by Dee, Bonnie
She slammed the laptop cover down and pushed it away from her. Goosebumps covered her arms, and she rubbed them, trying to dispel the chill that washed over her. Lorraine had wanted a man with power, and each day she discovered that he had more than any other man she’d ever known. It was a waste of energy to try and fool him. All she’d need do was bide her time until the moment came when he’d share his power with her. Lowery had promised he’d give her what she deserved and somehow she knew he would keep that promise.
Biting her tongue, she drew the laptop back to her and opened it up again. Crepes Lorraine as per ordered.
*
Nolen stared at Lorraine’s shapely ass as it disappeared from view. He’d have to watch that woman. It was highly likely that she might kill him in his sleep and bathe in his blood while she fucked herself. And that was his prerogative.
The discordant tones of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring announced an incoming call. He put it on speakerphone. “Mr. Lowery? Ricky. Sorry, we’re running about ten minutes late. Accident on the turnpike. Wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t be pissed.”
Nolen rolled his eyes. The human’s execrable English annoyed him but the cab company had assured him that he was reliable. And discreet. “Thank you for alerting me to the change in schedule. I’ll inform the cook.”
“No problem.” Ricky chuckled. “My passenger was real insistent that I call you. He was sweating blood about it. I’ll tell him not to worry. Later.”
Nolen grimaced. He hated doing business with the lower class of humanity. They were too unpredictable. On the other hand, pay them enough and they didn’t care—what was that expression the cab driver had used when he’d made arrangements? Ah, yes—a rat’s ass, about your reasons for hiring them. He smiled. He might just let Ricky live and use him again.
* * * *
“Hey, listen, you don’t owe me a tip. It’s all taken care of already by Mr. Lowery. Let me pop the trunk and you can get your bags. Enjoy yourself, why doncha? This place is a real palace.”
James grabbed his suitcase and garment bag and the cab sped away. He checked his watch again. Damn, he was fifteen minutes late. He shrugged, nothing to do about it now. Putting on a jaunty air, he climbed the steps to the front door and buzzed the intercom.
A strident feminine voice responded briskly. “Yes? You’re late. Mr. Lowery has been waiting for you. I’ll buzz you in.”
James pushed open the door and gaped. He could fit the entire dormitory of the orphanage in the foyer.
“Are you finished staring? Leave your bags here and follow me.”
He turned to the woman standing off to the side and found himself staring once more. The woman was not what he expected. Her tight coral blouse was unbuttoned to display the top of her lace slip. Her slacks were tightly belted and her waist impossibly tiny, emphasizing voluptuous hips. She looked like a slut.
“Are you done stripping me, Mr. Macalister? I assure you, I don’t find you the least bit attractive. Now, put your dick back in your pants and stop wasting Mr. Lowery’s valuable time.”
James said nothing. The woman’s ego wasn’t worth deflating. Besides, he assumed most men would find her blatant charms attractive. He hurried after the woman wondering why a person of Lowery’s obvious refinement would want such a creature around him.
Perhaps she was a good cook?
The female stood waiting for him by a closed door. When he drew near, she knocked once and he heard a cultured voice grant them entry. She led him into a study lined with books, straight out of an English country manor house. The sole occupant stood by the window behind an enormous desk with his back to the room. He spoke without turning. “You may leave us, Ms. Foley.”
James would have sworn that he heard the woman mutter, “one trick pony” and grind her teeth before she bit out a retort. “As you wish … your lordship.”
Lowery’s response was to the point. “Watch your tongue. You may lose it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, James saw the woman stiffen while real fear crossed her face and she left without a further word.
Lowery turned around and spoke to him, his voice warm and seductive, his accent charming and exotic. “Well, my boy, will you sit down?” He sported an eye patch and his hair was sun-streaked blond and gray at the temples. He reminded James of Cary Grant in the movie To Catch a Thief or perhaps Yul Brynner in that film about the pirate Jean Lafitte. Maybe both of them.
James realized that he was staring again and hastily seated himself in the chair by the desk.
Lowery moved to the built-in bar and uncorked a bottle of Tour Rouge. He poured two glasses and brought them back, offering one to James. “Please don’t refuse, James. I know this is your favorite wine. I thought you’d appreciate a glass before we discuss why I asked you to come here.”
James put out his hand to take the proffered glass. Lowery’s hand brushed his and lingered for just a beat too long and James felt his cheeks flush.
Lowery pulled up a chair next to him and spoke softly, his voice mesmerizing. “What I have to tell you will be something you might find hard to believe. Only a chosen few are aware of what’s happening in the world now. I selected you to assist me because of how well you took care of that unlucky incident with your predecessor. Please bear an open mind because the fate of the world depends upon me … and you and Ms. Foley.” He placed his hand on James’ knee, caressing it absentmindedly, and continued. “James, I want you to become my personal assistant and help me to fight a group of people who are determined to pollute the world’s water systems. I’m a member of an ancient order of Druids charged with protecting and preserving the purity of the Earth’s oceans, rivers and streams. The money that Drona makes goes to enabling this.
“Recently, the group came close to killing me. I managed to escape and retreated here to this safe haven. But I cannot take the chance and leave the estate.” He clasped James’ hand in both of his and gazed directly into his eyes. “I need you, my boy, to use your technical and managerial skills to set up a network around the world so that I can release water spirits who will serve as an army to combat the poison this group plans to unleash upon the world.” He squeezed James’ hand and leaned closer to him, his breath warm against his cheek. “Will you help me, my dear, dear boy?”
“Yes,” James responded; his mind and heart trapped in the web of the Speaker’s powers.
Nolen unclasped his hand and grasped James’ chin, drawing his mouth close to his. “Let’s seal our pact with a kiss.” James flinched and he tightened his grip. “No need to worry, dear, dear boy. I know everything and I approve very, very much.”
And he nipped James’ lip, plunging his tongue into its sweet warmth.
Sealing James’ fate.
Chapter Six
Dublin, Ireland
Casey Aidan woke up screaming that morning.
By his reckoning it was the thirty-first morning that he’d greeted the day in the same way—hoarse, drenched in the stink of his own sweat and weeping. He’d run his fingers through his soaked hair and staggered to the bathroom.
He’d stared at his reflection in the mirror. Nothing had changed much over the past weeks. His hair had grown longer, but his bloodshot eyes were still the same. Only his entire frigging life had gone done the drain.
No wonder his commander at the base wanted him out of the SFA. He had the perfect excuse to get rid of a fellow that wasn’t “quite right” as MacGreevey put it. Only Casey’s exemplary record and years of service had prevented MacGreevey from getting his wish. That and the base shrink who, for some unknown reason, recommended a month’s leave with the stipulation that he’d follow up with regular sessions before returning to active duty.
Casey had only one idea about what to do with his leave. He’d headed to Dublin, found a decent motel near the Temple Bar area and settled in to drink himself into oblivion.
It hadn’t worked. And he’d almost set his room on fire.
Yesterday, he thr
ew out the collection of beer bottles he had lined up like soldiers on the motel dresser and today he’d ventured out into the world to explore the sights.
He had never visited the Temple Bar neighborhood. Christ, he didn’t even know why he’d chosen a motel on Upper Ormond Quay. When Lark had suggested that they spend their next R and R in the area, he’d turned down the suggestion.
And now here he was trying not to gawk at the men strolling arm in arm down Dame Street. Would he and Lark have been one of those couples if Lark hadn’t died on their last mission?
He turned into the first open Internet café he came upon and sat down in front of one of the available laptops. A waiter, his eyebrow and nostril pierced with tiny silver circles, took his order for coffee and his fee for the laptop use and sauntered away.
Casey was still staring at the blank screen when his waiter returned, a cup of pitch-black coffee in one hand and a buttered scone on a small plate in the other. “Sorry…” He peered at the man’s nametag. “Kelly. I didn’t order this.”
“Oh, I know, sweetie, but you look like you could use something to eat.” He placed his hand on the table and leaned on it. “I do like them lean and mean, but right now, you look like death warmed over.” He winked. “Hey, it’s on me. When you get your strength back, look me up. I’m available.” He sashayed to his next table, turning to give Casey another wink as he walked away.
A small smile flitted across Casey’s face. Lark would have gotten a kick out of that little exchange. Hell, he’d probably have played it up for all its worth. He would have draped his arm around Casey and coyly simpered, “He’s taken.” And wouldn’t that have been hilarious, what with Lark looking like a gurrier with his shaved head, broken nose and bulging muscles? Only he knew how gentle Paddy Larkin had been. That he didn’t smoke and never got drunk and could hold you gently in his arms while you revealed your deepest secrets.
He had tried to be as tender when he held Lark’s bleeding body in his arms at the end of that last mission. He had tried to control his fecking weird ability to set things on fire with just a thought during the ambush on his unit.
But bullets had riddled Lark and he’d lost it. He’d screamed in anger and pointed not his gun, but his hand, toward the direction that the attack had come from. And set the terrain on fire.
The terrorists had run shrieking from cover. Looking like human torches, they’d fallen to the ground burnt beyond recognition while Casey had run from cover, knelt next to Lark’s body and wept like a baby.
Even after the rest of his men had thrown dirt on the terrorists’ corpses, putting out the fires, he wouldn’t relinquish his grip on Lark. It had taken two of the men to drag him away.
Although everyone had agreed that the fiery incident had been due to a terrorist incendiary bomb exploding prematurely, it didn’t excuse his actions. He’d been placed on immediate leave. His fifteen years of service and an understanding shrink the only reasons he hadn’t been dishonorably discharged.
So here he sat, like some fecking moron in a gay Internet café staring at a blank screen.
Casey searched his pockets for a cigarette and remembered he’d quit. He’d promised Lark he’d leave off smoking and he’d kept that promise for three months, even with the other men yanking his chain. Even after Lark’s death when he’d have given his right arm for a smoke, he hadn’t.
He took a deep breath. There was one more promise he’d given to Lark. Lark’s huge family had accepted his queer ways, though they didn’t go bragging about it. They knew Lark loved being in the Rangers and they’d kept mum. When Lark had told them about Casey, they’d welcomed him with open arms.
It had broken Lark’s heart that Casey was an orphan. He’d urged him to try and find his roots, since his only relative, his gobshite of an uncle, had gone and died without leaving him a clue. In the tattered Bible that the bastard had used to hit him with he’d found a name and that was it. But it would have to do.
Casey pulled up a search and typed in “genealogy websites.” A list as long as his arm appeared. Where the hell should he start? He scanned the first twenty hits, checking out the sites. They were either too general or wanted cash to dig any further. The sites’ greedy nature turned him off.
Up went the next page and the next, not stopping until he found one that caught his fancy. And then a name popped up that did—The Flight of the Wild Geese. One thing stood out. Unlike most of the sites he’d looked at, this one didn’t ask for any cash and the name intrigued him. He filled out the information, letting his coffee grow cold until Kelly refilled his cup.
Casey waited for the response guaranteed to arrive within two hours if he qualified, for a detailed profile and genealogy report. Some of the questions seemed odd, but for free, he figured what the hell. He sat sipping the fresh, hot brew and waited, his thoughts drifting.
A ping brought him back to his surroundings. A response appeared on the screen after he inputted the code he’d been given. He’d qualified. A meeting at his earliest convenience at a place of his choice was offered to discuss further study into his roots.
Casey stared at the little comment box, wondering how to respond when a smile dawned upon his features. “This one’s for you, Lark.” And he typed in his requirements for the meeting.
* * * *
Donegal, Ireland
Dagda’s Cave
“Praise be. Finally, someone who wants to discuss his roots!” Eileen sprang from her chair and danced a bit of a jig. After a week live, only two of the various websites had generated the hoped-for responses. Although there were several potential candidates, only one thus far had been willing to meet in person. A great deal of time had been spent setting up the website and making it as attractive and user friendly as she could. She’d hoped that the site’s name would generate at least a few hits and it had, just not the type they’d wanted. Well, no matter, they’d finally gotten a live one and she couldn’t wait to share the results with Dagda.
Eileen grabbed up the printout for respondent number six, two, seven, seven, one, and rushed into the main chamber of the Cave. The electric lights blazed merrily thanks to her increasing control of her Fire Element skill. The generator had been returned after she’d learned how to charge up the lights.
She ran over to Dagda, automatically grinning at the sight of the noble Terran dressed in cut-off jeans and garish Hawaiian shirt. Upon his sturdy feet was a pair of leather sandals. He reminded her of Tom Selleck in Magnum P.I., the reruns of which Dagda had grown very fond. “Hey, Kahuna, we hooked one!”
*
Dagda looked up from his own project, an Irish Terran dictionary. An exaggerated look of reproach crossed his face. “You know I don’t care for that name, alanna. It shows a lack of respect for my exalted position.”
She grinned. “It shows a lack of respect for your taste in clothes. Who would have thought you’d go for tacky tourist togs.”
Dagda broke into laughter. Eileen had brought him such joy in the short time she’d been here. It was like having a second daughter. He sighed. He missed his darling girl, though her regular calls were a balm to his spirit. “So, what’s made you smile so?”
“We’ve got a candidate. I’ve set up to meet him in two days in Dublin.”
“Wonderful! And what’s his name?”
Eileen double-checked the printout. “Casey Aidan, he’s an orphan, born in County Kerry to Maureen Aidan, deceased and an unknown father. An uncle, Desmond Aidan, recently deceased, raised him when Aidan’s mother died in childbirth. No other known relatives. The only names he filled out were that of his mother and uncle. Grandparents, dead and he’s not sure of their names.” Eileen looked up from the sheet of paper. “He’s thirty-five, never married, a fifteen-year veteran with the SFA and in the army for seventeen years.”
“SFA?”
“Sciathán Fiannóglach na hÁirm. It’s our army’s version of an elite group of soldiers. They receive special training in different areas.” She plunked d
own on the bench by the massive wooden table, leaning on her elbows while she continued to go over Casey’s responses.
Dagda paced back and forth and considered the information she’d already given to him. “If he does have enough Terran blood in him, he’d most likely be a Fire Keeper with the name Aidan. Did his mother know, I wonder, that Casey means ‘vigilant in war’? If he is also a Protector, with his training, he’d be a tremendous asset in our fight against Nimhnach and Ba’al.”
“I don’t believe it!”
Dagda halted. “What, alanna?”
“What this joker wants me to do when I meet him.”
“Nothing dangerous, I hope. I’ll not let you put yourself in jeopardy.”
Eileen crumpled up the printout into a ball, tossed it up in the air and burnt it to a crisp. “The bloody nerve of him!”
“Er, perhaps you should not have destroyed the information we needed?”
Eileen flushed. “Well, you’re right, I shouldn’t have played around with my power, but, not to worry. I’ll just copy his ridiculous demands from the website.” She scowled. “Idiot man.”
Dagda grinned. “So, what did he ask you to do?”
“If I remember right, he wants me to order a large, chocolate mint smoothie, bring a copy of Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and wear my hair in braids. Braids!”
Dagda burst into laughter. “I’ve no idea why you don’t like braids, or what a chocolate mint smoothie is, but as long as it’s not dangerous, where’s the harm?”
She sniffed. “He wants me to wear my hair in braids. I look ridiculous in braids. Oh, there’s more, but you’re right. The only harm is to my dignity. I’ll do it, but if he’s not who we want, I’ll give him the back of my hand!”
Dagda doubled over with laughter and collapsed on the bench next to her. “I fear for the young man’s life if he doesn’t meet your qualifications!”
“Damn straight.”
* * * *
Dagda carried a drowsy Eileen into the little alcove off the main chamber and laid her on top of the narrow bed. She murmured sleepily, but didn’t awaken. He slipped off her sandals, covered her with the blanket and tiptoed out.
