by Sandy James
“You know her full name? You know my Aunt Kay?”
“Aye. Your aunt is a priestess of your goddess—”
Rebecca put her hands over her ears. “Don’t tell me anything else. No more. Just promise you’ll have her take care of my kitten. Promise me?” She looked up at him with hope and trust in her eyes. He felt humbled she could offer him those gifts after the way he’d manhandled her all day.
His common sense returned in a rush. Ancients be damned, he’d been hugging the new Earth! An Amazon—a warrior—and he’d coddled her like some frightened child. If he didn’t train her, didn’t toughen her up, Rebecca would die the first time she faced a revenant, even a pathetic piece of decaying flesh like a three. What in the hell was wrong with him?
He was Artair MacKay, damn it. Laird of the clan MacKay. Feared by all. Respected by his enemies as a cold-hearted bastard. Trainer of Amazons who had defeated every type of evil known to mankind and several of which mankind luckily remained ignorant, and he’d been treating her like a woman he wanted to woo.
Anger and frustration flowed through him, making his words come out in a roar. “Ye want me to leave an Amazon in danger while we talk about yer kitty?”
Rebecca blanched.
A grin spread across Sparks’s face as she pointed what remained of her lit cigarette at him. “Now that’s the Celt I know and love.”
“’Tis time to do your job, Becca. Find Megan for us.”
“F-find Megan? How do I do that?” She wiped away the last of her tears with the back of her hand.
Artair nodded to Sparks.
Sparks dropped her cigarette and ground it out with her foot. “There’s a bond between each generation’s Amazon sisters. We can sense each other, especially when a sister is near. Close your eyes.” Sparks took a step over, grabbed Rebecca’s arms and turned the new Amazon to face the old.
Artair retreated to let Sparks give the first lesson. Rebecca glanced over her shoulder, looking to him for his approval. Why did her anxious eyes affect him so?
“Do it,” he snapped.
She was slow to obey, but with a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes.
Sparks took Rebecca’s hand, lacing their fingers and pressing their palms together. “Now, I want you to picture a fire, a huge fire. Think about a bonfire or a burning building. Just focus on the flames and feel the heat of my touch.”
Rebecca’s face scrunched in concentration, and her fingers squeezed Sparks’s enough to turn white. Her nose creased and wiggled. Drawing her lips into a thin line, her breath quickened its pace, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.
“In those flames, search for a face,” Sparks continued as many Amazon Guardians before her. “Find a woman who looks like the flames are a part of her, like they grow from her hands and her hair.”
Rebecca’s eyes flew wide as she released Sparks’s hands. “Oh, my God. I—I saw her. She’s close. She’s at… I don’t know the name of the bar, but I know how to get there.”
* * *
“My kind of place.” Sparks crawled from the driver’s seat and greedily eyed the Harley-Davidsons parked in a neat row. “I’m in heaven. Hog heaven.”
Artair tugged off the cover of the hidden cache of weapons and pulled out the same sword he’d used before. Staring at the swords and knives, Rebecca swallowed hard. “You really think you’ll need that?”
“Nay, but ’tis best to be prepared.” He slid the sword into the scabbard that rested against his hip.
Sparks came around to grab a large knife, staring at it in admiration. Then she slid it into her boot and belted a sword at her side.
“You best take a dirk, lass.” Artair nodded toward the weapons.
“What’s a dirk?”
Sparks shook her head, making Rebecca feel like a child being told not to play with matches because she might get burned. “Shit, a knife that big? She’d just stab herself or put out an eye, Artair.”
He plucked a weapon from the stack and laid it across his outstretched forearm, holding it out to her like a waiter serving an entrée. “A dirk, m’lady,” he said with a cynical grin. “Think you can handle one?”
Rebecca shook her head before he even finished the question. It was the kind of weapon only found in violent video games. Huge and dangerous. “I don’t want one of those. I couldn’t hurt anyone.”
“You’ll learn.” His eyes burned holes right through her, and somehow she knew he was disappointed by her reluctance.
Whether she disappointed him or not, she wasn’t about to carry around a weapon like that, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stab some Hell’s Angel.
He frowned and dropped the dirk back in the bin before throwing the cover over the stash.
She squeaked in surprise when he suddenly crawled inside the van.
Damn, but the man moved fast. He crouched beside her, grabbed the skirt of her dress and shredded it with his knife, cutting it up to mid-thigh. Then he twirled her around and finished ripping off the majority of the material. Her two-thousand-dollar wedding gown with the beautiful train of bows, beads and ruffles now had a frayed miniskirt. Thank God, she still wore the slip so he couldn’t gawk at her bare legs.
“Take off that—that—underdress,” Artair ordered, tugging at her thick slip.
“No way.” Rebecca plopped down and stubbornly folded her arms over her breasts.
He sat down hard, making the van rock before dragging her face first across his lap and slipping his hand up her legs, under her mangled dress. “Where does this unfasten?” His hands moved across her before a zipper hummed. A few seconds later, he tugged the material off her legs.
“I won’t let you touch me! Don’t touch me!” She jerked her hands free and tried to get to her feet, but Artair put a strong hand against the small of her back, pushing her against his lap.
He gave her a hard swat on her butt. “Set your arse down. If you insist on wearing all that—that—fluff, you won’t be able to run if need be. I’m just trying to free you.” He dragged the slip the rest of the way down her legs and dropped it next to her face. “’Tis all I wanted to touch. Nae more. You flatter yourself thinking otherwise.” He rolled her off his lap, and she landed on her ass. Before she could fire any sort of scathing retort, Artair had already made his way out of the van. “Time to get Megan.”
“I’ll stay here,” Rebecca announced. “You guys go have your fun.”
“You will not.” He reached in to grab her arm and hauled her outside. It appeared she had no choice in the matter.
Knowing the type of people who frequented this kind of establishment, the three of them would never survive if they went in and tried to drag a woman out, especially if Megan was as reluctant to come as Rebecca had been. Hell, if this day continued on its present course, they would all get knifed to death by heavily tattooed men in black leather.
“Aye, Sparks. You’re right. ’Tis a place made for Fire.” Artair chuckled while Sparks danced around, happy as a kid in a toy store. “I don’t expect trouble, but ye best stay close to my side, Becca.”
Close to his side? The man changed his moods at the drop of a hat. When he’d held her, she’d felt safe for the first time since this nightmare began. His embrace had been soothing, but he’d suddenly gone hard, shouting at her and growling whenever he had the chance. In fact, growling and grunting seemed to be his favorite forms of communication. God, he confused her. Of course, her whole damn life was confusing now.
She still didn’t understand how she’d known where they’d find Megan. Yet as Rebecca had touched Sparks, the face of a woman with hair the color of fire had formed in her mind. A tug pulled her thoughts toward Condemned, a bar she wouldn’t have dreamed of being caught dead in but somehow knew was exactly where they would find this Megan.
Sparks led the way through the front door, followed by Artair. Rebecca reluctantly went inside, trying to hide behind his bulk. He stopped short, and she ran right into his back. With one of his g
rowls, Artair grabbed her upper arm and tugged her to stand at his side. “Stay close.”
She glanced around. Condemned was exactly what she’d expected. Dirty and rough. The place smelled of stale tobacco and spilled beer. Peanut shells littered the floor, and she didn’t think they’d feel too pleasant against her bare feet. She’d never seen so much leather in one place. Men. Women. It didn’t seem to matter. They were all clad in the most stereotypical biker attire she could have imagined. T-shirts with Harley logos. Heavy chains as jewelry. The rough sounds of George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” thrummed through the bar. If she hadn’t been so frightened, she would have laughed at a song like that greeting them as they walked into a place like this.
From behind the long bar, an overweight man wearing a dirty wife-beater slapped a bar towel over his shoulder. “You folks ain’t welcome. This here’s a private club.”
“Ah, Jim,” a throaty, feminine voice scolded from farther down the bar. “Where’s your hospitality?”
The face she’d seen in her vision came toward them. She tried to squelch her envy at the woman’s appearance. Her hair was the same brilliant shade of red as Sparks and hung past her shoulders in waves. Her oval face was so perfectly shaped, she could have been on the cover of Cosmopolitan. Bright blue eyes didn’t seem to miss anything. Dressed in black leather pants and a black T-shirt that hugged her ample curves, the woman stopped in front of Artair.
“My, my. Aren’t you a tall drink of water?” Her gaze slowly, blatantly raked him from head to foot then returned to rest on his kilt. “Nice legs too. Buy a girl a drink?” She laid a hand on his chest, lightly scraping her perfectly manicured, blood-red nails across his muscles. “Mmm. You’re a weightlifter,” she purred, moving her hand from his chest to rub her palm over his broad shoulder.
Jealousy sparked in Rebecca at the woman’s familiarity with Artair. She had no inkling where the resentment came from, but if this was truly Megan, Rebecca doubted they would ever get along. All she wanted to do at that moment was break Megan’s nose the way she’d broken Rick’s. Thankfully, Artair saved her the trouble.
“You’ll not be that free with your hands, lass.” He shoved Megan’s hand away, folded his arms over his chest and leveled that same hard stare he’d used back at the church. “Yer Megan Feuer, aye?”
Megan cocked her head. “Who wants to know?”
Sparks would probably step in with her explanation, but because Rebecca had been so intent on watching Megan put her mitts all over Artair, she hadn’t realized Sparks wasn’t standing with them any longer. Her gaze wandered the room until she noticed Sparks at the bar, throwing back a shot.
Artair must have noticed as well, because a threatening snarl rumbled from his chest. “Sparks! Get your arse over here and deal with your new Fire!” Damn, but the man’s voice could make the walls shake.
Sparks nodded at her empty shot glass, and the bartender quickly refilled it from a bottle of Cuervo Gold. She grabbed the glass, threw her head back to down the contents and then slammed the glass on the bar. “Celt, ye be all work and nae play.” Pulling a ten-dollar bill from her jacket pocket, she slapped it on the bar as the bartender watched her with open appreciation. “Thank ye, kindly.” She picked up the dirk she’d set next to the glass.
Rebecca was in awe. Sparks and Megan were women who demanded notice simply by walking into a room. The red hair, she figured, and the cocky attitude. Their confidence washed over her. While she took comfort from it, she envied them for being all she wasn’t.
While Artair, Sparks and Megan talked, Rebecca looked around Condemned. A place like this would normally terrify her. The men were rough. The women even rougher. Most of them warily watched her little group while they continued to drink, shoot pool or throw darts. If Megan gave so much as a peep that she didn’t want to leave, every customer in the place would come to aid one of their own.
“We could take ’em.” Sparks’s voice echoed in her head. The older Fire gave her a quick nod before turning back to Megan.
Funny, but the confidence Rebecca felt from Sparks and Megan was slowly becoming her own.
Megan seemed to be listening to the story of her new destiny with eagerness. Of course, they hadn’t kidnapped Megan. Yet. With each piece of information she was given, she nodded enthusiastically, and when Sparks produced a flame from her thumb, Megan acted as ecstatic as someone who’d just been told she’d won the lottery. She tried several times to duplicate Sparks’s motions, and was rewarded with a flicker of flame. She whooped in joy that somehow touched Rebecca’s heart.
Things changed so fast, Rebecca couldn’t even react. She noticed the smell first, that same sickening mixture of rotten meat and human waste she’d smelled outside the church. As the doors to Condemned slammed open, the odor grew to an overpowering stench.
Artair suddenly unsheathed his sword, Sparks readied to use her dirk, and Megan slipped her hand under the cuff of her pants to produce a small handgun. He motioned to Megan. She stepped over to stand in front of Rebecca, who could only manage to gape.
The first monster that pushed its way inside could have been someone right out of Dawn of the Dead. His skin was pallid and rotting, literally peeling off his face in globs like some macabre spa facial. The two men who followed appeared even worse, eyes glazed as if they had severe cataracts, threatening snarls spilling from their lips. Ragged clothes hung from their bodies.
Revenants.
The word echoed through Rebecca’s mind as adrenaline pumped into her body. The weapon of the enemy, the creatures who she was evidently born to fight. She willed herself to move, wishing she’d taken the dirk Artair had offered, but her feet remained frozen to the ground as her heart slammed in her chest.
Artair charged the first of the beings and beheaded it in one swift swing of his sword. As the revenant’s head rolled into the brass footrest of the bar, the place erupted into action. People began to shout and charge the creatures, which had now been joined by several more.
Rebecca backed away until she found her retreat stopped by a pool table against her ass. What was her next move? Should she jump into the fray?
And do what? Fight them off with my bare hands?
Her eyes followed Megan, transfixed with the way she could easily bring one of the revenants down with a good kick. The woman had trained in martial arts. The only thing physical Rebecca had ever participated in was an aerobics class with some other teachers at her school.
Pointing her gun at a female revenant who’d lost her right arm, Megan fired off two shots. One took off a fair-sized chunk of the zombie’s nose, the other hit her right between the eyes. The damned bitch just kept coming.
“Nay, Megan!” Artair shouted as he kicked a revenant in the gut, knocking the creature to its knees before he lopped off its head. “Bullets willnae stop them.”
“Now he tells me.” Megan dropped the gun and winked at Rebecca.
Megan’s confidence suddenly bubbled up inside Rebecca. She took a reluctant step away from the pool table and looked around to see what she could do to help. Shit, she’d never get used to the repulsive smell. She gulped down the bile rising in the back of her throat.
A revenant in a hideous brown suit hovered behind Sparks. Rebecca gave him a good, solid kick in the ass to draw his attention. Sparks whirled around, gave Rebecca a big smile and nodded at Megan. The three trapped the zombie against a wall, moving together as they shared a common goal. Rebecca blocked his retreat on one side. Sparks on the other. Megan used a sweep of her leg to knock his feet from under him. Sparks hurried in and chopped off the guy’s head like some lumberjack splitting a log, swinging her sword like an ax.
“Now we’re talkin’!” Sparks hurried toward where Artair battled two of the zombies. A trail of sweet-smelling white smoke followed in her wake, but it quickly dissipated, leaving the rotting stench that made Rebecca gag again.
Fear shot through her when Megan was backed against the bar by a tall zombie, whose ba
ttered ear was hanging on by a small piece of skin. The revenant held her by the shoulders and bent toward her neck, mouth wide open to bite a chunk right out of her flesh. His sing-song moan grated like nails down a chalkboard. Megan twisted, trying to get away, but the damned thing outweighed her by a good fifty pounds.
Rebecca screamed for help, but Artair and Sparks were busy holding off their own revenants. A couple of the bikers tried to fight their way to Megan, but they wouldn’t reach her in time. She tasted Megan’s fear.
Searching desperately for a weapon, she grabbed the only thing she could reach—a pool cue. She swung it like a baseball bat, hitting the creature across his shoulder blades as the stick splintered into several pieces, leaving her hands stinging. “Oh, shit.”
The revenant snarled and turned from Megan. A hand shot out, wrapping around Rebecca’s throat and lifting her off her feet despite her thrashing. Digging her nails into his arm, she kicked, trying to squirm loose. The zombie’s grip slowly closed off her air. Pieces of his skin tore away, falling to the floor in chunks. She clawed at him until her fingernails raked over bone, but she couldn’t loosen his hold.
Megan jumped on the revenant’s back, wrapped her legs around his waist and pounded his head with her fists. Her actions didn’t affect him, either.
Rebecca’s world was slowly going dark. What kind of Amazon am I? I’m gonna die on the first damn day!
An angry roar rang in her ears, and she watched in horror as the arm that held her was severed, the hand dropping from her throat and falling to the floor. Collapsing in a heap next to the ghastly limb, she gulped air into her burning lungs.
Artair ripped Megan off the screaming zombie and then beheaded it with one swing of his sword.
The head rolled to rest next to Megan’s boot. She kicked it like a soccer ball.
Artair gave her a hearty slap on the back. “Ye catch on quickly, lass.” He nodded to where Rebecca lay on the floor. “Best help your new sister.”
Megan pulled Rebecca to her feet. Snatching her gun from the floor, Megan slid it back into the ankle holster. “This doesn’t appear to do much good. I need to get my hands on a sword.” She glanced at Artair with an appreciative stare that made Rebecca’s stomach knot. “A big sword.”
