Awaken the Highland Warrior

by Anita Clenney

  No. Not every man.

  There was still one she could count on.

  ***

  Faelan stood outside Bree’s door, sweat running down his chest. He’d tried sparring with Brodie to work off his frustration, but it hadn’t helped. He had to make her understand. He raised his hand to knock and flinched as something crashed inside. It was followed by cursing and a flurry of banging and stomping.

  “What time does your flight leave?” a male voice asked. Faelan felt the doorknob dig into his palm. What the hell was Ronan doing in Bree’s room?

  “Six a.m. I’ll get a room for tonight,” Bree’s muffled voice said.

  “You want me to come with you?”

  Come with her? Faelan pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear her response. All he heard was a smacking sound. Was that bastard kissing her?

  Faelan flung open the door. It bounced against the wall and almost smacked him in the face when he charged inside. Ronan was half naked, as usual, and there wasn’t an inch between him and Bree. Both of them turned, and Bree’s face frosted over. She stood on tiptoe, gave Ronan a kiss on the cheek, and snatched her suitcase.

  “Thank you, Ronan, for everything. I’ll call you later.” She stalked past Faelan, her eyes liquid with pain.

  For everything? What had he bloody given her? Faelan stared at Bree’s retreating back and Ronan with his arms crossed, eyes hard. Faelan wanted her to leave, but not like this. He hurried after her. He’d throw Ronan out a window later.

  Faelan raced down the opposite hall, shoving past several warriors who looked up in surprise. Rounding a corner, he ran into Conall, the young warrior he’d practiced with earlier. “I need your help.”

  After a hurried conversation, Faelan followed Bree outside to where Anna’s car was waiting. “Let me carry that.” He reached for her suitcase and she whirled, eyes ablaze. The corner of the case grazed his groin, and he grunted, doubling over as she turned and stomped to the car. He hobbled after her. “Wait, we have to talk,” he wheezed.

  Bree flung her luggage inside Anna’s car. “Talk.” Her expression was dour, as if she’d been sucking lemons. “You lie to me, treat me like a leper, and now you want to talk? You’re just like those demons you hunt. A handsome form hiding a troll. I risked my life for you, fed you, clothed you, tended your wounds. I found your family. I gave you everything I had to offer, and you shoved it all back in my face. There’s nothing left to say.”

  She climbed in the car and slammed the door. Anna, standing by the driver’s door, gave him a cool stare and got in. The car sped down the driveway, leaving Faelan standing there holding his groin. He was still there when Conall’s car rolled by.

  A troll? She’d called him a troll? He turned and saw the flash of faces disappear from the window behind him and warriors watching from the field. “Mule-headed woman.” He started toward the stable. Horses didn’t nag or bombard a man with hundreds of questions and look at him with accusing eyes that wrapped his heart in layers of guilt.

  “You gonna let her go?” Ronan asked, coming up behind Faelan. He’d put on a shirt, at least.

  “Aye.” Faelan debated on knocking the scowl off Ronan’s face. Instead, he clenched his fists and trudged toward the stall of the black stallion that reminded him of Nandor.

  “I could go with her. For protection,” Ronan said, his face hard. “Then meet you in Albany.”

  Faelan turned and moved inches closer to the tall warrior. “She doesn’t need any more of your bloody help. Or anything else you have to offer.” He’d heard about Ronan’s exploits with the female sex. It appeared he was trying to add Bree to his list of conquests.

  Ronan stepped forward, bringing them nose to nose. “She’s sure not getting anything from you. Everything she’s done for you, and you throw her out like yesterday’s trash. I don’t care if you are a legend. She deserves better than that.”

  The horse skittered away, sensing the tension.

  “I’m taking care of her,” Faelan said, moving to steady the stallion. Conall would keep an eye on her.

  “What you’re doing is acting like an ass. She spent last night in a chair because you were in her bed.”

  “I’ll wager you had a solution.”

  “What if I did? Unless she’s your mate, you have no say in the matter. And you sure as hell have no say over where I sleep.”

  Faelan knew if he didn’t leave now, one of them would end up on the floor. He opened the door to the stall. “I’m going for a ride before I do something you’ll regret.” His groin still ached, but it would serve as a reminder that women and warriors didn’t mix.

  “I liked you better when you were in the time vault.” Ronan punched the stable wall and walked away.

  Faelan stayed out all day, riding the horses, grooming the horses, complaining to the horses. He watched the moon rise and considered waiting for the sun, anything to keep him away from family members and warriors who kept popping around corners and out from behind trees like jack rabbits, their dark looks heaping on the guilt.

  Sorcha was the only one who understood.

  The next morning, his stomach forced him to breakfast. The smells of eggs, bacon, beef sausage, potato scones, and kippers were ruined by Ronan’s black glare. Anna, Brodie, and Shane didn’t look any happier. No one spoke but Coira.

  “Faelan, I found this in Bree’s room. She must have forgotten it.” Coira laid a book beside his plate and patted his shoulder. At least she wasn’t glaring at him. “Could you get it to her? Or I could mail it, if you’ll give me the address.”

  It was the sketchbook Bree’s mother had brought. Faelan swallowed a bite of tasteless bacon and opened the first page. There were drawings of the graveyard and a lassie standing inside a glowing crypt, blood dripping from her hands as she reached for the burial vault. The bacon felt like a live pig tromping in his stomach. There was a castle—Druan’s or the clan’s, he couldn’t tell—and a face in the window, drawn by a child. The torment of the tiny artist leapt from the pages, in the evil slant of the eyes and the thick skin on the head and tiny pencil strokes where Faelan knew firsthand there were sharp teeth.

  Druan.

  Faelan’s fork clattered to the table. How could a child draw a picture of an eight-hundred-year-old demon?

  He turned the page and stared at the last sketch in shock.

  For God’s sake. How many coincidences could one person bear?

  He shoved back from the table, catching his chair before it crashed. “I have to go…” He left the others staring after him. Holding the sketchbook, he hurried to the phone. Bree didn’t answer her cell. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to calm the panic. Sorcha had warned him this was somehow connected to Bree, that she was in danger. He’d thought sending her away would fix it.

  Faelan tried Bree’s mother and found she knew nothing about her daughter coming to visit. Maybe Bree hadn’t told Orla. Using the credit card Sean had given him, Faelan called the airline and arranged for the first flight home. Home, where was home? He was stuck between times. He would arrive before the others, but he needed to make sure Druan didn’t escape and that he was far away from Bree. And he needed time to settle his thoughts, figure out what he would do after the battle was over. Figure out if he could fix the damage he’d done to Bree.

  Faelan grabbed a suitcase and started throwing in clothes. The door opened, and Ronan stepped into the room. “What do you want now?” Faelan asked.

  “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “Worse. I think Bree’s in danger.”

  “’Bout time you showed some concern for her safety,” Ronan said as his gaze fell on the open sketchbook. “What’s that?”

  “Druan… drawn by Bree when she was not much more than a bairn.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “You have no idea what’s happening here.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  ***

  “Hello, Druan.”

  The fine, human ha
ir on Druan’s neck rose. His skin melted, bones cracked and popped as he shifted. He spun and faced the tall, raven-haired demon that women of all species followed like bees after honey. “What are you doing here?” Druan spat, furious at his lack of control, while Tristol remained calm.

  “You know I don’t need your welcome. How’s your little virus?”

  Druan’s claws lengthened. “How’s your mother?” he jeered, using the only weapon he had. Tristol’s eyes reddened, the only outward sign of his hatred, and Druan felt a moment of triumph at the flash of fear that crossed Tristol’s face. If the Dark One knew Tristol’s secrets, he wouldn’t last two seconds, but then neither would Druan, if the Dark One found out he’d created a virus while he was supposed to be focused on that war. The Dark One had to approve all major disasters and diseases, and he didn’t tolerate his demons messing with his plans, or each other. The good book some humans embraced had that part right. Demons came to steal, kill, and destroy. From humans, not other demons. Fortunately the Dark One often got caught up in his plans and didn’t realize the level of competition in his ranks.

  Tristol swaggered about the room, stopping to pick up a particularly nice chalice Druan had taken from a dead king.

  What was he doing here? Druan knew Tristol was the one killing the minions. Grog had spotted him near the chapel before twelve of Druan’s best guards were slaughtered. Grog alone had returned, with only a shoulder wound.

  “I should have listened to the warrior instead of your lies,” Tristol said. “You betrayed me. You betrayed us all, even the master, but I’ll have my revenge.” He fondled the chalice and then replaced it. “I know a secret about your warrior.”

  Druan tensed. “What secret?” So Tristol did know about the time vault? Had he watched Faelan being buried? “Did you take my time vault?”

  “You’ve lost it?” Tristol grinned, and Druan was shocked that even he felt the pull of Tristol’s smile. “The Dark One has requested my presence. Should I tell him about your woes?” Still grinning, Tristol swirled into a black cloud and vanished.

  “You won’t stop me,” Druan yelled to the empty room, but he felt a growing sense of panic. He remembered an apparition of the warrior and the glowing room he’d seen decades earlier. He’d hoped it was some kind of sorcery on Tristol’s part, but now he wondered if he’d been searching for something that wasn’t there. Had Tristol stolen Druan’s warrior?

  ***

  The gray branches reached out like bony arms, pleading with her to hurry. Whispers filled the air, desperate, as a mist rose from the graves, winding around her legs. She tried to run, dragging one weighted foot, then the other, but the crypt seemed farther away with each step. A large shadow appeared in the doorway then slunk into view. Gray skin and yellow eyes. An evil hiss rolled past sharp teeth, and long talons held up the metal disk. The hiss became a laugh as the specters pulled her down. She clawed at the ground, frantic, lurching forward with one final scream.

  Chapter 27

  “Are you okay?” a nasal voice asked beside her. Bree opened her eyes to curious faces. She was on a plane. The other passengers were staring, even the toddler in front of her, eyes round as her mouth, her orange lollipop stuck to the back of the seat. “Are you okay?” Bree heard again, and she looked at the man seated next to her.

  “I’m sorry.” She pulled her hand back from his arm and saw the white half-moon prints in his skin. “Nightmares… I have nightmares.” She unbuckled her seat belt and climbed over him, ignoring the flight attendant hurrying toward her. She stumbled down the aisle, past the one passenger who wasn’t gawking. He sat taller than everyone else, head buried in a newspaper, but it didn’t disguise his handsome profile.

  The young warrior who’d smiled so politely in the meeting.

  Faelan had sent someone to make sure she left. Bree collapsed on the toilet seat before her legs dropped out from under her. The creature in her dream was similar to the one Faelan had destroyed in the chapel, but this face, she’d seen as a child. It was the face she’d sketched. She closed her eyes and remembered hiding under the covers, her face buried in Emmy’s fur, as she clutched the cross on her father’s necklace.

  It wasn’t working. The monster was here. It wasn’t a dream. She could feel him. Smell him. She squeezed her eyes tight, gripped the necklace harder, and saw a soft glow like the one she’d seen in the crypt, the one from the shiny man. She peeked out from underneath the blanket. The monster was still there, but he looked different. Afraid. He stared at something behind her.

  Bree glanced over her shoulder. A man stood there, his face and body shadowed, but he wasn’t the shiny man. He spoke, but she didn’t understand the words. Then he turned, and she recognized his eyes, the ones she’d seen in the crypt. Her protector’s eyes. Feeling braver now that he was here, she gripped the cross and held it out toward the monster, who was still staring at the man in shock. “Get out, now! Leave, and don’t come back!”

  The monster jerked as if she’d kicked him. He vanished, like a ghost on Scooby-Doo. It worked. Bree looked around, but she was alone. She fell asleep comforted by the soft glow. When she woke to leave for Daddy’s funeral, the magical light was gone, and she thought it must have been another dream.

  It wasn’t. A real monster had sat by her bed, which explained the drawings and the nightmares she’d blocked, how she knew what the thing in the chapel looked like before she’d clearly seen it. Faelan was right. None of this was a coincidence. She was meant to wake Faelan, not Sorcha. There was some satisfaction in that. It was her destiny to help Faelan save the world, whether he liked it or not. Afterwards, she’d walk away with her pride intact, even if her heart wasn’t. The shiny man hadn’t said he’d send someone to marry her, only to protect her, and Faelan had done that. It would take time to wrap her head around how he’d been in her dreams when he was still buried in the crypt and who the shiny man was. A figment of her imagination? Her father’s ghost? She welcomed the mystery. It would distract her from the pain.

  Bree stood and splashed water on her face. First she had to get off this plane, and she had to lose Conall. An hour later, Bree peeked around the door of the ladies’ room in the Atlanta airport. The young warrior had his hair pulled back, a baseball cap on his head, trying to blend in with a group of college students. He was too striking to blend.

  How was she going to get rid of him? He might be young, but he was a warrior. She needed a distraction. Bree spotted a young woman washing her hands. Attractive, endowed with more curves than clothing. Bree plastered on a smile she hoped conveyed sisterhood. “Could I ask a favor?”

  The girl looked up and smiled. “Sure.”

  Bree led her to the doorway. “See that man over there? Tall, with the baseball cap?”

  “That hottie the girls are staring… oops—”

  “Hey, he’s just a friend. You’re welcome to him.” The fringe benefit couldn’t hurt.

  “What is he? A soldier?”

  “Sort of. Anyway, it’s his birthday, and I want to get him a present before our flight. Do you think you could uh, distract him while I slip by?”

  She eyed Conall again, licking her lips. “How much time do you need?”

  “As much as you can give me. He’s hard to shop for.”

  She wiggled her eyebrows at Bree. “You got it,” she said, adjusting her pushup bra. “By the way, I’m Sherri.”

  “Uh, Evelyn. Nice to meet you. I really appreciate this.”

  The girl slipped around and approached Conall from behind. The minute he turned, Bree bolted, not waiting to see how impressed he was with Sherri’s offerings.

  “Alb…” she gasped, minutes later, leaning on the counter. “Albany. I need the next flight to Albany.”

  The ticket agent checked the computer. There was a flight leaving in one hour.

  “No good. It’s an emergency.”

  “There’s a flight boarding at gate 13B, but I don’t think you can make it.”

  “I’ll tr
y.”

  The agent looked doubtful, but issued the ticket. Luckily the security line was short. As she handed the man her boarding pass, her name was announced over the intercom.

  “Ma’am, they’re paging you,” he said, the slight widening of his eyes the only indication of how bad she must look.

  “My boyfriend,” she said, panting. She clutched her tote bag and tried to smooth down her hair. “I’ll call when I get seated.”

  Bree didn’t rest easy until the plane was several thousand feet in the air. It was a toss-up who would kill her first, Russell, Conall, or Faelan.

  The plane landed in darkness. She’d hoped to arrive in daylight, when it was reasonably safe. She’d dart in, grab the Book of Battles, the disk, a change of clothes, and some cash.

  After a long search for her car—she’d forgotten which lot she parked in—Bree plugged her dead cell phone into the charger and dialed her mother.

  “Darling,” her mother simpered. “Do you have exciting news?”

  You were almost the mother-in-law to an eight-hundred-year-old demon. “I’m on the way home. I wanted to see if you’d gotten back okay.”

  “Where’s Faelan?”

  “Still in Scotland.”

  “Making plans—”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing.” Probably banging Sorcha. “You got home okay?”

  “We had a lovely drive. But you need to call Peter and have him look around. I’m sure I saw someone near the chapel.”

  “The chapel?”

  “I came back to the house and spent the night—”

  “You stayed at my house?” Bree screeched.

  “Sandy had company, and it was so loud there, I was getting a migraine.”

  A migraine was nothing. Her mother was lucky she was alive. “The trespasser was probably Russell. I think I spotted him in town.”