by Ann Gimpel
He leaned close, latching onto her gaze. “I will not hurt you, lassie. There are fell things afoot this night, but I’m not one of them.”
It took a moment before she realized he’d spoken in Gaelic, a language she both read and spoke. His brogue had thickened, deepened, perhaps as a result of shifting to what must be his mother tongue. “W-what do you mean fell things?” Her Gaelic wasn’t as smooth as his, but surely he’d understand her.
He shook his head. “’Tisn’t a conversation to hold in this spot.” He tugged on her arm.
This time, she gave in and let him guide her to his car and tuck her into the passenger side. He slid behind the wheel and nosed the car into the dark, empty street. “We’ll be at your hotel in short order.”
Adrenaline shot through her. He’d named her hotel before, but she hadn’t considered what it might mean. “How do you know where I’m staying?” she gritted out through teeth that wanted to knock against one another.
“I’m part of the faculty at Stirling. All of us were privy to your travel plans. Lass”—he angled a pointed glance across the console at her—“do what you must to settle yourself.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but clacked his jaw shut instead.
Kat adjusted the flow of heat. Questions bounced around in her mind, but anything that came out of her mouth would make her sound deranged. Fell things and wickedness were the purview of folklore. No one with any kind of smarts believed in that shit. Was the MacGregor chap not quite right in his head?
“Part of the faculty?” she mirrored his words, hoping for additional information.
“Aye, I’m assistant dean of the anthropology department, and I’ve followed your work for years.” He hesitated before continuing. “Your persistence and attention to details others ignore have always impressed the hell out of me.”
“Thank you.” Pleasure at the unexpected compliment helped allay the worst of her fears but didn’t explain why he’d place any credence in urban myths depicting evil as something deeper than a philosophical construct.
“My pleasure.”
Before she knew it, he’d pulled under the portico of her hotel. The rain-snow mix had worsened, so the overhang was welcome. The doorman leapt forward and opened her door. Kat rearranged the briefcase and shoulder bag she’d held on her lap and got out of the car.
Arlen exited the other side. “See she gets to her room,” he told the doorman. “She’s a wee bit under the weather.”
The doorman nodded. “Of course, Dr. MacGregor. We’ll take the best care possible of Dr. Roskelly.”
Arlen reached into an inner pocket and slipped something into the doorman’s coat. The gesture horrified her, but this wasn’t the place to make a stink about him paying off the hotel—a hotel that was making five hundred bucks a night from her as it was—for anything extra.
She settled for, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh but I wanted to. Get a decent night’s sleep. I’ll be by around noon, and we’ll go on a city tour.”
Her eyes widened, and she struggled with what to say. Maybe he was only being kind, but this relationship was over and done with. She’d had enough of his innuendos about fell creatures to last a lifetime. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine on my own. You’ve done far too much for me as it is.”
He touched his wet hair in the same gesture he might have used had he been wearing a top hat. “As the lassie chooses.”
Before she could say anything else, he’d disappeared back inside the car.
“This way, miss.” The doorman propelled her inside. “We’ll get you all settled with a nice duvet and a hot cuppa.”
She rode up the elevator with him but shooed him aside when he wanted to accompany her down the hallway to her room. Ever polite and bred to serve, he acquiesced, told her if she needed anything at all to ring the front desk, and vanished down a staircase.
After a fumble with her keycard, the door finally opened. Her bed was turned down with chocolates on the pillow. A steaming kettle sat on the sideboard. When she walked into the bathroom, an equally steaming bath beckoned.
Questions blasted her, but she shut her mind off. It didn’t matter if the wee folk left their hills and barrows to turn her room into an inviting bower. It didn’t matter no one could have known when she’d be here to time the tea and the bath to coincide with her arrival.
Nothing mattered beyond sleep. Surely, she’d have a clearer head come morning.
She dropped her clothes on the bathroom’s tile floor and sank into the steaming water, but it took a long time before the chill leached from her bones.
Chapter 2
Arlen was in the process of herding people out of the auditorium, making sure all the undergrads had signed in to receive credit for attending, when the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled a warning. He scanned the room, seeking clues to his unease, but nothing untoward jumped out at him. The lecture hall, like all newer buildings, was antithetical to anything from the paranormal realm. Magic—both good and bad varieties—was firmly rooted in the natural world. Tethered to rock, earth, water, and wood. Heavy on plastics and alloys, modern building materials didn’t offer much to latch onto.
He hustled the last gaggle of women toward the exit. “Mindy, Becca, Cherise. Shake a leg, gals.”
Mindy handed the clipboard back. “Were you always such a killjoy?” Her white-blonde hair was cut butch-short, but she had the face and stature to go with such a stark look. Already tall, she matched his height in high-heeled leather boots.
“Aye,” Cherise chimed in, shaking dark hair over her shoulders. “Why can’t we stay and listen to Dr. Roskelly? We might be graduate students someday.”
“We’ll be quiet as mice,” Becca chirped.
“Quiet as the dead,” Mindy corrected her friend. “Mice toss up quite a racket.”
Arlen’s unease took a quantum leap forward at the word dead. He leveled a stern glance at the women. “Out. Now.”
Mumbling uncharitable descriptions of him, they trudged toward the door. Once he was certain he had them on the run, he dodged past small groups of faculty and grad students who were discussing the lecture they’d just heard. He didn’t blame them. Roskelly had a fresh approach to the clans, but her methods and conclusions rang true. Plus, she was that rare combination of inspired researcher and gifted speaker. Many academics were dry as dust, putting a room to sleep as soon as they opened their mouths.
As he thought about her, he recalled she’d looked a little peaked when she’d exited the lecture room, but he’d chalked it up to jet lag. Surely the psychic unrest still nagging him couldn’t have anything to do with her. To be on the safe side, he loped out of the auditorium and down the dimly lit hall, noting several bulbs had gone dark. It might have been an odd coincidence, but the ugly, nasty crawling sensation moved from his neck down his back.
He skidded to a halt outside the ladies’ room. Light shone around the door, so she had to be inside. He knocked, following it with, “Doctor, are you quite well? I can dredge up one of the women if you’re in need of assistance.”
Worry scoured him. Now that he was closer to her, the persistent wrongness that had zapped him in the lecture hall congealed, feeling perverse and like it didn’t belong here. The unnerving sensation didn’t seem to be coming from her, so perhaps something about her had called to the unseen world, wakening its residents. Spirits bent on mischief or, goddess forbid, nascent evil. As a Druid, he understood all about pesky spirits, about darkness too. Wicked things walking the earth just as they had for thousands of years.
Mankind could hide behind a scientific veil, pretend there was no such thing as demons, but he knew better. Even the Fae or the Sidhe or the little folk were no friend to humans. Not that he’d seen any of them for the last hundred years, but it didn’t mean they’d gone away.
The bathroom door jerked open. Katerina stood framed in light streaming around her. He shouldn’t stare, but she was a striking woman. Even weary, with the col
or leached from her porcelain complexion, her beauty smote him. Hair the shade of sunsets had been braided and coiled behind her head. Her eyes were an unusual mix of blue and green, tending toward green in the dimness of the hallway. She was tall but slender, almost to the point of emaciation. Her dark-gray suit jacket had been layered over an emerald-green silk blouse. The skirt hit her mid-calf, displaying shapely lower legs and polished black lowcut boots. No-nonsense shoes, but then he’d never had any use for women who wore high heels.
She offered a ghost of a smile, and his heart went out to her. “Appreciate your concern, but I’m just tired. Jet lag is a bitch.”
The need to shield her suffused him. He didn’t understand it, but nor did he question his instincts. They’d served him well, and he’d learned not to underestimate them. “If you’re knackered, we could skip the next part.” He watched her closely, hoping for clues. Was he wrong? Had she summoned the spirits hovering about her? In truth, he knew less than nothing about this woman, beyond her research with the clans.
The air was so thick with power, it was nearly visible. Could she see it too?
Katarina stood straighter, returning his direct stare. “I’m sure I’m good for another hour without pitching facedown into my soup.”
He smothered a chuckle and furled one brow.” An American expression, I presume? Come on then, Doctor. I’ll see you safe to your hotel once we’re done here.”
Her nostrils flared, and she fell back a step. “It won’t be necessary, Dr.—?”
“MacGregor,” he supplied smoothly. He might be taken with her, but she didn’t even know his name. He should keep that niggling detail front and center. “Arlen MacGregor at your service. And I wouldn’t dream of having you summon a shuttle.”
Rather than answer, she offered a curt nod and pushed around him, clearly on her way back to the lecture hall. He flipped off the lights in the bathroom and trudged after her. At first, he planned to follow her into the auditorium, but then he rethought things. He could make far better use of this next span of time outside. Maybe he could ascertain who’d targeted her, and if she’d summoned them or they’d just shown up.
The latter case was far worse than the former.
“Sorry I made you wait on me.” Katarina’s voice filtered in from the lecture hall.
He shut the door leading to the hall and headed for one of many side exits. The sharp bite of power swirled around him, but it wasn’t as pervasive as it had been when he’d been talking with the woman. It took a bit to wrestle one of the heavy, metal fire doors open. The weather had grown more aggressive, but this was the time of year for hideous storms. They rolled in off the North Sea and down Moray Firth. Many sailors had overestimated their mettle against such seas, and the ocean bottom was littered with wrecks.
Snow hit him in the face; rain soaked his hair. His woolen jacket would suck up water like a sponge, but at least wool held warmth and he wouldn’t be cold. Calling the darkness to shield him from view, he moved to a vantage point where he could peer into the auditorium through one of its many windows.
Katerina was on her feet, gesturing as she talked. The woman had stage presence, but it didn’t feel forced. She was a natural-born storyteller. Hundreds of years before, she’d have roved the countryside with a troupe of traveling bards.
Nay, that far back, she’d have been a witch, stirring up fury and telling tales the whole time.
The revelation rocked him, but also gave him pause. It had been a spontaneous sending from his subconscious, which lent it credence. He searched for holes in his take on her but couldn’t find any. What the hell was Katarina Roskelly? Her surname was straight out of Cornwall, so her genetics were firmly entrenched in the British Isles, at least from her father’s side of the family. With her dark-red hair, he’d bet her mother’s people hailed from Ireland.
Britain was steeped in magic, so perhaps she was more than the competent academic she appeared. Although, she’d looked decidedly rattled when they talked in the hall outside the loo. It argued against her being a willing participant in the spirits falling all over one another to latch onto her.
Since he was by himself, he summoned power. Magic danced to his call, and he engaged his third eye. Ley lines, repository for Earth’s energy, snapped into view. He leaned closer to the window, tossing obfuscation spells about. It would never do for one of those within to see him lurking like a perverted peeping Tom.
A single ley line bisected the lecture hall. She clung to it like glue, moving along its length as she talked. Did she know it was there? She’d almost have to sense it to cleave to its presence. The energy provided a shield. Sure enough, shadows danced around her, avoiding the glowing line.
He honed his power into fine shards and drove them through the building’s faux brick wall. Like iridescent homing pigeons, they followed his bidding, diving into the center of each group of interlopers, beings that needed to return to the netherworlds that had spawned them.
His magic brought them partially into view. Winged denizens with blazing red eyes. Gnarled gnomes. Snake-like creatures with taloned arms jutting from their chests. Scaled demons with horns and forked tails. Arlen’s eyes widened at the sight of demons.
It was well past All Hallows’ Eve. The veils between the worlds should have thickened enough to hold such creatures on their side of the curtain. He pushed harder, intent on forcing the shadows to retreat. Sweat slicked his hands and forehead despite the freezing temperature.
He uttered power words in Gaelic so old it had long since fallen out of usage—or understanding. Except within his order. The shadows didn’t budge. After a brief skirmish, his shards vanished, absorbed by the things he’d sent them to destroy.
Arlen fell back a step, mouth hanging open, panting. How the bloody fuck could that have happened? Nothing evil could stand before him, yet whatever ringed Katarina had rebuffed him handily. He marshaled his power, intent on another go at things. Strength crackled between his outstretched fingertips. His magical well was deep, and he wasn’t beaten. Not by a long shot.
Before he could loose a second volley, the sound of applause reached him.
People rose and streamed from the lecture hall until Katerina was the only one left. He wanted to run for the entrance, rail at everyone who’d left her all alone. Didn’t they realize how much danger she was in?
But if he left his post, he couldn’t keep an eye on her. Besides, screaming about dark forces wouldn’t endear him to his colleagues. They’d shake their heads and inquire if he’d had a wee dram too much whiskey. Should he cast caution to the wind and teleport inside, snatching her up? He wanted to but had a feeling such a Sir Galahad move would infuriate her. You couldn’t rescue the unwilling, and he gave it 90/10 odds she’d tell him to piss up a rope.
She was stuffing notes into her briefcase and slinging her bag over one shoulder. Breath whooshed from him when she left the safety of the ley line. Shadows divebombed her from all sides until he almost couldn’t see her. Desperate to help, he sent magic through the wall until it surrounded her. It wasn’t much—he was too far away—but it might be enough to see her out the door.
He closed his fingers around the key fob in his jacket and sprinted for his silver Aston Martin DB5. He’d drive round by the front and take over. Surely, she’d see reason and accept assistance. The insidious wrongness clotted like spoiled cream. Something had encouraged whatever surrounded the woman, strengthened it, breathed life into it.
He sent a blast of magic to open the driver door and jumped inside. A push of the ignition and he drove to the front of the building. Katarina looked like a homeless waif, cell phone in hand, hair that had escaped her braid swirling around her. Water ran down her face from the rain-snow mixture. A smattering of his warding remained, but he caught glimpses of otherworldly creatures, misshapen and with long, sharp teeth, attacking from all sides.
She had to be unaware, or she’d be weaving magic of her own to counteract them. He tried to be subtle, not scar
e her, as he took her magical temperature. Either his power was failing, or she was stronger than she looked because his attempts to ferret out what she was were futile. Just as useless as his earlier efforts to dislodge the fey beings who’d latched onto her energy had been.
The chill that had assailed him earlier deepened.
Even more determined to make certain Katerina was safe, he pulled up in front of the building and shoved his door open. “Come on, Doc. I’ll see you to the King’s Arms.”
She waved her phone his way, looking as if she were putting a brave face on things. “No need. I’m just hunting down a taxi.”
The time for suggestions was over. He sprinted to her and hooked a hand beneath her arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m here. The cab isn’t. You’ll be soaked to the skin by the time one shows up. We’re quite a way off the normal transit routes, and the busses quit running an hour ago.”
“I’ll be fine.” Her teeth had started to chatter.
He wrapped her in compulsion; it was a last resort and far from a preferred one, but he was out of options. Laughter buffeted him from the darkness. It held both threat and challenge. What was out there? More importantly, why hadn’t he been able to send it packing?
“I will not hurt you, lassie.” He deepened the compulsion spell and switched to Gaelic. Power rode within the mother tongue, and he needed an edge. “There are fell things afoot this night, but I’m not one of them.”
“W-what do you mean fell things?” She responded in kind, her Gaelic a bit on the ragged side, but he could have hugged her.
He gave the arm he was holding a tug. “’Tisn’t a conversation to hold in this spot.”
Maybe it was his spell, or perhaps common sense took over, but she let him guide her to his car. After closing the passenger door firmly, he slid behind the wheel and nosed the car forward. “We’ll be at your hotel in short order.”
“How do you know where I’m staying?” she gritted out.
Arlen kicked himself for making assumptions. Of course, that would make her nervous. She lived in California, a place crime was rampant, and people gunned down in the streets. “I’m part of the faculty at Stirling. All of us were privy to your travel plans. Lass”—he angled a glance across the console at her—“do what you must to settle yourself.”
