by Brenda Joyce
Sam leapt from her Lexus and ran across the garage to the barrier wall. Below, she saw the cab on the asphalt roof, looking somewhat mangled. The driver side door opened and Ian Maclean got out.
He waved at her and, holding the parcel, started across the roof. A moment later he’d entered the building, disappearing from her view.
Sam dialed 911.
He was crazy. Either that, or he didn’t care if he lived or died.
CHAPTER FIVE
IAN WANTED TO WAKE UP.
So much dread began that he could not breathe.
But the scene was so innocent, his reaction made no sense—except that he knew something terrible was going to happen.
He watched the children milling down the front steps of the Brooklyn public school, from a distance. Laughing and chattering, they were being met by their parents and caregivers. He did not want to watch, but his focus zoomed in closer. One boy wasn’t laughing or speaking. His heart sank as he recognized the thin, sullen, dark-haired boy.
It was himself.
The focus shifted and he was that boy now, his heart hammering with fear. He liked school but he hated going home. He was always careful to never think about what might happen when he got there—until the last bell of the day rang, and there was no other choice.
A dark shadow fell into step beside him.
His fear increased. He ignored the fingertips sliding along his cheek. They walked the three blocks home in silence.
At the door of the house, he said, “Your grandfather has returned, Ian. He has special plans for you.”
Ian choked, closing his eyes. Months and sometimes even a year would go by without Moray returning. Ian knew he preferred Scotland to New York. He would dream about his never coming back—that he would finally be allowed to go home.
He stood on the threshold of the dark, narrow, turn-of-the-century house, afraid.
Inside that house was his worst nightmare. He knew pain and fear and shame would greet him if he went in there. He knew he’d find his various captors in there, demons who changed over the years, and he also knew that he’d find Moray, too.
The Innocent wept and begged for mercy from the cellar.
God, he’d forgotten about them. He’d forgotten how he’d try to bring them food and water, only to be tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life for it.
He became sick. He couldn’t go inside.
And the door slowly opened. Black evil poured out onto the street, cloaking him. He tensed, aware of the evil worming its way into him.
“Stop cowering and come inside.” His grandfather smiled. “I have a use for you, my boy.”
Ian sat up, gasping. Fear and panic clawed through him, the talons knifelike. It took him an instant to realize that he had been dreaming. He cursed.
The dreams were as bad as the flashbacks.
In that first waking moment, there was nothing but fear. He launched himself from the plush chaise where he’d fallen asleep. He was still trembling, wet with sweat. He refused to think about the dream—he did not want to go there, not now, not ever. He took a breath and saw that it was early evening. He’d arrived home a few hours ago and sat down to savor his triumph over Sam Rose. He’d thought about her reckless courage, unable to quell his admiration. He’d had three or four drinks. And he must have fallen asleep.
He glanced at the unfinished drink and sandwich by the chair. He feared sleep almost as much as he feared pain and evil, which was why he avoided it at all costs. Sleep always brought nightmares, and waking up brought horrific, vivid and recycled memories.
Sometimes he went days without sleeping. But in the end, the past always triumphed. Eventually he would fall asleep for a few moments, the way he’d just done now.
His grandfather Moray had been one of the greatest demons to ever walk the earth. Rumor had it he had ruled his evil empire for almost a thousand years. His one failure had been his inability to completely turn his son Aidan, Ian’s father, to the dark side. Moray was not only accustomed to power, he was obsessed with it. Every demon lusted for power—it was the reason for their pleasure crimes. But Moray wanted to rule the world. Aidan was his worst enemy—his own son, refusing his wishes, his commands. Moray had abducted Ian in 1436, when he was nine years old, in order to use him against Aidan, intending to destroy him.
He hadn’t. In the end, Aidan had vanquished Moray, and Ian had been freed.
He’d been released exactly twenty-five years ago, just before Moray was destroyed once and for all by Aidan and Brie. Although Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, he’d spent most of his life in modern times, in New York City, where he’d been kept captive. Ian would never forget the day he had been freed. His father had found him and there had been so much relief. It had been his wildest dream coming true. There had even been joy. But the joy had been so brief.
Because Moray had returned him to Scotland in 1502. The moment he’d stepped outside of Elgin’s tower, he’d been in the medieval world. It should have been familiar to him, but instead, it had been strange and confusing, upsetting. He could barely remember his earlier childhood years there. Instead, he began to wonder why his father hadn’t come to his rescue sooner. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Moray or one of his captors to be there, waiting to hurt him. And he couldn’t sleep. When he slept, he dreamed.
And he had still been nine years old.
His grandfather had deprived him of every aspect of a normal childhood by putting a spell on him, one which had kept him nine years old for the duration of his captivity—emotionally as well as physically. But upon being released, he’d rapidly aged, becoming an adult man within months. Biologically he was one hundred years old, but he’d only been an adult for twenty-five years. None of it mattered. He felt a thousand years old.
Ian drained the rest of his scotch whiskey. No one knew better than Ian how sadistic, cruel and evil the son of a bitch had been. Even though he was vanquished, Ian still feared him. He could think of nothing worse than dreaming of his grandfather—other than actually coming face-to-face with him again.
Moray had once told him that he was Satan.
Ian believed it.
Moray had said, laughing, “Haven’t you grasped the truth yet? I am Satan.”
His heart had exploded with fear and disbelief. He choked, hugging the bars of the cage he’d been put in—his current punishment. “Ye canna be Satan. Satan is the father of all evil.”
Moray had reached for the door, smiling cruelly. “But I have so many faces, my son. Now will you do as I command?”
Ian reached for his drink and realized it was empty. He cursed. Satan had imbued Moray’s very existence and all that he had done. Satan surely had a thousand faces. Moray had been one.
How else would Moray have survived for over a thousand years? The Brotherhood and other great men had hunted him across time. They’d all failed, until Aidan and Brie had destroyed him.
And now his father, who had left him alone with evil for so long, had gone down in history as a great Master. Ian laughed. He knew the sound was bitter. He didn’t care. Hooray for the great Wolf of Awe, he thought caustically.
He had almost all the powers his father had, and a few he didn’t have. But Ian knew they’d never ask him to join the Brotherhood. The gods knew the truth about the years of captivity. They knew how defiled he was, how deficient, how insane. Not that he cared. If they were ever crazy enough to ask him to join, he’d refuse, because he was too different to ever be one of them. How could he ever be trusted to protect Innocence?
Hanging in the cage, the Innocent sobbed in fear.
“Do it.”
He held the knife, starting to cry.
“Do it, Ian, or suffer as they will suffer.”
He knew what he had to do. But he couldn’t do it, not to the little girl and not to her mother. He looked up at the monk, who stood beside him with his grandfather.
“Punish him,” Moray snarled.
S
uddenly Ian grunted in pain. He realized that he had been holding his glass so tightly he had broken it. His hand was bleeding now. He cursed and let the cracked glass fall.
Sometimes he hated everyone—the gods, his father, the world.
At the end, when they knew he’d never try to escape—when he knew he’d never be freed—Moray had tried to turn him. It was another ploy meant to destroy his father. But in spite of his fear of them, and his fear of what the punishment for refusal would be, he hadn’t ever been able to hurt anyone innocent. The boy had been heroic, but the man flirted with pain. Sometimes he had such an intense urge to hurt others, even the women he slept with. But it was nothing like the urge he so often had to hurt himself.
When he’d been on that garage rooftop earlier, he’d looked over the edge, and wondered if he’d finally die. When that day came, he’d embrace death as he’d never welcomed anything else. Others might fear death. Ian knew death was peace.
Now, he tested his shoulder. He’d suffered a few bumps and bruises in the car chase.
Sam Rose’s striking image filled his mind. He hadn’t expected her to keep up with him today, just like he hadn’t expected her to stick around last night. But she had. That woman was a cool character. And she could drive like she fought—which was probably how she fucked.
His intention had always been to get her fighting and clawing into his bed. He wanted a savage sexual contest. But suddenly he imagined her smiling warmly, stroking him softly, gentle and tender beneath him.
And he laughed out loud at himself. If she made love to him like a pussycat, he’d be bored out of his mind. What was wrong with him? Where had that fantasy come from?
He shook his head. She was very powerful, very smart and maybe as sexually driven as he was…and so beautiful, she made it hard to breathe. He smiled. She would hold her own with him in bed. She’d be tireless, insatiable, and very demanding.
He realized he was sort of glad that she wasn’t hurt.
That notion surprised him as he rang for Gerard, deciding he was hungry. His one and only interest was himself. There was no way he would care that she was unhurt, unless it was because he wanted her whole for their next encounter.
He was getting impatient for her.
He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he’d moved to New York so he could screw her. Hunting her from Scotland had required more patience than even he had.
He looked forward to their next encounter. He was enjoying the opening salvo in their little war. And then he recalled last night.
He began to pace. He had banished what had happened with John from his mind. He’d gotten his revenge, even if Sam had seen him at his weakest. There wouldn’t be any explanations. He owed her nothing—other than a night or two of extreme sexual pleasure. His secrets were going to stay secrets. He’d lose whatever sanity he had left, if the truth about his captivity ever came out.
The intercom buzzed, interrupting that worrisome thought. He crossed the drawing room of his master suite. “Gerard?”
“Sir, Mr. Hemmer has arrived. Should I wait to bring your supper?”
“Please do. And thank you, Gerard.” He released the button, pleased. It hadn’t taken his old pal very long to add two plus two.
In no particular hurry, he walked into his large walk-in closet and shed his clothes. He slipped on worn jeans and a paper-thin blue cashmere sweater. Although it was midsummer, he kept the town house cool. Then he glanced at his eighteen-carat gold Cartier watch. It was a quarter to eight. He went downstairs to greet his guest.
Gerard had served Hemmer a ten-year-old Philips Insignia cabernet wine, which he hadn’t touched. Instead, Rupert was staring at his recently acquired Motherwell. It wasn’t all that valuable—it had originally been sold for forty-five thousand dollars—but he happened to like the bold red and black strokes which the artist had used on the starkly white canvas. For him, Motherwell symbolized the life-and-death struggle of good and evil. He’d actually paid for the acrylic painting.
Hemmer turned, scowling and flushed.
“Having a bad day?” Ian asked, trying not to sound too happy about it. He kept his gaze as innocent as possible. He truly disliked Hemmer. Although technically human, he was evil to the core. Stealing the van Gogh for him had purely been business and he relished sticking it to him. “Ye might want to watch yer blood pressure.”
“I know exactly one person who could disable my security system and get away with the Duisean page without triggering a single alarm,” Hemmer snapped.
Ian grinned. “Surely there are other thieves as skilled as me in the world.”
“I invited you into my home as a friend.”
Ian dropped his smile. “We were never friends. Ye asked me to get ye the van Gogh and ye paid me handsomely to do so.”
“That made us business partners, Maclean.”
“Aye…an’ possession is ten-tenths of the law, now isn’t it? Ye’d know that better than anyone.” Ian walked over to a seventeenth-century cupboard to pour himself a glass of the fine wine.
Hemmer followed. “So it was you! You bastard! You came to my party only to steal from me.”
He was calm. “It takes a thief to know one.” He sipped and was impressed.
Hemmer was shaking. “Have you bothered to consider that I am one man you do not want to cross?”
Ian shrugged. “I’m trembling.”
Hemmer grimaced, eyes ablaze. “How much? How much will you extort from me? How much will it cost me to get the page back?”
Ian tried to slip into his mind, but the power eluded him. All he felt was Hemmer’s fury and a sense that Hemmer meant to make him suffer for what he’d done, but he hadn’t needed telepathy to comprehend that. Hemmer had to know that the page had god-given powers. Ian didn’t think he’d pay over two hundred million dollars for it, otherwise. The man wasn’t even Irish.
But there was more. A black shadow clouded Hemmer’s thoughts—a distinct but undefined presence. Was someone else involved in Hemmer’s desire to possess the page? Ian tried again, but he couldn’t quite bring that other person into focus—if there were another person involved. He couldn’t find a name. He merely glimpsed the black shadow, which remained. If the shadow was a demon, that certainly upped the stakes. “I’m taking bids until Friday at midnight. Make yer best offer.”
Hemmer choked on outrage. “You’re taking bids? The page is mine! How much do you want for it?”
“Make yer best offer,” he repeated flatly. “I’m selling to the highest bidder.” He smiled and added softly, “Good luck.”
Hemmer breathed hard. “You’ll be sorry, Maclean. I am not the kind of man you really wish to cross.”
Ian was amused. He feared demons—not evil billionaires like Rupert Hemmer. If Hemmer was playing with demons, he might be afraid, but that still wouldn’t stop him. Because hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake. And wealth was power. “Really? Good luck making me pay, as well.”
Hemmer slowly smiled. It was a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t trust you when we first met. I should have known. So, did you enjoy my wife last night? Did you enjoy her today?”
He’d known they were being taped. He shrugged. “She was skilled enough.”
Hemmer went still. “I know you think yourself above us all. But you should fear me, Maclean. No one has as much power as I do in mortal realm—and I have allies. Allies that will make you seem weak and pathetic.”
A twinge of wariness went through him. He’d been right. Hemmer had demonic allies. He’d intended to sell to the highest bidder, but he did not want to become involved with any great black powers.
On the other hand, he’d spent twenty-five years making himself as safe as possible, and a hundred million dollars or so would be the icing on the cake. Being safe—making his world impregnable—was the driving force of his existence. People thought he was a greedy bastard—how wrong they were.
And he didn’t like threats. There’d been a thousand of them duri
ng his years of captivity. “I don’t like being threatened, Rupert.” He nodded dismissively at him.
“And I don’t care to be mocked, and I especially don’t like being duped.” He started for the doorway, then turned. “I taught Becca every trick she knows. I wonder…how many tricks does Sam Rose know?”
Ian stiffened, incredulous.
“When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”
Ian watched him leave, and suddenly he was livid.
SAM SLOWLY CLOSED the door to her loft and leaned heavily against it.
Her car was more or less totaled. She’d left it right where it was, taking a cab back to HCU, where she’d gone directly to Five. Her rib cage was bleeding and the doctor there had lectured her for not having it properly attended the night before. He’d added three stitches and redone the bandage. She did have a sprain, too, and he’d wrapped that. One of the collisions must have caused her to hit her head, because she had a black eye. He’d given her an ice pack—and then he’d asked her out. Sam had politely refused.
She didn’t move. Her ankle hurt, her rib cage burned and her left eye throbbed. She’d managed to escape the building without being waylaid by anyone, especially not her boss. By now, Nick had to know that the page was stolen—and that one of his top agents had caused multiple car wrecks.
Damn Maclean.
What was wrong with him?
She pulled off one boot, then had to sit down on a kitchen stool to get off the other one. Sheer fatigue set in. It had been a hellish twenty-four hours. At work, they thought her a superagent, but she was human, which everyone seemed to forget. Sam half limped into the kitchen, found a bottle of red wine and uncorked it. She poured a glass and took it with her, limping toward her bedroom.
Maclean’s image was etched on her mind as she’d last seen him, standing on the rooftop beside the dented taxi, waving at her. She paused, recalling his horrifically scarred back. That was a sight she’d never forget—as was his breakdown after destroying John.
Being held captive as a child by gross evil was what was wrong with him. The fact that he was alive to tell the story was miraculous.
