Her blood hummed. Was it possible? All those summers she’d visited as a child, had he been in there waiting for someone to wake him? She read on and found names and dates. In the year 1749, the Demon Mour was suspended by Warrior Malcolm… The last name was impossible to read. This was a record of battles between demons and warriors of the Connor clan. Bree quivered with excitement. Demons and warriors… it was real. How had Grandma gotten it? Why had she never mentioned it?
The book said warriors had talismans. Was that what Faelan wore around his neck? Was he a demon who’d stolen a talisman, or a warrior who’d hijacked a time vault? Bree ran her finger down the entries, searching for his name, but there were so many, and the writing so hard to read it could take days, weeks. Several pages later, she found something that made her mouth drop. In the year 2053, the demon Lor was defeated by Warrior Darius Ander.
In the year 2053?
Regardless where Grandma had gotten the book, this was more incredible than Stonehenge or the Lost Colony of Roanoke. The last few pages were missing; only jagged edges remained, and the one that had survived was written in a language she didn’t recognize. Bree’s head swam, and an image started to take shape, but a noise sounded below, and the vision fled.
She put the book back in the box and closed the top. Gripping the dagger, she crept down the stairs, faintly registering the scent of lavender clinging to the air. She eased her bedroom door open, expecting to see something out of The Exorcist. He didn’t look like a demon. He looked like a man caught in the throes of a nightmare. His head tossed back and forth, damp hair clinging to his neck, sheets tangled with his legs. He mumbled a word here and there. “Druan.” The name from before, and another, “Alana.”
Alana? A wife? Had Bree kissed a married man? Let him rub his naked body against her? Was he a man? Did demons marry? If he had been married, his wife would be nothing but dust. Of course he’d have nightmares. Bree moved closer. A sheen of sweat covered his body. The fever had broken. He uttered one small sound that blew common sense away. He whimpered. If he was a demon, she was doomed.
She put the dagger on the table and took the cloth to the bathroom to dampen it. When she returned, his forehead felt cooler, and he seemed more at ease. She untangled the sheet from his legs and wiped the sweat from his face. And because she simply had to, she smoothed the tiny line between his brows. Moving the rocking chair to the corner of the room, she sat close enough to see him or hear if he called out in his sleep and near the door, in case she needed to run. Staying here was dangerous, but any treasure hunter worth her salt knew great discoveries required great risks. If this stranger had somehow traveled through time, she had to know why and how.
***
Faelan crouched behind the crumbling chimney of the burnt-out farmhouse. He could hear the worried breathing of the man beside him and hoped the coins jingling nervously in the man’s pocket were enough to buy his loyalty. The full moon was covered by clouds, and there was a thickness in the air that didn’t sit well, but he attributed it to the coming storm. Even the horses, hidden in the nearby grove of trees, neighed and stomped uneasily.
It was madness to take on a demon as powerful as Druan without other warriors to protect his back, but Faelan couldn’t wait for his brothers to arrive, not after what he’d discovered last night. In truth, he didn’t want his brothers here. While it was brave of them and the other warriors he’d sent away to offer their help, it was too dangerous for them to face an ancient demon without being assigned. One mistake could mean death. He wouldn’t risk their lives. He’d already warned his accomplice to flee as soon as Druan showed. Faelan felt the warmth of his talisman and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The time vault waited behind the trees, ready to suspend the demon, but if he had to be destroyed, so be it. One way or another, this would be finished tonight.
The wind kicked up, slapping his kilt against his legs. The first fat raindrop hit his nose, followed by the second and third. A jagged flash of lightning split the sky. Faelan flinched. “You sure Jeremiah’s coming?” That was the name Druan went by these days.
“Should’ve been here,” the man said, fretting. “Probably ran into the storm.”
It came fast, the sky blackening as wind howled through the trees. There was a loud crack, and sparks flew from a nearby pine. Faelan heard horses approaching, hooves pounding the ground like an army from hell. He gripped his sword. “You said he’d be alone.”
“He was supposed to be.”
At least a dozen riders entered the clearing, mounts snorting as the night flashed. There were too many. He could take Druan or the others, but he couldn’t take them all. If he tried and wasn’t strong enough, wielding the talisman’s power would kill him. He should have kept the other warriors with him, instead of trying to capture Druan alone. He would have to retreat.
Then Faelan saw them, sitting in the midst of the others, four figures taller than the rest. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Druan rode in front, flanked by the other three, faces any warrior knew from the time he could lift a sword. The demons of old, the ancient ones. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar.
What were they doing here?
He heard a gasp. His accomplice hadn’t run. The man stood frozen, staring at the ancient demons. The sky lit violet, and Druan’s yellow eyes found Faelan. The demon rode closer. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar followed, in demon form as well. They seemed puzzled to see Faelan. The remaining horsemen, halflings, and demons, closed in around them.
Faelan shoved the man behind him. He’d have to destroy Druan by hand and save the talisman’s power for the rest. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them all, but it might give the man with him a chance to escape. There was no way out for Faelan. He would die. His only hope was to take Druan and as many with him as he could. “As soon as they’re distracted, run,” he whispered over his shoulder. “I’ll try to hold them off until you’re safe.”
“Did you think you could stop me, warrior? Stop my war?” Druan hissed as Faelan raised his sword.
“I will stop you, you bastard,” Faelan yelled over the storm. “We both know this isn’t about war. The war’s just a distraction for this disease you’ve created. You’re planning to destroy every human on earth.” And by the time his clan and the other warriors got the message, it would be too late. Everyone would die.
Druan’s eyes widened. His thick, gray skin quivered.
“What disease?” Tristol roared, turning on Druan. Where the others were hideous, Tristol was striking. Long black hair flowed from a face that looked almost human, except for a slight bulge in his forehead. He was rumored to be the closest to the Dark One, hell’s favorite son. What was he doing with Druan?
“Lies. He tells lies.” Druan looked over Faelan’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Grog?”
“Grog?” Faelan tensed and started to turn as a jarring blow struck his skull. He’d been betrayed. It was over. The world was doomed.
***
He woke hard, chest heaving. He was here, not in the clearing. Not in the time vault. He was in a bed. He remembered the woman opening the vault and helping him inside the house. One minute he’d felt his skull explode, the next, he’d looked into terror-filled green eyes. Human eyes. It seemed an eternity had passed in between. It had, if the woman told the truth, and she must have, or he couldn’t be here.
Grief hit him again, as it had in the crypt. His mind clawed at the darkness, searching for faces forever lost. A woman’s smile and a lassie with dimples, two lads wrestling in the dirt.
What had he done?
A tear formed, but didn’t fall. He had no time for grieving, there was work to do, and he couldn’t ask forgiveness from the dead.
He touched the talisman. If he wore it, how could the world still stand? Or did it? He’d seen only one human, if she was that. Were there others? What he’d seen outside looked normal, not the wasteland he’d expected. And who’d sent the woman to wake him? Druan? Or one of the other ancient
s: Tristol? Malek? Voltar? No one else would have known where to look, and Druan had the only key. Someone with knowledge was behind this.
Faelan flexed his muscles, testing. His strength was returning, though his head felt like a split watermelon. That bastard he’d hired had betrayed him. Probably a bloody minion. He thought of the woman again. She’d saved him, for sure. If not, he could have been in that vault until Judgment. By freeing him, she’d saved mankind. Who was she? She couldn’t be a full demon and enter the graveyard. Was she a halfling? She didn’t smell like one. Or a minion? Then why wake him from suspension, offer him food and a bed? He’d keep quiet and see what part she played in this game. He wouldn’t think about what he’d seen in her eyes. It must be the time vault messing with his senses.
He sat up and the sheet fell away. He was naked. Her doing, or his? Pushing the covers aside, he stood, his body hard, aching. He needed a woman. Her. He’d dreamed of kissing her, his tongue dancing with hers, but it hadn’t felt like a dream. Was she entering his thoughts like Michael did? No minion could do that.
Faelan looked around for his clothes and saw a box with glowing numbers beside the bed. He cautiously touched it, but it wasn’t warm. Some kind of timepiece, judging by the number shown and the lack of daylight at the window. His clothes lay folded next to the box. Another kindness. But halflings and minions would use any means to carry out their master’s evil.
A quick search revealed he had one less thing. His dirk was missing. He should’ve hidden it with the key. The woman’s scent caught his nose. He tuned his vision and saw her in the corner, asleep in a rocking chair. He could just make out her face, but it didn’t matter. Every inch of her was etched into his brain. His body grew harder. He walked over to where she slept, her dainty hand holding his dirk. Did she understand the danger that came with waking him? Or did she hold it in protection against him? Who was she?
She was perfect, that much he knew. Long dark hair like strands of silk. Bonny eyes as green as the hills of the Highlands, and a soft, feminine mouth that made his water. Her breasts were full. He wanted to fill his hands while he tasted her. He’d start with her lips and move on until he’d had every part of her. He longed to feel her skin, her legs entwined with his, lifting around his waist, her body opening to him. What if she had a husband?
Did it matter, he wondered, reaching for her.
Chapter 4
His fingers were sifting through her hair when she woke. She gasped but didn’t move, just watched him with wide, wary eyes as her hand tightened around his dirk. He wished it were tight around something else. He let her hair fall but stayed where he was, inches away, neither of them uttering a sound.
She glanced at his groin, level with her face, and he sensed her pulse quicken, her skin growing warm. He wanted to be inside her, so deep they were one. He reached for her again, and a flicker of panic crossed her face. Some vestige of control hovered within reach. He made a desperate grab for it, knowing if he didn’t, he’d do something unforgivable.
Turning, he rushed from the room and found himself in a parlor with chairs and tables and some other things he didn’t recognize. It was lit by a strange lamp near the door. He sat on a chair, heedless of his nakedness, and gulped in air.
What was happening to him? In his twenty-seven years, he’d never hurt a female. He’d always defended them. Would he have taken one against her will? How could he even think about a woman after what he’d lost? He shouldn’t be thinking of women at all. It was against the rules.
A throat cleared from the doorway. She stood there, eyes averted, his clothes in her hand. He started to stand, but figured manners wouldn’t count if he was naked.
“It’s almost six. You’ll need to eat. I washed your clothes last night. You can clean up there.” She pointed to a door down the hall. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She put his things on the floor and left.
He stared at her retreating back. What kind of woman gave hospitality to a man who’d done what he had? He was surprised she hadn’t stabbed him with his own dirk, or worse, he thought, looking at his naked body, still aroused. The women of his day would’ve fainted dead away or had him jailed. If she had a husband, he’d probably kill Faelan before he regained his strength and save Druan the trouble. Perhaps she was a prostitute. Or did she play a deadlier game? He needed some distance from her so he could think. And he needed to piss.
He could hear—and smell—her near the back of the house. He dressed and put on the boots he’d bought from a young soldier after he wore a hole in his own. Passing boxes shoved against the wall, he made his way to the front door. Was she moving out or in? Outside, he focused his vision to the darkness and moved around back. He could see a graveyard and the outline of a crumbling church. It looked like the old chapel near the Wood place. It had been a bit rough, but not in ruins.
Why would Druan put the time vault in a graveyard? Faelan needed to find his clan, but he had no means of traveling to Scotland. Other than his talisman and his dirk, he had nothing. No coin. No horse. No sword. He listened to the birds greeting the morning and considered his options. Getting to Scotland wasn’t possible now. He could take to the woods or find a nearby town and try to blend in while he asked around. But more than a century had passed. Everyone who’d lived then would be dead.
Feeling the pressure of a full bladder, he looked for a privy. All he found was an old tool shed. Moving around to the side, he lifted his kilt. He’d just finished when the birds hushed their singing. A prickle ran up his back. He shook off, dropped the front of his kilt, and scanned the wood line. He couldn’t see it, but he could sense it. Something was out here. Maybe an animal. Maybe not.
What if she’d stumbled on him by accident? If so, she’d unleashed the gates of hell in her own backyard. Her blood would be on his head. If he stayed, he could find out who she was. If she was helping Druan, she would have to be killed, but first she would lead him to the demon.
In the meantime, something had to be done about this burning he felt for her. He’d spent years honing his self-discipline, but this went beyond lust. His stomach rumbled. She’d offered food, and he was near famished. Perhaps he could distract himself from one appetite by feeding the other.
He watched the woods a minute longer and then slipped around to the front door. The smell of food cooking made his stomach growl again as he made his way to the room where she’d told him to clean up. He opened the door and found another shock, this one pleasant. He spent ten minutes pushing buttons and turning knobs until he figured out how to make the water flow out of the wall. He picked up a square cake and sniffed. Flowers. Was this soap? He didn’t relish smelling like a flower, but it was better than mud and sweat. The warm water rolling over his body like a gentle rainfall was an unexpected pleasure, as was the soft cloth he dried himself on.
He dreaded facing her after acting like an animal, but it was that or sleep in the woods, and whatever she was cooking smelled bloody good. After dressing once again in his clean clothes, he followed his nose to the kitchen. At least he thought it was a kitchen. The room was large, with old wooden floors covered by colorful rugs. A big oak table sat in the center. But there were things here he’d never seen in a kitchen, such as a woman in trousers.
She took a container of something that looked like milk out of a tall, white box and reached for a glass, leaving a strip of skin bare at her waist. He could already see every curve of her body. There was a name written on a wee square, right at the top of her arse. Levi Strauss. Was this some sort of family crest? Unusual place to display it.
Her arms were bare, along with most of her shoulders, and if he looked hard enough, he could see the swell of her breasts. Her skin was smooth and creamy, all over, as far as he could tell. And there was a lot of it to see. Did all women dress this way now?
His body started to harden. Damnation. He’d just gotten it down. He shifted his sporran and cleared his throat.
She pulled in a quick breath and turned, thick ha
ir swinging around her shoulders. Their gazes locked and held. It was powerful, this feeling. Did she sense it? A flash of fear showed in her eyes, and he remembered who she might be. If so, she’d do well to fear him. Then he saw the scrape on her cheek and the thin line marring her throat… from his dirk. If her unlikely story was true, he’d come close to killing an innocent woman. If it wasn’t, the next time, he wouldn’t fail.
“Breakfast is ready,” she said, swallowing nervously, forcing a smile.
Whatever else she was, she was brave. Faelan smiled in return, but it felt like a sneer.
“I’m Bree,” she said. “You must be starving.”
He stifled a growl. She had no idea.
***
“I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” Bree said as Faelan drained his glass of milk without stopping to breathe. He frowned at it, discreetly sniffed, and then wiped a drop from his chin. Milk in his day wouldn’t have been pasteurized or two percent, just straight from the cow.
He stuck his fork in the scrambled eggs and shoveled a bite into his mouth.
“It’s hot—”
His eyes widened. He took a gulp of milk and did it all over again. Burning hot food, cold milk. It sounded like he moaned, but there wasn’t enough room in his mouth for the sound. She studied him as he ate, not surprised he looked even better in daylight. Just her luck. She was avoiding men like poison ivy, and she’d condemned herself to solitary confinement with the sexiest man alive. Or dead?
“So you’ve decided I’m not a ghost?” he asked, smothering a quiet burp behind his napkin.
Awaken the Highland Warrior Page 3
