by Joy Nash
She swallowed hard as the half-breed scribbled on a pad and ripped off the carbon duplicate below. “That’ll be two hundred fifty. Oh, and you’ll have to sign this waiver.”
Two-fifty? “But—the poster in the window says one-fifty.”
“Aye, well, and that’s the regular price, innit? Tonight’s a special.”
“What do you mean?”
He grunted. “Leanna’s bringing a friend.” He shoved a picture across the table with the waiver. “This bloke. Take a look and ye’ll see easy enough why she’d jacked the price.”
It was a picture of Kalen. Christine was horrified. “This…This man is part of the special tour?”
The Sidhe gave a humorless laugh. “Aye. You’re lucky there’s room left. We’re almost sold out.” He must have read Christine’s shock as lust, because he added, “Sure you don’t want red? It’s only four hundred.”
“No,” Christine said in a strangled voice. “Green is fine.” She scanned the waiver, which basically said if she was injured or worse on the tour, it was her own damn fault. She scribbled her signature on the line and dug two hundred fifty pounds out of her wallet. There was precious little cash left once it was gone.
She pushed the money across the counter. The half-breed caught her forearm, holding it against his as he extracted the bills from her fingers. His gauntlet made contact with her bare skin. The metal burned like a hot brand.
She jerked her hand back with a cry. Lead. Her magic couldn’t tolerate the metal, and the shadow runes made it even worse. She rubbed her arm. No marks, but the pain lingered.
The half-breed gave her an evil smile. “Ah well,” he said in a conversational tone that belied his sharpening gaze. “Greens have a good time, too. You won’t be allowed inside the stones, but any action you want to take with the other greenies is your own business.” He shot her a speculative look. “Ever do it with more than one man? Or with a woman?”
“No!”
“Tonight might be your lucky night, then,” he said, dangling her ticket in his thick fingers.
She snatched it away without touching him and crumpled it in her fist. “Don’t count on it.”
“Suit yourself.” His tone turned brisk. “Tour leaves from the middle of the Young Street Bridge exactly one hour before midnight. Don’t be late, not even by a minute. Leanna doesn’t wait for anyone, and there are no refunds.”
“I’ll be there,” Christine muttered, shoving the ticket into her pocket. She hugged her water bottle as she turned to leave.
“Oh, and sweetheart?”
She turned back. “Yes?”
“Get rid of that bloody awful sweater. Trust me, you’re not going to need it.”
By five minutes to eleven, Christine had been standing in the middle of the Young Street Bridge for a good half hour, water bottle anchored to her side, all her energy focused on keeping a healthy distance from the fourteen London Goths who were her tour mates. Dressed in leather, vinyl, and steel, they were accented with studs in their noses, eyebrows, tongues, ears, navels, and probably a few other places Christine didn’t want to know about. They were passing bottles of whiskey and a few fat joints, their deep swigs alternating with pungent drags. Someone had brought a CD player—death metal blared loud enough to actually wake the dead. Which Christine sincerely hoped it would not do. She’d already dodged one zombie earlier that night. She could do without these idiots attracting another one.
“Hey, love,” one male slurred in her direction. He held up his bottle. “Care for a sip?”
“No, thanks.”
A somber church bell tolled eleven. Minutes ticked by uneventfully. At eleven-twenty, the Goths started muttering. By eleven-forty Christine was wondering if she’d thrown away her money. At eleven forty-five, a couple of the Goth females started their own show. Jumping up on the roof of their illegally parked van, they wrapped their arms around each other and joined mouths in a deep, fulltongued kiss. Their men hooted with approval.
Christine plastered herself against the guardrail on the opposite side of the roadway, keeping as much distance between herself and the Goths as possible. It was rotten luck this tour had been almost completely booked by a single group. There was only one other tourist who wasn’t participating in the Goth preshow games—a stunningly handsome dark-eyed man with silky brown hair and velvety eyes. Not a chain in sight. He wore simple drawstring pants of brown linen and a flowing ivory poet’s shirt. He kept glancing her way with a commiserating air.
The church bells started up again in an intonation of the midnight hour. The Goth’s apparent leader—a pale, vampiric man weighted down with enough chains to give even Marley’s ghost a pause, slapped an open palm on the bridge railing.
“Buggering Sidhe.” He took a messy swig of whiskey and wiped his mouth on his leather gauntlet. “Can’t trust ’em farther than you can fart. It’d be just like the sodding buggers to leave us standing with our wanks hanging out.”
“Now, Nigel.” A small, vinyl-clad female ran a soothing palm down his flank. “They’ll come. They always do, you know that.”
“I’ll fucking believe it when I fucking see it.”
The last bell cast a somber note across the city. As the tone faded, an inhuman scream rent the air.
One of the women atop the van shrieked, arms flailing. A man caught her as she fell, then dumped her on the sidewalk with an unceremonious thud. The blare of death metal abruptly stopped, plunging the night into silence.
Christine’s heart slammed against her chest. Another wild screech, vaguely equine, assaulted her ears. In the next instant, a horse and cart appeared at the end of the bridge, galloping toward the crowd. With a collective gasp, the tour group scattered from the center of the road and pressed against the bridge guardrails.
The wooden vehicle careened down the narrow roadway, sparks spitting from its iron-rimmed wheels. The cart lurched violently as the horse reared up in the center of the span. The driver was the half-breed who had sold Christine her ticket.
“Finally,” Nigel muttered. He drained the last drop from his bottle and tossed it over the railing.
The driver had discarded his football jersey. Despite the chill of the night, he was naked to the waist, displaying an impressively muscle-bound torso. A pattern of intricate mirror-image rune tattoos covered his shoulders and chest. He wore the lead gauntlets at his wrists. Tight black leather encased his powerful hips and thighs.
He was the cart’s only occupant. All his considerable strength was given over to controlling his magnificent equine, which was straining against a harness that seemed far too fragile to contain it. The beast was easily twice the size of any horse Christine had ever seen. Its pure white flanks and wild mane glowed like moonlight, giving it a ghostly aspect. It snorted, nostrils flaring, red eyes flashing, huge hooves smashing against the roadway, fracturing asphalt.
She gasped as majestic white wings unfurled from its powerful back. One beat of those wings was enough to lift the horse and front wheels of the cart right off the ground. It took several cracks of the driver’s whip to settle the beast down.
Goddess above. A phooka. In her wildest dreams, Christine had never thought to see one. They were extremely rare. She darted a glance at the Goths. They were staring at the phooka, mouths hanging open. A couple of them looked like they were reconsidering the whole tour idea. As well they might—phookas were known for their wild rides through the midnight sky. Often, their human riders didn’t survive.
Christine was on the brink of abandoning the tour herself. Only one thing stopped her from bolting—the phooka was her fastest, surest route to Kalen. She couldn’t afford to let that cart leave without her.
The half-breed jabbed the handle of his whip over his shoulder. “Get in.”
The Goths obeyed. Christine followed in their wake. As she grasped the cart rail to pull herself aboard, the languid, dark-haired man she’d noticed earlier touched her shoulder.
“Allow me,” he murmured in
a voice that recalled the tumbling silk pull of the tide on the sand. Without waiting for an answer, he placed his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her easily into the cart. With a smooth smile, he settled himself on the straw beside her and slipped an arm behind her back.
Christine contemplated moving away, but the cart was crowded, and the pale, pierced Goth on her left reeked of whiskey and vomit. She stayed put.
“Ho!” At the driver’s cry, the cart jerked. The masculine arm around her shoulder tightened as the phooka sprang into a gallop, the cart whiplashing behind it. The vehicle bounced hard, once, twice, a third time. With a violent lurch, it took to the sky.
The lights of Inverness fell away in a sickening drop. The phooka careened toward the stars. Christine gripped the cart’s rail, her heart in throat. Goth females shrieked; the men shouted. Nigel cursed and demanded the driver slow down. The driver laughed and cracked his whip over the phooka’s back, causing the creature to let out a hideous shriek. The cart surged, then dipped and spun. Christine closed her eyes and hung on for dear life.
The dark-haired man’s arm anchored her. “Dinna worry. I’ve got ye.”
The phooka dove sharply into pitch-darkness. The strap on Christine’s water bottle went taut. The next instant, it snapped; she made a grab for it and missed. The cart went into a spin. The water bottle hurtled into the night. Christine swore under her breath. Shit.
The cart plummeted. The phooka’s hooves struck ground, the cart followed with a splintering bounce. Christine’s bottom lifted, then slammed hard against the cart’s decking as the vehicle thumped to an abrupt halt.
She stood on shaky legs, too upset over the loss of her water bottle to protest when the dark-haired man lifted her from the cart. Once on the ground, he slid her down his body, whispering soothing syllables in her ear.
The unmistakable bulge between his thighs brought Christine up short. Once her feet were firmly anchored on the ground, she murmured a quick thanks and took a step away. The dark-haired man’s sultry gaze tracked her, his lips curved in a faint smile. When she moved again, he followed. Not good. She sidestepped and turned her back.
The half-breed led the group down a narrow, tree-lined road. Gentle hills rose to the left and right. The rain hadn’t returned; there was even a scatter of stars, partially obscured by charcoal clouds. They rounded a corner. A dozen torches sprang into view, illuminating a ring of tall standing stones. A circular mound built of smaller rocks stood in the center of the circle. The top of the structure was about head height, leveled and covered with wide wooden planks.
The ancient burial cairn Gilraen had spoken of was set up like a stage. The disrespect of such an arrangement raised Christine’s ire. Where were the actors in this farce? She scanned the clearing, but saw no sign of Leanna. Or of Kalen.
The half-breed advanced to the nearest stone. “Red tickets advance into the circle. Greens stay outside.”
The tour obediently divided—six of the Goths—three men and three women—passed into the circle, four couples stayed outside. The half-breed collected tickets; each slip of paper vanished in a burst of green flame at his touch. To Christine’s dismay, her dark-haired admirer also held a spectator’s ticket. He smiled and moved closer. She shifted away.
Somewhere beyond the trees, bagpipes began to play. The haunting, mournful melody wound through the clearing, lifting and falling in counterpoint to the flickering shadows. From the treetops, an owl called.
The music grew louder. Shimmering forms appeared at the edges of clearing—six Sidhe garbed in hooded white robes. Were Kalen and Leanna among them? Christine couldn’t tell.
Silently, the figures advanced, passing through the curved line of standing stones. Halting at the edge of the central cairn, they arranged themselves in a circle around the burial mound. Green mist obscured the stage. Christine couldn’t say when the fog had begun to gather; she’d been too busy watching the Sidhes’ approach. Suddenly, two figures—one large, one slender—appeared behind the green veil. They must have come up through a trapdoor in the stage.
On the ground, the six white-robed figures raised their arms, chanting in a language Christine didn’t recognize. Their hoods fell back; she glimpsed three men and three women, all with blond hair and pointed ears. The chant strengthened. The green mist thinned, revealing Leanna, her red hair as bright as a flame. Her perfect body was molded by the same corset she’d been wearing in the tour poster.
Kalen was at her side, dressed in a plaid tartan kilt and nothing else. He stood motionless, arms crossed and legs spread wide. Goddess. Christine had seen him in her vision—she thought she’d known what to expect. But that tiny glimpse through space had in no way prepared her for the reality of an Immortal Warrior in the flesh.
He was well over six feet tall. Dark, broad-shouldered, and vital, he commanded a presence that could only be described as breathtaking. At least, Christine was having distinct trouble breathing. It was as if all the oxygen had suddenly gone out of the air.
He was simply and utterly gorgeous. His face, especially, was an artist’s dream. Its harsh, angular beauty had Christine’s fingers itching for a pencil. She’d capture his eyes first. Dark as sin, fringed with thick, charcoal lashes—she could gaze into them forever. His thick hair, pulled back from his face and tied with a cord, was just the same dark coffee color. The severity of the style accentuated his angular cheekbones, his straight nose and strong chin. His mouth, perhaps, was the only soft feature he possessed. Mobile and sensual, it enticed Christine to run a finger along its upper and lower contours. Press kisses at its corners.
This man—no, scratch that, this demigod—was every inch a warrior, rough and deadly. His chest looked as though it might have been hewn from solid rock. Even standing motionless as he was, he possessed a taut, coiled energy that marked him ready for swift action. Christine had no trouble at all picturing him with a sword, or ax, or halberd, or rifle, or semiautomatic machine gun—any weapon, for that matter. Her determination to recruit him to the Coven of Light’s cause grew. With this warrior on their side, the human world had a fighting chance for survival. She couldn’t fail to bring him to the Coven’s home base in Seattle. She wouldn’t fail.
The strains of the unseen bagpipe continued. The six robed Sidhe drew the red ticket holders into a swirling dance around the cairn, moving and weaving in a pattern reminiscent of a Celtic knot design. Leanna surveyed the scene with a regal air, her lush body swaying, her pale eyes gleaming. Kalen stood silently beside his lover, staring at a point in the forest outside the circle. He looked bored. Or irritated.
“Would’ye look a’ tha’ one?” a woman standing nearby said, pointing at Kalen. “Wish I’d have bought me a red ticket.”
“Me too, love,” her friend replied. “Me too.”
Me three, Christine thought. She couldn’t tear her eyes from him. Her body responded, tightening in some places, growing soft in others. She remembered how his touch had felt in her vision. His hands had been warm and sure, his lips and tongue clever. They’d only had a mental connection, but oh, Goddess, it’d felt more physical than anything she’d ever experienced. She’d been close to orgasming, just from his mouth on her breast. And now he was here, standing so close, in the flesh.
Heat flooded her insides, liquid fire pooled low in her belly. Her magic flowed toward him, seeking him like water seeks its own level. A hiss of air ran through her teeth.
As if he’d heard her, Kalen’s gaze shifted. Narrowed. His dark eyes surveyed the swirling, dancing figures inside the stone circle, searching, his brows drawing together in a frown. Christine caught her breath as his gaze passed over her, then snapped back to her face. She stood staring back at him, unable to move, unable to look away.
His eyes widened slightly, surprise flashing in their obsidian depths. His arm came up, as if reaching for her. Then Leanna touched his arm and murmured something Christine couldn’t hear. Kalen shot Christine one last, piercing look before bending his h
ead to his Sidhe lover.
“Oh. My. Effing. God,” the woman at Christine’s elbow squealed. “Did y’see that? ’E looked at me!”
“Not at you, you sodding idiot,” her companion replied. She jabbed a finger at Christine. “At her. From the looks of it, she’s no stranger to ’im. Must’ve been on the tour before.”
Christine swallowed hard.
She hadn’t imagined it, then.
Kalen had recognized her.
His dream woman was real.
Real, and here, on Leanna’s tour. Kalen could sense her, smell her, almost taste her. She was reaching for him with a tantalizing mix of lust and magic.
His body responded, violently.
Leanna’s rich, throaty voice lapped at Kalen’s ear. He missed her question entirely. He murmured what he hoped was an appropriate response, but in reality, he didn’t much care if she was pleased or not. The stones, the tourists, even the air he was drawing into his lungs seemed very, very far away.
His dream woman was real. His vision hadn’t been a dream. Her magic had to be strong, to have slipped past his castle’s magical defenses. She was a witch, he was sure.
Interesting.
Who was she? He captured her gaze again, and held it several seconds too long. She was the first to look away, her cheeks reddening. He wondered what she was after, casting herself into his lovemaking, then appearing here. She was hardly dressed for a sex tour. With her long bulky sweater, baggy jeans, and heavy boots, she was better prepared for a winter cruise on Loch Ness. Definitely not one of Leanna’s usual clientele.
She didn’t look happy about being here, either. He’d have described her as pretty if her expression hadn’t been so grim. She held her spine rigid, her arms hugging her midriff. Her beautiful long hair wasn’t loose as it had been in his vision, but pulled back into a long, thick braid. The incongruous blue streak was visible at her left temple.