Reckoning

by J. C. Wilder

  Her breathing grew shallow, and her knees went wobbly. There was a latent sense of power surrounding him that pulled at her. Here was safety, strength and honor embodied in one man. She wanted nothing more than to walk to him, allow him to shelter her body and soul until the storm passed. No harm would come to her.

  That’s what you’d thought about him too.

  A dash of cold realization washed over her. What was she thinking? Tearing her gaze from the man on the tree, she dropped her head. Heart pounding, her mouth went dry. Stomach churning, she braced her hands on her knees as she gulped air like a drowning man.

  Her lack of judgment had cost Rebecca her life. Never again would Maeve allow a handsome man to lull her into a false sense of security. Judging from her body’s response, this man was dangerous to her sense of self-preservation. She needed to get away from him and fast, before she did anything stupid like kiss him.

  A raucous cry overhead drew her attention. Several feet over the man’s head flew several birds of differing sizes. They swooped and played, calling out as if beckoning the man to join in their antics. A large raven hung in the air directly above his head—its beady eyes fixed on her.

  Run.

  Darkness licked at the edges of her vision. Startled, she jerked backward, her boots stuttering over the rocks before catching on a gnarled root. Maeve stifled a squeak as she lost her balance.

  Quinn’s concentration broke when he heard the rattle of stones and a soft feminine cry. Arms flailing, the redhead landed almost silently on her backside. He winced. The shoreline was littered with rocks, and he knew that had to hurt yet she didn’t make another sound.

  Jumping off the tree, he landed on a boulder before dropping to the shore. Keeping to the larger rocks, he hopscotched to the fallen woman.

  “Are you okay?”

  She scrambled to her feet before he could reach her. In the bright sunlight, her hair was the color of flame and her eyes were the most startling shade of green. Brilliant as the greenest meadow in Ireland and filled with distrust, they ensnared him.

  Ye Goddess, but she was lovely.

  Soft brows arched over those mesmerizing eyes and her nose was pert with a slight tilt at the end hinting at impudence. With the pale skin of a true redhead, a few freckles were scattered across the bridge of her nose and her lips were wide and full. The only imperfection was the bruising on her jaw, which stuck out in dark hues of purple and blue.

  Anger stirred in his gut and he forced his gaze away.

  She wore a tight black athletic bra that smashed her breasts almost flat. Her stomach was perfectly flat and her arms corded with muscle. Tight black leggings clung to long legs, outlining her slim hips and muscular thighs. Knee-high suede boots covered her feet and calves.

  Damn, no wonder she’d felt so hard against him. A professional bodybuilder would have to work to attain her physique. Even though she wasn’t overly tall, she reminded him of an Amazon warrior, beautiful, courageous and ultimately lethal.

  Normally, he preferred his women to be small, bordering on delicate in appearance. Cultured, intelligent, his idea of the perfect woman was more interested in intellectual pursuits than honing her muscles to perfection. His brother Marty teased him mercilessly about his penchant for longhaired blonde computer nerds with large breasts.

  This woman was the total opposite of what usually attracted him to the opposite sex. A slow heat built in his groin, and his cock stirred. Well, she might not be his usual type, but his body could care less. A crucial part of his anatomy liked the woman standing before him, and it was very interested in making her acquaintance.

  “Like what you see?”

  Quinn jerked his gaze from her washboard stomach to meet her hostile gaze. “I was just thinking you must work out a lot,” he lied.

  Her narrow gaze dropped to his groin, and he knew he was busted. Muttering something uncomplimentary under her breath, she stalked past him, allowing him a glimpse of her back. What he saw shocked him.

  From the nape of her neck to the top of her pants was a mehndi tattoo done in henna. The triple goddess—maiden, mother and crone—was depicted in the face of the moon. Her bra straps and swaying braid obscured the design, but he could tell the skill of the artist even from here. Just above the waist of her pants were runic symbols, but he couldn’t read them since she was moving away at a fast clip.

  The deep russet of the henna tattoo, exotic against her pale skin, was also one hell of a turn-on.

  Down, damn it.

  When she reached the edge of the river, she tossed her shirt onto a rock and he caught sight of the gash on her shoulder. Dried blood obscured her shoulder blade down to the wide band of her athletic bra. Red and irritated, the wound looked incredibly painful.

  “You’re hurt,” he said.

  Dropping into a crouch, she spoke over her shoulder. “I’ll live.” Cupping her hands, she flung handfuls of icy water on her face.

  Ignoring the pain from the rocks digging into his feet, he stalked to where his bag and discarded clothing lay. “We need to get that cleaned, or you’ll end up with an infection.”

  She paused in her hasty ablutions to look at him. “I said I’ll live.” A frown twisted her lips.

  Quinn pulled on his moccasins and reached into the bag for a clean T-shirt, which he held up. She opened her mouth, but he stopped the protest she was about to utter.

  “Humor me,” he spoke quietly.

  Her gaze was searching and he held himself impassive as she studied his face. After a moment, she accepted his offering with a slight nod of thanks. She dried her face on the shirt, then rose to her full height and met his gaze. Her shoulders were back and her head held high. “Thank you.”

  She was a prickly thing.

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded at a low, flat boulder nearby. “Why don’t you sit there, and I’ll attend your shoulder?”

  “Before you start, I want to ask you something.”

  Quinn retrieved his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Sure.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “I guess we haven’t been introduced, have we?” He held out his hand. “Quinn Montgomery, at your service.”

  She hesitated before placing her hand in his. An electric jolt of awareness raced up his arm and expanded through his body. For a split second, his skin felt as if it were on fire. There was heat in this woman, heat the likes of which he’d never experienced before. He saw the flash of awareness in her eyes then she dropped his hand as if she’d been scalded.

  “Maeve, Maeve Leigh.”

  She turned away, almost running in her haste to put some distance between them. Climbing onto the boulder, she drew her knees toward her chest before wrapping her arms around them.

  He followed and dropped the bag on the rock behind her. Pawing through the contents, he located his first-aid kit. She watched him, and he had the feeling those emerald eyes missed very little.

  “Were you are a Boy Scout?”

  A snort of laughter escaped him as he opened the box. “Hardly.”

  “Well, you certainly seem to be prepared.” Her tone was dry.

  “It usually pays to plan ahead.”

  “Isn’t that the—” Her breath hissed between clenched teeth as he inspected the wound.

  “Sorry. This is going to hurt.” He paused. “You might need to remove your bra so I can clean this better.”

  She rotated her shoulder then winced as the movement tugged her wound. “There’s no way I can get this over my head. It’ll have to be cut off.”

  He looked through the first-aid kit again. “All I have is a small pair of bandage scissors. I’ll have to go back to the truck—”

  “Don’t bother.” She reached into her right boot and withdrew a knife. With a practiced motion, she slit the straps of her bra and shoved them out of the way before severing the stretchy material between her breasts. The fabric snapped away from her body as she crossed her arms over her b
are chest, shielding herself from his gaze.

  “That will work too.”

  He turned away but not before a tantalizing glimpse of a half-naked Maeve was burned into his mind. As she’d cut the bra in front, he’d gotten a peek at the full mounds of her breasts. She was larger than he’d suspected. Damn! Who knew she’d whip her bra off like that? The least she could’ve done was warn him. Mentally chastising himself, he turned his attention to her wound.

  The gash wasn’t too deep—it extended from the top of her shoulder about three inches down her back. It should’ve been stitched sooner, but it was too late now. The risk of infection was too great to chance it. He reached for the alcohol.

  “Are you really Mortianna’s son?”

  He was used to the question, but it still annoyed him every time he heard it. Mortianna had never publicly claimed her son as she had her daughter. Bliss had been the desired child, while he wasn’t. Even now, it still rankled.

  “You heard her say it, didn’t you?”

  Maeve nodded. “I’d never heard she had a son.”

  “Not many have,” he muttered.

  He tried to ignore the temptation of her bare skin as he applied himself to cleaning her wound. The morning sunlight caught the fire in her hair, distracting him as he used rubbing alcohol to cleanse the damaged flesh. When he dabbed the liquid on the deeper end of the cut, her body trembled beneath his hand. He couldn’t tell if it was due to discomfort or the chilly air. Even though it was unseasonably warm, it couldn’t have been much over fifty-five degrees.

  “Are you a witch then?”

  “Yes.” Efficiently, he tore open the wrapping on a four by four bandage then applied it to the cut.

  “How does a witch go about learning spells?”

  Her tone was curious, but there was something else behind her words. Inwardly, he groaned. She was probably like the others who’d flocked to him once they found out about his talents. Invariably, they were in pursuit of a spell to guarantee happiness and wealth in their lives.

  “We’re taught by our parents,” he said. “Magical knowledge is passed down from generation to generation.”

  “What if they don’t tell you everything?”

  He opted to ignore the question as he added the last strip of medical tape to hold the pad in place. “There you go, all better.”

  She turned to look at him, her gaze direct. “What if your parents didn’t teach you a spell you needed? Where could you get it?”

  Anger bubbled up. When other witches found out who his parents were, it was the same old story. They always wanted something from him, usually a spell or his name in marriage. Some women thought that being married to him would entitle them to a life of leisure including a multitude of spells to take care of pesky details such as housework and working for a living.

  Little did they know he wasn’t much of a bargain as he’d make a terrible husband.

  Quinn leaned forward until their noses were mere inches apart. “Look, Maeve. Witchcraft isn’t about a spell to clean your house or to make someone fall in love with you. It’s a way of life, and it’s sacred to us. I won’t give you a spell to make you rich, nor give you a spell of immortality. Both are an abomination.”

  She blinked. Her expression turned wary. “Immortality is an abomination?”

  Ah ha! Now he knew what she wanted, the immortality spell. Typical. Most humans didn’t realize what true immortality entailed and for some it was the ultimate curse.

  “Some of us are born immortal while vampires or a few other preternaturals can also create them,” he ground out. “Unless it’s a Goddess-given gift, it’s an abomination to Her.”

  She sprang up from the stone. Her head almost slammed into his jaw and he jumped backward to avoid being hit. Her spine was rigidly straight, and her arms were still crossed over her chest to cover her nakedness.

  “Thanks for your help and invaluable insight.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. Snatching her shirt from a low rock, she turned away to struggle into the tattered garment.

  “You should’ve told me about your injury last night.” Quinn forced his voice to soften. It wasn’t her fault that he was guarded, jaded thanks to an endless stream of people wanting something from him. “Waiting will cause it to scar even worse.”

  “No, it won’t. By nightfall it will be all healed and none will be the wiser.” She turned to face him, her expression defiant. “I’m an immortal, created by a vampire. Or, in your words, an abomination.”

  Chapter Four

  Cynicism poured hot and heavy through her veins as Maeve stomped through the woods toward the SUV. He was just like the rest of them, narrow-minded and ignorant.

  After Rebecca’s death, her family, not knowing what had changed their remaining daughter, had turned away from her. All too well, she remembered her mother’s cries for justice and her unspoken condemnation of her surviving daughter. Maeve was the oldest, and she should’ve protected her sister. Granted, she was only fourteen minutes older than her twin. Reb attracted trouble like honey attracted a bear. Early on it had been Maeve’s responsibility to keep her sister on the straight and narrow, and she’d done a good job until that last night.

  How could she have told her parents that an elder vampire had killed Rebecca, and she, the remaining twin, had been made an immortal? The preternaturals were fanatic about their secrecy, and anyone revealing the existence of the Shadow Dwellers would forfeit her life.

  Not to mention the fact no one would’ve believed her. Even attempting to tell them would’ve earned her a one-way ticket to the funny farm. Not only did the real circumstances sound completely insane, what average, everyday person could comprehend such things?

  None.

  Now Maeve was alone in the world by choice. In their own way they’d closed ranks against her. It was easier to mourn the loss of both daughters than to face the unusual changes in the one who’d survived. With their unspoken questions unanswered, she’d decided her presence hurt her family more than helped. She was a living, breathing reminder of the nightmare their lives had become.

  She reached the clearing. She snatched open the passenger side door and grabbed Quinn’s sweater off the seat. Shivering violently, she tugged it on over her shirt, ignoring the pull of the bandage and her wound.

  When it came to nightmares, she could write a book.

  Her family, both immediate and extended, had been extremely close and intrusive growing up. Upon entering college Maeve had discovered she enjoyed being alone, well, except for her sister. With their family hundreds of miles away, they had no one to report to, pick up after or cook for and her time was finally her own.

  Without anyone looking over her shoulder she could focus all her time and attention on her goal, tracking and destroying her sister’s murderer. Her thirst for revenge was what sustained her soul, not her family.

  The crunch of dry underbrush announced Quinn’s arrival. Fully clothed, he stopped a few feet away, his bag dangling from his fingertips.

  “We need to get on the road.” She refused to meet his gaze, instead concentrating on pulling the warm wool down around her hips.

  “Were you willing?” His voice was hoarse.

  She knew what he was talking about. He didn’t have to spell it out to her. “Does it matter? What’s done is done.” She climbed in the passenger side and slammed the door, unwilling to watch the condemnation on his face. Let him think what he wanted. Most did anyway.

  Several minutes passed before he got in and started the engine. Staring straight ahead, she willed him to put the truck into gear and not say another word to her.

  “Look at me.”

  His voice was low, commanding. Unable to resist his summons, yet steeling herself for his censure, she turned to him.

  “It does matter,” he said.

  She turned to stare out the side window as he put the vehicle in drive.

  Yeah, right.

  Maeve breathed a sigh of relief as they rounded the last m
ountainous curve, and Sinjin’s home came into view. Set on a cliff overlooking the sea, Aisling Crioch, Dream’s End, was a massive stone structure built over four hundred years before on the remains of a medieval stronghold.

  Pale cream-colored stone walls and empty glass windows stared down at them as they drove up the long gravel drive. A plethora of stone gargoyles and dragons perched on the ramparts as if awaiting their turn to leap upon unsuspecting visitors.

  Not that Dream’s End had very many visitors. The locals in the nearest village believed the house was a gateway to the netherworld, and Sinjin was in league with the devil. Few dared set foot on damned ground. A bitter smile tugged at her mouth. Little did they know how close to the truth they were.

  As Quinn guided the SUV through the wrought iron gates, Maeve tensed, expecting the power of the vampire to wash over her. She frowned as they drew closer yet nothing happened.

  Vampires had a variety of methods to keep the unwanted away from their lairs. One was to retain a Gatekeeper, a human or revenant to keep the living away from their sleeping place. Another was to use a guard—a sort of magical lock that required a key or password in order to enter the vampire’s territory.

  While Sinjin had several humans who worked for him, he used guards to protect his domain. From the moment she passed the gates, she’d felt his power pulsing just beneath her skin, reminiscent of a low-voltage current. She didn’t realize until now how she’d grown used to the mystical energy that had surrounded her for the past year. Now, she felt nothing but the cool air of the approaching Highland winter. Unease prickled down her spine, and her senses leapt to attention.

  Something was wrong.

  Quinn stopped the SUV at the base of the steps, and she flung open the door before he’d even put it in park. Her heart pounding wildly, she paused only long enough to pull her boot blade before running up the steps. She heard Quinn’s shout, but she didn’t hesitate. The ancient oak door was open a few inches, and it swung wide when she put her hand on it and gently pushed.