Dark Victory

by Brenda Joyce

  “The fire is spreadin’,” he said, and she felt him standing behind her. “Ye need to take the children from here.”

  Tabby turned to look at him, incapable of saying a word, her pulse soaring. She met his dark, intense blue eyes, eyes she had seen at the Met—and in her dreams.

  “Ye dinna wish fer me to kill the boys?” His blue gaze chilled. “They intended fer ye to die a verra unpleasant death.”

  And that was when she realized he wasn’t the same Highlander—not exactly. He was the same man she’d briefly seen and touched at the Met, she had not a single doubt. But he wasn’t blistered and burned. His hard, determined face was scratched from glass, and he had a scar on one high cheekbone, but there were no burns, no blood, no blisters. In fact, he was damned gorgeous. His tunic was bloodstained, and there were cuts on his arms, face and legs from leaping through the glass, but he had not been in a fire recently. This man had not been at An Tùir-Tara.

  Instead, he looked exactly as she had imagined he would before ever being in that fire.

  “You’re not from Melvaig or 1550, are you?” she somehow said.

  His face tightened with obvious displeasure. “Nay.”

  She breathed hard, uncertain. Was he angry? If so, why? She wanted to back up, but she needed to get the children to safety. “Can you get the door open for us?” As she spoke, the school’s fire alarms finally went off.

  For one more instant, his gaze held hers, searing in its intensity. Then he strode to the classroom door and wrenched it off its hinges. Tabby somehow smiled to reassure the children and she began herding them quickly that way. Behind her, there was an explosion.

  The children screamed but Tabby cried, “Walk, don’t run. Everything is fine.” The Highlander stepped to the first child and took his hand, restraining little Paul Singh from running, clearly understanding that they must proceed without panic. She glanced behind her and saw that pieces of pipe and the plaster ceiling had collapsed and fallen to the floor.

  In the hall, faculty were evacuating the children, trying to maintain a calm and orderly manner, as if this were a fire drill. The principal, Holz Vanderkirk, and Kristin came running up to them. “Are you all right?” Kristin cried, seizing her arm, her eyes wide and trained upon the Highlander. Police sirens sounded, screaming.

  Kristin and Holz were clearly assuming that he was the Sword Murderer and a threat to them all. Tabby wanted to explain that there had been an attempted witch burning and that the Highlander had saved her and the children. She turned to face him, instead. “It’s all right,” she cried, when she knew no such thing.

  His blue gaze met hers. It was the gaze of a professional soldier, devoid of all feeling and all fear. Then he turned and hurried back into the burning schoolroom.

  Tabby screamed, “Come back!” She was afraid for him.

  He ran into the fire as the ceiling began to fall in. Plaster and pipe hit him, but if the debris hurt him, he gave no sign. She froze in horror as he skirted the blaze, heading for the shattered window. Suddenly the fire exploded again, and then a wall of fire separated them.

  Her insides curdled.

  Standing on the other side of the fire wall, by the window, he paused and looked at her.

  Every horrific emotion she’d felt yesterday at the Met flooded her, incapacitated her. The feeling of déjà vu was intense. There was outrage, fury, there was horror and dread. And there was love—the kind of love she had never felt before, but had dreamed of.

  She loved him.

  An expression of bewilderment crossed his dark face.

  The fire wall blazed between them.

  Even if he wanted to, he could not cross it.

  He turned and leaped out of the window; Tabby felt her legs give way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KIT MARS HUNCHED over her desk at HCU, staring at her computer screen. She was watching the tape of last week’s Rampage, for the hundredth time.

  She knew she’d missed something, and it was bothering her to the point that she wasn’t going to eat or sleep until she figured it out. She wanted to nail the little bastards terrorizing the city. She’d never rest, not until every demon had been wiped off the face of the earth.

  She owed it to her twin sister, Kelly.

  As always, Kelly stood behind her, approving—or it felt as if she did.

  Kit had been recruited by Nick last year, while she was at Vice. He’d been stalking her for a few weeks, turning up at crime scenes or in the precinct corridors. At first she’d assumed he was a Fed, working a case. Then she’d begun to realize he was after her. But he was clearly one of the men in black. Finally, he’d caught up with her in a bar at the end of a really lousy day. After buying her a few drinks, he’d asked if she wanted to spend her life busting drug dealers and porn traffickers—or if she wanted to get into the real action.

  She’d known exactly what he meant.

  And she hadn’t thought twice about taking him up on his offer.

  From her first day on the job at HCU, all the pieces of the puzzle had begun to fall into place. She’d already been keenly aware of evil. It had taken her sister from her, and she encountered it daily on the street. So when the revelation came that evil was a race and that there was a goddamned war, a million times more important than the war on terror, she had not been surprised. It had almost been a relief.

  The war on evil was her life.

  Kit stared at the computer screen. Hidden cameras were installed in sixty-nine percent of the city, at traffic lights, in restaurants, hotels, department stores, groceries, in every major airport, on every bridge and in every tunnel. Only a handful of lawmakers on the very secret Committee for Internal Defense, a half-dozen generals at the Pentagon and the President knew about the hidden cameras. The Civil Liberties Union would have a field day if it ever found out.

  The surveillance system was CDA’s baby.

  Kit tensed and leaned close. She watched the screen with absolute clinical detachment, as the two boys and a girl began starting the fire beneath their victim’s feet. The kids were possessed; the tape was proof. Real demons only appeared as dark, ghostly shapes on film and could not be individually identified. Sub-humans—or subs, as CDA referred to the possessed—could be filmed just like any flesh-and-blood man or woman. However, they also cast dark shadows, even at night. Subs on tape were simply impossible to miss.

  Five passing civilians had stopped, gawked, then fled, all one-hundred-percent human. She jammed the pause button, hit Rewind. A civvie was fleeing. Kit zoomed in.

  There was an odd blip just behind the man’s shoulder as he ran away from the gruesome crime—the hint of something grayish and almost oblong.

  She hit Pause, backed it, then zoomed in on the civvie again. She froze the screen, and zoomed on his left shoulder at the odd blip.

  It wasn’t oblong now. It was a shapeless form, becoming more and more indistinct the farther she looked from the center. She went back to the darkest part of the blip. A face began to emerge from the grayish light.

  “What the hell?” Kit asked.

  Now, she saw two eyes and a mouth—she would swear to it.

  So someone had been standing there, watching the burning.

  No, not someone—something.

  TABBY SAT ON ONE OF the children’s chairs, hugging herself, exhausted. CDA had been all over the scene for hours—she’d been interrogated by Nick and his agents five times. The children had been picked up shortly after the crisis. Now, Nick was seated with Kristin and the principal, sipping coffee. She knew he was questioning them, but his demeanor was so casual he might have been at Starbucks with a couple of friends.

  Those last moments of the morning kept replaying ruthlessly in her mind. She saw the look in the Highlander’s eyes just before his sword had flashed and he decapitated Angel; she saw the look in his eyes when he’d walked back into that schoolroom to avoid the police, his gaze hard and cold and devoid of all feeling, all fear. She trembled. Calling that man sav
age was an understatement—she couldn’t find the right word to describe him. She had witnessed violence for most of her life—evil was cruel and barbaric and it was everywhere. But the Highlander wasn’t evil—yet he had not had any conscience when he’d beheaded Angel. They could have tried to retrieve Angel’s soul, but he hadn’t hesitated. It was obvious that such brutality was second nature to him. He was a barbarian; he made Randall look like a saint.

  She shivered.

  But what really bothered her was how he’d stood on the other side of the fire wall, and how she’d felt standing across from him, the flames blazing between them.

  For one moment, his hard face had changed, filling with surprise. Tabby wasn’t sure what he’d thought, but he’d suddenly seemed reluctant to leave her. She had been terrified and desperate, afraid that it was the end for them.

  But there was no “them.”

  Except, standing there with the fire between them, she’d felt as if she loved him.

  Of course, she did not love him. He was a total stranger and as medieval as a man could be. She was a civilized, modern woman and a gentle soul. There would never be any kind of relationship between them, except for her helping him, if she could. But now, the idea that she might want to help a barbarian was laughable. It had to be a joke. As far as her feelings of déjà vu went, they were simply inexplicable.

  Her temples hurt and she rubbed them. He needed medical attention, and then he had to go back to wherever he belonged. She’d feel better—safer—when he’d gone back to his primitive world. Maybe he’d left already—she would be relieved! She’d go back to the Met and try to figure out why that amulet had made her feel evil and so much more. Then she’d determine what she was supposed to do about it—and him.

  Sam laid her hand on her shoulder, her face grim. “Nick said we can leave.”

  Tabby got up, relieved to be able to go home. At least the police had been called off. Sam had told her that. He was running from the cops unnecessarily. But maybe that was a good thing. Otherwise, he might be hanging around. “Sam, if he hasn’t gone back in time, he needs medical attention.”

  Sam grimaced. “So you said, a dozen times. If he’s still here, Nick will find him and have him taken care of.”

  Tabby looked into Sam’s eyes, carefully shielding her thoughts—but not from her sister. Sam had told her she was certain Nick could read minds. Tabby thought it likely. She’d seen him in action once or twice and he was not your average mortal.

  She had not told Nick what had happened yesterday at the Met. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to be secretive now—not that she worked for Nick, anyway. But Nick was a control freak and he had his own agenda, always. He would be on the Highlander’s side, but she was oddly afraid of Nick’s interference. Involving him now, before she knew what was really happening, felt wrong.

  Because she’d been covered with Angel’s blood, Tabby had borrowed an older student’s gym clothes. She picked up her white wool coat, slipping it on, and her purse and tote. Sam gestured and they started for the door. Nick rose to his feet and approached.

  “So when you want to tell me what really happened, you have my direct line,” he said.

  Tabby fought to control her thoughts and feelings. “I told you everything.” She hated lying, but did so now with aplomb—or so she thought.

  But he seemed amused. “You’re lying through those pearly whites, Tabby.” He sobered. “I want to protect him, too.”

  Tabby crossed her arms over her chest. Nick would protect him. She should come clean. “I didn’t say I want to protect him, but I don’t want to see him hurt.” She hesitated, then added, “He needs to go back to wherever it is he came from, Nick. I don’t think he should be here.”

  “And you think that because?”

  Tabby tried not to think about her encounter with him at the Met or the spell she’d cast. “Isn’t it obvious? A medieval man running around the city will raise all kinds of questions.” Tabby was aware that CDA’s second priority after the war on evil was to remain clandestine. The agency had an entire department devoted to public relations, to spinning demonic crimes into acceptable criminal ones. The public would not be able to handle the truth, and general hysteria would ensue, leading to chaos and anarchy. And that was what evil wanted. “If a single reporter figures out what is going on, it’s all over.”

  Nick was clearly skeptical of her. Then he leaned close. “Listen, Tabitha, everything that happened last night was not reported in the press.”

  Tabby tensed. She did not like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

  “He hurt a cop in the initial confrontation.” Nick stared, letting that sink in.

  It took Tabby a moment. “Please tell me the cop is all right.”

  Nick was grim. “I just got the call. He died an hour ago.”

  Tabby took a calming breath, aware of Nick’s speculative stare, and Sam slid her arm around her. Nick said, “There are a lot of pissed-off cops in the city right now.” His blue gaze slammed to Tabby’s. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I want to protect him. He needs protection, because orders or not, the men in blue are gunning for him.”

  Tabby knew the mind-set of the police. They were heroes—they defended the Innocent every single day—but they were merciless when one of their own went down. “He saved us today, Nick. He’s a Master, and he would never hurt a police officer on purpose. It had to be self-defense.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Nick said. He patted her shoulder clumsily. “You look like hell. Go home and rest. Let us worry about the Highlander. And, Tabby, he’s probably long gone by now.”

  Tabby couldn’t smile back. The Highlander was in trouble, and clearly he knew it. He’d fled at the sound of the sirens. On the other hand, he looked capable of surviving an apocalypse. But the police might shoot first and ask questions later. The Masters weren’t immortal. Enough bullets could kill him. Even though the odds were that he was gone, she was worried, terribly so. “Can’t you use your clout with the NYPD? Can’t you insist he be brought in alive and unharmed?”

  “I’ve already used all the clout I have,” Nick said. “You know, you’re so worried that I’m beginning to wonder if he’s swept you off your feet. Remember your little cousin, Brie? She fell for Aidan of Awe in about two seconds, and Aidan was turned.”

  Tabby was aghast at the mere notion. “I am a human being,” she cried. “I may be obsessed, but I am not in love.”

  His eyes widened, and his smile vanished. Sam was staring, too.

  Tabby flushed.

  “You see him again, you call me, ASAP. And that is not a request, sweetheart, so even if you are in love, I will expect that call.” He walked back to Kristin and Vanderkirk.

  Tabby had never really liked Nick Forrester. He was a hero, of course, and on their side, but she didn’t like his type, especially after Randall. He was arrogant, powerful, macho and controlling, just like her ex. As they stepped outside into the frigid night, she looked at Sam. The Highlander made Nick seem soft and easy, she thought.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Sam demanded.

  It was too cold to pause, so their pace quickened. “I saw him at the Met yesterday,” Tabby said swiftly. “He was bloody and burned, Sam. I know he came to me from An Tùir-Tara.”

  “You’re telling me now?” Sam said, sounding upset.

  Tabby looked at her. Her sister was never distressed. “Our paths are clearly meant to meet. They’ve crossed twice now, at the Met, and at school.” Her stomach churned with worry. “But he was not bloody and burned this morning. He had not come from the fire at Melvaig. What on earth could that mean?”

  Sam glanced sharply at her.

  “When you left me at the Met, I tried to cast a spell to bring him to me. Did my spell work? Did I bring him here, but from the wrong time?”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “You’ve never cast such a powerful spell, Tabby!”

  “Sam, if it worked, it backfired.” Tabby’s teeth were
chattering now, even though she spoke slowly and chose her words with care. “Why do I want to help him? Am I supposed to help him? The Highlander does not need me or anybody. He is a hard, dangerous soldier. He was conscienceless, Sam.” Tabby shivered, but not from the cold.

  “Tabby, he’s medieval. It’s do or die in that world.”

  “I know.” She tried not to think about Angel.

  Sam was silent. Tabby glanced at her and she said, “You’re so worried about him.”

  Tabby hesitated. “I am worried about him, which is senseless. The man who rescued us today doesn’t need me.” She added, “He scares me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Tabby halted in her tracks.

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence. If your spell backfired, it was meant to be. If he came here, he was meant to help you.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe you’re meant to help him, too. You’ll have to play this one out, Tabby.”

  Tabby felt her heart lurch. Sam was right. “What if I’m not up to this?” she asked slowly. It was the kind of intimate revelation she would only make to her sister, Allie or Brie.

  “You’re up to it.” Sam was firm.

  Tabby softened. Sam had more faith in her than she ever had in herself. “What are we going to do about Nick?” she asked, as they rushed through a red light, the street devoid of traffic.

  “Nick won’t mess this up. He’s a good guy, remember?” Sam said. “I’m certain he’d like to debrief the Highlander, but he really means to protect him. As long as he stays in the city, he’s in danger from the cops and vigilantes.”

  Tabby stared at her as they hurried down the last block toward their apartment building. “You like Nick.” It wasn’t a question.

  “His courage and ambition outweigh his less than stellar personality. He’d die for any of his agents, Tabby. He’d die for any Innocent. And he has his own demons, I think.”

  Tabby had wanted to know something for a long time. “I know this is not my business, but I hope you aren’t sleeping with Forrester.”

  Sam didn’t even crack a smile. “I thought about it. He thought about it. But I like my job and you know how it goes—not a good idea to shag the boss.” She added, “I do like Nick, Tabby, and that’s the best reason not to sleep with him.”