by Britt Bury
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
To my grandmother. Your unconditional love and support has made me who I am today. Thank you for always believing in me. I love you and I miss you terribly…
Acknowledgments
This book would not exist without my fellow mustachteers. Marina Adair, this story is your godchild. Thank you for countless hours of plotting, cursing, and crying with me. I couldn’t have done it without you. Hannah Jayne, you were always there with a big bottle of wine and even bigger words of encouragement. You kept me sane. I love you both with all my heart!
Thanks so much to my wonderful husband for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. I love you, honey. And to my two sons, thank you for letting Mommy have quiet time to work.
Big thanks to my agent, Jill Marsal, and to my editor, Latoya Smith. Thank you for the countless hours you’ve put in and all your hard work. I can’t begin to describe how much I appreciate you both!
Finally, I want to thank all my family and friends who have supported me!
Prologue
One Thousand Years Ago…
Sometimes, pain was delivered through the skin—the sharp end of a sword jammed through the gut. Kelvin Kerr knew this genre of agony better than anyone.
The thick layer of blood on his face had begun to dry. He swiped a muddy forearm along his brow, feeling his skin crack, sloughing off crimson flakes. The dim light of dusk glowed behind dark clouds, spearing flecks of muted orange upon the carnage he trudged through.
His heavy stomps splattered mud up his sodden pants as he slammed his boots into the swampy earth, stopping so abruptly he nearly toppled over. He stared at the ground while the guttural screams of death surrounding him faded to a dull hum.
Cesan Kerr—chief of the Kerr clan—lay bludgeoned and decapitated at Kelvin’s feet.
“Father,” Kelvin whispered in anguish, hitting his knees, to hover next to the dead body. Bile rose in his throat. Innards spilled out onto the ground—red blood mixing with the murky terrain. Someone had slashed Cesan from hip to sternum before slicing off his head, leaving the powerful and beloved chief nothing more than a hollow carcass.
Kelvin clenched his teeth, his whole body shaking with rage. The Campbell Fionns would pay for this. This war—this endless, bloody battle between clans—had just got a hell of a lot more personal. Not even the Fionns’ immortality could save them from his wrath.
A fly landed on the chief’s open, glossed-over eye and Kelvin roared with fury. Crumpling to his knees next to the body, he brushed a palm gingerly over the chief’s dirty scalp.
Immortality meant nothing. How could it? Here he knelt, an immortal himself—a great Pookah warrior—touching the severed head of his fierce, “deathless” chief. No—not deathless. For even an immortal’s life could end with one clean swipe of a blade through the neck.
He gently slid two fingertips down over the chief’s eyelids. His nostrils flared; the metallic smell of blood and sweat assailed him. Squeezing his eyes shut, a single tear escaped. “I will avenge you…”
Rising to his feet, Kelvin clutched his heavy sword, bloody fingers smashing together around the hilt. The Campbell clan was retreating. Kelvin glared as he observed them disappearing into the forest. Not a single Campbell soul could hide. He would seek them out and extinguish every last one.
Green eyes glowed in the distance.
A red haze covered Kelvin’s vision as he watched the smug creature dare a glance back at him. Even though the emerald-eyed Fionn was battered and bloody, Kelvin knew him right away—James Campbell, Battle Chief of the Campbell clan.
And my father’s blood coats him…
Kelvin looked down once more to his dead father. Raising only his eyes, he stared at the receding Fionn, pressing his words over cracked, parched lips. “James.” Kelvin stepped over the corpse, eyes locked on his fleeing enemy. James had only his life to lose this night. So Kelvin would wait. Once the Fionn found his mate, Kelvin would destroy not only him, but everyone he held dear.
“You, your woman, and your heir will die by my hand,” Kelvin vowed. “Mark my words, I will rip everything sacred from your grasp.” His skin heated, his inner beast rising. “The Campbell McCall is as good as dead.”
Chapter 1
Present Day
Twilight was setting over the rolling terrain of Scotland when Izel Campbell spotted the rickety little cottage. She double-checked her map and compass, gently bouncing in her hiking boots. Izel had taken a plane, train, and then a bus, only to find herself having to hike the rest of the way to these godforsaken coordinates. Too bad her cell phone didn’t work. Otherwise her Maps app would have taken her straight there. Wiping away raindrops from her brow, she sighed with relief.
Finally, she had arrived.
“Grandpa?” she called, opening the cottage door, peeking inside the sparse dwelling. A single bed, nightstand, and tiny table were the only furniture occupying the minimal space. Maps and diagrams hung from the walls and the floor was lined with stacks of books and papers.
She inhaled deeply and wrinkled her nose. The smell of mold and rotted wood offended her senses, causing her stomach to twist. The shack was little more than a few pieces of wood nestled alongside a grassy hill. At this point, she wouldn’t be surprised to find string holding it together.
Her grandfather was nowhere in sight.
She placed her pack near the door and slowly inched farther inside. With the sun teasing light along the horizon, all she could do was wait.
“And what do we have here?” a deep voice from behind her sneered.
Izel gasped and turned slowly. An incredibly large man stood in the doorway, his sheer size strangling the breath in her throat.
He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, with shoulders so wide they barely cleared the entrance. Tan skin covered his muscular physique like a finely wrapped present.
Too bad it wasn’t Christmas.
His dark hair, which fell just past his shoulders, was wet from the recent rainfall, and his blue eyes burned with intent. “You’re a Campbell.” It was a statement, not a question.
Had they met? No, definitely not. Izel would have remembered this imposing male. His chiseled jaw and thick lips made the bones in her legs melt.
Although she didn’t know exactly who or what he was, she noticed his body was lined with weapons. Two daggers were strapped to his belt and a heavy sword was secured to his back, the hilt peeking just over his muscled shoulder. And she thought the immortals in New York looked rough.
He stood several feet away, towering in the entry, then he lifted his head in her direction and… Did he just sniff her? Seriously, what in the hell was he? Since the humans had died out over twenty years ago, the earth was now an open habitat for all kinds of species.
Although most breeds retained a human appearance and anatomy, immortality was the common denominator, and with various factions of immortals came varying strengths and skills.
She had been raised in high-class private schools and had attended a small, prestigious college. The Northeast was a pretty good place to grow up. Most of the gruesome, evil-esque beings tended to lurk in the murky, secluded areas of the world. But she did recall hearing about a powerful clan of Pookahs residi
ng in Scotland.
Oh.—Crap.
Pookahs were said to be tall (check), fierce (check) warriors with incredible strength and superhuman senses. A chill rolled down her spine. It was likely that the man before her was a Pookah, and though his kind couldn’t physically shift into an animal, she’d heard once that all Pookahs have some kind of animalistic influence over them.
Izel stared, both amazed and fearful—uncommon emotions for her to harbor.
The man tilted his head. “Do you no’ speak?” His thick Scottish accent rolled off his tongue like dark molasses, and she couldn’t help licking her lips. When a light breeze blew past him, she was bombarded with his spicy, masculine scent. She licked her lips again.
Mouthwatering.
Focus, Izel, focus!—But it wasn’t easy. The man was stunning. Dangerous. And, worst of all, her whole body responded to him. She had seen handsome men before. Men that were nice and safe and obviously interested in her, but she was never able to summon up even the slightest bit of attraction. So why now, after twenty-five years of emotional indifference, in the middle of nowhere, staring up at a man that looked like he wanted to slit her from jeans to neckline and eat her for dinner, did her libido finally decide to kick in?
“I-I’m Izel Campbell.”
He lifted his chin, inhaling deeply. A look of pure disgust broke across his face. “You’re kin of the Mystic’s.”
Izel nodded her head. Many had referred to Euan Campbell as The Mystic. “I’m his granddaughter.”
His eyes widened. “Granddaughter,” he repeated. “No’ grandson?”
Her brows drew together, looking at the floor. She may not be supermodel beautiful, but she didn’t think she resembled a dude.
“You’re the McCall,” he finished, astonishment lacing his tone. Izel recognized the term and pursed her lips. The McCall. Also known as Son of the Battle Chief. Yeah, she got it—she’d effed up the family lineage when she’d popped out with two x chromosomes.
Her father had been the Battle Chief of the Campbell clan before he died, and the Campbell bloodline had always produced a male offspring. Until Izel.
She recalled her grandfather telling her once, “Should you ever encounter one who refers to you as ‘The McCall,’ run… for they are an enemy.”
Her gaze lifted back to the man. He was inching closer to her—a menacing look on his face.
Double crap… She stepped backward, attempting to put distance between them. The man eyed her movements but only stalked closer.
“This canna be,” he said, more to himself than to her. “The fact that you are female and no’ male”—he looked her up and down—“will no’ sway me in what must be done.”
Izel continued her small strides backward.
“Wh-what must be done?” she asked, not certain she wanted the answer. She saw the stranger’s ice-blue eyes focus on the hammering pulse in her throat.
“You,” he stepped closer, “must die.”
Izel scurried to the far corner of the tiny cottage. She felt the cold wooden wall on her bare shoulders and knew she was boxed in. He hovered over her like a vulture. What had begun as a mysterious quest for answers was turning into a fight for her life. A warm knot coiled in her chest. She was… scared? How could this be? Up until this moment, the curse placed over Izel at birth had inhibited her from feeling anything.
“Where is he?” Her voice broke with fear.
His eyes narrowed on her. “Who?”
A gulp stuck in her windpipe when she glanced at the stranger’s large boots, stepping closer. “My grandfather… Euan Campbell. What have you—”
The man cut off her shaky words with a grating yell, as if the mere sound of her grandfather’s name enraged him. She pressed her lips together, biting back a whimper. This could not be happening… she was about to die.
And she had let her grandfather down. She would never solve the mystery behind this journey he had sent her on—never understand why she was the way she was… totally and completely incapable of feeling emotions. Yet, her life was about to end and she finally understood disappointment.
A strange moisture filled her eyes. She touched the liquid rolling down her cheek and looked at her wet fingertips in disbelief. Tears? Impossible.
Her lower lip began to quiver. Not only would she die, she would die a failure. She glanced at her feet, wishing she was stronger, wishing she could fight like the other Fionn Warriors. But she wasn’t a Warrior, she was a Poet. All she could do was speak.
Her grandfather Euan was a Mystic, one of the most dominant and magical beings ever to walk this realm. Her father, James, had been a Warrior, and though she never knew him, he was said to have been strong and brave. Izel hung her head, a heat burning her insides and leaving behind a heaviness that threatened to strangle her.
She was a small female amongst proud, powerful Fionns. Not a fighter, but a simple Poet. Although she harbored the gift of persuasion somewhere within her body, she lacked control to harness it. Still… she had to try.
Her eyes shot back to the stranger as something surged through her. It came from the earth and worked its way through every cell until her shoulders shot back and her neck tingled. She might be a poor excuse for a McCall, but she was The McCall, daughter of the Battle Chief. And Campbells didn’t cower. Ever.
Attempting to access her gift, she reached out, lacing her words with magic. “You don’t want to do this.” The stranger didn’t halt at her words. Instead, he unsheathed his sword and took another step toward her.
“I nay take pleasure in endin’ the life of a female, but it’s what must be done.” His brogue was deliciously dense and had he not been speaking of her impending death, his voice might actually have turned her on.
Izel shook her head. She needed confidence and concentration behind the words she projected—without them, her speech was powerless. Unfortunately, she was currently lacking both elements needed to ignite her power. What she needed was her grandfather, Euan—why wasn’t he here? He was the one who’d sent her the damn letter in the first place, instructing her to leave behind her life in Manhattan and trek all the way out here.
Izel thought her grandfather would finally help her, maybe use his magic to “cure” her.
“What thoughts have you, ta give such an expression?” The man tilted his head, examining her and thankfully, momentarily, stalling his advance.
“I’m different.” It was the truth. And under the circumstances, it was all she could come up with. “Something’s wrong with me. I mean…” Yes, that’s exactly what she meant. Typically, she wouldn’t share her thoughts with a total stranger, but if it distracted him from killing her, she’d happily gab all night.
“I need my grandfather’s help. It’s why I came here. I don’t know why I’m this way.”
“What way?” he growled, obviously growing impatient.
“I can’t feel… anger, happiness, anything… I never—”
“Never?”
Izel swallowed loudly, shaking her head.
“You seem ta be feeling just fine now. I can scent your fear.” He dropped his chin but kept his eerie blue eyes locked on her.
Was he right? Izel gulped hard, terrified when a cool sweat broke out over her skin. Even more terrified that she was actually feeling terrified. She’d never felt anything. She was about to die—could see the promise of that in the stark cobalt eyes currently boring into her. What was happening? “This… this is a first.”
He smirked. “I must have a talent for bringing such emotions ta the surface.” He stepped closer, the muscles in his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. “I believe you owe me a debt of gratitude.”
Opening her mouth, she tried to reply, but couldn’t. This—fear?—she was experiencing was debilitating. He closed in on her. She slunk to her knees, too terrified to even continue speaking.
What a feeble attempt to save her own skin! A far cry from verbal conviction or persuasively enthralling her attacker. She
was huddled in a corner, trembling for her life.
The man’s features softened slightly, and Izel knew what that look meant. He felt sorry for her. With his build and demeanor, Izel wouldn’t be surprised if he was a Warrior himself. He would undoubtedly be looked upon with fright and respect by his own kind.
Although his immortal age was indeterminable, Izel had a gut feeling that this stranger never hesitated in the face of a kill. He was made for war, a bringer of pain and death. She shuddered. She was a Poet, a pathetic Fionn, staring down a nightmare, incapable of defending herself as he raised the tip of his sword to her chin.
“Stand up, woman. Your snake of a grandfather would turn over in his grave ta see the last of his lineage die on her knees.”
The acid in her belly began to churn and fester so strongly it nearly made her vomit. The man had just referred to her grandfather as dead. He can’t be dead.
Euan had always been good to her, perhaps too good. She had never been in danger, was never left on her own, and never afraid. Reality hit hard when she realized, for the first time in her life, she was all these things at once.
Just beyond the man’s shoulder, she saw the sun set over the countryside of her ancestral home. She rose to her feet, let out a shallow breath, and raised her neck to the blade. The room grew dark as the sun faded behind the hills of Scotland.
Darkness suddenly covered her entire body, and the breath left her lungs in an agonizing scream as her body spasmed over and over while her blood seemed to turn to lava. It felt like her bones were outgrowing her muscles, turning her body inside out and threatening to rip through her skin. What’s happening?
He angled the tip of his blade to her jugular.
The woman gasped; her eyes widened. A rush of bright emerald swirled and stained her irises. Her breathing turned ragged. She panted, clutching at her chest. For the first time in a long time, Kelvin was caught off guard.
Was this a trick? A last-ditch effort to save herself? It couldn’t be, for the creature that rested against his weapon was changing right before his eyes.
