Bound by Darkness

by Annette McCleave

  “This house is beautiful,” she said.

  “I think so, too. Brian hired a wonderful designer from San Diego,” responded Rachel. “Lachlan, Emily, and I have our own cabin out back. Not as nice as this, but bright and airy, perfect for us. Stefan and Dika live in their mobile home and most of the Gatherers have a room in the bunkhouse. Only Murdoch and Carlos stay here in the main house with Brian.”

  “A house full of men,” Lena said dryly.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “If that makes you feel nervous, there’s a lock on the door.”

  “A lock can’t hold us off.” Murdoch leaned against the doorjamb with his arms folded over his massive chest. “Besides, the lass doesn’t qualify for privacy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Until we get the coins,” Murdoch said, “she’s under house arrest.”

  “Oh.” This time, Rachel had trouble meeting Lena’s eyes. She flashed a weak smile. “Freshen up a bit, and then come join us downstairs. I’ll make sure you get something to eat.”

  Then she left.

  Lena studied Murdoch. Untrimmed beards were sadly out of fashion, but the man sported his wild scruff with a singular arrogance. And it suited him, somehow. His eyes were nice-the color of warm sherry. But retrieving the fourteenth coin was vital, and even large men with nice eyes could be brought to their knees.

  “Before you consider taking me on,” he said, offering her a friendly glimpse of white teeth, “you should know who and what you’re dealing with. In my time, they called me a berserker. A bit touched in the head, ya might say. I’m already serving my second term with Death, so there’s little I would consider off-limits, action-wise. Even dropping a lass.”

  She believed him.

  Unlike Brian, who she instinctively knew would avoid hurting her, Murdoch had no such qualms. His resolve reflected clearly in his eyes. And while she was fully prepared to suffer injury in the fulfillment of her task, wasted effort was an entirely different matter.

  “Thanks for the warning,” she said.

  Lena opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside. With Murdoch watching, she turned on the tap and washed the heat of a California spring day from her face.

  When the time came to escape, she’d need to pick her moment well.

  “By God, are you defending her?” MacGregor asked, leaning across the desk.

  “No.” Despite the heavy scowl and menacing stance of the other man, Brian held his ground. His library, his desk, his turf. “I’m just saying I think she has her own misguided reasons for taking the coins.”

  “And what would those be?”

  “Don’t know. She won’t say.”

  “Murdoch says she’s simply after the money.”

  Brian’s hackles rose. “And you’re going to take that moron’s word over mine?”

  His friend skewed him a hard stare. “I believe there’s a possibility you’re no’ seeing this woman for what she truly is. That you’re thinking with your cock instead of your brain.”

  Since Brian had considered that possibility himself, he couldn’t very well fault MacGregor for thinking the same thing. “There’s a bit of that,” he admitted. “But she’s lying about the money angle. I can see it in her eyes.”

  “No one else sees it. Even Carlos called her a coldhearted bitch.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re wrong.”

  MacGregor eased away from the big campaign desk. His elbow knocked the pull chain on the brass lamp, sending it swinging. “Murdoch’s more insightful than you give him credit for.”

  “Gimme a break.” Yeah, the guy had five hundred years over him, but older did not equal smarter. “If he was that good at reading people, how’d he manage to piss off Death and earn himself a second stint in purgatory?”

  “Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances and leave it at that.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The other man remained silent for a moment, then asked, “Any idea what she did with the coins?”

  “She doesn’t have them on her—I can promise you that. She left them in France. I snooped in her iPhone for clues, but there are no messages in there at all, new or old. Is there any way we could verify her movements after she left Duverger’s estate?”

  “Without access to the database?” MacGregor shook his head. “No.”

  “Damn.” Brian tapped the computer keyboard and brought up Google Maps. “There’s not a lot she could have done in fifteen minutes. Best guess is she handed them off to a courier.”

  “If so, the exchange was well orchestrated.” MacGregor sighed. “Isn’t there a chance you’re wrong, Webster? Isn’t it possible she’s exactly what she appears to be, a professional thief out to make a big score?”

  “Yeah, there’s a chance,” Brian said quietly. Lena was a proven liar. “But I’m going with my gut. I think there’s more to her.”

  MacGregor studied the tips of his Rockports for a moment, then lifted his gaze. “I’ll leave you to handle her, then. I’ve a lot of faith in your gut.” He straightened. “Which, conveniently, brings me to my second topic.”

  An ego stroke followed by a change of subject? Uh-oh. Had to be bad news. “Can’t I have a moment to savor the compliment? That was a compliment, right?”

  “I’m meeting with Simon Reed tomorrow, and I’d like you to go with me.”

  “The Protectorate asshat?”

  “Aye.” MacGregor smiled. “But please don’t call him that to his face.”

  “Why bring me? The guy’s a big gun. He won’t appreciate some no-name Gatherer listening in on the conversation.”

  “Actually, he’s looking forward to meeting you.” The other man pointed to Brian’s open agenda. “Write it down. The meeting’s tomorrow at his office in San Francisco, ten a.m.”

  “The North American magistrato wants to meet me? Why?”

  “He wants to hear the story of how you recovered the coin, firsthand. I also told him you were replacing me as leader of our little group and you’d be his new contact.”

  Brian’s blood froze. “You told him what?”

  “We discussed this. I explained why I needed to step down, and you agreed.”

  MacGregor had a very different recollection of the conversation than he did. “I agreed that it doesn’t make sense for a mortal man to lead a bunch of Soul Gatherers, but I never agreed to take on the job. In fact, I distinctly remember saying the idea was asinine.”

  “Replacing me is no’ negotiable.”

  “I get that,” Brian said. “But I’m not the guy you need. Honestly. My forte is selecting the perfect tie, not leading a bunch of badass knights into a war against Satan.”

  “The other Gatherers listen to you.”

  “No, they laugh at my jokes. Completely different thing, trust me.”

  MacGregor didn’t rebut Brian’s comment. He simply crossed his arms and stared, letting his last words stand.

  “Look,” Brian said, pimping his smile with a liberal dose of the charm that had made him a million-dollar producer at Merrill Lynch. “I’ve got no skin in this game. Murdoch has ten times more experience than I have. He’s the guy who should take over, not me.”

  MacGregor’s eyes narrowed. “What is this, Webster?”

  “What’s what?”

  “Not five minutes ago, you tried to convince me that Murdoch was a twat. The notion of him ordering you about must make your stomach heave. And yet, you’re willing to bite the bullet and endure, rather than lead the group yourself. Why?”

  Brian’s hand was halfway to his left elbow before he could stop it. To disguise the action, he scratched his forearm. “I just want what’s best for the Gatherers,” he said. “I may have my issues with Murdoch, but the guy was born to be a warrior. I can accept that he’s the better choice.”

  “To borrow your terminology, bullshit.” MacGregor turned away in disgust. He paced over to the bookcase, then spun on his heels and returned to the desk. “Damn it, Webster. I’ve seen you in action.
You never hesitate no matter what the odds, you never hold anything back, and you never, ever give up. I know you’re no’ a coward. Yet, you retreat with your tail between your legs every time I suggest you lead the men. Explain that to me.”

  Brian bristled. He wasn’t afraid.

  “I know my limits, that’s all,” he said tightly.

  MacGregor was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Those limits are about to be tested. We don’t have time for a damned leadership contest. Satan is making his presence known in a very miserable way. Coups in South America, riots in Indonesia, and corporate scandals are popping up all over the bloody place. If I say you’re it, you’re it. Suck it up.”

  He pushed past Brian and strode from the room. The door slammed behind him.

  Brian reached out and halted the still-swaying lamp pull. Apparently Lena wasn’t the only one whose facade was crumbling. MacGregor had never completely bought his comic-sidekick routine, but he’d played along with it until now.

  Until Brian started killing martial demons.

  Fuck, it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. Kind of a do-or-die thing. But there was no way he could let MacGregor put him in charge. The group wouldn’t stand a chance if that happened. Putting your life in the hands of a screwup like him was a surefire route to the morgue. All you had to do was hit the rewind button on his miserable, ugly past to know that.

  He had to convince the stubborn bastard to change his mind.

  But how?

  By the time Lena returned to the living room, Brian had disappeared, and a brief pang of disappointment filled her chest. Even his perpetual smirk was preferable to a roomful of hardened stares. All chatter abruptly ceased when she entered, and the heaping bowls of popcorn and chicken wings on the square coffee table apparently couldn’t compete with a critical study of her face.

  Murdoch led her around, introducing everyone.

  “Tyrone Bale, Piers Atheborne, and Stefan Wahlberg,” he said, pausing in front of a plump man with a loose mop of black curls. From the depths of the sofa, Stefan extended his hand. But Lena didn’t shake it. In fact, she had a hard time remaining within five feet of the fellow.

  “You’re the mage,” she said. Her pendant throbbed against her throat. The power of the ancient Egyptian amulet lay in its ability to sense dark Ba with uncanny ease, and its protest over Stefan Wahlberg was fierce.

  He dropped his hand. “I am. How did you know?”

  “You reek of dark magic. The stench of it oozes from your pores.”

  There was a collective recoil from everyone in the room. Murdoch’s big hand tightened on her shoulder, but the mage merely raised a brow.

  “Lena,” a male voice said coldly, “an apology is due Stefan. Around here, we don’t insult our friends.”

  She spun around to face the man who’d just entered the room from the hallway. MacGregor. “It wasn’t an insult. Just the truth.”

  “Words like reek and stench discredit your claim.” There was no give in those gray-blue eyes. “Apologize. Now.”

  Lena debated her options. MacGregor was human—she could sense the pulse of a soul beneath his skin—but he was also very large and very powerful. And he had the support of everyone here; that much was clear. Challenging him would be foolish.

  Slowly, she turned back to the mage.

  “I beg your pardon for my inappropriate words,” she said carefully.

  He smiled with genuine amusement. “Nicely phrased.”

  Murdoch seemed to think it a good idea to move on. He steered her around the coffee table to the other sofa. “You’ve already met Rodriguez and this... this is Emily.”

  He delivered the introduction as if it ought to be accompanied by a drumroll, but the significance was lost on Lena. Emily appeared to be a regular girl in her mid-teens. Slim of build, she had long blond hair with black streaks, light blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face that hinted at a family connection with Rachel.

  “You’re Rachel’s daughter.”

  “Yup.”

  “Has anyone told you that socializing with Gatherers is dangerous?” She nodded to the young man who had his cobra-tattooed arm slung over Emily’s shoulders. “If he’s currently harboring a soul, a demon could attempt to kill him at any time.”

  Emily shrugged. “The last guy I dated was a demon, so Carlos is a giant step up.”

  Lena stared at her, trying to decide whether the girl was kidding.

  “Did I miss anything?” asked Brian, entering the room. His silvery gaze found hers immediately. He crossed the floor to her side and, without any fanfare, knocked Murdoch’s hand off her shoulder. For some inexplicable reason, that made Lena smile.

  “Nothing much,” said Carlos. “Your girlfriend is being her usual charming self.”

  Brian pitched Lena a frown. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing worth repeating.” MacGregor scooped Rachel out of the big armchair by the fireplace and sat down with her in his lap. Something of a ritual, it would seem, judging by the ease with which the maneuver was executed. “I’ve a new group of trainees starting on Monday. I need a volunteer to get them settled in the bunkhouse. Any takers?”

  The African-American man, Tyrone, put up his hand. “Yo.”

  “Thank you, Bale. I’ll also need a full-time buddy for Lena,” MacGregor said. Noting Brian’s ascending hand, he quickly added, “Someone other than Webster.”

  The room fell silent.

  As the silence lengthened and gazes dropped to the floor, Lena crossed her arms over her chest. No problem, she felt exactly the same way.

  “Come on, people,” MacGregor prompted grimly. “Don’t make me kick your arses.”

  Emily elbowed Carlos. After exchanging a pained glance with the girl, the young man reluctantly volunteered. “I’ll do it.”

  Excellent. The boy couldn’t weigh more than 150 pounds soaking wet.

  “Sweetheart,” Brian whispered in Lena’s ear, “don’t get your hopes up. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. He’s only eighteen, but the kid’s tough as hell.”

  Maybe, but judging by the young man’s Goth-style clothing, he was new to gathering, and new meant beat-able. Besides, his motivation was merely to please his girlfriend, while hers was—

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Brian added, his warm breath stirring the fine hairs around her ear. The suggestive promise in his voice evoked a tiny ripple of anticipation.

  Which she ignored. “I’m not tired.”

  “Who said anything about resting?” he murmured. Louder, he said to the group, “Lena and I are jet-lagged, so we’re turning in early. We’ll catch you guys in the morning.”

  Then he took her hand, grabbed his suitcase, and threaded his way through the people to the stairs.

  “No one is buying the jet-lagged story,” Lena said as they climbed. His thumb caressed the top of her hand in a slow, steady rhythm, spawning goose bumps on her arms. “They all know Gatherers don’t need sleep.”

  He shot her a quick grin. “I know, but the truth would’ve earned me an ass-kicking from Rachel.”

  Digging in her heels, she forced him to stop in front of her bedroom door. “And what exactly is the truth?”

  “That we’re sleeping together.”

  “No,” she said firmly, “we’re not.”

  He leaned past her, twisted the knob, and opened her door. “Yes, we are. If you prefer to crash in your room instead of mine, that’s fine. But we’re sharing a bed.”

  Closing her eyes, Lena breathed in the heady scent of his citrus cologne and savored the press of his muscled arm. It was all too easy to imagine getting lost in his embrace, feeling the comforting strength of his body wrapped around hers. Allowing him to coax and tease her to the pinnacle of desire. “No.”

  “Babe?”

  Her eyes popped open, instantly meeting his. Not surprising, since they were bare inches from her face. The surprising part? Beneath the usual lazy humor lay a raw honesty that reached deep into her chest and stole her breat
h.

  “You’re not fooling anyone,” he said quietly. “Least of all me.”

  “You think I’m attracted to you.”

  He pushed her gently into the room, propped his suitcase against the dresser, then closed the door. “No, I know you’re attracted to me. The missing piece of the puzzle is how long it will take before you succumb to the pull.”

  Lena pretended she didn’t see him depress the door lock.

  “Really?” she scoffed. “Hate to break it to you, Webster, but that come-on back at my place? I was faking.”

  Another grin, this one deep enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Really? The way your breathing got all raspy and your nipple puckered in my palm, I could’ve sworn it was the real thing.”

  Bastard. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  “Quit arguing.” He crossed to the bed, picked up the plaid pajama bottoms and tank top draped over the pillow, and held them up. “Cute. Wouldn’t have nailed you for a pink person, though.”

  She snatched the intimate garments out of his hands. “They’re Rachel’s.”

  He frowned at that. “I’m going into San Francisco tomorrow. Give me your sizes and I’ll pick you up some new clothes.”

  Despite her determination not to, Lena blushed. No man except her father had ever bought her clothes. Azim had wanted to, but he’d been easily dissuaded by her gentle refusals. “No, thank you.”

  “You can’t keep wearing what you’ve got on.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that before you hauled me out of my home without a chance to pack,” she retorted. She laid the pajamas back on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles.

  “I was pissed.”

  Annoyed that his words didn’t carry even a hint of apology, she glared at him. “I’ll just wash my clothes each night.”

  “For three months?”

  “I’m not stay—” She halted, catching the look in his eye. Focused completely on returning to L.A., she’d forgotten Death had approved her training with MacGregor.

  Brian ran a finger lightly over her cheek.

  “Tell me the truth about the coins,” he urged softly. “You know you’re going to tell me eventually. Why not get it off your chest now? You’ll feel a lot better.”