Dark Lover

by Brenda Joyce

  THEY’D CHOSEN the ground floor library to cast Tabby’s magic. The five women sat in a circle on the floor in a darkened room lit by candles, the draperies drawn. Tabby was in a deep trance, softly murmuring her incantation in Gaelic, which Sam did not understand. It didn’t matter. If the circumstances weren’t so horrifying, being together again this way would be a dream come true.

  Sam looked around at the circle of women. Sam had been thrilled to be reunited with Allie again, and pleased to see her intrepid friend in high spirits—and clad in designer jeans, a cute T-shirt and high-heeled boots. But then, Allie Monroe would never run around medieval Scotland in medieval clothes. Because she was so petite, she claimed high heels were a must. She reeked of her white healing power now; clearly, she was far more powerful than she’d been.

  Sam had also liked Claire on sight. The woman was tall, buff, fairly serious and deadly earnest. It was the determination she probably felt instantly and liked the most. There was no question that Claire could fight: she was well armed and she carried herself the way a warrior would. She also wore jeans beneath her long linen gown, which amused Sam.

  And she had a ton of her own white power. It almost felt like a Master’s, but feminized.

  She’d also had the briefest chance to meet Malcolm and Royce, two of the sexiest, most mouthwatering men she’d ever come across. She might have fallen for Ian but she wasn’t blind, and she’d been unable to resist taking a few prolonged looks at both men, especially because they were bare legged.

  Now, everyone was focused entirely on the page of illusion and the old gods. Tabby apparently expected some help from them. But Sam could not concentrate. She kept seeing Ian, drugged and in pain on the concrete floor of that warehouse, or as he’d been just before their capture, impaled on the ramparts. Then she’d think about the damned sex tape, which was in his possession. There was no end to her dismay.

  She wanted there to be a reasonable explanation, one that she could accept—one that wouldn’t make her walk away from their beginning.

  Except, she was probably a fool to think that anything was beginning for them! And if she didn’t focus on the page and finding it, or at least feeling its power, there wouldn’t be a beginning, just a terrible ending.

  Sam realized that Tabby had fallen silent. She opened her eyes and saw her sister staring grimly at her. Sam flushed.

  “I could barely focus, with your thoughts raging as they were!” Tabby released Claire’s and Allie’s hands and stood.

  Sam got up, as did Brie. “I’m sorry.”

  Tabby sighed as someone hit the lights. “We’ll never locate it this way. You have to stay focused, Sam.”

  She was right. But even as Allie reached for the door, it burst open and Gerard stood there, holding a yellowing parchment page in his hand.

  Its power trickled into the room.

  “I was going downstairs when this came up the stairs,” he exclaimed. “It was floating.”

  Tabby’s spell had worked, Sam thought, amazed, as her sister took the page carefully from Gerard. “There’s so much power here,” Tabby said softly. Then she turned to Sam. “If the monk can unleash the power, it won’t be good.”

  Sam stared at her. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Tabby glanced at the other women. Allie said, “Do it, Sam. I’d do it for Royce. We’d all do it for our men.”

  Sam reached for the page when something crashed downstairs. It almost sounded as if the door had been broken down. A second crash followed which sounded like a man being hurled at the wall. She didn’t feel evil—to the contrary. Ian’s Loch Awe home had been filled with white power ever since the women had arrived with their husbands. Malcolm and Royce had gone to Brooklyn with Aidan to help him look for Ian, but Macleod remained downstairs, just in case someone nasty decided to pay the women a visit.

  Sam had a sudden inkling. She took the page from her sister and said, “Get Macleod, Tabby, please, and have him take me to Maclean’s Park Avenue house.” Carlisle had said he’d reach her there when she had the page.

  Tabby hurried for the door. But as she did, Sam looked past her and saw Macleod coming up the stairs. Nick was on his heels.

  She cursed.

  “Yer sister’s friend barged in,” Macleod said, clearly annoyed. “He is lookin’ fer Sam. I decided not to take his head, but tell me otherwise an’ I’ll change my mind—gladly.” His smile was cold.

  Nick stepped past Macleod. “Hello, Sammie. I was really glad to see you when you showed up at Maclean’s fancy town house in one piece, but you’ve gone renegade on me, haven’t you?”

  Nick had Ian’s house on tape and she and Gerard had obviously been recorded. “No. No way. I know what you want and the answer is no! The monk has Ian, Nick. He’s hurt. Badly. I’m making a trade.”

  Nick seemed resigned. “I can’t let you do that. The greater good and all. I am sorry, Sam.” He winced as his power sizzled toward her.

  Sam cried out, struck hard enough that she fell to her knees. Nick had actually hit her. As she looked up, she saw him standing over her, holding the page, his face grim. “Nick!” she screamed furiously.

  He vanished.

  “I’ll get him,” Macleod shouted, vanishing, as well.

  “Guy,” Tabby protested, but it was too late. Both men were gone.

  Sam tried to get up. Claire and Allie rushed to her, but she pushed them away. She was beyond fury now.

  Ian was in the hands of that monster and Nick had the page.

  She had nothing to trade with.

  Allie put her hands on her, sending an instant healing power into her. “All better?” she asked, but her smile contradicted the concern in her eyes.

  “No,” Sam said, standing. “I am not better. Someone get me to HCU!” That was when she saw Brie.

  Her eyes were wide but sightless. She was holding on to a chair for support. In that instant, Sam knew she was having a vision.

  No one moved. They watched as Brie blinked, the color starting to return to her face. Her eyes finally opened. And then she looked at everyone with growing horror.

  “He’s back,” she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BRIE HAD NEVER BEEN more shaken. She stood alone in the library, staring at the empty fireplace, urging Aidan to come back to her.

  She hadn’t been afraid in so long—not with Aidan as her lover, her husband and her best friend. Not with Moray vanquished.

  Sam poked her head into the room. “We’re heading out,” she said tersely, clearly in her warrior mode. She was wearing jeans and heavy biker boots; she held a steel baton in her hand. “I’ll see you in the city. Do you remember the key code to the loft?”

  Brie smiled weakly at her. “Of course I do.” On the surface Sam hadn’t changed. She was so stunning and so fierce. She was so brave.

  But she was different now. Brie felt it. Sam had opened up her heart again, after almost two decades, and was feeling compassion, empathy and love. Brie had always known this day would come.

  “Gotta go, my ride’s waiting.” She started to leave, then paused. “Are you sure Aidan will hear you? He’s on the other side of the ocean.”

  “We can communicate across centuries,” she said softly. It was true. She wasn’t a warrior and she would never be one. But her gifts were meant to be used to help him and the Brethren. Brie was honing her abilities to feel and to see. It was a rare day that went by that she did not sense a child’s pain or have a vision of such suffering. Aidan would respond as if it were a 911 call. He’d become adept at searching through the sands of time to find and defend the children she’d seen—there were always clues in her visions. He preferred that she stay at Awe while he did what a Master was meant to do. It was chauvinistic but she knew he was terrified to endanger her—to lose her. He loved her that much.

  He never left for long, but they were apart quite often. Centuries could separate them. It didn’t matter. They were always in contact with one another.

&
nbsp; Sam nodded and strode away. Macleod and Tabby were waiting in the other room to take her back to New York City.

  Brie paced. Aidan, where are you? Come back!

  She told herself not to panic. Aidan had so much power now. She had complete faith in him. No man or Master was as strong, as good, as brave. But she was scared. Their life together was almost too good to be true. Once, he’d been her secret fantasy. Now, she had found her other half, and she didn’t want to ever lose him.

  He materialized in swirling currents of energy and air, sparking white and gold. He landed standing, breathing hard, his face set against the pain of the leap through time. But it was also set against the pain of losing his son another time.

  Brie ran to him and put her arm around him as his hard, muscular body trembled. She waited for the physical pain to recede. When he looked at her, she wanted to cry.

  He was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on. But his perfect features were ravaged with grief and fear. She’d hoped to never see him so anguished again.

  They were reliving the past.

  He pulled away from her. “Lookin’ fer him in the city is like tryin’ to find a needle in the hay.”

  She touched his cheek. “Ian is a grown man now.”

  “Who hates me.”

  She fought her own tears. “But we can forgive him, because we know what he’s endured.”

  “Of course I forgive him! I love my son. An’ now that evil bastard has imprisoned him again. Ye ken what they did to him!”

  Her husband knew because he’d lurked in Ian’s mind without shame, a father desperate to know the truth. Brie could only guess at the horrors Ian had suffered. “He’s a grown man now, with power—and he has Sam.”

  Aidan looked at her. “The Slayer? He’s only usin’ her fer sex.”

  “No, darling, you’re wrong. She’s freeing him from his past, the way I freed you.”

  Aidan hugged her, hard. “I’m afraid for him.”

  “I know.”

  “I willna let him suffer again. This time, I will find him, free him an’ kill the bastard monk.” He pulled abruptly away, blue eyes ablaze now.

  Brie just looked at him, her heart slamming.

  His eyes widened. “What is it? What secret do ye have?”

  She opened up her mind completely to his.

  “Moray is back?” he cried. And Aidan, the Wolf of Awe, turned white.

  “HE’S PASSED OUT again,” the guard said, laughing.

  Ian lay very still, naked on the cement floor, swimming in pain, not moving. He’d been counting the minutes until his tormentors would return.

  This time, he was going to have his revenge.

  This time, he was going to destroy Carlisle.

  He was careful not to smile as he lay on his stomach as they approached, his eyes closed. He’d endured their torture for one reason only: revenge.

  He didn’t know if hours had gone by since Sam had left, or days. They’d beaten him several times, and not just with their fists. He’d heard them talking. They had orders to keep him weak and helpless but alive. The monk had gone back to Carlisle in the sixteenth century. After the last beating, there had been antibiotics and a blood transfusion. He recalled a doctor attending him, setting broken bones and fractures.

  It had been a mistake to bring a doctor to him. It had been a mistake to give him blood and meds. His body felt broken. His body was broken. But his mind wasn’t broken, not this time. The more blood they replaced, the longer he was on medication, the stronger he was inside, where it counted.

  He had never been as clear as to what he had to do.

  He lived with so much rage.

  And the fear was somehow gone.

  He didn’t know why the fear he’d lived with all of his life had vanished. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t a nine-year-old boy anymore. But he had drifted in and out of his past, out of the years of captivity, during the beatings and when the doctor had come. Sam had been with him through it all, too.

  It was as if she refused to leave his side. Even when they were torturing him, he’d been aware of her. He knew she’d left—she was going to defy him, find the page and trade it for him—but it felt as if she was beside him. When the pain was at its worst, he had reached for her and found real comfort.

  He had tried once or twice to use his visual telepathy to find her, but he’d been too weak, too drugged to do so. He tried now, but only saw her face, haggard with concern. He knew it was his imagination.

  Fearless Sam Rose…who was so worried about him…who loved him.

  He knew he couldn’t have heard her correctly. In the past hours—or days—he’d thought about her declaration again and again, stunned by it. She couldn’t love a man like him. He was defiled and defective, the son of a Master who would never be a Master, a near-immortal who used his powers to steal art, not help others. Worse, he’d been a coward for most of his life.

  He’d heard her incorrectly. But did it matter?

  Because she was his friend.

  And she had his back.

  He didn’t want her to trade the page for him, but she was going to do it, because of who and what she was to him now.

  And if he were freed, he’d have her back, too.

  Through the throbbing pain, a feeling he’d never had before surfaced. It was faint and weak and so unfamiliar, it was hard to identify. He wondered if it was joy.

  “Shall we wake him up for the doc? Hey, Maclean, Doc’s gonna check on you so we can have some more fun.”

  “Is he smiling?” The other guard was incredulous.

  He tensed, careful to contain his smile. His mind had never been as clear as it was now. He could feel his otherworldly power inside him, seething and ready to be let out. Their drugs weren’t as effective as they’d first been. It was time.

  “I’d rather tend him while he’s unconscious,” the doctor said, sounding nervous. “Can you carry him to the examining table, please?”

  Ian kept still as he was roughly lifted and carried across the room to where a small examination area had been set up, but he moaned.

  The broken bones hurt. His insides hurt. Hell, his skin hurt, too.

  He bit back a cruel, cold smile. His fingers itched to inflict pain, to kill.

  The doctor laid his stethoscope on his bare chest and began to listen to his heartbeat. Ian felt his surprise at the strength of his pulse.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at the doctor.

  The doctor’s eyes went wide in alarm.

  Ian seized the stethoscope and twisted it around his throat so tightly and swiftly that the doctor’s eyes bulged as he began to choke. The guards ran for him. Ian sat and snapped his neck in half with his bare hands. As he did so, his power blazed.

  The guards were possessed. That meant that they could withstand more than the average mortal. They staggered under the impact of Ian’s energy but kept coming, hands raised to seize him and subdue him.

  Ian reached for a scalpel, one of the instruments they’d used on him. He dug it deep into the first guard’s heart. As the second guard caught his arm, beginning to wrestle him off the table, he blasted him again and again. He reeled over, finally dying.

  Ian stood to face the third guard, who had a six millimeter pointed at him. Guard number one lay half on the table, and he pulled the scalpel from his chest. “Come an’ get it,” he snarled.

  The guard smiled savagely at him, making no move to approach.

  “Oh, I forgot. Yer orders are to let me live,” he said, starting forward. “I guess I’ll come an’ get ye, then.”

  The guard fired.

  Even as the bullet entered his side, he was launching himself onto the guard. They went down together. All Ian recalled was the poking and prodding, the cords and electric shocks, the misery and terror of the nine-year-old boy. Roaring, he plunged the scalpel, deep.

  When he stopped, he was on his hands and knees, astride the dead guard, breathing hard, and still seeing red. He rea
lized he’d hacked the guard a dozen times.

  He rolled away and sat down hard on the floor, panting.

  He was free.

  And Carlisle was very much alive.

  He looked down. He’d been shot. He hoped it was a graze. The burning sensation was nothing compared to what he’d just been though. He decided to ignore it.

  He gave himself a moment and took some deep breaths, ignoring the carnage around him. His body really hurt, but he had his power and he could leap.

  His next thought was Sam.

  Where was she? Was she all right? Was she at Loch Awe, which might be a very safe place for her?

  At least the monk had gone back to 1527.

  Which meant that was where he was going, immediately.

  The anger returned, burning inside him. It felt like it was in his blood, his veins. He got up, holding his side. Another near-immortal would take a day or two to heal. He did not have that luxury.

  Ian limped over to the table and stripped the doctor of his surgical pants, which he pulled on. Then he paused. Before he went back in time to find and kill the monk, he had to locate Sam and make certain she was all right. He strained to find her.

  Sam, where are ye?

  A long moment passed. There was no answer.

  He tried again. Sam?

  When he didn’t feel or hear her, he sought her with his visual telepathy. Although there were drugs and antibiotics in his system, surely the gift would work now.

  Instantly, he saw her standing in a modern office, furious. He recognized the setting—she was at HCU.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. It occurred to him that he was more concerned for her than he should be, but he’d worry about that later.

  Ian crossed the room, which was vacant except for the examination area. The steel door was ajar and he went through it. He froze.

  Facing him, hanging from the beam above, was a cage on a pulley.

  He started to breathe hard. For one instant, there was fear.

  Then he vanquished the fear. But the shock remained and he looked down the gray sterile hall, and knew it was familiar. Dread sickened him.