His fear increased. He ignored the fingertips sliding along his cheek. They walked the three blocks home in silence.
At the door of the house, he said, “Your grandfather has returned, Ian. He has special plans for you.”
Ian choked, closing his eyes. Months and sometimes even a year would go by without Moray returning. Ian knew he preferred Scotland to New York. He would dream about his never coming back—that he would finally be allowed to go home.
He stood on the threshold of the dark, narrow, turn-of-the-century house, afraid.
Inside that house was his worst nightmare. He knew pain and fear and shame would greet him if he went in there. He knew he’d find his various captors in there, demons who changed over the years, and he also knew that he’d find Moray, too.
The Innocent wept and begged for mercy from the cellar.
God, he’d forgotten about them. He’d forgotten how he’d try to bring them food and water, only to be tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life for it.
He became sick. He couldn’t go inside.
And the door slowly opened. Black evil poured out onto the street, cloaking him. He tensed, aware of the evil worming its way into him.
“Stop cowering and come inside.” His grandfather smiled. “I have a use for you, my boy.”
Ian sat up, gasping. Fear and panic clawed through him, the talons knifelike. It took him an instant to realize that he had been dreaming. He cursed.
The dreams were as bad as the flashbacks.
In that first waking moment, there was nothing but fear. He launched himself from the plush chaise where he’d fallen asleep. He was still trembling, wet with sweat. He refused to think about the dream—he did not want to go there, not now, not ever. He took a breath and saw that it was early evening. He’d arrived home a few hours ago and sat down to savor his triumph over Sam Rose. He’d thought about her reckless courage, unable to quell his admiration. He’d had three or four drinks. And he must have fallen asleep.
He glanced at the unfinished drink and sandwich by the chair. He feared sleep almost as much as he feared pain and evil, which was why he avoided it at all costs. Sleep always brought nightmares, and waking up brought horrific, vivid and recycled memories.
Sometimes he went days without sleeping. But in the end, the past always triumphed. Eventually he would fall asleep for a few moments, the way he’d just done now.
His grandfather Moray had been one of the greatest demons to ever walk the earth. Rumor had it he had ruled his evil empire for almost a thousand years. His one failure had been his inability to completely turn his son Aidan, Ian’s father, to the dark side. Moray was not only accustomed to power, he was obsessed with it. Every demon lusted for power—it was the reason for their pleasure crimes. But Moray wanted to rule the world. Aidan was his worst enemy—his own son, refusing his wishes, his commands. Moray had abducted Ian in 1436, when he was nine years old, in order to use him against Aidan, intending to destroy him.
He hadn’t. In the end, Aidan had vanquished Moray, and Ian had been freed.
He’d been released exactly twenty-five years ago, just before Moray was destroyed once and for all by Aidan and Brie. Although Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, he’d spent most of his life in modern times, in New York City, where he’d been kept captive. Ian would never forget the day he had been freed. His father had found him and there had been so much relief. It had been his wildest dream coming true. There had even been joy. But the joy had been so brief.
Because Moray had returned him to Scotland in 1502. The moment he’d stepped outside of Elgin’s tower, he’d been in the medieval world. It should have been familiar to him, but instead, it had been strange and confusing, upsetting. He could barely remember his earlier childhood years there. Instead, he began to wonder why his father hadn’t come to his rescue sooner. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Moray or one of his captors to be there, waiting to hurt him. And he couldn’t sleep. When he slept, he dreamed.
And he had still been nine years old.
His grandfather had deprived him of every aspect of a normal childhood by putting a spell on him, one which had kept him nine years old for the duration of his captivity—emotionally as well as physically. But upon being released, he’d rapidly aged, becoming an adult man within months. Biologically he was one hundred years old, but he’d only been an adult for twenty-five years. None of it mattered. He felt a thousand years old.
Ian drained the rest of his scotch whiskey. No one knew better than Ian how sadistic, cruel and evil the son of a bitch had been. Even though he was vanquished, Ian still feared him. He could think of nothing worse than dreaming of his grandfather—other than actually coming face-to-face with him again.
Moray had once told him that he was Satan.
Ian believed it.
Moray had said, laughing, “Haven’t you grasped the truth yet? I am Satan.”
His heart had exploded with fear and disbelief. He choked, hugging the bars of the cage he’d been put in—his current punishment. “Ye canna be Satan. Satan is the father of all evil.”
Moray had reached for the door, smiling cruelly. “But I have so many faces, my son. Now will you do as I command?”
Ian reached for his drink and realized it was empty. He cursed. Satan had imbued Moray’s very existence and all that he had done. Satan surely had a thousand faces. Moray had been one.
How else would Moray have survived for over a thousand years? The Brotherhood and other great men had hunted him across time. They’d all failed, until Aidan and Brie had destroyed him.
And now his father, who had left him alone with evil for so long, had gone down in history as a great Master. Ian laughed. He knew the sound was bitter. He didn’t care. Hooray for the great Wolf of Awe, he thought caustically.
He had almost all the powers his father had, and a few he didn’t have. But Ian knew they’d never ask him to join the Brotherhood. The gods knew the truth about the years of captivity. They knew how defiled he was, how deficient, how insane. Not that he cared. If they were ever crazy enough to ask him to join, he’d refuse, because he was too different to ever be one of them. How could he ever be trusted to protect Innocence?
Hanging in the cage, the Innocent sobbed in fear.
“Do it.”
He held the knife, starting to cry.
“Do it, Ian, or suffer as they will suffer.”
He knew what he had to do. But he couldn’t do it, not to the little girl and not to her mother. He looked up at the monk, who stood beside him with his grandfather.
“Punish him,” Moray snarled.
Suddenly Ian grunted in pain. He realized that he had been holding his glass so tightly he had broken it. His hand was bleeding now. He cursed and let the cracked glass fall.
Sometimes he hated everyone—the gods, his father, the world.
At the end, when they knew he’d never try to escape—when he knew he’d never be freed—Moray had tried to turn him. It was another ploy meant to destroy his father. But in spite of his fear of them, and his fear of what the punishment for refusal would be, he hadn’t ever been able to hurt anyone innocent. The boy had been heroic, but the man flirted with pain. Sometimes he had such an intense urge to hurt others, even the women he slept with. But it was nothing like the urge he so often had to hurt himself.
When he’d been on that garage rooftop earlier, he’d looked over the edge, and wondered if he’d finally die. When that day came, he’d embrace death