by Brenda Joyce
Moray reached out and cupped Aidan’s cheek. Aidan tensed. He leaned close enough that his lips brushed his skin. “Then I’ll be taking the woman.” He added, his mouth a caress, “This time.”
Aidan jerked away in horror, for he understood the threat. Moray would take Isabel, taste her, fuck her and kill her, shouting in pleasure as he did so. And Isabel would die in pleasure, too.
This time.
Next time, there was Aidan’s infant son.
Aidan saw red. He grasped the hilt of his sword, bracing himself for battle, his heart thundering now. It was his duty to protect his lover, but he would die for his son. Moray was far more powerful than he was and his victory was certain, but if the Ancients forgave him his many sins, maybe he would discover a new power. Moray must not escape unscathed.
Surely Malcolm of Dunroch, a noble man, would protect his son from the darkness.
A serving wench he sometimes took to bed, a very beautiful fifteen-year-old lass, hurried into the room. Her eyes were glazed and Aidan immediately knew she was entranced.
“My lord.” She knelt before Moray.
Aidan drew his sword. “Nay!”
Moray looked down on her and she crumpled slowly to the floor. Aidan did not have to kneel by her to know that she was dead. His power was so great he could take an entire human life in the space of a single heartbeat.
Moray turned, but he did not look sated. Lust burned in his red eyes. “A small warning. I lose patience with every rising moon.”
Aidan breathed hard. “One day, someone will send ye to hell.”
Moray laughed, and Aidan was flung against the far wall by his invisible force. He had not expected the energy blow and he’d had no time to use his own power to dilute it. His head hit the stone and he saw stars.
When the stars vanished, Moray stood over him. “Next time, Isabel.”
Aidan struggled to his feet. “I am done with her,” he lied, careful to keep his thoughts blank. “There be someone new. Ye can take her now.”
Moray stared, and Aidan knew he was trying to lurk. Aidan changed his thoughts. Moray had fresh power now, making him even stronger than when he’d walked into the door. But that was his way. He took life the way a man took his bread. And until a great Master arose, he would continue his reign of evil, scorching the earth with fresh blood wherever he passed and turning other Innocents into demons for his hordes.
“You remain the same stubborn fool,” Moray murmured. “Your hatred does not serve you well. You know the truth. I can give you the power you dream of.”
Aidan tensed. His single ambition was power—but not for the reason everyone thought. Power was a necessary bulwark against Moray. Power was protection for himself and his infant son.
“Soon, Aidan, you will bend to me.” The red was fading from his eyes. He smiled and vanished into thin air.
Aidan shook with rage and hatred. Then he whirled and raced up the stairs to make certain Isabel was where he had left her—and that she was alive. She lay as still as a perfect statue. He went to her side and touched her breast, only to find it rising and falling in the rhythm of life. His relief knew no bounds.
He straightened.
Aidan had never hated anyone the way he hated his father.
CLAIRE DID NOT WANT to be a test, not of any kind. Not where the outcome was the possession of Malcolm’s soul. Malcolm had to be wrong. If they made love, he was not going to lose control. She turned away from Malcolm, staring out at the ocean, over the lower-lying monastery walls.
It was almost unbelievable how quickly she had bought into this terrible new world. She was grim. She wondered if she’d ever feel lighthearted again.
He came to stand behind her. “Dinna brood,” he said, his tone lighter, but with an effort. She knew he wanted to offer her some comfort. “Yer on Iona, lass, an’ I ken this be what ye have wanted. I’ll ask MacNeil if ye can see the Cathach.”
She turned. “I’d like that.” She hesitated. “Malcolm, it’s eerie. It’s almost as if Moray is hunting you now.”
His eyes flickered, but his expression did not change. It was impossible to read. “’Twas three years ago, Claire. He’s nay huntin’ me now. He’s huntin’ other game.”
Claire wished she could believe him. “What’s three years in the life span of a demon like Moray?”
Malcolm stiffened.
“What is he, five hundred years old? A thousand?”
“I dinna ken. No one does.”
Her anger finally erupted. “I hate them! I hate them all! They murdered my mother, Lorie, thousands of others, and they want you, too! Except they want you to turn. Is that the word? Turn? Is that what they call it when a Master is seduced to evil?” Her rage knew no bounds.
“I’ll nay be seduced to the dark side, Claire,” Malcolm said, his gray eyes flashing. “I’d die by me own hand first.”
“That is not reassuring.” She hugged herself. “I keep thinking about life back at home. About the hints Amy was always dropping whenever the news featured another pleasure crime. Did she know something? Or did she guess?”
“I dinna ken yer cousin, Claire.”
“MacNeil said I am going home. He didn’t say when.”
Malcolm looked away from her, his face set in harsh lines.
She seized his arm. “When I do, I have to protect my cousin and her children somehow. I need to tell her the truth about evil.”
Malcolm grasped her elbow. His eyes blazed. “I must ask ye, how will ye protect them, Claire?”
Claire hesitated. That was a damn good question. “Can you teach me how to fight—no, kill—the bastards?”
He stood there, looking very unhappy with her request. “I dinna think so.”
But Claire barely heard. Now that she understood the world she lived in, she had damn well better be able to protect herself. This was a world at war, and Malcolm was right. There was no safe place to hide. She was terrified, but fighting back was better than hiding. Surely, with some skill and a lot of wit, a human could take down demons.
He was lurking. “Nay! Yer a woman, and a mortal one, at that! Ye have no powers!”
She realized there was no other choice. It was do or die, literally. “They murdered Lorie and my mom. I’m strong. Teach me how to kill demons. You said yourself that Moray dispenses powers from the Duaisean. Why can’t I be given powers, too?”
“We be Masters, not magicians! We’re born with our powers, Claire. They be in our blood! An’ we dinna ha’ the Duaisean, Moray does. Even if we did, its powers be fer the Masters, an’ only the Masters!” he exclaimed, flushing. “Ye might be able to kill the lower Deamhanain like ye did the other day. Ye might even find a way t’ kill Sibylla. But a real Deamhan like Moray will read yer thoughts! If ye somehow managed to attack him, ye’d have to stop his mind, otherwise he’ll suck yer life dry, laughin’ as he does so.”
Claire trembled, getting the unspoken message. She’d be sexually seduced, too. “How can I stop a powerful demon’s mind?”
“Well, let’s see,” he mocked furiously. “Ye can wield a sword an’ behead him, or stab him through the heart!”
A demon had to be instantaneously killed, she thought. “What if I managed to make him unconscious? He couldn’t entrance me then or take my life.”
“Nay! I willna ha’ ye fightin’ demons. I’ll do the fightin’ fer ye.”
Like hell, Claire thought. “Teach me to use a sword.”
“It takes years o’ practice! An’ even so, ye dinna have the strength to sever a man’s head from his body.”
“Shit,” Claire said. “And damn it, too.” But she could do this. Carotid arteries could be slit. Hearts could be punctured. So could lungs. Wrists could be cut. There was no choice. “I’m going to do this, Malcolm, with or without your help.”
“I shouldna ha’ told ye the truth.”
It was too late, Claire thought. Images were flashing in her mind now. The medieval world, the modern world. A world at war…d
emons and Masters…
A terrible idea began. Eyes wide, she looked up at Malcolm. “Malcolm.”
He stared back with dismay.
“I want to find the demon who murdered my mother.”
CLAIRE FOLLOWED MacNeil down the very short nave of the chapel, which was set behind the church and apart from it. She hadn’t noticed the chapel upon first entering the monastery. The stone building was centuries old, the ceiling low and round. Claire immediately saw the shrine.
A recess was set in the stone wall behind where the altar had once been and an ancient iron reliquary was there, trimmed with gold, the design Celtic. Claire’s pulse pounded.
As they stepped up to the shrine, their footsteps echoing, Claire became aware of the power and beauty that cloaked the chapel, heavy and tangible, weighing down the air.
Claire faltered as MacNeil went to the reliquary. There was something so silent and so deep in this church, so vast, so awesome. And if it wasn’t God’s presence, what was it?
She met MacNeil’s gaze and he smiled at her, clearly aware of what she was feeling. Because the ceiling was so low, he stood stooped. “The Masters make their vows here, Claire. Yer feeling more than eight hundred years o’ power an’ grace.”
Claire had never been religious, but he was right. “The Brotherhood came into being when St. Columba founded the monastery here in the sixth century?” she asked.
He dimpled. “Nay. There ha’ been Masters since the beginnin’ o’ time. But the Sanctuary moved t’ Iona with the great Saint.”
She faced the shrine as MacNeil took a key from the ring chained to his belt and unlocked the reliquary, raising its lid to expose the Cathach. Claire stepped closer and gasped.
The Cathach on display in Dublin was a manuscript. She was staring at a bound book, its cover encrusted with hundreds of blazing gems—rubies, sapphires, emeralds and citrines. A gold lock kept the pages concealed. “It’s beautiful!” she said in a low whisper.
“Aye.”
Claire gazed at him, her mind racing. “The Cathach in Dublin—it’s a copy St. Columba had scribed. This is the real deal, isn’t it?”
MacNeil smiled. “The pages were scribed fer us on Dalriada, lass, afore Columba was even born.”
Oh, my God, Claire thought in awe. “And it was bound recently.” She wasn’t asking a question. Bound books were an invention of the Middle Ages.
“A century ago.” MacNeil unlocked the padlock and opened the book.
Claire’s heart went wild. Instantly she saw the pages were parchment, hide that was intricately treated in order to be thinned, softened and preserved.
MacNeil was lurking, because he said, “’Tis the hide o’ sacred bulls. The Ancients told the shamans how to cure it when they gave us their wisdom an’ power.”
Claire licked her lips. “The book won’t last forever. It needs to be placed in a very sterile environment with precisely the right amount of humidity.”
MacNeil grinned at her. “The book has been blessed by the gods, lass. It be eternal.”
Claire fervently hoped he was right. She stepped closer. Like the copy on display in the twenty-first century, it was written in old Irish Gaelic. There were no spaces between words, and it was decorated with trumpet, spiral and guilloche patterns, distorting the letters. She could not tear her gaze away. She was staring at a holy Celtic relic—one her peers didn’t even know existed.
Claire desperately wanted to read the book, but as she didn’t know Gaelic, she couldn’t. A translator would be the next best thing. “Read it to me, MacNeil. Just a page.”
His eyes widened. “’Tis forbidden—but ye have guessed that already.”
She slowly met MacNeil’s intense green gaze. “Historians believe the Cathach was used before battle to empower armies. If I recall correctly, a Scot carried it into battle and then it was fought over by clans.”
“They are wrong. A Master carried it into battle centuries ago. A demon fought him fer it.”
“Of course,” Claire murmured. History had been misinterpreted.
“Ye be wise, Claire. Ye dinna need the wisdom o’ the Cathach.”
She stared at him again. “I need power. I need the kind of power you guys have, so I can hunt demons—so I can hunt the demon that killed my mother.”
“I be sorry, lass, but I canna give ye such powers. Only the devil can.”
Claire shuddered.
Giving her a sidelong glance, he closed the bejeweled cover and locked it. Then he slid the book back into the reliquary chest, which he also locked.
Wisdom was even stronger than power, Claire thought. She wished to get rid of MacNeil and somehow open the chest and the book. As she couldn’t read it, she’d touch the pages and pray. Maybe it would give her the wisdom to find her enemy. Maybe it would give her the wisdom to defeat him, too.
But she wasn’t going to try to break the lock of such a sacred relic. She needed the key. She looked at MacNeil, wondering if she could seduce him and take the key as she did so.
He grinned. “Ah, lass, I’d love to be seduced, but ye’d still fail to steal the key. Yer entranced. Ye’ll feel better when ye leave the shrine.” He laid his large palm on her shoulder. “I need to speak with Malcolm. Stay here if ye wish. We trust ye, lass.”
She nodded. His green eyes were warm and amused as he dropped his hand and left.
She trembled. She had actually been thinking of violating a sacred shrine. She did not want to be entranced by the Cathach, but it was hard to think clearly. The power and grace in the chapel felt stronger than ever before.
Claire didn’t hesitate. She stepped closer and ran her hands over the gold-filigreed iron chest. She was going to find and kill the demon that had murdered her mother or die trying—with or without enhanced power and wisdom.
But a little help would go a long way.
Claire hadn’t prayed in years. Long ago, she had decided God didn’t really care about her and her problems. But it felt like He might care now.
Her temples throbbed. So did the iron box under her hand, and her mother’s pendant burned her chest. Claire whispered, “Is this why I am here? Am I here to help the Masters somehow? If so, am I supposed to use my mind—my education? Or am I supposed to pick up arms and engage the enemy, the way Malcolm does?”
She inhaled. “I need help. Help me do this. Help me find the strength, the courage, to fight evil. Please keep Amy, John and the kids safe.” She bit her lip, thinking of Malcolm, her heart accelerating. “Please help Malcolm. Help him fight evil—help him stay in Your light.”
The chapel felt as if it were spinning, like a carousel. “Faola. If you are listening, thank you for sending Malcolm to me.” She faltered. Did she believe in the goddess? “Help Malcolm and me. Help us fight evil, help us fight Moray.” She shuddered. Moray was Faola’s son, if all was to be believed. “And if it’s not too much to ask, help me make the right choices. I want to help Malcolm, not hurt him.”
She had one more request. “A little superpower would be appreciated.” She grimaced. “Amen.”
Claire stared at the reliquary, which was as blurred as the rest of the chapel. She fought to breathe slowly, deeply, as she fought for calm. The heaviness in the chapel was suffocating.
And then the air lightened.
Claire realized the reliquary no longer burned her hand and she felt lighter. She felt that He had listened. Maybe the goddess had listened, too.
“Halt!”
Claire froze at the sound of the sharp command, spoken in French.
“Take yer hand from the chest.”
Claire slowly turned.
A towering Highlander faced her. Dark and handsome, his eyes blazing with the wrath of gods, he exuded authority and danger. His hand was on the hilt of a two-handed broadsword. Claire knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. “Step away.”
Claire obeyed. “MacNeil said I could spend a few minutes alone. I needed to pray.”
His eyes widened. They were sp
ring-green, lighter than MacNeil’s. “Yer an American.”
Claire was surprised. Had he traveled to her country in her time?
But he had not relaxed. Suspicion filled his strong features. He gestured now. “Come forward.”
Claire did so. “I am with Malcolm of Dunroch,” she said tersely. This man appeared to be about forty, which meant he was older even than MacNeil, didn’t it? His eyes were hard, terribly hard. He did not look as if he had ever smiled, not once in his entire long life. He made Malcolm, Royce and MacNeil look like charming playboys.
His eyes narrowed, sliding over her in a cursory inspection, and then it veered abruptly to her throat. He met her gaze. “If ye be friends with Malcolm and if MacNeil truly left ye alone here, then I will only advise ye to never touch the shrine.”
“I’ll go.”
“Ye be from a foreign land, but ye wear a Highland charm.”
Claire froze. She touched her pendant, which was shockingly hot again. First Malcolm had been fascinated with the stone, now this stranger. “Yes. It was my mother’s. Who are you?”
“Ironheart of Lachlan.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Claire said uneasily, “I should go. I bet Malcolm is looking for me.”
“How did your mother get the stone?”
“I don’t know.”
“May I see it?”
Claire stiffened. She rarely took the charm off, and then only to clean and polish it. She didn’t want this stranger touching it.
“Lady.” He smiled now. His eyes had become warm and friendly. “Mayhap a proper introduction is in order? I be the earl of Lachlan, an old friend of Malcolm’s.” His tone had softened and Claire had no doubt he often used it on women to lure them to his bed.
“I am Claire—Lady Claire Camden,” she amended, relaxing.
He nodded, his gaze holding hers. “My brother had a similar stone once. It was stolen. I canna help wonder if ye wear his stone.” His regard became intense.
Claire was stunned. It was impossible to look away.
“I should like to see the stone more closely,” he murmured, his stare turning to smoke, yet it remained direct, penetrating. “I ken ye dinna mind to give it over to me, Claire Camden.”
