by Juliet Lyons
Twenty minutes later, I’m slamming out of the flat, Wentworth’s cat carrier under one arm and my bag on the other. The sky outside is still bright, shot with streaky wisps of pink clouds. At the end of the road, I flag down a taxi and fling open the back door, sliding Wentworth’s carrier inside.
“No pets in my cab,” the driver says, glaring at me over his shoulder.
I treat him to an angry flash of fangs. “Yes, pets in your cab.”
He gulps before saying in an altogether kinder tone, “Where to?”
“Clapham Junction and then the airport.”
“Which airport?”
Shit. I haven’t even stopped to think about that. Or the possibility that I might not get a flight.
“How long does it take to get to Scotland by train?”
He frowns. “Do I look like Google Maps?”
“No,” I say, jaw clenched. “Look, just drive to Clapham and then the nearest train station.”
He nods, accelerating away from the curb.
Traffic is bad because of an accident. Instead of the usual ten minutes it takes to get from my place to Sandy’s, it takes forty. Then there’s a further ten minutes dropping off the cat and refreshing her memory on his dietary requirements. The taxi driver, who lightens up considerably during the journey, tells me to head out from Clapham Junction station to Euston, where I can catch a train up North.
I am buzzing with adrenaline as I stand in front of the screens at Euston, scanning them for the service to Carlisle. It’s only when I sink into my train seat that anxiety kicks in. What if Ronin has gotten over me? Met some red-haired hottie and taken up Highland dancing? I dig my nails into the soft material of the seat. What if I’m too late?
I had no idea train journeys could be so long. By the time the train pulls into Carlisle, it’s almost seven in the evening and the sky is pitch-black, twinkling with stars. I board another train to Dumfries, where a guard tells me I’ll need to take a bus to Newton Stewart.
“How long will that take?” I ask.
“Two hours.”
My shoulders droop. This kind of thing usually only takes ten minutes in the movies. Now that it’s dark, I could run there, but I’d have absolutely no idea where I’m going. I could end up back in England. Muttering a thanks, I shuffle off to the bus shelter.
Two hours later, I’m wishing I’d taken my chances at the airport.
As I climb off at Newton Stewart, I ask the driver where I catch the bus to Glentrool.
The round-faced man grins, pointing to a stop on the opposite side of the road. “It’s there, lassie, but you’ll not be getting very far tonight. The last bus left hours ago.”
My jaw drops. “What about night buses?”
He cackles. “There aren’t any. Welcome to Scotland.”
“A taxi then?”
“Eddie Gordon finishes at eight. You’d have to call one in from Dumfries.”
“But I’ve just come from there,” I say, exasperated.
I stomp out onto the tarmac, cursing under my breath. “Trust Ronin fucking McDermott to pick the most out-of-reach place on the entire planet.”
The bus driver, who’s clearly taken pity on me after laughing so hard, climbs off the bus after me. “Why don’t you stay in town tonight? My cousin runs a wee inn. It’ll be cheap enough. Shall I give her a call?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
After phoning and confirming the room, we stroll along a street lined with quaint gray stone houses. At one end of the road, jutting into the skyline, is a whitewashed building with a clock tower, and beyond it, I make out a dark mass of mountains. The air is fresh and clean after London, a slight tang of dampness drifting in from a nearby river.
“What time do the buses or taxis start tomorrow?” I ask.
“Eddie starts at seven. If you want a taxi, I’ll call him.”
“Yes, I’ll leave at seven. Thanks.”
The inn turns out to be a pub, and the driver’s cousin—a thin, sharp-eyed woman—leads me up a narrow, carpeted staircase to a room overlooking the street.
“You can settle up in the morning,” she says. “Breakfast starts at eight.”
“Don’t worry. I’m leaving at seven with this Eddie Gordon person. I’ll pay now. Do you take MasterCard?”
The woman laughs in the same way the bus driver did when I mentioned the night buses. “Och, no, but there’s a cash machine in the bar.”
She closes the door and I sink onto the bed. Vampires rarely feel tired, but tonight I’m more drained than I’ve been in years.
Despite my exhaustion, I don’t sleep. I pace around the room, wondering if it’s not too late to wake the landlady and ask her for a map, find my own way to sodding Glentrool. My phone has no signal, so internet isn’t an option. If it worked, I’d be out there by now, trawling the hills with Google maps. I’m starting to think Esme was right when she said the village is godforsaken.
When the sun begins to push its way up behind the horizon, I shower in the tiny bathroom and change into skinny jeans and a sweater, reapplying my makeup in the cracked mirror above the sink. I wrap my long, navy wool coat around me, tying the belt and shaking out my hair.
I survey myself in the mirror. Despite the traveling, my eyes are bright. My stomach churns with excitement. It isn’t long now.
Although I had my reservations, the town is beautiful in daylight. The hills are bright green in the distance, and I hear rushing water somewhere close by. I begin to understand why Ronin wanted to come home.
“Ready?” Eddie the taxi driver asks me as I stand staring about me.
My gut twists and I shiver, though not from the chilly breeze. “As I’ll ever be.”
The taxi ride is thankfully a short one. Twenty minutes later, Eddie pulls up outside the address from the piece of paper Harper gave me. “Here we are, Halfway House B&B.”
“This is the village?” I ask, staring out the window. The place is even smaller than Newton Stewart—just a few small white houses surrounded by acres of forest.
“Aye. A bit of a change to London, eh?”
I nod, leaning forward to hand him the cash. “Sorry to have to ask you this, Eddie,” I say, “but does my makeup look all right?”
Eddie smiles as he takes the cash. “You look like a film star.”
I bat his shoulder with the back of my hand, blushing. “Stop.”
Taking a deep breath, I open the car door and clamber out onto the street. Life has taken me in some strange directions over the years—murder, prison, immortality—but rocking up in the middle of nowhere to declare my feelings to an ancient demon is without doubt the oddest of all.
Heart in mouth, I wave to Eddie before trailing up the path and pushing open the small, white door.
The tiny reception desk is at the opposite end of the narrow hallway. I approach it warily, tempted to open my senses to the place, find out if Ronin is here right now, but fear holds me back. I ring the brass bell instead.
A round woman with gray hair around her temples and a kindly smile appears through a door at the side.
“How can I help you?” she asks.
I gulp, my knees wobbling. “I’m here to see a guest of yours. Ronin McDermott?”
She arches a brow, running her eyes over me from head to foot.
“Is he around?” I ask when she doesn’t answer.
“He isn’t staying here anymore,” she says. “He’s living up in the mountains, renting out Sam O’Toole’s place.”
“The mountains,” I repeat.
Of course—he’ll have gone back to the place I saw in his life essence. The mountainside retreat he fled to when he began craving blood.
“I can ask my son, Rab, to drive you some of the way. He has a Jeep.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Thank you, but if you po
int me in the right direction I think I’ll be okay.”
The woman looks at me as if I’ve sprouted another head. “But it’s over an hour on foot, and besides, you’ll never find it. Not unless you’ve been there before.”
I remember the night I saw through his eyes in the life essence. “I’ll be fine.”
She emits a heavy sigh, lifting the partition of the front desk and motioning for me to follow her onto the street. Outside, she points up the tree-lined road. “Follow the signs to Loch Trool, and after crossing the bridge, take a right toward Bruce’s Stone. Just before you reach the turning for the stone, there’s a narrow track through the trees. It’s a mile on from that point.”
“Thank you.”
She thrusts her hands into the pockets of her apron. “I wouldn’t ordinarily let a young woman go off into the hills on her own, but…” She trails into silence.
“But what?”
Averting her gaze, she says, “I can tell you’re no ordinary woman. In the same way that your Mr. McDermott is no ordinary man.”
“Thank you for the directions,” I say, “and you’re right not to worry about me.”
Nodding, the woman turns back into the house. With a deep lungful of pure Scottish air, I step out onto the road.
At first, I’m so distracted by what I’ll say to Ronin that I don’t take much notice of the scenery. But slowly the surroundings overwhelm my senses—birds warbling, the gushing of nearby water, purple heather nestled among dazzling green-and-gold ferns. Why, in all my years on this planet, did I never attempt to leave the city?
I follow the woman’s directions to the letter, taking a right before the track twists toward Bruce’s Stone and entering a dense patch of woodland. A short way along the path, I hear a soft thwacking sound. I listen carefully, noting the hiss of an ax followed by a splintering of wood. I speed up, tracking the noise through the dense trees. Eventually, I glimpse a flash of white through the branches and smell the unmistakable whiff of burning wood.
I suddenly feel light-headed, my tummy fluttering. The chopping noise stops; even the birds seem to fall silent. I burst into a clearing. The flash of white turns out to be a small, square dwelling, a trail of smoke chugging from the chimney on the roof.
Sensing I’m being watched, I spin around. There, holding an ax and standing beside a pile of neatly stacked wood, his hair lit russet by the golden sunlight, is Ronin McDermott.
Neither of us moves, though my legs are jelly, my palms slick with moisture. Without the suit and the backdrop of London, he could almost be a different man. I allow my gaze to drift over his body—the tight gray T-shirt straining over bulging arms, jeans that hug lean, muscled legs, heavy boots. He isn’t just rocking the lumberjack look—he’s totally killing it.
His blue eyes latch onto mine. The ax he’s holding slips through his fingers to the ground. I open and close my mouth a few times without speaking.
“I hope they gave you permission to chop those trees down,” I say finally, motioning to the pile of logs behind him. “It would be just like you to ignore a preservation order.”
He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the edges, making my insides melt. “Catherine.”
I lift my chin, the words I wanted to say to him stuck in my throat. “Ronin.”
“You’re still a vampire.”
I nod slowly. “I’m staying that way. But, you know, thanks for the offer. That’s all I came for, really. I mean, it’s not like I could email when there isn’t even an internet sig—”
Before I can finish the sentence, he’s cutting the distance between us and lifting me into his arms. He fastens his lips to mine and I wrap myself around him, threading my fingers into his thick, copper hair and returning his urgent kisses. My tongue slides over his, my body coming back to life beneath his touch.
Eventually, we break apart, but our bodies stay molded together. I trace his jawline with my fingertips, returning his intense stare.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he murmurs.
A lump rises in my throat. “Ronin, you were right about me hanging on to the past.”
He shakes his head. “No, I should never have said those things. I was insensitive—pigheaded. I wanted you so badly I couldn’t think straight.”
I smile. “I wanted you badly too. I always have.”
“Why don’t we start over?” he says, blue eyes twinkling. He lets me slip through his arms to the ground and steps backward, holding out his hand. “I’m Ronin McDermott and I live on a hill.”
I laugh, grasping his warm, calloused fingers in mine. “I’m Catherine Adair, and I do believe I’m wearing the wrong shoes.”
Chuckling, we glance at my trendy suede ankle boots, now streaked with mud.
He cocks a brow. “Why don’t you come inside and take them off, Miss Catherine?”
I smile. “I might just do that.”
He draws me to him again, circling his arms around my waist and leaning his forehead against mine. “If we do this,” he says, his voice low, “you’re going to have to trust me. Trust that I love you and want to make you happy more than anything else.”
A breath catches in my throat, my heart feeling as if it might burst with joy. It’s as if I’m that girl again, the one capable of loving with all her heart—the girl I buried beneath pain and anger all those years ago.
“I know, and I’m ready to be happy. I’m ready to trust you.” I take a deep breath. “I’m in love with you, Ronin,” I whisper, meaning each and every word.
Smiling, he presses his lips to mine, sealing the deal with a tender kiss.
I pull away a fraction. “But what if after all this, we discover we really don’t get on?”
His blue eyes are warm as he takes my hand in his. “That, Catherine Adair, is not possible.”
I let him lead me toward the tiny cottage, and for the first time ever where this man is concerned, I completely and utterly agree.
Read on for a sneak peek at book 1 in
Ashlyn Chase’s new PHOENIX BROTHERS series
Coming soon from Sourcebooks Casablanca
“Do you want everyone to hear us? Keep your voice down,” Gabe whispered to Parker Carlisle, his best friend since childhood. He scanned the celebrants at his brother Jayce’s Christmas Eve wedding reception. No one was paying any attention to them—until his mother looked up. She didn’t have paranormal hearing like her sons and husband, but that never stopped her from knowing exactly what was going on. Her smile faded as she took in Gabe’s serious expression.
Gabriella Fierro wandered over to the son named in her honor.
Gabe muttered, “Oh, shit. My mother is coming over. Look at the cake or something. Act like nothing is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong, except you’re being an idiot.” Parker was wearing his dress uniform, probably for the first time. The guy was fresh out of basic training but looked like a national hero standing there beside the dance floor.
“We’ll talk later…”
Mrs. Fierro looked radiant in her teal-blue mother-of-the-groom evening gown. Her short, freshly colored auburn hair made her appear years younger than fifty-five. “Is everything all right over here?”
“Hi, Mom. We’re fine.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Parker. Don’t you look handsome and grown-up in your uniform. It’s been, what, five or six years since you moved from the neighborhood?”
“Ten, but who’s counting?” Parker smiled.
“Really? Ten years since your parents… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring up such a sad event at a happy occasion like this.” She touched his arm gently.
“Don’t worry. It’s been a long time, and Misty and I have adjusted.”
Gabe snorted. He wants me to spy on his sister while he’s gone. He calls that adjusting?
Mrs. Fierro frowned at her
son. “Gabriel?”
Damn. His mother never had to say more than her children’s names, and they’d fess up to anything. She just kept her gaze on him and waited. It never failed. But this time, he wouldn’t give up any information. No. Matter. What.
She glanced back and forth between her son and his best friend. “What’s going on here?”
After another uncomfortable moment of silence, Parker caved. “It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Fierro. I just asked Gabe to keep an eye on my little sister while I’m overseas.”
Gabe clenched his jaw. That was enough to get his mother involved.
“Overseas? You’re being deployed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not yet, though. I have to go through some specialty training before going to Afghanistan.”
“Oh my goodness! Gabe, did you know about this?”
He sighed. “Yes, Mom. I did. I just don’t want to be responsible, you know, all the time.” I also don’t like the idea of spying.
Gabriella jammed her hands on her hips. “Gabriel Peter Fierro. How dare you? You’re a firefighter. You’re responsible for people every single day. Are you telling me you can’t be there for Misty? She’s practically one of the family.”
Gabe looked away.
When he didn’t answer, his mother bristled. “Don’t think you can pull that strong silent type thing with me. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” She turned to Parker and took his hands in hers. “Of course he’ll keep an eye on Misty. We’ll all be there for her, if she needs anything. Anything at all.”
Parker let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Fierro. I’ll rest easier knowing she has someone here in the city who cares about her—and your whole family to turn to.” He glanced at Gabe. “She shouldn’t need anything, anyway. She wants to be independent. She’s not here tonight because she’s volunteering at a homeless shelter. She insists she’s old enough to take care of herself, but she’s only twenty-two. I know she’s technically an adult, but…”
Mrs. Fierro smiled. “I understand. We were all twenty-two once. At that age, kids think and act like they’re immortal. But as firefighters know, that’s not the case.” She gave Gabe a stern look. As if reminding him that he and his brothers were nearly immortal but their friends were not.