It was a sly dig, best ignored. “Their magic is all that stands between me and failure.”
“Nonsense.”
“The mages are extremely valuable,” he said. “Those of us who’ve happened upon the Council count ourselves blessed. But working alone, with no formal communication system in place, most Gatherers are unaware of their existence. You can remedy that. Easily. Give me access to the Gatherer database and allow me to train them.”
“Absolutely not. I cannot have you distracted from your mission.” She waved a hand over the flat ice wall before her. Tendrils of fog crept up the wall from the floor and swirled, morphing into a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors. A huge map of the world formed out of the psychedelic haze, populated with clusters of tiny black dots. “Training is a waste of time when Gatherers are so easily replaced. These days, most humans live selfish lives, happy to dance the fine line between good and evil to get what they want. There are plenty in purgatory to choose from.”
She tossed him a wry look. “And there are always a few who actually beg for the chance to serve me.”
Lachlan stiffened.
“Now, away with you, MacGregor. I’ve work to do. And remember, every moment you are not gathering …”
It was probably too simple to blame the bus accident.
Rachel sat on Emily’s rumpled bed, gnawing the nail of her left index finger down to the quick as her daughter crawled in through the window. But ever since the crash, her life had become a nightmare.
She waited until Em had pulled her heavy-soled combat boots over the sill and straightened her black miniskirt before she spoke from the shadows.
“I’m thinking, grounded for a year.”
Her daughter jerked, bumping her elbow against the sturdy, particleboard desk and knocking a pile of papers to the floor. The shock of being discovered didn’t last long. Em’s shoulders quickly resumed their defiant, don’t-give-a-damn slouch. “For what? Walking in the dark?”
“Going out after curfew.”
“Curfew’s bullshit. I wasn’t doing anything.”
“You’re fourteen, Emily. Way too young to be out wandering the streets at one in the morning.” Rachel stared at the budding woman before her. Not very long ago, her daughter’s favorite color had been baby blue; now she wore thick black eyeliner, gobs of mascara, and a silver spider screw in her nose. Once, they’d talked for hours about every subject under the sun. Now, conversations were as rare as ten-carat diamonds. She no longer knew her own daughter. “It’s not safe.”
“Nothing happened, did it?”
“That’s not the point. Something could have happened. Accidents are never really accidents. They’re mistakes. They happen when you don’t think things through.”
“What was there to think about? It was a walk.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Em. It’s the middle of the night.”
“Whatever.” Em shrugged. “The grounding thing’s lame, anyway. You’re never home.”
The jab struck deep. Rachel typically woke up at seven, dressed, made the lunches, and prodded her daughter out the door in time to catch the school bus. Then she drove to work for nine and didn’t get home most nights until after six. Em was on her own at least three hours every day. “I’ll get Mrs. Mendelson to sit with you.”
A snort. “Yeah, right. That old bat’s a hundred. If I decide to ditch her, there’s no way she could stop me.”
“You’re not just going for walks.”
Em’s head cocked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Rachel tossed the hardcovered book in her hand to the floor at Em’s feet. It slid to a stop among the empty gum wrappers and discarded clothing. “I read your diary. You’re meeting some boy who owns a motorcycle.”
Em stiffened. “You read my diary?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Hullo? What planet are you from? Diaries are private.”
“I wouldn’t normally intrude,” admitted Rachel, flushing in the darkness, “but you’ve given me no choice. Ever since the bus accident you’ve been acting weird. Not answering your cell phone when I call from work, drawing bizarre images, and now going out after curfew. I didn’t know what to think.”
“Ever think to ask?”
Rachel shot to her feet. “Ask? Believe me, Em, I’ve tried. But every time I start a conversation, all I get are mumbles, shrugs, and eye rolls. You haven’t been making this very easy.”
Em bent to untie her boots. “You don’t give a shit about my opinion.”
“That’s not true. I always—”
“Sure, whatever.” She kicked her boots into the corner and dug through the pile of clothes on the floor until she produced a pair of black silk boxers and an oversized black T-shirt emblazoned with a white skull. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“No. Don’t shut me out, Em. I want to understand; I really do. Just tell me why you’re doing all this, why you’re going out in the middle of the night, why you’re seeing this guy.”
Her daughter straightened. “You don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“Me, my life, anything.”
“Then explain it to me.” Rachel put a hand on Emily’s arm. She remembered the days when a much younger Em would rush home and blurt out everything that had happened to her at school. “Please.”
Em shrugged off her touch. “Nice try, but five minutes once a month doesn’t count as mothering.”
A spark of anger flashed in Rachel’s chest, but she snuffed it. Her work had been very demanding lately and maybe she deserved that. “We could spend time together on the weekend, like we used to. See a movie, go shopping. Whatever you want.”
“I’ve already got plans to hang with Sheila.”
“If you want me to understand you, you need to let me in, Em. Cut me a little slack. I’m trying.”
Her daughter tugged the baggy T-shirt over her head, then threw herself on the bed. “Try all you want.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I hardly think—”
“Jeez, enough with the lectures already. Leave me alone.”
This time the fire couldn’t be contained. “You want alone? Fine. Forget going to a movie. Forget going anywhere with Sheila. You’re grounded for two weeks. And since you’ve convinced me you need a jailer, Mr. Wyatt next door will be sitting on your ass the whole time.”
“Nice.” Em’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
Goaded, Rachel threw in a parting shot. “Oh, and I’ll be calling the police to report this boyfriend of yours, too. Until you’re eighteen, messing with you is called statutory rape.”
Emily stilled. All hint of teenage softness disappeared from her face, leaving behind an unrecognizable, malevolent stranger.
“I hate you,” she said.
Regret clawed at Rachel’s gut. “Em, I—”
“Get out.”
“Really, I’m so—”
“Close the door on your way out.”
Rachel held Em’s gaze for a moment, uncertain. Ending the conversation on such a sour note made her stomach heave. But there was no room for maneuvering in those frigid blue eyes, no hope of breaking through to make amends.
“I love you,” she offered helplessly.
To the same cold stare.
Rachel stepped back, chest aching. She slowly pulled the door shut, acknowledging her defeat.
Lachlan’s sword hit the brass-studded targe with a loud whomp, sending a heavy shudder down his adversary’s arm. He followed up with two more fierce strikes before his dark-haired foe stumbled.
“Christ! Enough already,” Brian groaned. “My arm is falling off.”
Lachlan dropped his weapon to his side and pitched his barely sweating opponent a look of disgust. “How the blazes do you survive, Webster? Any half-formed demon could kick your arse.”
“When the going gets tough, I do what any sane Gatherer would do.” Brian eased his arm out of the
targe’s straps and gingerly flexed his bicep. “Use a speed primal and get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Running won’t save you if you’re surrounded.” Lachlan wiped his practice sword with an oiled cloth and leaned it up against the stone fireplace. “This would be much easier had you begun training when you were a lad.”
“Yeah, well, I was too busy skateboarding and blowing my eardrums out with Pearl Jam, so that wasn’t an option.”
“Your combat skills need a lot of work.”
Brian deposited his sword and shield on the floor. Looking more like a walking sportswear advertisement than an immortal warrior, he used his arm to wipe the faint sheen off his brow and gave Lachlan a rueful smile. “All those years of corporate backstabbing and deep-sixing the competition don’t count, huh?”
“No.”
“But I’m young and I’m agile. You told me that when we started. And last week, you said I’d come a long way in five weeks. So why the long face?”
“Because you know just enough to get yourself killed.”
“Hey,” the former stockbroker protested, “I thought you said I had good instincts.”
“You need more than good instincts. You need skill.” Lachlan rubbed his shirt front to halt the trickles running down his chest. “And you need more bloody endurance. You should be training every spare minute.”
“No way. Unlike you, MacGregor, I have a life.”
“Read the cards, Webster. Things have changed.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. A year ago, the chances of being ambushed were one in fifty and now it’s more like fifty-fifty. But I’m already doing my bit. I work out with you three times a week. That’s more than most Gatherers can say.”
“Three hours a week is not enough.”
“Why not? I’m learning from the best.” Brian smiled. “Word on the Gatherer grapevine is that you once single-handedly took down a pair of martial demons.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Oh, come on. You were ambushed by elite soldier henchies from the inner rings of hell and lived to tell the tale. I know it’s true; admit it. With you as my coach, there’s no question I’ll eventually own some demon ass.”
Shaking his head at the young man’s bravado, Lachlan strode into the kitchen.
“So …” Brian said, following him. “Given any thought to my idea?”
“No.” He grabbed two bottles of water out of the fridge and tossed one to the other man.
“Why not?” Brian popped the cap on his water and downed half the bottle in a single, long swallow. “I know at least a dozen Gatherers who’d be here at the drop of a hat if you agreed to train them.”
“I don’t run a school.”
“You trained me.”
“A momentary lapse in judgment. I felt sorry for you.”
“And you don’t feel anything for the other Gatherers, stuck with the crappy shield primal the boss provides?”
“No.”
“Bullshit, MacGregor. I’ve seen you giving freebie advice on the street. I know you don’t want to see the rest of them get creamed. What’s holding—” Brian broke off as a knock sounded on the apartment door. Arching a brow, he asked, “Expecting someone?”
“No.”
There was a pause, then another sharp rap.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” the younger man prodded.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m no’ expecting anyone.”
With the finesse of a basketball player, Brian lobbed his water bottle into the sink, then strode toward the door. “Yeah, but you never know, it could be some superhot babe who wants to jump your bones …”
“Webster,” Lachlan warned.
Brian obligingly halted, but only long enough to glance through the peephole. Then he grinned, tugged on the doorknob, and swung open the solid wood portal.
Lachlan’s breath snagged.
It was Rachel, looking limp and weary from a long day at the office, but still as lovely as ever in a softly flowing purple top and beige slacks. Her gaze flicked between him and Brian. “Uh, if this is a bad time, I can come back.”
“Nope, come on in,” offered Brian generously, waving her inside. Over the top of Rachel’s head, he mouthed, See? Hot babe. “I was just leaving.”
Rachel’s eyes remained hesitant. They darted from Lachlan’s face to his sweat-dampened gray T-shirt, and back up. “Are you sure?”
No, he wasn’t the least bit sure. Having her in his apartment—seeing her gaze linger on the breadth of his chest—did uncomfortable things to his pulse, but turning her away was bloody well impossible.
“Aye,” he reassured her. “My friend Brian was indeed on his way out.”
The other man returned his stare. Hard. “I’ll be back later, when you’ve had time to think on my proposal.”
Lachlan didn’t respond. The succinct comeback on the tip of his tongue wasn’t fit for polite company.
The door thudded closed, and Rachel advanced into the apartment, looking around. “This is the first time I’ve ever been in one of the three-bedroom suites. Very nice.”
Ridiculous. Just the word bedroom spilling from her lips sent a wave of heat crashing over him. “Can I offer you a drink? Water, juice, tea?”
Her eyes brightened. “Tea would be terrific.”
He filled the kettle and put it on the stove. “How is Emily doing? Recovered fully from the accident?”
“Funny you should ask,” Rachel responded dryly. “She’s why I’m here.” Then she flushed a charming shade of rosy pink. “Probably inappropriate of me, but I asked around to find out which apartment was yours. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No’ at all.”
Mind didn’t begin to describe the turmoil in his gut. He wanted to be pleased that she’d sought him out, but a host of old memories rose up right along with his male pride. Memories of what it felt like to have a woman desire him, to win her love, to have his heart ripped out when she died—which all living things eventually did. He took two cups and a teapot out of the cupboard.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” She wandered over to the stone fireplace, eyeing his sword with curiosity. “You’ve got quite the collection of medieval weapons. Are they real?”
“No, they’re replicas. The real thing would be worth an arm and a leg in today’s market.” And he certainly wouldn’t keep treasures like that in this poorly secured apartment. In a specially sealed vault at the bank, perhaps, but not here.
Her gaze drifted over the furnitureless room. “There are other priorities for your funds, I guess.”
The temptation to dispute his lack of wealth was powerful, but Lachlan kept his mouth shut. An explanation would almost assuredly involve showing her his well-appointed den down the hall, which was too close to his king-sized bed for comfort.
The kettle whistled, and he poured boiling water over the tea bags. “Tell me about Emily,” he encouraged. A nice, safe topic.
Rachel crossed the room and climbed onto one of the stools at the breakfast island. As she leaned over the granite countertop, the silky material of her blouse stretched tight across her breasts.
Lachlan abruptly turned away.
She sighed, then confessed, “I don’t know what’s got into her.”
As he fetched the milk and sugar, she explained her daughter’s wayward behavior and challenging attitude. Weariness tugged at her mouth and created tiny furrows between her brows—a sight he responded to by handing her several sugar-dusted shortbread cookies, which she ate absently, between words.
When she got to the part about Em’s late-night jaunt, he winced. Just his luck. The night before last, while he was out on a gather.
“I’ve been to the police,” Rachel added. “They say there’s nothing they can do unless they catch her out after curfew. If she’s not doing something illegal, it’s pretty much up to me to keep her and this boy
apart—”
“And you have to work.” He shared Rachel’s frustration. His haphazard tracking of Emily between gathers hadn’t turned up any sign of this new beau. Clearly, he’d have to start following her home from school.
“Exactly,” she agreed, offering him a faint smile.
She had a dimple, just one, on the left side of her mouth. Lachlan couldn’t keep his eyes off it. He’d never wanted to do anything as badly as he wanted to kiss that dimple. He handed her a mug of tea. “What is it you’d like me to do?”
“Talk to her.”
“About what?”
“Death. She’s always been a bit curious about it, but ever since the accident, she seems obsessed. It’s as if her near-death experience opened a door to some mysterious new world.” She bent and retrieved some papers from her purse. “These are the symbols she used to draw.”
She showed him a circle inset with a six-pointed star, an ankh, the eye of Horus, an upside-down crucifix.
“Nothing too shocking,” he said. “Goths love symbolism. It doesn’t mean anything sinister.”
“I know. Em’s been Goth for almost a year, and after I did a little research into the culture, I let this stuff slide, figuring it was just her way of developing her own identity.” She tugged another piece of paper from the bottom of the pile. “But in the past week, her drawings have gotten a lot darker.”
The paper bled with black ink. Edge to edge, it was filled with a series of gruesome images: dripping knives, dead bodies, writhing snakes, trios of sixes, and short, heavily outlined phrases such as “Death is Bliss” and “The End.”
“These seem less like a discovery of personality than a trip into hell.” Rachel glanced at him, seeking confirmation. “I’m not crazy. Some of these images are satanic, right?”
Lachlan’s heart pumped heavily. The paleness of her face urged him to hug her, hold her, soothe away her fears. But despite Death’s encouragement to get closer, he rebelled at the notion of reaching out to Rachel, of comforting her. He knew without ever having wrapped his arms around her that she would fit into his embrace like no other woman had ever done, and that terrified him. His interest in her was too visceral. Once he crossed the invisible line he’d drawn between them, stopping at a hug might not be possible. “She’s a very talented artist.”
Drawn into Darkness Page 3
