth," Ian said. "I'm sick of games."
Carlisle laughed. "But more games await. I live for pleasure and pain, and you are my prisoner again!"
Ian breathed hard. "If ye think I'll ever give ye satisfaction now, you're wrong. I'll kill myself first."
Sam knew he meant it. Somehow, they had to escape. But Carlisle's power was frightening.
"Really? Little Ian grew up to be a virile man," Carlisle said softly. "I've seen the tape."
As Ian lunged, Sam grabbed him from behind. And he knew better, because he twisted free of her but did not lunge at Carlisle again.
"This is quaint," Carlisle murmured. "You've become fond of her. Maybe the way to really hurt you is through her?"
"Leave Sam out of this. This is between ye and me," Ian said tersely.
"If hurting her hurts you, than she is very definitely a part of this," he returned thoughtfully. "You went out of your way to find her at the Cathedral."
Sam's mind tumbled over what he was doing. "Ian, he's baiting you. We have something he wants!" Ian was too weak. If push came to shove, she knew he could be terribly hurt this time. She looked at the monk. "Ian is right, you're a frigging coward," Sam said. She moved to stand beside Ian. "Let me guess. You want the page."
"How clever you are, Sam."
"I'll die before I give ye more power!" Ian exclaimed harshly.
Sam cast a sharp look at him. He meant it. And she realized the blue shirt was redder than it had been. He was bleeding again.
The monk's blond brows had lifted. "But I won't let you die...ever. Surely you know that?"
Ian trembled.
"I'm too pleased to have you back. You'll live out the centuries in my new maze," he added. "But I will let her die."
As Ian shook in fury, Sam fought her own anger. Carlisle was enjoying these head games. He was a sadist. "Carlisle, he will die if the bleeding continues. Surely you know that."
"Sam, rest assured, I will not allow him to die. He can spend the rest of his life trying to hide from me in my new maze, after he watches you die. Unless you cooperate?"
Sam realized he meant it. "Don't you know that your days are numbered? Even if I die, even if Ian dies, I guarantee Nick will hunt you down. But you won't kill us, because you want the power of virtual control and we have it. You need us."
"Yes, you have the power that I want. And I will do whatever it takes to get it."
Ian touched her hand and she looked at him. Their gazes locked.
I won't let him have the power.
She ignored that. She was willing to do anything to save Ian, even give up the page. Are you all right? You're bleeding again.
I'm fine. I want ye out of this.
His gaze was unwavering on hers now.
Sam decided not to answer. That page was his ticket to freedom, and maybe, to peace and happiness. Then she looked at Carlisle, who grinned. "Yes, I heard him. I heard you, too. You do realize your cooperation spares you a terrible ordeal and your eventual death?" Carlisle turned to the thugs. He nodded.
The three possessed men started toward them.
Sam knew that they were going to do something to Ian. "Stop!" she cried, panicking. "Whatever you intend, stop, because I said we would bring you the page!"
Ian knew they were coming for him, too, because he raised his hand in warning. Sam wondered how much power he could muster.
"If you try to use your power, I will use mine and we both know who will win," Carlisle said calmly. "Seize him."
Sam and Ian exchanged glances as two of the three men took Ian's arms. He paled as his arms were twisted behind his back. And then she saw the needle.
"Absolutely not," Sam cried. "That is not necessary! Carlisle, let Ian go. He has the page and he can bring it to you. You can keep me hostage until he does."
"An interesting proposal," Carlisle said. He nodded at the balding man who held the needle.
Sam cried out. Ian tried to twist away and dodge the needle, but he was held still by the other two. The third guard jammed the needle into his arm.
"What is that?" Sam demanded furiously. She was frightened, because Ian suddenly collapsed in the two thugs' arms.
Carlisle watched as they laid him down on the hard floor. "A sedative, of course. A powerful one---after all, he's Aidan of Awe's son. The drug would kill a mortal, but he should survive it."
"He's lost a ton of blood!" Sam cried. "He needs a doctor or a Healer. He's still bleeding, damn it!"
Carlisle laughed at her. "Bring me the page of illusion, Sam, and I will let him live." He paused before her and touched her cheek. Sam flinched. "I might even restrain my own libido and my need to inflict pain for a while---if you hurry back."
She couldn't stand the notion of Ian being this demon's prisoner for another second. "If you touch him while I'm gone, I won't hand over the page."
"I don't take orders from anyone, not anymore. When the drug starts to wear off, he'll need some encouragement to remain weakened and powerless, won't he?"
He'd start torturing him even while he was on sedatives. The pain would be dulled, but not eradicated. "You sick, sadistic sonuvabitch," she said.
"I'm a demon." He was amused. "Pain excites me. Pain empowers me." His gaze locked with hers. "And I like boys better than I do girls."
Sam was thankful Ian was unconscious and couldn't hear what the monk had said. "All right. I'll bring you the page. Release me so I can get it. And we'll arrange a transfer. The page for Maclean." She swallowed. "I'll have a medical team with me. I want him alive---and untouched."
Carlisle remained amused. "You can't dictate any terms to me. You love him. Don't you know that is why you mortals will always lose to us? Your emotions get in the way of war. You'll give me the page, even if I return him to you as he's dying. Won't you, Sam?"
For one moment, she looked at him in utter and helpless rage, speechless. He was right. If she returned and found Ian at death's door, she'd still hand over the page.
On the floor, by their feet, Ian stirred. Sam instantly knelt. "I'm coming back for you, Ian."
His lashes fluttered but his eyes did not open.
She laid her hand on his cheek. To her horror, he felt feverish. An infection was setting in from the pike wound. She looked up. "He needs a doctor, damn it. He needs antibiotics!"
"Then I guess you should hurry, shouldn't you?"
Sam looked down and as she did, his eyes opened. Don't give him more power.
"I have to," she said. "I can't leave you here."
His glazed eyes flickered. Ye can leave me, Sam. Ye can walk out the door an' walk away an' never look back...
Did he want to be tortured? Did he want to die?
The monk grabbed her arm, dragging her to her feet. Sam shook him off violently. "If you don't bring me the page, he will wish he were dead all over again."
"I said I'd bring it."
"Don't ever mistake my intentions. He won't die, Sam. He will suffer."
She looked down at Ian, who was watching her, fighting the drug to keep his eyes open. "I am not walking away. I am coming back to you."
His gaze suddenly locked with hers.
"It's true," she heard herself say. "How I feel. It's all true."
And in spite of the drugs, his eyes widened.
As Sam was escorted out, she heard Carlisle laughing at them.
She was sick. And she was scared of what he'd do to Ian now.
SAM STARED at the imposing front gates barring the drive leading up to Ian's Loch Awe mansion. From this perspective, the stone manor seemed to float upon the purple lake, although it was set back from the loch's shores. Sam didn't move. A few stars were beginning to emerge in the dusky sky. Gerard reached for the passenger door. He was seated beside her. "I'll use the code, Ms. Rose."
She nodded, not even glancing at him. Instead, she thought about the time she'd showed up there last year in her sexy red dress, hoping to bargain with Ian---the second time they'd ever met.
The memory hurt so much.
She'd been amused when she'd realized he had a butler. "I did not realize his lordship was expecting other guests," Gerard intoned, clearly disapproving of her.
"He's not...I opened the gates with my superpowers."
Gerard had instantly disliked her. She'd gone inside without being announced, only to find Ian there, waiting for her, hotter and more gorgeous---and more arrogant---than any single man had the right to ever be.
"I expected more of a hunt."
"In your dreams."
He'd been sensual and suggestive from the start, eating her up with his eyes, ignoring his date and his other guests. "Welcome to my lair." He'd handed her a flute of champagne.
"Your father was the wolf."
"Like father, like son."
The tension between them had been instant and unbearable. He'd led her into an adjacent salon, so they could have a private discussion. Sam had intended to play him. He'd played her, instead.
"I'm not asking for a favor, Maclean."
He'dlaughed. "Of course not...ye think I'm Santa Claus."
Gerard slid back into the car as the front gates opened. Sam glanced grimly at him and put the rental car in Drive. Her heart thundered now.
"Take off the dress. I want to see the goods."
He hadn't even given her the chance to make a deal. "You are an unbelievable bastard."
He laughed. "I've heard it a thousand times. What's wrong? Are ye afraid of the bright lights?"
Sam lifted her spaghetti straps and slid the dress down her otherwise naked body. His smile vanished. "Take a good long look---because it's your last one."
His thick lashes lifted. His stare was gray and sizzling. "'Tis only my first one, Samantha..."
Sam stopped the car in front of the huge country house. She made no move to get out of the car, even though she was racing the clock now.
He'd left her standing there naked, the doors open, and he'd walked out on her.
She hadn't thought she'd ever forgive him, but damn it, she sure had.
The memory was killing her. She almost expected to walk through the front doors that were facing her now and find Ian inside, arrogant, mocking and so damned cool about it all---and so hot about her. But he wasn't inside. He was somewhere in Brooklyn, a prisoner of a terrible demon, in pain and maybe even being tortured. She'd been let go, left on a street corner. It had taken her a moment to realize where she was. A newspaper on a newsstand had told her the date---July 22, 2009. Carlisle had returned them to the present, on the day after they'd last been in the city. It was her birthday, and the man she loved---yes, loved---was in deep trouble.
Because if Carlisle didn't literally kill him, he'd kill what was left of his soul. In the past week, Ian had been changing. The sarcasm, the indifference, was gone. The cover-up was unraveling. A real flesh-and-blood man, with a feeling heart, was slowly becoming apparent. He'd smiled once or twice. He seemed to care about little things---well, not so little things. Like evil. Like her.
He didn't want to watch her die.
She didn't want him to suffer for another second.
Sam had been tempted to go right to Nick at HCU. But Nick wanted the page for the agency. He'd never let her hand it over to the monk.
She'd taken a cab by physically removing the driver and stealing the vehicle, and gone right to Maclean's place. If anyone knew where he'd hidden the page at his Loch Awe home, it was Gerard. But Gerard didn't know---and he wasn't lying, either. Sam had filled him in on every detail of Ian's current predicament. Gerard was keeping a cool facade, but Sam knew he was frantic.
She followed him to the front doors, her messenger bag filled with weapons. The last time she'd been at Awe, she'd been totally focused on confronting Ian. She remained as focused on him now, but for different reasons. This time, she noticed the two tiny cameras above the front door. As he let them inside, Sam said, "Were those cameras there last year?"
"Yes," Gerard said grimly. "His lordship believes in the highest security possible."
The old Sam would have made a joke about the absence of attack dogs. But this was the new Sam and awareness rippled. "He's not worried about his art getting stolen, is he?"
Gerard met her gaze, turning on the lights. "No, Ms. Rose, he's not."
Those cameras were to record demons. Sam had not a doubt. She glanced across the entry hall, spotting three more cameras. Like the Park Avenue town house, his country home was wired to the gills. "We'll divide up the house as we discussed on the jet."
He nodded at her.
She'd intended to rush off to JFK and get on the first flight for Edinburgh, but Gerard wouldn't have it. Ian had an account with a charter jet service, and in moments, their flight had been arranged. During the seven-hour flight, she and Gerard had gone over every detail of the house's floor plan. The first and most obvious place to look was in the safe Ian had in his master suite.
Sam now had the combination. She rushed up the stairs, having memorized the floor plan Gerard had described. But the moment she entered the master bedroom and turned on the lights, she faltered.
The sex tape had been made in that room.
She stood on the threshold, staring at the classic, old-world bed with its dark wood posters and headboard, its heavy brocade green-and-gold covers and pillows. Then she glanced up at the ceiling and saw two cameras.
She looked around. There were cameras on each side of the door, too. She stepped back into the hall. Video was everywhere. No one would be able to move in that house without being on a video record.
Sam walked back inside the bedroom. The massive bed loomed. They hadn't made love there yet. But when they did, she'd know all about the cameras. She'd know that one day, someone from the past would come and get a tape and try to use it against them.
It wouldn't matter. Ian needed the security those cameras afforded. His security system had to give him some small peace of mind, knowing that the likes of Carlisle were not inside his home. And she didn't blame him. The cameras would stay.
And maybe, when the day came that they were together in that bed, the thought of being taped wouldn't even cross her mind.
She was off topic, Sam thought grimly. Sam shifted gears. She strode past the bed and took a huge eighteenth-century painting of a Thoroughbred stallion off the wall. Then she swiftly opened the safe.
She withdrew some jeweler's boxes and stacks of cash, mostly U.S. dollars. And then she saw the envelope.
The page was seven and a half inches tall and five inches wide. The envelope inside was eight by eleven, and Sam seized it carefully. But the moment she did, she was disappointed. Whatever was inside was hard.
A DVD in a plastic case slipped into her hand. She went still. What the hell could be on the DVD?
No, she thought, in dread. This was not the same sex tape that Hemmer had given her. She didn't know why such a treacherous thought had even crossed her mind.
A moment later, she was watching the DVD on the computer in the den.
It wasn't the sex tape. It was a different one. But it was of her and Ian, in that bed, their passion off the charts.
Ian had a sex tape of them---from the future. What she didn't know was why.
HEMMER PAUSED inside his vault, staring intently at the painting facing him. He appeared calm and composed on the outside, as he usually did, but on the inside, he was furious.
Nick Forrester had destroyed the entry hall and a great deal of the valuable artwork he had hanging there. The room would be rebuilt, but the Vlaminck, the Salvador Dali, and the Tintoretti were irreplaceable.
He'd been dodging CDA for decades. He was sick of it. On the other hand, the agency was a mere fly buzzing about his empire, incapable of doing any real harm. As for Forrester, he'd destroyed his precious artwork all because of his agent, Sam Rose. Hemmer had seen no reason not to tell him the truth---that he'd taken her to Carlisle Cathedral in 1527 and that she had escaped.
As angry as he was, Hemmer always triumphed. He was a man of great, burning ambition.
And that was what separated him from everyone else, demon or not. Carlisle lusted as much for pain and pleasure as he did for power, and that was such a mistake. Power always came first.
Maybe it was because he was human, but pain really didn't interest him, except as a tool or a weapon. Pain could and usually did provide leverage. He certainly enjoyed pleasure, but that was mundane and fleeting. What did interest him---what obsessed him---was power.
He would do anything for it.
He'd already done everything for it.
His billions simply weren't enough to buy the power he craved.
Hemmer walked over to the magnificent Courbet landscape. He was the fifteenth wealthiest individual in the world. The sheiks and princes who were wealthier than he were all mixed bloods and demonic. In fact, he was the wealthiest human on the planet---wealthier even than Bill Gates. But it wasn't enough.
Carlisle was an idiot. Right now he was probably getting off on all the pain he was inflicting on Maclean. He was probably so engrossed that he'd lost sight of the real prize.
Hemmer never lost sight of what he wanted, not even during sex. It was always riding there with him: the need, the ambition.
He removed the painting carefully from the wall and smiled at the inscription glowing on his wall behind it. He'd sold his soul for that stamp of evil. The hieroglyphics, which dated back to the beginning of the world, signified that he no longer owned his soul, and that he was among The Cherished Few. Being Cherished meant that he could hide his evil at will. It meant that he could walk the world in absolute safety, protected from the godly and the gods. It meant that he was Adored by the Great Father. And it also meant that no god could ever enter this domain.
Hemmer ran his hands reverently over the glowing words. He had his billions, and he had all the basic powers certain old gods had meant for the various brotherhoods, which they'd created to fight evil. But he wanted the highest powers now. He carefully hid the fact that he had so many powers, and had achieved even more power and wealth by doing so. He certainly wanted the power of virtual control. He'd lusted for the power for decades and he'd never let Carlisle have it for his own use. Of course, the monk intended to take it for himself and would try to destroy Hemmer to do so. He was not going to succeed.
"Tell me what I must do," Hemmer said softly. "You know what I intend. I need the power. Give me the means, Greatest Father of the Dark."
It wasn't easy summoning Satan. They'd met only once, the day he'd given him his soul in return for earthly power. Hemmer wasn't even sure he would respond to him again, but he'd meant his every word. He was determined. Besides, he was a deal-maker.
And the Great Father knew that.
Hemmer stroked the inscription again, which was burning hot under his hand. He thought about how he would use the power he intended to get, one way or another. He fantasized about the control he would have over hundreds of millions of people, entrancing himself with the dream of such absolute power. He was vaguely aware of the vault becoming cold and then freezing inside. The wall was now like black ice beneath his hand.
He turned.
A black shadow filled the threshold of the vault. It was twice Hemmer's size and had neither eyes nor a mouth nor any other feature, but parts of it glowed, like burning embers. His voice was rich and deep.
"I have a soul for you."
Hemmer started. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted the means to get the page of virtual control.
And then he felt Satan smile.
"If you take this soul into your body, you will have so much power, you might not even want the page, Rupert...and you might not even need it."
Hemmer's mind raced. Whose black soul was being offered? Hitler's? Stalin's?
"It doesn't matter." The shadow shifted. It seemed more human in shape and form now. A mouth had emerged in the swirling black-and-red currents of power. "But there are those who will stop at nothing to vanquish you if you take what I am offering."
Hemmer trembled. If he accepted, there'd be so much power, he might not even want the power of virtual control. He could barely imagine it. His lust for power made him weak in the knees.
"You will have the power of possession," Satan added, and he laughed.
Only a handful of full demons had ever had that power, and never a human. Hemmer stiffened, barely able to breathe now. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "Yes."
Black energy zoomed at him and he tensed. For one moment, it felt as if a sword had cleaved his physical body in two. He gasped.
When he straightened, the shadow that had been on his threshold was gone. The room was warmer now. The inscription on the wall no longer glowed.
Hemmer could feel the incredible powers inside him. Now, he knew he could look at anyone who dared to pass him by and enter that being, possessing it to do as he willed. He slowly smiled and flexed his fingers. He could feel the physical power of death in his body now, too. If he pointed, he could kill.
There were also swirling memories, which belonged to another, so much hatred and rage, but it didn't matter.
He didn't care about the soul's memories, his life or yearnings. He loved the power infesting him, Rupert Hemmer, now. He was still smarter than them all. No one really understood what the power of virtual control could do, but he knew. And Hemmer already knew what he would do once he had it.
By creating the reality he chose, when he chose, he would take over the city, the state, the country and the world, slowly but surely...company by company, corporation by corporation, government by government.
He laughed.
But revenge would come first---even if it belonged to another.
SAM WAS HALFWAY through her search of the second floor of the house, having finished the upper floor, when she heard voices coming up the stairs. She went still, incredulous.
"Sam?" Tabby called. "Is that you? We said we'd help and here we are!"
Sam ran out of the guest bedroom and saw Tabby and Brie coming up the stairs. It took her one second to comprehend that they'd come from Castle Awe in 1527---they were both wearing the same clothes she'd last seen them in. Sam raced down the hall to greet them.
Tabby seized her hands. "Thank the gods we're in the right time!"
"How did you know?" Sam cried. She'd told them that Ian had stashed the page at Loch Awe in the present, but she hadn't been specific.
"Aidan heard you thinking about your birthday, so we decided today was a safe bet." Brie hugged her. "Happy birthday, Sam."
"And to think I was worried I'd be spending it without you guys."
Tabby laid her hand on her shoulder. "It's your first birthday since I went back with Guy, but it's been so hard for me, Sam, especially the first few years. I spent so many of your birthdays alone, worrying about you---missing you."
Sam looked at her. "It's still so weird, that over two hundred years have gone by for you and a couple of decades for Brie. But you shouldn't ever worry about me, Tabby. You know that."
Tabby gave her that schoolteacher look. "I will always worry about you. I'm worried about you and Ian right now."
Sam exhaled. She told herself to forget about the sex tape until they'd freed Ian. "We have to find the page," she said grimly. "The monk has Ian in a warehouse in Brooklyn, and I am so afraid of what he's doing to him." But even as she spoke, she thought about the sex tape. She felt betrayed, but she was bewildered, too.
Tabby and Brie exchanged glances. "Do you know where the warehouse is? Because Aidan is ready to destroy the monk with his bare hands," Brie said. "It's like he's reliving the past all over again."
"I don't know exactly where it is. Aidan should get help and start a major search while we try to find the page here."
"I'll tell him," Brie said, and she fled back down the stairs.
Tabby took her hand. "I put a spell on him to thwart the effect of that pike, Sam."
Sam looked at her. "Is that why he wasn't screaming his head off? Or bleeding out? It was pretty easy to stop the bleeding, until Carlisle showed up, doing his best to set Ian off."
"I think so. I hope so. The spell was general. If he's hurt again, he should have a better ability to withstand the injury." Tabby spoke carefully now.
Sam hugged her, hard. To her shock, moisture came to her eyes.
"What is it?" Tabby whispered.
Sam inhaled. "I've fallen in love...damn it." But Ian had seen that tape before she'd met him at Hemmer's party. Yet he hadn't batted an eye when she'd shown him Hemmer's tape. He'd lied to her by omission. She just couldn't imagine what it might mean.
However, first things came first. She didn't think Ian could survive any length of captivity under Carlisle again.
Tabby smiled, her own gaze becoming wet. "Tell me something I don't know," she said. "But you're really upset."
Sam didn't want to tell Tabby about the tape---when they never had secrets. It was almost as if she wanted to protect Ian and not show his worst side to her sister. "I'm sick with fear for him. I can't wait to personally destroy Carlisle, for what he did to Ian as a child and what he's doing to him now."
Tabby slid her arm around her. "I think it's time for an old-fashioned Rose spell fest."
Sam looked at her.
"Let's summon the page to us, Sam."
"Can you even do that?"
"I think so." Tabby smiled at her. "But Brie and I do our best work when Allie and Claire are with us."
Sam started. "I would love to see Allie again. Who's Claire?"
"She's one of us, Sam. She's not a Rose, but she has a few tricks up her sleeve and her husband is Malcolm of Dunroch, a truly great Master. You'll like her. She's a warrior. And they're downstairs, waiting."
THEY'D CHOSEN the ground floor library to cast Tabby's magic. The five women sat in a circle on the floor in a darkened room lit by candles, the draperies drawn. Tabby was in a deep trance, softly murmuring her incantation in Gaelic, which Sam did not understand. It didn't matter. If the circumstances weren't so horrifying, being together again this way would be a dream come true.
Sam looked around at the circle of women. Sam had been thrilled to be reunited with Allie again, and pleased to see her intrepid friend in high spirits---and clad in designer jeans, a cute T-shirt and high-heeled boots. But then, Allie Monroe would never run around medieval Scotland in medieval clothes. Because she was so petite, she claimed high heels were a must. She reeked of her white healing power now; clearly, she was far more powerful than she'd been.
Sam had also liked Claire on sight. The woman was tall, buff, fairly serious and deadly earnest. It was the determination she probably felt instantly and liked the most. There was no question that Claire could fight: she was well armed and she carried herself the way a warrior would. She also wore jeans beneath her long linen gown, which amused Sam.
And she had a ton of her own white power. It almost felt like a Master's, but feminized.
She'd also had the briefest chance to meet Malcolm and Royce, two of the sexiest, most mouthwatering men she'd ever come across. She might have fallen for Ian but she wasn't blind, and she'd been unable to resist taking a few prolonged looks at both men, especially because they were bare legged.
Now, everyone was focused entirely on the page of illusion and the old gods. Tabby apparently expected some help from them. But Sam could not concentrate. She kept seeing Ian, drugged and in pain on the concrete floor of that warehouse, or as he'd been just before their capture, impaled on the ramparts. Then she'd think about the damned sex tape, which was in his possession. There was no end to her dismay.
She wanted there to be a reasonable explanation, one that she could accept---one that wouldn't make her walk away from their beginning.
Except, she was probably a fool to think that anything was beginning for them! And if she didn't focus on the page and finding it, or at least feeling its power, there wouldn't be a beginning, just a terrible ending.
Sam realized that Tabby had fallen silent. She opened her eyes and saw her sister staring grimly at her. Sam flushed.
"I could barely focus, with your thoughts raging as they were!" Tabby released Claire's and Allie's hands and stood.
Sam got up, as did Brie. "I'm sorry."
Tabby sighed as someone hit the lights. "We'll never locate it this way. You have to stay focused, Sam."
She was right. But even as Allie reached for the door, it burst open and Gerard stood there, holding a yellowing parchment page in his hand.
Its power trickled into the room.
"I was going downstairs when this came up the stairs," he exclaimed. "It was floating."
Tabby's spell had worked, Sam thought, amazed, as her sister took the page carefully from Gerard. "There's so much power here," Tabby said softly. Then she turned to Sam. "If the monk can unleash the power, it won't be good."
Sam stared at her. "I don't have a choice."
Tabby glanced at the other women. Allie said, "Do it, Sam. I'd do it for Royce. We'd all do it for our men."
Sam reached for the page when something crashed downstairs. It almost sounded as if the door had been broken down. A second crash followed which sounded like a man being hurled at the wall. She didn't feel evil---to the contrary. Ian's Loch Awe home had been filled with white power ever since the women had arrived with their husbands. Malcolm and Royce had gone to Brooklyn with Aidan to help him look for Ian, but Macleod remained downstairs, just in case someone nasty decided to pay the women a visit.
Sam had a sudden inkling. She took the page from her sister and said, "Get Macleod, Tabby, please, and have him take me to Maclean's Park Avenue house." Carlisle had said he'd reach her there when she had the page.
Tabby hurried for the door. But as she did, Sam looked past her and saw Macleod coming up the stairs. Nick was on his heels.
She cursed.
"Yer sister's friend barged in," Macleod said, clearly annoyed. "He is lookin' fer Sam. I decided not to take his head, but tell me otherwise an' I'll change my mind---gladly." His smile was cold.
Nick stepped past Macleod. "Hello, Sammie. I was really glad to see you when you showed up at Maclean's fancy town house in one piece, but you've gone renegade on me, haven't you?"
Nick had Ian's house on tape and she and Gerard had obviously been recorded. "No. No way. I know what you want and the answer is no! The monk has Ian, Nick. He's hurt. Badly. I'm making a trade."
Nick seemed resigned. "I can't let you do that. The greater good and all. I am sorry, Sam." He winced as his power sizzled toward her.
Sam cried out, struck hard enough that she fell to her knees. Nick had actually hit her. As she looked up, she saw him standing over her, holding the page, his face grim. "Nick!" she screamed furiously.
He vanished.
"I'll get him," Macleod shouted, vanishing, as well.
"Guy," Tabby protested, but it was too late. Both men were gone.
Sam tried to get up. Claire and Allie rushed to her, but she pushed them away. She was beyond fury now.
Ian was in the hands of that monster and Nick had the page.
She had nothing to trade with.
Allie put her hands on her, sending an instant healing power into her. "All better?" she asked, but her smile contradicted the concern in her eyes.
"No," Sam said, standing. "I am not better. Someone get me to HCU!" That was when she saw Brie.
Her eyes were wide but sightless. She was holding on to a chair for support. In that instant, Sam knew she was having a vision.
No one moved. They watched as Brie blinked, the color starting to return to her face. Her eyes finally opened. And then she looked at everyone with growing horror.
"He's back," she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BRIE HAD NEVER BEEN more shaken. She stood alone in the library, staring at the empty fireplace, urging Aidan to come back to her.
She hadn't been afraid in so long---not with Aidan as her lover, her husband and her best friend. Not with Moray vanquished.
Sam poked her head into the room. "We're heading out," she said tersely, clearly in her warrior mode. She was wearing jeans and heavy biker boots; she held a steel baton in her hand. "I'll see you in the city. Do you remember the key code to the loft?"
Brie smiled weakly at her. "Of course I do." On the surface Sam hadn't changed. She was so stunning and so fierce. She was so brave.
But she was different now. Brie felt it. Sam had opened up her heart again, after almost two decades, and was feeling compassion, empathy and love. Brie had always known this day would come.
"Gotta go, my ride's waiting." She started to leave, then paused. "Are you sure Aidan will hear you? He's on the other side of the ocean."
"We can communicate across centuries," she said softly. It was true. She wasn't a warrior and she would never be one. But her gifts were meant to be used to help him and the Brethren. Brie was honing her abilities to feel and to see. It was a rare day that went by that she did not sense a child's pain or have a vision of such suffering. Aidan would respond as if it were a 911 call. He'd become adept at searching through the sands of time to find and defend the children she'd seen---there were always clues in her visions. He preferred that she stay at Awe while he did what a Master was meant to do. It was chauvinistic but she knew he was terrified to endanger her---to lose her. He loved her that much.
He never left for long, but they were apart quite often. Centuries could separate them. It didn't matter. They were always in contact with one another.
Sam nodded and strode away. Macleod and Tabby were waiting in the other room to take her back to New York City.
Brie paced. Aidan, where are you? Come back!
She told herself not to panic. Aidan had so much power now. She had complete faith in him. No man or Master was as strong, as good, as brave. But she was scared. Their life together was almost too good to be true. Once, he'd been her secret fantasy. Now, she had found her other half, and she didn't want to ever lose him.
He materialized in swirling currents of energy and air, sparking white and gold. He landed standing, breathing hard, his face set against the pain of the leap through time. But it was also set against the pain of losing his son another time.
Brie ran to him and put her arm around him as his hard, muscular body trembled. She waited for the physical pain to recede. When he looked at her, she wanted to cry.
He was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on. But his perfect features were ravaged with grief and fear. She'd hoped to never see him so anguished again.
They were reliving the past.
He pulled away from her. "Lookin' fer him in the city is like tryin' to find a needle in the hay."
She touched his cheek. "Ian is a grown man now."
"Who hates me."
She fought her own tears. "But we can forgive him, because we know what he's endured."
"Of course I forgive him! I love my son. An' now that evil bastard has imprisoned him again. Ye ken what they did to him!"
Her husband knew because he'd lurked in Ian's mind without shame, a father desperate to know the truth. Brie could only guess at the horrors Ian had suffered. "He's a grown man now, with power---and he has Sam."
Aidan looked at her. "The Slayer? He's only usin' her fer sex."
"No, darling, you're wrong. She's freeing him from his past, the way I freed you."
Aidan hugged her, hard. "I'm afraid for him."
"I know."
"I willna let him suffer again. This time, I will find him, free him an' kill the bastard monk." He pulled abruptly away, blue eyes ablaze now.
Brie just looked at him, her heart slamming.
His eyes widened. "What is it? What secret do ye have?"
She opened up her mind completely to his.
"Moray is back?" he cried. And Aidan, the Wolf of Awe, turned white.
"HE'S PASSED OUT again," the guard said, laughing.
Ian lay very still, naked on the cement floor, swimming in pain, not moving. He'd been counting the minutes until his tormentors would return.
This time, he was going to have his revenge.
This time, he was going to destroy Carlisle.
He was careful not to smile as he lay on his stomach as they approached, his eyes closed. He'd endured their torture for one reason only: revenge.
He didn't know if hours had gone by since Sam had left, or days. They'd beaten him several times, and not just with their fists. He'd heard them talking. They had orders to keep him weak and helpless but alive. The monk had gone back to Carlisle in the sixteenth century. After the last beating, there had been antibiotics and a blood transfusion. He recalled a doctor attending him, setting broken bones and fractures.
It had been a mistake to bring a doctor to him. It had been a mistake to give him blood and meds. His body felt broken. His body was broken. But his mind wasn't broken, not this time. The more blood they replaced, the longer he was on medication, the stronger he was inside, where it counted.
He had never been as clear as to what he had to do.
He lived with so much rage.
And the fear was somehow gone.
He didn't know why the fear he'd lived with all of his life had vanished. It didn't matter. He wasn't a nine-year-old boy anymore. But he had drifted in and out of his past, out of the years of captivity, during the beatings and when the doctor had come. Sam had been with him through it all, too.
It was as if she refused to leave his side. Even when they were torturing him, he'd been aware of her. He knew she'd left---she was going to defy him, find the page and trade it for him---but it felt as if she was beside him. When the pain was at its worst, he had reached for her and found real comfort.
He had tried once or twice to use his visual telepathy to find her, but he'd been too weak, too drugged to do so. He tried now, but only saw her face, haggard with concern. He knew it was his imagination.
Fearless Sam Rose...who was so worried about him...who loved him.
He knew he couldn't have heard her correctly. In the past hours---or days---he'd thought about her declaration again and again, stunned by it. She couldn't love a man like him. He was defiled and defective, the son of a Master who would never be a Master, a near-immortal who used his powers to steal art, not help others. Worse, he'd been a coward for most of his life.
He'd heard her incorrectly. But did it matter?
Because she was his friend.
And she had his back.
He didn't want her to trade the page for him, but she was going to do it, because of who and what she was to him now.
And if he were freed, he'd have her back, too.
Through the throbbing pain, a feeling he'd never had before surfaced. It was faint and weak and so unfamiliar, it was hard to identify. He wondered if it was joy.
"Shall we wake him up for the doc? Hey, Maclean, Doc's gonna check on you so we can have some more fun."
"Is he smiling?" The other guard was incredulous.
He tensed, careful to contain his smile. His mind had never been as clear as it was now. He could feel his otherworldly power inside him, seething and ready to be let out. Their drugs weren't as effective as they'd first been. It was time.
"I'd rather tend him while he's unconscious," the doctor said, sounding nervous. "Can you carry him to the examining table, please?"
Ian kept still as he was roughly lifted and carried across the room to where a small examination area had been set up, but he moaned.
The broken bones hurt. His insides hurt. Hell, his skin hurt, too.
He bit back a cruel, cold smile. His fingers itched to inflict pain, to kill.
The doctor laid his stethoscope on his bare chest and began to listen to his heartbeat. Ian felt his surprise at the strength of his pulse.
He opened his eyes and smiled at the doctor.
The doctor's eyes went wide in alarm.
Ian seized the stethoscope and twisted it around his throat so tightly and swiftly that the doctor's eyes bulged as he began to choke. The guards ran for him. Ian sat and snapped his neck in half with his bare hands. As he did so, his power blazed.
The guards were possessed. That meant that they could withstand more than the average mortal. They staggered under the impact of Ian's energy but kept coming, hands raised to seize him and subdue him.
Ian reached for a scalpel, one of the instruments they'd used on him. He dug it deep into the first guard's heart. As the second guard caught his arm, beginning to wrestle him off the table, he blasted him again and again. He reeled over, finally dying.
Ian stood to face the third guard, who had a six millimeter pointed at him. Guard number one lay half on the table, and he pulled the scalpel from his chest. "Come an' get it," he snarled.
The guard smiled savagely at him, making no move to approach.
"Oh, I forgot. Yer orders are to let me live," he said, starting forward. "I guess I'll come an' get ye, then."
The guard fired.
Even as the bullet entered his side, he was launching himself onto the guard. They went down together. All Ian recalled was the poking and prodding, the cords and electric shocks, the misery and terror of the nine-year-old boy. Roaring, he plunged the scalpel, deep.
When he stopped, he was on his hands and knees, astride the dead guard, breathing hard, and still seeing red. He realized he'd hacked the guard a dozen times.
He rolled away and sat down hard on the floor, panting.
He was free.
And Carlisle was very much alive.
He looked down. He'd been shot. He hoped it was a graze. The burning sensation was nothing compared to what he'd just been though. He decided to ignore it.
He gave himself a moment and took some deep breaths, ignoring the carnage around him. His body really hurt, but he had his power and he could leap.
His next thought was Sam.
Where was she? Was she all right? Was she at Loch Awe, which might be a very safe place for her?
At least the monk had gone back to 1527.
Which meant that was where he was going, immediately.
The anger returned, burning inside him. It felt like it was in his blood, his veins. He got up, holding his side. Another near-immortal would take a day or two to heal. He did not have that luxury.
Ian limped over to the table and stripped the doctor of his surgical pants, which he pulled on. Then he paused. Before he went back in time to find and kill the monk, he had to locate Sam and make certain she was all right. He strained to find her.
Sam, where are ye?
A long moment passed. There was no answer.
He tried again. Sam?
When he didn't feel or hear her, he sought her with his visual telepathy. Although there were drugs and antibiotics in his system, surely the gift would work now.
Instantly, he saw her standing in a modern office, furious. He recognized the setting---she was at HCU.
He breathed a sigh of relief. It occurred to him that he was more concerned for her than he should be, but he'd worry about that later.
Ian crossed the room, which was vacant except for the examination area. The steel door was ajar and he went through it. He froze.
Facing him, hanging from the beam above, was a cage on a pulley.
He started to breathe hard. For one instant, there was fear.
Then he vanquished the fear. But the shock remained and he looked down the gray sterile hall, and knew it was familiar. Dread sickened him.
He didn't hesitate. Garage doors which obviously led to the street outside were to his right, but a single steel door was to his left at that far end of the corridor. Ian strode to it.
It was unlocked.
The moment he stepped into the next small hallway, he froze again.
It was the back of the entry hall of a Victorian-era home. The space was small and cramped. Ten feet away, a handsome, antique wood door with glass pane windows faced him. To his right were narrow stairs with a hand-carved wooden banister, leading to the bedrooms.
He knew a parlor was to his left, a kitchen behind that.
He reeled, dizzy and sick.
This was where they'd kept him.
He faced the back door he'd just come through and cried out.
An inscription glowed there---the same inscription he'd seen in Hemmer's vault. The same inscription he'd lived with as a nine-year-old boy.
Evil rose up, behind him.
NICK BREATHED A SIGH of relief as the steel doors of the armored transport vehicle were closed and locked by two U.S. Army soldiers. Behind him, the military jet he'd taken to and from Glasgow was on the runway of a private airstrip on western Long Island. The soldiers nodded at him, clad in their khakis, wearing the insignia of the Rangers. They leapt into the cab and started the ignition.
His gut tensed as the engine came to life. He'd had nothing but a sense of dread since leaving Loch Awe. But the vehicle did not explode.
Nick walked over to the black sedan awaiting him. Kit was behind the wheel. Her gaze locked with his as he opened her door and said, "Move over."
She had to get out on his side to do so. "That's it?"
"That's it." He slid behind the wheel and put the Lincoln into Drive as Kit hopped into the passenger seat. The words didn't feel right. It had been too easy---one of the easiest cases of his life. He reminded himself that a very evil entity had Maclean. His gut churned.
He pulled out onto the barely lit drive, following the armored transport. Kit sat beside him, seething. "Spit it out," he said, not really in the mood for her opinion. He needed a drink. He wouldn't mind some sex.
"Why didn't you give Sam a ride back home?" she demanded, turning to look at him. She was pale. There were circles under her eyes.
"Sam is on suspension while I decide whether to fire her or not." He spoke calmly, turning onto a country road that would take them to 495 and the city. He meant it. She'd gone renegade on him. That made her a bad---and dangerous---agent. It made her a rival.
"Great," Kit grumbled. "What about Maclean? Are we hanging him out to dry?"
"Find him and we'll save his unlucky ass," Nick said, glancing at her.
He saw the other vehicles at the same time that Kit did.
They came headlong at them. Nick knew what they intended---to separate him from the page. He clung to the wheel, determined not to be forced off the road.
"Nick!" Kit shouted at him.
It was a form of playing chicken, he thought, as the two big black SUVs came right at them, probably at eighty or ninety miles an hour.
At the last possible moment, he swerved aside. There was no choice, because he knew either demons, mutts or subs were at the wheel, and they'd commit suicide to stop him.
Kit held on to her seat as the sedan roared over an embankment, hit the woods and kept going. Nick braked, steering through the trees wildly, swiping one with his left front fender. It caught the sedan and hooked it, spinning it around. He pressed harder on the brake and the damned car stopped.
He looked at Kit.
She looked back. "I'm okay."
He cursed, launching himself from the car, running for the embankment. When he got to it, the road was empty. The armored transport was gone.
His cell phone rang.
He seized it.
"Hello, Nick." Rupert Hemmer laughed at him. "I think I have something that you want."
IT WAS THREE IN THE MORNING. Sam paced Nick's office, as furious as she'd been at Loch Awe, when he'd stolen the page of illusion from her. She'd received some incredulous looks when she'd arrived at HCU. She wasn't sure what those looks meant. Did it mean that everyone knew she'd betrayed Nick---and the agency?
Having Macleod parade around HCU was not a good idea, not from anyone's point of view. Only those cleared to higher levels of file access knew about the Brotherhood, much less time travel. Because the monk expected to make contact with her at Maclean's apartment, it had seemed like a good idea to send Tabby and Macleod there.
Sam wanted to throttle Nick with her bare hands.
Until that day, she'd liked, respected and even admired him. That had all gone up in smoke. She would never look at her boss again the same way. And he wasn't her boss anymore. They were done.
The door opened and Nick came in, looking disheveled, his right eye bruised. Sam didn't hesitate. His eyes widened and he halted as she strode over to him, slamming her fist in that damaged right eye.
"Jesus," he said.
"You answer to me now," Sam snarled.
He gave her a long look, as if she hadn't just clocked him, and walked over to the minibar in his office. He put an ice cube on his eye and said, "Must be love, huh?"
"I've been here for seven hours, Nick, waiting for you to get back!"
"Some of us like to travel the old-fashioned way."
"Where's the page?"
Nick sobered, tossing the cube of ice into the waste basket beside his desk. "I'm sorry, kid. It's gone."
Sam stared coldly at him. "You mean it's at the Pentagon? Or do the Feds have it? Or maybe it's downstairs in those vaults CDA controls---the vaults no one knows anything about?"
"I need a drink," he said. He walked over to the built-in bookcase on one wall, mostly crammed with books, and started pouring scotch. He filled two highball glasses and offered her one.
Sam shook her head. "Where is the page?"
"You're really in a twist."
"Don't get sexist with me."
"Hemmer has it."
She choked.
"He fucking ambushed us. He stole the transport. How he intends to open it, well, your guess is as good as mine. I suppose he'll torture those Rangers. Don't worry." His smile was grim as he tossed back half the scotch. "Every Fed, every cop and half the U.S. Army is looking for him. The Rangers won't give it up easily."
Her mind raced. "Then go ambush him at his penthouse!"
"Arresting him won't get us the page. Killing him won't get us the page. If he has the power, he'll control us."
Sam didn't care about Hemmer. "Ian has been captured. The monk has him in a warehouse in Brooklyn. I have to find him. Help me."
He touched his right eye. "Gee, can you ask nicely?"
"I am begging, not asking."
"Sam, I don't want Maclean to suffer any more than he already has. I'm sorry about what I had to do. I have Kit and a team trying to locate Ian. We'll bust him out when we do."
She whirled away, pacing, frantic. "If it's not too late."
The light on his intercom blinked. Nick walked over to his desk. "Don't tell me you found something?"
"A trucker found four dead men, a few hours ago," Kit Mars said. "The NYPD is on the scene and the call just came in. This one is ours."
"And?"
"It's a warehouse in Brooklyn, 2145 West Elm. I threw the addy at Big Mama. Nick, Robert Moran owned it. Guess who's the landlord now?" Excitement filled her tone. "Rupert Hemmer."
Nick looked up. "Let's go."
Sam was already out the door.
IAN STOOD VERY STILL, staring at the monk.
The monk slowly smiled at him. "Alone at last."
He gave himself a moment. He recalled the worst moments of his life, inflicted by this demon.
"You were very creative, Ian, escaping as you did. But did you really think I wouldn't be watching your every move?"
He smiled slowly, coldly. The anger was gone now. There was only killing intent. "Did ye get off on watching me beaten?"
"Beating is too tame for my tastes, and you know it." When Ian simply stared, the monk's gaze narrowed. "You're really not afraid. I will have to change that. You do realize you're weak, that the drugs are still in your system? Your powers are compromised."
"I don't care." He started toward him.
Alarm flitted through the monk's eyes. "I could change my mind. And you'll die today."
"With pleasure," Ian said softly. "Because I will take ye with me."
The monk lifted his hand. Ian saw the blow coming, a black energy force, and he braced for it. It drove him back across the small entryway and he hit the wall, hard. He fell.
The monk laughed.
Ian started for him again.
The monk smiled, enjoying himself, and struck him again.
Ian slammed into the wall behind the stairs. It hurt more this time. He slowly got up and smiled. He started forward again.
"You might not care if you die," the monk said softly. "But I don't want you dead." His power blazed.
This time, he saw stars as he hit the wall. Eyes closed, he made no move to get up.
The monk came forward. He bent over him and stroked his cheek, the caress sensual. "Try it again," he whispered.
Ian opened his eyes and looked at him. And he thrust the scalpel into his chest.
The monk jerked back, enraged, the scalpel protruding. He ripped it out. "That will hardly stop me!"
But Ian was blasting him with all the power he had left. The monk grunted, hurled backward across the entire entry, into the small table by the front door.
Ian ran toward him, straining to find more power. It blazed weakly. The monk got to his knees, his face a mask of rage, and a black cyclone struck Ian, driving him backward.
The monk had always had more power. He was not going to defeat him this way; he would die, and the monk would remain alive.
Ian suddenly thought of all the children that this man would continue to torture and abuse, all the women, all the men. A new rage began.
It was quiet and deep.
It was no longer about the years of captivity. It was about the Innocent.
As Ian prepared to get up, a gust of wind seemed to go through the entry hall. He hesitated, confused, as the swirling air seemed to form into a hundred shapes and forms. He glimpsed features, wide, livid eyes, open, gaping mouths. A wisp of bright blond hair. A teardrop, spatters of blood.
Fear and fury came into the entryway.
The monk saw it, too. He stood up, alarm on his face.
Ian heard their cries and realized he was face-to-face with the souls of the monk's victims---the men, women and children he'd destroyed.
"For them," he said harshly.
The lost souls stood between the door and the monk. Ian knew, in that moment, that the monk intended to flee.
"Coward!" he raged. "Ye have twice the power that I do! Will a few ghosts chase ye from this fight?"
The monk faced him and the mass of souls formed a tight circle around him.
Ian blasted him.
The monk raised his hand to send his own power back at him. Ian started to duck when he realized that the ghosts were restraining Carlisle. He could not lift his hand. Ian blasted him again.
The monk fell, crying out. The shadows engulfed him. He screamed.
Ian couldn't see what was happening, but the monk thrashed as if he were covered with snakes and spiders. Those lost souls wanted revenge. He did not blame them. He hoped that they were torturing him.
Ian ran forward, seized the standing lamp and broke it. He knelt over him, holding a long section of brass over his chest. Terror covered the monk's face. Their gazes met.
"No," the monk whispered.
The front door burst open.
He glanced up, too intent to be incredulous. Sam rushed in with his father, Brie, Macleod, Tabby and Nick Forrester. No one was going to take this moment away from him. Now the monk would pay---and he would suffer, first.
"Vanquish him," Sam said, drawing a gun out of the back of her jeans. "Or I will."
It was the noble thing to do. He didn't feel noble now. "I won't let ye pass out," he said softly, and he drove the brass stake through his chest and out the other side of his body. There was triumph. There was satisfaction.
The monk screamed. He tried to get up and started thrashing again, as if fighting off the ghosts.
Brie seized Aidan, to prevent him from going forward. "It's Ian's war."
"He'll leap," Sam cried. She pointed the gun at the monk's forehead.
Ian looked up at her and their eyes met. He wanted to torture the monk the way he'd been tortured. He wanted him to live for days, weeks, months, years, in pain, suffering and fear. He wanted payback. Sam knew it. She shook her head. "You're not one of them."
And the savage need to inflict pain, to do to the monk what had been done to him, receded. He got up and nodded at her, suddenly exhausted. Sam walked over and put a bullet in the monk's head, dead center, and another in his heart.
The monk's eyes were filled with pain and wide with disbelief as he looked at Ian. Ian stared at him as he lay there, dying.
Sam touched him. "Ian?"
He did not take his gaze from the monk. Ignoring her, he watched him bleeding out. The life faded from his eyes. And then the glowing red color there changed, turning blue and sightless.
It was over.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SAM KNEW Ian was exhausted in every possible way, especially emotionally. He seemed off balance as he used the keypad outside his door to open the locks, his movements slow and sluggish. He hadn't said a word during the car ride to Manhattan; he'd stared out of the window the entire time. Now he walked into his Park Avenue home ahead of her, not looking at her or even acknowledging her. Sam followed him inside, somber. Clearly he was lost entirely in his thoughts. Sam knew he was thinking about Carlisle and what had just happened, and maybe his past. She wanted to put her arm around him, but she didn't.
He was so grim. The monk was vanquished at his hand. It felt good. There was some justice after all. But she was worried about him.
He looked like a man who'd been through hell, more than once.
The lights were on as they walked into the grand foyer, Brie and Aidan behind them. Nick had stayed in Brooklyn. 2145 Elm Street was now a CDA crime scene, as was the adjoining warehouse. Sam hadn't offered to stay behind to help him out---as far as she was concerned, she was no longer his employee. Tabby and Macleod had gone to her loft. Something was up with her sister, but Sam was too relieved about vanquishing Carlisle and too concerned for Ian to have had a chance to ask Tabby what was bothering her. She'd sensed a terrible urgency in her before they'd parted in Brooklyn. However, Sam knew Tabby wasn't leaving, not yet.
Because it wasn't entirely over, not if Brie was right about Moray.
Sam shuddered. She hadn't been there when Brie and Aidan had vanquished him in 1502, with Tabby's help, but she had heard all about him---and read hundreds of pages about his near-thousand-year reign of terror in Scotland.
She glanced at Ian as he paused before a console table, rubbing his temples slowly. She did not want to tell him about Brie's vision. She wanted Brie to have made a mistake, when her cousin rarely misinterpreted her visions.
She turned and looked at Brie. Her cousin smiled grimly back, apparently in tune with her.
Ian suddenly leaned on the table, as if he were dizzy. As he did, Gerard hurried into the entry hall. "Sir, what can I get you?" he said, approaching. His tone was calm, but his gaze was sharp and anxious.
"Whiskey," Ian said harshly.
Aidan walked up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.
Ian flinched and stared coolly at him. "I don't need to be healed, not by ye."
"I willna stand down," Aidan said, placing his other hand on his other shoulder.
Sam saw white light pouring from his hands.
Ian twisted away. "I don't recall inviting you here."
"Ian," Sam said harshly. "That's not fair." She couldn't believe that he would still reject his father.
He turned to look at her with some disbelief. He was so pale.
He was about to collapse, she thought. But he'd been tortured, drugged, beaten up. "Aidan, please heal him."
Aidan clasped his shoulders tightly. Ian grimaced but this time stood still and let him. Sam knew he was too exhausted to fight Aidan off.
"I'll bring everyone drinks and refreshment," Gerard said, his tone grimmer now.
Sam walked over to him. "The monk is vanquished."
"Thank God." His brows lifted.
"You'd be proud. Ian did it, all by his lonesome." But she trembled, unable to sound flip. He'd been in Carlisle's captivity for twenty-four hours. She wished she could read Ian's mind, because he should be triumphant, not somber. The one thing she did know was that he was at his limit. He needed to rest and put this crisis behind him.
Sam didn't know how they'd do that if Moray had really returned from the vanquished.
Aidan finally released his son, gazing closely at him. His smile was tenuous. "Ye must feel better now."
Ian didn't smile back. "I do."
"Ye won't welcome me, will ye?"
Ian did not respond.
Aidan's expression became even more sorrowful. "Then we'll go."
"Good," Ian said brusquely. He shrugged as if he didn't give a damn but Sam saw a flicker in his eyes. Somehow, she just knew he cared. He simply couldn't let go of the past, not even with the monk dead.
Brie walked up to Ian. "We love you, no matter what happens, and no matter what you say or do."
Ian turned away.
Aidan said to his rigid shoulders, "I'm proud of ye. Ye faced yer worst fears. Ye destroyed yer worst enemy, against all odds. Ye've made a good life here an' ye have a good woman now." He hesitated. "Ye ken where to find us. Yer always welcome at Awe. 'Twill always be yer home."
Ian finally looked at his father. "This is my home."
Sam closed her eyes, wanting to cry in despair.
"If ye ever need me, summon me an' I'll come," Aidan said. Moisture shimmered on his lashes. He reached out and Brie moved into his arms.
"I never gave up on your father and I'm never giving up on you," Brie whispered. She smiled sadly, then looked at Sam. "Take care of him. Take care of yourself."
Sam thought of Moray. "Wait!" she cried, but it was too late. They vanished, the room shifting as they did so.
Okay, Sam thought, wishing they hadn't gone. But they were gone and she was alone with Ian. Sam glanced at Ian, saw a tear slipping from his eyes, and looked away so he wouldn't know she'd seen his emotions. She did not know what that tear could mean. He was already striding down the hall, leaving her alone in the foyer.
Her heart broke. He'd been through hell---first sixty-six years of demonic captivity, and then a life of absolute isolation, one filled with suffering. She stared after him and hugged herself, a rare gesture for her. She loved him so much.
If only he could let go of his past. He needed his father and Brie; he needed her, Tabby, and the other Highlanders.
In spite of his choices, he wasn't alone. Not anymore. She might not have his love, but she had his back, and she knew that she could count on him now in return.
Because she loved him, she finally hurried after him. She wasn't going to leave him alone, not now, not tonight.
She found him in his walk-in closet, stepping out of the scrubs. He was pulling jeans off a shelf; she touched his hard, scarred back as he stepped into them.
He slowly turned. Anguish and pain shimmered in his eyes.
She heard herself say, "Don't reject me, too."
His gaze met hers.
Sam walked forward, put her arms around him and embraced him. She wanted to tell him how worried she'd been, how sick with fear, and how much she cared, but she didn't. She just held him.
He let her. As she held him, he started to tremble. It wasn't about desire. It was extreme exhaustion---at once mental, physical and emotional.
"You got him," she whispered, his jaw on the top of her head. She stroked her hands down his scarred back. Tears came. "I was terrified for you."
He made a sound and slipped his arms around her.
"What is it?" she whispered.
It was a moment before he spoke. "There are too many memories," he said harshly. "That house..."
She held him more tightly. "Have you been having flashbacks?" It would explain his utter silence for the past hour.
He shook his head, then spoke thickly. "I can't stop the memories, Sam."
She didn't know how to comfort him. "The memories will fade with time." Or so she prayed. "The past is over, Ian. You did it. You destroyed your captor. The helpless boy is gone. And he'll never be back."
He exhaled. "I can hardly believe it's over."
"It is over," she stressed. But then she thought about Moray.
He was quiet for a moment. "There were ghosts, Sam, all the souls of his victims. They helped me."
She was briefly surprised. "I'm glad," she said fiercely, clinging now.
He hesitated. "I was so angry...and in the end, not just for myself."
She started.
"I was angry for all those poor souls he'd destroyed."
She smiled. "I think that's a genetic thing," she said softly.
He held her gaze. "Is a genetic thing why I enjoyed inflicting pain? Because I was thrilled when I made him suffer."
Sam went still, dismayed, but then she shook her head. "It was a very human reaction, Ian, to the evil that tortured you for so long and took so much pleasure doing so."
"If ye say so," he said, releasing her. He walked over to a shelf but simply stared at the T-shirts folded there.
"You're not like Moray. Your father isn't."
He made a sound. "Really? I recall my father being evil for about sixty-six years."
"You don't have an evil bone in your body."
He turned to stare at her.
"I'm glad you tortured Carlisle."
His brows lifted. "Ye mean it."
"I think I'd have twisted the knife, too."
He stared. Sam stared back, thinking about the sex tape in the vault at Loch Awe. Dread churned in her gut. "I need to ask you something. This might not be the best time, but since we're being so brutally honest with one another, I'll give it a shot."
His eyebrows lifted.
"I found a DVD in the safe in your bedroom at Loch Awe," Sam said, her gaze unwavering on him now.
He was poker-faced.
"Not the one Hemmer had," she added, then realized how unnecessary that statement was.
"And ye think I gave Hemmer the first tape to blackmail ye?" His gray eyes darkened.
"I don't really know what to think, except that you couldn't have been all that surprised to see us making love in the future, because you'd obviously seen the DVD I found there."
"Yeah, I wasn't surprised." He turned and started from the walk-in closet.
Shit, Sam thought, becoming angry. "Did you give Hemmer the damned sex tape?" She strode after him.
He whirled, facing her. "I didn't give him the tape," he said harshly. "But he might have stolen it from me."
"Why did you have the tape in the first place, for God's sake?" she cried.
"Because I was obsessed," he shouted back.
She jerked. "What?"
He flushed, but his gray eyes blazed silver. "Ye heard me, Sam," he said dangerously. "After we met in Oban, I got too hot to think clearly. I leapt to the future. I knew my homes were wired. I knew I'd have ye eventually. I went right to my security tapes and voilà, there we were."
She reeled. "But you hate leaping."
"I got drunk first," he snapped.
It began to sink in. He'd been so attracted to her that he'd gotten drunk and leapt through time, all to find them on video together. She could imagine him sitting in a darkened room, watching them screw each other's brains out---and watching them make love.
He slowly smiled. "Don't worry. I enjoyed the tapes...a lot."
Desire slammed into her. "I'm glad."
The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by simmering warmth. Sam closed the step between them, seized the waistband of his jeans. "Not very many women would be happy with you right now," she murmured.
"I don't care about other women. I never have."
She jerked him closer and he let her do so. "And you never will." But he cared about her. She was certain.
He moved his hands down her jeans and cupped her buttocks hard. Then he paused. "Yer the woman who has my back. Ye'll always have my back. Ye told me so."
"Yes," she whispered, her heart lurching. He was throbbing so urgently against her that it was hard to think straight. She wanted to blurt out her real feelings. That was crazy. Instead, she kissed his collarbone. "This is a really good time to celebrate, Ian. You won." She kissed his throat. "Carlisle is dead."
He moaned, heavier against her now. Pleasure began, rippling through her, and she reached down and undid her zipper. He helped her slide the tight denim down. "Why?" he asked roughly. "Tell me why yer so damned loyal?"
She moved closer and heard him even though his mouth didn't move. Tell me why ye care so much?
She froze, no easy task with her body on fire. "Ian," she breathed. "I think the time for talking is over."
"No." He slid his hand over the back of her head, threading his fingers through the wisps of her hair, and tilted her back over his arm. One hard thigh moved between hers. "Ye love me. Ye said so." His gray stare held hers.
Damn it, she thought, her heart lurching. For the first time in her life, Sam Rose was afraid---of three words. "I can't remember," she lied, and instantly knew how pathetic the lie was.
He smiled. Then he walked her backward, their gazes locked. Sam knew what he wanted, and it wasn't just her body. She didn't know if she could or would ever get those words out again. The back of her body hit the wall of shelves. He'd kept one hand low, under her buttock, and she raised herself onto a shelf. He helped her.
It was awkward. The other shelves hurt her back, but who cared? She lifted her right leg and hooked it over his hip.
He finally tore his gaze from hers and looked at her mouth. "I want ye more than I did at Oban," he said. "More than I did all those nights I watched the tapes. More than I did yesterday or this morning."
Sam inhaled. "Good. The feeling is...mutual." Isn't it? she thought silently.
He was moving toward her. His eyes widened as he entered her.
Sam choked, overcome by the pressure within her, and the immediate tide of pleasure that began to rise. But he paused. She knew she flushed. She hadn't been fishing, had she? She didn't expect him to love her back---or did she?
His eyes blazed and, too late, she knew he'd heard her. She started to press at his chest, to keep him back, but he withdrew and then drove deep, forcing her other leg up and around his waist. And as he began to thrust long and slow, the sense of belonging was so consuming that Sam held him and surrendered to the moment and the man. She really loved Ian Maclean.
She was ready to shatter.
He pulled her head back and their gazes met. "Thank ye," he said roughly. "Fer not runnin' out on me."
She somehow smiled and then she gave up. She couldn't stand the love and joy, the desire. She gave herself over to the incredible force inside her, the incredible pressure building, the first wave of pleasure, and he kissed her.
He kissed her like it was the first time, the last time, the only time. Sam rode his waist and kissed him back exactly the same way.
TABBY PAUSED in the loft she used to share with Sam, overcome with so many memories of the times she'd spent there with her sister. Macleod put his arm around her. "I ken ye'll always miss her."
She looked up at his breathtaking face. "I have no regrets. Not one."
He studied her for a moment. "Even if ye did, I'd never let ye go."
Tabby smiled, when another woman would be annoyed or angered by his controlling nature. It had been hard, at first, to get used to being with such a ruthless, chauvinistic, medieval man. But every passionate argument had always ended with even more passionate lovemaking---and a deeper understanding of and greater love for one another. They were two souls drawn to one another like magnets, and he knew it as well as she did.
"There are no regrets, but I am worried," Tabby said softly. "Until Ian Maclean sees the light, can she count on him?"
"He will be there for her," Macleod said flatly. "He willna ken why, but he willna turn his back on her if she is in danger."
"Brie has to be wrong. About Moray," she added, hating having to speak the name aloud.
Macleod was silent but she heard his every thought. In the twenty-five years since Brie had come to live with Aidan at Castle Awe, she'd been wrong exactly one time about her visions.
Tabby walked across the large interior of the loft. Sam kept the chest at the far end locked, but Tabby still had her key, which she wore on her girdle with the other manor keys. She unlocked the chest and lifted the lid, crying out as she saw her beloved crystals. She ran her hands over every one before turning to smile at Macleod.
He shook his head, bemused. "Will ye take them home with us?"
She had dozens of powerful crystals at Blayde. "No. Sam might need them one day."
"Her Fate is Maclean."
"Yes, I believe he is her Fate. But I'm not willing to speculate as to when and where they will live out their lives."
"He's as medieval as I am," Macleod pointed out, amused.
Tabby smiled, unconvinced. Sam had met her Fate, she was certain, just as she had more than two centuries ago. Sam would always be a Slayer, but Tabby was thrilled that she would now have Ian Maclean at her side. He wasn't a Master, but he had power and he cared.
If Moray was back, they needed all the help they could get.
Macleod became sober, and so did she as they shared a look and their thoughts.
So much was still about to happen, if Brie were not wrong. "I was there," she said slowly. "We all were, except for Sam and you. Brie, Allie, Claire and I vanquished Moray. Aidan destroyed his physical body. We watched his soul vanish into the universe. It looked as if his black energy scattered."
"An' if it dinna vanish?"
"Then I will find the right spell to do what we failed to do twenty-five years ago," Tabby said simply.
"Tabitha," he objected. "I ken yer power, but the burden now is far too great fer a single woman."
"No, it's not. I'm a Rose, Guy. Maybe it's up to me to save this particular day."
He crossed the room. "Yer the most stubborn of women an' I love ye so much fer it. But I willna allow ye to have this great burden alone." He was firm. "Are ye sure it can't wait till dawn?" He pulled her close, his eyes warm.
Her body tightened. The attraction between them had been almost fatal from the start. She stroked his rough cheek. She loved Macleod now more than she ever had. "Have I ever been able to say no?"
He laughed and held her hard.
But in spite of the raging desire, she was afraid. What if she couldn't find the magic they now needed? Had Moray come back for Aidan or for Ian? Tabby loved her cousin and her sister impossibly. Their battles were her battles.
Macleod sighed and looked down at her.
She looked up. "Malcolm and Claire vanquished Moray in Orkney in 1425---and he came back from the dead. We vanquished him a second time, in 1502. Guy, if he's come back, maybe the rumors are true."
Macleod released her. His face had darkened. "That he's immortal?"
"And we are not. Not a single one of us."
SHE WAS FINALLY ASLEEP, even though it was noon and the sun was pouring into his bedroom.
Ian looked at her and gave over to the impossible need. He ran his hand over her long, lithe, beautiful body. He stared at her striking face. His heart thundered, close to bursting. In her sleep, she sighed and stirred.
Sam Rose loved him. He threw himself onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, unsmiling.
Images from that night flashed. The doctor he'd so ruthlessly strangled. The monk, being attacked by those souls. Sam, pointing her gun at Carlisle's forehead.
He shifted uncomfortably. His heart kept telling him to smile, to rejoice. But how could he? He was sick inside.
He closed his eyes. He'd been afflicted with the incessant memories since leaving the Brooklyn town house. It was as if he'd been freed yesterday, as if sixty-six years of pain and fear were engraved on his mind and in his soul. The monk was dead but he saw him so clearly, it was as if he stood before him. And his grandfather. He'd never forget the mastermind behind his captivity and torture. Moray made the monk seem kind. Moray made the monk seem human. Sam had said the helpless boy was gone and that he'd never be back, but he felt like that boy again.
He wasn't going to rejoice.
Not now, and not ever.
She loved him.
It didn't matter.
He couldn't love her back.
He didn't want to love her back.
Tears began burning beneath his closed eyelids.
He was damaged still. He'd always be damaged. There was too much in his past, too much pain, too many memories. He didn't know what love was, didn't want to know, even if a stupid part of him was pleased that she loved him.
He could never give her what she wanted. He could never do this.
He realized he was afraid all over again. No, he was terrified. When was she going to figure out the truth about him?
She'd realize the truth when she read his file.
He stared up at the ceiling but something was wrong with his vision, which was blurred. It was hard to think clearly, hard to breathe. Come hell or high water, he would still get that file and have every copy destroyed. He just couldn't figure out how he'd do that now, when he had no leverage. But it wouldn't matter. Sam was smart. She probably knew the truth, because she had all the pieces of the puzzle. She just hadn't had a moment to put the puzzle together. Sooner, not later, she'd do it.
And then her confusion would end. She might think she loved him, but it was impossible. It was the sex that enthralled her---and that wasn't even a matter of his own skill, it was the power and stamina he'd inherited from the gods. It couldn't be anything else. He wasn't kind. He wasn't pleasant or charming. He had no morals, no code of ethics. He wasn't a hero. A pretty face only went so far. It could only be the sex. He was not lovable. He knew that beyond any doubt.
No one loved him. Not now, not ever. Not even his father, because if Aidan had really loved him, he would have found a way to rescue him when he was that boy. He was unloved---as he should be. Men like him did not deserve love. He did not deserve love---he did not deserve Sam Rose.
He saw his entire life in his mind's eye. It was a long, bleak, endless tunnel, one he traversed alone. The tunnel began with his imprisonment, a black hole of pain and despair. There was no light within the tunnel, not where it began and none at its end, to guide him out. There was no way out. He started to laugh, helplessly.
The tunnel was his Fate.
He stared down at Sam as she slept. She was the strongest, toughest woman he knew. Even in sleep, he saw and felt her warrior strength, the kind of strength even someone like him could rely on.
He'd been alone his entire life, for as long as he could remember. He was used to it. There was no reason for his chest to start aching now.
Memories they'd made together so recently swept over him, with the force of a tidal wave. Her dropping that little red dress. Her snapping those handcuffs on, triumphant. Her standing between him and Forrester, trying to broker a deal for him. Her pointing a gun at Carlisle and vanquishing him.
And the tunnel suddenly got darker, an impossible feat. It was hard to imagine a life without her in it, but there was no other choice. Because he could imagine her looking at him with scorn and derision and then walking away with an indifferent shrug. He knew, beyond any doubt, that day would come.
She turned to him in her sleep, surprising him. He did not move. Facing him on her side, her hand brushed his hip. And his heart thundered differently now.
He was addicted to her body. He was addicted to the release she could give him, the incredible pleasure, the escape from the damned tunnel of his life. If he leaned over her now, this terrible moment would vanish. But it would be temporary. When they were done, nothing would have changed.
His chest hurt so badly he wondered if he was having a heart attack. He couldn't imagine a day going by without their verbal sparring. He liked her tough comebacks, her clever retorts. He'd had more conversation with her than he'd had in his entire lifetime, he realized grimly. But then, most of his life had been spent in isolation, either as a captive or since his release.
How he felt didn't matter. He was used to being alone. There'd be other women, faceless and nameless, eager to please him, women he'd use and walk away from, women he wouldn't bother to talk to, women who could think whatever they chose to about him and he wouldn't care. They wouldn't challenge him or talk back to him or look at him with those concerned violet-blue eyes...
It crossed his addled mind that a light had gone on in that tunnel since meeting Sam. And it had been growing brighter each and every day. It was almost as if there were a beacon at the tunnel's end...
But that was impossible.
The fear clawed, the same fear he lived with, day in and day out.
She was stirring. Ian sat up, throwing off the covers. He left the bed and quickly dressed, yanking on his clothing with sheer determination, refusing to think any further. His mind was made up. Using his cell phone, he told the pilots to file a flight plan to Glasgow. He had no intention of leaping, not ever again.
When he came out of the walk-in closet, he was shrugging on a lightweight leather jacket. Sam was sitting up in his bed, beneath the gold sheets, her hair more mussed than usual, her full lips swollen. Her eyes were searching and filled with dread, as if she knew what he was doing. "Where are you going, Ian?"
"I'm leaving," he said without emotion. He turned away from her. Looking at her actually hurt, the way those instruments of torture had.
She hugged her knees to her chest, under the covers. "You're leaving me, aren't you?"
He finally met her gaze. He would never forget her eyes, or her courage. "It's over."
She nodded, poker-faced. He turned abruptly, reaching for the door.
"I won't try to stop you," she said, and it was a warning.
He froze at the door. "I know."
"Do you mind me asking, why? Why now?" She spoke without emotion.
His heart pleaded with him. He didn't really want to do this. Maybe there was hope..."I'm done, Sam."
From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. "Gotcha."
He took one last look at her. His heart screamed now. But his heart did not know any better. He had no choices.
He walked into the black tunnel.
And he was wrong. There were no lights, none.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SAM WALKED into her loft, finally understanding the word heartbreak. The pain was stabbing, knifelike. If she were a lesser woman, she'd crawl into her bed and give in to the need to cry.
But she was a Rose and a Slayer. So she reminded herself that it wasn't love. She'd been deluded, and Ian Maclean was a mess.
She slowly closed the door and saw her sister seated on the sofa, looking so incongruous in her medieval dress. She was poring over the Book of Roses and smiling, which apparently meant she'd had some success in locating whatever she was looking for. Sam also heard the shower running.
Tabby's smile faded and she stood up. "Guy couldn't resist taking a modern shower. I had him get the Book for me. Sam, what's wrong? Who died?"
Sam smiled grimly, going to the fridge and taking out a beer. "No one died, Tabby."
Tabby walked across the loft to the kitchen counter. "It's Ian, isn't it?"
Sam shrugged. "It was never the real deal. Hey, Slayers don't have time for love or romance."
"Who are you trying to convince?"
Sam chugged on the beer. "You know, nothing's changed. He's a selfish jerk."
Tabby rolled her eyes. "He loves you and you love him. And I don't think he's selfish where you are concerned."
Sam trembled in sudden anger. "I beg to differ with you, sis."
"Don't give up on him!" Tabby cried, reaching across the counter to grab her hand. "Fight for your love!"
"I am not in love," Sam said. Then she crumbled and gave it up. She knew it was a damned lie. She loved the bastard. She'd gone through hell for him. She'd stood by his side against his worst enemies. And he'd walked out on her.
"I know you don't believe that," Tabby said flatly. "Because I know you."
Sam looked at her darkly. "I am not chasing him, Tabby."
"Why not? What could you possibly lose? Your pride?"
Sam finished the beer. Then she crossed her arms. "Yeah, I'll lose my pride. He'll laugh at me."
"Ian won't laugh at you. He needs you more than he needs air. It's really obvious."
Sam started, her tension unbearable. Tabby was right on that last point---Maclean needed her. The monk was gone, but he was still a mess. But if she went after him now, like some pathetic bimbo, he'd laugh at her. Wouldn't he?
But so what if he did?
She wet her lips. "So what's the scoop on our worst nightmare come true?"
Tabby raised her pale brows. "You don't mean Hemmer and the power of virtual control."
"That's a sobering thought, but not as scary as Moray."
"If Brie is right and Moray is back, he hasn't shown himself."
Sam inhaled. "Then let's find him and set the world right."
HE HADN'T TOLD ANYONE where he was going, not even Gerard. Ian closed the front door of his Loch Awe home, doing his best to ignore the painful throbbing in his heart.
He felt jet-lagged. He hit the lights as he went through the large entry hall, and that was when he realized he wasn't alone.
The fine hairs at his nape tingled. As they did, the hallway darkened, and a chill descended upon the room. With it came a horribly familiar weight and black power.
Moray? His grandfather was dead. But that black evil was unmistakable.
With the confusion, panic arose.
He chased it away. He had to be mistaken.
But the hairs continued to tickle his nape. He slowly turned, facing the unlit interior of the grand salon. A shadowy form arose from the sofa.
Dread immobilized him. There was no mistaking the evil arising from his sofa.
The lights came on.
Rupert Hemmer faced him, but he only saw his grandfather, Moray.
"Hallo, a Ihain," he said softly, smiling.
His knees buckled. There was so much fear that he almost pissed himself. There was so much shock that he couldn't speak. This was impossible; it was a nightmare.
His grandfather slowly approached. "You're not dreaming, my boy. I'm back. It's been a long time---too long. But when necessary, I can be very patient. You've done well, considering what you survived."
This was his worst nightmare come true---to face his demon grandfather again.
He now saw that the man standing before him was most definitely Rupert Hemmer, in form anyway. The fear began to dull, recede. "What do ye want?"
"Revenge."
His heart lurched with more fear and dread. His grandfather was smiling, but his eyes were burning with evil and hatred. Sam's image assailed him, her eyes violet steel. He was fiercely glad he'd left her, so she wouldn't be involved in whatever was about to come.
"You feared me then and you fear me now. Poor Ian," his grandfather taunted, pleased.
He wasn't that boy now, Ian thought. He was a near-immortal with great powers. Hadn't he just destroyed the monk? "Only a fool would be fearless," Ian heard himself say. He wet his lips. His heart beat slowly, heavily---the pulse of a hunter, not the hunted.
How had he ever thought that this day would not come?
Moray laughed softly. "I hate your father as I have never hated anything or anyone. He is my son and he refused my will. Alas, you are the coin in which he will pay."
A sudden, fierce need to protect and defend his father arose, stunning him. "My father defeated ye before. He'll defeat ye again, and this time, I will happily help him."
"Really? But you can't win, Ian, not over me. I've come to take you prisoner again. How will you help Aidan when you are an impotent captive?"
He almost succumbed to the fear. It rose up, a brief, swift prickling, and then he quelled it. He was going to survive. He was going to protect and defend his family. "Try. Try me now and see what happens. Ye face a man, not a child, coward."
Moray's smile vanished. "I fear nothing, Ian, certainly not you and the warrior bitch you love."
Ian tensed in absolute dread. "I love no one."
Moray laughed at him. "I am still Rupert Hemmer, Ian. That's the beauty of my soul becoming his."
It was hard to grasp what he'd said, but he did. Moray and Hemmer were one. Moray had all the facts and earthly power that Hemmer had; Hemmer had all the demonic power that Moray possessed.
"Can you guess what's next?" Moray asked softly.
He was thinking about how to best protect Sam, when what he had to do was parry Moray's every move and then deliver the fatal blow. This had to end. "Is this how ye will frighten me? By playing a guessing game?"
"Have you forgotten about my newest power?" his grandfather asked softly. "I can turn you into that boy again---and I will."
It took him a moment to remember. Hemmer had the power of virtual control.
And behind his grandfather, he saw the blue quilt covering his small, narrow bed. He saw the room filled with toys. Moray beckoned with his finger.
The panic was intense, choking him. He backed up, into the door. His shoulder hit the doorknob, because he was that little boy again...
A part of his brain screamed at him that this was an illusion. But he pressed back into the door, filled with fear, knowing what was coming next.
"There's nowhere to hide. Come here. I have a use for you."
"I LIKE those credentials," Tabby said, grinning, as they took the private elevator up to Hemmer's penthouse.
Sam might have made a quip if she were in a better mood. The doorman had been agog over her tiny tank top, and hadn't even looked at her phony ID. Macleod chuckled, "Yer sister dinna need to use the little card, Tabitha. The doorman was about to swoon."
SAM STRODE OUT of the elevator. Hemmer had the page, but that wasn't why she wanted to chat with him. He ran in dark circles. If he knew anything about Moray, she intended to choke it out of him. Considering he'd been buddies with Robert Moran and now owned the building in Brooklyn once owned by Moran, he might still be in touch with his old mentor, no matter how dead he was. But before she'd even reached the apartment door, it opened. A distraught housekeeper stood there. "Thank God you're here," she cried, wringing her hands.
Sam was surprised by the greeting. "God doesn't have too much to do with it," she said flatly. "What's wrong?"
The woman paled impossibly. "Aren't you the police? I just called 911. Poor Mrs. Hemmer! Mr. Hemmer will be devastated."
Sam cursed and ran into the apartment. "Where is she?"
"She's in her bed," the housekeeper cried.
Sam bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, her sister and Macleod on her heels. She ran down the end of the hall, past the bedroom where she'd first seen Ian, assuming the master suite to be at the corridor's end.
She was right.
Becca lay naked and very dead on the king-size bed.
"A pleasure crime," Macleod stated flatly. "He took her power."
Sam walked over to Becca, actually feeling sorry for her. She never reacted to any kind of demonic crime, but now, her gut churned. "How can he tell?" she asked Tabby. She knew it had been a pleasure crime, too, but they always brought in the CDA lab team to verify it.
"We come across pleasure crimes almost every day, Sam. They're epidemic in our time. Macleod can sense when the rape was demonic. Besides, look at her face."
Sam realized that she hadn't wanted to look closely at Becca. She didn't know what was wrong with her or why she was almost upset. She closed her eyes and then stared at her face. Her expression was ecstatic. She was so much like Mother.
Sam felt sickened by the crime. She wondered if every time she worked a pleasure crime now, she'd remember her mother. Shaken, she said, "Hemmer doesn't have one drop of demonic blood. He couldn't do this."
Tabby was silent. Macleod said softly, "Moray could."
"Why would Moray be involved with Hemmer?" Tabby asked.
"They knew each other," Sam said grimly. As Sam tossed a sheet over Becca, she told her sister about Moran. Then she heard damned familiar footsteps. She wasn't surprised. As she turned, Nick walked in with Kit.
Kit came up to her. "Hey, are you okay?"
Sam nodded. "Thanks for caring." She sent Nick a frosty look as Kit and Tabby hugged warmly.
Nick broke up the reunion by walking past the women and jerking the sheet off Becca. "I wondered if I'd find you here," he said to Sam. He studied the corpse for a moment. Then he looked at Sam. "Your boy went to Awe."
Sam tensed. Nick still had Maclean under surveillance? Would Ian be okay at Loch Awe by himself? She was still hurt, but her warrior mode replaced all emotional involvement. Moray was out there, and he had to be destroyed. To make matters worse, Ian didn't know his grandfather had returned from the vanquished. "Is he okay?" she asked carefully.
"How the hell would I know?"
"Gee, I don't know. By wiring that house, too?"
He gave her a dark glance. "I want you to come by my office tomorrow."
"No, thanks." Sam smiled coldly. She wouldn't budge on this issue.
His stare would have leveled another person. "I have a present for Maclean."
Sam started.
"I'm damned sorry I had to do what I did, although I'd do it all over again. But I don't need his damned file. If you have the guts to come by, I'll give it to you."
She was stunned.
"Yeah, it's a peace offering. But there are strings attached."
"Like, I come back to work for you?"
"Something like that." He smiled.
Tension filled her. She loved her job. It was her duty to protect and defend the world, but she'd never forgive Nick for tossing Ian under the bus. "I'll think about it," she said. "Or am I on a timer?"
He laughed. "No, the clock's not ticking. In fact, even if you don't come back to HCU, you can have the file."
Sam was rarely surprised twice. She was stunned anew.
He crooked his finger at her. Sam decided not to bother asking. She followed him down to the ground floor and to the vault. The beautiful landscape painting was propped against one wall. The inscription she'd seen earlier was above it, where the painting had been hanging. The hieroglyphics glowed.
"Okay. You've got me. What is that, anyway? What does it mean?"
Nick walked over to it and Sam had the oddest feeling that he was uneasy. "In all the years I've been at war---before anyone even called it a war---I've seen that inscription exactly three times. Here, at 2145 Elm and in the first century."
Sam shivered. "Give me the bad news."
He glanced at her, his face uncharacteristically serious. "It's Satan's stamp of approval, Sam. If you think the greatest evil of all doesn't exist in one single and powerful entity, think again. It's said that no more than a dozen demons throughout time have ever gotten his seal." He was thoughtful. "Others have seen this, through the centuries. The Russian saw this in one of Stalin's palaces." He hesitated. "Jan saw it."
She could barely comprehend what he was telling her. "Are you frigging telling me that Hemmer, who is as mortal as we are, has Satan's ear?"
"His DNA might be no different from the grocer's on the corner, but I'm not sure he's mortal. Not anymore. So where is our resident billionaire, anyway?"
"That's a really good question."
"Especially since he has the page. But how come I don't think you're here for the power? You know, there's this wild rumor that Moray's back from the vanquished." Nick stared. "We both know old Rupert didn't do in his wife. Sure you don't want my help, kiddo?"
Sam was about to reply when she saw Ian.
He shimmered behind Nick, dressed exactly as she'd last seen him. She could see right through him, and she knew that his image was visual telepathy. There was urgency in his eyes. Something was terribly wrong. "Ian, where are you?" she cried. "What is it?"
Nick whirled and his eyes widened. He saw Ian, too.
THE CAGE TWIRLED. He clung to the bars, which were cold beneath his small hands. "Please let me out." It was his first time in the cage, his punishment for attempting to escape. His heart beat so hard and so fast he thought it would explode.
His grandfather smiled and walked away. And he kicked frantically at the rats...
No. This was not really happening...
Those words were in the back of his mind, distant, vague. They were going to leave him there to be eaten alive, and then they'd heal him. If he tried to escape again, they'd put him back in the cage. Panic choked him. He felt their sharp teeth and he cried out. How could this be happening all over again?
He closed his eyes and prayed for his father. This was not really happening...But he kicked the rodents away, again and again, whimpering now. Why didn't the great Aidan of Awe rescue him?
He saw his father so clearly, standing before the hearth in the great hall, surrounded by so much evil.
Please help me!
His father's face was startled. "Ian?"
Help me! I'm in the new city of York. Help me!
Aidan shouted, his face becoming a mask of rage. And then he was gone...
He rattled the bars desperately. He had to get out, because he was bleeding and he didn't have the will to try to kick the rats away.
But he wasn't a boy now. This was a trick, a cruel, evil trick.
And as he clung to the bars, he was confused, because he saw a beautiful, fierce woman. He gripped the bars harder, no longer fighting the pack of rats. The woman's face shimmered in his mind and he knew this was more important than the punishment of the cage. Suddenly he saw her even more clearly and her eyes blazed with urgency.
Ian, where are you? What's wrong?
Clasping the bars, he started. Sam.
In the back of his mind, knowledge grew, even as he began to faint from the pain. He could not pass out now. If he did, he'd die. This was not happening. He wasn't a boy. He'd been through so much with Sam. They'd fought the terror of evil together.
He strained to push through the darkness of the cage. The night was so heavy, pressing him back inside, pushing him down. He had to push back, through this impenetrable blanket of black power. He strained to see. For one moment, he was a grown man, doubled over in the cage that was sized for a small child. And then he straightened fully, exhaling, and he did not hit the top of the cage. The shapes and shadows of his living room were becoming visible. Through a window, he saw the rising sun and the mists that floated upon the loch.
He breathed in deeply. Relief blazed.
Ian realized his fists were clenched, but not around bars. They were so tightly balled that his short nails dug into the skin of his palms. He'd been trapped in the past by the power of the page, and it had been as real as if it were actually happening. To be certain, he looked down, but saw his denim-clad leg, not the bare, small and bleeding calf of a child. And there were no rats. He was firmly in reality now.
Ian, where are you?
He tensed, having heard Sam again, as clear as day.
He did not want her drawn into this war with his grandfather. Moray would hurt her if he could, just to get at him.
Fear finally vanished and in its place was a burning determination for revenge.
He could never let Moray hurt Sam or his father. He would protect those he loved---or die trying.
He reached out for her, to reassure himself that she was safe, and not already in evil's hands. He found her instantly. She was standing in an unfamiliar bedroom. He focused and saw Nick, a badge hanging from his neck. Then he saw the sheet covering a corpse on the bed.
"My first pleasure crime. I so enjoyed it. I can see why the crime is addictive."
The voice was Hemmer's. But if this were real, if Moray had somehow come back, then Moray had become Rupert Hemmer now.
Ian slowly turned. Moray's evil was unmistakable but no longer terrifying. He remained in his own living room. "Are ye Hemmer or Moray?"
"Both." Hemmer smiled. "Right now, I am in control. Your grandfather was calling the shots a moment ago. He is too powerful to resist---and I hardly mind."
Ian wet his lips, focused as never before. "So his soul took yers?"
Hemmer grinned. "Something like that."
"He was vanquished."
"After what we just put you through, do you really question his return?"
His gut churned. He didn't have any doubts. Moray had returned. "Do ye have all of Moray's powers?"
"Why else would I allow his soul to become mine?" His gaze narrowed, became the blue eyes of his grandfather. Slowly, they turned red. But the living room remained unchanged. "Did we give you permission to leave the cage, Ian, my boy?" Moray laughed softly.
"How did you get back? How did ye get into Hemmer?"
Those glowing red eyes widened. "We made another deal with the devil."
This wasn't virtual reality, Ian thought. This was real. He was facing his grandfather, who was also Rupert Hemmer.
Even mere minutes ago, the idea would have terrified him. Now, he burned to end this. He had never hated anyone as he did this evil entity. "I owe ye, Grandfather."
"You challenge us?" Moray said. "But we have all the power."
"No, ye don't have all the power. Ye don't have the power of the gods. Ye don't have the power of right."
Moray laughed, delighted. "You know, I never believed we could turn you when you were a boy. It's why we hardly tried. But this is what we will do. We're going to use you to bring down your father, once and for all."
"He defeated ye before. He'll defeat ye again. And this time, so will I. This time, ye fight us, together."
"Such brave words! Aidan will come running to rescue you this time, don't you think so, Ian?"
Ian tensed. He had not a doubt that his father would try to rescue him if he were put back in that virtual prison---just as he suddenly knew his father would have tried to rescue him when he was a child captive, if he hadn't believed him to be dead.
"What I haven't decided is the order of death. Should we let Aidan watch you die before we kill him? Or should we let you suffer a bit more, perhaps by watching sweet Samantha die after we've enjoyed her?" He darkened. "She dared to challenge me and I never let a challenge go unanswered." Suddenly Hemmer stood there.
He tensed, wishing Sam had listened to him when he'd told her just how dangerous Hemmer was. He had never wanted to protect anyone as he did her. He was tempted to bargain, but evil could not be negotiated with. It could not be trusted. "This time," he said softly, "when we destroy ye, ye'll be going to hell---where ye'll stay."
"Really?" Moray laughed. "Some of us are immortal, Ian. Surely you've heard that?"
He refused to believe his grandfather.
"Do you remember the monk's favorite game---the one we saved for New Year's?"
Ian fought the power as it was hurled at him but it cloaked him. He was in a long, concrete hall, the walls lined with closed doors. The panic choked him. He backed away, shaking with fear.
"Open a door, any door," his grandfather ordered. "Our guests are waiting, Ian."
He started to run. Moray's laughter followed him. A demon materialized in front of him. He turned to run the other way. More demons stood there. He ran to the closest door and flung it open. The giant seized him and he knew what would happen next. His mind started to shut down...
The pain began.
Moray's laughter echoed.
He couldn't stand it. He was going to die. No, she was going to die.
Sam was going to die
He wasn't a boy. He wasn't in the maze. This was an illusion and Sam was in jeopardy.
He had to get out. Moray had to be stopped.
"DRINKING WON'T SOLVE THIS," Brie said softly.
"Wine will ease the pain," Aidan snapped. Immediately, he was sorry he'd spoken so harshly to the woman he loved more than life itself.
But instead of going to her, he cradled his head on his hands, seated at the trestle table in Awe's great hall. He desperately needed his son. Seeing him again after twenty-five years had been bittersweet. He'd wanted to embrace him as if he were still a child. He'd been so thrilled when Ian had come to him for help. But Ian's anger and hostility had cut through him like daggers. Ian would never forgive him, he thought.
And he didn't blame him. He had failed his own little boy. Ian was right to blame him, just as he blamed himself. He would never forgive himself, either.
He looked up at his beautiful wife. She reached for his hand. "Can ye try to see what he will do?"
"I've tried a dozen times, and there's nothing but black shadows. Aidan, I'm so scared. I think my fear is preventing me from seeing."
He went to her and pulled her close. "We triumphed once. If he is back, we'll triumph again."
In his arms, Brie's eyes widened with shock.
He turned and saw his son.
Ian lay on his back, thrashing, as if in a struggle, his form vague and transparent.
Ian was in jeopardy again.
"I see him, too," Brie whispered.
"Where is he?" Aidan cried. He could be anywhere, in any time. "Ian, where are you?"
But there was no answer.
THE FRONT DOOR WAS OPEN and the chandelier above was lit, as were several wall sconces. Outside, the sun had risen, staining the grounds with golden hues.
Sam sat up, aching, having landed in the entry hall at Loch Awe. Macleod was helping Tabby to her feet. Sam stood and his blue gaze seared hers. "He's here."
But Sam had already become aware of the huge weight in the house, pressing down on them, pressing in on them. It was the weight of evil, more vast than she'd ever felt before.
It was enough to make her stomach churn with fear.
Sam took a breath, shoving that brief and unfamiliar feeling away. The house was so silent that she could hear her own breathing and that of her sister and Macleod. It was unnatural.
She reached out abruptly and turned off the chandelier's lights. Tabby thought she had a spell which would trap Moray's soul in Hemmer's body. Last time, according to her sister, her spell had made it impossible for his soul to find a physical haven, so it had scattered into the atmosphere---or so they'd thought. Now they had a new plan: use the spell, trap his soul, and dispatch Hemmer. But Tabby did not have a spell to thwart the power of virtual control.
The skin on her nape crawled.
"Moray, show yerself," Macleod called softly.
The pressure in the house increased. The atmosphere began to hurt her skin. Moray did not appear.
"I have to find Ian," Sam said. She knew he was being tortured. She felt it in the churning of her gut, in every fiber of her being. She'd been sure she'd find him at his Loch Awe home. Now, she was dismayed, because she did not feel him.
"We find Moray, we find Ian," Macleod said flatly.
"He's right," Tabby said, speaking in a whisper.
The pressure bearing down on them intensified. Sam heard soft laughter, like a distant echo. So did her sister and brother-in-law.
"Fuck the bastard," Sam hissed. She'd do a room-to-room. She'd been so certain Ian was at Loch Awe.
As she started past the salon, she saw him, lying prone on the floor.
He was as still as a corpse.
Sam cried out, rushing to him, terrified that he was dead. She knelt. The moment she saw his lashes flutter, she also felt the faintest sensation of his power. Relief flooded her. "He's unconscious," she said tersely, as Tabby knelt beside her. "Ian." She stroked his brow, shaking, afraid of what had been done to him.
"I don't think he's unconscious," Tabby said, her tone grim.
Sam looked warily at her. "He's passed out cold, Tabby. If he's hurt, it's internal, because he's not bleeding." She'd made an instant inventory.
"He's under Moray's power," Tabby said. "I can feel the power of the page, Sam. I can feel its magic, and I can feel his evil perverting it, using it. Ian is in another world."
Sam's tension became unbearable. "Ian, wake up," she said, taking his hands in hers.
His lashes fluttered, but otherwise, he was unmoving, as if paralyzed.
"I wonder if he can hear you. Guy, can you read his mind?" Tabby asked.
When he didn't answer immediately, Sam looked up. Macleod was grim. "He's a boy. Ye dinna need to know what they're doing to him."
Sam choked. She lifted his head onto her lap and bent over him, tears falling. "Come back to me, Ian, please. Get out of that world! It's not real. This is real---I'm real!"
His lashes kept moving but his body remained still.
Macleod squatted behind Tabby. "Can ye release him from the spell, Tabitha?"
"I'll try." Tabby chanted softly. "Cloak of control, rip asunder. A different reality, cease! Cloak of control, tear apart. Ian Maclean, return to reality."
Sam pressed her cheek to his, wishing he'd wake up. "Come back now, Ian. Can you hear me? Come back!"
His lashes fluttered, but more slowly. Then his lids slowly lifted. He looked up at her. His gaze was unfocused and glazed with pain.
"Ian?" Her heart broke.
The light there changed. Their eyes met and held. "Ye still have my back?" He almost sounded incredulous.
Sam inhaled and she hugged him, hard. "Always means always, Maclean."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IAN SAT UP SLOWLY. "He's here."
As Sam instinctively looked toward the doorway, the room darkened. A chill settled over them. The pressure in the atmosphere intensified, as if a cyclone were about to touch down.
As she stared at the doorway, the wood door and moldings changed, becoming the barred steel door of a cell. The upholstered walls became concrete. There were no windows. The room was so dark, it was difficult to see.
Ian breathed hard. "He's using the power."
Sam took his hand as they got up warily. "Are you still with me?"
"If yer asking if I'm a frightened boy, no. But we're in a cell."
"Yeah, I see it, too. Tabby?" Sam turned. She reached in front of her where a love seat should have been, but felt nothing but air. The virtual reality felt real.
But Nick had said a powerful mind might be able to thwart it.
Her sister murmured, "Cloak of control, rip asunder. A different reality, cease. Cloak of control, tear apart. Return us all to reality!"
Macleod strode to the steel door, his face hard and set. Amazingly, the furniture that should have been in his path simply wasn't there. As he reached for the steel door, the handsome teakwood doors suddenly, magically, reappeared. Sam breathed in relief as the room returned to normalcy.
And Kristin LaFarge was facing her sister, smiling murderously at her.
It was the witch who'd hunted her sister across time. It was the same bitch who'd used her powerful black magic to turn Sam's own knife on her, almost causing her to kill herself.
But LaFarge had died in battle with Tabby at An Tùir-Tara in 1550. That meant that Kristin was hunting her sister...
Ian seized her, preventing her from going forward. "She's not real."
"Do we really know that?" Nick had been uncertain as to what could actually happen in a virtual world. If someone died, what state would that person be in when the control was lifted? Sam did not want to find out.
Tabby backed up warily as Macleod rushed Kristin, his short sword raised, his expression vicious. He meant to destroy her. Behind him, another woman formed, sultry and dark, in long red robes, her face a mask of malicious fury. It was Criosaidh---the witch Tabby had warred with for centuries, but who had also died that day at An Tùir-Tara.
"Guy!" Tabby screamed in warning.
He turned, raising his hand, as Criosaidh set a fire blazing between them. It started racing toward Macleod like a laser missile.
"Cloak of control, rip asunder. A different reality, cease! Cloak of control, tear apart. Return us to reality." Tabby chanted desperately.
Sam seized Kristin to prevent her from assaulting Macleod from behind. As she grasped her, the witch grinned at her and vanished. Macleod remained braced for the onslaught from Criosaidh, but it never came---she vanished, as well. The fire vanished. And the room returned to normalcy.
Sam blinked. The salon's bronze silk draperies shifted. Morning sunlight filtered through the windows, revealing Ian's beautiful furniture and artwork, the moss green walls, the expensive Oriental rugs.
But the pressure weighing down on them was worse than ever. She looked at Ian. She had a feeling of imminent doom. This was it, she thought, the last and final encounter.
Ian met her gaze and nodded at her, starting for the door. Sam followed, relieved to see that he did not look afraid. The victim was gone, and she was fiercely pleased.
But if Moray would not show himself, they'd have to find him.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," she said softly.
"He'll come," Ian said as quietly, but flatly. "He's biding his time."
Sam thought he was right. As they stepped into the hallway, she started in surprise, for Aidan and Brie were rushing toward them. Aidan reached out and clasped Ian's shoulder. "Are ye hurt?" he demanded.
Ian did not pull back. "No."
Aidan's gaze was searching. He dropped his hand. "I heard ye callin' fer me, like ye did when ye were a boy."
Ian stared at his father. "An' this time ye came."
"Of course I came."
Ian breathed hard. A brief moment passed. "Moray is here."
Aidan glanced at Brie. "It's me he's after, no one else. I'm sending ye home. All the women should go."
Sam choked. "Are you kidding?"
"I'm not leaving you, Aidan," Brie said softly, her face stubbornly set.
And his laughter echoed around them. "A family reunion, at last..."
They all turned to face Rupert Hemmer, who was grinning at them in delight. Black power cloaked him, as if he stood in a huge, dangerous cloud. "I have waited twenty-five years for this day." He looked at Aidan. "And I will use Ian to get what I want."
Aidan began to shake with rage. "We ken ye want my pain."
"Lots and lots of it...unless you surrender to me...to Satan."
"If I have a choice to make, I choose pain," Aidan snarled.
Brie gripped his arm. Sam was amazed that she only saw Moray, even though the being standing before them was Hemmer. But what shook her to the core was the absolute hatred coming from Moray's soul.
Moray's smile turned ugly and mean. "Did you really think you and your paltry woman could vanquish me, the great Moray? Did you think I'd simply disappear? I have waited all these years, waited and watched, knowing that one day, I would find my way back to you...son." He turned to Ian. "You truly know what I am capable of. Will you let your father choose pain?"
Ian's chest heaved. He was pale, his face set, but his eyes blazed. As if silently communicating, Ian and Aidan both roared and struck. So much white power filled the room, it was as if lightning had struck. But Moray simply vanished and their power ricocheted around the hall, cracking its walls, shattering glass.
"Coward!" Ian snarled.
Tabby sat down abruptly and started murmuring softly to herself.
Aidan was staring intensely at Ian, who slowly turned to look at him. "I'll never let him hurt ye again," Aidan said. "I swear before the gods, Ian."
Ian hesitated. His gaze flickered. "I know." He glanced at Sam, who was startled. "Sam, let's go."
She stepped forward. "He's still here. How do you want to lure him out?"
"We'll stay together," Aidan said firmly. "And we'll wait until he shows himself again."
"Tabitha," Macleod said, his tone oddly reassuring. "Do ye have the right spell?"
Tabby looked at her husband. "I think so." Then her gaze met Sam's.
What if I can't do this? Tabby communicated silently. What if I'm wrong?
You can do this, Sam returned as silently.
Macleod was clearly listening, because he put his arm protectively around her. "The spell will work. Make certain to block his power to leap."
She nodded. "I already have."
But the words weren't even out of her mouth when the hallway darkened, becoming frigidly cold. Suddenly Sam faced another steel door set in a concrete wall, and everyone was gone except for Ian. She took his hand. He held it, hard, and there was sudden perspiration on his palm.
"It's not real," he said tersely.
No, it wasn't, but it sure as hell felt real. Sam touched the cold steel of the door. "He's isolated us."
"Don't open it!" Ian cried in alarm.
Sam withdrew her hand, as if burned. "You know where we are?" Now, she saw that there were identical doors lining each side of the hall.
"We're in a maze," he said roughly. "And evil is behind every single door."
Sam stepped away from the door. She should have bumped into Ian, but to her shock, she didn't. She turned. He was gone---she was alone!
She reminded herself that this was a virtual reality. But Moray had separated them from the others, and now, he'd separated her from Ian. She looked down the hall. It seemed endless. "Ian?"
She strained to hear.
Where are ye?
"I'm in the maze."
Dinna open the door!
"Open the door," Moray murmured.
She whirled. He stood behind her, grinning. "Where's Ian, you bastard? What have you done with him?"
"He's playing a game," he murmured. He reached out and slid a manicured nail down her cheek. She jerked away. "We want you, Sam. In more ways than one."
"I'll bet you do."
"We always get what we want."
"Not always---not this time."
"Do you know how much power we now have? No one can defeat us. No one ever has. But you know that, don't you? There are hundreds of pages written about the great Moray in your files at HCU."
"Yeah, you're almost famous," Sam said. "Whoops, I meant infamous." How could she go up against him alone? She had to get out of this reality! She thought about the salon with its lavish furnishings, imagined everyone standing there, trying to figure out their next move. She strained for that reality.
For one moment, the hall shifted and she thought she glimpsed everyone but Ian, standing before that console table and Art Deco mirror.
His next words brought her back. "You really should open the door, Sam. It's the only way out of this world."
She needed help. Tabby, damn it, what happened to your spell?
But she couldn't even sense her sister, much less hear her.
Now, she heard soft sounds, coming from the door closest to her. Sam tensed.
"No one is going to help you." Moray reached out and slid his finger over her shoulder. "Only you can help yourself. Open the door."
She met his gaze. It was a mistake. His powers of persuasion were extraordinary.
Now she could identify the sounds coming from the room behind the door. A woman was gasping in pleasure.
"Open the door, Sam. You won't be sorry. You'll be very pleased."
She didn't want to open the door but she couldn't help herself, because suddenly she had to know what was on the other side. She turned and pulled the heavy door open.
A couple was on the floor. Sam saw the man's extraordinary beauty and knew he was a demon. She was witnessing a pleasure crime. Her instinct was to stop it, to save the Innocent. But she saw the woman's champagne-colored hair and she froze in disbelief. For an instant, she was paralyzed.
The demon vanished. Her mother sat up. "Sam?"
Sam backed into the wall. "Mom?"
Laura got up. "It's me, Sam. You saved me!"
Sam choked. She hadn't saved her mother that day and she knew it wasn't real, but she blinked, because they were on the suburban street in upstate New York where she'd grown up. It was a fall day, just like that day. Red and gold leaves were everywhere.
The white clapboard house where she'd grown up was behind Laura. Tabby's blue bicycle was in the driveway, its kickstand down. Sam's bike was red and it lay on its side where she'd dropped it.
Just like that day...
"Sam," Laura cried, rushing to her. She pulled her into her arms, trembling.
And her mother was warm and alive, her chest rising and falling against Sam's, her cheek soft, silken. She smelled like citrus and flowers, the Halston fragrance she always wore. Had she time-traveled? Was this real?
Sam realized she was crying. She loved her mother impossibly; she always had. Now, she realized she missed her in a bone-deep way.
What if she'd interrupted the pleasure crime sooner, preventing Mom's murder?
Laura released her. "Thank the gods you came along when you did," she whispered, tears in her own blue eyes.
Alarm began. Her mother had become transparent. "Mom! Don't go!" Sam cried. But she knew Laura was about to vanish forever, because this wasn't real. This wasn't happening.
Her mother disappeared.
Sam couldn't understand where all of her grief was coming from. She held her face in her hands, really close to weeping.
"Satan can give her back to you, Sam."
Moray's soft voice vibrated within her. Sam forced herself to straighten. She wiped her eyes, and turned warily.
"I can give you whatever you want," he said. "I can return your mother to you."
"Oh, so now you can turn back the clock?" She scoffed. But she was becoming angry. This was as dirty as the game could get.
"I can't turn back the clock. No one, not even one of your gods, can." Moray smiled. "But you know that when Fate goes awry, it can be corrected."
Sam went still. He'd just mentioned one of the most fundamental tenets of the Book of Roses. Had Laura's death been a mistake? Could it be undone?
"I can undo it," he said, and his eyes glowed strangely. It was as if he could see everything, and into forever.
The odd fire in his eyes went though her, the way his words were going through her, as if there were no physical boundaries between them. Sam couldn't think straight. What if Laura hadn't been fated to die?
"I need you, Sam. I want you. I want you so much that I can let Ian go, if returning your mother isn't enough for you." His smile had changed now, too. "I've watched you for a long time, since you were a small child. If I can't turn Aidan, I will take you instead."
And for the first time in her life, she knew real fear. "Who are you?"
Satan.
Sam backed into a wall.
"I have a thousand faces. Come to me, Sam, give me your soul, and I will give you all that you wish."
Sam stared and Moray stared back. Her mind was heavy; it was so hard to think. She could not make a bargain with the devil! But what if her mother could be brought back from the dead and Ian could be freed from a life of torment?
Sam?
It was as if Ian's voice had cut through the fog, lifting it. She blinked, saw Moray, and behind him, a giant dark shadow receding. "Ian!"
He was trying to find her. And as she spoke, she knew she'd never do the unthinkable. She was a Rose.
Moray leaned close. "You will pay if you don't accept our offer."
"I am getting out of here," she snarled.
"No, you're not," he said. And he lifted his hand.
The black power went through her like a butcher knife. Sam looked down, expecting to find herself cleaved in two. There was blood everywhere.
And as Moray walked away, it took her one second to realize that she was bleeding out.
SAM WAS IN THE MAZE.
Ian realized he was in a small cell, and he ran to the door, but it was bolted from the outside. She could not be in that maze by herself!
And he was afraid---but not for himself.
It no longer mattered if this was a virtual reality or not. Because she was with Moray.
He closed his eyes and began to pray, meaning his every word. If the gods intervened now, if they kept her safe, he'd give up his entire life. He'd do whatever they asked. If they wanted him to go back to his time, he would. If they wanted him to be a Master, like his father, he would. He'd give his millions to charity, live like a pauper. He'd even die, if they preferred his death.
But as he begged, bargained and prayed, he heard absolutely nothing from the other side. The steel door was cold beneath his cheek and he finally opened his eyes. They hadn't heard him during all the years he'd been a captive, and he was pretty sure they hadn't heard him now. But he was strangely calm.
He was going to find Sam.
Surprised, Ian stepped into the hallway, but not of the maze. Instead, shocked, he found himself in the entry hall of the house in Brooklyn where he'd spent most of six decades as a prisoner. Instantly his gut curdled.
Ian?
He started. Sam was trying to find him. Sam, where are you?
But there was no answer. And then the monk stepped out of the small parlor, smiling benignly at him. He stepped back, wanting to run away.
"How was school, Ian?"
He reminded himself that the monk was dead and that this was not real. He remained acutely aware of who he was and what he had to do now---but that little boy was fighting to come to life, too. "Ye don't exist," he returned as evenly as possible.
"Of course I exist. I take care of you. Do you have homework?" the monk asked softly, his eyes gleaming.
And Ian knew what he wanted. He turned to face the stairs, his instinct to flee up them, the little boy emerging.
"You can't run. There's nowhere to hide," his grandfather said.
Surprise stopped him in his tracks. The hatred and need for revenge rose up. The little boy vanished. Ian turned to face Moray, who laughed at him. "Where is she?"
Ian? Help me!
He heard Sam so clearly, it was as if she were in the other room. "Where is she, you evil bastard?" he shouted.
"Find her if you can." And Moray vanished, as did the quaint foyer of the townhome. He stood in the concrete hallway again. Breathing hard, he looked down the endless hall at the dozens of identical doors. Was she in one of those rooms?
Striding forward, sweating, Ian opened the first door. He was shocked. The nine-year-old boy was inside, with his grandfather, and it was a memory he preferred to forget.
He slammed the door closed and leaned against the wall, trembling. He did not want those memories now! And the hatred was so vast it shredded any lingering fear. Moray knew his shame. Moray wanted to throw it in his face. But Sam was in one of the rooms, possibly being tortured.
He began a room-by-room search, ignoring each memory as it came, ignoring the pain, the fear and the shame. Five doors later, he paused, out of breath and almost mindless now. There were too many doors. He'd never find her this way. Too late, he realized that in this game, as always, he wasn't meant to succeed. This game was meant to torture him. This game was meant to defeat him and bring him to his knees.
"What have ye done to her? I will kill ye, ye sonuvabitch!" he shouted at the empty hallway.
Moray did not answer him.
He strained for her. Sam!
He heard her moan.
Fury rose up. There was distant laughter now.
Moray was playing with him again, as he'd done for sixty-six years.
Sam was in trouble. He felt it in his heart. He felt it in his soul. He didn't have time to play Moray's cat and mouse game. His mind sharpened and he struggled to find the reality that was his Loch Awe home. His father and Brie, Macleod and Tabby, were somewhere just beyond his grasp, his vision. He looked down the hall at all the doors, trying to see his salon, his entry hall. And he saw Sam.
She was lying on the floor in a back hallway, in a pool of her own blood.
It was visual telepathy.
He started to run down the hall. The walls shifted. He saw painted walls and masterpieces. Then they were concrete again, filled with steel doors. "Sam!"
The walls kept shifting. Ahead a pair of windows emerged, the sun shining through them, Loch Awe beyond.
Ian ran harder down the hall, past the steel doors, toward those two windows. He had to get back to the real world.
The floor tilted. Concrete became fine, hand-dyed wool.
He skidded on a plank wood floor, past his Portuguese library desk. A wall of books faced him. He spun around. He was in his library. He ran across the room, to the door.
Sam lay on the floor in the hall.
He knelt, horrified. She could not die.
She was limp and nearly lifeless in his arms.
It was impossible! Sam Rose was undefeatable. She was the most magnificent, most courageous woman he knew! "Ye can't die!"
He held her, his heart frantic. He could not live without her.
He loved this woman.
Booted steps sounded and he heard Tabby scream. Aidan knelt beside him. "Let me heal her."
Ian looked up at his father. "Save her. Please."
"He can't save her." Moray laughed at them.
As one, Ian and Aidan turned. Tabby sank down to her knees and started chanting. Macleod said softly, his expression ruthless, "Ye canna leap, deamhan."
Ian and Aidan slowly stood. Ian had never wanted to kill anyone more. "Save Sam," he told his father. "He's mine."
Moray's eyes widened.
"What's wrong, Father?" Aidan taunted. "Afraid?"
"My soul is immortal," Moray snarled, "as is my power!" Black power blazed.
Ian was already blasting him and Macleod and Aidan struck a scant instant later. Black and white power collided and screamed. Moray struck again, crouching now. The two great waves of power hit each other again. Moray's power blazed directly at Ian, past the clashing energies in the room.
As the black power blazed at him, Ian tensed for the blow. To his shock, it hit an invisible wall and ricocheted away. Tabby's protection spell. Power was striking power between the men, and Ian flung everything he had at Moray. And to his surprise, he saw the silver wave sizzling into his grandfather's chest.
Moray transformed into Hemmer once again. Ian straightened as Hemmer gasped, seizing himself and looking down at his bloody chest. Aidan and Macleod struck as one.
Hemmer looked up. His eyes remained Moray's---and they were filled with fury and hatred. "I am immortal," he rasped.
Ian struck again. Although Moray's eyes blazed red, Hemmer was eerily pale and slowly collapsing. He struck one more time. Suddenly brown eyes emerged in his face, filled with the shock of the dying before turning sightless. His body sparking red and black, Hemmer hit the floor.
Black power rushed out of him with a physical roar, swirling about the room.
Tabby was on her feet, holding something in her hands. "Eternal evil, come to me. Eternal evil, seek this peace. Eternal evil, find this place. Eternal evil, occupy this space."
Ian realized she was holding a small glass jar and lid. His eyes widened as the black power swarmed into the jar. Tabby snapped the lid on and screwed it tight, murmuring, "Evil contained in this one place, evil in chains, in this one place."
Clutching the jar, Tabby turned in alarm. "Sam?"
Then he realized Aidan was tending Sam. He turned and dropped to his knees.
Absolute horror began. "No!"
"She's gone," Aidan gasped, meeting his gaze starkly.
It was impossible. Ian pulled her into his arms in shock and disbelief. Aidan clasped his shoulder. Enraged, he flung him off. "She's not dead!"
Suddenly so much light was pouring into the library, brilliant and unnatural, that he glanced up. In the shining light he saw shapes and forms, human in outline, but he knew they were the immortals. He couldn't breathe. The old gods filled the room, clad in robes and long gowns, both men and women. One god, taller than the others, approached.
Ian was furious---he hated them all! They'd taken Sam from him and forsaken him to evil! But as the great god approached, he was bathed in his magnificence and splendor. The fury and hatred vanished. He could make out the god's features now and he somehow knew they were related. Then he turned, because the god's light was bathing Sam. As he looked down, her eyelashes fluttered.
"She's alive," he breathed. Nothing had ever meant more to him.
But Aidan was already healing her. Ian thought he heard a man say, "'Tis her time to live, not die."
He glanced back at the god, who hovered over Sam now, a paternal smile on his face. Their eyes met. His mouth never moved, but Ian heard him as clear as day.
We never meant to hurt you, Ian. And we did not forsake you...
The god started to fade before his very eyes, as did the brilliant light in the room. "Wait!" Ian cried.
'Tis your turn now.
But the light had returned to normal and the apparitions were gone. Ian knelt beside Sam. It was his turn now. And he didn't need the god to say more. He knew what he meant. It was his turn to live.
His heart swelled. It was unfamiliar, a mingling of anticipation, excitement. Suddenly the past felt distant---where it belonged.
Sam opened her eyes. He looked at her and his heart began a new, different beat. She said, "Moray?"
He slowly smiled. "He's gone...I think."
Her gaze was serious and searching. She touched his face. "I heard you," she said.
IAN CROSSED HIS BEDROOM, clad only in jeans, having just come out of a shower. He froze. His father stood on the bedroom's threshold.
There was so much he had to say and he didn't know if he could do it.
"We're about to leave," Aidan said. "May I come in?"
Ian tensed, nodding. "Ye saved Sam. I owe ye now."
"Ye owe me nothing," Aidan said, pausing by a handsome carved bureau.
Ian didn't know what to say. His father had come forward to rescue him and now he knew that Aidan would have rescued him if he'd realized he was alive, all those years ago. And suddenly he had a flashback.
The little boy ran shouting with delight across the great room. The wolfhound pup ran with him, barking in excitement. His father had returned from battle, victorious! And Aidan entered with his men, his plaid wet, his boots muddy. He ignored the maids who waited to take the brat and give him wine. "Come here, my boy!" he cried, smiling. And Ian barreled into him, only to be swung high in his arms, laughing. And he was so happy...
Tears formed in his eyes as he stared at his father. "Ye truly believed I was dead. I know that now."
"I saw him kill ye," Aidan said harshly. "I leapt time over an' over, trying to prevent yer murder. I spent sixty-six years hunting Moray, years I could have spent looking fer ye. I will die with my regrets."
"No," Ian choked. "No one should live with guilt and regret."
"No one should live with pain," Aidan said softly.
Ian shrugged. "It's not as bad now. Fer a long time, the past felt present, but not anymore."
Aidan nodded. "I am glad." He hesitated. "I should go."
"Wait!" Ian said sharply.
And Ian stood there, suddenly wanting to tell his father that he was sorry and that he understood. The day had come where the pain had to end for them both. "I am sorry," he heard himself say. "I am so sorry to have blamed you for what wasn't yer fault."
"Ye really forgive me?" Aidan's eyes were wide, incredulous. "I'd do anything fer ye. Yer my firstborn, Ian. I love ye as only a father can love a son."
Ian nodded and his heart erupted in emotion. He loved this man, too. He always had. He'd never stopped. The anger had made it impossible to feel.
Aidan's face softened. Too late, Ian realized his father was adept at telepathy, which was as natural to him as breathing. Aidan had read his mind.
And he was glad.
The room suddenly tilted oddly. As gold dust filled the space between them, Aidan smiled. Ian became aware of the power he'd felt earlier---majestic, holy. For one moment, he thought that one of the gods had come back to earth.
But a tall, golden Highlander emerged from the mist, smiling paternally at him. "Hallo, a Ihain."
Ian tensed. He'd met MacNeil several times, when he'd first been released from captivity, in the months he'd been changing so rapidly from boy to man---before he'd forsaken medieval times for the future. The Abbot of Iona managed the Brotherhood, and some said, had as much wisdom and power as the gods.
"What, no warm welcome?" MacNeil clasped his shoulder. "Ye seem wary, lad." He faced Aidan. "Hallo."
Aidan nodded. "Neil."
His holy power seemed to flow from his hand into Ian's shoulder and it felt right. "Ye've never paid me a visit here, not in twenty-five years."
"'Twasna time, lad. But 'tis yer time now." His green eyes twinkled.
He was paraphrasing the god, Ian realized.
"Ye met yer worst enemies, one by one. Ye faced yer worst fears an' conquered every one. I'm proud of ye, Ian. All the gods are."
He was shocked. "No one is proud of me," he said slowly. But his heart thundered. There was hope.
"I'm proud of ye. The Ancients are proud. Yer father, standin' there before ye, is proud."
Ian felt tears rise. He turned away so neither man would see. It felt impossible, like a miracle. "Ye mean it."
"Aye, I do. 'Tis no miracle, either, lad. Ye've earned our respect."
He nodded, incapable of speech.
"Dinna ye wish to ken the cause of my sudden visit?"
He met MacNeil's amused yet satisfied gaze and his mind raced. "I think I know. Ye mean to lecture me on my having lived out of my time." Dismay began. He'd made a deal. If the gods wanted him back in 1527, he'd have to go. And he knew Sam wasn't going to move back in time for him.
His gut clenched. Now was not the time to think of her or the feelings he'd admitted to having that day. But they remained, deep and eternal, a part of him now.
"Ye've been granted a dispensation." MacNeil grinned. "Ye can stay in the future with yer lass."
Ian was amazed.
"But there's one condition, of course," MacNeil said seriously. "I've decided it myself."
Ian couldn't imagine what strings were attached.
"Ye must take the vows yer father has taken. 'Tis time."
Ian was certain he'd misheard. He glanced at his father, whose eyes shimmered oddly. "Ye want me...me...to join the Masters?"
"Of course we do," MacNeil said. "Dinna we protect ye during the time of yer captivity? Any other man, even a near-immortal, would have died. It was written that ye'd live to see this day---and many others."
Ian was stunned. The gods wanted him after all. An image flashed, of living in New York City, his duty now to the Innocent. And Sam Rose was at his side...
He was so overcome, he could not speak.
HALF-DRESSED, Sam looked at the peanut butter jar her sister was holding. "Are you kidding me?"
"Pretty clichéd, huh?" Tabby grinned.
"That's where you stashed Moray's evil?" Sam started to laugh. It seemed funny now.
"It was the only jar I could find on short notice. And besides, this spell was the previous one in reverse, if you remember."
Sam shook her head. "I do remember, you told me about it---last time you sent him up into the universe. I don't think a peanut butter jar is going to hold Moray's power for very long."
Tabby was smug. "It's going in a vault at my local Bank of America."
Sam smiled. "How about we hand that over to CDA? They have secret vaults downstairs that we're not supposed to know about. I always wondered what was in them. Hey, maybe a hundred peanut butter jars are in there, all filled with the evil left by dead demons."
Tabby wrinkled her nose. "That's a disgusting thought."
It was. Sam sobered. "What's next, sis?"
Tabby put the jar down on a bureau. "We have to go back. But I have some good news. Macleod read Hemmer's mind. The page is in a vault at the Bank of New York."
"That will make Nick really happy." Sam thought about the pages from the Duisean that Moray once had and that the monk of Carlisle had undoubtedly come to possess. "Did he happen to read Carlisle's mind?"
"The Brethren are searching Carlisle Cathedral as we speak, Sam, for any parts of the Duisean. But it's a long shot. The monk could have hidden them anywhere."
"You'll let me know if you find something, right?" Sam said, already missing her sister. But it wasn't like before. It was a soft pang and it didn't hurt. Tabby was fine. Macleod was actually a great guy. And she had Brie, back there in the Middle Ages. Brie was doing just great, too. She had Aidan.
"I will let you know. This time, we are staying in touch."
Sam looked at her closely. "I saw Mom."
Tabby started.
"It wasn't real, but it was great."
Tabby touched her. "Rose women don't die. They go to another place."
"That's a myth."
"Is it?" Tabby smiled at her, as if she knew something Sam did not.
"How are we going to stay in touch?" Sam asked.
"I don't think it's going to be a problem, Sam."
What did that mean? "I am not moving to the Middle Ages!"
"I never said you were. But while some of us are meant to stay in one time, for the most part, others, not so much."
Sam stared. "And I'm one of the others."
"Yes, dear, you are." Tabby suddenly hugged her. "And you have Ian now."
Sam took a breath. "Tabby, I do love him. But he's got a ton of scars. Everything that's happened doesn't mean we're going to live happily ever after fighting the war on evil together, like you and Guy, or Brie and Aidan."
"Of course it does!" Tabby cried happily. "He's your other half. I'm not going to say it will be easy, because he has a long road of healing ahead. But he has taken the first steps. And you have learned compassion. The two of you are meant to be each other's teachers. You are each other's soul mates."
Sam sat down on a gold brocade chair. "He left me."
"Really?" Tabby gave her a look. "Well, you're certainly a couple now if I ever saw one."
Before Sam could object, Brie came into the room. She rushed to Sam and hugged her. "You're still the strongest woman I've ever met. I'm so proud of you."
"Me?" Sam laughed, and she actually hugged her back. "Look at you! All grown up, so pretty---so centered! Where is my shy geek?"
Brie laughed. "She grew up, fast. Oh, Sam. We're all so lucky, aren't we?" Tears came to her eyes.
Sam thought about the three of them and Allie. She thought about Ian and Guy and Aidan. She thought about her mother. "Yeah, we're so lucky."
Brie gave her a motherly look. "And you are going back to work for Nick."
Sam bit her lip. "Well, if he grovels, I suppose I do need an income. And he is handing over Ian's file with no strings."
"See, he isn't that bad." Brie laughed, then sobered. "We have to go."
Sam tensed, looking at Tabby.
"It's not forever," her sister said. "And this is a good thing, because you need to start your life with Ian."
"Since when did you become so wise? But I guess a couple of centuries will do that to a Rose." Sam walked them both to the door. Okay, so it did hurt a little. "Do you really have to go right now?"
"Yes, we do," Tabby said. "Innocence is in need in 1527. And I miss home."
"Okay, my lady, but it's not goodbye. It's see you soon."
"In L.A.," Brie retorted. "You owe us dinner."
Sam laughed.
When Brie and Tabby were gone, Sam pulled on her jeans and tank top, oddly happy and excited. She already missed them, of course she did. But every Rose woman had a destiny, and hers was Ian Maclean.
She went still.
Her destiny was so much more than slaying. She felt it deep in her bones.
And he loved her, too. She'd heard him. When she was dying, she'd heard him thinking about how he couldn't live without her. It was mutual.
Sam felt his presence and power. She looked up. Ian stood in the doorway, clearly just having showered, his hair still damp. He was clad in jeans and a black polo and that Cartier watch, so sexy, so elegant, still somehow dangerous---the best sight she'd ever seen. But they were both entering territory they'd never dared enter before.
And his expression was so somber, so searching. What did that mean? "Hey."
"Hi." He came forward. "How do ye feel?"
"Better than ever," she said softly, aware that her heart was exulting. "Care to join me for a drink?"
"I want to talk first." He walked forward and pulled her into his arms.
Sam was surprised by the display of affection. But his hard body had an instant effect on her. "Hey. Are you okay?"
He was thoughtful. "Today, I faced my worst tormentors and recalled the worst moments of my past."
Sam went still. She searched his face. The terrible haunted look was gone from his eyes. "You look different," she said cautiously.
His smile came and went. "I feel different. My worst nightmare, until today, was facing Moray again."
She touched his cheek. "But you did it. He's gone."
He slowly shook his head. "It was my worst nightmare. But my worst nightmare is having ye die, Sam."
"I didn't die, Ian." She hesitated. Then she decided to just do it. "I heard you."
He flushed. "Did ye see the Ancients?"
So he'd avoid declaring his feelings. That was okay. She nodded. "Yeah, I did."
"MacNeil asked me to join the Masters. I agreed. I'm to take my vows shortly."
Sam was thrilled and as he smiled, she realized how pleased he was, too. She grasped his arms, only to suddenly realize what that might mean. "You're leaving me," she said, alarmed.
He quickly shook his head. "No. I made that mistake once. I'll never make it again."
She gasped, stunned. "What did you just say?"
"I said I'm not leaving you." His gray eyes blazed. "I'm allowed to live out of my time---with ye---and that is what I will do."
She started to see the future---a future she'd never dreamed of. She and Ian in New York, best friends, partners, lovers and soul mates, fighting the war together.
"I'll always have yer back," he said roughly. "If ye let me."
She laid her head on his chest and felt his heart pounding there. "Good. That makes two of us."
He tilted up her face and their gazes met. "It won't be easy. I won't be easy."
"I love a challenge."
He smiled a little. "I didn't think I'd ever have this chance."
Sam smiled at him. Her heart thundered with joy. "You deserve more than a chance. You deserve happiness. You deserve a family. You deserve to be one of the Masters." She added, "You even deserve me."
"Do I?"
She rubbed her knuckles in the hollow of his chest. "Hey. That's my call, and I have no doubt---my answer is yes."
"But why?" His gaze was brilliant, searching. "Why me? Why?"
She didn't have to think about it. "Because you're the strongest, bravest man I've ever met. Because you're my other half."
"Ye know my secrets."
"Yes, I do." She stood on her toes to kiss him firmly. "And that's why I love you so damned much."
His gaze was moist. "I love ye," he said hoarsely. "I'd die fer ye, Sam."
"I know. But don't worry, no one's dying in the next few hundred years. Except for the bad guys, of course."
He pulled her closer. His body was damned interesting now. "Of course."
Sam tugged on his belt. She loved him so much and she had never wanted him more. "Hey. I have a great idea. Why don't we go upstairs and make good old Rupert his sex tape?"
Ian Maclean laughed.
And the sound was rich and deep, the sound of a man letting go of his past.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3752-4
DARK LOVER
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc.
Masters of Time® is a registered trademark of Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc. Used with permission.
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