Night of the Highland Dragon (6 page)

The problem was that Arundell was right.

At least, he would have been right according to the world most people knew. Judith had seen the ewe before it had gone for dogs' meat. The wound in the sheep's throat
might
have been the work of an animal, but it was much more likely to have been done by a human with a knife—either one who was trying to disguise his handiwork, who hadn't had much practice at killing anything, or both. As far as Judith could tell, the eyes and the organs had been taken at close to the same time.

If she'd been Arundell, knowing only what a mortal man knew of the world, she would have been certain the culprit was human.

The other problem was that Judith knew more. The hills around Loch Arach were old and had in their time contained stranger things than the MacAlasdairs. The world was wide, the places outside the world wider still, and the creatures in them did travel sometimes. Judith had grown up hearing stories. As an adult, she'd seen a few things for herself.

That
angle would have needed a good hour or two of solitary explanation and then hard proof of the sort she didn't much fancy providing, certainly not to a stranger from London. Colin might have been able to manage it. But Judith knew what was outside her abilities, and persuading a man who already suspected her was well across that line.

Also, she didn't trust him.

When she'd walked out of the forest and seen Arundell staring at the bloody patches of grass, she'd felt the immediate urge to transform for her own safety. It was an easy enough instinct to push back—she'd spent enough time fighting in human form that her body no longer thought switching to dragon shape was the only way to handle a threat—but it had been there, lengthening her teeth and nails for a second.

Men who killed for pleasure did come back at times to reminisce. At the time, she'd thought of no other reason he could be out there. She'd seen Arundell reach for his own weapons: a gun in his pocket, Judith would have wagered, and whatever was in the satchel.

Why would a man come out armed?

Well, if he had thought there was a dangerous creature—man or beast—around, he wouldn't have wanted to be helpless if it came on him alone.

Why would he come out alone?

He might not have intended to. Finlay and his family were busy; if Arundell really had meant to help and had arrived late, he might not have had a choice where company was concerned.

That was the way her thoughts had circled throughout the day—not enough clear guilt to take action, not enough clear innocence to let her relax. As they'd walked in silence back to the main road, Judith kept watching Arundell, trying to see enough from his face or his voice to put her solidly in either camp.

She found nothing, and although she didn't mind silence as a general rule, this time it started niggling at her after a few minutes. She once again got the feeling of being watched and glanced twice back over her shoulder, only to find the road behind them empty.

“Expecting someone?” Arundell asked, damn him.

“A cavalry charge,” she returned. “Any minute now.”

“I didn't know I was so formidable.”

“I just like to be thorough.” He kept up with her well. He should—his legs were about a mile long. Judith looked sideways at him, watching the easy grace with which he walked. She could picture him on the floor of a ballroom—or the deck of a ship—without much effort. “Do you live in London?” she asked. “When you're not getting perspective on anything?”

“Part of the year. The city's too hot in the summer.”

“So my brothers say.”

He nodded. “Both just married, I hear. That must have been a change for you.”

“Not really. They haven't lived at home for a long while. I'm glad for their happiness, of course.”

Arundell smiled. “No ‘of course' about it,” he said, his voice teasing. “Many sisters aren't.”

“Echoes of Mrs. Simon there.”

“All my own ideas, I promise,” he said, raising one hand as if to take an oath. “Great minds and all that.”

“Which I can't dispute without insulting my friend. I'll grant you the move. Clever,” she said and realized to her dismay that she was smiling.

Tilting his head, Arundell surveyed her face. He still looked amused, but now he was clearly interested as well, and Judith felt her cheeks heat beneath his gaze. “You think I have an ulterior motive for everything?”

Quickly, trying to sound cool and composed, she shot back, “I'll make an exception for sleep and eating and so forth.”

“Can I take that as a compliment?” Arundell asked, blue eyes glinting.

“Take it as you like. I won't fight the matter.”

“You're a gracious hostess indeed.” He might have meant that sarcastically, but he sounded playful instead. His voice, low and refined, took its time over each syllable and made the praise sound almost genuine—and certainly sensual.

They rounded a corner, their footsteps in a smooth rhythm. Sparring with him like this, Judith found it easy to forget what she had seen recently, what might be lurking in the forest or living like a normal man in Loch Arach, and just how wary she should be of the tall man beside her. She fell silent with the realization.

Arundell let her go without speaking for a minute or two, and then gestured to the hills beyond them. “What's over there?”

“The ocean, eventually,” said Judith, seizing the opportunity to look away from him and ignoring the urge to look back. “Trees. Mountains. Some old roads, but they don't lead anywhere much. We used to go up when we were bored, look for arrowheads and old spears and that.”

“Roman?”

“Some, likely. There'd have been the Picts living there too. Maybe even a few poor English who tried what they shouldn't,” she added.

From Arundell's ready laugh, she could tell the barb hadn't struck deeply. “Nobody ever accused us of knowing our limits.”

“Too late to learn now, I suppose.”

“Oh,” he said. Surrendering to impulse, Judith turned her head back toward him. The glance he shot down at her was warmth itself, and sent that warmth right through Judith's body. She realized that they'd slowed down. “Much too late.”

“Even if you were inclined to take that instruction,” she said.

“Why would I be?” Arundell asked. A breeze went past, not as cold as the wind had been previously. It ruffled his red hair, and he absently pushed a strand of it out of his eyes.

“Safety?” Judith suggested, not meaning it. She couldn't look away from his face or from the slow motion of his fingers through his hair.

Stopping, Arundell turned to face her. “Ah,” he said, “but nothing's ever really safe. We're both old enough to know that.”

Coming from a mortal, the phrase should have struck her as funny. It didn't. However old Arundell might be, the knowledge in his voice and eyes made him seem as if he'd seen as many years as she had—and there was a carnal aspect to that knowledge that made Judith catch her breath.

She could have kept on walking, she knew. She could have shaken off Arundell's hand when he placed it on her shoulder, turning her toward him, or pulled back when he pulled her close. But her body found its own voice at his touch, as loud as an avalanche, and she went willingly, eagerly.

Judith hadn't kissed anyone for a long time. She'd clearly forgotten the intensity of it, the way it made the world fade into the background, the heady and terrifying joy of being lost in sensation. But she couldn't believe that she would forget anything like this.

Arundell's lips were firm when they met hers, his kiss demanding in a way that had nothing to do with roughness or urgency. He was thorough instead, determined, and very, very skilled. Before long, Judith was clinging to his shoulders, not out of any need for support—although her legs, strong as they usually were, suddenly were far less inclined to hold her up than usual—but out of the consuming desire to get closer.

From the way Arundell reacted, she was sure she wasn't alone in her feelings, and that this was no mere display of his skill. His arms were like steel around her. The hand that had been on her shoulder now cupped the back of her head. The other hand rested at the small of her back, fingers spread wide, and pulled Judith's body against his.

There she could feel his chest against her breasts, the friction increasing with each quick, unsteady breath either of them took. Her nipples, already hard, rubbed against the inside of her corset, the contact frustratingly pleasurable. She made an incoherent sound low in her throat and leaned up into the kiss, taking the lead back from him.

Some men, not many but some, objected at that point or at least hesitated for a moment. Arundell didn't. His lips parted for her as readily as hers had done for him, and he let out a gratified sigh when her tongue slipped past them. His hand slid lower, cupped the curve of her backside, and squeezed gently—appreciatively, Judith thought, and smiled against his mouth.

She had plenty to appreciate herself. The slight difference in their heights meant she couldn't quite reciprocate, but she could—and did—run her nails down the back of Arundell's neck and trace down his spine, making him suck in a breath. She could, and did, arch her hips forward, so that the two of them pressed together from neck to knee.

That sent another wave of desire through her, overwhelming with the sheer force of it. Part of it was being able to feel the substantial bulge of his erection pushing against her, just above her sex. Part of it was the delightful pressure of her breasts against his chest, and part was the way he kept very still for a second, when she knew he had to stop and really try to hold on to his self-control.

The effect of the whole was to make her entire body shiver, unable to hold still under the barrage of pleasure. Judith let her head fall back and felt Arundell's mouth hot on her throat, kissing and then nibbling.

That as much as anything else brought her back to her senses: the realization that she was literally baring her neck to this man who she didn't know or trust, who might be the worst kind of murderer, on a public road in the middle of the afternoon. The wind went coldly past again, and if Judith hadn't felt it before, she was conscious of it now.

She opened her eyes and pushed Arundell away.

“Nothing's really safe, maybe,” she said, getting her breath, “but that doesn't mean we have to be complete fools. We're both old enough to know
that
too.”

Too conscious of her flushed face, her swollen lips, and the damp heat between her legs, she turned and started walking again, quickly and utterly gracelessly at first. She was glad of the cold air. It might help her look presentable, and she'd need that before too long. The turn up ahead would take them back to the village proper.

Once again, Judith glanced over her shoulder, looking for eyes that she didn't see. This time she was sure she knew why.

“You should know,” she said, “that the people here aren't likely to believe you if you tell them what just happened. And those who do won't care. I certainly won't. In case you were getting any ideas.”

“What?” If Arundell wasn't actually shocked, he did a fine imitation of it, all open mouth and inward-slanting eyebrows. “My God, you don't think I'd—”

“I think plenty of things about plenty of people,” said Judith, “and I don't know you from Adam. I will give you as much credit as to assume you'd no motive at the time but a carnal one, whatever may have crossed your mind afterwards.”

“Nothing crossed my mind afterwards.”

“Good. Don't bother to let it.”

He studied her face, shaking his head slowly. “Is it only me who excites this much suspicion? Or do you never believe that anything is what it seems to be?”

“Not
only
what it seems,” said Judith, looking down the road toward the village. “There's nothing that's just what you see plainly in the moment—not fire nor water, man nor beast. Most of them don't seek to deceive. Most of the time. But that doesn't really matter.”

“You must make life very complicated for yourself.”

“No more than you do,” she said, thinking of his questions and his probing looks. “Probably less. If I'd kissed
you
, I'd wager ten pounds you'd have wondered what I was after.”

In half a minute, they came to the main street and to far too many people to continue the conversation. It had been enough time for a denial, but Arundell stayed silent.

“You see?” She smiled at him. “I wouldn't bother protesting now. It's been years since my heart was tender, and I've no time for much pretense.”

That itself wasn't entirely truthful, of course, she thought as she headed off. She didn't have time for much
more
.

Rain sheeted down in front of William's face, almost obscuring the path ahead of him. That wasn't difficult. The path in question was narrow and winding, leading around trees and over clumps of rocks, many of them covered in moss. Mrs. Simon had said that a couple of the village boys led sheep that way, but they were fifteen, not forty-five, and they'd probably been out in fair weather in the daytime. No man in his right mind would be scrambling over rocks on a night like this one.

On the other hand, few men in their right minds would be
out
on a night like this one, which was why William had chosen it. Odds were good that, after two days had passed, he'd lost his chance at seeing anything up at Finlay's, but he hadn't been trained to accept those odds when there was an opportunity to try. Besides, this way took him through the far edge of the forest, and it was past time to start exploring that. His job demanded no less.

His job, he thought, as he half slid down the side of another boulder, was rather a young man's game. William had heard that before. In sunshine or in a warm train compartment considering his mission, he never believed it. Moments like this were different.

Yet he'd nearly jumped at the chance when the rain started that evening. He'd been half-wild with the ability to finally act, to have even half a chance of discovering a clue—to find more for his mind to dwell on than emerald eyes, dark lips, and a warm, strong body melting against his.

If he was getting too old to wander obscure pathways on rainy nights, he was assuredly too old to dwell on women who might as well have “Danger” painted on their foreheads, even when the women in question kissed like Judith MacAlasdair did. He didn't even have duty as an excuse for the latter foolishness. He'd been honest, and honestly offended, about his lack of ulterior motive in kissing her, and that had been puzzling too. He
had
used such tactics before and not turned a hair at that. When he'd signed up for D Branch, he'd put his body at their disposal in any number of ways.

This time had been different. For some reason, he'd wanted Judith to know that—and still did, even though she was the reason he was out getting soaked and scraping his knees on the local landscape, trying for a second chance at the rite she'd prevented.

Staying in the shadows, of which there were plenty, William rounded a clump of pine trees and came up to the place where he'd stood earlier. Off in the distance, he could see a few lights in the window of Finlay's farmhouse, but there was nothing closer, and he was sure he was too far out and the night was too dark for them to see him.

Finding where the sacrifice had been was a matter of guesswork and memory now. There were no signs to guide him, so he laid down the rune chains and hoped for the best. Not expecting anything, he spoke the words he'd learned by rote, words not quite Greek or Latin or anything of this world. “Enochian,” his tutors had called the language. They'd spoken of the man who'd discovered it, D Branch's unofficial founder and namesake, but William had always been more interested in the practical application.

The words worked now. The world around William grew even foggier than the rain would have made it, and he stood torn between satisfaction and fear. He was glad to have the information—but the fact that it had lingered so long spoke of nothing good.

When he saw the shapes, he understood why the resonance had stayed. One of the shadows was still the human figure, without any more clues to indicate sex, age, or race than William had seen before; the scene was even blurrier than the previous one he'd viewed. That was the only human shape and the only one that looked remotely natural.

There were four others. All walked on two legs, with skinny, ratlike heads and tails. Each had six arms, ending in hands with sharp, dexterous-looking little claws. None of them was bigger than a house cat. Physically, as much as William could tell through the fog, they were anything but fearsome. But bits of them kept fading into the fog in a way that William had never seen anything do before, and that was only the problem he could put his finger on.

They looked
wrong
. Even secondhand, even after two days, he could see that they were things that shouldn't be in the same world he walked in, and maybe things that shouldn't be in any world at all. Even the wrongness was hard to pin down. One second they twisted along at impossible angles; the next they seemed to eat at the world around them; and then they became too dark or maybe too bright to look at.

In the fog, the human figure gestured. The creatures leaped forward. The scene disintegrated around William, leaving him standing once again in a dark, rainy field, completely alone and never more relieved to be so.

Quickly, he grabbed the rune chains and stuffed them back into his satchel, then darted for the edge of the cleared land. Only when he was in the forest, with a solid clump of pine and oak and undergrowth between him and any onlookers on Finlay's land, did he let himself lean against one of the trees, catch his breath, and think.

He had been right. The killer was human, or at least human-shaped. He wouldn't have much luck convincing Judith of that, though. Even had the figure been alone,
I
saw
a
magic
vision
was not evidence she would readily accept. If he started talking about demons… There wasn't an asylum nearby, but that would be all William would have to his advantage.

“Demons” was likely the right word for the little things, he thought, while the forest around him rustled with the rain and the wind. Creatures that looked like that were almost certainly from the Outer Darkness. These no doubt had been summoned with blood sacrifice, probably the boy's in Belholm, and kept fed on a steady though reduced diet of livestock. William had encountered a few similar creatures over his years of service and had more often seen their powers channeled through human vessels, but the thought was still enough to make him shiver.

He didn't want to think more about demons in the middle of the night, not in a forest where all the shadows looked far deeper than normal. William made a vain attempt to wring out his hat, then stepped out from the shelter of the tree.

Instinct saved him. As in the past, he didn't know if he'd seen movement out of the corner of his eye, heard a sound his conscious mind didn't register, or even caught a whiff of a repulsive and alien scent. Without thinking, William turned and looked up.

Blackness plummeted toward him, screeching.

William leaped backward, but not quickly enough. Claws raked down the arm he threw up to protect his face, tearing effortlessly through the layers of coat, jacket, shirt, and skin. He felt no pain at first but knew that would change soon. He struck out and felt the claws vanish as a dark shape went flying toward a tree.

Unluckily for William, it didn't hit. It dropped to the ground and came up snarling, its teeth jagged and gleaming foully even in the darkness. The head of the creature was shaped vaguely like a cat's but gaunt, the cheeks sunken around the too-wide mouth and hollow yellow eyes. Its body was long and flexible, with many sets of legs and a whipping razor-edged tail.

The creature was bigger than the demons in his vision. Much bigger. Its head came to William's thigh, and its body was at least two feet long. Collecting itself, it reared up on a foot or so of that length and screeched at him again. Even far away, William smelled a rankly sweet, burnt odor and felt the heat of the demon's breath go through his clothes.

The butt of his silver-loaded gun came easily to his hand, but the wet folds of his coat slowed him as he yanked the revolver free of its holster. His arm was starting to hurt now, sharp pain whose immediacy suggested that the demon's claws hadn't gone too deep, but which was an unwelcome distraction nonetheless. A burning sensation came with it, and when William inhaled, the smell was like the demon's breath, but more acrid.

Acid, he thought. Bloody
wonderful
.

He fired. The demon sprang. The first bullet whistled through the air behind it and buried itself in a tree trunk. The second struck the creature in the hind flank, and it screamed a third time, now in genuine pain. William fanned the revolver and kept firing, counting down each bullet. He had six before he had to reload; his other gun was full of plain lead, which only worked on minor demons, and then not always. He didn't know how minor this thing was, and alone in the silent, dark forest, he had no intention of taking chances before he needed to.

Bullet number three hit the demon in the side. Blood, a sickly glowing shade of green, ran from that wound and the first, but the creature kept coming. The force of the shots knocked it back so that it landed just short of William. It reared again and swiped at him with four sets of talons. He dodged sideways, and this time, though his coat ripped, the blow didn't carry through.

“Get
away
,” he snarled back at the demon and kicked sideways, catching it in the face. Its teeth were formidable, but his boot leather was thick, and the blow caught the creature off guard. William heard crunching, saw the many-legged form scurry backward, and smiled, sickly satisfied with its pain.

Now he had room to aim again. A breath let him fix the demon's head in his sights. Another, and he pulled the trigger.

Bonelessly, the creature twisted itself out of the way, and the bullet hit the ground.

That was four. Two more bullets remained, and of course he'd had to block the demon's first attack with his good arm. But now he had an idea.

Before the demon could collect itself and come at him, William shot twice, aiming just a hair high the first time and low the second, fanning the revolver so that the two sounds were almost one. One missed, as he'd known it would, as the demon spun impossibly through space—right into the second bullet.

Silver flared behind its eyes for an instant before its head split open. The gout of green blood was vast. A few drops hit William, sizzling on his coat. The creature's body collapsed to the ground in the middle of a growing pool.

William watched it for a minute, reloading his gun as fast as he could. Even in death or apparent death, demons could be tricky. He found a suitably long stick and nudged the body, gun in his other hand. The stick hissed as it made contact with the creature's acidic blood, but the corpse didn't move.

Dead was dead in this case.

He might have felt a sense of triumph, except that the demon's master was probably still around. Such creatures did occasionally come through without being called, but those occasions were very rare, and with everything else happening in Loch Arach, an independent demon would be too great a coincidence.

Either the demon's master had sent it specifically after William, or it was here to guard the forest.

William didn't like the implications of either possibility. Also, his arm was bleeding, though not badly, and would probably hurt even more as his body stopped compensating for danger. His clothing was ruined in a damned conspicuous manner; he'd just shot six of his limited supply of silver bullets; and anyone wandering around the forest would have a very nasty surprise soon. Prudence suggested that he bury the demon and retrieve what bullets he could.

The rain didn't seem to be letting up at all, and he had nothing but his hands to dig with.

No, he didn't feel particularly triumphant.