by Julie Leto
“Too many people have touched this,” she said, wincing from the icy ache in the center of her palm.
Paschal’s grin was maddening. “You don’t say?” His expression darkened. “Without knowledge of the precise person we’re looking for in all that psychic detritus, he’s impossible to find.”
She supposed he was entitled to his omniscient tone, but she still shoved the button back into the box angrily, then glanced at Ben.
“He’s right,” she conceded.
With a harrumph, Paschal snatched the box from Cat.
Ben opened his mouth to argue, but Paschal had already grabbed the button and tossed the box aside. He clutched the brass tightly in his gnarled hand, closed his eyes and fell utterly silent. If not for the way his empty hand gripped the edge of the table, they might have thought he was asleep.
But Cat recognized the trance for what it was. With any luck, he was even now psychically jetting back into the past and then, hopefully, into the present, where they’d find his brother Aiden. Only when they found out what had happened to the entire Forsyth brood, including the sister who betrayed them all, would Paschal finally find peace.
When Paschal gasped, both Ben and Cat shot forward. His closed eyelids rippled from the rapid movements underneath. His jaw slackened, and a barely audible moan mixed with the sounds of his suddenly shallow breathing.
“Paschal?” Ben asked, his voice so deep and desperate, Cat knew the ever unflappable man was teetering on the edge. “Dad?”
Paschal groaned.
She swallowed deeply, said a silent prayer, then whispered, “He’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” Ben snapped.
“Do you want me to know?”
Ben’s gaze locked with hers. “How can you?”
With another wordless plea for help to the God who had bestowed her with her gift, Cat held on tight to Ben with one hand. With the other, she slid her fingers into the thick white hair at Paschal’s temple and attempted a connection.
After all, what did they have to lose?
Valoren, outside Germany
October 1747
With his hand clutching the hilt of his sword, Aiden Forsyth reined in his skittish steed and watched his youngest brother, Rafe, ride across the craggy wasteland that separated their family estate and Umgeben, the village of the banished Gypsies.
When he reached his brothers, Rafe slid off his horse’s back, stomped into the center of the circle of brothers, and reported to Damon, the eldest.
“The mercenary army advances at dawn.”
Damon nodded. “Then we have time to find Sarina.”
“Not if Rogan has spirited her away.” Aiden drew his weapon, admiring the pull of its weight against his hand. This was what he knew—dueling, honor, war. No matter how tired of bloodshed he was, he’d rather face the oncoming horde of mercenaries than the infinite mysteries of magic. “He’s brought this danger on our sister. On us. He must pay for his betrayal!”
Aiden’s heart thudded against his chest in heavy, painful beats. His battle would not be for king or country this time, but for something more precious—family. After the madness at Culloden, Aiden had never wanted to kill again. But then he’d arrived home in Valoren, the colony for exiled Gypsies, governed by his father, to find his sister missing, an oncoming death squad headed toward his family, and his beloved brothers preparing to ride to the rescue of all. He’d instantly slipped back into his role of consummate soldier, with no time for regret over how much this action would cost his soul.
Damon grabbed the hilt of Aiden’s weapon, which flashed silver as lightning streaked across the sky. “Remember, we must find Sarina before we kill Rogan. He cannot die until we know where she is.”
Aiden bit back his protest and, in the eyes of his brothers, saw that they did the same. Damon’s order was cool and logical, but still Aiden chafed under any edict that would allow Rogan more time among the living. Still, honor dictated that Rogan would die at the hand of a Forsyth son. Which one made no difference, as long as the murder happened soon. Very soon.
Men Aiden had once served with in the king’s army were gathering close by, preparing to slaughter the Umgeben villagers Aiden had known since childhood. Lord Rogan, who must have bewitched Sarina with his reputed sorcerer’s magic, had invoked the king’s wrath by usurping his governor’s power and demanding autonomy for the Romani wanderers. Even their father, who’d devoted his life to serving the king and protecting the Gypsy tribe, was in danger. If the Forsyth sons did not act quickly and decisively, the bloodshed at dawn would rival that of the massacre of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s last supporters.
“We must ride!” Damon declared.
And so they did. When they emerged through the valley, lightning illuminated more than just the black sky and the forbidding mountains on either side. The village within was wholly untouched—and yet deathly still.
There was no sign of the people who lived here…but no sign of evacuation, either. All remained peaceful and calm. Eerily so.
Aiden grabbed Rafe by the arm as he trotted past him. “Did you not send warnings?”
Rafe nodded, then shook him off and rode onward.
Colin, the third born, stopped at Aiden’s side. “We sent a groom as soon as your message arrived. Father had called us together to decide how to lead the Gypsies to safety when we found Sarina’s letter, declaring she’d run off with Rogan. Then you arrived.”
Aiden nodded. He was thankful his father was, at least for the moment, safely hidden with his wife and servants at their estate on the other side of the mountain. “Father is fortunate the Gypsies rebelled against him of late and barred him from the village. He can remain loyal to the king, at least in show.”
“If only the Gypsies had rebelled similarly against Rogan,” Colin said darkly, “we wouldn’t be facing this massacre at all.”
Their gazes locked on the looming structure at the far end of the village, abutting the mountainside. Rogan’s castle. He’d come to Valoren as Damon’s guest, then settled here like a king among the Gypsies. Shockingly, the normally suspicious Romani had accepted him like a prodigal son. Aiden had met Rogan only once, years ago in London, but had been struck by the iciness beneath the man’s considerable charm. Aiden vowed to never turn his back on such a blackguard, but Damon had declared the nobleman merely eccentric and intriguing and had invited him to the family home in Valoren. At the time, Aiden had been too concerned with his own interests and upcoming campaign against the Scottish rebels to challenge his brother’s judgment. But now certainly wasn’t the time for regrets.
“God help us,” Colin continued. “In a few hours this will be the site of a bloodbath.”
“Not if we can stop it,” Aiden assured him.
They rode to each dwelling, knocking on the hollow-sounding doors and tearing curtains aside with drawn blades. Curious signs met them at every turn. Prized possessions sat out in the open, untended. Fires burned with food on the spit, as if the owners had only wandered a few steps away. And yet, locked pens were empty of livestock. And the handcrafted talismans that normally hung around the village were gone.
“What sort of magic spirits away an entire town?” asked Logan, the older of the twins.
Paxton, the younger twin, shook his head. “They had but an hour’s warning. They could not have abandoned their homes without our meeting them on the road.”
Rafe did not respond. The youngest Forsyth son had been born to their father’s Gypsy second wife, as had Sarina. Rafe had spent more time among the villagers than he had with his own family. If the disappearance had caught him unaware, how would they find Salina before it was too late?
Not by standing still and wallowing in their surprise.
Aiden shot off orders. Colin he sent to the chapel. Rafe to search out the Chovihano, anticipating that the Gypsy elder might have stayed behind, too lame to travel. He directed the twins to the tinker’s hut, hoping the only Umgeben Gypsy allowed to trav
el outside the boundaries of Valoren had heard about the mercenaries and had warned the Romani before Aiden had stumbled across some of his former cavalry mates on his journey home.
Without question, his brothers obeyed. Aiden froze when Damon placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find her,” he said.
“I’ll seek out Rogan,” Aiden insisted.
Damon’s eyes hardened. “I brought that viper into our midst. It is my right to slay him. But only after Sarina is back in our care.”
Straightening tall in his saddle, Damon looked more like a general than Aiden would ever have dreamed. His eldest brother had once wanted nothing more than to inherit his title, serve in the House of Lords and continue to bring honor to the Forsyth name. He’d had no interest in dueling, for sport or insult, preferring more solitary pursuits and reasoned resolution of conflict. Aiden, on the other hand, had once relished a good fight. Settling scores with the aid of his sword or the occasional pistol was as natural to him as breathing. Yet each and every one of his brothers, even pious Colin and studious Paxton, had the capability to draw blood on behalf of their sister. But Damon blamed himself for this turn of events. He deserved the first chance to call Rogan out.
“Check the armory,” Damon said. “See if the Gypsies armed themselves before they disappeared.”
Aiden started to tell his brother to take care, but changed his mind. The time for care had passed. Aiden rode west, concentrating solely on his aims: Find his sister. Find the Gypsies. Organize an escape from King George’s mercenaries. Spit on Rogan’s corpse. After that, Aiden had no plans except living without the constant barrage of violence from rebellion and war.
Though he’d lived in Valoren the least of all his brothers, he knew his way around the village as expertly as the rest. Barren at first glance, the land possessed a powerful magic, strong enough to keep the itinerant wanderers rooted to one place. Though they refused to build more than rickety homes, preferring their wheeled vardos, the Romani had otherwise created a thriving village, funded by the sale of crafts and natural remedies to nearby hamlets. They existed in peace, healthy and safe, begrudgingly content with their lot.
And then Rogan had come to Valoren.
With a quick tug on his horse’s reins, Aiden headed toward the dark cavern where Rogan had trained the Gypsies to forge weapons even the king’s master blacksmiths would have coveted. He’d hoped to find the gated cave empty of the armaments, but he was quickly disappointed. Torchlight flickered over a full containment of swords, battle-axes and bayonets, all glowing red-silver in the light from the untended yet smoldering forge.
“Hello?”
His voice echoed through the warm, dry space. The dirt showed a single set of footprints, and the indentations did not indicate that the person they belonged to had been in any hurry. In fact, as he approached the weapons, Aiden noticed a thin layer of dust on the table, likely blown in by the storm.
Disheartened, he turned to leave. Damn Rogan. Not only had the sorcerer enticed Sarina into a romance despite the disparity in their ages, but he’d challenged the king’s authority over Valoren. George II had no choice but to act swiftly. Images of torn and bloodied bodies flashed in Aiden’s brain. He’d seen incredible carnage in Scotland. He had no desire to see such human wreckage again.
With a bitter taste in his mouth, he took one last look at the weaponry, then turned to leave.
A light flashed, and inside his head he heard a desperate scream. Feminine. Needful. Afraid.
“Sarina?”
He dashed back into the cave, but found no inner chamber, no path that led anywhere but into shadow. In a curve in the darkness, however, he spied a strange, bluish light. He drew his weapon and advanced into the alcove, shocked to find a single sword fastened to the stone wall.
The blade gleamed, reflecting a light that could not exist. A chill slithered through him as the unnatural glow swelled on the hilt, flashing red in the strange gems fastened there.
Rogan’s sword?
He’d heard about the weapon. The beauty and elegance of the deadly double edge had been legend among all who’d been invited into Rogan’s inner sanctum. How ironic would it be if he killed Rogan with a thrust from his own infamous blade?
The honed steel was exquisite—perfectly smooth and, Aiden guessed, utterly balanced. The wraparound handle, reminiscent of coveted Spanish foils, was a stunning web of fine gold. And the jewels? Aiden had never seen gemstones of that color—the color of fury. The color of rage.
Aiden grabbed the handle. Instantly the red stones flamed against his palm. He yanked his hand back, but the metal fused with his skin, burning hot. His legs buckled against the pain, but though he expected to suffer the crack of his kneecaps against the stone floor, he felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
One
Hollywood, California
November 2008
“You’re all mine.”
Lauren Cole chuckled greedily, holding the package close to her chest as she flipped the light switch and locked the door behind her. No one would think to look for her here. With her new movie scheduled to start filming in less than a week, the studio soundstage was normally a beehive of activity—except in the middle of the night. She had less than six hours to enjoy her stolen treasure.
And enjoy it she would.
She kicked off her soft-soled shoes and, with a squeal of delight, fell to her knees on the nearest mat in the studio exercise room, clutching the objet d’art she’d liberated from her ex-husband’s house. Even wrapped in a cashmere throw, the metal underneath bit deliciously into her skin.
The sword was hers. The last and final gift she’d ever accept—or, in this case, take—from Ross Marchand. Her body thrummed with excitement, and she had to remind herself to breathe. Adrenaline overload caused some of her dizziness, but mostly she was simply jazzed to have returned, even for just one night, to the girl she used to be. The conniver. The street kid. The thief.
Ross Marchand, her ex, had made it his business, literally, to drum her felonious tendencies out of her. He’d taught her to speak properly, dress with style and channel her expert lying skills into genuine acting talent. In the end, she’d worked his red carpets and movie premieres so adeptly, every paparazzo within a two-mile radius of Hollywood Boulevard had wanted to know everything about her—especially the name of her next film, which, of course, the internationally known Marchand would produce. Thanks to Ross, she’d glided onto the Hollywood A-list before her made-up name had ever rolled across a silver screen.
But as she caressed the cashmere wrap, she knew that sometimes being bad felt oh, so good.
Then a knock on the door stopped her cold.
The pounding in her ears kept her from identifying the intruder until he said, “Who’s in there?”
She exhaled. Marco. Studio security. Diligent, but sweet. She shoved the sword out of the line of sight, then scrambled across the workout mats and unlocked the door.
“Hey, Marco,” she said, using all of her considerable acting skill to appear relaxed, if not slightly guilty for breaking a rule she and the security guard had confronted on more than one occasion.
The older man arched a bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Ms. Cole, you know you’re not supposed to be on the set alone.”
She grinned at him prettily, having learned the power of her smile years ago. “Technically, I’m not on the set. I’m in my favorite rehearsal room.”
“The one with all the weapons,” he pointed out, attempting to look over her shoulder, but at five-foot-nine, Lauren had a few inches on the guy. Tightening her grip on the door, she blocked his view.
“We’re shooting the first fight scene the day after tomorrow,” she explained in a whisper that echoed in the cavernous silence of the soundstage just behind him. Though filled with lighting, sets and equipment, the building was off-limits to everyone but security until morning. Lauren had come here on autopilot, figuring Ross wouldn’t think to look fo
r her on the set when filming hadn’t yet started. “I just wanted to get in some more workout time.”
“Without your trainer?”
Lauren suppressed a smirk. “I’ve done how many of these Athena movies now, Marco? I could train the trainer.”
Marco snorted. “You could kick my ass, and I’m the one carrying the gun.”
She squeezed her arm through the opening and then laid her hand on Marco’s shoulder. “That’s about the nicest thing any man has ever said to me.”
She batted her eyelashes, which made Marco laugh and forgive her trespassing, despite the item he may or may not realize she’d lifted from the film producer’s private study. Well, it used to be her study, too. She’d shared his home, his bed and—at least on paper—his last name until a year ago, when she’d caught him fucking her ingénue costar in the cabana by the pool.
The divorce had been relatively quick and pain free, the final decree having been delivered just that morning, severing their marital bond. Thanks to Ross, she’d learned how to manage her own money, so she wouldn’t be returning to the streets anytime soon. California law and an ironclad prenup had taken care of the rest. She got the town house in Beverly Hills. He kept the Malibu beach house. She got Apollo, the dog whose favorite pastime was chewing on Ross’s Bruno Maglis, and he’d taken the art. All the art. Including, unfortunately, the magnificent sword he’d purchased for her from a shady Dresden antiques dealer in a dicey part of the bustling German town.
From the moment she’d caught sight of the intricate inlaid gold handle glittering above a polished steel blade, she’d wanted it. Needed it. The tug in her chest had instantly reminded her of her days on the streets, when she’d been so hungry that her entire body ached. And Ross, so magnanimous and generous (she’d thought at the time), had paid the exorbitant price in cash to appease her ravenous need for the weapon. But then he’d snatched the prize away before she’d even touched it, insisting that the sword had to be authenticated before anyone handled it.
Once the ancient weapon had arrived in Los Angeles with papers declaring it an amazingly designed double-edged sword likely forged in the eighteenth century, he’d immediately had it sealed in a glass case.
