Dark Victory (29 page)

He had decided to make the long journey to Carrick, where he would do whatever he had to in order to convince Ruari Dubh to send him back to her.

He had spent three days fashioning a raft with a single sail, his tears making it hard to see, and then he had left the coast of Melvaig. He was a mortal man now and acutely aware of it. He was out of his time. He had no wealth—he could not purchase
anything he needed, and especially not a horse or a ship. He had no clan, and therefore no soldiers to trek with him, to fight for him. He did not have any allies—he could not request lodging and food. He did not know which rivalries now prevailed or who warred with whom. He did not dare pose as his sixteenth-century self. He had to proceed with the utmost caution, avoiding everyone, whether mortal, demonic or possessed.

Except evil could sense him, as if he still had white power, but he could not sense evil in return. Not a day went by that a deamhan or its henchman did not attempt an ambush upon him. Evil hunted him now with relish, perhaps because he was weak and it knew. But in the first ninety-two days he had destroyed fifty-eight deamhanain with his sword and dagger, along with twenty-one of the possessed. A dozen humans, interested in robbery and murder, had also been dispatched. Since then he had lost count. Every time he vanquished evil, he thought of Tabitha, aware that she would be pleased. Each time he came to face-to-face with evil, the desire to cause mayhem and murder, to rape and maim, to take pleasure in pain, shocked him and hardened him and made any outcome except triumph impossible.

And because the inner sea that lay between Melvaig and Lochalsh on Skye’s western side was controlled by the MacDougalls of Skye in the thirteenth century, as was the nearby sound of Sleat, he had jettisoned the raft after five days of sailing. Their ships would be swifter than his and he could not take a chance on being spotted or, worse, captured. It would take him longer to reach Morvern on foot, but he could easily hide in the forest at the first sign of anyone’s approach. And there was good hunting—he was always hungry now.

When he paused to rest, floating during the calm at sea, or when he was trudging along a mountain trail almost mindlessly, he became aware of the boy, who refused to let him be.

See! This is what it is like! This is the pain and the guilt that ye denied me!

At first he was furious to be haunted by his childhood—the damned boy becoming more and more real with every passing day. His image was so vivid, like a reflection on the glass sea, but his pain was even more tangible. He didn’t want to know. He was suffering too much himself.

He’d seen Tabitha die, and he wept when he recalled it. The boy wept for the murders of his family.

Now ye ken what ye denied me…now ye feel the grief, the guilt, the pain!

The boy was raging and crying in grief and despair. He had lost those he loved and he had failed them, too, and his sobs were soul-shattering. Macleod had failed Tabitha at An Tùir-Tara, and his pain was as unbearable…but then, they were one and the same.

They were one and the same.

Slowly, the grief lessened.

And he would watch the boy warily as they climbed mountain after mountain, or as they sat at night beneath a waxing moon, across the fire from each other. He cried less now. Macleod did not cry, but he finally understood the boy completely—he understood his grief and guilt—for they had become too intimate for him not to know him now.

And he was sorry. He was so sorry he hadn’t let him cry and rage and indulge in his sorrow and anguish, his despair and fear. But there hadn’t been a choice. He’d had to become a hard, un-feeling man overnight.

The grief seemed to slip away and so did the guilt. The boy no longer wept at all.

Too late, he knew that he’d only been a boy. He had been helpless to prevent the massacre. It had been insane to ever think he could have done otherwise. The boy was not to blame.
He had tried to fight the enemy, but one small boy could only do so much. And that boy had accepted his duty, even though he’d wanted to wallow in grief. That boy had turned immediately to war and revenge—as he’d had to. That boy was brave. He could finally admire him.

But it was over now.

He was sorry he’d murdered Alasdair in the name of revenge, and captured and tortured Coinneach. He regretted the entire century he’d spent on revenge—it had gone on for too long! The gods were right. But it ended now. Revenge had become meaningless. What mattered was his life with Tabitha, keeping her safe—and keeping others safe, as well.

Facing evil as a mortal man made that so terribly obvious.

Someone had to defend the women like Tabitha, the children like that boy, and all that was good and innocent in this world.

And the boy was hopeful. His heart had changed, becoming buoyant and light.

Macleod was anxious to get home.

The boy began to elude him. He started noticing him less and less as he got closer to his destination. Macleod would look around at the forest as he crossed a game trail, only to realize that he was now alone. As he made a bed of grass and leaves to sleep in a foxhole by day, he would wait for the boy to appear, but he did not. And then one day, when he was but a week or so from Morvern, he realized he hadn’t seen the boy in days and that he wasn’t coming back. But it didn’t matter now, because Tabitha was waiting and he had so much to tell her…and he couldn’t wait.

He began another ascent at midnight. Only one more mountain lay between him and Carrick. Wolves were tracking him, hoping to make him their next meal. When one came too close he used the sling he had made, shooting a stone between its eyes. His shots were usually fatal and this one was no different.

The forest sighed.

He was wary and alert. He knew a deamhan would soon attack, not because he sensed it, but because there hadn’t been any ambush yet that night. He did not dread the encounter—he looked forward to it. Facing evil now felt like his due, his cause, his right.

The attack came during a bloodred dawn.

A deamhan on a warhorse charged him from the forest, powers blazing. Macleod had heard the horse an hour earlier, even though its hooves were wrapped in skins, and he was prepared for the assault. He moved behind a huge tree, which cracked apart, then dove behind a boulder. He let the deamhan blast him again, repeatedly, waiting for him to tire as it destroyed his small stone defense. Another mortal might have died, but he thought of Tabitha and of the gods, determined to survive. And when there was a lull in the assault, he stood, sending his dagger into the horse’s heart. The beast collapsed and the deamhan vaulted from it. Macleod was already racing for the giant, and as its power blazed he cleaved his head from its shoulders.

The red-black power scattered harmlessly, like burning embers. Breathing hard, Macleod dusted himself off. He stood over the decapitated deamhan and watched it begin to disintegrate.

“A Thabitha.”

He breathed again. Thinking of her—slaying evil in her name—replenished him like a sip of fresh water. He only had another hour left before daylight. He started to walk toward the mountain pass.

“H
EY
, N
ICK
.”
Kit Mars smiled at him, her eyes wide with interest. “I see you guys made it back in one piece.”

Nick looked up at her, still in his camouflage. He and Jan had just gotten back and he was mad as all hell that Kristin Lafarge was dead. He knew with every fiber of his being that she could have led him to some big bad demon honcho, because she was small-fry, interested only in petty revenge. Jan had gone home. It had been an interesting jaunt, even if they’d failed in their mission. And nothing bad had happened to any of the good guys. “Stop drooling. You’ll get your turn when you’re ready.” He knew what she wanted.

Kit smiled at him, wishing he’d let her go back in time soon. “Sam went back and she wasn’t even on board here for a week.”

“Sam is an experienced soldier.”

“I was a cop,” Kit pointed out.

“Sam is a Slayer. She’s been on the streets doing the dirty since she was a kid.”

Kit sighed. “I thought you might like to see this. It just came in. Courtesy of the Russian.”

Nick took the file, pleased, and opened the folder and saw a pile of glossies. The top shot was the exterior of the Carlisle, one of Manhattan’s most exclusive hotels, second home to the city’s top politicos as well as visiting heads of
state and other foreign dignitaries. The Saudis especially liked it. It was a nice hotel. He flipped to the next photo. “I asked Rose to get on this.”

“It gets better,” Kit said.

Nick stared at the interior of the ten-thousand-dollar-a-night presidential suite, noting the time and date stamp on the upper right corner. It said October 20, 2008, 10:02:38 p.m. It had been taken just a few months ago, not the other night, when Lafarge had booked it.

The room was empty and he flipped to what seemed to be the exact same shot—except the time stamp on top showed it was two minutes later.

He leaned closer. He stared at the shadows in the barely lit room, but he was not mistaken. One of the shadows glowed, its demonic aura unmistakable. A demon had obviously just entered the living area of that suite.

Suddenly Jan walked into his office, her hair wet, wearing jeans and a sweater. She plopped a pizza carton down on his desk, along with a really cold bottle of Michelob Ultra. She glared at him and said to Kit, “I’m not coming in tomorrow. And don’t even think it. It’s not worth it.” She stalked out.

He smiled at her backside. He was clearly forgiven. “Thank you,” he called.

She didn’t answer.

Then he looked at Kit before turning the top photo over and inhaled. Kristin Lafarge was now standing beside the demonic shadow, but she was clearly visible—and completely naked.

He was not surprised. Demons needed to feast on sex and power nightly, even a demon posing as a part of the city’s establishment or a foreign dignitary. And a witch lover with some demonic blood was a pretty good pairing—except that the demon couldn’t get his jollies by finishing the evening off with murder. Not if he wanted to use Lafarge, as he obviously did.
He flipped through the glossies, and saw Kristin in action in bed with the demonic shadow.

“She had a demon lover,” Kit said unnecessarily. “Someone who could afford one of the city’s most expensive hotel rooms.”

“I knew it.” He stood. “I bet she met with lover boy just before she went back in the past. Do you have those photos?”

Kit shook her head. “No.”

“Who paid for the room?”

Kit hesitated. “There’s a problem with the hotel records. We’re working on it.”

He was incredulous. “Who was registered there on October twentieth?”

Kit grimaced. “John Smith.”

His frustration knew no bounds. “Find out where she was and who she met on December ninth, damn it.” He’d known Lafarge could lead him to a major player, and now she was dead. “I want the demon who’s cruising our town, posing as one of the good guys,” he said. “Where is Rose?”

“She’s on her way back from a personal trip,” Kit said.

He stiffened. Kit was trying to block him from her thoughts. “She went to Scotland? For what?” he asked dangerously.

“She wouldn’t tell me.” Kit looked nervous.

“Get her in on this,” he said. “And, Mars? Tell Sam to stay away from her bad boy. I happen to know that Maclean isn’t one of us.”

Kit paled.

Blayde, Scotland
The summer of 1298

T
ABBY LANDED IN THE
bedchamber she shared with Macleod. She took a long moment to recover from the leap, sitting in the center of the room on the floor. She was thrilled to be back. But as the room stopped spinning, as all the pain vanished, her
senses returned and she knew instantly that he wasn’t present.
He wasn’t at Blayde.

Her heart sank with dismay. Dread began. She reminded herself that even though he had gone to An Tùir-Tara, or had intended to go there, it was over now and he had survived, just as she had.

But where was he?

She couldn’t feel him anywhere. Tabby got to her feet, glancing outside. The sky was brilliantly blue and it was pleasantly warm. It was surely summertime. She had arrived with Macleod in the past on June 10, and his attempt to destroy Criosaidh at Melvaig had been five days later. She was worried now about which day she’d arrived back at their home.

Then she recalled her sense that he was lost and that he needed her.

For one instant, she thought she saw him in a night-blackened forest, holding a sword in one hand. And evil surrounded him….

She inhaled, terribly frightened now. Tabby hurried downstairs, but only a housemaid was in the hall. She ran outside. It took her a moment to espy Rob on the ramparts. She called out to him, waving. He saw her and hurried down to the bailey. Tabby raced across the yard to him.

“My lady!” he cried, clearly relieved to see her. “Is Macleod with ye?”

Her heart lurched with more fear. “No, he’s not. Rob, how long has it been since he returned Coinneach to Melvaig?”

“’Tis been two days.” Rob’s blue eyes blazed and his face was grim. “I have heard Coinneach is arousing his allies an’ plans war on us now, an’ his mother is usin’ her magic to help him.”

Tabby went still.
Criosaidh was still alive.
Of course she was—she wouldn’t die until June 1, 1550, if Tabby had
changed history. Now it seemed as if they would be rivals for the next two-and-a-half centuries. She shivered. She was a Rose. If she had to fight that witch for two-hundred-and-fifty more years, she would do so and she’d win.

“The MacDougalls are always plottin’ against us,” Rob added quickly, as if to reassure her. He then said, low, “He told me he would leap into the future to save ye in another time. I dinna realize he finally had his powers. I begged him not to go. What has happened to him? Why hasn’t he come back to us?”

“I don’t know what has happened. But I know he’s coming back—I am sure of it.”

Rob looked at her with worry but Tabby couldn’t reassure him. She kept seeing Macleod in that forest, and evil was stalking him. Where was he?

She reminded herself that he survived. She knew it because she’d just been in his arms.

It’s all right,
she told him silently.
I’m here and I’m waiting for you.

She couldn’t imagine defending Blayde for the next two-hundred-and-fifty years without him. Tabby felt sick. She held her stomach, thinking about how Fate—and history—could be changed. Maybe the gods were angry with her for what she’d just done at An Tùir-Tara. Now, she began to really worry. She’d just been with him on June 1, 1550, but he’d gone to Melvaig on June 19, 1550. If he was meddling at An Tùir-Tara and being punished for it
after
she’d been with him in the sixteenth century, their entire life could be destroyed.

A terrible headache began. She refused to think about being at Blayde for the rest of her life without him. Being able to leap into the past at any point in time meant that if someone made one slip, history could be undone and rewritten. But the Book of Roses stated emphatically that history would only change if it had been miswritten.

“He’ll return.” Rob was adamant, but his expression remained worried.

The day passed endlessly. Tabby found herself on the ramparts, waiting for him to return, as if he was traveling by horseback. At dusk she gave that up, because he wasn’t a mortal and he would return by leaping time. She paced the hall, unable to eat, until Peigi insisted.

She fell asleep in his great chair before the fire, his wolf-hounds at her feet.

And she dreamed about him. In her dreams, he was somewhere in the night, always walking, his face grim and set, his feet bloody and blistered. In her dreams, there were demons and wolves, and his sword dripped their blood. Sometimes she saw him wandering through the forests as the fourteen-year-old boy. When she awoke, he hadn’t returned, and she was even sicker with fear for him.

Something terrible had happened to him, she thought uneasily.

The sense she’d had before, that he was lost, escalated.

The hounds whined.

Tabby couldn’t even pet them. “C’mon,” she said hoarsely, feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all that night. She crossed the hall, the hounds racing her to the front doors, tails wagging. They began to bark in excitement.

Tabby opened the doors, the bright morning sunlight almost blinding her. Macleod was crossing the bailey.

He had come home.
Tabby cried out in joy, flooded with relief. Then he stepped out of the shadows cast by the walls and her happiness vanished. She was stunned by his appearance.

His clothing had been reduced to rags and it hung from his body in tatters, revealing the fact that he had become terribly thin and far too emaciated for his large frame. He no longer looked like a knight or a bodybuilder—he looked like a
marathon runner, and a sick one at that! He was long and lean now, all muscle and bone. Disbelieving, she realized his face was hollow and gaunt, too.

She started to cry and ran into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her in return, as if afraid to ever let her go again. Tabby clung desperately, so overjoyed that he was alive, and apparently unhurt—and that he was home. But what had happened to him?

In his hard, equally desperate embrace, she felt and understood the depth of his love for her.

“What happened?” she cried, looking up.

And the moment their gazes met, she realized what was wrong.
He had no power.

She should have sensed his vast white power, because the hot waves always cloaked and cocooned her. It was gone.

But he smiled at her, his eyes shining with moisture and love. “Tabitha,” he murmured. “I’m afraid ye’re a dream.”

Tabby hesitated, frantic to comprehend what had happened, and in that single moment, she felt something else, too. Macleod’s power had always been tinged with a dark weight. Now, his presence was buoyant and light—like the look in his eyes.

The burden of guilt and grief was gone.

“I’m not a dream. Thank God you’re home!” She looked into his eyes and saw so much light—she saw joy and love. “You’ve healed,” she managed, shocked.

His mouth curved and even his smile was different. “I’ve forgiven myself, Tabitha,” he said simply.

She clasped his face. “I’m so happy for you.”

“An’ I learned I canna live without ye—but I have lived without ye fer many months now,” he said hoarsely. “So let me kiss ye, woman.”

He pulled her close and kissed her. Tabby gave in, clinging, crying with sheer joy. He was home and nothing else mattered.

When he tightened his grasp on her, his body telling her he
was about to heave her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs, Tabby finally pushed away, wiping her damp face. “What happened?” She reached for his face and held it in her hands again. He was still beautiful. He was her hero, more so now than ever, no matter what they had done to him.

“The gods dinna want me now, Tabitha. I went too far—I defied them one time too many. I’ve been banished from the brethren. There’ll be no vows.” He was grim. “But I will fight fer mankind anyway.”

She realized he had been banished from the Brotherhood by the gods for what he’d done at An Tùir-Tara, and with that punishment, he had been stripped of all his powers, every single one. He was a mortal now, unlike the Master she’d met in the sixteenth century. He was frustrated but resigned. “I don’t care that you’re mortal. I love you just the way you are. But it is wrong, Macleod, wrong that you are denied your Destiny.”

“Can ye read my mind now?” he asked.

It was such a terrible irony. Tabby slipped into his mind and she saw that he had walked across the Highlands, fighting evil with his sword and his bare hands, in order to get back to her. She realized the extent of his ordeal—how he’d been hunted by evil daily, how he’d had to hide in order to survive. His companion had been his memories of the time spent with her and his tragic childhood. And he had worked through his repressed grief and guilt.

She stroked his jaw. “I can read your mind now.” She started—he believed she would die at An Tùir-Tara!

MacNeil had made him watch her go up in flames four times!
And she had thought the stocks a cruel punishment! She started to cry. “I thought MacNeil was your friend!”

He cradled her in his arms. “Dinna cry fer me. I am home now, with ye, Tabitha, where I will always be. An’ I am
happy.
”

“I hate what they did to you,” she cried, her face wet with
tears. “And I don’t die in the fire, Macleod! I
hide
in the fire! It’s Criosaidh who dies there.”

He gasped, and it was the first time she had ever seen him shocked. Then he tilted up her chin and his eyes blazed. “MacNeil was furious with me because I dinna trust in Fate. Now I ken why. O’ course the gods would let ye live. Ye’re everythin’ fine an’ good in this world, Tabitha. An’ what of her deamhan ghost? Has it come back?”

She tried to stop crying and trembled, breathing hard. “I vanquished Criosaidh on June first, not June nineteenth, in 1550. And I destroyed the ghost when I destroyed Criosaidh. It imploded, Macleod.”