Rachel tore out of the lunchroom and down the hall to her cubicle, oblivious to the trail of coffee slops she left on the dull green carpeting. Her computer was off and she scrambled to boot it up, then waited an eternity for the screen to populate with icons.
It took seven excruciating minutes for the color printer to spit out her designs. The phone rang several times, but she ignored it. When she finally had everything she needed, she scooped up her papers and spun around, almost bowling over the waiflike brunette standing right behind her.
“Rachel, I need—”
“An urgent graphic for the annual report. I know.” She pitched an apologetic smile at the assistant to the CFO as she dashed down the hall to the boardroom next to Celia’s office. “Call me later. I’m late for a staff meeting.”
“It’s really important,” the girl called after her.
It always was.
The CR was already in progress when she carefully pushed open the door and entered the crowded room. The keeners, who always arrived ten minutes early, had appropriated the chairs. Everyone else leaned against the walls, trying to look small and unremarkable. A vague smell of fear permeated the overheated room.
Celia stood at the front, a sophisticated vision in maroon and gray, her sleek blond hair pulled tightly back. Her gaze pinned Rachel’s for a moment, but she didn’t pause to comment on her tardiness.
“… at the product readiness meeting,” she was saying. “Imagine how good it felt to have the group product manager label every one of your designs as garbage … to hear him complain that the internal design department was completely out of step with Chiat Day’s sophisticated and very expensive packaging.”
Silence fell as she glared into the faces of her staff, one by one. No one had the courage to doodle, let alone speak.
Rachel could have pointed out that the product packaging had changed twice in the last six weeks, and that Celia had signed off on every piece of creative before it went to the product manager, but she didn’t have a death wish. She needed this job. Grant Lewis and child support were words that rarely ended up in the same sentence.
“So listen up,” Celia snapped. “I want at least three new graphic sets on my desk by Monday morning. Every splash screen, every sample file, every goddamned icon. The final beta release is in two weeks, and I am not going to be the fall guy for a date slip. I don’t care if you have to camp out under your desks all weekend. Get it done.”
Every head in the room was bowed. Even Nigel’s smooth, café-au-lait pate. As Celia’s favorite, he was normally exempt from this sort of castigation. But not today. The lead designer on a project had no choice but to accept a measure of blame. Of course, the instant Celia retreated to her palatial corner office, the shit would run downhill.
“Now,” the creative director said, “let’s see what you maggots have produced this week.”
Nigel eased to his feet, expecting to lead the briefing. But Celia’s cool gaze sliced across the room to the people standing near the door.
Rachel held her breath, crossed her fingers, and prayed. Presenting in front of the group always made her nervous. She tended to fidget and talk way too fast, and that was on a good day, when she didn’t look like something the cat dragged in.
“Rachel, I’m guessing your late arrival means you have some lavish, slow-printing designs to show us. Why don’t you go first?”
Crap.
It took five men, several ropes, and a solid slam of a sword pommel on the head to subdue him, and even then Lachlan continued to struggle. Shrill screams and the clanging sounds of battle echoed throughout the slate-roofed manor house, and in the air the acrid smell of burning wood mingled with the thick, ugly scent of spilled blood.
The spilled blood of his kin.
Tormod Campbell, his most hated enemy, hauled his wife before him by her long, dark red braid, uncaring of the way her feet tripped in the hem of her torn and sullied gown.
Elspeth, brave and true as always, refused to weep as Campbell thrust her to her knees amid the rushes. But
Lachlan knew her sweetly freckled face better than anyone, and he could see fear etched in the tiny lines around her mouth—not fear for herself, but fear for their three wee bairns, dragged from their pallets moments before and taken outside to the bailey.
“Yer soul will rot in hell for this,” Elspeth spat at her captor.
Campbell shook her until tears shone in her blue eyes.
Lachlan roared at the abuse and strained against his bonds. “Unhand her. Your grievance is with me, no’ her.”
His flailing earned him Campbell’s bitter regard. “Ya thought to take what was mine, MacGregor, and now ya shall pay the price.”
A chill seeped into Lachlan’s belly, threatening to consume his vitals. “This has been MacGregor land since MacAlpin was king,” he argued. “I took naught that wasna mine.”
“Yers?” The Black Campbell sneered his opinion of Lachlan’s claim. “The glen was ceded to the Campbells centuries ago. The charter our laird received from the king in March merely inked the truth into history.”
“We ceded nothing. The land was stolen.”
Campbell’s brows collided with the force of his frown. He jerked Elspeth’s head up, near lifting her from the floor with the strength of his arm. “I took pity on ya, wretch. I allowed ya to build yer home on the shores of this loch, and in return ya killed my kin. Take whatever pleasure in yer possessions as ye may, MacGregor, for they shall no’ pass to any beget of yer flesh.”
The chill reached Lachlan’s heart.
“Yer sons are dead.”
Elspeth cried sharply, her eyes finding Lachlan’s, hoping against hope he could dispute Campbell’s claim.
But he couldn’t.
His enemy raised his right hand, displaying the palm. Every crease and callus on his hand was painted a vivid crimson, and the saffron of his sleeve had a large stain that looked almost black. “Dead by my own hand,” he said.
“No,” keened Elspeth, her lips suddenly bloodless. She sagged, unmindful of the ruthless hold Campbell had upon her hair.
Her captor shook her again. “Aye, and the lass, too. They cried for their da to save them, but he didn’t come.”
Lachlan couldn’t breathe. The cold was so severe now, he felt as if the sun had been snuffed out. Wee Jamie was still in swaddling. Mop-haired Mairi had wept for her maither as they dragged her away. And Cormac … young Cormac had been staunchly brave faced as they hauled him off. Trying to be like his da.
Now they were gone.
The soft, anguished sobs of his wife filtered through his ears, but Lachlan could no longer find the strength to try to reach her. His limbs were frozen, his chest a block of ice. He had failed her—failed all of them.
“Today,” continued Campbell, “yer line will end, MacGregor. There shall be no future for you, no hope for yer kin. Even yer brothers have been run through.”
The sound of a knife leaving its leather sheath was subtle, but Lachlan recognized it and immediately understood the significance. His eyes flew up to meet Campbell’s, and he bucked against his restraints.
“No,” he cried hoarsely. “Take me! It’s me you want.”
But his words had no effect.
Campbell wrenched Elspeth’s chin up, exposing her slender neck. Her wide eyes stared at Lachlan, willing him to save her, begging him to do something, anything. And he tried. Dear God, how he tried. But to no avail. The coarse hemp of his restraints bit deeply into his wrists, and his skin wore raw and bloody, but no matter how hard he strained, no matter how much pain he endured, he couldn’t break free of the ropes. Campbell sliced her throat with his gleaming blade, and blood poured over her bosom, soaking her gown. The light in her pretty blue eyes went out immediately, and Lachlan’s heart shattered.
He shouted to her, hoping to leave her with one last enduring thought, “I love you, Elspeth.”
Campbell dropped her limp body to the rushes, his eyes on Lachlan. “I
t willna be my soul that rots in hell, MacGregor. ’Twill be yers. Ya brought this upon yerself with yer hunger for power, with yer unholy greed.”
The words were a bitter blow, a ruthless echo of Lachlan’s own thoughts. Overcome by grief, enervated by the sapping anguish that flowed through his veins, he barely heard the stomp of boots across the wooden floor. But when they stopped before him, he found the strength to lift his head.
Before him stood a lanky young man with long blond locks and a tawny beard. The face he knew only too well: handsome, with green eyes and heavy brows. This was the man he had foolishly entrusted with his very soul.
Clearly untroubled by the chaos and bloodshed around him, the filthy cur stared directly into Lachlan’s eyes and smiled.
Lachlan jerked to a sitting position on his bed, blinking, only vaguely aware that he had slept away a good portion of the morning. Cold sweat covered every inch of his skin. Dear God, was it possible … ?
“Drusus,” he croaked.
4
Lachlan scooped up his keys and his wallet, then jogged downstairs to his car, mentally mapping the fastest route to San Francisco. Not once since he’d moved to San Jose six months ago had he made the drive into the city. It had seemed wiser to keep his distance, to avoid leaving a trail.
But everything had changed now.
Fifty minutes later, he pulled into the small parking lot of St. Aquila the Redeemer Church and climbed the back stairs to the rectory. To the elderly nun who answered the door, he said, “Father MacGregor to see Monsignor Campbell.”
“Oh yes, Father, he’s expecting you. Come in.”
She escorted him up another flight of stairs and led him to a sparsely decorated room at the end of the hall. The door was open. Inside, next to the narrow window, stood a middle-aged priest, his hair a peppery gray but his stance still strong and firm. He turned his head as Lachlan entered, smiling.
“That was quick.”
Lachlan thanked the sister who’d escorted him and crossed the room to take the man’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I hope you weren’t put out by my request?”
“Of course not. These are the very moments I prepare for.”
Lachlan studied the man’s calm face and resolute brown eyes. He’d seen similar expressions on warriors about to step into battle. “You know who I am? What I am?”
“Indeed, yes. The Protectorate keeps very accurate records. Sit down and tell me what’s led you here,” the older priest said, waving at the foot of the neatly made single bed. He took the stiff wooden chair for himself. “I take it you believe the Linen is in jeopardy?”
“I do.” Although his watch ticked the passage of each second with grim persistence, Lachlan sat. The mattress was firm, the wool blanket scratchy. “The man who plotted the demise of my family was no’ a man at all. He was a lure demon.”
Campbell’s brows rose. “Are you certain?”
“I saw him again, just yesterday.”
“And because a demon was involved, the attack no longer seems random. You think your brother was the target all along.”
“Aye,” Lachlan said.
“Your brother died that day.” The monsignor fingered the white agate rosary around his neck. “If the Linen had been the demon’s goal, surely he’d now possess it?”
“William was mortally wounded in the attack,” Lachlan acknowledged. “But the night before, he had a dream. In it, he saw himself run through and the Linen purloined. Certain he’d had a vision of the future, he came to me in the wee hours of the morning and begged me to take the Linen and hide it, somewhere unbeknownst to him.”
Campbell nodded. “We’re taught to take such dreams very seriously.”
“Later, as my brother was gasping his last breaths, he made me vow to protect the Linen with my life. He told me to seek out a man of pure faith and pass the Linen on. I did so.”
The older priest’s expression turned wry. “And kept a wary and watchful eye upon it ever thereafter, I see.”
Lachlan shrugged off the compliment. The truth was far less kind. “I gave my oath.”
“Which is what brings you here today. You think this lure demon of yours has tracked the Linen to San Francisco. Possibly to me.”
“Aye. The time has come to destroy the wretched thing.”
Campbell leapt to his feet, rocking his chair back on two legs. “Absolutely not. Did you not just tell me you gave your oath to protect it?”
“I gave my oath when I thought the Linen was a sacred relic, possessed of a powerful capacity for good. If a demon seeks it, there can be only one reason: It’s a dark relic, capable of delivering vast evil.”
“Dark or not, the Linen is every bit as valuable a relic as the Shroud of Turin. Destroying it would be blasphemous.”
Lachlan stood, too. “We’re talking about the cloth Pontius Pilate used to wipe his hands after ordering the execution of Jesus. Its very existence is blasphemous.”
“No. Pilate may have been a weak man, but he was not a soulless one. God forgave him. The Linen represents an important stage in the journey Jesus made to save us.” The older priest put his hand on Lachlan’s shoulder. “Your own brother gave his life to protect the Linen, MacGregor. What would destroying it do but make his sacrifice a waste?”
Lachlan glanced away, rejecting the gentle sympathy he saw in Campbell’s eyes. He didn’t deserve it. “Had the cloth been destroyed at the start, as it should have been, his life—and that of many others—would have been preserved.”
“I will not allow it to be destroyed.”
“Then I fear for your life, Monsignor. This is no brattling demon who hunts it. If I’m correct, he’s an ancient, one of the first demons Satan cultivated. Drusus once told me he can trace his history back to Roman times.”
“Are you suggesting this demon and the Linen are of a like age? That he might be the very demon that drove the Protectorate to hide the Linen?”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, that’s disturbing.” The older priest walked to the window and peered outside. A new wariness gripped his shoulders. “Still, I can’t allow you to destroy the Linen. I’ve sworn a sacred oath to protect it, and protect it I will. With my dying breath, if necessary. Even against you.”
Lachlan glared at the other man’s back. “I’m no’ the one you need worry about. I have a conscience. Drusus does no’.”
“Then let’s focus on the demon. What do you know of him?”
“No’ much, save what he told me himself, and that is suspect. I was rather hoping you’d have additional details.”
Campbell turned to him with a frown. “The records of the Protectorate are full of useful information, but I’m afraid they won’t be much help in this case. Specific demons were rarely named in the old parchments; to quote their names was thought to give them power.”
“Don’t the records contain details of what happened before the Linen was hidden away?”
“Oh yes. Any who touched it instantly denied Christ, which is half the reason it’s now kept in a hermetically sealed case.”
“Do the old parchments mention anything of the demon who attempted to steal it?”
“Only that he was both charming and brutal. Not only did he very nearly sway Peter into giving him the cloth, he’s credited with the gruesome murders of at least two guardsmen. Eyes burned out, entrails spilled, that sort of thing.”
Lachlan briefly closed his eyes. Perhaps he should be grateful it was Campbell who stole the future of his three wee bairns, not Drusus. “Why does he want it?”
“Well, a lure demon could use it to tempt large groups into depravity. But that’s not the worst-case scenario, I’m afraid. In Satan’s possession, the Linen’s sway could be extended to incite thousands upon thousands to turn away from God.”
“Inviting sin into every corner of the world.” A surge of hot frustration fisted Lachlan’s hands. “Explain to me again why we wish to preserve it?”
“Because—”
He put up his hand. “No, don’t bother, I understand. But I still believe this is madness.”
“Why? Don’t you battle demons every day? Isn’t that part of what you do? Surely, all you have to do is slay this one hellion and we can rest easy.”
But Drusus wasn’t your average demon. Not only was he invested with power gained from two thousand years of existence, he was the very sword master who had taught Lachlan to properly wield a blade.
“Just to be safe, Monsignor, maybe you should leave town.”
The last traces of the sun dropped behind the trees and Drusus shivered at the sudden chill. When the door opened, he gave the elderly nun his most devastating smile and pushed his way into the lemon-scented alcove.
The astringent rasp of hallowed ground immediately began to chafe at his flesh, but he ignored it. He didn’t plan to be here long.
“My name’s Alistair Rose,” he said, laying on a thick brogue to match today’s glamour of an elderly Scottish laborer. “From Dumbarton, Scotland. I’ve been told a priest from the old country resides here. Is that true?”
Beneath her wimple, the nun frowned. “Well, there’s Monsignor Campbell. His family originally came from Scotland, but as far as I know he’s lived in the United States all his life.”
“Campbell? Would that be the Glen Lyon Campbells?”
“Oh, I have no idea about that.”
Drusus nodded. Of course not. The woman had been born in Illinois and never once ventured off the continent. “I wonder if I might speak briefly with the monsignor, to see if he’s the man I’m seeking.”
She hesitated. “It’s after six.”
“I promise not to take more than five minutes of his time.” Drusus smiled again, deeper and longer this time, diving through the protective layers of her conscious mind. Devout believers could not be possessed, but they could be influenced. All it took was a firm, gentle touch.
The nun’s shoulders eased and she beckoned him farther inside. “Can’t see the harm in that. Come, I’ll show you to his room.”
Drawn into Darkness Page 5
