Dark Embrace (4 page)

Aidan had been buried alive.

And he was utterly calm, utterly resigned, a man without hope.

She reached out to him.

She felt him start.

She tried to focus entirely upon him. He was physically trapped, unmoving. Like her, he had no difficulty breathing. He was staring at the blackness. She felt him more acutely now. The stones were painful, their weight crushing, but he didn't care. They weren't crushing him to death. It was the heartache that was killing him.

And she felt his acceptance of death.

He was waiting to die.

“Brie, honey, it's okay. You're here with us, on Five.”

Aidan,
Brie tried.
You can't die!

If she had reached him, he was now gone. He had slipped so far away that she couldn't feel anything at all.

“Can you hear me?” Nick asked, sounding far away.

She could, but she couldn't answer Nick now. Aidan had powers. He could break free of the rocks and stone if he wanted to. If she had reached him a moment ago, surely she could find him again. She was almost certain he had felt her, or heard her. She strained for him, calling his name.
Aidan, break free of the stone.
She waited for him to respond. A long time seemed to elapse, and he never moved, never answered.

She couldn't stand this.
Don't die!

Nick was speaking to her again.

“Brie, it's Nick. We've given you Ativan. It's an antianxiety med, and you should be feeling pretty good right now. You're at CDA on Five and we're taking care of you. You're having an empathic reaction again. Look at me.”

Brie felt her body soften. She looked at Nick. His handsome face and sexy body formed before her, coming gradually into focus. Someone had put her eyeglasses on, she recalled inanely, and she smiled.

“Good. To find the Highlander, we need you. Where is he?”

She could see Aidan so clearly now, in his grave beneath the rubble, a red castle soaring above a loch. Brie said, “There's a castle on a lake. He's in Scotland…and he's in the past.” She was so surprised by her response that she faltered, but she knew she'd sensed the truth.

“Are you certain?” Nick asked. “Are you certain he's not in the city?”

“Yes.” Brie had never been more certain of anything. She had been wrong earlier. He hadn't been close by. She'd try to figure that out later, she thought. “We can't let him die.”

Nick turned away and said, “Her Encounter last year should have been reported. Now that I know what you two ladies are up to, any Encounters or Sightings come right to me. Failure to do so is against the law.”

“I'm not aware of any such laws,” Sam said bluntly.

“It's against Nick's law,” Nick said swiftly. “And you really don't want to break Nick's law.”

Brie was floating, feeling really wonderful now, as if she'd had three or four glasses of champagne. Sam sat down and smiled at her. “Your boss is such a jerk.”

“Yeah, he is,” Brie agreed, aware that Nick had walked out. No, he'd stalked out, like a hunting tiger.

Sam leaned close and whispered, “I'm calling in every favor I have. If he's here, someone's seen him. You just rest.”

“He isn't here. He's far away.” Her happiness was gone. “I don't want him to die. I love him, Sam.”

Sam's blue eyes went wide. “Brie, I know you're high right now, but if it's Fate, you know we can't change it.”

“It can't be his time,” Brie whispered. She wasn't sure what happened next, but Sam was gone, and it was only her and Tabby, who sat by her bed, holding her hand. Then Brie blinked curiously. A little boy was standing at the foot of her bed, clad in a white hospital gown that was oddly belted. He started speaking urgently to her. His blue eyes were so familiar, as if she knew him, but she didn't think she did. Brie realized she was too high to hear a word. He seemed frightened. She knew he wanted to tell her something important, and she turned to Tabby. “What is he saying?”

Tabby was surprised. “Who are you talking about?”

Brie looked at the foot of her bed, but the little boy was gone. “I guess it doesn't matter,” she said.

She must have been dreaming.

Castle Awe, Scotland—November 1502

S
EX NO LONGER MATTERED TO HIM
.

Like the best wine drunk far too often, it could not be appreciated. Pleasure escaped him now.

But he moved harder, faster, into the woman, not seeking release, even though a release was inevitable. Instead, he used her for his own ends, taking power, euphoric, until she lay unmoving and silent beneath him.

Aidan held himself over the woman, breathing hard. He had experienced the powerful ecstasy of
La Puissance
thousands of times, a climax that combined raging power with sexual release. When he had first begun to hunt Moray after Ian's murder, he'd taken power to assure himself of victory over the deamhan he was now sworn to kill. But Moray had vanished in time, fleeing him. And Aidan had needed more power to chase him.

Power was addictive. He lusted for it now. Unfortunately, the lust for power was terribly arousing. Otherwise he would not even bother with the sexual act.

Still consumed with a sense of invincibility, he moved away from the woman. He stood and leaned against the wall, arching back, savagely relishing the power coursing through his muscles. It even throbbed in his bones.

No one could defeat him now—not man, not beast, not deamhan and not even a god. Not even his demonic father. His father had returned to murder Ian, when a beheading would destroy most deamhanain. There were Masters who believed Moray immortal. Others said he had returned with otherworldly help. Aidan had dared to demand answers upon Iona. MacNeil had told him Moray's return was written, but that no deamhan was immortal, no matter how it might appear.

Ian's image seared his mind, as hot as a firebrand. He welcomed the pain.

“Is she alive?” The other woman gasped, kneeling half-naked beside the Innocent.

He barely glanced at the lush redhead, who was flushed with her own pleasure. He'd left the Innocent alive, although barely. “Aye. Tend her.”

Anna Marie took the limp woman in her arms, but she was staring at him with glittering eyes. Most women feared his desire. Having lurked in her mind on several occasions, he knew that she both feared and desired his passion—all of it. Now, she said, “Do you want me again?”

He'd found her in Paris in the mid-eighteenth century. She was the courtesan of a prince. She enjoyed hours in his bed and understood his need to take far more than pleasure from her and others, even simultaneously. Her presence was convenient, especially because he never slept and there was one certain way for him to pass the long, dark hours of the night.

He hadn't slept in sixty-six years.

Sleeping only brought nightmares.

He bared his teeth at her. What she did not understand was that he looked at her with absolute indifference, and felt nothing when their bodies were joined except for the lust for power and revenge. He would avenge Ian, even if it took an eternity to do so.

“Nay.” Naked, his body still hard and huge, he stalked from the chamber, and as he did so, he heard her moan.

He didn't care. He didn't need her or the other one now. He had enough power to destroy his father—if he could find him. For Moray had vanished into time sixty-six years ago, and Aidan had been hunting him ever since.

It was time to hunt now.

A pair of chambermaids was hurrying down the hall. A glance at the single, barred window at the hall's east end showed him that the sun was high. He'd been with the women since the previous day at dusk. The maids looked at him and froze in their tracks, terrified and mesmerized at once. Ignoring them, he was about to enter the east tower room when he felt a huge power approaching, fierce and determined and white.

He roiled with anger, instantly aware of the intruder's identity. He turned to face his half brother, Malcolm, the man who had unearthed him from Awe's rubble instead of allowing him to die.

He would never forgive him for it.

Malcolm of Dunroch came up the stairs at the hall's far end, a large, powerful man in a leine and dark-green-and-black plaid, wearing both long and short swords, his muddy boots indicating a long, hard ride. Dirt flecked his bare thighs. His face was flushed with anger. “Ye canna march on Inverness with the rebels,” he said harshly, striding up the hall. He gave Aidan's naked body a quick, dismissive glance.

“Do ye nay march on Inverness with Donald Dubh an' Lachlan Maclean, yer cousin?” he mocked, knowing Malcolm was too busy saving Innocence to bother with political intrigues. Politics didn't interest him, either, but feeding and horsing his four thousand men did.

And destroying the Campbell was something he could still do for his son.

Malcolm's face hardened. “Ye'll hang with the traitors when they're defeated,” he said tersely, legs braced as if to bar his way.

“Good,” Aidan said softly, meaning it. He wasn't afraid of death. He looked forward to it—as long as Ian was avenged first.

Malcolm seized his arm. “'Twas not yer fault. Ye have yer destiny to return to, Aidan.”

“Yer nay welcome here. Get out,” Aidan roared, shrugging him off. He whirled, entering the tower room and slamming the door closed behind him.

His damned brother was wrong. He had failed to keep his son safe. He had saved hundreds of Innocents, but not his own son; he would never forgive himself for it. He steeled himself against the anguish, but too late.

From the door's other side, he heard Malcolm's every silent thought.
I willna let ye die an' I willna give up on ye. Nor will I be leavin' Awe soon.

Furious with his brother, hating him for refusing to lose faith, Aidan threw the bolt down on the door. Inside it was dark and cold. No fire burned in the stone hearth and every small arrow slit had long since been nailed closed with shutters, so the darkness was complete.

Eventually Malcolm would leave. He always did, as there was always a deamhan to vanquish, an Innocent to save. Malcolm served the gods as if his vows were his life, with his wife at his side. But Malcolm was not a deamhan's son. He was the son of the great Master, Brogan Mor, and a Master himself—as well as the laird of the Macleans of south Mull and Coll. They had nothing in common.

Malcolm had been raised at Dunroch by his father and then, after Brogan Mor's death in battle, by his uncle, Black Royce, to be chief of Clan Gillean. Aidan had been sent as an infant into a nobleman's foster care, for his mother had retired to an abbey to spend the rest of her life there. Malcolm had often gone to visit Lady Margaret at the abbey, ever the dutiful son. His calls had been welcome. Aidan had met his mother but once, when he was a Master, and she had not been able to look at him. He had quickly left her to her prayers and repentance.

He had grown up an outsider; his brother had been the next great laird, a Master whose vows were his life.

Aidan had forsaken his vows the day of Ian's murder.

If Moray's return was fated, the gods, apparently, had written his son's death, as well. He hated the gods passionately and he cursed them now—as he did every single day of his life.

He felt Malcolm leaving the hall, going below, and his mind began to ease. His senses intensified impossibly. Tonight, he thought, he would find and destroy Moray.

Tonight, he would tear Moray's throat out with his teeth. Then he would feed his heart to the wolves.

And he gave into the wolf, a savage and ruthless beast he could barely control, an animal intent on mayhem and death. He lifted his face toward the moon and howled. Outside, he felt the pack gathering and begin to howl in return, lusting for blood and death. He quieted, leaving the wolves to their eerie, savage chorus. He was ready now.

He walked to the center of the circular room and sank to the floor, where he sat cross-legged on the cold, hard stone.

More than six decades had passed since his son's murder. His demonic father could be in any time, in any place. Moray clearly thought himself the victor in their privy war, but he was wrong. Their war would never end, not until one or both of them was vanquished. He didn't care which it was—as long as Moray went to the fires of hell with him.

He began sifting through the sands of time, in the future and the past, through deserts and mountains, villages and cities, searching for Moray's evil power.

Hours passed. He strained through time, evil everywhere, a long, painstaking process. The moon rose. He did not need to see it to know. The hairs on his nape prickled, like hackles rising. But the blackest power he was hunting eluded him.

He could not give up. He growled in frustration.

And through the hours of the day and then the night, Innocence wept for salvation. He heard every single cry for aid, for his senses were not just attuned to evil but to its helpless prey. Men, women and children begged him to rescue them from destruction and death.

He would not recall the last time he had protected Innocence. It was before his son had died.

He ignored their cries now.

He did not care who died.

 

T
ABBY UNLOCKED THE DOOR FOR HER
, giving her a smile. “Isn't it great to be home?” she asked.

Brie didn't smile back. She stepped into her loft, wearing the clothes Tabby had brought her—an oversized sweatshirt embroidered with a blue-and-gold dragon and her comfy loose-fit jeans. She was more worried than ever about Aidan. She'd spent another full day at Five, under close observation, and she was champing at the bit. She had been taken off all sedation and the antianxiety medication, so once again she could think clearly. Aidan was no longer being tortured, and he was no longer crushed by stone. She couldn't feel anything from him at all.

God, was he even alive?

She was adept at blocking out human emotion, for it was a necessity in order to get through each and every day. But she hadn't been able to block his torment at all. His emotions had consumed her as no one's ever had before, even across centuries. What, exactly, did the fact that she felt him so powerfully across time mean?

Everything was meant to be, and every Rose woman knew it.

Brie shivered as Tabby's cell phone rang. Brie shut and locked the door, going to her work station on the far side of the loft. She sat down at her PC, which remained in sleep mode.
He could not be dead.

Tabby came over. “That was Sam. She's talked to every contact and snitch she knows. It looks like you're right. He's not here.”

Brie whirled her chair to face her. “How could I empathize across time?”

Tabby clasped her shoulder, their gazes locking. “You must really love him, Brie. It's the only explanation I can think of.”

Her heart lurched. Her crush had been so safe and silly, until now. Loving him was terrifying, because he would never love her back—even if their paths crossed. “It's just a crush,” Brie whispered, turning back to her PC. She was praying that there was another reason for her amazing empathy.

But now she stared at her computer's wallpaper, the ruins of a castle on Loch Awe. Nick had asked her if the name Aidan of Awe was familiar. Her heart thundered. It felt so right. She'd put up the wallpaper after meeting Aidan…and there was no such thing as coincidence.

This past year she had been tempted to go through HCU's immense historical database, looking for a mention of him, but it was against the rules to use the system for personal projects and she hadn't done so. She hit a button and CDA's site filled her screen. She began to log on, a process that required three passwords. She had something to go on now. And what did Nick know about Aidan, exactly?

If HCU had anything on him, by now, Nick was on it.

Brie was still amazed that she hadn't been fired.

“What are you going to do?” Tabby asked. “He's not here, Brie, and we can't time-travel.”

Brie bit her lip and punched in a search for Aidan of Awe. As the search began, she shifted restlessly, and then she cried out, getting a hit.

Tabby peered over her shoulder.

The message on her screen was glaring.
Aidan of Awe—Level Four—Access Denied.

“There's a file on him?” Tabby exclaimed.

“I'm only Level Three,” Brie cried in frustration.

“Maybe that's not our Aidan,” Tabby tried.

Brie stared at the flashing message. “It's him. I
know
it. Damn Nick,” she cried.

Tabby started. “Brie, you're exhausted. You absorbed so much pain, you need to rest. Leave the search to Forrester. He's certainly on this.”

“I can't,” Brie said. She was afraid to ask Nick what was in that file—he was so intimidating—but she had to try.

“Can I make you something to eat?” Tabby asked.

Brie didn't care, even though Tabby was a great cook. As Tabby went into her kitchen, separated from the loft only by the kitchen counter, she went to her favorite online research library. She had part of his name to go on now. As she went to her medieval-Scotland virtual bookshelf, she dialed Nick. It went right to voicemail.