“A Brigdhe,” he roared. And he struck at Kael with all the power he had.
Kael was flung across the entire hall, landing on his back, not far from Brigdhe. He rushed after him, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder. Kael rose and he thrust his blade savagely through his heart, the tip piercing out the other side of his back.
A human would have instantly died. Kael gasped—and then smiled. “Your suffering just begins.”
He could not understand and did not care to. He pulled his sword free, took Kael by the neck and cruelly snapped it in two. The demon’s red eyes glowed another time—and then they were sightless.
Instantly, a pain arising in his shoulder, he ran to his wife.
She sat with her back to the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. His heart now breaking for her, he knelt, reaching for her, about to enclose her in his embrace. The pain in his shoulder suddenly screamed, making him dizzy.
“Don’t touch me!”
Stunned, he jerked back, the floor becoming level once more. Somehow, he dropped his hands; somehow, he did not touch her. “T’is over now. I’ll take ye far from here,” he soothed. But in his own heart, he was sick, frantic and ashamed of his failure to protect her.
“No.”
He tensed, stunned, searching her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him now. “I’m sorry, Brigdhe.”
“Sorry?” Her tone was scathing and hatred filled her eyes. “Get far from me. He did this to me because of ye. Stay away from me!”
Her words delivered the blow that Kael had not been able to wield. He tried to breathe and failed. She was right. Kael had used his bride against him. He had vowed to protect Innocence, and he hadn’t even been able to protect his own wife.
In that instant, he knew his marriage was over.
“Can ye stand?” he asked, his tone rough with emotions he must not yield to.
“Dinna touch me,” she cried furiously.
He stood and stepped aside, just as his brother and MacNeil arrived. Horribly grim, he watched Brogan lift her and carry her from the hall. He stared after them, refusing to feel the aching in his heart. He had been a fool to think he could keep a wife and uphold his vows as a Master. He did not blame Brigdhe for hating him now. He hated himself.
MacNeil beckoned him from the tainted hall’s threshold, his handsome countenance set in grim, severe lines. “Ye disobeyed me, Ruari. Ye were told not to hunt Kael alone.”
He was in no mood to argue. “Aye.” From where he stood, he could see the great Healer, Elasaid, tending to the woman who had so briefly been his wife. Never again, he thought.
And MacNeil had been lurking in his mind, because he said, “Aye. Yer a Master, lad. Ye’ll stand alone like the rest o’ us. A Master stands alone, fights alone, dies alone.”
“Dinna fear,” he said grimly. He had no intention of ever allowing another woman into his life, much less taking one as a wife. He would not condescend to any pain in his heart. Not now, not ever. The vows he had made would be his life.
MacNeil softened. “I dinna think ye could vanquish Kael. I’m proud of ye, lad.”
He nodded curtly. MacNeil clasped his shoulder, indicating that they should leave. The fortress would be razed, the ground consecrated. Human prisoners would be taken, demonic ones vanquished. The humans would be exorcized, if possible.
He heard a woman’s soft cry for help.
He stiffened, because the afternoon was entirely silent outside the dark hall.
“Ruari?” MacNeil asked.
The air moved around him. A woman whispered his name.
He glanced at MacNeil. “Did ye hear the woman?”
MacNeil looked aside. “There’s no one here but ye and me.”
He was wrong. A woman had called to him from the hall—he was certain. Leaving MacNeil, he stepped back into the dank chamber, glancing into every shadowed corner, but no one was present. Then he saw a trap door set in the floor.
Please.
Royce.
He had heard a woman calling for him, as clear as day. He rushed to the trap door and lifted it. And he heard the hissing of snakes. “Get me a torch!” he called.
“There’s no one down there,” MacNeil said firmly. “I’d sense life if it was here.”
“A torch,” he demanded.
A moment later MacNeil handed him a burning torch. He lowered it and saw piles of black, writhing snakes—but the pit looked empty otherwise. Still, he could not be sure. For he felt the woman now, and she was afraid.
He leapt down into the pit, waving the torch, scattering the snakes away from his bare feet. He looked around the small manmade cellar, and realized MacNeil was right. There was no one down there.
He tossed the torch to MacNeil and reached up. A moment later he was walking from the manor, but he remained uncertain and uneasy. He looked back.
The air inside the dark hall fluttered and beckoned. A woman’s fragrance suddenly enveloped him. And he heard her again. Royce…
He seized MacNeil, halting him. “Who is she? Where is she? What does she want an’ why does she call me by my English name?”
MacNeil stared. “She’s not here, lad.”
“Then where is she?” He did not, could not, understand. And he turned back, overcome. “I must find her.”
MacNeil took his arm, forestalling him. “Ye canna find her now. She’s in the future—yer future.”
CHAPTER ONE
South Hampton, New York—September 4, 2007
SHE STOOD NAKED at the window, aware of her lover’s deep, even breathing coming from the bed behind her. The Long Island night was blue-black and star-spangled, the moon full and bright, and she could hear the ocean’s rhythmic roar. A sea breeze caused the upholstered shades to knock softly against the windows. As she stood there, clouds gathered. She tensed.
The sky darkened. Shadows crossed the moon’s bright face, scarring it. The shutters began banging against the walls, almost frantically.
Allie stared at the moon, watching as it turned black.
She strained. And she felt evil intent forming.
Her pulse accelerated. She hurried across the room, about to step into her walk-in closet, when Brian stirred. He murmured, “Hey,” his tone drowsy
She smiled and swiftly returned to his side. “I’m starving. Want me to bring you some goodies from the kitchen?” She hated lying to him, but he would not understand.
He was snoring.
She waited a moment, impatience gnawing at her. One of her best friends was a whiz with spells, but Allie didn’t have any powers like that. It was unfortunate at times like these, when a sleeping spell would have been great. Reassured that he was deeply asleep, she quickly stepped into a black tank top, black cargo pants, and black Nikes, picking up a black backpack. She didn’t bother to open it; it was loaded and ready to go. As deftly as a cat burglar, the sleeping man now forgotten, she slipped out the window and climbed down the trellis, as if she’d done so a thousands times, which she had. Then she ran across the lawn to the driveway where she’d left her Mercedes SL560.
Allie jumped in, but didn’t turn the car on. She sat very still, focusing her sixth sense.
A