by Brenda Joyce
“I dinna think he’ll admit it,” Rob said. “But the guards have heard him swearing revenge fer Alasdair.”
Macleod pounded up the steps. “Let him try.” His entire being became calm and focused—as it should, before confronting the enemy.
“He’s brave,” Rob said, behind him.
Rob would never dare suggest mercy, even if he might think about it. “He’ll be an example to all who think to trespass on Blayde’s land with foul intent.” He reached the highest landing.
Rob joined him, his blue gaze searching. “Ye’ll do what ye must,” he finally said.
“Aye.” The boy was a fool to come to Blayde alone, seeking vengeance, but Macleod would have done the same.
One of his men was standing guard in front of the closed tower door. The guard stepped aside and Macleod pushed inside the square room, his hard eyes moving to the boy.
Coinneach MacDougall was shackled to the wall by one ankle. His eyes blazed with hatred. He spit toward Macleod’s boots.
Macleod paused, hands on his hips, unmoved by the foolish act of defiance. “Ye think yer spit will bother me?”
“My spit shows ye I think of ye as I do a small, worthless bug.”
“Do ye think it wise to taunt me?”
“Murderer!” The boy’s blue eyes were brilliant in his pale face. “Heartless murderin’ swine!”
And Macleod envisioned the boy he’d once been, kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral galleys drifting away. The memory was acute and intense. What was this?
For not only could he recall the moment in utter detail, he suddenly felt a flash of hatred, a flash of rage, of grief.
Let me help you.
He whirled, but Tabitha did not stand in the doorway.
“Are ye ill?” Rob asked.
He shook his head, turning grimly back to Coinneach now. That boy had become a man overnight. Coinneach was sixteen, and he had become the MacDougall.
Let me help you.
Was she haunting him now from his own home? He quickly found his composure. “Aye, I murdered yer father, an’ his father, an’ his father afore that. An’, Coinneach? Ye’ll be next.”
Coinneach writhed against his shackles like a wild animal, filled with fury and desperation. “Go ahead, murder me, too! Lady Criosaidh will destroy ye with her powerful magic, an’ my uncles will destroy Blayde! She has vowed it.”
Criosaidh had undoubtedly already unleashed her spells, intent upon avenging the death of her husband. Over the years, he had avoided most of her spells with the help of MacNeil and an occasional god or goddess. She was powerful, but her spells could not reach him at Blayde, they never had yet.
He spoke coldly and quietly. “Let Criosaidh do as she wishes. Let yer uncles attempt to destroy Blayde. ’Twas foolish to come to Blayde to steal my cattle.”
“I meant to put a dagger in yer black heart,” Coinneach cried, “but ye were not here!”
Macleod had wanted a confession and now he had it. But there was no satisfaction. Instead, there was an odd confusion. “Had I been here, ye’d already be dead an’ rottin’ in my moat with my blade in yer throat.”
“Had ye been here,” Coinneach said, “ye’d have the blade in yer black heart, an’ yer head would be on a pike at Melvaig.”
“Believe as ye will, fer it surely comforts ye,” Macleod said.
Coinneach spit again.
Macleod was done. He had no interest in continuing the pitiful debate. The boy would die, as soon as he commanded it. Criosaidh would cast her spells; his uncles would launch their armies. Nothing was new, nothing would change.
Let me help you.
He glanced at the doorway again but Tabitha did not stand there. Was she trying to interfere with his prisoner?
“Yer day will come soon,” Coinneach shouted, twisting against the shackles. “If not by my hand, then by another.”
“Yer father should have taught ye tact an’ diplomacy. But ye’re nay a coward like he was, I will admit to that.”
Coinneach cried out, struggling to rush forward, as if believing he could pull the shackle from the wall.
Suddenly Macleod felt a touch of regret. Not for what he must do, but for provoking the boy as he had. But it was the truth—Coinneach’s father had been a coward and the boy knew it—he had watched. Suddenly Macleod realized he had something in common with the MacDougall boy. He’d helplessly watched his father being murdered, too.
He was uncomfortable, and he did not like it. “Ye’ll break yer leg,” he said flatly.
Panting, Coinneach subsided, sliding to his knees. “I’ll kill ye,” he cried. “I swear, I will find a way!”
He refused to compare himself to Coinneach another time. “Put him in the stocks in the bailey so all my people can see the Fate of thieves and those who think to murder me. He’ll have no food, no water…an’ we’ll see how long he lives.”
SHE TURNED TO WATCH Macleod vanish into a dark stairway. Tabby decided she had enough to worry about without getting involved in Blayde’s business. He’d undoubtedly taken many prisoners over the course of his long lifetime and this one had only rustled cattle. The lady of Melvaig was a witch. She could barely adjust to that startling and ominous piece of information. If An Tùir-Tara had resulted from a war of witches, did it mean that the current MacDougall lady would be one of the witches in the battle two hundred years from now? There were spells for longevity, although Tabby had never found one or known anyone who had used one. But hadn’t MacNeil said he’d known Grandma Sara? She’d been ancient when she passed. She and Sam had assumed she was about a hundred years old, but now Tabby was uncertain.
Her head was hurting again. To survive, she needed Macleod. If she was not mistaken, she was cruising along just as Fate had planned. Tabby grimaced. She did not want to ever decipher MacNeil’s comment about souls.
The serving maid tugged on her sleeve but Tabby wanted to look around. “One moment,” she said, smiling at her.
Macleod had left, but Tabby felt him everywhere. Now that she was resigned to having gone back in time, she could not believe how she’d shouted and vented at him, much less hit him. She’d angered him—of that, there’d been no mistake. She was lucky, she decided, that for some reason, he hadn’t hit her back.
It crossed her mind that maybe he wasn’t as brutal as she’d assumed. Or at least, he hadn’t been brutal with her, not yet.
She intended to keep it that way. No more un-Tabby-like temper tantrums. Tabby gave the great hall a cursory glance and nodded at the maid. “Let’s go.”
They crossed the room. It was barely furnished, with a massive fireplace, and exactly as one would imagine a medieval great room to look like. The ceilings were high and timbers crisscrossed them. There were rushes on the floor.
The history books were all wrong, she thought as they left. The chamber was clean. Dogs were not present. The rushes were fresh and smelled great.
Tabby paused before starting up another spiral staircase. The huge room should have felt cold and uninviting, but it seemed almost welcoming. She didn’t mind it being so spartan, not at all—frankly, it suited Macleod. And suddenly she saw herself curling up in one of the two chairs before the hearth with the Book of Roses.
She cried out.
What on earth did that fantasy signify? She was never going to sit before that fire and work on her spells! The only place she would do that was at home. And she didn’t have the Book there, anyway.
Real dismay began. The Book was always in a Rose woman’s keeping—always. It was her responsibility, and it was at home, with Sam. If she needed a new spell, she might be screwed. But hopefully, she’d be at home before that ever happened.
She followed the maid upstairs, uneasy, thinking about the black witch of Melvaig.
A moment later she was on Blayde’s third and uppermost floor. Facing her was an open tower room. She saw stairs that went to the ramparts, where the watch were. The maid went to the only door on the landing and s
howed her into a large bedchamber.
It was Macleod’s. As it had in the hall, his power and presence filled the chamber. Here, his mark was so strong it made her feel faint, stirring her body pleasantly. Tabby looked at the fireplace briefly as the maid knelt before it. Then she looked at the bed. It was heavily carved, the wood almost black. A dozen embroidered pillows were piled up against the ebony headboard, and red and blue wool blankets, a fur and a red-and-black plaid were at its carved foot. Ralph Lauren would love this bed, she thought. It could be in one of his showrooms.
Now that their terrific argument was done, her body was starting to make demands on her. She hadn’t forgiven him for treating her like baggage—and she wasn’t going to, either. So she had to rein in that sudden and intense wave of desire.
She looked past a rustic table and two carved chairs set against the wall beneath a pair of shuttered embrasures. Because it was a beautiful summer day, the shutters were open, revealing an expanse of sparkling sapphire-blue sea. She walked over to the narrow window. The sea below was so large she assumed she was looking at a part of the Atlantic Ocean. It was a view no one could ever tire of.
She reminded herself not to get too comfortable. Her new plan was to stay at Blayde for a few days and gather information on Melvaig and its witch.
She looked at the bed. When Macleod apologized to her—with sincerity—and made it clear that he understood the error of his ways, she’d join him there. Otherwise, it was hands off. A major principle was at stake.
The maid was having trouble lighting the fire. Tabby told herself to focus. The first order of business was to put a protective spell on the bedchamber. She could not possibly sleep there otherwise, not with a witch a few miles away at Melvaig. But it was very cold inside the room. Tabby closed her eyes and focused on the wood.
Fire obey me, fire burn. Fire obey me, warm the room.
Tabby spent a few minutes casting the spell, and she opened her eyes. The maid turned, sending Tabby a helpless look. Then she said something and left.
Not even an ember glowed, and Tabby sighed. She’d been able to stop that guard’s gun from working, but she couldn’t get the wood to burn. However, her protective spells were habitual. She walked over to the bed, sat down there and closed her eyes. “Good over this chamber, good around it. Good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting us.”
Her focus sharpened. She intensified her desire, until it tingled through her flesh and bones, chanting the spell again and again. Perspiration began. When she thought it likely she’d finally succeeded, she sat back in the bed, drained.
Tabby started.
A small fire was burning in the hearth.
Had she started it? She murmured, “Fire obey me, fire burn. Fire obey me, warm the room.”
The fire danced merrily, but it did not blaze.
Suddenly one of the open shutters slammed against the wall.
Tabby sat bolt upright. It was a still summer day. How would a sudden gust of wind cause it to lift away from the wall where it rested and then slam down?
The shutter slammed on the wall again.
It was entirely unnatural. As a terrible comprehension arose, another shutter slammed against the wall, too. So did the next shutter and the next one, as if someone was walking from shutter to shutter, lifting each from the wall and banging it down.
Hatred and malevolence surged closer—the same hatred and malevolence she’d encountered in her loft. It had come back.
And then the fear and shock vanished. Calm slipped over her. She did not take her eyes from the windows, where she could feel the evil lurking. “Evil get out, evil be gone. Protection spells of mine keep you far from here.”
The shutters all began slamming on the wall at once in a fit of fury and hatred.
Tabby was aware of the open bedroom door. It was tempting to leave. Instead, she started to repeat the spell, her eyes on the door, and it slammed closed. “Evil get out, evil be gone. Protection spells of mine keep you far from here.”
But she wasn’t a fool. Tabby went to the door and seized the handle but the door didn’t budge. Fear surged again. She willed it away. “Evil get out, evil be gone. Protection spells of mine keep you far from here.” She used all of her strength to pull on the door.
It suddenly opened.
She hurried from the room, chanting the spell. An ice-cold blast of air struck her with a huge force from behind, coming not from the chamber but the tower or the window at the end of the hall. She stumbled, stunned.
The ice-cold air pummeled her from behind.
“Tabitha!”
Tabby fell, hard, to the floor. She heard his heavy booted steps as he ran up the stairs and she tried to get up, but the icy blast was pushing her down. She looked up, and saw Macleod, still in his jeans, his face a mask of rage. Silver energy blazed from his hands. “A Thabitha!” he roared.
Tabby heard stone shearing, and as it crashed to the floor from the ceiling, the pressure pushing her increased. She strained against it. “Evil get out, evil be gone,” she cried.
She thought she heard laughter.
Macleod cursed. Tabby looked at him and saw his power blazing, while more stone sheared off the walls from the tower. He was trying to blast the energy coming in from the window, but clearly, his power was meant for a far more physical entity. If she didn’t send the evil away, it would break her back.
“Evil get out…evil be gone.”
The vicious hatred pushed at her so hard Tabby thought it had finally snapped her bones. As viciously, Tabby fought back with her magic. And as she did, the terrible pressure suddenly vanished. Tabby cried out, gasping in relief, getting to her hands and knees.
Macleod knelt, his huge hands stunningly gentle, and he pulled her into his arms. “Are ye hurt?”
Tabby slowly sat up, amazed that she wasn’t broken, and she leaned against him, meeting his wide blue eyes. Shock vanished and she looked toward the end of the corridor, where an open window embrasure and the stairs to the ramparts were. She began to tremble. “Macleod. It followed us here from New York.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New York City
December 9, 2008
HER PAGER WOKE HER UP.
Sam was a light sleeper. She shot upright, looked at the pager and dialed Nick. As his cell rang, she realized she’d had less than two hours of sleep and she cursed. Why in hell was Nick bothering her in the middle of the day?
“Where’s your sister?” Nick demanded.
“Hey, good morning to you, too.” Sam was instantly uneasy. “I assume she’s out and about.”
“You helping her keep secrets, Rose?” Nick sounded pissed.
Sam could not read minds, but she didn’t have to. Nick knew all about Macleod. She was certain. “What’s up? Because I need my beauty sleep and I am a bitch when I don’t get it.”
“A really big man, who might be a magician—because he seemed to create lightning with his hands—robbed the Met.”
Sam went still. “Shit.”
“Oh, and another cop is dead. And a priceless friggin’ necklace is gone. So where did you say your sister is?”
Holy shit, Sam thought. “I’ll call you right back.”
“Rose,” Nick shouted, but Sam hung up. She jumped into her jeans and was pulling on a crewneck tee as she ran barefoot into the loft. She didn’t even bother to call her sister’s name, because she knew she was gone and so was Macleod. The loft was empty.
She breathed hard. There was no way Tabby had left the city and gone back in time without saying goodbye. She would never do such a thing. It sounded like Macleod had robbed the museum. If so, they’d probably walk through that door at any moment.
She breathed harder, shaking. She never trembled; she had nerves of steel. But now, she stared at the garbage bags taped across the living-room windows. Her cell rang.
She had it in her back pocket and she picked up. “I don’t know where Tabby is. But, Nick, something tried to
get in here last night. Tabby swears it was a demonic energy.”
Nick was silent. “First some demonized kids, and then a demon ghost?”
Sam wet her lips. “Can a demonic ghost command subs?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Gee, I don’t know, you seem to know just about everything,” Sam said, suddenly furious.
“Have you seen Macleod, damn it?”
“Yes,” Sam gritted, “and I lied. Tabby asked me to keep it quiet, so I did. Fire me. Like I give a fuck.” She realized she was choking, as if on the verge of tears.
Nick’s tone softened. “I might suspend you, but I’m not firing you. Come into HCU so we can figure this out. And, kid? You’ll hear from her.”
Nick was being kind. Sam’s rage knew no bounds. “She didn’t leave—she’s coming back!” She almost threw her cell across the room, but at the last moment, jammed it back in her pocket, instead.
The doorbell rang.
Sam was instantly wary. No one could get up without buzzing up from the exterior lobby first. She went to the door. Halfway there, she felt evil—and recognized it. Her surprise vanished as she opened the door and stared at Kristin Lafarge.
Kristin smiled, holding a bag from a nearby French bakery in her hand. Her attention went to the garbage bags on the windows and back to Sam. “Hello. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I couldn’t sleep last night because of what happened. I tried to call your sister this morning, but she didn’t answer. I became worried. I thought I’d drop by on my way to school.”
“It’s noon.”
“Vanderkirk told me I could take a half day. At first I refused, but this morning, I changed my mind. Is Tabby here?”
“Come on in,” Sam said, smiling. But inside, she was ice-cold. This bitch was going to talk before she was allowed to leave and Sam did not intend to play nice. “Neighbor let you in?”
“Yes, the sweet elderly lady who lives on the second floor.” Kristin set the small paper bag on the kitchen counter. “Is Tabby here? Is she all right?”
Mrs. Morris would never let anyone in whom she did not know. She’d been mesmerized by Kristin. “As you can see, we had a bit of an altercation last night—the good, old-fashioned, horror-movie kind.”