Dark Lover (26 page)

When Maclean remained standing before him, when the room did not shift into that horrific stormy night on the highway with evil inhabiting every shadow, when the fiery explosions did not begin—when he didn't hear the children's screaming—he knew he'd won.

For the moment.

Maclean didn't know about the agents who'd died in some god-forsaken time on his watch. Maclean didn't know about those agents who'd gone back and who were never heard from again, no matter the years of searching. Maclean didn't know he held himself responsible for the lost, the missing, the injured and the dead.

He didn't know he had nightmares about every single one of them.

He didn't know about the flashbacks.

And he especially didn't know that his guilt was well deserved. It was his punishment for failing Katie and the kids, and later, for failing Jan.

Maclean didn't know any of this. Nick smiled at him. “I'll cut you a deal, Maclean. I might be able to help you find her, but you'll have to cooperate.”

Maclean was shocked. “Ye want to bargain when her life is at stake?”

“I work for Uncle Sam. Sort of like a mindless robot. I receive orders. I fulfill them. Now, my orders are to acquire the page. Hand over the page and we'll give you what we have on Hemmer and Carlisle.”

Maclean's power exploded.

Nick hadn't expected such an immediate or violent reaction. He was hurled backward into the wall behind his desk. He hit the credenza there so hard he heard the teakwood crack.

“Fuck you,” Maclean snarled. “I'll find her myself.” He whirled, but Kit Mars stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, blocking his way out.

“Hold on, Maclean,” Nick said, rubbing his back. He hadn't expected Maclean to cave. “What do you have, Kit?”

Kit looked back and forth between them. “Not much. The monk seemed to rule Carlisle with an iron fist from 1502 to 1527. He was feared wherever he went—even the king of Scotland opened his best state rooms to him. The bishop of Carlisle was under his thumb. People died whenever he was crossed—as in entire villages, Nick. The last date I have on him is August 27, 1527. He was at the Carlisle Cathedral that day and was never seen again.”

“Someone must have done the world a favor,” Nick remarked. “Maybe it was our Sammie.”

“Nick?” Kit whispered, ashen. “Is Sam back there?”

Maclean whirled to face her. “The monk took her.” He confronted Nick, seething. “That's no help. For all ye know, he went to another time an' took an alias. Demons from the past leap to the future all the time! Ye know it—half the demons in this city are from the past! What do ye know about Hemmer?” he demanded. “Why does Hemmer work with the monk?”

He was right. The monk might have simply fled Carlisle in 1527 to live elsewhere for a long, long time. “We know that he was buddies with Robert Moran. They had quite a few business dealings in the seventies, eighties and nineties.” In case he didn't get it, Nick said softly, “You know Moran, right? Aka your granddaddy?”

Maclean gave him a furious look.

“Hemmer was just your average entrepreneur before he met Moran,” Kit said grimly. “He had a few investors, but he was a kid from the Bronx from a blue-collar family, who just barely graduated high school. He could talk the talk, though, which was how he managed to make those first few deals. It was tough going, and most of his deals went south. But after he started with Moran, he had investors galore. He went high, high risk and his income exploded. Almost overnight, he became the name on everyone's lips. It was as if he had the Midas touch, could do no wrong. Every deal he made added millions to his coffers. And you know the rest.”

Maclean stared at her. “He's not a demon. He's human and very, very evil.”

“So what did he do to get the power to leap?” Kit asked.

“He sold his soul for the millions,” Nick remarked. “And he probably met Carlisle through Moran. Carlisle was one of your guards.”

Maclean flinched. “Is that in my file?”

“I'll never tell,” Nick said softly. For one instant, he wanted Maclean to pay for not handing the page over but then he thought about Sam. “Any chance you remember him from the time of your captivity?”

“Hemmer? No. If I had, I'd never have stolen the van Gogh for him.” Maclean started.

“What is it?” Nick demanded.

Maclean said slowly,
“He
approached
me,
not the other way around.”

Nick stared. “This has just gotten interesting,” he finally said. “I mean, you're not the only art thief in the world. Of course, you might be the only art thief with certain extra powers.”

Maclean didn't speak. He seemed stricken by the concept that he'd been a target from the start.

“Nick?” Kit swallowed. “Do you remember that witch, Kristin LaFarge, that you were hunting? She met a demon we never made last October at the Carlisle Hotel here in the city. I know it's probably a coincidence, but I just thought I'd raise it.”

“What is she talking about?” Maclean demanded.

“Tabitha Rose was being hunted by a witch, LaFarge, who chased her back in time. She was reporting to some higher up in the present and they used the Carlisle Hotel as a meeting place.” He wondered if it was a coincidence or not. LaFarge had died before they could get any info from her, but he knew she'd been given permission and the power to go back to hunt Tabby Rose by the honcho demon she'd dallied with. He'd still love to get a make on that demon.

“The monk speaks English as well as I do,” Maclean said suddenly. “He's comfortable in this time, but he's French.”

Maclean was telling him that the monk could have easily posed as a modern man.

Maclean faced Nick. “We're wasting time. Hemmer's evil. I knew it when I stole the van Gogh for him. And Hemmer's working with the monk, who has great black power. Now they have Sam. Hemmer took her back to medieval times—wherever the monk is. I am certain.”

Briefly, Nick slipped into his thoughts again. They were more controlled, but his concern for Sam was huge. It was the kind of concern one felt for a lover, a best friend, a family member.

Maybe he had underestimated Maclean. He wasn't the indifferent asshole he'd assumed him to be. On the other hand, Nick would categorize him as a selfish asshole until he handed over the page.

“Listen, Maclean. You don't know that Hemmer took her back to the monk. He could have taken Sam to his island off Monaco, for all we know.”

“I do know. I've seen her. She's being held in a dungeon, in chains.”

“What do you mean, you've
seen
her?”

“I have visual telepathy,” he snapped. “But I can't see the date or the place name. You have agents everywhere—even in the past.”

“Yeah, we do,” Nick said, wondering how much he knew about HCU. “I have agents all over the map, in many different times. And then there's Big Mama. We can feed her the case details while I put the word out. Sometimes, when an agent is missing in time like Sam, we can find a clue in actual historical records. Or one of our agents might hear something—a passing reference that means nothing to the average historian or civvy, but everything to us.”

Kit said, “Nick, that's like looking for a needle in a haystack and you know it. It could take a week to turn up something that might not even pan out. Or it could take years.”

Maclean shook his head. “Sam doesn't have days, much less years. They will torture her. She's not afraid, but by the time they're through, she'll know fear.” His face hardened. “There is only one way to find her,” he said grimly. And he vanished.

Nick flinched as his screams began.

Loch Awe, Aug 11, 1527

H
E'D NEVER TRIED
to follow anything or anyone back in time before. But, as he recovered from the leap, he was certain he was in the right time and close to Sam.

He hesitated, slowly standing, on the threshold of Castle Awe's great room. So much tension filled him that he could not move. He'd forgotten it all, deliberately. Now, everything came flooding back.

The room was huge, with raftered ceilings, stone walls and stone floors. God, it was so familiar, even if the furnishings had changed. The hearth remained the same, as did the pair of velvet chairs facing it. And the trestle table was still there, with two long benches, an armchair at each end. But there were crossed swords and a shield with a coat of arms on one wall, a rich, red and gold tapestry on another. Small windows had been added, with iron bars, in the unlikely case of attack or a siege. There were more chairs throughout the chamber and several beautiful chests and tables, as well as a pair of fine Persian rugs.

He remembered being a small, innocent boy in that room. There had been rushes on the floor, not rugs, and the trestle table, benches and the two chairs in front of the fire had furnished the entire room. He'd been happy then. There'd been a wolfhound bitch and her pups. There'd been a small horse. Hunting trips. Suddenly he could see his handsome father sweeping inside, calling out to him, fresh from a battle. He remembered running to him, to be lifted high up and then set down, shrieking with laughter.

Maclean breathed hard. He didn't want the damned memory, even though most men would consider it a good one. But even worse was recalling Aidan seated at that table in a cloud of darkness, with the servants cowering before him, dining with his soldiers, who were demonic or possessed. He wasn't there, because he was Moray's
prisoner, but he'd used his visual telepathy to go to his father, to beg him to hear him—to find him and rescue him! Instead, Aidan hadn't been able to see or hear him. It was so fucking ironic. His father hadn't been able to rescue him, but now, his life was devoted to protecting the children of this world from the evil that preyed on them.

He was already distressed, and standing in that great room was making him become even more uneasy and uncomfortable.

He shouldn't have come back.

But Brianna had the Sight. Surely she could locate Sam.

Thinking about Sam made his gut twist unbearably. He bent over, holding his midsection, breathing hard, through the pain.
They were going to do to her what they'd done to him
…

And he forced himself to see. He went still, horrified.

Sam was chained to a huge table in a dark room. A medieval surgeon stood before her beneath a light, holding a butcher's knife.

He began to shake. He did not want to know what they meant to do with that knife.

Then he heard voices.

He straightened, alarmed. Sweating, he recognized the sound of his father's voice—even though he hadn't seen him in twenty-five years—and his stepmother, Brianna. He didn't know if he could really face them. It seemed an impossible feat. Yet he needed Brianna's help.

Time was running out for Sam.

Aidan appeared on the other side of the room with his wife. He was a tall, powerfully built, extremely handsome man with dark, wavy hair. He wore typical Highland dress: a belted tunic that came to midthigh, knee-high boots, and a blue-and-black plaid pinned over one shoulder. He was unbuckling his sword belt as he entered the room, which a page took. Brianna wore a long blue velvet gown with
gold embroidery and a gold girdle. Her dark hair was braided and coiled around her head.

Aidan saw him and halted, blanching.

Brianna saw him next. Her eyes went wide. “Ian!”

He put on the coldest, most indifferent expression he could manage, while inside, his gut churned more violently. He didn't move as they rushed to him. Instead, he braced himself.

His gaze met Aidan's. His father's regard was searching and uncertain. Ian knew his father was desperate for a sign that he cared. He couldn't give it to him. He didn't even want to. He would never care about him as he once had, as a small, innocent child.

Because looking at him now, this way, made him remember every moment of every day he had been held captive. He recalled the worst moments of torture, the humiliation, the shame. He saw his grandfather, cruelly smiling, and the handsome monk, his blue gaze lewd and lusting.

And now Carlisle had Sam.

But before he could throw up, Brianna threw her arms around him and held him. “I'm so happy to see you,” she cried, clinging. Then she seized his face and held it in her two hands. “You're so beautiful! Look at you—we've missed you so much!” She stared more closely at him. “Ian, what is it?”

He stepped back, somehow controlling his nausea. “Brianna, Father.” He was curt. “I've come for yer help.”

Aidan's expression tightened. Sorrow flitted through his eyes. “O' course we will help ye.” He reached out and clasped Ian's shoulder, hard.

He knew how much Aidan loved him, but he couldn't handle the small gesture of intimacy and affection. He tensed and pulled away. “I was with Sam in New York City. A human captured her—Rupert Hemmer—and leapt with her. Hemmer is allied with the monk of Carlisle. I tried to
follow her. I think she's here, somewhere.” He looked at Brianna. “She's in a dungeon, about to be tortured.”