by Brenda Joyce
“Are you all right?” She stroked his hard jaw. It was the same.
“A few burns canna hurt me, Tabitha, not as long as ye live.”
She touched her throat, which was bare.
“Ye lost it in the fire,” he said softly.
“I’m in the sixteenth century—you’re from the sixteenth century,” she whispered. “But I belong at Blayde in 1298.”
“Aye.” His mouth shifted. “I ken…ye’re so sweet an’ so young!”
Tabby reached for his shoulders and he held her tightly, against his broad, powerful chest. His embrace was the same—powerful, consuming, impossibly safe and right. “After the fire, you found me at the Met.”
He hesitated. “I thought ye died fer one terrible moment, after ye went up in the flames, and I leaped into time to find ye. I thought to find ye when we started this, so long ago, at the school where ye were teachin’ the children.”
“So there is a beginning?”
“Sometimes we’re not allowed to remember everythin’, Tabitha. I ken we both fought this way together in the fire here before. But I canna really recall it well. ’Tis shadowy, in my mind. I ken I feared I lost ye, that ye died. But ye dinna die.”
“I didn’t die—I won. Elasaid’s amulet is powerful.”
“Aye, ye triumphed. Ye wouldna have done so if it wasn’t what the gods chose fer us.”
Their gazes locked. Tabby hesitated. He had come to New York because of her spell, but their beginning had been that afternoon when she’d seen him at the Met—because of this battle at An Tùir-Tara.
“Tabitha, I came to ye at the exhibit, but ye came to me when I was a lost boy.”
He’d told her that before. “What does that mean?” she whispered, stroking his face.
“Yer soul was seekin’ mine. Yer soul will always seek mine. My soul will always seek yers…no matter what day it is, what month, what year.” He smiled at her, a single tear falling.
Tabby hugged him, burrowing as close as she could get. His love for her was so powerful she was cocooned in it. And his smile was, impossibly, even sexier than when he was young. She looked up. “You’ve gotten so much better with age.”
His gaze turned to dark purple fire. “Dinna tempt me.”
But her body was filled with a reckless urgency now. “I need you.” She needed to celebrate their life and their love. She wanted nothing more. She slid her hand into his hair, which he now wore very short, and somehow caught several strands. It crossed her mind that this wasn’t really right, although she did not analyze why, and she pulled his face down. His eyes blazed; he covered her mouth with his. His kiss was hot and hard, but the deep hunger was tightly controlled as he’d never been able to control it before.
Tabby kissed him as wildly as she could, as if she hadn’t seen him in centuries, until he gasped and gave over to her. She loved him as never before and she didn’t care if he was young or old. She would always love him this way.
Suddenly he tore his mouth from hers.
“I love you and I want you, Macleod.”
He breathed hard, his eyes dark and hot. “God, I want ye, too. I fergot how it was in the beginning fer us, with ye so hot an’ bothered an’ tryin’ to make up fer years o’ abstinence.”
Her eyes widened.
His smile vanished. “I am verra tempted, but three o’ the boys are standin’ behind us…an’ ye’re in Edinburgh with Sam an’ Brianna—in 2011.”
She cried out, amazed, and then she threw her arms around him and held on, hard. “I don’t want to let go,” she whispered. “I’m afraid to let go!”
He held her back tightly, and it was a long moment before he spoke. “We’ve built a good life, Tabitha. I want ye as much as I always do—so badly I canna stand it. But I willna jeopardize what we have. Ye need to go back to Blayde an’ wait fer me.”
Tabby suddenly went still. She’d been swept up in the moment, but Macleod was out there somewhere, looking for her. “I have to go back, immediately! Do you know what’s happening to us in the thirteenth century?”
He shook his head. “I canna recall. ’Tis fer the best.”
The gods had thought of everything, she thought. And she sat up and turned to look at her sons.
Her sons. Tall, dark and powerful, three handsome Highlanders stared at her, their eyes wide.
Wow, Tabby thought, and she smiled.
The Highlands
The summer of 1550
HE SLEPT IN CAVES or dirt trenches by day; at night he traveled on foot, trying to elude the deamhanain who tracked him. Grief and guilt were his constant companions—and the boy was his companion, too.
One hundred and nineteen days had passed since he had last seen Tabitha die in the fires of Melvaig—four times. One hundred and nineteen days had passed since he had finally crouched on the floor of that stairwell, vomiting helplessly, racked with grief, with MacNeil coldly standing over him, having meted out his punishment as the gods wished for him to do. One hundred and nineteen days ago he had begun his journey across the Highlands, resolved to do what he had to do to return to Tabitha in the thirteenth century, where she waited for him. The gods meant to trap him in the sixteenth century, to keep him from Tabitha, his final punishment for a lifetime of defiance. Let them try. Nothing would stop him from returning to Tabitha. He would not live without her and he would never accept her future death, even if the gods were telling him he must accept their will.
He had decided to make the long journey to Carrick, where he would do whatever he had to in order to convince Ruari Dubh to send him back to her.
He had spent three days fashioning a raft with a single sail, his tears making it hard to see, and then he had left the coast of Melvaig. He was a mortal man now and acutely aware of it. He was out of his time. He had no wealth—he could not purchase anything he needed, and especially not a horse or a ship. He had no clan, and therefore no soldiers to trek with him, to fight for him. He did not have any allies—he could not request lodging and food. He did not know which rivalries now prevailed or who warred with whom. He did not dare pose as his sixteenth-century self. He had to proceed with the utmost caution, avoiding everyone, whether mortal, demonic or possessed.
Except evil could sense him, as if he still had white power, but he could not sense evil in return. Not a day went by that a deamhan or its henchman did not attempt an ambush upon him. Evil hunted him now with relish, perhaps because he was weak and it knew. But in the first ninety-two days he had destroyed fifty-eight deamhanain with his sword and dagger, along with twenty-one of the possessed. A dozen humans, interested in robbery and murder, had also been dispatched. Since then he had lost count. Every time he vanquished evil, he thought of Tabitha, aware that she would be pleased. Each time he came to face-to-face with evil, the desire to cause mayhem and murder, to rape and maim, to take pleasure in pain, shocked him and hardened him and made any outcome except triumph impossible.
And because the inner sea that lay between Melvaig and Lochalsh on Skye’s western side was controlled by the MacDougalls of Skye in the thirteenth century, as was the nearby sound of Sleat, he had jettisoned the raft after five days of sailing. Their ships would be swifter than his and he could not take a chance on being spotted or, worse, captured. It would take him longer to reach Morvern on foot, but he could easily hide in the forest at the first sign of anyone’s approach. And there was good hunting—he was always hungry now.
When he paused to rest, floating during the calm at sea, or when he was trudging along a mountain trail almost mindlessly, he became aware of the boy, who refused to let him be.
See! This is what it is like! This is the pain and the guilt that ye denied me!
At first he was furious to be haunted by his childhood—the damned boy becoming more and more real with every passing day. His image was so vivid, like a reflection on the glass sea, but his pain was even more tangible. He didn’t want to know. He was suffering too much himself.
He’d seen Tabitha d
ie, and he wept when he recalled it. The boy wept for the murders of his family.
Now ye ken what ye denied me…now ye feel the grief, the guilt, the pain!
The boy was raging and crying in grief and despair. He had lost those he loved and he had failed them, too, and his sobs were soul-shattering. Macleod had failed Tabitha at An Tùir-Tara, and his pain was as unbearable…but then, they were one and the same.
They were one and the same.
Slowly, the grief lessened.
And he would watch the boy warily as they climbed mountain after mountain, or as they sat at night beneath a waxing moon, across the fire from each other. He cried less now. Macleod did not cry, but he finally understood the boy completely—he understood his grief and guilt—for they had become too intimate for him not to know him now.
And he was sorry. He was so sorry he hadn’t let him cry and rage and indulge in his sorrow and anguish, his despair and fear. But there hadn’t been a choice. He’d had to become a hard, un-feeling man overnight.
The grief seemed to slip away and so did the guilt. The boy no longer wept at all.
Too late, he knew that he’d only been a boy. He had been helpless to prevent the massacre. It had been insane to ever think he could have done otherwise. The boy was not to blame. He had tried to fight the enemy, but one small boy could only do so much. And that boy had accepted his duty, even though he’d wanted to wallow in grief. That boy had turned immediately to war and revenge—as he’d had to. That boy was brave. He could finally admire him.
But it was over now.
He was sorry he’d murdered Alasdair in the name of revenge, and captured and tortured Coinneach. He regretted the entire century he’d spent on revenge—it had gone on for too long! The gods were right. But it ended now. Revenge had become meaningless. What mattered was his life with Tabitha, keeping her safe—and keeping others safe, as well.
Facing evil as a mortal man made that so terribly obvious.
Someone had to defend the women like Tabitha, the children like that boy, and all that was good and innocent in this world.
And the boy was hopeful. His heart had changed, becoming buoyant and light.
Macleod was anxious to get home.
The boy began to elude him. He started noticing him less and less as he got closer to his destination. Macleod would look around at the forest as he crossed a game trail, only to realize that he was now alone. As he made a bed of grass and leaves to sleep in a foxhole by day, he would wait for the boy to appear, but he did not. And then one day, when he was but a week or so from Morvern, he realized he hadn’t seen the boy in days and that he wasn’t coming back. But it didn’t matter now, because Tabitha was waiting and he had so much to tell her…and he couldn’t wait.
He began another ascent at midnight. Only one more mountain lay between him and Carrick. Wolves were tracking him, hoping to make him their next meal. When one came too close he used the sling he had made, shooting a stone between its eyes. His shots were usually fatal and this one was no different.
The forest sighed.
He was wary and alert. He knew a deamhan would soon attack, not because he sensed it, but because there hadn’t been any ambush yet that night. He did not dread the encounter—he looked forward to it. Facing evil now felt like his due, his cause, his right.
The attack came during a bloodred dawn.
A deamhan on a warhorse charged him from the forest, powers blazing. Macleod had heard the horse an hour earlier, even though its hooves were wrapped in skins, and he was prepared for the assault. He moved behind a huge tree, which cracked apart, then dove behind a boulder. He let the deamhan blast him again, repeatedly, waiting for him to tire as it destroyed his small stone defense. Another mortal might have died, but he thought of Tabitha and of the gods, determined to survive. And when there was a lull in the assault, he stood, sending his dagger into the horse’s heart. The beast collapsed and the deamhan vaulted from it. Macleod was already racing for the giant, and as its power blazed he cleaved his head from its shoulders.
The red-black power scattered harmlessly, like burning embers. Breathing hard, Macleod dusted himself off. He stood over the decapitated deamhan and watched it begin to disintegrate.
“A Thabitha.”
He breathed again. Thinking of her—slaying evil in her name—replenished him like a sip of fresh water. He only had another hour left before daylight. He started to walk toward the mountain pass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“HEY, NICK.” Kit Mars smiled at him, her eyes wide with interest. “I see you guys made it back in one piece.”
Nick looked up at her, still in his camouflage. He and Jan had just gotten back and he was mad as all hell that Kristin Lafarge was dead. He knew with every fiber of his being that she could have led him to some big bad demon honcho, because she was small-fry, interested only in petty revenge. Jan had gone home. It had been an interesting jaunt, even if they’d failed in their mission. And nothing bad had happened to any of the good guys. “Stop drooling. You’ll get your turn when you’re ready.” He knew what she wanted.
Kit smiled at him, wishing he’d let her go back in time soon. “Sam went back and she wasn’t even on board here for a week.”
“Sam is an experienced soldier.”
“I was a cop,” Kit pointed out.
“Sam is a Slayer. She’s been on the streets doing the dirty since she was a kid.”
Kit sighed. “I thought you might like to see this. It just came in. Courtesy of the Russian.”
Nick took the file, pleased, and opened the folder and saw a pile of glossies. The top shot was the exterior of the Carlisle, one of Manhattan’s most exclusive hotels, second home to the city’s top politicos as well as visiting heads of state and other foreign dignitaries. The Saudis especially liked it. It was a nice hotel. He flipped to the next photo. “I asked Rose to get on this.”
“It gets better,” Kit said.
Nick stared at the interior of the ten-thousand-dollar-a-night presidential suite, noting the time and date stamp on the upper right corner. It said October 20, 2008, 10:02:38 p.m. It had been taken just a few months ago, not the other night, when Lafarge had booked it.
The room was empty and he flipped to what seemed to be the exact same shot—except the time stamp on top showed it was two minutes later.
He leaned closer. He stared at the shadows in the barely lit room, but he was not mistaken. One of the shadows glowed, its demonic aura unmistakable. A demon had obviously just entered the living area of that suite.
Suddenly Jan walked into his office, her hair wet, wearing jeans and a sweater. She plopped a pizza carton down on his desk, along with a really cold bottle of Michelob Ultra. She glared at him and said to Kit, “I’m not coming in tomorrow. And don’t even think it. It’s not worth it.” She stalked out.
He smiled at her backside. He was clearly forgiven. “Thank you,” he called.
She didn’t answer.
Then he looked at Kit before turning the top photo over and inhaled. Kristin Lafarge was now standing beside the demonic shadow, but she was clearly visible—and completely naked.
He was not surprised. Demons needed to feast on sex and power nightly, even a demon posing as a part of the city’s establishment or a foreign dignitary. And a witch lover with some demonic blood was a pretty good pairing—except that the demon couldn’t get his jollies by finishing the evening off with murder. Not if he wanted to use Lafarge, as he obviously did. He flipped through the glossies, and saw Kristin in action in bed with the demonic shadow.
“She had a demon lover,” Kit said unnecessarily. “Someone who could afford one of the city’s most expensive hotel rooms.”
“I knew it.” He stood. “I bet she met with lover boy just before she went back in the past. Do you have those photos?”
Kit shook her head. “No.”
“Who paid for the room?”
Kit hesitated. “There’s a problem with the hotel record
s. We’re working on it.”
He was incredulous. “Who was registered there on October twentieth?”
Kit grimaced. “John Smith.”
His frustration knew no bounds. “Find out where she was and who she met on December ninth, damn it.” He’d known Lafarge could lead him to a major player, and now she was dead. “I want the demon who’s cruising our town, posing as one of the good guys,” he said. “Where is Rose?”
“She’s on her way back from a personal trip,” Kit said.
He stiffened. Kit was trying to block him from her thoughts. “She went to Scotland? For what?” he asked dangerously.
“She wouldn’t tell me.” Kit looked nervous.
“Get her in on this,” he said. “And, Mars? Tell Sam to stay away from her bad boy. I happen to know that Maclean isn’t one of us.”
Kit paled.
Blayde, Scotland
The summer of 1298
TABBY LANDED IN THE bedchamber she shared with Macleod. She took a long moment to recover from the leap, sitting in the center of the room on the floor. She was thrilled to be back. But as the room stopped spinning, as all the pain vanished, her senses returned and she knew instantly that he wasn’t present. He wasn’t at Blayde.
Her heart sank with dismay. Dread began. She reminded herself that even though he had gone to An Tùir-Tara, or had intended to go there, it was over now and he had survived, just as she had.
But where was he?
She couldn’t feel him anywhere. Tabby got to her feet, glancing outside. The sky was brilliantly blue and it was pleasantly warm. It was surely summertime. She had arrived with Macleod in the past on June 10, and his attempt to destroy Criosaidh at Melvaig had been five days later. She was worried now about which day she’d arrived back at their home.
Then she recalled her sense that he was lost and that he needed her.
For one instant, she thought she saw him in a night-blackened forest, holding a sword in one hand. And evil surrounded him….
She inhaled, terribly frightened now. Tabby hurried downstairs, but only a housemaid was in the hall. She ran outside. It took her a moment to espy Rob on the ramparts. She called out to him, waving. He saw her and hurried down to the bailey. Tabby raced across the yard to him.