by Brenda Joyce
He didn’t answer, choking. He was turning red now.
“Ian!” She put her arm around him, alarmed. “Is it asthma?”
“No…I can’t breathe!” He went down to his knees. Sweat streaked his brow and temples. He gasped for air.
He was either claustrophobic or having a panic attack. She knelt with him, keeping her arm around him. “Ian, there’s plenty of air in here. And we’re not locked in. You can leap.”
He looked at her. His eyes were wide with panic.
Sam was stunned. He was truly afraid…
And then he simply vanished into thin air.
But she heard his screams.
ON HIS BACK, he stared up at the ceiling of his library, moaning uncontrollably. Tears streamed. There was so much pain. He couldn’t bear it. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t a child now or a prisoner. He had to consciously recall that the pain would pass. It felt like he was broken in a thousand bits and pieces. It felt like he was dying. He’d leapt before, when there hadn’t been a choice. Or when a desperate and reckless urgency had outweighed his fear of the leap. But just then, he wanted to die. Not for the first time, he prayed he would finally find release.
“Sir!” Gerard knelt beside him.
He felt a finger of relief. Even as he moaned and shuddered, racked by the torment of broken bones and shattered limbs, he was vaguely aware of Gerard’s presence, of a cooling compress, of pills being pushed into his mouth.
He closed his eyes tightly. The leap through space and time was horrific. Traveling at that velocity turned a man inside out. It felt as if his every limb was being ripped from each socket, as if the skin was being torn from his body, as if his muscles were shredding, the bones cracking apart and then splintering into a million pieces. His organs felt like balloons, overfilled and then bursting.
He’d begged the gods for mercy.
No one had been able to hear him, of course. He’d begged them for mercy long ago, too, but silently, so his tormentors wouldn’t hear him.
The gods had ignored those pleas, too. Because they’d wanted him alive. To this day, he couldn’t comprehend why.
The pain was finally easing.
“Sir, is that any better?” Gerard asked softly.
Tears moistened his face. He had the ability now to swipe at them. He hated himself.
But the pain had receded to mere tremors. He hadn’t been flayed until he was more dead than alive, or electrocuted, or ripped apart on a rack. He wasn’t in a dungeon, a cellar or a cage. He was in his twenty-million-dollar Park Avenue town home. He lay on a beautiful Oriental rug surrounded by works of art and antiques, with his majordomo kneeling beside him.
“It’s better,” Ian gasped. Then he rolled onto his stomach and vomited.
Then, somehow, he sat up, with Gerard’s help. It always shocked him to find out that his body wasn’t broken after all, that he could still function. Gerard pressed a glass to his lips. He swallowed aged scotch whiskey. As he did, the panic and fear finally rolled away, as the ocean did at low tide. He breathed deeply.
Sam.
Ian stiffened in disbelief. He’d left her alone in the vault. “Gerard!” He struggled to stand; Gerard helped him.
“Sir, you should rest. Whatever possessed you to leap? You cannot withstand the reminder!”
He met Gerard’s concerned gaze. “Bring my car around. Now.”
He should leap back to her. It would take less than a second.
He simply wasn’t brave enough.
SAM WAS in disbelief.
Ian had leapt into time, leaving her a prisoner in the vault!
And Hemmer could come back at any time!
She would have laughed, because it was so absurd, so unbelievable, for him to abandon her that way, except that nothing that had just happened was funny. He had panicked.
In that moment, there was absolute comprehension. Ian Maclean came across as an arrogant self-centered jerk, at once wealthy, seductive and powerful. Most people would think he had the world at his fingertips. He sauntered about the city as if he had no cares.
It was a facade.
He’d just become unglued by being locked in a vault, when he had the power to leap through time and space and free himself. Of course he had. They’d put him in a cage. That much she knew. They had probably locked him up a hundred different ways. Being locked in the vault had triggered reactions he couldn’t control.
Just the way he’d come unglued when he’d destroyed John. Facing that demon had brought another kind of reaction. He’d gone berserk in the process of destroying it, and broken down afterward. He’d shed tears. And she didn’t know what those tears had meant, either.
She’d never forget what she’d just seen a moment ago—or what she’d seen in his apartment the other night.
But there was so much more. Maclean was unbelievably complicated. He hadn’t been careless or indifferent when he’d been trying to bargain with Nick over his file. He’d been angry and desperate. The facade had been shattered then, too.
Ian Maclean was badly fractured. Beneath the surface arrogance and nonchalance, the indifference and who-gives-a-damn attitude, she couldn’t imagine what really existed. She’d seen glimpses. There was fear, anger, pain. Just possibly, there was shame. He certainly was determined to keep his past covered up and she didn’t blame him. The bad-boy image was only the tip of the iceberg.
Sam told herself that if she started giving him the benefit of the doubt, she was done. Compassion was bad enough, but trying to make him into someone okay was not. He wasn’t okay. He wasn’t kind or caring—not at all. In fact, he was ruthless and selfish. But she didn’t feel better. Because now she knew why.
She’d be ruthless and self-centered, too, if she’d been locked up for sixty-six years by one of history’s greatest demons.
He’d come all the way downtown to Hemmer’s because he’d thought she was there and in trouble.
“Get it together, Rose,” she warned herself. The Sam of old would be furious at being abandoned in such a cowardly way. She’d have no respect for anyone who turned tail and ran. But she wasn’t angry at all. She was shaken by what she’d seen and what she was starting to comprehend. Very few human beings, mortal or not, could survive what he’d survived with any degree of sanity.
What if he wasn’t half as bad as he made himself out to be?
What if a real person was buried beneath the bad-boy facade?
Sam couldn’t believe herself. She shouldn’t be thinking about him. None of this was her business. Her business was recovering the page.
But she was thinking about him. Worse, she wanted to know even more. And she was definitely feeling sorry for him. There was no way to avoid her feelings now.
Sam cursed.
If he wasn’t a total jerk, if a heart beat in that hard, sexy chest, so what? The day the page wound up in the right hands was the day they were done. He’d go his way and she’d go hers, never mind that sex tape from the future. Something was wrong with that tape. She wasn’t capable of smiling at a lover that way, and Maclean wasn’t capable of making love.
She told herself to forget it. She would be thrilled when they were done. Her life could go back to normal: Sam the Slayer, alone against the evil in the world.
And she thought about her sister and Brie, then Allie. She sighed and sat down on the floor. She didn’t even know what was normal anymore, she thought.
She was facing the locked vault door. She needed to think about that. There was only one way in and out of the vault, obviously. At some point soon, Ian would recover from the leap. Maybe he’d return and free her. She was fairly certain he wouldn’t leave her in the vault to rot. On the other hand, she was not into relying on others or counting on miracles. She needed to prepare herself for a battle. If Hemmer came back, she’d have to take him out in order to free herself.
She lusted to destroy Hemmer now. The bastard had threatened Ian. He deserved a really good, slow, old-fashioned hanging.
Sam got back up to adjust her weapons. And that was when comprehension suddenly clicked.
Hemmer surely knew that Ian could leap if he had to, because that was how Ian had stolen the van Gogh for him. And that meant that Hemmer hadn’t cared about capturing Ian. She’d been the target.
As she realized that, she felt the huge and heavy weight of evil gathering outside the vault. She tensed. Hemmer did not carry such darkness with him. Too much black power was out there.
The locks clicked.
Sam slid her disk into her hand.
The vault door was pushed open, revealing a man in dark robes.
It took her one moment to realize that the evil being wasn’t a modern-day monk. His robes were from an earlier time, the wool was coarsely woven, and he wore pointy shoes. He even had a leather and cord girdle, from which hung big, awkward keys. He was medieval.
Her brain buzzed. You’re out of your time. Nick had accused Ian of that. And she was standing face-to-face with a medieval man now.
“’Allo, Samantha Rose,” the cleric said, smiling. He had a heavy French accent. He lifted his hood and cowl, revealing the perfect features, the blue eyes and blond hair of the purest demon. The monk would give Brad Pitt a run for Angelina Jolie’s heart.
The circle was closing in on her, she thought, unafraid. First Allie, then Brie and Tabby. Now, a demon from medieval times was confronting her—and Ian might be medieval, too.
“Nice to meet you,” she quipped. “So what time are you from?”
He chuckled. “I’m from 1527.”
Ian had been released from his captivity in 1502. “Hey, you must know Maclean.”
His brows lifted. “I am very fond of Ian.”
She tensed. She got every innuendo in his soft tone. “You motherfucking son of a bitch,” she spat.
“Have I hit a nerve?”
Sam told herself not to get sick. She wanted to kill him. He held up his hand, laughing.
“Kill me and you’ll never have the answers you crave.”
He could read minds. Her control was gone, her temper consuming. “So tell me what I want to know.”
“Yes, I knew him when he was the great Moray’s prisoner.”
She shook with rage. “I thought so. Hey, you’re in for a surprise. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s not helpless—and he’s not alone.”
“Really? And who is on his side? You?” He shook his head, amused. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re my prisoner and not capable of helping anyone right now.”
“Shows how much you know.”
“You’re so different from Lady Tabitha.”
Sam breathed in. Tabby was in 1527 now. “So you know Tabby. What is she, a best bud, too?”
“I prefer to keep my distance from her, actually. I could vanquish both her and Macleod, but I don’t see the point in engagement.” He smiled. “His temper is worse than yours.”
Ha, Sam thought, furious now. Of course he kept his distance. In the early sixteenth century, Tabby was an extremely powerful witch. Not to mention that her hubby was a superpowerful Master.
This had started with Maclean. Now, she didn’t know if it was only about him or her, Tabby or all of them. “What do you want?” Sam demanded. “I’m tired of word games. Not really my style—if a medieval son of Satan like you can get my drift.”
“You know what I want, Sam, as does Ian. In fact, he knows exactly what I want.”
The page of illusion. She didn’t think he was working with Hemmer—she didn’t think he’d like to share, or vice versa. But Hemmer had locked her in—and now the monk was there, so one never knew. She wanted to murder him on the spot. She was livid, the second time she’d lost control of her temper in just a few moments. She was never angry when in the field. Angry slayers became dead slayers and no one had to tell her that.
But it was too late. She was completely pissed off. Maclean needed justice. So did she.
“You know what I think? I think you need a lesson in humility and boundaries.”
He smiled with relish. “When we’re done, you will know your boundaries, if you’re still alive.”
“Hmm. A threat. I really don’t like threats…” She smiled and flung the disk at his throat.
He held up his hand. In the blink of an eyelash, Sam knew what he intended. She didn’t know if he could do it but she wasn’t going to stand there and find out. She ducked.
The black power rushing from his hand turned the disk and sent it whizzing back at her, so swiftly it hissed.
It sliced the air above her hair and embedded itself in a painting.
“Ouch,” Sam said, glancing over her shoulder. “Isn’t that a John Singer Sargent? Hemmer will be pissed.” But she was stunned. The monk had a lot of black power, ranking him right up there with the likes of the legendary Moray.
Some demons were nearly invincible and lived thousands of years to prove it, as Moray had. She refused to believe them immortal, though, and this one wasn’t going to live a thousand damned years.
“Samantha, you want to go back and see your sister. If you cooperate, I am sure I can arrange a meeting.”
He could take her back to Tabby.
“I can and will take you back. Once you give me the page.”
She came to her senses. “Moron!” Sam sent her dagger across the vault.
She had dead aim. It should have struck him in his black, bloodless heart. But he flicked his fingers as her throw began, and the blade turned 180 degrees again. This time, the weapon impaled the floor at her feet, instead.
Okay, she thought, I am in deep shit.
She came at him anyway, a razor between her fingers.
His black power blazed.
As if struck by a cyclone, she was lifted from the ground and carried across the vault, where she smashed into the opposite wall with terrific force. She heard her bones crack. For one moment, she lay on the floor, stunned.
Then a blinding pain went though her right shoulder and collarbone.
“Get up,” he taunted. “I won’t kill you. I have a message for Maclean.”
This was a moment for all the Rose women. In the past, when she’d come across this kind of evil, Allie would be there to heal, Brie would have seen it all coming, and Tabby would work her magic. Good would win the day. But Samantha was entirely alone.
“Tell Ian I have a new maze, just for him,” the monk said softly.
Gripping the very lethal razor, Sam shifted to get up and cried out, incapacitated by the pain searing through her.
The demon monk laughed and approached her.
Sam tensed, ready for his onslaught, ready to fight back.
“Laugh at me,” Ian said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MONK WAS STILL STANDING over her. Sam looked up and saw Ian in the doorway. He looked like hell. But as ravaged as he seemed, he was furious. His hand trembled as he lifted it. Sam wondered what had happened to him and if he had the strength to save the day. But he sent a blazing streak of white energy into the vault.
As it raced toward the demon like a tidal wave, the monk vanished. Sam covered her head with her arms as his power struck the wall behind her. Plaster cracked. Paintings fell. A chunk of the ceiling crashed by her. When the vault quieted, she took a deep breath.
Ian knelt beside her. “How badly are ye hurt?” he demanded.
Sam looked up. She’d dislocated her right shoulder, she was certain, but it was the acute throbbing in her collarbone which worried her. The pain was blinding. She was determined not to pass out. “I’ll be fine,” she said. She started to sit up and instantly became faint.
He knelt and put his arm around her waist. “Can ye admit to being hurt?”
“Okay, damn it. I’m hurt. It hurts.” She gritted, fighting waves of dizziness. Was he worried? “Who was that?”
His gray gaze was averted and he seemed to hesitate. “I didn’t see his face.” She heard him breathe harshly. “He had his back to me.”
> Something was wrong, Sam thought. The waves of gray became waves of black. “He came from 1527,” she managed hoarsely. “He knows you—he’s from your past.”
Ian’s expression tightened as their gazes met. “Lie back down,” he told her.
“Are you sure you didn’t recognize him?” But she sank down and found herself in his arms, and the dizzy feeling instantly receded. His arms were strong and so damned familiar. He was almost reassuring.
Disconcerted, she started to sit up, pushing away from him. “We have to get out of here. Hemmer might come back. The monk might come back. No, amend that—he will come back. I can get medical attention on Five.”
He ignored her, his face hard and set. “Stop wiggling,” he said, clasping her shoulder.
Sam choked, refusing to cry out as he touched her. She gritted, “What are you doing? Trying to kill me?”
“Shut up,” he snapped.
Sam twisted to look up at him. He refused to meet her gaze, his face set in lines of fierce concentration. She collapsed against him, aware of the breadth and hardness of his chest. It was hard to think. Shit. She was going to pass out…
Suddenly Sam felt soothing warmth creeping through her shoulder and collarbone. The warmth eased the coursing pain. The moment she did, she realized what he was doing. “You can heal?” she gasped. And she saw the white rain coming from his hands.
His mouth tightened. Clearly he would not answer.
Aidan had healed Brie once, even before his redemption. Sam leaned against him, closing her eyes, gasping in relief, his healing power flowing into her. As the pain in her collarbone receded, the haze in her mind eased, too. Maclean could heal.
She looked up, lying against his hard thighs now, and studied his determined face. He hated doing this, she thought. Did he hate being a good guy?
“Why did you come back for me?”
He finally looked at her, with annoyance. “So we can go back to my bed.”
“Liar,” she said. Didn’t this make him a good guy? She wasn’t supposed to care, but she felt an odd elation—damn it. “I think you care just a little,” she said. “About the war on evil, not me. The indifference, it’s a part of the phony facade.”
