Snarling, the Casus fought to break his hold, scrambling to its feet, but Ian was quicker. As it twisted away from him, he aimed for the base of its thick, leathery neck, at the exact point between its shoulder blades where Ian bore a tattoo of the cross, and slammed the Marker against its body. A sizzling, popping sound filled the air, like oil hitting a hot pan, and then a scorching ball of fire engulfed his arm as his hand broke through the Casus's skin and sank into its body.
Arm of fire. Holy shit.
Holding his burning arm out before him, Ian watched, amazed, as the Casus's gray body began to glow from within, as if lit with molten lava, the brilliant blaze burning orange beneath its skin, while bubbling blisters formed on the surface. Its limbs jolted with violent spasms, as though it'd been struck by lightning, and Ian braced his feet in the damp grass, working to keep his balance. The scorching wave of heat poured through his body, but he was locked against the Casus, unable to pull away, the intense flames growing hotter...brighter. Its unearthly screams tore from its chest in an endless, garbled stream, gruesome and stark, and then its body finally erupted in a stunning, pulsing explosion of light.
The battering shock wave knocked Ian back with the force of a cannon blast. Thrown through the air, his body crashed against the ground, a staggering crack of pain ricocheting through his skull.
And then everything went black.
WHEN HE CAME TO, the smell of sulfur and burned flesh filled Ian's nose, while a strange cacophony of sounds buzzed through his pounding head.
"Ian, dammit. Wake up," a deep voice grunted above him, followed by a large, rough hand slapping his cheek. "Come on and open your eyes."
The graveled voice sounded oddly familiar, and he struggled to crack his eyelids. Grimacing against the dull, throbbing pain, he stared up into a pair of blue eyes a shade darker than his own. "Riley?" he croaked, wondering if he was hallucinating. What was his brother doing in South Carolina?
The wind whipped Riley's dark hair over his brow, his gaze shadowed with concern as he asked, "You okay? Anything broken? That was a hell of an explosion."
"Molly?" Ian gasped, unable to get the rest of his question scraped past the choking knot of fear in his throat. He tried to sit up, but Riley held his shoulders against the ground. "Easy, easy...she's going to be okay." His brother cast a quick look over his broad shoulder then turned back, saying, "She just hasn't woken up yet."
Oh, shit.
"Get the hell off me," he tried to shout, but the angry words came out as nothing more than a hoarse grunt of sound. Terror was pressing in on him, like a staggering weight against his chest, making it difficult to breathe...to think.
"Ian, just take it easy, man."
"Now!" he finally managed to growl, swinging his fist toward Riley's face. His brother jerked back, cursing under his breath as he barely managed to evade the blow.
"All right, just chill. She's going to be okay," he heard him mutter, but Ian was already crawling toward her, his head swimming, while his right hand burned like the devil. But all that mattered was reaching her...holding her. He tried to get to his feet, but slipped on the damp grass, slamming to his knees, and through the hazy cloud of smoke still lingering over the front yard, he made out Kierland Scott's dark red hair.
Ian crawled across the grass on his hands and knees, his movements clumsy and disjointed while his breath jerked from his lungs with a painful, scraping cadence. It seemed to take forever to cover the distance, each second shredding his insides with fear, and then he was finally there, kneeling beside her. She lay curled on the ground, lifeless and still, the auburn-haired Watchman kneeling at her other side, one hand pressed to her throat, checking her pulse. Scott's mouth was moving, but Ian couldn't make out what he was saying. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his head, raging and violent, like a lashing storm, and he reached out for her, his unsteady hands hovering over her body, afraid to touch...afraid he'd accidentally hurt her if he did.
"Molly," he rasped, the single word cracking with emotion. Ian couldn't understand what was wrong with his voice, until he realized he was choked with tears. They were hot in his throat, burning in his eyes, the salty trails slipping down his cheeks, mixing with the grime and sweat and blood.
Scott reached over her body and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him, and Ian jerked his tormented gaze back to the Watchman's face, straining to hear him. "She's going to be okay, Buchanan. She was knocked out by the blast, but she's coming to now. She's coming to."
That's good...that's good. So get a grip, man. Stop bawling and pull it together.
He didn't know if the words were coming from the resident asshole in his head or if it was Riley grumbling at him again, but he jerked a deep breath into his lungs, focusing on her face...and suddenly she was blinking up at him with a slow, sweet, kinda wobbly smile playing over her tender, precious mouth.
"Ian," she whispered, her voice scratchy from the smoke, and then she lowered her gaze and the smile instantly fell, replaced by a horrified look of panic as she saw the crimson smears of blood that covered his upper body. "Ohmygod, you're hurt!"
"No, I'm okay...I'm okay." Falling back on his ass, Ian reached for her, pulling her into his trembling arms, holding her too tight, but he couldn't help himself. It was crashing down on him--all the fear and anger and pain that he'd been through--until she curled against his chest, pressing her lips to the side of his throat, where his pulse raced to a fierce, hammering rhythm. And in that moment, everything in the world that had slipped into such terrifying madness suddenly seemed...right.
"Jesus," he breathed against her temple, while his hands roamed her back and arms, seeking assurance that she was okay. "Don't ever scare me like that again. I swear, you took fifty years off my life."
"I'm okay, Ian," she murmured, trying to do her own search of his body. "You're the one who's covered in blood."
"I promise I'm not hurt. Just be still...be still and let me hold you." Closing his eyes, Ian rocked her in his arms, his head buried in the curve of her shoulder, shuddering as the fear slowly receded, leaving a shaky, exhilarated feeling in his chest, as well as a sweet, unfamiliar burn of happiness in his gut. His eyes were hot, a gruff rumble of sound breaking from his throat, and he honestly didn't know whether he was laughing or crying or doing both.
Molly shifted in his arms and lifted her palm to the scratchy surface of his cheek, brushing away his tears, while a radiant smile bloomed over her mouth. "Ian...my God, I'm so proud of you. You did it!"
He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, his voice hitching as he quietly said, "No, baby, it wasn't me. Elaina...Elaina did it."
Shock had her stiffening in his arms. "Your mother? But...how?"
"I'll explain later," he breathed in her ear, "when we're alone."
MOLLY WANTED TO DEMAND an explanation right then and there, but as she followed Ian's gaze, she finally realized they weren't alone. A soft gasp fell from her lips when she spotted Kierland and Quinn, as well as a scary-looking giant of a man she'd never seen before. They stood a short distance away, their dark eyes all trained on her and Ian.
"You came," she whispered, staring at Kierland in shocked disbelief, unable to wrap her mind around the fact that he and Quinn were actually there. "I can't believe it. You broke your rules."
"We figured it was time to say to hell with the rules," the Watchman drawled, while a wry smile played at the corner of his mouth. "A certain mouthy little human informed me not too long ago that when something's important, we have to do what we know is right, even if it means breaking a rule or two. Turns out she knew what she was talking about." He sent a shadowed look over the destroyed yard, noting the scorched earth and clawed-up ground, then turned his pale green gaze back in their direction as he said, "But I'm afraid that by the time I realized it, we were too late to be of much help here. We arrived just in time to witness the explosion."
"Still, it's the thought that counts," she murmured, giving him a shaky grin. Molly could sense the slight burn of jealousy coming from Ian as she talked to the handsome Watchman, and she lovingly stroked her hand along the tensed muscles of the arm that banded her waist, silently reassuring him. "Isn't that right, Ian?"
He grunted in response, pulling her tighter to his chest in a blatantly possessive hold. "So what are you doing here?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the scary-looking stranger with shaggy black hair and a dark scowl. The man had his arms crossed over his T-shirt-covered chest, and Molly eyed the tattoos circling his left bicep, before lifting her curious gaze to an oddly familiar shade of deep blue eyes, wondering who he was...and how Ian knew him.
"We contacted him," Scott responded, pushing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, the blue denim sporting dark splotches at the knees from where he'd knelt in the charred debris that covered the front yard. "We went to tell him what you were going up against, and ask if he wanted to come along to help his brother. But when we got to his apartment, he was already packed. Seems he'd heard from one of your neighbors that you were coming here, and had already decided to come and find out what you were up to."
"No way," Molly whispered, suddenly realizing who the stranger was. "I don't believe it.
You're Saint Riley."
A thunderous scowl pulled tight over the man's face as he glared at Ian, muttering, "I told you to stop using that damn nickname."
Ian snickered in response. "But it suits you so well."
"Yeah, well, laugh now," Riley grunted, "but when you get home, you and I are going to have one hell of a long talk. If I'd known in time that you were planning on doing something this stupid, I swear, I'd have locked your crazy ass up in a cell and kept you there."
"And maybe that's why I didn't tell you," Ian drawled, rolling his eyes.
"Stupid jackass," Riley burst out, and Molly could see from his haggard, strained expression that he was truly shaken by the fact that his brother had been in such extreme danger. "You disappear on me, won't return my calls, and meanwhile I've got dead bodies popping up all over the place. You're lucky I don't give you the ass-kicking you deserve for not coming to me for help."
"WELL, YOU'RE going to have to hold that thought." Ian sighed, shifting his gaze back to Scott, "because there's something I need to tell you guys."
Scott raised his brows, his expression revealing his interest.
"Just before it died, I saw...something. Memories from its mind...or hell, I don't know." He took a deep breath, struggling to make sense out of the information crowding through his brain, while Molly stroked his chest in a sweet, soothing gesture. "But I know what they're after. They want the Markers."
"The Markers?" Scott muttered, shaking his head. "To destroy them?"
"Legend says they can't be destroyed," Quinn murmured, speaking up for the first time.
Ian rolled his shoulder. "All I know is that he wanted it, but I couldn't see what for."
"Whatever they want them for," Scott muttered, "it can't be good. Before we know it, we're going to have a war on our hands."
"I also saw that he wasn't the only one. More of his kind are already here, and they want the crosses, same as he did."
"Jesus," Scott hissed, scrubbing his hands down his face, before pushing them back through his hair. "How many more are we talking about?"
"I'm not sure, but I got the feeling he wasn't happy about having the competition. Whatever is happening, it's moving quicker than you thought it would," Ian told them. "Which means that Saige is vulnerable in South America with only one Watchman for protection. She needs to be brought to Colorado. Immediately."
Scott nodded. "I'll put in the call to Templeton," he rasped, and then he surprised Ian by saying, "When can we expect you and Molly back at Ravenswing?"
Ian held the Watchman's piercing stare, wondering what the hell he was talking about. "What makes you think we're going back?"
Scott crossed his arms over his chest, his expression determined, as if braced for an argument that he didn't plan to lose. "You're both a part of this now, whether you like it or not. And you're the only one who's gone against one of these bastards and won. As much as it pains me to say it," he muttered, giving him a hard smile, "we need you, Buchanan."
"He's right," Molly whispered, staring up at him with a stunning look of pride shimmering in her eyes. "You have to go back, Ian."
"You, too, Molly," Scott added with a soft rumble of laughter. "Don't think you're getting off the hook that easily."
She blinked, sending the Brit a soft look of confusion. "But...I'm only human."
"Not hardly," Ian snorted, pulling her face back toward him with the touch of his fingers upon her chin. "You're unlike anyone I've ever known. Hell, Molls, you faced down that psychotic son of a bitch and didn't even bat an eye."
She smiled at him as if he'd just paid her a profound compliment, her loving look hitting him low in the gut, and Ian decided the conversation had already gone on long enough.
"You're needed," Kierland was saying with firm conviction. "Both of you are."
"We'll talk about it tomorrow," Ian rasped, setting Molly by his side so that he could move to his feet. He took her hand, helping her up, then turned back toward the others. "Now, not to be rude, but you guys need to get lost."
Riley snickered, and Quinn shook his head, drawling, "Whatever happened to that legendary Southern hospitality you hear so much about?"
"You want hospitality?" Ian grunted. "Try a hotel."
"As subtle as always, Ian," Riley laughed, stepping closer and holding out his hand. "Here. I think this belongs to you."
Ian took the cross from his brother, amazed to see that it looked unchanged, as perfect as it did before it'd melted into his palm. But then, its power was certainly one of miracles. Despite his lingering headache and the blood that covered most of his body, his injuries were no longer there, as if the Marker had miraculously healed him. He couldn't explain it, but he wasn't going to argue his good luck.