by Gaelen Foley
Leaning on his soft leather saddlebags, Max turned around to put the map away, having already familiarized himself with the next day’s route.
So far, they had been making excellent time over the mostly flat ground, but that would change, given the extremely rugged terrain ahead.
From Calais, they had swept across the north of France, the Belgian-style windmills they passed reminding them that they were but a stone’s throw from the Flemish border—and the fields of Waterloo. Max remembered that grim triumph all too well, but he did not linger over the memory, focused on leading his team onward to catch up with Drake at the castle in the Alps.
Passing to the north of Reims, they kept to the countryside, since, after all, they were Englishmen. The war was over, but grudges lived on in pockets of both countries here and there. They could not afford delays in needless conflict with the locals.
Tomorrow they would gain the oft-disputed territory of Alsace-Lorraine. It would probably take another three days to reach the next major landmark on their journey: the city of Strasbourg on the eastern edge of France. From there, it was upward into the Alps, a hundred miles over the mighty mountains to Stuttgart, then a trek south, to Augsburg and, at last, to Munich.
Then they would find this Waldfort Castle.
What they might encounter when they got there was anybody’s guess. Studying his two teammates with a shrewd, assessing eye, Max mused that they’d have to be ready for anything. He had a feeling there was going to be one hell of a battle once they reached the German stronghold where the Prometheans had gathered.
Their barely mentioned grief over Virgil wasn’t helping. None of them quite knew what to do with themselves since they had found their beloved Highlander murdered by his own son. Every one of them felt guilty, but it was too late now. Max hated himself for the anger that he felt toward Virgil, but damn it, the old man should have known better than to trust that son of a bitch.
He let out a sigh, missing Daphne’s arms around him. She had a way about her that helped to calm him down.
All three men had sent their wives together to one of the Order’s secure estates, just in case Drake had started giving up their names. That seemed unlikely, for if he hadn’t done it so far, why would he start?
Still, none of them were willing to take any chances with the safety of the women who were everything to them. They hadn’t told the wives, either, how serious the danger was this time. They’d explain the situation later.
If there was a later, Max thought dryly. In truth, Virgil’s death made failure seem possible in a way that it never had before, for if the old Highlander, with all his decades of training and experience, could make a mistake that had cost him his life, it brought home the point that any of them could.
For that matter, Max couldn’t begin to think how he was supposed to pull the trigger on his boyhood friend. He would never forgive himself for letting Drake escape. But how he could have anticipated that Drake would grab that poor, sweet Emily girl and use her as a hostage?
Ah, it was a bad business.
Then, as much as he wanted to lose himself in private daydreams of his bride, another weary glance across the fire at his friends reminded him that they were in as bad shape as he was over Virgil’s death.
As team leader, it was up to him to boost morale.
The fire crackled, sending up a plume of sparks and a spiral of rising smoke. An owl hooted from somewhere in the surrounding black trees. Max sat up and casually rested his elbow across his bent left knee.
The fire’s glow sculpted his friends’ faces. He studied them, putting his own cares aside, and wondering what to say. Meanwhile, the orange flame of the bonfire in the midst of the three men reminded him of the color of Virgil’s moustache years ago when the Highlander had come to the Rotherstone estate in his role as Seeker, and had recruited Max for the Order when he was but a pup. That Scotsman had been more of a father to him than his own sire, the wretched drunkard. If not for Virgil, Max was sure his life would have served no purpose. He’d have simply followed in his dissipated father’s footsteps.
He glanced at Rohan, Virgil’s favorite. Rohan’s father, the previous Duke of Warrington, had once been the leader, or Link, of Virgil’s team when he, too, had been a field agent decades earlier.
The previous Duke of Warrington had fallen in his prime, but Virgil had always looked out for his comrade’s son, and Rohan, in turn, had adored the rugged Scot. In terms of character, they were cut from the same cloth.
All Max knew was that Warrington had barely spoken a word since they reached the Continent. The duke was dangerous under ordinary circumstances, but ever since Niall had murdered their handler right under their noses—in the heart of their very headquarters—lethal intent had burned in the warrior’s pale eyes.
As for Jordan, he shouldn’t even be here, Max thought. Falconridge was still recovering from wounds sustained in his vicious battle against the Promethean assassin, Dresden Bloodwell. Jordan had felled the bastard in the end, but not before Bloodwell had stabbed him in the side and slashed him right across the chest. He had nearly died.
That had been about a month ago. Though Jordan insisted he was fine, Max still thought he probably should have stayed at home. Of course, he wouldn’t hear of it. If they were going, so was he. Jordan might be more of a gentleman than Max and Warrington combined, but he wanted revenge on Virgil’s killer as badly as they did.
So far, Jordan’s healing wounds had not reopened, but their journey had not yet reached the far rougher ground ahead. The mountains might well prove too much for him.
In the meanwhile, he insisted that he wouldn’t slow them down, and he hadn’t. If it came to it, he could take lodgings along the way and wait for them to return.
Although Jordan was still recovering from physical wounds, Max was far more worried about Rohan.
Niall Banks had no idea of the fury coming after him. He was as good as dead already, he just didn’t know it yet.
Jordan took a swig of whiskey to soothe away the pain, then passed the bottle to Max, who accepted it gladly. Rohan was smoking a cheroot and poking the fire with a stick—rather vengefully—now and then.
Finally, Max let out a low laugh. “Do you remember the time we painted his horse blue?”
Rohan smiled wistfully. “For his birthday.”
“He was certainly surprised,” Jordan drawled. “How about the glue we put on that blasted pointer stick he always used in geography class?”
“Priceless. He picked it up and whacked the map to show us bloody Magellan’s route round the world, and then he couldn’t put it down.”
Max grinned at the memory and took another swig of whiskey before passing the bottle on to Rohan. “We used to torture him, poor devil. I don’t know why he put up with us.”
“Ah, he loved the sport of it as much as he bellowed about our bad behavior,” Rohan murmured with a brooding smile.
“We did give him lots of trouble, all of us, at one time or another.”
“I didn’t,” Jordan retorted.
“Oh, yes, you did. Two words. Mara Bryce.”
“Well,” he conceded with a shrug. “He used to torture us right back.”
“Run the fells for two hour at noontime in July,” Max reminded them.
“Climb up the side of a cliff in a thunderstorm. That was fun,” Jordan added.
“Right, then the chess games after he made us stay up for forty-eight hours at a time.”
“Well, he knew what he was doing.”
“Suppose so. We’re all still alive.”
“So help me . . .” Rohan uttered. He didn’t complete the thought aloud. He didn’t need to.
Jordan sent Max a keen glance. “Rather complicates matters, knowing it’s his son. Any part of you that thinks we ought to spare Niall out of respect for his bloodlines?”
“Hell, no! We’re more sons to him than Niall Banks will ever be,” Rohan murmured bitterly.
“You’ll get
your chance, man, just be patient,” Max assured him.
“It never should have happened.”
“You can’t undo it.” Max shook his head, concerned at his most aggressive friend’s bottled wrath. “Remember what he used to say? ‘Be glad when it’s darkest, because it only means you’re close.’ ”
“I guess we’re pretty damned close, then,” Rohan growled.
Jordan shook his head, his gaze downcast. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t stop feeling guilty. All the times I said I didn’t want to turn out like him. I should be proud to resemble him in any way,” he declared with a hint of anguish in his cultured voice.
“We know what you meant, Jord,” Max assured him. “You had the clearest view of how cut off he was from everyone. And you were right. He never really even got to live. All of us had to feel sorry for him from time to time. This war was everything to him.”
“We were everything to him,” Rohan countered. “We were the only ‘sons’ he had in his life. And we let him down. When he needed us, none of us were there.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Max ventured after a ponderous silence in the face of his rugged friend’s grief. “The old man let his guard down for one reason—because Niall was his son. This one’s not our fault.”
Rohan shrugged and took another drag of his cheroot with the air of a killer patiently biding his time, waiting for his chance. Which, of course, was exactly what he was.
Jordan sighed and lay back on the ground, vaguely touching his bandaged chest. He stared up at the endless distance of the stars. “What is it in man’s nature that makes some willing to go to any extremes to gain power over others? Enslave his fellows, even by deceit?”
“If you’re trying to understand the Prometheans, you’re wasting your time,” Max murmured wearily. “Evil doesn’t make any sense, that’s how it gets so far. It does precisely what a sane man would never do.”
“He’s right. You can’t reason with such people. You can only kill ’em.”
“And then what?” said Jordan. “More rise to take their places.”
“So you kill them, too. And you just keep on killin’ ’em till they stay down.”
“What if we fall first?”
“We’ll make more like us,” Rohan said. “And if they keep coming, then, by God, so will we.”
“I don’t want my son to have to do this,” Max remarked.
A dry, quiet laugh escaped Jordan. “Maybe you’ll have a daughter,” he said cynically.
“Son or daughter, maybe they’ll want to,” Rohan pointed out.
“Who would want to?” Jordan murmured wistfully.
“I did,” the duke replied without hesitation. “At least then your damned life matters. Otherwise, what? Balls at Almack’s, cards at White’s? Bloody meaningless.”
“You know, it doesn’t sound half-bad at the moment,” Max drawled, and the other two succumbed to quiet laughter.
“I guess not,” Rohan said with a snort.
“Get some sleep, lads,” their trusty team leader ordered. “We’ve got another long ride tomorrow.”
They grumbled at the reminder, but soon took his advice.
Max stayed up alone a little while longer, wondering who the Elders up in Scotland were ever going to find to fill the old man’s shoes. Someone was going to have to be appointed as the new chief of their London headquarters.
He lifted the bottle in another private toast to his dead mentor. The thing about Virgil was that even when his boys had trouble of any kind, he never gave up on them.
There’ll never be another like him.
Max glanced up to search the stars. Soon they’d be in Germany. At the moment, he couldn’t help wondering if Virgil would have really given up on Drake.
Chapter 12
Bavaria
A few days later, Drake stepped out of the cool gray shadow of the castle and paused in the afternoon sunshine, gazing at his one little ally in this fight. Emily was picking wildflowers in a sunny meadow just beyond the gardens. As always, she remained under the watchful eyes of her guards, but Drake ignored them, a tender pang taking hold of his heart.
God’s truth, ever since he had confided in her about the true nature of his self-appointed mission, he was no longer sure he was doing the right thing.
It had been easier not to question his plans when he had kept them bottled up inside himself alone. But sharing them with her had caused him to step back and check himself. Did his plan really make sense, or was he merely being driven by pain into some dark and twisted death wish?
He hadn’t cared about the answer before, but now it seemed to matter.
The other day, he had deliberately not told Emily his scheme concerning the flammable gas leak inside the Promethean temple. He knew she would too quickly grasp that his chances of surviving the fireball were very slim, indeed. He didn’t want her to worry.
But as much as he hated to question himself, he’d begun to wonder. Was his notion really for the best?
He did not doubt that it would work. He had only begun to wonder if he was thinking like a lunatic. Could it be that if everything he’d been through had him galloping headlong into self-destruction merely to escape facing up to it? Had he survived all that merely to throw his life away?
Maybe it didn’t have to be that way.
Maybe his dearest, sweetest, most trusted friend could somehow give him a reason to go on.
As he strode across the terrace and down through the gardens, eager to join her in the field, he could not take his eyes off her—the warm beauty drenched in sunshine with an armful of flowers, the ribbons on her playful straw hat billowing on the breeze.
One thing was certain. Any hope that he had left in life centered around her. Their difference in rank no longer mattered a whit, if it ever had. He had the sense his life depended on her though of course he would never admit to it. But privately, he had noticed the change within himself ever since he had taken her into his confidence.
Prior to their talk, he had been filled with nothing but darkness and hate, rage and bitterness eating him up from within; but ever since he had let her in, her gentle words of hope and promises of healing echoed in his soul.
He had found himself oddly distracted since then, repeating her words over and over in his mind, until the one small ray of light left in him began to gather strength. Maybe she was right.
Maybe he could be saved. Maybe, somehow, he could be whole again . . . but that was a question for another day. First they somehow had to survive this deadly Promethean chess game. And that was chiefly up to him.
He’d kill all of them to protect her. But he put violence out of his mind when he reached the garden gate, his spirits lifting as he went through it, closing it behind him.
He began walking toward her.
Though she was still essentially a prisoner, he was glad at least to see her out in the fresh air where she belonged. He had spoken to James after his talk with Emily the other day, as promised, telling the old man it was not in her nature to remain indoors around the clock, especially when the weather was so fine.
James had warily agreed that she could spend an hour or two outside each day, as long as she did not wander away from her guards. For reasons of his own, the old man had also given Drake permission to visit her every day if he wished, for up to half an hour.
Of course, he was not allowed to touch her in any improper fashion, and the two of them would have to be at least informally chaperoned by her guards. They wanted their virgin sacrifice intact for the night of the eclipse. Revolting. Still, it was better than nothing, and the truth of the matter was, they would never get their hands on her. Over my dead body.
Just then, Emily glanced over and saw him coming. She straightened up at once, her load of flowers in one arm; she sent him a cheerful wave with the other.
He couldn’t help but smile.
“Buon giorno, il mio amico!” she greeted him, much to the amusement of her current
guards on duty, a pair of swarthy Sicilians from the cardinal’s retinue.
“You’re learning Italian now?” he replied indulgently as he walked over to her through the tall, breezy grasses.
“Sì, non è cosi difficile,” she answered with a shrug.
He chuckled. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“No, if I really wanted to impress you, I’d demonstrate some of the curse words all my charming foreign bodyguards have been teaching me to help to pass the time.”
“They’re teaching you to curse?”
“Oh, yes. I now have at least two or three choice epithets in Italian, German, Spanish, French, and Russian.”
“Charming.”
“I know! Your mother would be so impressed.” She threw a daisy at him.
He caught it and just stood there smiling like an idiot. Then she pointed at him and uttered a word at his expense to the Italians, who burst out laughing.
“Sì, bella!”
Drake rested his hands on his waist, attempting to scowl, but in truth, not even close to being annoyed by her cheeky taunts. He was the one who had told her to charm her guards. It appeared she had already checked that item off her list of things to do.
Having favored the Italians with a sunny grin, she turned back to Drake. “So,” she said pertly. “There you are.”
“Here I am.” He pulled a petal off the daisy and threw it at her. “I thought I’d come and look in on you. I see you’re enjoying the sunshine.”
“Oh, yes, quite! Look at my bouquet!” With the guards so near, she was playing her role as the blithe girl, unaware of the danger, just as they had discussed.
But Drake saw the deeper shadows in the violet of her eyes and knew she was still afraid of what the future held.
“They’re going to look so pretty in my room,” she chattered on. “As I was just telling Giancarlo, I haven’t seen any red Alpine flowers out here at all. Yellow, pink, white, blue, even orange. Loads of purple. But no red. Isn’t that curious?”
“Hmm,” said Drake. “I suppose it is.”
The Italian shook his head, dismissing her girlish prattle with a knowing shrug and a worldly smile.