Awaken the Highland Warrior (27 page)

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 hair 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.

“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 try.”

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.”

“No, Russell was inside.”

“Russell was there?
In my house?
”

“He stopped by, and I felt sorry for him. He didn’t look well. He’d lost weight, and I don’t think he’d bathed. We had dinner, and he spent the night. I put him in Faelan’s room. I don’t remember him being so paranoid. I woke up to go to the bathroom and found him prowling through the house, peeking out the windows, like one of those drug addicts on TV. The next morning, he was gone. Didn’t even say good-bye.”

A cold sweat formed on Bree’s forehead. Russell had spent the night in Faelan’s room where the
Book of Battles
and the disk were hidden.

“You sound troubled. You haven’t done something foolish, have you, dear?”

“Foolish?” Bree muttered, distracted with her unpleasant thoughts.

“Faelan’s a good man. He’s like your father. He’d do anything to protect you, even something he hated. Like that silly war. Don’t throw it away.”

“War?”

“You know, the Civil War and all that treasure hunting.”

“What about it?”

“Well, he did it for you. You knew that, right? He hated the war and those caves and digging for buttons and coins.”

Bree’s head spun. “I thought he liked it.”

“Oh, dear. You didn’t know? He liked being with you. He hated when you weren’t near. Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m a big girl.” Disappointment wasn’t anything new.

“He loved you so much, you know. Like his… he couldn’t have loved you any more than he did. He just worried about you. You were his world.”

After Bree was sure her mother hadn’t been possessed or cursed, she hung up and drove like a zombie, not seeing the road but her father’s face; dark eyes crinkled against the sun as father and daughter trudged along on their adventures. His forehead rutted with the lines of someone troubled. Had he known she wasn’t normal? Was that why he hated to let her out of his sight?

Bree put the pedal to the floor. She had to make sure the book and the disk were safe. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the dark SUV that had been behind her since the airport. She didn’t recognize the car, but she hadn’t known Russell had a castle, either.

Bree took a few quick turns, just in case, finally letting the car roll to a stop in front of her house. Fog covered the ground, and the dark windows stared out at her like a lost soul.

What had happened to her life? She’d found a treasure beyond anything she could’ve imagined, and she’d lost him. Now there were demons roaming her yard, trying to destroy the world, and they could be waiting for her. She pried her fingers from the steering wheel, put her phone in her coat pocket, gathered her tote bag, and climbed out of the car. A light drizzle had begun to fall, as if the sky wept for her.

She started toward the porch and came to a sudden stop. Her backyard was gone. No green grass. No azaleas. Just piles of dirt.

***

If the flight to Scotland was bad, the return trip was hell. Faelan kept seeing those sketches and replaying the hurt and anger on Bree’s face. She’d never believe why he—Ronan’s words—threw her out like yesterday’s trash. Would she ever forgive him? He’d had no choice but get her out of out Druan’s reach before the demon found out she’d opened the time vault. And if the demon discovered Faelan’s feelings for Bree, no one would be able to protect her. Certainly not a young warrior with barely a year’s fighting under his belt.

He should’ve sent a seasoned warrior with her, but he needed someone fast, and Conall had been right there, more than willing to follow her in exchange for a chance to join the battle. The others wouldn’t like it, but Conall had strength and determination older than his years, and Faelan remembered being twenty and needing to prove himself. He’d keep Conall out of danger and let the seasoned warriors handle the real fighting.

Faelan looked out the window, turning away from clouds so close he could’ve touched them. He’d never understand these times. Airplanes, televisions, satellites, rocket ships, computers. You could bank and buy goods from the comfort of your home, even find a wife. He hadn’t figured that one out yet, but with everything else he’d seen, he didn’t doubt it.

He leaned his head against the seat and let his thoughts drift back to Scotland. Meeting his family’s descendents had been bittersweet. Sitting at the table where Ian had carved his initials. The kitchen where his mom had baked shortbread, while his father hovered, and his brothers and Alana argued over who could eat the most, when they all knew he could. The smells of the stable had hit just as hard. Alana wasn’t there sneaking apples to the horses, and Nandor wasn’t whinnying for his morning ride.

The place had changed in the century and a half since he’d left. It had been modernized, and a security system added. There were cars and garages and weapons he’d never have believed possible. He supposed progress was necessary, but it made him feel like a relic. He missed simple times and his family. He missed Bree.

The plane bumped, and Faelan closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her skin as it slid across his, the sound she made when he slipped inside. He let it soothe the knots, let the remembered scent of her pull him away from his pain. He shouldn’t have made love to her again, knowing he’d have to send her away, but after the stress of meeting his clan and the guilt and anguish of seeing his family’s graves, when he lay in Bree’s arms he’d known he was alive, and for a moment she had been his, even if she could never truly be.

She could never be Ronan’s either, but that fact hadn’t made it easier seeing them together. Some warriors took lovers, and the rumormongers said Ronan had left a trail of broken hearts. Ronan and Bree and her bloody archeologist. Pish. It shouldn’t matter. She wasn’t his. His mate would be long dead with everyone else. Even if he were given a second chance, the woman had to be from a warrior clan. That was set in stone. As much as he wished he could sink into Bree night after night, see her face every morning, and have children with her, there was too much at stake. The rules were there for a reason. He’d been a warrior too long to break one this important.

He closed his eyes as the plane tilted. Was he even a warrior still? He was more than a hundred and fifty years past his duty. He hadn’t had an order from Michael since 1860. A memory tugged at his mind, or was it a dream? A glowing room and a wee lassie huddled under the covers, terrified. And one last order from Michael.

To protect.