Relic [Anthology]

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RELIC By

Ellen Ashe Celia Ashley Annalee Blysse Tracy L. Ranson

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Merlin’s Eye © copyright January 2006, Ellen Ashe Sixth Day of the Moon © copyright January 2006, Celia Ashley Lord of the Night © copyright January 2006, Annalee Blysse Curse of the Cat’s Paw © copyright January 2006, Tracy L. Ranson Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006 ISBN 1-58608-808-4 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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MERLIN’S EYE By Ellen Ashe

Chapter One “Is the purpose of your visit to the UK business or pleasure?” Roger’s initial impulse was to flirt; the sight of a lovely woman did that to him. He had learned over the years of traveling, however, that female customs’ officers took their jobs very seriously, as though they had to prove the toughness displayed by male counterparts. This officer was eye-catching with her peaches and cream complexion, streaked blonde hair and rose-bud mouth. Yet she sat there with an aura of severity--no make-up, no jewelry and a pair of black framed glasses propped on the bridge of her nose. Still, he couldn’t resist flashing her a smile. “Business.” She glanced from the document and then over the rim of the glasses to his face without smiling. “And what is your business, Mr. Brinckworthe?” To seek out and negotiate prices for ancient medieval manuscripts, either legally or illicitly. “I buy and sell antiques.” She scribbled something on a form. “How long will you visiting us?” His smile broadened. Her tone was so abrupt. Young, attractive, and that pristine uniform. It was a combination he had always found intriguing, and more than titillating. “Two weeks.” His passport was stamped. “Welcome to London.” “Thank ya, darlin’.” She shifted her eyes to the next in the line as he took his paperwork and briefcase. Professional. He liked that in a woman regardless of her occupation. And he breezed through customs without a hitch. What was waiting for him threw cold water on his lingering fantasy. A tall, gaunt, pasty complexioned man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood in front of the mulling crowd holding a handwritten sign that read: “R. Brinckworthe.” “Oh great,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s sent a driver.” Without expecting it, he suddenly found himself in the clutches of a wealthy woman. On previous trips to England, Roger had always stayed in a hotel, rented a car, sought out antiquarian booksellers on his own terms, usually as a necessity because certain sellers were operating within the shadows. Being a guest had made him slightly uncomfortable but Victoria Elwell insisted. He concurred, only because her late father had an infamous collection of occult manuscripts and documents, and she was disposing

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of the whole lot. So enticed at the prospect of owning pieces of the coveted collection, Roger not only made an exception for dealing with a woman but being a house guest. “I’m Roger Brinckworthe,” he said. The chauffeur reached out to take the handle of the suitcase. “Follow me, please.” Something akin to claustrophobia penetrated Roger’s skin. He prided his sixthsense when it came to identifying authentic rare books. Fakes were cleverly presented and although he hadn’t come up against many, he had to be extremely wary of some sellers, especially when so many of his transactions were clandestine. This feeling was different though, almost eerie, like being lost in dank fog. He had to fight the urge to snatch his suitcase and bolt back into the airport. “How long will this take?” Roger asked, as the door to the Rolls Royce was opened for him. “Depends on the traffic, sir. Three, maybe four hours, sir.” Roger sighed. Traveling had become a necessary evil. Traffic in and around the airport was heavy. He flipped open his briefcase, reviewing his scant notes on Victoria Elizabeth Elwell. An heiress at twenty-four she was the only child of Edward Elwell IV. Educated at Oxford she had procured a degree in Classical Literature and was proficient in both Latin and Greek. As far as he could discover she had never traveled out of England, which struck him as odd. Considering her academic interests he thought she would be at least traveled. Elwell was a name deeply rooted in Devon’s history, lords and earls, iron fists and stained swords. And unsubstantiated rumors of clandestine rituals and practicing witchcraft.... To each his own. Reading between the lines he suspected that Victoria could care less about continuing the lineage. She was, not only unmarried, but selling off family heirlooms. She had contacted him, via e-mail, with an invitation to view the home’s antiquated library. The prospect of its valuable contents had gotten him rather excited. How she got his name, however, and particularly Brinckworthe, which was the alias he used the least, was a curiosity he’d question later. All correspondence he printed, studying each sentence so often he had some messages completely memorized. He thumbed through the papers, rereading one at random. “Dear Mr. Brinckworthe: It has come to my attention that you are an impassioned collector of ancient manuscripts. Please accept my invitation to personally view my complete collection, ranging from Medieval to Renaissance, subjects inclusive of medical, philosophy, religion, including the occult and Druidism …” Druidism. This was what truly grabbed his interest. In fifteen years of buying and selling rare pieces of literature not once had he come across anything documented by this mysterious religion. He had written back to ask her for specifics but she had evaded an answer, “an extensive collection touching on various aspects of religion and philosophy....” Mingled with the letters was an article he had discovered--a Roman perspective of Druidism--Caesar documenting that druids from Gaul would attend the British schools and sanctuaries. Obviously a religion with a high reputation, Roger mused, to attract the attention of an Emperor. And the distrust. Resistance to an aggressive empire would do that. History was open for interpretation. The Romans painted the Celtic Druids in a bad

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light and they, in turn, wrote nothing to defend themselves or their Gods. Or, so he believed. Roger closed the briefcase and stared numbly at the scenery, unable to concentrate about anything. Once they hit the motorway the steady pace was lulling him more and more into lethargy. A weighty sensation soon overtook him and he leaned back, succumbing to fatigue. “Is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?” They were the only two people in the airport. A hazy white light obscured a limitless void that had been passport control. His gaze dropped to her exposed cleavage and the outer edges of a black laced bra. She was smiling, hinting shamelessness, waiting for his answer. Her arms slowly lifted as she reached behind her head, unfastening a mass of hair from a tight bun. She shook her head. The cascading locks tumbled over the front of her starched uniform. “Pleasure.” She pursed her lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Slowly she stood up. His breath caught. A short tight fitting skirt barely covered her thighs. Black stockings, held firmly in place by straps of a garter belt, stiletto heeled shoes, she turned, glancing back at him, crooking her finger. “Follow me,” she purred. “Is there a problem?” he asked. “Yes,” she gushed, rolling the tip of her tongue under her top lip. “You lied to me and naughty men need to be severely disciplined.” The flush of arousal washed through his body. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, and followed her swaying hips, for what seemed an endless journey through nothing but white light. One door--she stopped in front of it, quickly glancing over her shoulder again to see if he was following. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and she stroked it with her thumb. “Ready to be taught a lesson?” “Oh, yeah,” he answered, his tone drenched to the excitement that coursed through his groin. She worked the handle with seductive glee. “Good boy,” she whispered. With a sharp wrench the door flew open. Across one wall was an immense bookcase, housing antique leather-bound manuscripts. The scent of old leather filled his nostrils. He sucked in air. Fresh air. The library had no walls. There was grass beneath his feet, and sunlight streaming from a sunless sky. She wiggled provocatively as he slid towards her, unconscious of motion, drinking in the curves of her body, aching to lift the short skirt, to take the pleasures that waited beneath. Her eyes flared. There was a snap, like a stinging spark. The next thing he knew he was bound by the wrists, arms extended above his head, shoulders against the trunk of one massive oak tree, and he was naked. “Yes,” he hissed, shivering to anticipation. The how or why of the lapse of time was insignificant compared to the lusts he wanted to be sated. She reached her hand between his legs, stroking him as she had done the door handle. Her mouth inches away from his she sighed. “Tell me, Mr. Brinckworthe, what would give you more pleasure? Me, or my books?” Her grip tightened. He sucked in a gasp, the quick slice of pain rippling through his groin. “You,” he garbled. “I want you more.”

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Instantly she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled. “You lie, hunter.” A riding crop was thrust under his chin. “You’re a thief and a scoundrel, aren’t you, Mr. Brinckworthe?” Slow motion she trailed the leather tip down his chest. He whimpered. “Yes. Yes, I am.” So abrupt with her authority. He loved professionals and she was definitely a professional. Over his stomach, farther down it went, and he shuffled slightly, spreading his legs. “Tut-tut,” she said, denying him the sensation of the leather against his flesh. He wrenched, the leather straps around his wrists tightened. “You can’t have my books,” she scowled, teeth clenched behind snarled lips. “But you can have me.” She moved directly in front of him, her breath hot against his neck. “Is that acceptable, Mr. Brinckworthe?” He thrust forward. But he was at her mercy. It was her decision whether or not he could get inside. She had pitilessly worked him into a frenzy. “Yes, that’s acceptable.” He was begging. Whatever it took. He’d do anything now. “Witch.” She threw the crop to one side. It fell to the floor without making a sound. She clasped the hem of her skirt and rotated her hips as she slowly hoisted the material. He could barely control himself. A tingling was about to erupt. He felt dizzy. The heat from her palm encased his erection. She inched closer to him, stroking, squeezing. “Yes,” he droned, tipping his head back into the rough bark of the oak tree. He sensed wet. Silken heat. The walls of a tight crevice swallowing his erection. “Welcome to London.” Roger’s eyes snapped open. His forehead and neck were bathed in sweat. Frenziedly, as the dream had taken him too far, he winced with the uncontrollable wave of bliss, and flushed with embarrassment. The driver, thankfully, was paying attention to the road, not him. Roger blinked several times, darting glances out the window over the rolling countryside. He swore internally, shocked at the vividness of the dream. A wet dream, an event that wasn’t supposed to happen to a man of his age, and certainly not during a nap in the back of a car! Painfully aware of the discomfort in his trousers, he crossed his legs. Flipping open the console under his elbow he was relieved to discover several small bottles of Scotch. Shaken, he poured the contents into a crystal glass, and swallowed it in one mouthful. It burned down his gullet but at least it had the desired effect. He calmed even though the confusion remained. “Where the hell did that come from?” he muttered under his breath. The driver glanced at him through the rear view mirror. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked without any intonation what-so-ever. “Yeah,” Roger snapped in return. “How much longer?” He was unscrewing the cap of another bottle. The man’s waxen complexion pulled to a ghoulish smile. “Almost there now, sir.” **** Victoria Elwell tapped her fingernail on the smooth surface of her altar. The image of her approaching guest dissolved under the ripples of water in the oak bowl. One by one she blew out the candles, breathing deeply of the thin lines of smoke the swirled from each extinguished wick. The water had soiled, turned muddy and unusable. Carefully she reached into the bowl to pull out her amulet, place it beside her bended knee, within the circle. Dipping

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her fingers into the water she sprinkled a few drops on her naked breast and disposed of the rest by tipping it around her on the floor. “Water Goddess,” she whispered. “Renewal. Cleansing. Blessed be.” The green opal softly glowed. Saturated air caressed her, like a lover’s devout attention. Her arousal was torturous, yet she relished the growing static of sexual energy. Stifling her physical desires she closed her eyes, pressing her palms together to relieve the temptation to touch herself, concentrating on accumulation. He would be a willing participant. His lusts were deliciously primeval. Victoria stood, the amulet dangling on its thin chain, swinging as a pendulum, one that would turn back time. Her most trusted confidant rose from the chair in the shadows. “Let me help you with that,” she said, fastening the clasp behind Victoria’s neck. “You have chosen well, Priestess?” “Yes, Leena. Our guest has many interesting susceptibilities. He is going to be a very valuable asset.” The relic nestled between her breasts, a warming force against her flesh. Victoria turned. The two women smiled knowingly to each other. “I shall prepare then,” Leena said. “Yes.” Victoria leaned, fluttering a feathery kiss on her servant’s lips. Energy surged, eddying out from the amulet into her limbs. “Do we have time to--?” “No. I must focus all our energy on our quest. Wait for my word. I’ll call when I need you.” “Of course.” Leena bowed. “May the gods bless you and keep you, my Priestess.” “And you, my faithful one. Blessed be.”

Chapter Two On one side of the narrow road was the moor. The barren landscape dissolved obliquely into the horizon. Sheep meandered carelessly along the edges as the Rolls Royce slowed to a crawl. A stone wall prevented any visual of what lay beyond the other side of the road. Considering the pace they were traveling, Roger guessed that this was the boundary of the Elwell estate. His suspicions were confirmed when the vehicle swung sharply to the right. Cast iron gates were open. On either side, perched on massive pedestals, were identical stone Phoenixes, blindly watching the moor. Arched over the entrance was an iron trellis. Elwell Manor. Ivy had snaked through the latticing, obscuring most of the lettering. Huge oak trees lined the drive. It took several minutes before the sprawling estate loomed into view, appearing to Roger more like a fortress than a manor. Old world opulence housing a treasure trove of antiquities. He imagined a library packed with ancient manuscripts and he couldn’t help but wonder why the family heiress was selling anything. Not that he particularly gave a damn. Her loss was his gain. Still, he had the niggling feeling that Victoria Elwell was going to be a formable

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negotiator. Roger had money, but as they pulled up in front of the steps to the lavish estate, his wealth suddenly seemed paltry in comparison. He was grateful to finally be stationary, and took several steps around the graveled courtyard to stretch his legs. The chauffeur quickly retrieved Roger’s suitcase. “If you’d follow me, sir,” he said, and started immediately towards the cracked granite stairway. “Incredible,” Roger muttered, scanning the building’s architecture. Buttresses, turrets, gargoyles, weather worn stone, and countless windows of varying sizes--it was too much to take in as they climbed the stairs to the main entrance. He was certain he caught a glimpse of movement in one of the windows, but when he turned to where he was sure he saw a figure, there was nothing. “Does Miss Elwell live here alone?” A shadow of amusement crossed the pale features of the man’s drawn face. “No, sir.” Roger’s unsettled imagination was beginning to spin wildly out of control. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but if there were such an anomaly as trapped souls on earth, or evil using a particular building as a doorway from one dimension to another, then this was a perfect setting. Thoughts of wayward spirits and demons were quickly dispelled when they were met in the foyer by a maid, who curtsied in front of Roger. Small, slight and very pretty, even in a uniform which was far too conservative for his liking, he tried to make eye contact. She kept her gaze lowered--perhaps part of the British upper class protocol he was unfamiliar with. “Maria shall escort you to your quarters. Dinner is at seven.” With that, the chauffeur lumbered off. Petite as she was, Maria was prepared to take the suitcase. “No,” Roger said warmly. “I’ll take that.” Their hands accidentally touched on the handle--only for a moment--but enough time for a streak of heat to bolt up his arm, like a burst of electricity. A flash of light blinded him and within it he saw himself on a four-poster bed surrounded by several scantily clad women. Drapes of heavy scarlet velvet hung from the canapé, material that was slowly closing, as though the final stage act had been performed. Then it was gone. He blinked nervously, struggling with bewilderment. He flushed with heat despite the damp cold air of the foyer. “Thank you, sir,” she said quickly and started down the passageway. Roger followed, wondering if he had finally begun a slippery slope into madness. The ambience didn’t help. As they proceeded along a lengthy dully lit corridor, eyes of portraits seemed to follow him. And he didn’t fail to notice that every painting was female. Medieval ladies with porcelain white faces, blood red lips and opal eyes--eyes that shifted--bore into him as though he was being thoroughly inspected. He felt that these were the scantily clad women he visualized on the bed. … It crossed his mind that the initial response to turn back at the airport might have been a good idea. Too late now. He had come this far, so he wasn’t about to surrender to tattered nerves from fatigue and jet lag. He had to keep reminding himself he had no belief in the occult, even though he coveted ancient books on the subject, penned by superstitious men who dismissed the logic of science. Bumps in the night and Boogey Men were for children and the mentally incapacitated.

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“Your room, sir.” She curtsied again. “Why, thank ya, darlin’,” he said, hoping to get her to show emotion. She didn’t. “Miss Elwell will see you at six in the study. Bard will collect you.” Then she spun and disappeared round the corner. Bard? What kind of name was that? He stood, alone in the corridor, wondering what in hell he had managed to get himself into this time. Still, it’d be worth it in the end, especially if she actually had the type of manuscript he suspected she had. A wry smile born from greed crept across his face. “Yessss.” He froze, his arm half extended towards to handle of the door. A shiver rippled down his spine. The sultry sigh had come from behind him. Slowly he turned, expecting to see someone, anyone, because the voice had been so clear. Nothing. There wasn’t even a draft. Sheer stubbornness kept him from moving. He wasn’t about to let anything rattle his stoic belief in the rationale, not even an unidentifiable whisper. Bumps in the night. Boogey men. He was a long ways from mentally incompetent, which meant that Miss Elwell was up to something. Just what that might be he had no way of knowing. “Right, lady,” he growled, suspecting there were hidden security cameras tucked everywhere. “You want to play games; that’s fine with me. Go ahead and draw the line in the sand.” There and then he decided to be extra vigilant. God, how he hated doing business with women. Especially rich eccentric ones. His assurance didn’t last long. No sooner had he entered the appointed guest room when he saw the four-poster bed, draped in scarlet velvet. An exact replica of what he had ‘seen’ in that peculiar vision. Except there were no scantily clad nymphomaniacs sprawled over the covers, and the drapes stayed open. Despite the agitation he suffered because of his earlier premonition, the room was attractive and comfortable. Dark wood paneling, flowered tapestries, a sofa, several chairs, antique bureau. A window opened out over the moor. Roger threw his suitcase on the bed, concentrating on his annoyance. By focusing on his suspicions he’d keep disconcertion at bay. Still, there was no denying it--this place was downright eerie--no security camera or electronic equipment could duplicate a room in his head before he had actually seen it. The sooner he could complete their business transactions, and leave, the better. Roger wrenched out his arm, checking his watch. An hour before he’d be ‘collected’. Enough time to get cleaned up, changed. The en-suite washroom was modern in comparison to the medieval ambience of the estate. Pipes rattled within the walls when he turned on the faucet, and the water was little more than tepid. Still, he felt a lot better after a quick shower and a shave. And seeing there was a distinct formality lurking beneath the surface of the estate’s ambience, he dressed in a suit. Might as well make a good impression. With the few minutes to spare Roger leaned lazily against the casement, admiring the expansive view of the moor. When a convertible spun into the courtyard, he moved slightly to one side. A woman, long blonde hair, jeans and a sweat shirt, jumped out from behind the wheel. She acknowledged someone on the top of the steps. Roger had to lean to see who she was waving to, and was struck between shock and amusement when another woman, whom he suspected was his hostess, embraced the visitor with intimacy.

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It was more than a simple gesture of greeting. His jaw dropped when the two engaged in a delicate and lingering kiss. “Well, well,” he mumbled to himself. “Keen on a lady friend, are you Miss Victoria?” His libido was calculating the odds that maybe, if he played his cards right, he could become a part of their promiscuous lifestyle. Threesome--his own spin on what goes bump in the night. The evening was beginning to have interesting prospects. “This might not be so bad after all.” Roger Brinckworthe could be accused of many things. Putting business ahead of pleasure wasn’t one of them. “Is he watching?” Victoria whispered into Leena’s ear. “Yes. He’s in the window now.” “Good,” she said, running her long nails through the silken blonde hair. “We’ve got him right where we want him.”

Chapter Three “Mr. Brinckworthe, it’s lovely to meet you.” “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” he said, reaching her extended hand, clasping it in a gentle shake. The picture of Victoria Elwell in an impassioned kiss with her lady friend had seared in Roger’s mind. The mental visions he was entertaining were far from gentlemanly. And now that he had a chance to see her close-up, he evaluated her femininity into one word--stunning. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “I trust you found your accommodation suitable?” She had the blackest eyes he had ever seen--transfixing him momentarily into a hypnotic void. Her flawless complexion was framed with dark hair that hung in curls to her shoulder. And her perfume was divine, like exotic Eastern spice. He lifted her hand, lightly kissing the back. “I am finding everything more than suitable.” Her brow rose. “Ah,” she smiled, “I guess this is an example of that great American charm I’ve heard so much about. Best be on my guard, had I?” “Always,” he purred. Her accent was adorable; soft vowels--musical. Beautiful woman--smelled and sounded delightful. It was lust at first sight. God, lady, I hope you swing both ways. “Join me in a sherry?” “Certainly.” He sat on an expansive leather sofa wrenching his eyes away from his hostess long enough to peruse the room. Solid oak desk, bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a crackling fire in the hearth and a liquor cabinet well stocked. Very impressive. He could easily get used to this old-style affluence. “You have a truly magnificent home,” he said. She flipped a curl over one shoulder. “It’s up for sale.” “Really?” Roger was taken aback at her abrupt tone. To ask why might be too presumptuous, especially this early in their acquaintance. Odd, though, how he felt so comfortable, like he was revisiting an old friend, or lover.

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“I’m leaving.” She passed him the glass and sat opposite, crossing her slim legs, the skirt hoisting, revealing a bit more thigh than what could be considered respectful. “I guess that explains why you’re selling your father’s collection.” He felt flushed, stumbling over a need to say something, uncertain whether he sounded coherent. Victoria’s black eyes never blinked. Behind them was intrigue; it captivated him. The lapse in conversation made him somewhat uncomfortable. “I must say that I’m surprised a beautiful and well educated heiress like yourself isn’t married.” He smiled wryly behind his glass. Double-edged comment. He wanted her to know he had done some research on the name Elwell, that she was the only child, and from what he had seen earlier, one who wasn’t overly anxious for male companionship. “And risk failure, twice over, like yourself, Mr. Brinckworthe.” She was blunt. And obviously she had done her own investigation into his personal life. For some reason he hadn’t expected that. He puffed a laugh to cover his surprise. “They left me,” he said. “Of course they did. Infidelity often has that effect on a marriage.” Suddenly he was on the defensive. It occurred to him if she had been so interested as to dig up information on his failed relationships, how much might she know about his shadowy business activities? For the sake of decorum he kept his surprise concealed. “Well,” he said with a grin, tipping his glass to his lips. “I, for one, enjoy the favors of the opposite sex.” She didn’t bite. She didn’t even flinch. Those penetrating black orbs, however, were locked intensely on him. He shuddered to think what might be going on behind them. “Do you have children, Mr. Brinckworthe?” “Do you interrogate all your guests, Miss Elwell?” he said returning her stare with one just as austere. “Or are you comparing what I say with your notes?” He could be direct as well, and he wasn’t going to let her get the better of him. “Yes,” she said. “I confess that I have done some research on you. It’s important to me that you are…acceptable.” “Acceptable?” he puffed. The only acceptable part of previous deals was the cash that exchanged hands. “I assure you that my money is good. But then, you likely already know that.” To his delight her gaze raked over him. Voluptuous lips curled to a smile. She oozed sensuality. If he interpreted her signals correctly then maybe his masculine charms could quickly develop into seduction--if she was more interested in him than his money-which was the impression he felt he was getting. Never put off until tomorrow the beautiful woman you could do today. He was reassessing his distaste about conducting business with a woman, even though this particular one did seem to playing games with him. Just what sort of game he hadn’t quite determined. Money sure as hell wasn’t the issue here. The novelty confused him slightly. He figured though she’d give up her scheme soon enough. “You’re not as old as I thought you’d be, Mr. Brinckworthe,” she said. He laughed. “No, I haven’t quite reached my sell-by date. And please, call me Roger.” The personal overture of the conversation was promising. “Your interest in the occult, Roger,” she said. “Is it limited to literature?” What sort of question was that? “I’m not a practicing warlock, if that’s what you mean.” The answer was meant to be a joke until it occurred to him there had been some

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documentation that those who allegedly practiced witchcraft had gathered in this area. “Power can be deeply rooted in words,” she said. “Mightier than the sword…” “Money is power.” “Yes, that’s exactly how my father thought. He was misguided as well.” Intrigued as he was with her idealism it was a topic he had no desire in pursuing. As far as Roger was concerned his business ventures were cut and dry, black and white, and certainly no shade in between unless it involved the color of money. He sighed heavily. “I’ve traveled a long way to see this collection. Nothing personal about your philosophy or your life style, but I’m a brass-tack kind of guy. So, I want to know what it is you’re putting on the table.” “Oh, you won’t be disappointed, I assure you. We’ll both get what we want.” Roger leaned forward. “What exactly is it you want, Victoria?” “I want you to make yourself at home, of course,” she said lightly. The dodge in topic made his flesh crawl. He was into something and right up to his neck, but be damned if he could figure out what. “There must be dozens of antiquarian book dealers in this country. Why did you contact me?” “Your reputation,” she snapped. Her smile was cold. It was his turn to answer with silence. Reputations were often based on misguided perception and he was still a long way off from determining what was going on in that pretty head. She had already brought up the subject of his infidelity and likely for a purpose. By saying nothing, he calculated, he might force her to put a few cards on the table. “Don’t worry. My intentions are honorable,” she said. “Mine aren’t.” “I don’t know why that should surprise me,” she laughed. The tension seemed to have broken. “All right,” she went on. “I apologize. Allow me to explain.” Roger leaned back again into the sofa. Despite this uncharacteristic edginess he wanted to give the impression he was relaxed, and to cover the fact she was driving him feral. He had to admit he was oddly enthralled with her mystique. And more than a little interested in her physical attributes, which was simply the nature of the predator within him. Seemed they had established the fact he was a shameless womanizer, so there wasn’t much sense in hiding it behind feigned etiquette. “The reputation I was alluding to was your unprecedented talent at identifying authentic manuscripts. There are clever forgeries on the market these days and one can’t be too careful. My father found out the hard way once, but that’s neither here nor there. However, I don’t want to make the same mistake he did.” She was lying. He’d stake that reputation on it. “You want me to check his collection for forgeries then?” “No.” Roger had been instantly attracted to beautiful women in the past, especially devious ones. He was finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. He was keenly aware of how she spoke, her voice almost as hypnotic as those sultry eyes. The hunter within was urging him to hasten the chase, to pin her down, and rut. So acute was the sensation he winched with a sharp stab of awakening. And crossed his legs to conceal the manifestation of the searing desire.

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“What do you want me to do then?” Other than tear your clothes off, fold you over that desk and make you scream with pleasure? You are a screamer, aren’t you, Victoria? “There’s only one book that interests me, and as of yet I haven’t been able to get my hands on it.” “I can’t evaluate something that I can’t see.” “But you will. You’re going to help me find it.” Roger huffed. “I’m not a treasure hunter.” There was that word again. Hunter, the hunted. Why was he having such difficulty concentrating? “This particular treasure might change your mind.” She uncrossed her long legs and got up, drifting to the desk where she opened a gold-plated cigarette case. “Do you smoke, Roger?” He didn’t. Not habitually anyway, but this seemed a perfect opening to sidle up next to her. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. She averted her eyes when he picked up the lighter, watching the small flame. And when she leaned forward, bringing the cigarette’s tip into the flame, he glanced down the top of her loose-fitting blouse. A black laced camisole fit snugly over her full breasts. Between them dangled an ornate charm. He suffered an inexplicable sensation of drifting, like he might suddenly loose balance and fall from a great precipice. It stopped when he took his eyes away from the necklace. “Thank you,” she said, straightening quickly, leaning back on the desk’s edge. Her face tipped up, as though she was balancing something light and delicate on her chin. A thin line of smoke filtered from pursed lips. The aroma was peculiar--acrid--and yet, exotic. The drifting immediately transformed into another impression--rapture. All he had to do was reach out and he could touch her shoulder, caress her throat, her hair. He wanted to give in to the longing that seemed to be overtaking his thoughts, his body but it was too soon. He’d listen to the language her body murmured, and so far the signals were promising. She hadn’t recoiled from his nearness. Instinct told him to linger. “So what’s this treasure, darlin’?” he said, lowering his voice. “The Druid Book of Verses.” Roger froze where he stood. Being hit by a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been as traumatic. She had implied Druidism in her emails, and at the very most he imagined a manuscript written about the religion, not by them. He puffed a laugh. “You’re joking, right?” For that instant, thoughts of seduction had been completely sucked away. She shook her head, curls of hair brushing her temple. “No such thing,” he said. “Theirs was an oral tradition.” Not once during his years of business had he even heard of such a book. It just didn’t exist. “You’re mistaken, sweetheart. I don’t need to look at that one to tell you it’s a forgery.” Her dark eyes flashed with annoyance as she leaned into his shoulder and snarled, “For your information there is such a thing. There’s only one, and it just so happens that I know where it is.” A shiver spilled down his spine. Not only the returning realization of her body’s sexual aura but the weight of her conviction. Could it be possible? If she was right.... His libido had to take a back seat to monetary implications. He didn’t even react

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when she trailed one nail along his jaw line. Nor did he respond to the closeness of her mouth to his. “Sacred songs,” she said, so softly her voice was almost a chant. “Prayers, incantations, rules of divination. It’s all there in …” Those hypnotic eyes slowly lifted. “One, massive, beautiful, priceless book.” His head felt muddled--except for one prominent consideration--any Druid writing would be an invaluable artifact. He blinked in an attempt to clear the fog in his head. It had been a long time since he had felt so anxious. It stabbed through him now with a vengeance. The source was unknown which disturbed him even more. Adding to that he sensed he was being watched, again, so severely that he swung round--fully expecting to find another in the room. Nothing. “You know what?” he said harshly, giving in slightly to the pressure of paranoia. He turned back to Victoria, who was peering at him keenly, lips curled to that smug little grin. “No, Roger. What?” “I’m not interested.” Had he finally lost his mind? A book like that could catapult him into the most respected collector in the world, to say nothing of being the richest. If she was right, which, of course, she couldn’t be. “Yes you are. You’re very interested, because you are a greedy son-of-a-bitch.” “I’m greedy all right, but I’m no fool. And do you want to know why?” She shrugged nonchalantly, which fueled his aggravation. “The Druids never wrote down shit.” He was losing what little patience he had. He wasn’t the kind of business man who could be duped easily, and somehow he had to get to what was behind that self-satisfied smirk on her face. “And even if they had, which they didn’t, I don’t believe you. I’m a professional collector, not some damn fly-by-night amateur. I don’t think you have any interest in my money. So my question is, why me? If you’ve lured me here under false pretences then I think I deserve an explanation.” “Not false. And you’re no collector. You’re an opportunist, over pricing what you virtually steal to honest collectors. So don’t bother trying to come off as a respected ‘businessman’. It’s not worth the effort.” He wasn’t going to argue. God, how he hated dealing with emotionally fragile women. “Sell something to me I’m interested in, baby, or I walk.” I’d even pay you to sleep with me. Least I’d walk away with some value for my buck. She stubbed out the cigarette and circled the desk, pulling out the long drawer in the center. A piece of paper was flipped onto the oak surface. “Are you aware that Interpol wishes to inquire about one of your latest purchases?” His heart skipped a beat. But only once. This is an interesting maneuver. “Incident of theft,” she read, that coy smirk returning to her face. “It seems that a manuscript dating from the twelfth century, The Flaming Gate, has been reported stolen from a private owner. It says here that if any member of the public has information that they should contact local police who will inform the proper authorities of the identified thief.” Her new approach was fascinating and unfortunately correct. He had paid a small fortune for that one from some chain-smoking reprobate in a parking lot just outside of London, but he wasn’t about to admit to anything. He hadn’t stolen it, after all. He had simply bought it. Her attempt to blackmail him was wonderfully daring on her part.

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Daring and enticing. Devious little siren. “That book belonged to my father, Mr. Brinckworthe, has been in this house for centuries. And you purchased it, six months ago, in London, from a known felon.” “I think you better go back to school and take Research 101, because you don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” His words were hollow. She had it all spot on. They both knew it. She scattered pictures across the desk. With her forefinger’s nail she twirled one around so he could see it clearly. His eyes dropped. “Could be difficult explaining this to the authorities. It’s a good one of you, though. You have such a strong profile.” “I do, don’t I?” Roger said, reaching for her fragrant cigarettes. Lighting one would give him a few seconds to think. If Interpol had him listed on their most-wanted list he would have been stopped immediately at Customs. She had gone to a lot of bother though, trying to scare him. Certainly A for effort. A flush of color rose in her cheeks, making her even more attractive. You can see more than my profile if you’re lucky. “At that time you went by the name Robert White. You have also claimed to be Roland Marshall, Ronny Simms, and Clarence Clark. You are in fact Roger Cacey.” He blew a smoke ring. “So all I have to do is pick up the phone and you’ll have another picture taken-one with a series of numbers under it--and your real name.” This threat added to her allure. “God, you’re sexy,” he purred. A thin white line appeared around her pinched lips. She was obviously getting frustrated at his lack of alarm. “You’re going to help me find that book,” she said. “In return for the freedom I already have? You’ve gone to a lot of work digging up my business activities, staging your little scene, so what’s going on, Victoria? What’s in it for you?” Her fingers danced across her throat gently tugging the silver chain. The amulet appeared from beneath her blouse. Her expression never changed. Victoria Elwell tilted her head to one side. “We’ll both get what we want.” “I want you.” Flat on your back, spread legged, clawing your nails down my flesh.... “Of course you do.” Her thumb stroked the green opal. “I think you want me too.” He leaned across the desk, peering directly into her face, his mouth inches from hers. “Because you swing both ways, don’t you, darlin’?” She gasped--not angrily, as he expected--but through astonishment. “All right,” he said, straightening. “Enough is enough. You’ve been dancing around me all evening with your threats and your teases, neither of which I take the least bit seriously.” He picked up the ash tray and went back to the sofa. Casually he crossed his legs, taking a long draw on the cigarette. “A Druid manuscript. You’re demanding I help you find it and identify its authenticity. But you have no intention of selling it. Your coercion doesn’t scare me and, I bet you’re a minx in bed but I don’t think even that is going to be sufficient payment for my services. So to summarize, I really see no reason why I should stay.” “Your greed precedes you,” she said.

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“That’s a problem because...?” “Materialism is a futile God, worshipped by the ignorant.” She seemed to be thinking out loud, with a far-away look on her face. “Your soul is stained by illbreeding.” “I’m a pragmatist. Breeding ain’t got nothing to do with it.” “Well, I’m a spiritualist, Roger, so I guess we represent opposite ends of the spectrum. You have lost contact with your noble ancestry. It’s a shame that....” “A spiritualist? So that’s why you’ve got wet panties just thinking about all those magical Druid prayers and incantations.” His voice was crueler than he meant. This was all ludicrous. A drink, a deal and maybe a romp in the sack was all he wanted, and now this conversation was getting far too heavy for his liking. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just don’t believe in any of that mumbo-jumbo, talking to the dead, predicting the future, worshipping ancestors … bullshit.” “Your spirit stirs more than you could ever know.” Slowly she brought the amulet to her mouth, kissing it. And then she said, “Naughty men need to be severely disciplined. You’re a thief and a scoundrel, aren’t you, Mr. Brinckworthe? Ready to be taught a lesson?” The temperature in the room dropped like a stone. His cigarette was poised halfway to his lips. The smoke intermingled with the gasp of breath that shot from his mouth. He shivered. The way she was accurately recounting his recent dream was extremely disconcerting. “Tell me, Mr. Brinckworthe, what would give you more pleasure? Me, or my books?” “How could you know...?” “Because I shaped that dream with my own mumbo-jumbo. I built it, using your lusts, and your greed, as a foundation.” Roger was becoming detached, as though he was drifting off to sleep. A heaviness tugged his eyelids. He fought its hold, keeping as focused as possible on Victoria. She moved across the floor towards him, folding forward, feathering a kiss on his parted lips. He couldn’t respond. The weight had numbed his body as the amulet swung between them like the pendulum of a clock. It seemed to be humming. Mesmerized, the green stone blurred as he focused on the delicate curves of her breasts. Despite the cold, he had broken into a sweat. She read his mind, knew his fantasies, and yet all of a sudden none of it was as disturbing as it had been. Instead, it was comforting. The opal continued to swing. I hope you swing both ways. Her allure was even more intoxicating. He wanted to kiss her but the cold air and her eerie sensuality had left his limbs frozen. She took the cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out. That was the culprit. I’m drugged.... Again, she studied his right eye, more intently than before. A half smile touched those voluptuous lips. “Ever wonder why you are consumed with the hunt to appease your appetites, Roger? Why you enjoy the pleasures of various and uninhibited lovers?” He made an attempt to shake his head, but failed. He had become uncontrollably lethargic. She cupped his temples in her warm hands. “The ancient gods I worship once walked the earth. Some went so far as to make love with mortals. Their children’s children are with us today.” Her thumb stroked his right eyebrow. “They are identifiable

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by a speck in the right pupil--one that can only be seen if looked for--one so small and yet....” Victoria gently kissed his forehead. “You are more than acceptable, Roger Brinckworthe. More than even I had imagined.” He had completely lost the power of speech and was barely clinging to reasoning. Reality seemed to be spiraling away from him at an incredible speed. “Let your primeval spirit flow. Relax. Listen. Walk through the veil and look to the future,” she sang. “You have The Sight.” A flash of white appeared before him. He followed a willowy woman, her long hair sweeping across her naked shoulders. She stopped, lifted her arms. His signal to wait. And when she turned to face him she wore nothing but the amulet--its green opal eye staring at him--the small fleck stabbed down the pupil. He went, as silently requested, to the stone chair. He sat, arms by his side and watched as she straddled him. Yes. Her aura turned from pale yellow to crimson. Incredible energy. The key she needed to unlock the door. She pushed her weight down, her long legs spread. This was his function. The ancient beast had found his mate. The hunter had found his prey. Fertility. Warm, inviting, her ceremony revolved around ecstasy, she sang her ceremonial verses. Your interest in the occult, Roger. Is it limited to literature? Power is deeply rooted in words. The vision was gone. His arousal remained, burning through his groin. The only part of him that hadn’t gone numb. “You will make love to me,” she whispered. “Won’t you, Branewor?” Roger struggled to lift his palm to her jaw, his fingertips reaching only the edge of her hair before falling limp again. She was manipulating his thoughts, his fantasies, his masculinity, and his name. He’d oblige her, despite her uncanny methodology. He had no other choice. Yes. The amulet continued to swing and the humming louder. But his lusts were far outweighing the need for a logical explanation, and his head was too groggy to put any of it in sequence. Yes. She ran the pad of her forefinger over his bottom lip. “That energy between us will lead me to the secret pages. Then I shall have the ultimate wisdom. Then I shall leave to take my place in the Otherworld.” “Don’t leave.” His brain was restrained in a thick fog. “Don’t leave … me.” The monotonous tone of the humming amulet swathed him completely. Before the darkness sunk around him he saw a parade of hooded figures following their Mistress. It came to him then, finally, as the rushing sound in his ears made his mind go completely blank, that there was truth behind the words penned by superstitious minds.

Chapter Four Victoria quieted the relic by clasping it tightly in her palm. She stretched her other

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hand, gently towards his solid jaw. There was no response. His eyes were slightly open but distant. “Leena,” she called, without taking her gaze from him. “Come to me now.” A panel shifted, making only a small scratching sound as it moved across the board floor. Leena now stood beside her. “Did you hear everything?” “Yes.” Yes The spirit guide’s voice was with them. It, too, approved. The sheer joy of it heightened Victoria’s awareness, fueled her vitality. “He’s perfect,” she whispered in restrained adulation. “Absolutely perfect.” But her euphoria was dampened when she turned to Leena and witnessed an expression contorted with misgiving. “Like you said,” Leena answered before the question was actually posed. “His soul is stained with ill-breeding.” “His soul may be tainted but divine blood courses through his veins--Branewor’s blood! He has fight, valor, and fearlessness, like the ancient God who fathered him. He also has the sight. The sight, Leena! Can you believe it of him? He disclaims his ancient spirituality, but it flows--vast and deep--beneath the thick skin of cynicism. He has chosen the name Brinckworthe because it is a name with deep roots, Leena. Branewor. My union with him will bring much success. For all of us.” “Your exaltation for him is immense. You are sure it’s warranted?” “Very sure.” Victoria’s breast was so filled with excitement she felt as though she’d burst. “Look closely at his right eye. The dart. Do you see it?” “Yes,” Leena answered. “I see it.” “He is mine. Now, help me take him back to his room.” “Why has he been subdued?” “Because, Confidant, I could not run the risk he might leave. He is stubborn, and greedy, and suspicious. My threats had no significance, and he questioned my sexuality. I could take no chances. We must keep him here. We must!” “Then he should be prepared soon.” “Yes, Leena, I agree. My cycle has matured and the moon will be new tomorrow. I could likely keep him here a few days with the promise of physical pleasures but I cannot keep him here another month unless I tie him up.” “I thought that was the sort of ‘physical pleasure’ he preferred,” Leena scoffed. “Yes, which is why his sexual energy is so potent. He puts strict concentration into every act, not only for himself but his partner. Now, help me.” They hoisted him to his feet, their shoulders propped under his arms. He moved amicably considering his semi-consciousness state. His breathing was deep, except when they followed the corridor. There the portraits sighed with longing. Each porcelain face turned to watch, and he, from within his trance, spoke to them in Gaelic as they passed. Victoria and Leena locked eyes in a silent communion of acknowledgement-aware that already his ancient spirit was beginning to rise. “He’s asking to be invited to their pillow,” Victoria said softly. “And they, in return, recognize his vitality.” Leena pushed the guest room door with her toe and they jostled him the last few steps to the bed. “What of tonight?” Leena asked, lifting his legs onto the covers, taking

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off his shoes. “Tonight I will show him his place of veneration.” She perched on the edge of the bed, her fingers lightly stroking his temples. He sighed and shifted into her touch. “His mind is open to discovering new pleasures for the body. This is the gateway I will tap.” “He must be a willing contributor.” “By tomorrow night he will be more than willing. I assure you.” “What must I do?” Victoria pressed her thumb against his bottom lip. “Go to our circle where the oak trees once thrived. Give thanks with the dance. I will take him there through astral form. It is important that he sees what we do, but he can touch only my physicality.” “I understand,” Leena said. “One more day, Leena, and our lives will change forever.” **** Leena hesitated in the corridor, staring at the closed door. Very gradually she lowered the mask of submission, allowing a flood of turbulent emotions to wash through her being. None of them were honorable. When she was alone she didn’t have to try to sound honorable. When she was alone she was free to scheme and none of her plans were for the good of the Order. She hated all of it, especially the sugary-sweetness of a nature worshipping Wicca. Most of all she hated the foolish purity of the Order’s Mistress. Victoria Elwell. What did she know of hardship and pain? Nothing. Born into wealth, a silver spoon in her mouth, and now her desire was to abandon materialism and seek the freedom of sheer spirituality. There was freedom. It couldn’t be sought from purity though, and it had nothing to do with dancing around a bonfire naked while worshipping the moon and the stars. Leena smiled. She worshipped what was real. Her craft was not one of blindly following the white fog of Wicca, but of practicing the true power--the Black Art and its eternal Prince. That was reward. And there was greed and lust for money and sex in this American--enough that his blood would help make her the more powerful--with his perverted sexual energy she would reign supreme. The Shadow would approve. “Lives are going to change all right,” Leena muttered to herself. “Find the Book, Priestess, and you will see the Otherworld. Both you and your boyfriend. The blood of sacrifice is all I need.” She cast a hungry glance down the darkened corridor. “And all this will be mine--a home for my minions, my mate, and I. Your precious book will be studied--by me!” A rustling caused a breeze to flutter along the floor. The portraits shifted, their whispers shocked, charged with trepidation. “Be still!” Leena ordered, far from amused at their attempt to personify a human sentiment. “Or you will be the first thrown into the flames of my inaugural fire.” The rustling muted. “You are nothing but a squashed bug beneath my boot, Victoria Elwell,” Leena scowled quietly, stepping away from the door. For this night, however, she must return to pretence, dance naked around the bonfire, in the circle that was the Wicca magic. She would worship of the moon and the stars. She would be one with nature. For this night. The next night, however, would be very different.

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Chapter Five Exhilarated with a curious sensation of faintness, Victoria relished being in his presence. And complimented her spirit guide for insisting he was the correct choice. When they first met she was unsure. True, he was a solidly built man, immaculately dressed, well-spoken, and ruggedly handsome, yet his arrogance was almost unbearable. Too confident. A sexual predator--masked behind charm. Then there was his fearlessness. It annoyed her at first because she had hoped to make him squirm with the prospects of the authorities being merely a phone call away. Yet he shrugged off danger as though it meant nothing. Now she understood why these characteristics were prominent and why she couldn’t shake his superiority. He was a descendant of the Hunter God, Branewor. These were the attributes of an Immortal who once left the Otherworld to walk the earth, to find those who could satisfy his unusual cravings. It could also be the reason he was so susceptible to the hypnotic sway of her opal. Victoria’s hands were trembling as she loosened the necktie. She watched the steady pulse of his heart beneath tanned skin on his throat and shivered, thinking of those who had gone to his bed, unwittingly uniting with one so magnificent. How would his women know when he himself couldn’t see the mysticism behind his very being? She puffed a laugh and quickly covered her mouth, quietly apologizing for her disrespect. He stirred, taking a deep breath, breaking the rhythm of the trance induced slumber. Then his chest lifted and fell to a steady pace. She unbuttoned his shirt, gently working it from one shoulder at a time, as not to disturb his dream. Then she examined every mark and nuance of his torso. Arousal gripped her so harshly she gasped. And then she pinched her lips together so tightly it hurt. Reverently she lowered her palm over his heart. Love and compassion--both were there buried deeply under the shallowness of lust. Thump-Thump. Victoria concentrated on the beat, the small vibration emanating into her hand. It skipped, once, and he arched slightly. “Yes,” he sighed. Her own heart pounded in her ears. Their life forces were beginning to bond. She closed her eyes, swaying to their matching rhythms. “Yes,” she whispered in return. The foreplay had begun. It would take hours, the tension, arousal, peeks and lulls--all of it in order to build the most heightened fervor--so that the energy of release at the appropriate hour would reap the results she wanted. “Branewor.” A flush of heat constricted her internal muscle. Her femininity was acutely aware of his prowess, reacting instinctively. She faltered, wondering if she could keep her own relentless arousal tamed. The pressure to simply fornicate would be so severe. “I must be strong,” she whispered. If she couldn’t contain her want, if she stretched out with him here and now, the tension would be broken. Yes, in the hours that followed before the next night’s ritual, it would build again, but without the power and complexity needed for maximum effect. She had to force this accursed chastity to be stronger. The charge must

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build to a final crescendo so electrifying that it would crumble the Passage Tomb door.... His hips rose, enticing her with temptation. She flirted with hidden danger of submission by touching his groin, pressing her palm over the hardened mound beneath the trousers. No wonder he was popular..... “Yes,” he bemoaned. “Vic-tor-ia.” Instantly she took her hand away from him, chastising her foolhardiness. “Prepare,” she said to herself. Getting up, she opened the third drawer of the cabinet, removing a small sachet of salt. She filled a bowl with tepid water and emptied the sachet in the middle. Her hands were still trembling. “Earth’s precious salt,” she chanted. “Cleansing elements, so true and raw. Blessed be.” She reached behind her head, unclasped her amulet, and dropped it into the bowl. By removing it from her throat his semi-conscious trance would wane, and he would slowly begin to break free from the fog. But the cleansing was necessary. She sat again on the bed, her hip against his waist, and wetted her fingers. Even before the salted water touched his throat, his lids fluttered. Victoria made the symbol of the tree of life on his chest with her wet thumb. He seemed to be watching her. Concentrating on the ritual had become difficult. “I want you … I think you want me, too.” His words echoed through her head. She sprinkled the salted water on his bottom lip. “Salt is the component of life.” She then touched her own lip. “I share life. I accept your need.” He was watching her. His unblinking eyes had begun to clear. “Roger?” she whispered. She linked her fingers with his, bringing his hand to her breast. “Roger, Fate has intervened and has graciously brought us together for this union. You have denied an ancient heritage, one that courses through your veins, and you cling only to what your five senses relate, the curse of foolish logic. But I am here now, to help you rediscover all that is beyond those senses. I shall re-awaken the mysticism in you.” Victoria heard herself, as though detached, realizing her motives had altered. He was simply meant to be a partner, a virile, explosive lover whose energy would be pivotal in the ceremony to open the door to the hidden manuscript. Whatever philosophy he held, she hadn’t taken notice of. Now she cared. The fleck in his eye demanded she care. Her confidence in the ways of the Wicca had been rewarded. The sex was not to be merely a tool, a means to an end, but a beginning. She squeezed his hand. Once she taught him about the path to enlightenment he would travel with her. He would return to his roots, deep inside the Otherworld, worthy to sit at The Great Table, and she would be by his side, as his chosen. They would find The Book together. First she had to teach him the wisdoms of the Spirit World. It was paramount now that he understand, on an intellectual level, so that the spirituality could flourish. And time was limited. She had to choose her words carefully. “Roger, you have refused to acknowledge the unseen because it frightens you, perhaps your only fear. Trust me, and I will show you there is nothing to be concerned about, that what I am about to show you is natural. We are a part of this. By being together we will revel in wisdoms beyond our dreams. The mysteries in The Book of Verses are valuable, but not monetarily. Do you hear me?” His fingers tightened around hers. She sighed with relief. “Wisdom guide me,” she prayed, pressing his knuckles to her cheek. “Let Love be

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my staff.” Victoria reached into the bowl and took her amulet. She placed it over his heart. The green opal brightened. And he sighed heavily, his eyes fluttering shut. “Hold my hand, Master Huntsman, and let us walk together.”

Chapter Six An implosion of sensations rendered him weightless. He was only vaguely aware that he was moving through the white mist. In the buoyancy was a pleasurable bliss that seemed to radiate through every fiber of his being. Never had he experienced such freedom. I’m dead, he thought. So he floated, releasing himself to whatever might be. Yet a deep foreboding tugged inside his chest like a dark crimson stain bled. He struggled to breathe and couldn’t. “Let it go.” He slowly turned. Victoria was beside him, wearing a glimmering light as though it were a gown. It folded in an unfelt breeze, pulling against her naked body beneath. You’re so beautiful. I want you. She pointed forward. A flight of shallow, wide steps swirled downwards with mist. “Do you want to descend?” she asked. Yes. The mist glowed. Beneath his feet, on each step, were jewel encrusted boxes. As he passed, the lid would flip open, and from within would come a sigh, an exhalation, a clipped shriek, a guttural moan--all the voices mingling together in an eerie chorus of physical euphoria--until he got to the last step, where a blood red box refused to open. He paused to question why this undecorated casket was not like the others. Slow motion he reached for the clasp. The chorus behind him immediately snapped off. “Let it be.” But he was so curious. He had a burning desire to understand what was unseen. He felt a great truth lurked beneath the arched lid and was annoyed that he was forbidden to find it. Yet he acceded to Victoria’s wish. The mist thinned. There was music, a distant tinkling of wind chimes. And as they moved towards the stone circle, the music became clearer. What’s wrong with me? He averted his face from the circle. Elusive logic wrenched at him, warned him from going farther. I don’t believe any of this. It isn’t real. The unopened casket continued to plague him. He ached to see what was inside. “Branewor.” His chest swelled. The Hunter had been named. A velvet mantle was draped over his shoulders and he sat on a smooth stone in the center of the circle. Masked women danced around him. They wore flowers in their hair and around their waists but nothing else. He approved, scanning each lithe and naked body as they swayed before him, shamelessly gripping his engorged penis, proudly illustrating to them he was prepared.

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Fertility worship. He epitomized its strength. But none had accepted his blatant offer to copulate while his appetite surged. They continued to pirouette beneath the moon, consumed only with their dance, bluntly ignoring his growing need. He would reach out instead, grab one, and consume her, for his lusts had tripled. But He could not rise from the stone that was his chair. He growled with fury and frustration. The more he struggled the more extensive were the invisible bonds that held him, doubling his arousal. The masked women danced, as though his dire situation meant nothing. “Stop,” he demanded. One did. Her shoulder blades flexed as she jolted her arms high above a cascading wash of blonde hair. She swayed to one side, turned and in her hands was the blood red miniature casket. She bowed to the ground, crawling on all fours, pushing the box nearer to his feet. Between such subservience and the prospect finally discovering what secret was hidden within, he snarled with surging lusts. Greed. He wanted both the contents of the box and her body. She arched her spine like a cat, her long hair shielding the half mask across her eyes. But when she tipped her chin, smiling to him, he was struck with an unusual panic-he was staring into eyes that glowed a menacing red. Before he had a chance to consider its implication she wrenched open the box. A high pitched screech resonated through the stagnant air. She snatched a twisted malevolent dagger and instantly sliced it over his lap. His eyes bulged with horror as she proudly lifted his dismemberment. The silvery mist was instantly flooded with crimson. The chair violently shuddered as his body convulsed, the stream of blood bathing the stone crevices. And finally, the Hunter screamed to the eddying tide of life that slowly flowed away. White light flashed and Roger awoke. “What the hell...?” He was relieved to find he was sitting on the bed in the guest room even though he had no recollection of getting there. To make matters worse he was half undressed with that foolish amulet burning into his chest. He swiped at it, sending it hurtling across the floor. And then, in aggravation, he took hold of Victoria’s wrist, and held on. He had so many questions he was actually at a loss as to where to begin. “You’re hurting me,” she said weakly, peering back at him as though he had become the devil incarnate. “Please, let go of my wrist. I wouldn’t do anything to cause you harm,” she said. “Damn right you won’t.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, eyeing the amulet that had fallen against the floorboard. “Because I’m not going to give you the chance.” She threw him a surprised look. “Please, no.” He stabbed his forefinger in her face. “Look lady, you and your girlfriend can play at being witches, or fairies or nymphomaniacs, whatever. But none of it is going to include me. You’re not going to screw around with my head any more. Or anything else for that matter.” “That wasn’t--” “Cute trick. I’m not sure how you brought on those hallucinations unless it was

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something you put in my drink or the cigarette, but if I’m going to get off on weird sex it’s sure as hell not going to include having certain sections of my anatomy sheered off with a knife.” Her brow furrowed. “Pardon?” “Good luck with the spirit stuff and thanks for the memories.” He shrugged into his shirt, slipped on the shoes, picked the necklace from the floor and hurled it out the window. “Oh! No!” She dashed to the casement, and for a second Roger was frightened she was going to jump right out after it. Seeing she was unstable to begin with, he thought it prudent to grab hold of her, just in case. Her whole body was trembling. He regretted being so impetuous, but he wasn’t about to tell her so. “You got to get a life, Victoria. This witch-shit is going to drive you crazy.” She whirled around, her eyes wide and wild. “Bastard!” At last some raw emotion, and there was no second guessing it was genuine. And sexy. He clasped the back of her skull with his palm and thrust his mouth to hers. He expected to be pushed away and when she dug her nails into his waist, yielding easily, it drove him into a deeper fit of passion. Pushing his tongue into her mouth he relished the intimacy of taste. Maybe all the erotic illusions were having an effect. He felt as though he had been in a constant state of arousal since setting foot off the plane. And as much as he hated to admit it, all this weird witch stuff and sexual hallucinations bordered on invigorating. Between the elements of danger and being so different from anything he had ever experienced, the entire mystique seemed to culminate in one woman and he was, without embarrassment, sashaying her towards the bed while the kiss deepened with mounting energy. He thrust her hand to his swollen groin. Once she felt what nature was kind enough to bequeath… How she managed to wriggle away from his clutches was baffling enough but as he turned to see her rushing for the door, he couldn’t help but be struck with why? “Victoria?” His raspy voice echoed both bewilderment and provocation. “I must have my relic.” Victoria stopped in the corridor and Roger rushed up behind her. What he saw was enough to convince him that this night would either open his eyes to other-worldly spiritualism, or throw him into madness. **** Leena crept over the mossy stone, finding a perfect hollow to hide. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders to protect her from the cool night air. The estate’s lights glowed on the horizon, just beyond the gentle slope of the moors. She smirked, wondering how exactly the American was calculating the logic behind the illusion of having his most prized organ severed at the base. She threw her garland of flowers and the mask into the nearby shrubbery. The dagger she kept, caressing it ever so delicately, and when she heard a slight rustling through the undergrowth she ducked low. The wolf whimpered. “Come to me,” she called, lifting her hand to stroke the wolf’s velvet snout. “What’s this?” A slim chain dangled from the wolf’s mouth. She gasped--swinging like a

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pendulum was the green opal. Gently she took the coveted relic from the creature’s hold. How her guardian managed to take possession of it was unknown. “Precious beast,” she cooed, cupping the emerald against her breast. The creature’s rough tongue lapped her cheek and she dug her fingers into the thick ruff of fur. “Bard, my darling, you truly are a wicked fiend, aren’t you?” A sickening crunch of muscle and bone, a wolf’s howl and finally a man’s shriek of agonizing pain. The change was swift but excruciating. “What you do for me,” Leena said, stretching back into the fold of moss, loosening her shawl. After all that pain the least she could do was reward him with some bodily pleasure. Her body. He crawled over her, thick long hair cascading over her torso, the final flinch of muscle rippling over his naked chest. Pale yellow eyes sparkled with desire as he lowered to nibble her throat, bone-white incisors stabbing threateningly at her skin. “Which God are you for me tonight, my flesh crazed imp?” She giggled, holding the relic tightly in her palm, already sensing the magnitude of heightened awareness. It surged through her limbs, pooled between her legs, the relic--the key--immensity of sexual prowess, energy beyond human comprehension. Leena spread her legs. She didn’t care which persona her demon lover was taking, as long as he took. Her fingernails scraped down his back, pressing into the hard buttocks, forcing him to lower, take his payment for service. A saturated moan echoed in her ear as she clawed his body. “Don’t tease me.” She grabbed him, sighing wantonly with the sensation of the thick girth in her hand, knowing that within seconds it would no longer be in her hand, but buried deeply inside her womb. “Don’t-tease-me,” she growled, biting his top lip, drawing a trickle of blood. This was a prelude to what the following night would be. The blood, however, would be sacrificial. Merlin’s Eye was hers. The stage was set. She had the key, which changed everything. No longer would the Priestess be the one who would reap the rewards. Leena smiled, and sighed as her lover sunk inside her body. “Oh, yes,” she cried, pinching the skin on the top of his shoulder between her teeth. Her mind filled with visions of the sacrifice of the poor little rich girl and her new boyfriend. And so intense was the image of the twisted knife hacking into their soft bellies that Leena shrieked with rapture, while her lover growled, and relentlessly pummeled between her thighs. “Yes,” she muttered, strumming the thick shoulder that pressed into her breast and luxuriating with the thick sticky ooze on her thighs. In return, her changeling demon answered. Yes.

Chapter Seven Roger inched his shoulder in front of Victoria. “You seeing what I’m seeing?” Inclined to question what he was visualizing of late, there was no ignoring this.

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Confirmation, however, offered a bit of stability in what still seemed implausible. “Yes.” She sounded more saddened than terrified. “Get behind me,” he whispered. She was transfixed to that one spot. The paintings were empty. Each frame was cracked, as though a sudden weight had been pushed against them. And the medieval ladies were congregated in the corridor in front of them! “Holy shit,” Roger muttered, trying to absorb the absurdity of the unfolding scene. They were moving toward each other. Their feet shuffled in small steps as they turned together in a semi-circle. They spoke in voices that were cracked and garbled. To Roger’s continuing horror, he understood the language. Evil. Betrayal. Murder. Sac-ri-ficccce. Dark red seeped from each figure’s breast. They began to wail aloud in a deathkeen. The eerie noise became a horrid chant. Stains inched down the front of their long gowns, the shuffling becoming a slither from the pooled blood that was collecting on the floorboards. And the stench of rot wafted through the stagnant air. Roger was backing up, taking Victoria with him--slow, gentle movements as not to draw unwanted attention. Up until this point the macabre figures were engrossed with their own performance and Roger wasn’t about to become an active part of any of it. “I’d really like to leave now,” Roger said over his shoulder. He couldn’t wrench his stare away from the sight. He might have kept staring if it wasn’t for Victoria who tugged his arm and hoarsely whispered, “This way!” He was only too happy to agree. The more distance he could put between himself and this house from hell, the better! What he had in mind, however, was actually going outside, not in through a moving panel, and down along a rickety spiral staircase, which was where Victoria was leading him. In the dark he had the impression that over the side was a yawning hole that went right to the depths on hell. The air was chill and damp; cobwebs stuck in his hair. She waited for him once she reached the bottom step. “Take my hand,” she said, grasping his. “I know where I’m going. Trust me.” I have a choice? Thin sounds of trickling water were all around them. She tugged his hand as he followed behind, ducking and turning when she so instructed, with caution. Apparently this was a well traveled subterranean passage since she could follow its twists and turns in the pitch black. Either that or she was displaying supernatural powers of night vision. “Here,” she said, pawing his shirt, directing him to go ahead. A yellow light flashed on and Victoria followed him into the hidden room, latching the heavy wooden door behind them. Roger squinted in the light. The ceiling was so low he could have easily reached up and touched it, except for the clusters of dangling amulets, like silent wind chimes. Cupboards and bookcases were recklessly crammed with varying sized colored bottles and piles of books. On the one table was a wide leather-bound manuscript that looked to be opened to a recipe. Circumventing the floor was a painted circle, the directions of

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north and south plainly marked, a cluster of burnt candles in the middle. Candles, he saw after taking a second look, which were all phallic in shape. Despite the oddities, there was peace to this quiet room. What was outside seemed to instantly go away the second she latched the door. He threw an askew glance at her, holding in a renewed unease. “I take it this is your lair, then?” “Yes,” she said seriously. “That’s exactly what it is.” She had hastily thrown a rucksack on the table, picking a variety of small bottles from the cupboard to place inside. “Any chance of letting me know what’s going on?” Victoria hesitated, her slim shoulders rising to a deep breath. “I could tell you,” she said, turning to face him. “I doubt that you’re ready to listen though.” “Best try me, seeing I’m stuck here with you.” He offered a consoling smile. “I’m not complaining.” Probably this was the most truthful statement he had made all evening. No longer angry and certainly not about to abruptly abscond, he ached to have her. And here, in this den, thoughts of wickedness rose, along with admiration and wonderment. Regardless of his ongoing cynicism of what was beyond five logical senses, he did believe that two people could be instantly attracted to one another. Love at first sight, maybe, if he dare go that far. He had the option of simply leaving, even if it meant blundering back through a darkened subterranean passageway and pushing past a group of bizarre entities. He could say to hell with all of this and to hell with you, but he wasn’t about to. He had a surging need to stay with her, to see this through. The thrill of curiosity, promise of perverse sexual rituals, maybe, or he might be falling in love with her and her ridiculous schemes. I must be out of my mind. Just looking at her made his heart beat faster. “This is Devon, Roger, otherwise known as witch-country. For centuries Elwell women have plied their craft from this very room. Those paintings are of my ancestors. Powerful women who were feared and hated, but never prosecuted. This estate was a haven because the Elwell name shielded the spiritualists from harm, protected them because the men understood the benefits of the craft, even at times using it for their own selfish purposes. My father didn’t believe any of it.” She smiled. “Bit like you, really. His idea of reality was power through money. But denying its existence didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The books in this house are genuine, and even my father knew that. Great thinkers and believers congregated here. Some of them were well adept in the Black Arts. It’s a long and sometimes brutal history shrouded in secrecy.” Her attention was diverted to a box under the table. From it she took a white gown and a brown robe, quickly stuffing both into the rucksack. She cast a doleful look around the room. “My mother brought me here when I was only little, taught me everything she knew. I had a knack, she said, a belief. It made her proud. Before she died she told me about a dreadful and magnificent secret, one that had been passed down by word alone, for none had the courage to pen its revelation.” She touched her throat, her eyes brimming. “In the twelfth century there was a man who came here, calling himself Samhain. His ancestry he claimed went back to the Druid Priests, and he spoke of The Book of Verses, that it was hidden near here, in a cave. This caused great excitement. No amount of coaxing could make him disclose the exact whereabouts of such a coveted

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manuscript.” “Samhain,” Roger said. “Why does that name sound familiar?” “Agrona Samhain wrote The Flaming Gate.” He remembered, and suffered a pang of guilt for having anything to do with the piece. “He stayed here, apparently, for several days, during the harvest end which was quite appropriate, seeing Samhain is the name of the Celtic fire festival. Before the beginning of winter when the darkness grew long, people believed the barrier between out world and the Otherworld became thin. Huge fires were set to light up the skies. Rules of human conduct didn’t apply and there was one night of debauchery. Some of that debauchery was conducted between peasant women and Otherworld Gods. Or, so it was said.” She flushed slightly. He liked the way her lips pouted as she said the word debauchery. “Turned out that Agrona Samhain had fallen in love with Margaret Elwell, the minute he laid eyes on her, and their first and last illicit union occurred on the night of the fire festival. Very dangerous, of course, seeing she was already married.” “It can happen in the best of families,” Roger said, somewhat snidely, seeing she had been so quick to point out his indiscretions. “He left, this Druid descendant, as mysteriously as he had arrived, but before he disappeared he gave her a gift. It was a priceless gem. He called it Merlin’s Eye, because it allegedly dated back to the time of the Welsh Druid bearing the name, and was said to bestow incredible powers onto the one who owned it--those inclined towards the craft, of course.” “Of course,” Roger repeated. He had inched closer to her while she shared her story. “That’s what you had around your neck, what you used to hypnotize me?” He breathed her--she was a rose in a dark neglected garden--waiting to be chosen. “Maybe this Priest used the relic to put her into his trance, so he could....” Roger stopped. In slow motion he lifted his hand to the curve of her jaw. “So he could have his way with her.” Victoria parted her lips, leaning slightly into his caress. “No,” she whispered. Suddenly she had every appearance of being painfully shy, and it made him feel superior. “He had his way with her because she wished for him to. She asked him to put his hands on her body and kiss her as a lover. He treated her as a lady should be treated and she rewarded his affections with … unusual acts, ones that had never been performed for him before.” Roger could hear his heart thrashing in his ears. Unusual acts? Now we’re talking my language. “So there was no need for hypnotism.” “Why did you think you had to trick me, Victoria? Threaten me?” His mouth lowered towards her cheek. “Couldn’t you tell that I was very attracted to you? There were signals between us.” He pursed his lips into the fine hairs of her jaw. “There is a magnetism between us now.” “Yes,” she said, so softly he barely heard anything but an exhalation of air. “I didn’t trick you. Ancient blood runs through your veins. It was that call that surrendered your consciousness, not my relic. In you, The Hunter, Branewor, was waiting to be praised and then serviced. You are his son. You are as He was.” She was having greater

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difficulty getting the words out, each one labored, taking more and more concentration. “The mark in your eye is His authentication to that kinship.” He pushed his palm against her skull, holding her firmly without force, lavishing her lips with a kiss that was an unfolding storm of drenched wantonness. He tasted her. She hesitated, only vaguely. But neither did she release her inhibitions. “Don’t you want my hands on you?” he purred. “Yes.” Yes “But not here. We can’t stay here.” “I’ll get your relic back,” he said, beseeching her forgiveness, especially if this was the only reason she was hesitating. “I’m responsible for being careless. I’ll fix everything.” He kissed her again, harder, pressing his weight fully into her soft curves, his hands moving over her waist without permission. If he could stroke one finger over the folds of her skirt, down the front, over her sex, he was certain she would weaken, ask him for the inrushing of excitement to grow more intense. But she would have none of that, knowing his intention, pinching his wrist. “Victoria, I want you. Tell me you want me, too.” “We can’t stay here,” she repeated. “It’s not safe.” “You’re safe with me.” “Roger,” she said, putting her finger against his lips to quiet him. “Margaret Elwell was the apparition in the corridor warning us about betrayal. An evil lurks here, and it wants the same thing I want, but for power, not enlightenment. Neither one of us is safe.” He held her in the circle of his arms, luxuriating in the embrace. Ideas of apparitions and relics and horny druid priests were paling in comparison to her glow and the warmth of her body next to his. “I’ll go get your necklace right now,” he said, kissing her forehead. “If that’s what you want.” Her smile was coy. She stretched out her hand, to a group of amulets hanging in a cluster over the table. She pulled one down, and it struck him that this piece was so tarnished and dull. And small. “The amulet I was wearing in the study has no significance at all. It was a decoy. This, Roger,” she held out her palm to show him. “This is the true Merlin’s Eye.” Slowly Roger dropped his gaze. “Please,” she said quietly, her voice was steady and somewhat monotonous and yet something about it betrayed anxiety. “Please listen carefully. The time has come for you to embrace your inner self, allow your heritage to reign supreme. But that must only happen with me, through the joining of our bodies, at the appointed place. Our adversary will do the same except through blood-letting. This evil that Margaret Elwell has warned us about will murder both of us to get the Book. Events have already been set in motion. There is no turning back. Do you understand?” Roger understood he was completely entangled in the moment. His pulse beat wildly having absorbed the severity of what he must do to survive. He no longer questioned the weight of their dire circumstance. “Yes,” he said. “Tell me what I must do.” She took his hand, tenderly caressing his palm before placing the amulet in it, closing his fingers around the precious artifact. “Close your eyes. Let the Ancients teach

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you what has been, what will be.” What happened next was nothing less than a total spiritual awakening.

Chapter Eight A rumor, that the White Stag had been seen in the forests, swept through the village. All able-bodied men had collected their arrows and adorned their hunting attire with amulets believing that the amulets would bring success. Branewor, because of his youth, was not invited. None considered him strong enough to pursue the coveted creature that would bestow prestige to the one who could fell such a mystical animal. Except his mother. Taking him aside she whispered, “Branewor, now is the chance to prove that you are worthy, as your father was. I gave you his name for this reason alone. Your time has come.” He was in awe of her, for her beauty and her wisdom, and her refusal to take a husband despite having a child. His greatest fear was that his very existence would disappoint her, that he would never be able to prove the majesty she saw in him. He bowed his head in shame. “Mother,” he said, “I am frightened.” She ran her fingers through his long hair, bunching it behind his head with a leather clasp, and ran her thumb over his right brow. “Braver than you think, my son.” She pulled him tightly against her breast. “Take your bow and arrows, and hunt the Stag.” Tears hung on her lashes. “You are a man now.” He stopped in the doorway of their hovel, turning back to gaze upon her one last time. The calling was difficult for he knew he would never see her again. “I love you.” She clasped her hands together and smiled, despite the gush of tears. “You are Master of the Hunt, Branewor. Don’t ever forget that.” Not until he reached the sanctuary of a mighty oak did he stop, giving in to the tumultuous flow of emotion. He took several deep breaths, and called upon his stoic ancestry to give him courage. The warmth of destiny immediately bathed him with valor. “I am Branewor, son of my mother’s God.” His chest swelled. His arms grew strong. “Failure is no friend of mine. I will do whatever I must to be worthy.” He had come of age. For days he searched the massive forest, sleeping little, eating only wild berries, drinking from the clear streams that sprang from mossy crevices. But he would not give up the search, keeping his bow clasped tightly in his hand. Then, as he rested against the curve of a mighty tree, the Stag appeared, pure white against the dark hue of the forest’s edge. His heart thrashed in anticipation. Gently he lifted his arm, taking an arrow from the quiver on his back, positioning it on the bow for the kill. The Stag pawed the earth, and snorted, its elegant head nodding as though recognizing him. Bewilderment seized him and he could not bring himself to pull the string. “How can I slaughter such a glorious creature?” he thought aloud. Yet if he didn’t, he could never claim to be a Master Huntsman.

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To his utter amazement the creature stooped forward, as though paying homage to him. Before his eyes it transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman. Her body, long and lithe, was naked. Waxen hair flowed over her white shoulders and brown doe-like eyes beseeched him. She crawled closer and he stared at her, not knowing what he should do. “Branewor,” she said. “Put your hands on me.” A powerful lust surged through his being. He did as she asked, and reached out to guardedly touch her arm. Her drenched sigh doubled his desire. He thought it a ridiculous expectation to think that such a wondrous Goddess would wish to lay with him. Yet she shifted forward again, tugging the drawstring of his trousers. Innocence had paralyzed him as she touched him; bewilderment, too, when her pursed lips lowered, taking his masculinity into the moist heat of her mouth. Exhilaration coursed through his body. Such pleasure was unfathomable. Instinctually, he clasped her hair and gyrating to her intimate foreplay. The fog of bliss had blinded him. So glorious was this novel sensation he moaned deeply. “Yes,” she whispered, coaxing him to stretch out on the grass. She inched over him as he watched, drinking her every curve, transfixed by the woven emblem she wore around her slim neck. Her fingers stroked him, while she effortlessly straddled his groin. The moment lingered before her weight sunk and with it the shock of ecstasy took him deeper into the fog. As she rode him he took her breasts, so firm and lovely, into his palms. Swollen nipples pressed against his thumbs. He tweaked each and she droned approval, her rocking hips quickening, taking him deeper within her womb. He folded forward, suckling her breast with a fervor that seized him with longing. “Yes,” she cried, pulling loose his hair, adding to the wildness of the act. As though lifted to the highest precipice his soul dangled and then fell. Rapture broke. He had died and was reborn, all in one glorious surge. “I love you,” he whispered, embracing her with no intent of letting her escape. She removed her emblem and placed it over his head. “To remember me,” she said, and prepared to leave. Confusion mingled with anger. She was changing, back into white stag. He could not bear such abandonment. In one crazed moment, he clasped his arrow and sent it hurtling into the soft flesh of the White Stag’s heart. Death was instantaneous. The creature was still and Branewor, in stunned remorse, screamed a prayer for forgiveness. But no God answered. Now he could claim the title of Master Huntsman, yet there could be no peace within his soul. In agony her tore the amulet from his neck and threw it into a black hole in the earth. Branewor became a bitter man with each passing year, tormented by his thoughtless action. Madness overtook him; he searched for another who could relieve the fervor that he had felt that one day. He was known for his greed, his fury, his tyrannical methods of coupling. Yet his soul was wracked with guilt. Relief was unobtainable. He was truly cursed. Finally, Death drew near. Final tears of repentance marked his weathered cheeks. “I cannot take this burden to the Otherworld,” he cried. “What would my Father say?”

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“Your Father waits,” came a voice close by. “The table has been prepared. Are you not ready to receive the honorary feast.” Shame overwhelmed him. “Goddess,” he whispered towards the glowing light that knelt beside him. “Take this burden from me before I pass through the flaming gate.” “I can do as you ask, but at a price. Are you willing to pay?” “Anything,” he pleaded, seeing death’s black cape unfold. “You have sired many children, Branewor. They and their descendants will carry your burden of greed and lust. They will never find contentment.” His heart sunk. “Will nothing free them?” “Only if the amulet is found. It is the key to their enlightenment.” “I have been such a fool.” He took her hand. “Make it so.” With one last breath, the black cape was draped across his weary shoulders. But liberation swathed his being. And he strode through the gates to the Otherworld unburdened. Roger held the amulet in his palm. It was virtually weightless, as was his heart. Tears gushed down his cheeks. “What happened?” Victoria’s eyes were brimming with expectancy. He took her into his arms and sighed. With the awakening came one surging revelation--he wanted no other woman but her. “I think we had better go find our book.”

Chapter Nine She placed her rucksack over his shoulder they hastily stepped out into the unlit tunnel. Small orbs of light flickered against the blackness, dancing in the opposite direction from where he had followed her to the underground room. “They’re helping us,” Victoria whispered. “Who?” She took his hand. “My ancestors. They are guiding our way.” She pointed to the balls of transparent lights that darted through the cavern’s murkiness. He had heard of such a phenomenon in the past, and scoffed that they were nothing more than reflections of light, or tricks of the camera lens to convince the naïve of supernatural activity in so-called haunted places. He was in no position now to take anything for granted. “Where are they going?” “These passageways were built in the eleventh century so guests could move freely.” “Guests?” Seemed even occultists used political correctness. “There’s an entrance to the estate out in the moors,” she said. Roger sensed the footsteps of those long gone. The lights continued to dart forward and back. Finally the orbs hovered, and then winked out. Above them was a soft hue of silvery moonlight through shrubbery. “We’re here,” she said. A gentle slope was all that was left between the gaping cavern and the fresh air of

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the outside. Victoria pushed aside some of the tangled growth and cautiously peeked around. Then she wiggled through. “All right,” she said, the wind tussling her hair as she peered back at him. “Hurry.” He passed up the rucksack and scrambled through the hole. Brushing off his clothes he couldn’t help but smile. He had chased after women before on a promise, but he had never worked as hard as he was doing now. His smile faded when he saw her, bathed in the moonlight, the edges of her skirt periodically folding, caught in the wind, arms uplifted as though worshipping the night sky. The sweet scent of the moors was complimented by her subtle perfume, and the night’s scenic beauty was heightened by her presence. Roger had never taken the time to notice the deeper beauty in a woman; he was always too concerned about procuring the end result. He lowered his head, ashamed, as a long ago ancestor had done. The relic was still clutched in his palm. He unfurled his fingers to gaze at it again. Revelations, awakenings, conviction and purpose--all this from a piece of tarnished jewelry. A piece of jewelry that is going to lead you to the most exquisite Book of the millennium. He squinted towards Victoria’s silhouette. “No,” he whispered, barely breathing. “A piece of jewelry that is going to lead me to....” A howl broke that moor’s night. It was distant, but clearly audible. Seemingly rolling over the earth from several directions all at once. Without faltering for a second Victoria whirled around. “Worse than I thought,” she said as she brushed passed him. “Come on. We’re not safe yet.” He scanned the black-blue horizon where the eerie howl he thought had originated, as though he’d spot even the slightest of movement. Nothing stirred. Nothing? The area must have been teeming with nocturnal creatures, but now there wasn’t even the sound of an insect. He sensed this was terribly wrong and followed Victoria as quickly as possible. To his horror she hadn’t waited for him, gaining distance with her speed. And as he sped over the rough terrain to keep up, she suddenly vanished. Simultaneously, the moon fell beneath a thick black cloud.

Chapter Ten A sharp crackling sound resonated in Leena’s mind. “Foolish Imp,” the internal voice mocked. Her brow furrowed with confusion. How dare she be spoken to with such disrespect! Not so foolish to dispel the warning. Her demon guide sat cross-legged beside her, its naked God-like body glistening from their recent entwinement. Its red slanted eyes never once left her as she glared back with fury. “If you have something to foretell, I demand you do so now!” It lowered its sinister gape to the amulet she still clutched in her fingers. “Worthlesssss.” She turned the amulet over. No inscription was written there. Her ire tripled. It was a forgery. “Then why did you bring it to me?”

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Its tongue clicked between bow shaped lips. The voice lowered several octaves. “So I could fuck you.” “I trusted you!” The male manifestation began to change. Wide shoulders crunched, hair curling into thick mats of fur. To add injury to insult, it gripped its solid girth and shook the swollen member in her direction. Humiliation. Overcome with unholy wrath Leena shivered. “You underestimate me, shrew! I will not be treated this way!” It cracked a throaty howl, the snout lifting to the night sky. Dropping on all fours, the black lip curled to reveal bone white incisors. Feigning terror, Leena reached to an inside pocket of her cloak. She fell backwards, as though succumbing to the horrible end the demon had intended. The next howl was its misdirected victory call. And as it lunged, preparing to sink its teeth in her throat, she withdrew her twisted dagger, and thrust it with a sickening crunch into the beast’s soft underbelly. Convulsions of a death throe, blood and heat, froth from its mouth splattered her cheek, she winced, waiting for the body that was weighing her down to finally cease moving. She had mere seconds before the body would vanish, dissolving back into the Otherworld in which it was born. With a mighty heave its limp figure was thrown aside. She withdrew her dagger from its belly and slashed the throat. A spring of blood bubbled forth. She drank the potent source of iniquity. Wiping the salted essence from her lips, she grinned. The wolf withered and was gone. Except for its malevolent power, which now belonged to her.... He couldn’t detect which way she had gone. He was wary to blunder farther into the bleak wilderness he knew nothing about. The howl, easily discernable as that from a wolf, was uncanny, seeing the creatures had been annihilated in Britain centuries earlier. Its elongated song of dismay seemed to be closer in the darkness. Roger sunk low to the earth to consider what he should do next. Your greed precedes you. Aggressive. Motivated. Driven. He had always felt that these were honorable characteristics. For anyone to insist he was consumed with greed obviously stemmed from jealousy. Yes, he made deals, more often to his own advantage than to another, but that’s what defined success, wasn’t it? Good ol’ dog-eat-dog capitalism. Besides, he enjoyed the hunt--stalking opportunity, seeking out the players, negotiating, going for the throat to make the kill. The hunt. The Master Hunter.... “I’m good at what I do,” he muttered. “I’m good at making money.” Clouds raced past the moon, breaking as they traveled. With the illumination he threw hasty glances over the landscape. “Victoria!” he rasped, something between a whisper and a throaty rasp. What the hell is she up to? Doesn’t she realize by now that she’s left me behind? He had the relic. She would surely come back for it, if not him. His chest tightened to a seizure of hurt--emotional pain--a novelty for one who hid behind a variety of names and personas. He had hurt others, women, with his careless attitudes towards. Mostly he shrugged off their complaints. He couldn’t help them or himself. The restlessness within him directed he move on, be it a coveted manuscript or

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an associate’s wife. He had no intentions of silencing that lust to always be on the move, to stalk, to triumph. So, he left broken hearts, and a couple of broken marriages, behind. I am a greedy bastard. Now he was left behind. He sat in the dark and the cold with an unknown creature stalking him from the murky desolation of the moors, and worse, he felt… hurt. “Victoria!” he rasped, louder this time. “Roger.” He cocked his head to one side, trying to pinpoint which direction her voice had come. “Where are you, darlin’? I can’t see a thing.” “Here.” It was Victoria’s voice and yet he detected a difference in the tone, as though it echoed from an endless depth. A thick, gray mist appeared from nowhere, crawling silently, quickly over the surface of the moor. “Victoria? Keep talking so I can get a handle on where you are.” “Over here. Quickly! I’ve found it.” Certain he had located the direction of her voice he lifted from his crouching position, and as carefully as possible waded through the mist, having completely blanketed the ground from his knees downward. Any second he expected to spot her silhouette, or movement of her body, frantically scanning for her while holding back a stinging terror that had begun to cloud his mind. He was about to call her name once more, when the earth beneath him caved in. A scream lodged in his throat as he fell into a pit with a rubble of dirt, stones and shrubbery, swallowing him whole. He hadn’t landed gracefully, which was no surprise, considering the shock of the fall. It was difficult to conquer the need to simply lie there, give in to the pain in his hip. But panic demanded him to sit up. The instinct to survive helped subdue the pain. “Shit,” he scowled, quickly assessing the surroundings. The hole was a good ten feet over his head, impossible to get to as it was neatly located in the center of the cavern’s ceiling. Cavern. Again he was underground. A wash of claustrophobia clutched his lungs. He was panting, short static breath, and he had to concentrate on composure. From what he could tell, the cave was vast. Moonlight seeped through the ceiling opening but blackness folded into blackness all around him. A sudden bout of imagination had him surrounded by all sorts of malevolent creatures, both worldly and otherwise. Pain in his side forced him into an unaccustomed balance. One hand on his hip, the other on the earth. “Victoria!” he shouted, tipping his chin upwards, thinking with envy how fresh and clear the night air had been and how every breath here would fill his chest with black dust. His foremost concern, however, was that Victoria, too, might accidentally slip into this hellish pit. Hellish turned out to be an understatement. He sensed movement, and froze on the spot as another wave of sheer horror griped his nerves. Cumbersome, as that of something enormous. The barren air stirred to labored breath in the shadows, a snort almost, or perhaps a pant. His mind whirled with what was the unthinkable. This is it. I’m going to get torn to threads, and no one will ever know. I’m looking at my tomb. These are my last minutes of life. My greed has finally gotten the better of me. “Roger. Are you all right?” He twisted, relieved and shocked both, that the figure materializing from the

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darkness was Victoria. She knelt beside him. “I am so sorry. I meant to warn you.” He hand, cool and soothing, caressing his jaw. “You are hurt.” Her gaze lowered to his injured hip, his trousers torn and scuffed. “Lie back and let me see if anything is broken.” The moon was a poor source of radiance; its narrow funnel was mostly on him. “No, I’m fine. I just need a few moments.” “This is a sacred place,” she whispered, her oval face jutting into the shaft of light. It was Victoria Elwell. But something was wrong with her. Possession, perhaps? Religious fanaticism? Her expression was contorted. She gently pushed him back against the earthen floor. The relief in his hip was instant. “So sacred,” she cooed, her piercing eyes locked to his, her fingers twisting the button on his trousers. “And you are a God. I am blessed to have this opportunity to....” The zipper lowered. She licked her lips, a sultry wetness glistening on her mouth. “ … to pleasure you.” The surprise of liquid fire stiffened him, ran through his groin, melting the ache in his hip. He questioned why here and now only in his mind. Hair tumbled over her cheeks as her pursed mouth lowered, all the while the glint of mischievousness flashed from eyes that seemed to glow. Between taking him in her fist and sensing the velvet heat of her mouth, it crossed his thoughts that this could be yet another hallucination, that he bumped his head during the fall, and none of it was real. Yet when she ran her tongue fervently around the tip of his thickening erection, he realized to the sound of his own vocal cry, this was no hallucination. He arched, a sweltering need consuming him, despite the peculiarity of the surroundings. Her appearance, the outline of her figure, her features as well was … “Victoria?” But when he had the fortitude to open his laden lids, it was a masked face that peered back. Not the dark eyes but ice-blue and the tumble of hair was waxen blonde. He jerked to the stunning revelation, even though his physical lusts held him a captive. “Yessss,” she hissed, the tongue abnormally long, flicking from beneath a line of white corrugated teeth. Fingernails scratched into his testicles and he inhaled mightily, praying his anatomy would be left intact. “The relic! Where is it?” Paralyzed by her grip he could barely think. “I don’t know.” This was the truth. It had been with him through the tunnel. He remembered having it when he watched the moonlight, but he must have dropped it during the fall. Or he could even have dropped it earlier, lost forever in the tangled mass of growth on the moor. “Shame. Without it you are useless.” She squeezed the malleable sacks in her pinpointed nails. Air sizzled through her teeth, which clicked to the hint of a disastrous objective. “Without this you are dead.” Roger reacted, the instinct for survival, inching backwards, but the grip was too tight and getting tighter with every muscle he moved. I am Branewor. Failure is no friend of mine. The echo from the Ancients gave him the courage to act. With the fortitude of ten men he leapt up, his roar that of a charging bull. Her assault ended as his began; he dug

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his fingers into the softness of her throat, the windpipe underneath squeezed off. With the slightest exertion he could split it like a nut. Why he hesitated to do so, he couldn’t be sure. In that second of indecision, the witch shrieked a howl of discontent, and withered into a thin transparent vapor, slithering along the cave’s earthen floor, making good her escape. Surging adrenalin pumped through every fiber, evident through the rigid muscles that continued to wait to see if the fight returned. When pressure lowered to his shoulder he whirled round with lightning speed and again had a soft throat pinched between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes were wide with terror and she clasped his hand, a futile effort to protect herself. “Victoria?” He couldn’t be positive, since charade was a constant companion of the shadows. The moment lingered as she beseeched him with only a frightened gaze. Fatigue weakened his hold. He slumped, muttering an apology. “You have a dangerous competitor, darlin’,” he said gently. She nodded, her brow furrowed with misery. “Leena,” she whispered. “You’ve known this all along?” he asked, discreetly straightening his disheveled attire. “I suspected, maybe. That’s why I kept the true relic hidden.” The relic. Shit. He checked the area around them. The rucksack lay on the ground but the relic wasn’t there. “Why did you run off like that?” In part, he considered its loss was her fault, not his. “I didn’t. You were right behind me.” “I have got to tell you sweetheart, this spiritualist stuff of yours is getting way too twisted for my liking, especially seeing I’m right in the unholy middle of it all.” She smiled, compassionately. “That’s why we can’t wait. Roger, the tomb passage referred to in The Flaming Gate is not far from here. We’ve got to go there now. There’s not a moment to lose.” “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I lost your relic.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders, long fingers sweeping down the crevice of cleavage. The relic was against her breast. Roger puffed a sardonic laugh. Unholy middle was turning out to be an understatement. And on each side was a witch with her own self centered agenda, one that unfortunately involved him. She had the audacity to call him greedy. “Now what?” “Now we go to the sacred stone. There, we’ll make love to each other.” He eyed her curiously. He also harbored some serious misgivings about her intentions. “To make love one must be in love.” She flushed, the shaft of moonlight bathing her beauty. “I know,” she said, so softly he barely heard her. “Victoria, you got a long way to go to get the meaning of that word.” “About as far as you do,” she said quickly. Damn it, woman, we could give it a chance. The thought died on his tongue.

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Chapter Eleven “The rumor of pagan worship was enough to keep Elwell family members from being buried on church property,” she said, as they made their way through what turned out to be a series of catacombs. “Not that they cared,” she continued. “This area was far more consecrated in our belief.” “Why?” “Centuries ago there were massive oak trees here. An oasis of worship to us for it was there that the gateway between our world and the Otherworld could open. Clear water with mystical remedies sprang up from underground springs. The trees are gone now and the spring remains but its source in underneath rather than above.” “The White Stag.” Victoria stopped suddenly. “Yes,” she said, smiling broadly. “It was the place where the Goddess made love to Branewor.” “And he returned the favor by planting an arrow in her gut.” “True. Nevertheless, it’s where the legend began.” The faint noise of trickling water touched his ear as they continued to pick their way along the trail. “I thought legends were nothing more than fairy-tales.” “They all begin with one truth. We have always believed that on certain nights of the year this gateway thinned on its own accord. Your culture celebrates it with the name Halloween. We think of it as the beginning of Mother Earth’s sleep, the end of harvest, the beginning of winter. It’s the one night when spirits are permitted to roam freely.” “Debauchery, yes, I remember you saying.” “We call it Samhain, the festival of fire.” “Samhain … the name of the priest who seduced your ancestor” “Yes. He wrote that the gateway could be forced to thin, at certain times of the year, but only with the correct … formula.” Roger regretted not reading the ancient manuscript before selling it. But then, why would he have taken any interest in the contents? Then he was a different man than what he was now, with Victoria. “This priest--he knew The Druid Book of Verses was here?” “We believe so. That’s why he gave Merlin’s Eye to Margaret. “ The sound of moving water was louder. The light had turned to a bright shade of blue. “Why?” he asked, genuinely interested. A hunger to understand every detail swelled up almost as quickly as the audible spring of water. Victoria stopped on the edge of a wide cavern. She took hold of Roger’s hand and they peered together into the circular underground lake. “Because he loved her.” Her voice, only a whisper, resonated from the stone walls of the lagoon. The dizzying height of the precipice took Roger’s breath. The blue reflection adding to the surreal scene beneath them--motionless dark blue water-fed by four springs, north, south, east and west. A sense of awe replaced the momentary lightheadedness. He

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understood why this serene place was held with such austere reverence. He had an urge to kneel. “Incredible, isn’t it?” Roger was at a loss for words. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he gasped. “Nor will you again. In this world.” Despite the reverence of what stretched out before them Roger felt that something was staring at him from behind. He turned and saw nothing. But he was certain he heard a slithering, hissing noise. “Is that the only way out?” “Yes.” Yessssssss. “I think we have company,” he said slowly. “Hurry,” she said with renewed exigency. “We’ve got to start.” With that, they carefully descended, palms on the earthen wall, taking each stone step with care, caught between a ‘devil’ and a ‘deep blue sea’. Kneeling in the coarse sand beside the quiet pool, Victoria motioned for Roger to give her the rucksack. It hit the shore with a thump. Slowly, she unzipped the bag, conscious that even the slightest noise echoed. “Take your clothes off,” she whispered. His brow rose and he hesitated. “This is no time to be modest.” Victoria was already shrugging from her clothes while emptying the bag. Oil, salt, robes--she heaved a sigh of relief. Standing, she kicked out from her underclothes, and emptied her vial of salt into the ice blue water. It frothed, small ripples flowing outward. Victoria slipped into her white gown, draping it so that her front was exposed. She passed the brown robe to Roger. “Don’t fasten it,” she said. “Let it hang loosely.” He had followed her request and stood naked. He was a Hunter God’s descendent, for this there was no doubt. His arms and thighs thick with muscle, curled black hair, a thin covering over his stomach, thicker on his groin and legs, and a masculinity beyond her conception of any immortal let alone mortal. He took the robe and put it on. Smiling wryly, he whispered, “I’ve had a hard-on so many times tonight I’ve lost count.” She shot him a stern look. One that she wanted to say, ‘be serious’. “Sorry.” She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Sweet music emanated from the lake. She turned to the sound, lifting her arms, a breeze swirled her gown. A delicate elation had begun to flow through her body. “It begins,” she chanted. “Blessed be.” The water level was dropping, exposing a narrow bridge to the island in the center of the pool. She stroked the relic that hung between her breasts. And when she opened her eyes she smiled--the orbs of light were dancing in the air along the stone conduit-leading the way to what was to be the altar. “They are with us.” Her heart pounded. Her fingers were shaking so much she could barely pick up her jar of scented oil. “Follow me,” she said, taking the first step onto the bridge. An elation of weightlessness carried her to the rock island. She motioned for him to take his seat, on the flat stone chair in the center. As he sat she pressed her finger to her

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lips. Speech was not permitted. This was the sacred place. He seemed to understand and continued to follow her instruction. She cast an invisible circle around his seat of honor. Then she knelt, veneration to the heritage within him, and pulled the stopper from the jar. The relic began to hum, vibrations tickling her skin. Not once had he taken his eyes from hers, intently watching her every move, not even when the multicolored orbs pirouetted around his face. Static of prelude sunk over them both and she smiled, tipping her chin to his warm caress on her cheek. Without breaking the gaze she poured oil into her palm. “He is the One my womb loves best. Master Hunter, above all the rest.” Her internal muscle contracted. His strength, his fertility, his supremacy--the energy of arousal raged within her. She took him in her oiled hands, a rod of stone wrapped in satin. He squinted with the pleasure of being touched but his gaze never faltered. “Lift your majestic head,” she chanted, her voice wrought with desire. Her thumbs massaged the oil, her palms against his erection as though in prayer. “I extol your virtues.” She broke eye contact only long enough to bend forward and lightly kiss the tip. “I accept your pleasures. Will you accept my gift?” His fingertips pressed her temples and she returned her eyes to his face. His expression had changed from that of a man’s pained desire into the furrowed brow of she interpreted as a God’s austerity. He picked up the jar and tipped the remainder of its contents over the curves of her breasts. The oil dripped down and with his fingers he stroked slippery trails, short circular movements over her stomach into her sex. “Put your hands on me,” she said quietly. “Let us rejoice together.” Yet he hesitated. Saturation of need grew heavier still. She stood up, straddling his knees. The tender oiled manipulation continued, clever flicking into the petals of her flesh, his eyes widening as she flinched, a reaction to gratification. His forefinger sunk inside her body, the walls of her womb constricting to its penetration, sucking it within. Serenity enveloped his expression while she gyrated to the intrusion. He hooked the finger, brushing a delicate spot. She balked with the streak of bliss. He caught her and repeated the gesture, vigorous and hard. Her knees weakened. He shifted, removing his silken finger, clasping her hip. “Great lady,” he said, in an ancient language, divinity rising in him. “My weapon is poised to puncture you. There shall be no blood. Your fullness is my delight.” Succumbing to the gravity, both physical and emotional, she lowered. He had gripped himself, steadying for her descent. As his girth sunk totally inside her womb, his lips parted to a short breath. “Wish for me, and only me, Great Lady. I shall Hunt no more.” Fire flushed from her genitals; heat curving around the base of her spine. She hugged his shoulders, lavishing those lips with a grateful kiss, driving her tongue deep inside the crevices of his mouth. His breath was hot, his hands hotter, one squashing her breast, rubbing it fiercely. Pain intermingled with the satisfaction, forcing her into an abyss of only him. Strength. Power. Dominion. “Branewor,” she moaned. “How could I love another?” She took the skin on his throat between her teeth. He lifted his chin and sighed. And with a mighty heave she flexed only the muscle wrapped around his rock, a long

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strenuous drag, dragging him farther, consuming him with skillful exploitation. Then she clamped, paralyzing him with a mighty surge, keeping him on the brink and when she sensed he might then break she let go. The energy began its slow ascent up her backbone. He growled, low monotones. His forehead bumped into her shoulder. “Be strict,” he whimpered. A shiver rippled through his torso. He had had an orgasm without ejaculating. She cradled his head for only seconds. “Look at me,” she demanded, her voice echoing over the shallow water. He struggled to do as she asked. Planting both feet firmly on the cold stone of the floor she straightened, their only connection intimate. She took his hands, placing them on her breasts. “Hide the relic.” He forced her breasts together, a fervor again shimmering in his eyes. She prepared another contraction, quick thrusts, elongating each as she swayed her thighs. The ball of heat had reached her nape. Soon. She couldn’t think of what might happen when the energy left her head. Her vision hazed with the longing of their mutual release. Her fingernails raked the flesh on his arms. And she moved, sucking him deeply inside, farther than before, her pelvis a stiffened clamp. Air rushed into his flared nostrils. His mouth opened with the sudden shock. His fingers clawed into her. She screamed. Their auras swirled as crimson balls of light exploded. Her womb flooded. A tremor of emotion, gratitude and reverence, the eye that held the mark of Divinity produced one ice-blue tear. The aftermath was short. Cold water rushed around her ankles. A rumble grew louder. Stone was breaking into small pebbles, splashing into the sacred lake. A fiery blast of heat smashed into her shoulders. The relic on her breast bounced on its own accord. “It’s happening!” she gasped. “The Gate is opening!” She wrapped her gown around her nakedness and lifted from his lap, preparing to flee towards the entrance, expecting to see the glories of a wondrous Otherworld. Instead, Victoria came face-to-face with an adversary who had no intention of letting anyone survive the passage.

Chapter Twelve The pointed tip of the serrated dagger was precariously close to her jugular. “Leena.” “Yes, Priestess. Your magik has done well. For me.” “Don’t do this.” Over the shoulder of the friend she once called “Confidant” the wall was giving way, a circle of fire around the gap, reveling another cave, an opening to a lush landscape pf bright sunlight and fertile earth. “The Book is mine. As is your gem.” She snatched the relic, breaking the thin

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chain, shredding skin, so harsh was her vehemence. “Sacrificial blood will seal my dominion as Goddess, not you.” She twisted the knife, pricking Victoria’s neck. “This, Great Lady,” she mocked, “is your tomb.” Vein streaked eyes of the demon inside Leena shifted to the chair. “You and this Cretin are fools,” Leena spat. “A God would not remain slumped in his chair while his lover dies. Master Huntsman indeed. Master Fornicator, maybe.” She cracked a contemptuous laugh. The water level was inching higher. “Leena, it’s not too late for you.” “You’re right. Too late for you, however.” Fed by the malicious power of greed she had Victoria in her steely grip, the dagger poised where the relic once hung. “Power is in the blood,” she leered. “My blood. Not yours.” He was on his feet. The wide shoulders and arms bulged to the muscle beneath. His legs had thickened like the trunks of a noble oak tree. His eyes wide, unblinking, glaringly stoic, his voice demanding attention, reverberating around the cavern. The orbs of light had linked into a silvery radiance around his head. Victoria felt Leena’s shudder of surprise. Yet the dagger was too close to her heart to attempt to break free. “Black witch,” he rumbled like thunder, his arms rising, fists furled. “I will not allow your evil stench to soil this holiest of places. Not I, nor my Father.” His dark eyes rolled white. The air sizzled. Leena shrieked. The dagger dissolved into grains of sand, pouring harmlessly to the water that continued to rise around their legs. Victoria whirled, pushing away the arms that had held her captive. Without looking back she raced over the slippery bridge, quickly, carefully, for if she fell it would be her end. The ice of it had already numbed her feet. And she scrambled to the flaming portal, barely aware that a monstrous creature bounded at her heels, fangs snapping to thwart triumph. Nor did she take heed of the crumbling stone that unrelentingly crashed from the cavern wall. Tears blurred her sight as she raced up the few steps, covered with rubble and dirt, the heat of each breath she took so severe she could barely keep moving. But move she did and then--seconds of sheer ecstasy transpired. The Book! Propped against the base of a colossal oak tree, guarded by a magnificent White Stag, that snorted and pawed the earth. “Blessed be,” she wept, preparing to lunge through the flaming portal to retrieve it. But she got no farther. A foul weight on her back thrust her into the jagged stone. Long ribbons of tainted salvia coated her hair. “Mine!” the ruthless voice screamed, piercing her ear. The creature had wrenched for the final death blow. Corrugated teeth prepared to sink in her throat. The air slashed, as though lightning had streaked through heat. With a sickening thud the weight on her shuddered and stiffened. Another slash. And another. Dead weight knocked Victoria to the ground. She heaved, trying to push the creature’s mass away. The heat was cruel--every breath was like fire--yet she had to get through the door. Even if it closed with her and the Book inside--as long as the Otherworld had become her World. But she couldn’t move.

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“Roger! Branewor!” He tossed the creature to one side as though it was a toy. The trunk-like arm circled Victoria’s stomach, lifting her against an unmovable chest. “Hurry,” she cried, kicking her feet. “The door could close any second and the Book is right there!” She pointed, in case he hadn’t seen the obvious. “No, darlin’.” “No?” She kicked her legs, and squirmed, desperately trying to free herself. “Are you crazy? We’re so close. We belong inside, both of us. You are Branewor!” “Victoria,” he said, his mouth against her ear. “There is your Master Huntsman.” The flames dripped, a blazing curtain, but she saw through the glittering haze of orange and yellow, the God Branewor. One hand held the bow; the other was gently placed on the Stag’s neck. She went weak in Roger’s arm. He lowered her feet to the stone. “Here,” he said, passing her the relic. “I think this belongs to them.” Victoria held Merlin’s Eye in her palm for one last time. Her dreams were slipping away. The heaviness of fatigue pressed into her heart. She was too drained to go on and too awestruck to go back. The Stag changed, transforming from animal to woman, her white flowing gown tipped with the red--sacrifice--blood spilled. She glided from the Magik Oak tree where Branewor, her husband, waited and watched. Hesitating behind the blazing shield, the curtain thinned between two worlds, she smiled and put forth her long slim hand, creating a small fiery puncture. This would be Victoria’s only physical contact with those she revered. Roger’s forearm around her stomach tightened. “The Relic goes home,” he said. She knew it in her heart to be so. “Blessed be.” And with tears in her eyes she placed the necklace in the upturned palm of a Goddess. Slender fingers closed and vanished behind the flames. The Flaming Gate shuddered. The figures within had disappeared. Only then did she realize the walls of the cavern were still shaking. Her head and shoulders were peppered with falling debris. “Come on,” Roger shouted through the growing thunder. “We’ve got to get out of here.” When they reached the base of the steps Victoria turned to take one last glimpse at the place where the Door had formed. There was nothing now, no evidence it ever existed, except in her memory. The lake was swirling as the rocks smashed into its depth. Onward they rushed, staggering on the wavering steps, each one behind crumbling into the cave. And they didn’t stop until they were safely at the summit, dashing through an ascending tunnel, guided by the bright orbs that illuminated their escape. Dawn had touched the moors. Nestled in a grove of sweet smelling heather, they finally stopped to rest. Victoria slumped into Roger’s arms and wept. He held her. “It’s over, sweetheart,” he soothed, strumming her shoulders, kissing her hair. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.” She had lost. The holy place would never again be accessible. To anyone. The Druid Book of Verses was gone forever. So, too, was the treasured Relic. But as Roger brushed away her tears, she saw she had discovered another, greater magic--one that would never fail.

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Epilogue Sleep had been dreamless. Roger slowly opened his eyes, squinting to the bright sunlight streaming in between thick velvet curtains on the bedroom window. The shaft of light fell directly on his face. “Victoria?” His aching muscles and the memories of the previous night’s events were all secondary to his need to have Victoria in his arms. None of that mattered now. As far as Roger was concerned it was simply a series of events that brought him closer to her. Whether logic could be gleamed from any of it was secondary. All he wanted now was her. There was little logic in how strongly he felt. She stirred, beneath the blankets, beside him. He curled against her back, draping his arm across her breasts, breathing in the scent of heather in her hair. “What time is it?” she murmured, making a weak attempt to sit up. His arm tightened. “Time to make love to me.” “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, twisting around, her cheek on the pillow. So delicate, he thought, as he stroked his thumb across her cheek. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m hungry.” To make certain she caught the overtone he kissed her, lightly, softly. She was staring again at his right eye, the small anomaly in it that to her meant he was a descendent of a God. If that made her happy it was fine with him. He certainly felt like a God when she was in his arms. A shadow fell across her expression. “Roger, the cave--” “Shush,” he chastised gently. “It’s over with, gone.” “That book was worth a fortune.” “You’re my fortune.” Her brow lifted. “Love me for my money, then, do you?” “You know that’s not true.” He was a little wounded, even though he knew she was teasing. With a wry grin he added: “Maybe yesterday, but not today.” “And tomorrow?” “Money wasn’t an issue when I got here, baby. Why all this talk now?” She shifted onto her hip, propped up on an elbow. “I still want to sell the house.” “Then sell it.” His chest constricted. Was she working her way around to telling him this was a bizarre one night stand? Or, might she be leading up to something a little bit more promising? “Don’t look so worried,” she laughed. “I have a proposition.” “All right.” Anything. You are so beautiful. “Let’s go to Italy. I’ve always wanted to travel to the Continent, but…” She shrugged. “We could open a legitimate book store.” Roger sighed internally. She used the word ‘we’. “Okay,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Really?”

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“Sure, why not. I hadn’t any concrete plans for the next few years.” “Good.” She snuggled into his shoulder. He twirled a strand of her hair while the moment lingered. “We have a lot to do.” “Start by throwing away the number for Interpol.” She snuffed. “Silly. I wouldn’t have called them.” Her body, supple and warm, coiled against him was rousing his libido. “We don’t have to get up just yet, do we?” Nails scratched a trail down his stomach. “No,” she answered. Her hand stopped short. He wrenched to the tease. “Touch me,” he said, his voice low, need pouring from the depth of his tone. “And don’t ever stop touching me.” When her fingers wrapped around him and squeezed, he found her mouth, kissing her, penetrating its silken interior with his tongue. He pushed his weight against her, forcing her on her back. His knee guided her legs to part. She continued to stroke him. He readied to slide into her body. “Do you believe, Roger? Do you believe in what your eyes cannot see?” “I believe in you,” he muttered, pained to be so near and yet unfulfilled. He clutched her hair, his spine arched, heart pounding. “Let me in, darlin’. Am I not the One your womb loves most?” He watched her eyes, never once blinking, drinking in her loveliness. A peculiar ball of heat had formed at the base of his backbone. “Lift your majestic head,” she chanted. “Take pleasure of me. We shall rejoice together.” He sunk, slow motion, burying himself between the wet walls of her womb. She winced, her face contorting to the bliss he himself felt streak through his groin. The heat was ascending his spine. An inrushing of fervor gripped his body. He braced his elbows against her sides, his fingers gnarled with her locks of hair, his mouth inches from hers, sucking in her breath. Strength pounded through him and he pushed, hard, long, flexing inside her, gripped by her mighty hold. While her muscle tightened, he pummeled, the energy sweeping up along his neck. Still, his eyes were locked on hers. Faster, sweat trickled from his temples. His skin was slick from the fury of his passion. “Do you feel it?” “Yes,” he said through a quickened breath. “Oh, yes.” Her nails dug into the flesh of his buttocks. “Harder,” she demanded. She jolted into him, circling, matching the rhythm of his deepening thrusts. “My Master Huntsman. Mine alone.” He broke inside her to a shudder of nerve endings, the likes he had never known. The heat swirled from his head. His eyes closed amongst the eddy. Peace flowed through him. True peace. His spirit soared. The awakening was complete. “I am ‘acceptable’?” She smiled. “More than acceptable.” “Then I shall hunt no more.”

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A future together yawned out before them but for the present, all Roger wanted to stay in her bed, united with the woman he loved more than anything in either this world or the next. “I have been such a fool.” Her fingers interlocked with his. “Take my hand,” she said. “And we shall walk together.” “Do you love me?” “Yes,” she whispered. Yes. The sweet music floated, like the gentle tinkling of wind chimes, filling his soul. “Make it so, darlin’,” he smiled. “Make it so.”

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SIXTH DAY OF THE MOON By Celia Ashley

Chapter One County Galway, Ireland Lifting her head, Moira lowered the long lids of her eyes, brown lashes shielding them from the brilliant reflection of the sun. The oddly lunar landscape of Connemara was gilded by the radiance of late afternoon, every naked crag, every tumbled rock, limned in gold. The low-lying scrub, which varied in shades of green from sage to emerald, appeared painted by it in highlighting strokes. Even the small herd of wild, long-legged, sure-footed ponies that had ventured nearer as the day progressed looked as though their hides were coated in honey. Yet she knew that behind her head, if she would turn to look toward the coast, the sky was nearly the color of fading ink as storm clouds rolled toward land on the Atlantic winds. Like a distant drumming of her own blood beat, she felt the vibration of far-off thunder. Breathing in, then out, then in again, she smelled the damp, loamy soil, the cool air, the warmth of the sun trapped in the fabric of her tee shirt, the scent of well-earned sweat, not only her own, but that of her nearest neighbor, a man about her age, perhaps thirty-four or so, and also from the States who was crouched over the turned earth beside her feet. She listened to the whispering noise of his trowel moving carefully through the dirt, followed by the quieter sound of a soft-bristled brush, whisking aside the loosened soil to reveal what lay beneath. Despite the approaching storm, she felt relaxed, releasing all tension from her muscles as the breeze tossed her golden-blonde hair forward across her eyes. It had been a good day, a very good day. To her right, toward the east, she heard the noise of the tent flaps whipping in the rising wind, the guide lines singing in counterpoint to the strains of a bit of classical music coming from the CD player. Someone had changed the disk, she realized with a smile. A few minutes ago they had all been listening to the rather raucous sounds of heavy metal. The former had been the choice of one of the younger members of the group, to be sure. They were a varied fellowship, brought together by a common goal to unearth the past. Beneath the tent’s stretch of canvas countless artifacts had been arrayed to be identified, photographed, sorted, catalogued, packed in gauze in sturdy boxes for the trip to the Kildare Street lab in Dublin. So many times a site yielded little, sometimes

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nothing, in terms of relics of the past. Oh yes, it had been a very good day. Planting her hands in the small of her back, fingertips meeting, Moira arched her spine backwards against the pressure of her fingers, easing a knot of tender tissue. She could feel it just below the surface of her flesh, a result of being hunched over her bent knees for hours on end, and she dug one knuckle directly into the muscle, feeling a satisfying pop as the blood released. A sigh of pleasure, of relief, moved low in her throat. “Feel better?” Cracking one lid, she glanced sidelong in the direction from which the voice had come. Her companion for the afternoon had risen and was dusting dirt from his knees. His tee shirt was faded with age and abuse, but she could still make out the brittle depiction of the New York City skyline and the single word title of the popular television sitcom about six friends. Steve, she thought the fellow’s name was. Since moving into the place vacated by her former partner, his conversation had been minimal. The only reason she knew he also had come to Ireland from the United States was his obvious and almost stereotypical New York accent and the fact that he had actually told her as much, when he mentioned his name. “I do,” she told him. “One tends to get stiff, hunched over like that. How’s your back?” “Fine,” he said. “Took some ibuprofen. Storm’s moving in. Maybe the damp doesn’t help, huh?” Her other eye opened as she studied him critically. “Possibly not,” she agreed. “Water?” he asked, turning to expectorate the dust he’d been breathing in. He jerked his chin in the direction of the cooler containing bottles of Avian. She nodded her thanks, pushing wind-whipped hair from her eyes. By the very nature of its location, the operation was plagued by daily rainfall, usually followed by a spectacular rainbow. When this storm got closer, the team would scurry to place everything under cover, wait for the rain to pass, and then set about business as usual. Knowing she still had time, Moira dropped to her knees to take up where she’d left off before standing, warming once more to the work at hand. Her trowel immediately struck something hard, gleaned more by the feel of the blade rather than any sound of contact. The wind whistled through the vale. Glancing up, Moira noted that preparations were calmly under way to move the packaged items to a waiting vehicle for later transport. She returned her attention to the earth beneath her hands, digging with the tip of her finger before applying the brush. “Oh.” Despite the sun warm on Moira’s back and in her hair, and glinting off the object barely unearthed, the sporadic wind matched the chill that coursed her spine. The voice of the approaching storm growled, vibrating the earth beneath her knees. Willing herself to remain calm, Moira utilized the brush to delicately clear away the clinging debris that time had wrought. As she worked with painstaking care she had to remind herself to breathe. Her heart pounded in her breast, a forceful rhythm of suppressed excitement echoed by another roll of thunder. Grain by grain, she cleared the dirt away, wriggling the pointed end of the brush handle underneath the object when she felt certain she could pry it loose without damage. With the unknown object balanced in the loosened cradle of earth, Moira slipped her left hand into a latex glove hanging out of her pocket, pulling it

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on with her right and the additional aid of her teeth, and then she popped the item out of the soil and into her palm. “Oh,” she said again, a bare expulsion of air. About the length of her hand, the object was clearly gold, as the elements and time could do nothing to tarnish the beauty of that particular metal. Shaped like a curved sickle, the object was scribed with images of a language that predated most of the other artifacts pulled from the site. Thus far, the relics identified seemed to date roughly to an eighth century Christian settlement. This, if her initial supposition proved correct, was a Druidic relic. A crescent, or cead-rai-re, meant to denote the first quarter in the lunar cycle or, more specifically, the sixth day of the moon. Awed, Moira wiped the pointer finger of her right hand on the fabric of her pants, to remove as much of the natural oils as possible, then touched the edge of the relic. Finely wrought, it was not much thicker than the cover on a paperback book, but still solid and unbent. The chance shifting of the earth that had brought it to the surface had, amazingly, left it unharmed, as had all the hundreds of years between its casting and use and its finding its way into her hand. Lowering her lids, she tried to imagine the passage of time, the myriad lives, the moments of epochal and mundane occurrence, the changes wrought, the static element of being. In her mind’s eye she saw the countless days, or her concept of those days, arrayed in lightning speed, back and back and back, to a hand, lean and calloused and strong, burying the cead-rai-re in the soil, for remembrance.... Sucking in a gasping breath, Moira’s eyes flew wide. She blinked as a darkness passed over her, blocking the sun’s warmth. Driven by the fierce coastal winds the storm had arrived, blue-black clouds roiling, the shadow of their arrival flying before them across the craggy landscape. A fork of lightning lit the bruised horizon as she turned her head. “Oh, hell,” she whispered and struggled to her feet against the buffeting wind. Looking all around, she found everyone in a flurry of activity, clearing the site, covering the exposed dig. No one was near her, nor had alerted her to the sudden, emergency status. How long had she been sitting there lost in contemplation of the relic still grasped in her hand? She bent to gather her tools, first pushing the dirt she had just removed back into the ground, in the hope that it would provide some protection from the threatened onslaught to whatever else lay hidden. There was no plywood nearby, no tarp. As she straightened again, her respiration caught in her lungs. Every hair on her arms and on her head seemed to lift at the same instant as if charged, waving madly, and not from the wind. With a small cry she realized what was about to happen and leaped to roll for cover, eyes closing instinctively against a star-bright flash that never came.

Chapter Two Moira opened her eyes to a vague green atmosphere through which the sun was filtering with very little success at illuminating the earth beneath. She closed and opened

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her eyes again several times in rapid succession, trying to clear her vision. After a moment she realized what the problem was. The sunlight, descending into the west, angled steeply through the canopy of foliage to the place where she lay, colored by the leaves through which it passed. Wait. That couldn’t be right. Where had all these trees come from? Vast forestation had ceased to exist in Ireland long ago, trees felled for building material and to clear the land for planting. On the watery plain where they had been digging there was no growth taller than her waist. And yet here she was, gazing up through a vast canopy of dark, intertwined branches in heavy leaf. Hmm. She sat up, instantly regretting her action. Her head felt like an overripe melon, mushy on the inside and ready to split wide open. Fighting back nausea, Moira clutched her forehead in her hands, dimly aware of a strange smell, a smell like-Like burnt cloth. Peering out between her fingers, Moira let her gaze rove along her legs sticking out in a ‘v’ before her. The khaki material of her pants was barely there. A swath of cloth hung from her waist with a few strands of charred material clinging to the rough edge. The skin of her thighs, her knees, her shins, was blackened with soot, although, with a bit of tentative poking, seemed otherwise undamaged. She was missing one boot and both socks, even on the foot where her boot remained tied in place, the shoelace ends emitting thin wisps of what appeared to be smoke. Dropping her hands, she stared at her arms, first one, then the other. The fine, blonde hairs were singed clean off them, leaving the lean length of each as bare as a baby’s bottom and slightly pink. Her tee shirt had pulled through the worse for wear, slashed as if by strokes of a tiny blade, each incision scorched, the thread of the hem burned away so that the fabric hung ragged. Judiciously she checked her eyebrows and lashes, both of which appeared to be where last she had known them, though she was unsure if her tingling fingers actually felt the hairs there, or merely sensed what should have been. She ran her hands through the hair on her head, which she found in wild disarray. Removing her hands from her scalp, she folded them in her lap. After several minutes of sober contemplation, she understood that she had been struck by lightning, even though she did not remember the flash. Struck and survived. It was known to happen, on rare occasion. Wasn’t there a gentleman in Iowa or somewhere who had been struck and lived to tell of it seven times? Yes, yes, she was sure of it, although she couldn’t quite remember through the buzzing in her head where she had picked up that tidbit of information. Turning her head on her neck, she checked for soreness, then moved all her limbs for the same reason, thinking surely something must be damaged. Nothing. Good. Maybe she could stand up, then. Before doing so, she decided to remove her lone boot, unlacing it with shaking fingers. When she pulled it off, the unburned section of sock stayed inside, seared to the leather uppers. She tossed the footgear aside, catching the glimmer of something in the grass. “Well, well,” she said, her voice hoarse, “I’m surprised you didn’t melt away to a puddle of molten metal.” Grasping the druid’s crescent in curved fingers, she held it close, studying the surface for any indication that it had been harmed by the lightning. In point of fact, it

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looked in better condition than it had. Where the lightning had burned and blasted a portion of the hair and most of the clothes from her body, the force had apparently detonated the dirt from every crevice, leaving the gold to gleam like new. As she held it, the crescent seemed to thrum in the wind, making a delicate music just beyond hearing. Clutching the artifact in her sooty grasp, Moira rose shakily to her feet, the grass cool beneath her bare soles. Frowning, she peered through the boles of trees marching down the hillside, searching for anything that looked even vaguely familiar. There was nothing. “Hullo?” she called, pausing to listen. The buzz had lessened, which was a good thing, because otherwise she would not have been able to hear anything at all. Funny. She really didn’t hear anything at all, with the exception of a bird repeating its trilling warble over and over from a tree branch high above her head. “Hullo?” she called again, quieter now, a little less certain of a responding greeting. The grass was not wet, nor was there any sign of recent rain. Wherever she was, she was a good distance away from where she had been. She wasn’t certain if Ireland experienced tornados, but she wondered briefly, her thought processes trying to deal in a semi-logical fashion with a very illogical and improbable occurrence, if she had been picked up by one and deposited somewhere else, free from harm. Narrowing her eyes, Moira turned slowly on her heel in another observance of her surroundings, as if by squinting the truth of the matter might be more clearly revealed to her. If, in point of fact, she had been struck by lightning--which, seemed rather likely, despite the narrow chances of survival--and if she had also been whisked away by a tornado (which was seeming increasingly unlikely, given the whole and healthy state of the landscape around her), shouldn’t she be injured? Not that she wanted to be suffering any sort of injury, and was grateful that she hadn’t, but such a stroke of good fortune was staggering in its extreme stretch of the odds, as well as baffling. And if she hadn’t been whisked away by a phenomenon of nature, then just where the hell was she? she demanded in silent accusation of her surroundings. A cool, marginal breeze wafted beneath the trees, just enough to chill her exposed skin, floating into the holey tee shirt and up under pants that had become little more than a ragged skirt of negligible length. As to her panties, they were apparently non-existent, if the feel of the wind on her buttocks was any indication. Bending her head, she studied what was left of her clothing with an attempt at humor. “Alright,” she said, finding comfort in the sound of her own voice, despite its tendency to crack, “not only do I not know where I am, but to the amusement of the powers that be I have been dropped here dressed like some pornographic Daisy Duke.” Slipping the artifact into what remained of the pocket at her waist, Moira decided her best bet was to just start walking downhill and hope to find someone who could be of assistance. She cautiously tucked her brittle hair behind her ears, setting one foot in front of the other in slow locomotion, her balance slightly awry. The going was rough, the ground rocky and uneven and her bare feet markedly tender, but after what might have been an hour of walking she came out, exhausted and sweaty, from beneath the trees into an open field. Although the general configuration of the craggy hills bounding the large undulating plain seemed something like those at which she had been gazing on and off

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throughout the past weeks, she could not be certain. They were definitely not as barren, but sparsely forested. Beyond, the taller peaks stood blue with distance. The small village where she had been staying with the others while excavating was nowhere in sight. No smoke rose toward the deep blue sky, no sounds of traffic drifted in the air, or of voices, nor even the chorus of dogs which seemed a constant counterpoint to the day’s activities. Of course, it would all be different, wouldn’t it be, if she was somewhere else entirely. And however it might have happened, it certainly seemed that she was. Shielding her eyes from the sun rising above a low cover of cloud to the east, Moira pivoted in a full circle, checking again. Nope. Nothing that she recognized. However, she did spot the glimmer of water in the scrubby growth and made for it, her throat contracting with thirst. Lowering herself to her knees in the heather, Moira leaned over the still pool, preparing to dip her cupped hands into the calm surface. She paused at sight of her own reflection. “Holy crap,” she breathed. Her countenance was barely recognizable, striated with soot like a painted Celt going into battle. She twisted her mouth, making a fierce face at herself, her eyes then straying to the mop of her hair. Normally sleek and shining, it stood out around her head like a lion’s mane, tawny and wild. What she could see of her upper body revealed the torn shirt, one shoulder nearly bare, the line of her collar bone smudged with dirt and carbon. Bending nearer, she gazed long at her eyes for telltale signs of damage, although she suspected there was none as her vision showed no evidence of harm. The whites of her eyes were still white, the green of her iris looking very green indeed in the still water, her pupils dilating normally to the movement of her head to bring her eyes into and out of the sunlight. Releasing a held breath, she dipped her hands into the water to drink before sullying it with the residue of the ablutions which were her next intent. The water soothed her throat, the cool liquid weaving a chill trail into her stomach, down her chin and along the scorched skin of her arms. As she bent to drink again she heard a noise, the sound of loose stones rolling, and straightened, turning her head. About a dozen yards away stood a long-legged pony, a wild Connemara pony, its mane tossing in the breeze. As she watched, several others mounted the rise from a small declivity beyond and paused beside the first. She could hear the soft whickering as they studied her, tails swishing calmly to and fro. Not wishing to alarm them, she eased slowly back over her heels, returning their mute regard. If there were herds running free, she reasoned, then she could not be so awfully far away from where she had been. The trees, however, were throwing her off, as the landscape had been decidedly bare and craggy. “Good morning, my pretties,” she murmured. The closest flicked its ears forward at the sound of her voice and took a hesitant step in her direction. Behind, the horizontal clouds were beginning to shred in the morning breeze. Several large, black birds--rooks, she thought--winged their way westward, cawing raucously. These were followed by several more, then by a veritable eruption of flight as a whole flock burst from the trees to her right in full cry. The ponies started and fled, hooves beating a rhythm over the packed soil. Moira rose, swiveling on her bare heel to see what had startled them all.

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From out of the forest came several more of the ponies, perhaps a half a dozen in all, and these all obviously broken to riding as each possessed atop its back a man. Beneath the soles of her feet she felt the vibration of hooves pounding the earth. The sound of motion drummed the air all around, much like the beating of wings. She could hear the chuffing breath of each animal in full gallop, and the creak and ring of harness and metal, but from the men there came no sound, intent as they were on their headlong trajectory down the hillside. For a moment, Moira wondered if they were engaged in some sort of race, and in the next she wondered if they noticed her standing there at all, or if they were going to ride right over her. “Hey!” she called, and cleared her throat for a repeated warning. “Hey!” If she ran in any direction, she would cross the path they were taking, so she opted to stand her ground, waving her arms in a frantic bid for attention. When this proved unsuccessful, she folded her arms before her face, uttering a brief prayer as she made herself as small a target as possible, waiting for collision. The ponies parted at the last instant around her, drawn aside by their riders who hauled back on the reins just past where she stood, wheeling the sure-footed beasts around. Together, all six riders began to circle her as she peered out from between her fingers. Her breath rasped from her lungs. “Shit,” she said quietly. She turned her head to follow the pattern of the riders on their beasts as they studied her, one or another of them turning constantly toward the forest they had just vacated. As Moira stared back at them she felt a cold creep into her blood, slowly working its way to the surface of her skin, and then into her brain. There was not a man among them who wore any type of garment with which she was personally familiar, although she recognized the style of attire from a variety of documents she’d had the opportunity to peruse over the years. Each man was garbed in a pair of brigis, or breeches of woven cloth, feet tucked neatly into boots of untanned leather. Above, they wore shirts or tunics crossed over the front and belted about the waist, multi-colored cloaks heavily laden with fringe draped around their shoulders. All but one had his hair shorn at the temples and tied at the nape in a single, long lock called, she remembered, a glib. The one whose hair was unshorn possessed an abundance of jet black locks, loosely braided and coiled in the folds of his cloak, which was of finer stuff than the rest, the outer surface napped and with the added colors of scarlet and a deep blue. All were clean-shaven. Most disturbing of all was the fact that they were, to a man, armed with lance and dirk, two of them also bearing double-edged swords secured to their bodies by a loop of chain. Run she told herself silently. Just run. But some other part of her brain, more intent on self-preservation than reacting to the fight or flight impulse, knew that she could never hope to outrun a mounted man, and even if she did, where was she to go? Besides, she continued to reason, these men were perhaps part of some local festival, dressed in ancient costume, and no reason to be assuming they were anything like what they appeared to be. She did not speak, tilting her chin up in defiance of the place to which her thoughts wanted to lead her, waiting for the first word to come from one of them. The dark-haired man reined his animal in before her, returning her defiant glare with speculation. Beneath him his mount shifted, pawing the ground. One of the others rode close, speaking something into the first fellow’s ear that she could not hear, afterward

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jerking his chin toward the forest. The dark one turned on him with a fierce shake of his head. “Is fear rith maith ná drochsheasamh,” he growled. A good run is better than a bad stand. Moira blinked at her easy recognition of his words. What the hell was going on? She took a small step away. “They come!” This from one of the others. He spoke in a language not her own, though subsequently studied, but the words resounded in her head in free translation. Moira took another step backward. From the direction of the hillside she could hear the noise of concerted movement across a forest floor coated with leaf-mold and seasonal debris. Branches snapped in distant percussion. Voices raised as one voice filled the air with an inhuman yowl. Moira felt the hair stand up on the back of her arms. The dark man spurred his mount nearer and reached down from its back. His arm shot out, large hand snaking around her upper arm in a fierce grip. With apparently little effort he yanked her from the ground, tossing her across the rump of the pony, who objected mightily to the abrupt deposit. The dark-haired fellow fought to rearrange her person on the back of the animal, not much caring where his hand fell in the process. “Straddle the beast, will you?” he rumbled, shoving her in the proper direction. “And cling tight.” With some misgiving she complied with his commands, spreading her legs over the pony’s back behind its male rider and wrapping her arms around the man’s midsection. His hand reached back, cupping her bare bottom, and pushed her a little closer. Then he settled that same hand onto the hilt of the knife in his belt. The cry from the forest grew louder. She could hear the varied intakes of breath from those pressed closest, whispered pleas of mercy or of anger she could not discern. “Christ,” she whispered herself, and felt the man in the circle of her arms stiffen at her utterance. Then he dug his heels into the pony’s sides and the beast lurched forward into an effortless stride. Sinking her teeth hard enough into her lower lip to draw a welt, Moira clung to the man with all her strength, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades and shutting her eyes against the impossibility of revelation.

Chapter Three Moira slid gratefully to the ground, her legs like rubber beneath her. She watched the man who had just ridden for the better part of another hour, apparently unaffected, tend to his mount, walking it around to slowly cool its blood as he wiped the lather from the animal’s chest and withers with the edge of his cloak. His muscled legs in pale blue breeches were long. He was a tall man, well-built, with the dark complexion and hair of the Black Irish, legacy of a distant intermingling of the blood of Spaniards with the Celt. His hair, freed from the thong that bound it by the wind of passage as they rode, was thick and raggedly cut, the ends curling below the slope of his broad shoulders. He moved with grace and strength, his countenance, in profile, handsome and possibly quite young. Although a life rough-led leant him a well-seasoned demeanor, she suspected he

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might not be more than twenty and four. The others with him were roughly the same age, somewhat paler in complexion with hair varying from the color of iron oxide to brass. The dark-haired fellow was, she had come to realize, in command of the others in some fashion. The one who had spoken to him earlier might have some familial connection, she thought, as they shared a certain look and bearing, despite the difference in general coloration. They also spoke to each other with a casual familiarity which none of the others displayed. Closing her eyes, Moira leaned her head against the rough bark of the tree at her back. She crossed her feet at the ankle after she had ascertained that the trailing edge of the fabric hanging from her waist was tucked discreetly between her legs. Breathing slowly and evenly, she succeeded in warding off panic. As impossible as it might be, she had come to believe that what she suspected was true. There were not men in costume, but wearing the garments of everyday existence. No mock battle had been taken place from which they had fled. The rust dulling the edges of forged metal was not that of neglect, but dried blood. And now she was far from the place where she had regained consciousness to find herself displaced in time. By the lightning? she wondered. No matter. It was not something she would care to attempt to duplicate in order to return to her own place in time. Very likely death would be the only revelation there. What, exactly, she was going to do would require long and careful consideration. Her main goal was to maintain a level head, together with her existence. Most immediately, that maintenance was going to involve the continued assistance of the man who had lifted her out of the field to save her life from a small, marauding, battle-maddened army who had chased them on foot for as long as rage had sustained them. Even after the warriors had dropped back in defeat the large ponies had thundered on, fleet of foot, until it had been determined there was no further chance of pursuit. Lifting her lids just enough to peer through her lashes, Moira watched her young rescuer bend to dip his waterskin into the stream. He tipped his head back, drinking thirstily, water coursing along his jaw and neck, glistening in the last of the sunlight where it fell into strands of jet-black hair. He crouched to fill the skin again, turning to gaze at her across the small distance between them, one arm levered across his bent knee. His expression caused her to pause, mid-swallow, her pulse leaping in the side of her throat. One by one, the others turned to follow the direction of his gaze. Moira tensed where she sat, uncertain of the intent gathering in their eyes. She wished, not for the first time, for something more concealing, for one of their cloaks, perhaps. She did not expect to be given one, of course, even if she asked politely for the loan. She well knew that the feeling of being naked, exposed, was not merely her imagination. The chill on her skin was more than the composite result of shock and fear. Now, watching the small gathering of young warriors from beneath her lashes, she knew that her ruined garments were exposing her to more danger than just those posed by the elements. She glanced around her immediate vicinity, seeking anything that might aid in her protection. A stout stick, a rock, anything, but the grass, though trampled, was clear. If all six made up their mind to violence, nothing of that sort would make a difference anyway.

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Opting for reason, Moira stood up instead, with the intention of speaking to the dark-haired man. She made several steps in his direction and was brought up short by the shaft of a lance lowered across her mid-section. By the stream, the dark one had risen as she did. The breeze knifed through her clothing, stirring dirt at her feet into a small cloud that spiraled across the ground toward him, dissipating just short of reaching the bank of the stream. His cloak fluttered back over his shoulders. In spite of the loose cut of his breeches, Moira plainly observed that she had not been incorrect in her assumption regarding the proclivity of his thoughts as he watched her. As if his patent erection was of no consequence, he held the waterskin out to her with a slight inclination of his head. The lance was lifted, the butt end grounded beside the heel of the warrior who had extended it. Squaring her narrow shoulders, Moira walked forward. She extended her hand to the unstoppered skin. In the next instant, she was shoved forcefully behind the knees with a booted foot, a hand on her shoulder forcing her to kneel on the ground. “You will display proper obeisance before your prince,” she heard a voice mutter fiercely behind her. Moira yanked her shoulder free of the unseen warrior’s grasp. She lifted her gaze to the dark eyes of the man still holding the waterskin. “I do not know you,” she said, “but I meant no disrespect. I thought you were offering me water.” “As I was,” he answered her genially enough. Bending, he slipped his hand beneath her arm, assisting her to stand. Moira felt a stinging of the flesh of her knees, no doubt grazed by her abrupt descent to the pebble-strewn bank. He pressed the skin into her hand, waiting patiently for her to drink her fill. To the man behind her he gave a brisk nod, dismissing him. His anger at that man was evident. Moira relaxed a little, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said. He stoppered the skin in an absent motion, handing it off to another of his men. “Who are you?” “I--my name is Moira,” she told him, speaking to him in the language not her own, but his. Odd. Had the strike of lightning rattled loose some unconscious learning from the past, which had taken place during the long course of her studies? His nostrils pinched slightly as he drew an impatient breath. “Where is your mate? Your tribe?” “I have no mate,” she said. “Your tribe?” he prompted. Better, she decided, to tell the truth when pushed to it. “Gone,” she said. Yes, that was true enough. If she was to accept her situation, then anyone and everything she had known was yet to be, and therefore, in simple terms, quite gone from her life. At her admission, sympathy flashed briefly in his eyes, then vanished, concealed by a certain wariness glittering behind the length of his long lashes. “I am Padraic,” he stated. Patrick. Well, judging by his apparent and continued arousal, he was not the saint. As a prince, of course, he would not be. “And how shall I properly address you?” she asked. “By my title,” he answered.

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Mutely she nodded acquiescence. As the other man had indicated Padraic’s rank as prince, then she would accord him that respect. And, as prince, as a man of distinguishable power, if she humbled herself to request his protection, he might possibly grant it. At a cost, though, she mused ruefully with a discreet glance at the extended fabric of his breeches. Careful of her abraded knees, she lowered herself to the ground, clutching his hand, hoping she was not overdoing the supplicant bit. “Prince Padraic,” she said, “I beg you to grant me protection from those who would do me harm.” He studied the configuration of her hands on his own for a long moment, then lifted his eyes to hers. “And who is it that seeks to harm you?” Moira darted a quick, questioning glance toward the men lounging at a short distance, observing the scene being played out before them. Above her head Padraic laughed, a sound that was startlingly appealing and echoed by several of his cohorts. “My companions, is it? Well, you may be not be mistaken. Granted,” he said in an offhand manner. “And rise from your knees. There is but one thing a woman does on her knees before me, perhaps two, and neither resembles begging in any manner. Rise, Moira, and take my cloak. You appeared to have survived fire and mayhaps more, but I would not have the others continue to observe you with open lust. Let us begin with that small protection, aye?” Grateful, Moira clambered upright, accepting his cloak as it was settled about her shoulders. He pulled it tight beneath her throat, touching her briefly beneath the jaw with the edge of his finger. She felt the fleeting contact like a small shock across her skin. He seemed to notice as well, because he looked at her sharply. Behind, his men turned away, their remarks passed out of hearing. If there was sport to be had, he had made it clear that they would have no part in it. Unfortunately, he seemed to have also made it clear to all that he had laid his claim to her. Well, she would deal with that when the time came. **** When fingers touched her, she flinched and jerked away, eyes flying wide as she started awake. She had just closed her eyes for a moment, while some discussion was taking place between the men as to their next course of action. Struggling upright from the ground where she had slid in her exhausted slumber, she yanked Padraic’s cloak closer about her body, turning to identify in the darkness the hand that had brushed her cheek. It was not the prince’s, but that of the man who bore a family resemblance to him. She was fairly certain he had been addressed at one point as Ahern. His eyes were shaped like Padraic’s, but of a much paler hue. He bent his head until those eyes were inches from her own, his gaze intent on her face as he hunkered on the ground beside her. Lifting his hand, he curved his fingers around her jaw, sliding the ball of his thumb over the high plane of her cheekbone. “What markings are these?” he asked quietly. “Markings?” she echoed, belatedly recalling the striping of carbon residue across her skin. “Aye, markings,” he repeated with mock patience. She could smell him, the scent of his horse in his clothes, and of wood smoke from some earlier fire, as well as the faint iron of blood. She wondered if he was wounded, or if it was the blood of some other man.

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She did not answer him, for there was no suitable reply she could make. With a frown she pulled her face from his grasp. He grabbed her shoulder in turn, his fingers pressed hard through the cloak to the curve of bone and flesh. “Let go,” she hissed, glancing around the clearing for any sign of Padraic. She could hear voices, but not see who was speaking. Nearby, one of the long-legged ponies stamped and snorted. “Come, lass, I mean you no harm,” said Ahern, reaching up with his other hand to finger her damaged hair. Apparently, it still felt soft to his calloused fingertips, because he stroked it several times in succession, then dropped his hand to the fringed edge of the cloak, pulling it aside just below her throat. She yanked it back. A little more forcefully he tore the garment away from her legs, shoving his hand between her knees. She held them firmly together, pushing his arm with both hands. His fingers dug into the curve of her lower thigh. “No!” she grunted breathlessly, trying to fend him off. His hand went from her shoulder back to her hair, grabbing a handful at the base of her skull in a grip that made her scalp burn. She could hear his panting breath, feel the groping of his fingers toward the torn fabric hanging about her waist. And then the onslaught ceased, fingers releasing her hair and her leg in an abrupt cessation of intent. Moira tumbled back onto her elbows. Above her Ahern was standing slowly, hands held unnaturally stiff and low before him so that his balance was precarious. Padraic stood behind him and slightly to the left. Gleaming faintly beneath the stars, the point of his knife’s blade was pressed strategically against the hollow just above Ahern’s collar bone. As the other man stood, the prince withdrew his weapon and stepped aside in silence, saying nothing as Ahern strode away, quickly swallowed up by the shadows. Padraic remained speechless still as he bent to seize Moira by the wrist, hauling her to her feet and up against him. His body was hard, all angles and edges, solid with muscle and bone and a fierce, suppressed anger. “If my brother comes near to you again,” he stated in a cold voice, despite the glitter in his dark eyes, “you will call out to me immediately, or I shall know the reason.” Moira tried to lurch free, but he held her fast, his arm across her back. Whatever anger he possessed, it seemed it was tinged with lust as well, if she judged the length of him pressed against her stomach through the thickness of his cloak as an indicator. “Did I look to you as if I was a willing participant in that?” she ground out between clenched teeth. He was taken aback by her defensive tone, apparently giving consideration to her question. Once again, Moira tried to back out of his one-armed embrace, but he would not let her go. “Where is your mate?” he asked her again. “Must I return you to him?” Bewildered, she shook her head against the coarse material of his tunic. The fabric parted beneath her movement so that her brow, her cheek came into contact with warm, firm flesh. She blinked, her lashes tangling in the dark, curling hair in the center of his chest. Inhaling, she could smell the scent that was his own, musky, definitively masculine, oddly intoxicating. She turned her head away, breathing the air trapped within the weave of his cloak. “I told you, I have no mate.” “Why do you not ask me to return you to your village?”

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asked. She said nothing. Lifting his head, he nodded, gazing into the night. “We ride,” he advised quietly after a moment, reaching under the cloak she wore to stroke her waist, the curve of her ribs, the inside of her arm. She shivered. “You ride with me.” Ah yes, such was the price to be paid for the protection of a warrior prince against a reality he would never be able to fathom. **** In what Moira judged was no more than a quarter of an hour’s time, all were mounted once more. The ponies, refreshed after their earlier exertion, danced impatiently beneath their riders. Conversation centered around the length of their rest and the speed of a small contingent on foot, and the need to be away before their enemies came upon them in the glade, if such was their intent. There was always the possibility they would not come at all, but no one cared to take that chance. Moira concurred silently as she was assisted into place across Padraic’s beast’s withers. Who this enemy was, no one had yet voiced aloud, but she suspected the feud was no more consequential than that between neighboring chiefdoms. The army had been too small and disorganized to be an invading force of any magnitude. Moira rode astride, situating Padraic’s cloak to shield the tender flesh between her thighs from the chafing hide of the horse and the edge of the rough blanket thrown across its back. Padraic had not yet shown any inclination to retrieve his outer garment, for which she was grateful. His own body’s heat emanated through his clothing, no doubt keeping him warm enough. Before he secured her with an arm around her waist, Moira reached into her pocket to assure that she had not lost the druid’s crescent. Made of gold, the object might yet come into play as a bargaining tool. As they rode, the pace easy, the length of her spine felt the rumble of Padraic’s voice in his chest in conversation with his men. For the moment she was ignored, and was more than content with that, as the less attention directed her way the fewer questions to be answered. Nevertheless, the sensation of Padraic’s arm about her waist, together with a gait beneath her that gently rocked her hips forward and back in a decidedly sensual motion, was beginning to have an unnerving effect. She felt a heightened sensitivity course the surface of her skin so that every movement of cloth, every shift of Padraic’s body against hers, of his arm about her waist, his thighs pressed to the back of her own, every breath passing heedless across the crown of her head or over the curve of her jaw, felt like a caress, slow and deliberate and stimulating. She could hear the altered cadence of her breathing and tried hard to control it, afraid that he would notice. Yet apparently he did not, as he continued to joke with his companions above her head, his laughter fizzing through her blood. Every so often, Ahern would bring his mount near to speak with his prince and brother. When he did, his eyes would burn over her, not just with his own lust, but with an anger and a bitterness, as if he suspected her arousal in his brother’s arms. Padraic’s grip would tighten then, fractionally but with a certain possessiveness, and he would speak lightly to her, a passing remark that went unheeded in her concentration, and which was more for Ahern’s benefit at any rate, letting his brother know to whom she belonged.

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To whom she belonged. She didn’t much care for that concept, as if she were goods bartered for. Even so, she understood that was likely the frame of reference with which these men were familiar. She had been found and gathered up, a trophy of war or of fortune, and had pleaded with their prince on bended knee for his clemency, his protection. She’d had nothing to offer him in return, nothing to prove herself of value to him as a hostage or as a prize. If he ultimately sought payment for his care of her in the pleasure to be found in her body, there might be little she could do save comply. Oh, who was she kidding? It was not the thought of compliance heating her blood, causing her nipples to stand hard beneath her tattered tee shirt, chafed by the frayed fabric and yearning for the application of a more skilled and animate touch. It was not the thought of obliging submission making her aware of the entire length of his body pressed to hers. And she was not the only one affected. The pressure of his legs was increasingly deliberate, his arm around her waist pulling her closer, his respiration beginning to develop its own shallow rhythm. She would do well to remember she was not where she belonged, not in her own time, that there were consequences of such actions as she was contemplating. And if this was all some sort of illusion brought on by, say, trauma, that she was, perhaps, lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, burned and comatose with a morphine drip in her arm, what then? How was she to tell the difference? These men inhabiting her dream were both fierce and determined, possibly the result of some subconscious anxiety. Dreams were what they chose to be, and could not be controlled. But if she dreamt, then she should not feel pain. Wasn’t that what was said? And if she did not dream, what then? In growing anxiety, she reached to her thigh, pinching the flesh, hard. No. That definitely hurt and nothing about her present situation was altered by the self-inflicted stimuli of pain. It was no hallucination, no dream. Having been thrust from her own time loomed as the only other possibility. Her likely inability to return moved her near to panic. Best to keep herself on track, accept the reality of her situation and all its inherent dangers. And to accept the fact that the man in whom she had been forced to put her trust was clearly demonstrating every intention of giving into his own desire, and soon. His hand had slipped beneath the heavy cloak she wore and found its way beneath her shirt. She glanced toward the others, who had grown silent, eyes ahead. At a look, a gesture of command from their prince, they dropped back one by one, Ahern the last to abandon his position, slipping into the darkness behind. At first, Padraic seemed content to just feel the texture of her skin beneath his open palm, moving his hand idly back and forth across the hollow beneath her ribs. Bending his fingers, he traced the curve of bone, first to one side, then the other, lightly, curiously, as if counting them. Her breasts began to ache, taut within the confines of her scorched bra. “What manner of material is this?” he whispered against her ear, fingering the hem of her shirt. “It is like unto silk, but I think it is not silk.” He did not appear to expect an answer from her, moving idly on in his reconnaissance. His other hand held the reins loosely but capably, perched only inches from her parted thighs. She tried not to think of the proximity of his fingers to the moist flesh between her legs.

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At the edge of her bra he hesitated in some consternation before proceeding to seek out her nipple with the tips of his fingers through the cloth. Finding it, he circled the stiff peak lazily, putting an end to her brief struggle to free herself merely by latching onto it in a more urgent caress. Almost against her will she arched her back, thrusting her breasts toward his hand. Almost against her will, but not quite. His breath skimmed her cheek, escaping his lungs in protracted release. Even with the weighty weave of his cloak between them, she could feel his cock leap against the curve of her buttock in response to the eagerness she displayed. “What is this you wear?” he murmured against her throat, slipping a digit around the strap. An instant later it was no more as he sundered the already damaged material with one swift motion. She gasped in unexpected pleasure at finding herself fully exposed to his grasp. He cupped her breast in his large palm, rubbing the ball of his thumb back and forth across the rock hard nipple in a precise and maddening rhythm. “Padraic, please...” If he was offended that she did not grant him his proper title, he wisely chose not to make mention of it. “Aye,” he said, “please you I shall, and take full measure of my own soon after, I promise you. Have you no plea for me to show you mercy?” He was taunting her, playfully, his words whispered so that they would not carry to those who rode well behind. There must have been some recognition of lessened danger, to permit the distance, leaving the prince and his captive to ride ahead alone. “No mercy,” she said, turning her head to speak the words softly against the full curve of his lip. Startled by the contact, his mouth closed over hers, his tongue leisurely seeking her own as he ran the tip of his finger across her nipple, curling it tight around the distended flesh. He made a noise, low in his throat, of frustration she thought, and then she felt him press the reins into her hands. “Take them,” he said. “Take the reins, now.” Freed of that burden, he yanked the folds of the cloak open. His kiss was urgent, demanding, his hands on her warm breasts deliberately exposing them to the rush of chill air as he stroked her nipples again and again, drawing the flesh tighter and tighter until she felt a heated rush to her loins. She cried out into the hollow of his mouth, wanting more, thrusting forward into his hands in silent demand. He released her only long enough to grip her about the waist, hoisting her up onto his legs, now inserted beneath her own. She arched in his embrace, legs parted and yearning. “Aye,” he said, “hold yourself just so for me.” He clutched her thigh, fingers curved in an unrelenting grip over the taut muscle, then moved slowly up her leg, pausing at the slight indentation just below her groin, fitting his fingers into the soft depression. “Drop the reins and put your arms around my neck, leannán, and clasp yer hands tight behind.” She did so, heart pounding, finding that the position brought her even nearer to his anticipated caress. Beneath them, the pony plodded on, obedient. Her turgid nipples felt the chill caress of the air and tightened further. Padraic swore beneath his breath. Fitting his other hand to the identical location on her opposite thigh, he hoisted her a little higher and held her legs open to the cool, damp breeze. “I want you in my mouth,” he ground out against the side of her throat. “I will take you so, now.”

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“You cannot,” she argued, breathless. “We will have to dismount and your men are not so far behind that they will not see.” “I care not what they see.” “I do! Please, don’t.” He seemed to engage in debate with himself, whether to abide by her wishes or force the issue. In the meantime, he fondled the slick flesh between her legs, parting her labia to lightly finger the folds. Moira held her breath, eyes closed. Her heart felt as if it had ceased to beat. The pony slowed its pace, showing every indication that it would halt altogether. Padraic’s stroke grew more urgent. He shifted his legs beneath hers, his breath warm and ragged across her cheek. After a brief hesitation, he nudged the animal once more into motion. Moving his hands to Moira’s waist, he lifted her and dropped her unceremoniously into her former position on the pony’s back. Moira’s breath forced from her lungs in a muttered exclamation. “Enough,” he said. “You will beg for release before the night is through.” He reached for the reins trailing in the pony’s mane, settling his other hand, fingers curved, into the curling hair of her pubic region, lazily seeking the swollen bud of her clitoris. His mouth pressed to her ear. “Make no noise, leannán,” he whispered. “My men are returning.” He released her, only to return a moment later, chuckling at the small sound she made in her throat. “No noise,” he repeated. This time, his fingers did not depart, his mouth pressed hard against her jaw as he stroked her in a repeated, circling caress. Burrowed beneath the vast folds of his cloak, she climaxed, trembling against his hand in the darkness, biting her lip to keep from crying out as his men rode up to either side, closing ranks around their prince once more.

Chapter Four Liam Mackenzie slid the stool across the floor on well-oiled castors, his dark eyes glancing from the indications of heart rate and pulse on the monitor to the patient supine beneath the hospital linen on the bed. The glaring illumination of the fluorescent fixture on the wall behind cast its pallid glow over her features, lovely in repose, despite being nearly comatose. Though she was not without reaction to stimuli, she remained unconscious. “How long ago?” he addressed the nurse hovering at the foot of the bed. “Nae more than twenty minutes past,” she advised. “It’s steady now,” he commented, not in doubt, but in puzzlement. “And her blood pressure is normal, as well, is it not?” The nurse nodded. Bending his head, Dr. Mackenzie pushed his hand through his close-cropped black hair, releasing a long breath through his nose. “Get a technician up here to draw her blood, just to be certain.”

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“As you say, doctor,” the nurse agreed, leaving the room to see to it. Lifting his head again, Liam studied the woman in the bed, eyeing in brief but critical examination the bandages wrapped lightly around her arms and on one hand. The burns on her arms were little more than superficial, first degree, with a deeper burn in the palm. Her legs had not even required dressing, looking to the eye as though only exposed overlong to the sun. Despite being struck by lightning, she had fared miraculously well and the scarring would be minimal. If only she would regain consciousness... “Moira,” he whispered in her direction, hoping for some reaction. A dozen years earlier they had known one another briefly, during his education in the States. He still remembered those months with fondness, remembered her propensity for laughter, for making him laugh. He had been a very serious young man, not prone to outbursts of humor. It had been her exuberance and reverence for life, for living, which had so pleased him. That, and the way she had touched him one night, and one night only, before she had left him to take employment on the other side of the country. He remembered that the evening had been temperate, the moon a curved sickle in the sky, a handful of days into the first quarter of the lunar cycle. She had been like quicksilver in his hands, fluid and warm and passionate. He had nearly lost his head, would have given up everything to follow her wherever she might go, but she would not allow him to make what she termed “such a mistake”. In retrospect, he thought that perhaps she had been right to deny him. But perhaps not. Frowning, he reached his arm across the mattress, inserting his fingers into the curve of her uninjured palm. Nothing. Not even an involuntary spasm. He sighed deeply and rose, bending to press his lips lightly to her smooth brow, tucking tendrils of golden-blonde hair behind her ear, then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat. A single step fell at the threshold of the open door and he turned his gaze in that direction. “Your wife is on the phone, doctor.” He stared at the nurse blankly for a moment, then recalled his thoughts just as she corrected herself. “Your ex-wife, sir,” she said. “I am sorry.” “No matter,” he answered, waving aside her apology, then left the room to answer the call.

Chapter Five “Don’t go!” Moira awoke with a start, her cry reverberating in her ears. She could not recall what she had been dreaming, but felt the portent of it like a heavy weight on her heart. Bending his head, Padraic pressed his lips to her temple. “What do you dream, leannán?” he asked softly. “I don’t know,” she said. From beneath her lowered lashes, Moira saw Ahern’s head turn in response to

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their conversation, taking careful note of the intimate proximity of Padraic’s mouth to her ear. His countenance twisted in ridicule. Apparently, wanton lust he understood, but tenderness filled him with derision. She moved and stretched, feeling the residue of Padraic’s earlier attentions sticky on her thighs and soaking into the ragged fabric of her erstwhile pants. As she leaned once more against his chest, his arm returned to her waist, the rigid tension absent. “Where are we?” Resting his chin atop her head he spoke contentedly, almost sleepily. “Nearly home,” he said. With renewed interest, Moira looked out into the night, her gaze traveling up the shadowed hulk of a low hillside before them. At its pinnacle rose a round tower, the light of a scimitar moon glossing the rough, stone cylinder, perhaps one hundred feet in height, the top conical and thatched, with what appeared to be a parapet surround at roof level, wide enough for a single man to pass. “What religious order possesses the place?” Moira asked, indicating the tower with her chin. She could feel Padraic turn his head to follow her direction. “None,” he answered. “T’is a watchtower. Hark the challenge? Ahern, give answer.” Drifting down on the wind came a single question, muffled with distance but obviously expected. His enmity forgotten in duty, Padraic’s sibling rode forward, cupping his mouth with his hands and shouting out a watchword in return. The ponies turned westward, step livened by the nearness of stable and rest, splashing across a shallow creek and up the slope opposite. Gravity forced Moira back against Padraic, who clutched her fiercely to his chest. “Say naught when we arrive. I will answer all inquiries put to you.” Moira nodded, only too happy to relinquish that problematic question-and-answer session to him. As they rode forward, she witnessed shadows appear to either side of the winding, uphill track, first one, then two, then a dozen or more, dogging their movements in ascent. All were armed with a lance similar to those Padraic’s men carried, six or seven feet in length and bearing a point without serration that winked in reflected starlight. Suddenly, Ahern pressed his mount near, pretending the crush of his leg against Moira’s was accidental as he apologized, first to her, then to Padraic. “Best you hand her over to me, now, brother,” he said, reaching for Moira’s arm. “I will keep her for you until you have had time to speak with Father.” Moira snatched her arm away. “The hell you will,” she spat. In the pallid light of the moon, the blanching of Ahern’s countenance was nevertheless evident, two spots of hectic color appearing on his cheekbones. Padraic’s arm came up between them, the reins in his hand following the defensive motion so that his mount veered, shouldering Ahern’s aside. “I will deal with Father,” Padraic stated calmly. “And Aileen?” “I shall deal with her as well.” Ahern drew himself up on his animal’s back, squaring his broad shoulders so much like his brother’s. “I should think you would have done so, when you stole her from me, Padraic.”

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Moira listened to the exchange with trepidation. Who was Aileen? And was Ahern’s grudge against his brother legitimate? That made him even more dangerous to her. Revenge was never pretty and brought satisfaction only to the one whose hatred was fiercest. “I stole no one from you, Ahern. She entered into contract willingly, and without my encouragement. T’is a contract for which I have no taste.” “How dare you?” Ahern growled between clenched teeth. Goodness, thought Moira, he appears to have true feelings for this Aileen, whoever she may be. That he would take offense on her behalf seemed proof of that. “I mean no disrespect to Aileen,” Padraic assured him in an even tone. “T’was politic to make the arrangement, but I would gladly relinquish my claim to her, for you. We are not yet wed.” “And who would you espouse in her stead? That?” Moira jerked as if she had been slapped. Anger and shame rose heated to her cheeks. Padraic’s arm tightened around her in warning. “You know that I cannot do so. I would not risk war by such a declaration. However, if you should wed Aileen, I am free to pursue whomever I please.” “But you cannot mean to wed her?” Moira sensed the tension returning to Padraic’s body, heard the indrawn breath, felt the expansion of his chest beneath his tunic. “Nay,” he admitted, an odd resignation underlying his statement. “But if I turn her over to your care until I have a chance to speak, I cannot hope to see her returned to me unscathed.” At his words, a chill coursed Moira’s spine. She held herself still, avoiding Ahern’s eye. “You do not trust me?” Ahern questioned acerbically. “In this matter?” countered Padraic. “No.” “And what is she to you, brother? You plucked her from the field less than a day’s ride hence. Are you bewitched, then? Would you not share her with me, if not in brotherly affection, then as recompense for that which you have taken?” “God’s teeth!” cried Padraic, losing his patience. “I have taken nothing. Aileen is intact, if such she was. I have had no knowledge of her.” From the corner of her eye, Moira saw the ugly coloration rise into Ahern’s shadowed jaw like a rash. “Unlike this comely wench,” he snarled, jerking his chin at her. “She seems willing enough for the both of us.” Apparently, Ahern had been witness to a good deal more than she had hoped. With a gasp of indignation, Moira wrestled herself free of Padriac’s grasp, dismounting in a tumble to the earth. Shooting to her feet, she brushed dead leaves from Padraic’s fine multi-colored cloak. “You bastard,” she ground out. At the dead silence which ensued, Moira realized she had unearthed the core of the underlying animosity between the two brothers with unintentional accuracy. Ahern’s hand snapped to the long-bladed knife at his waist, but Padraic was swifter still. A thin arc of crimson blood, black in the night, sprayed the neck of Padriac’s mount. The prince had not drawn his weapon, but in forcing his brother’s hand from his own had driven Ahern’s fingers against the blade. Ahern drew his hand back with an angered curse. Moira could see even in the darkness that the cuts were not deep, although they were

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bleeding freely. “Witch,” seethed Ahern. “Thou art witch,” he damned her in a strangely formal tongue. Then he snatched his reins with his uninjured hand, wheeling the tall pony about and digging in his heels. The two cantered up the hill in a burst of speed, spraying clods of dirt and leaves and a fine, powdery dust. Padraic observed the departure of his brother, and even more closely that of three of his men, then turned slowly to Moira where she stood. “I did not know,” she said. “I would never have said such a thing if I had known.” He held her gaze for a long minute, the expression in his eyes altering, and altering again. He let his breath out in a lengthy sigh. “Come on, then, up you go,” he commanded, holding out his hand. Moira shook her head. “It is perhaps best if I walk in, rather than be seen riding before you, Prince Padraic.” With a small nod he acknowledged the sense of her words and the title she had granted him. “Might I continue to wear your cloak?” “Of course.” Feeling an odd catch in her throat, Moira turned to begin the ascent on foot. She was stopped by the weight of his hand on her shoulder. Bending from the pony’s back, he kissed her softly on the mouth. There was nothing of lust in the caress. Then he straightened, his fingers resting fleetingly in the wind-tangled hair at the crown of her head. A moment later he released her, catching up the reins in both hands. The pony began a stolid gait toward the top of the hill. Moira walked at Padraic’s side, her chin held high and unwarranted tears fragmenting the night as they gathered in her lashes. **** As soon as they had entered the inner courtyard of a wooden palisade, she had been separated from Padraic and escorted to cool her heels in a circular, single-room dwelling. It contained little in the way of furnishing, being supplied with a stool and an overturned bucket on a dirt, rush-strewn floor. A young girl had brought her a hunk of bread and a half-full crock of honeyed mead shortly after her arrival, and then retired. Moira eyed her filthy hands in only a slight hesitation before tearing into the bread ravenously by the light of a smoking horn lantern. She drank the mead with a little more care, uncertain whether it would go straight to her head with just the bread as sustenance since sometime before noon--before noon, and possibly eleven or twelve hundred years in the future. The renewed rush of that realization gave her pause, and she lowered the crock to the floor between her feet, nearly overwhelmed by the recognition of the precariousness of her situation. Thus far, she had counted on Padraic as her safeguard, but since the exchange between the prince and his brother her position had become perilous. There was obviously some sort of choice to be made and it would be foolish of her to count that choice to be made in her favor. Contemplating her options, however, she realized there weren’t many. She did not want to fall under Ahern’s control. Unlike Padraic’s skilled attentions, those of his brother promised to be selfish, at best, and more likely cruel, if only as a means of

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retaliation. What her fate would be once he was through with her did not bear consideration, except as a means to propel her to some sort of preemptive action. Could she escape the palisade without being apprehended? And even if she was successful, where would she go? Rising, Moira went to the door with the intention of peering outside to gauge her chances of crossing the dirt yard undetected. She found the door held against her from the outside, possibly by the presence of a guard leaning his weight upon it. Having no desire to alert anyone to her purpose, she ceased her efforts and tried to peer through the wooden slats instead. Dancing torchlight made it nearly impossible to discern what she was seeing through the narrow aperture. It looked, however, as if there were far too many people still about for her to effect an escape unseen. She would have thought the villagers inclined of necessity to retire early, sleeping with the sun, but she supposed the return of the prince had warranted some excitement among them. Turning on her heel, she began to pace the minimal diameter of the building, thinking hard. At this point, she still needed Padraic’s aid, even if it was just to take her away and abandon her to her fate. Dammit. Behind her the door opened without warning, and she spun on her heel in alarm. But it was only the young girl again, accompanied by an older woman and a fellow who might have been that woman’s husband, carrying between them a bucket of steaming water. The girl clutched a bundle of clothing in her arms and held it out to Moira wordlessly. Moira took the items from her, asking the woman to express her gratitude to the prince for his kindness. The couple exchanged glances, the woman speaking. “T’is not the prince ye should be thankin’.” “Who, then?” “Master Ahern,” she answered brusquely, and with a clumsy curtsey backed from the building, dragging the little girl by the sleeve, her man following to push the door shut. Moira sat down abruptly on the stool. “Shit,” she said. So that was how it was to be, then. Her hands began to shake and she stilled them angrily in the bundled garments draped across her knee. No matter his intent, she was grateful for the clothing and for the water. If he was planning an impromptu visit, she wanted to be dressed in more than the revealing shreds of cloth with which she had first and unintentionally greeted him. Shirking out of Padraic’s cloak, she bent to the water bucket and quickly scrubbed her face clean, pushing her fingers through her hair in an attempt to subdue it. Then she washed arms, legs, and the place between that smelled of sex and would only inflame Ahern, she felt certain, if he scented it. Ripping off the remnants of her clothes, she hastened into those that had been brought to her. Though patched, they seemed clean enough, showing no evidence of vermin in their folds. Utilizing what was left of her sundered bra, she made a sling of sorts about her waist beneath the voluminous tunic, removing the druid’s crescent from her pocket and securing it within. And just in time, as the door opened again. Slowly, Moira lifted the prince’s cloak from the stool where she had folded it and put the garment on, as a shield and a warning to the man who was entering. He was not alone. Accompanying him was a tall, fiery-haired woman with eyes the color of emeralds, far greener than her own and unnaturally bright, large pupils reflecting the minimal illumination of the ill-burning

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lantern. Ahern halted a single stride into the chamber, but the woman continued on, circling the perimeter with her vivid gaze intent on Moira in the center of the floor. Moira eyed the woman askance, wary, then returned her focus to Ahern, who stood framed by the flame-tossed rectangle of the open doorway behind. “You lied, Ahern,” said the red-haired woman. “She is already clothed.” The woman’s voice was husky, her tone in addressing Ahern intimate. Ahern shrugged, a jerk of one shoulder beneath his tunic. “She is nimble, no doubt having learned early how to master the art of removing one’s garments and climbing back into them speedily.” Moira did not respond, though her eyes narrowed. “You promised, Ahern,” said the redhead. She sounded as if she were pouting, but Moira had the distinct impression that if she turned her head she would witness less petulance in the woman’s expression than craving. Moira did not, however, risk turning her head. She watched Ahern vigilantly for sign of his intent. No doubt, the woman’s was only to unnerve her. A slow smile crawled onto his face. “Why do you not ask after my brother, witch? Have you no desire to know how he fares, or that he has cast you off for the bawd you are?” Still Moira said nothing. From the corner of her eye she noted the redhead’s approach. The woman paused at a short distance, lifting her hand to run the back of her finger along Moira’s cheek to her throat, tucking the digit inside the folded border of Padraic’s cloak to ease the garment off her shoulder. Moira stepped away. At the doorway Ahern smiled again, his eyes following the small interchange with avid interest. The redhead turned on him. “Show me her breasts, Ahern. I would see them now.” Moira drew a thin breath through her nostrils. “I have only to scream,” she stated calmly, indicating the open door. “And who would come?” asked Ahern with mock civility. “Not my brotherprince.” Nevertheless, he took a quick step backward, signaling to someone outside. The door closed. At Moira’s side the redhead laughed in delighted amusement. Setting her teeth, Moira made a swift assessment of her chances of defense. Ahern was a big man, nearly as tall as his brother and perhaps a stone heavier. The weapons to hand were meager indeed: an empty bucket and one half-full, a crock, a single stool, a greasy lantern. Flame was an option, she supposed, but dangerous to herself as well. Years ago--from now, she amended--she had taken a course in selfdefense at college. Despite a marked deficiency of occasion for its use, she thought some of the lessons she’d learned might come back to her. The fact that she had to strive to remember, however, did not bode well. The redhead took a turn around her, strolling slowly and inclining her head as she passed to breathe a soft expulsion of air against her ear, disturbing the loose tendrils tucked behind. Moira kept her eyes on Ahern. No matter what move was made, he was the stronger adversary. If she was to be overpowered quickly, it must be him to take that step. And in the next instant, he did so, assisted in concert by his fiery-haired companion. A well-placed heel behind her knee caused Moira to stumble back, giving

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Ahern the split second necessary to lunge forward and spin her about, trapping her arms behind her back with one of his own, the other levered across her throat. “Now, witch,” he whispered against her brow, “I will take my pleasure of you as I see fit.” He nodded at the redhead, who stepped forward. Moira kicked her in the knee, causing her to stagger back. Recovering, the woman renewed her efforts, forcing herself between Moira’s flailing legs, treading neatly on her skirt and effectively preventing any further attempts at offense. Leisurely she removed Padraic’s cloak from Moira’s shoulders, dropping it to the floor, then she parted the front of the bisected tunic, pushing it down Moira’s arms to expose her breasts to the chill air of the room. Beside Moira’s ear, Ahern’s respiration quickened. Dampening a fingertip with her tongue, the woman touched it to a tightened nipple, baring her teeth in a smile that was not at all pleasant to look upon. Moira struggled to pull herself away from the woman’s ministrations, and found the grip tightening on her arms to the point of pain. “Be still, little witch,” Ahern whispered. “Once you are given to me in truth, you will suffer Aileen to pleasure herself with you at my discretion.” “Aileen?” Moira echoed, finding any further diatribe cut short by the pressure of Ahern’s arm against her throat. Even so, the full impact of his statement hit her, giving her hope. If she was not yet given to him “in truth”, then perhaps Padraic had not abandoned her. She could only pray that he would come looking for her, and soon. Bending, Aileen closed her mouth around Moira’s nipple, sinking her teeth into the turgid flesh just this side of hurting her, flicking her tongue back and forth across the tip. At Moira’s back, Ahern’s arousal was immediately evident. Risking being throttled, Moira opened her mouth to scream, only to have the noise stifled beneath the pressure of Aileen’s palm against her lips. After that, Moira was not exactly certain what took place. A rush of air swept around her, fluttering the bounty of Aileen’s red hair across her breasts, and then Moira was on the floor, thudding with force against the wall. Stars reeled before her eyes. Behind her some sort of struggle was taking place, two or more men grunting in combat at close quarters, punctuated by a woman’s cry of rage. Rising to her knees, Moira clutched her mid-section, which had come into violent contact with the overturned bucket before she hit the floor. Her hand touched the gold crescent loosened from its makeshift housing, fingers closing around the symbol of the moon convulsively. A hiss sounded in her ear, a hand raking across her shoulder, her upper arm, closing around her throat. Without thinking, Moira lashed out at the woman trying to choke her, feeling the thin edge of the moon’s tip strike flesh and then bone as a scream rent the air.

Chapter Six Liam closed the book on his knee, the index finger of his right hand inserted between the pages as a temporary indicator of where he’d left off reading aloud. Moira had given him the volume of Irish poetry, sent it to him from Washington in those first

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weeks after her departure when they still had regular contact, before she realized the distress of their separation was slowly destroying him, his ability to concentrate, to focus, to think beyond the moment. In retrospect he had liked to blame his state of mind on a lack of maturity, of perception, the angst, as the Americans were fond of saying, of youth. But at nearly twenty-five years of age he had not been so very young. Funny. It occurred to him only now, watching her from across the narrow hospital room, that his pain had been real. “Doctor?” Protractedly, he turned his dark head toward the door. Rose, one of the night nurses, was standing with the weight of her slight body on one foot, a hand on the doorframe as she leaned into the room to address him. He raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re still here, doctor.” He smiled wryly. “It would seem so, wouldn’t it?” She smiled at him in return, sympathy in her brown eyes. “You knew her, did you not?” she asked, indicating Moira with a nod. “The day girls were saying so. Back in the States, when you were being educated.” Being educated. Fitting term. “Aye,” he agreed, “I did. She gave me this book,” he added, not knowing why he felt compelled to go on. “I thought reading it to her might help.” “Well,” Rose said, “like as not it’s not a bad thing, no?” “No,” agreed Liam. He used to read from it to her on the phone. Ever neglectful of the time difference, she would call him as she was curling up in her bed at 11:00 her time, leaving him wakeful at 2:00 a.m., reciting passages to her in the dark. Back then, he knew many of them by heart. Rose came into the room, crossing the floor with brisk efficiency. He watched her take Moira’s pulse, one eye on her wristwatch, then check the color of Moira’s fingernails, moving to note her observations on the chart hanging from the bottom of the bed. Next, she checked the level of the intravenous solution in the bag, the iv in Moira’s arm, glancing at the monitor as she did so. Frowning a little, she then whisked the curtain at the side of the bed toward its foot, shielding the bed from the door. “What are you doing?” Liam asked. “Checking the position of her foley, doctor.” As Rose folded back the sheets, pushing up Moira’s hospital gown, Liam averted his eyes, realizing even as he did so that his professionalism was slipping. “Doctor, have you seen this?” “Seen what?” He set the book aside, slipping a bit of paper in to hold his page, and went to stand at Rose’s side. The hem of Moira’s gown was rolled up her abdomen, the sheet tucked decently back around her hips. Even so, he could see the pronounced curve of bone to either side and remembered the feel of them in his hands, his fingers curled over each ridge, fingertips pressed into the indentation of firm and shadowed flesh as he held her from behind, his mouth buried against her fragrant nape, her golden-blonde hair soft against his jaw. “This,” said Rose, recalling him. “I saw naught in her chart about this.” With an expulsion of air from his nose, Liam reached up to flick on the hiintensity lamp clipped to the bed rail. Like the imprint of a half circle of impact just below her rib cage, a blue-black contusion had formed. The bruise looked ugly and

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recent. “Jaysus,” he murmured, reverting to the brogue of his childhood in his consternation. For the past hour and a half he had been sitting in the chair across the room, reading to her by the light of the floor lamp. If something had happened to cause the injury, he would have been witness to it. No one else had come in during that time, nor for an hour or so before. The nurses kept careful logs of visitors, and he did not believe that one of them would have accidentally caused Moira harm and not reported it. And never intentionally. There was always the slim possibility, he mused, that blood was leaching to the surface from some internal injury, a tear, perhaps, in the muscle wall, but the subcutaneous pooling would appear differently, not so clearly defined. He had read the report of the Garda who had been first on the scene of Moira’s accident, and there had been no indication that she had fallen on anything at all, let alone something in this particular shape. Still, it might have been overlooked in the immediacy of her trauma. Bending, he gently probed the area immediately surrounding the bruise. There was no swelling, no feel of gathering fluid beneath the skin, no heat or thickening of tissue. He straightened, staring for a full half minute at the discoloration, then letting his gaze drift to Moira’s face. Twelve years had done nothing to lessen her beauty. If anything, the maturing of her countenance only made it more beautiful. Both of them were a little older, true. The transformations were subtle, a result of life lived and nothing that he would change. If he remembered her as well as he thought he did, she was not one to be overly concerned about laughter lines and crow’s feet. If--when! When she returned to consciousness, would she remember him? Surely, she would. It had not been so very long, after all.... “Doctor?” He glanced at Rose. “Note the bruise in her chart, won’t you? And keep a close eye for any sign of worsening.” “Certainly, Dr. Mackenzie.” Liam expected the nurse to do as he had instructed, but she remained where she was, looking as if she wished to say something else. “Yes, Rose? What is it?” “The patient ... Ms. Delaney. Her brain function is not what one would expect for someone in her condition. Quite active.” Liam nodded, waiting. “She’s not going to die, Dr. Mackenzie. Not this night, at any rate. Her time’s not come.” Liam sucked in his breath. Was he so transparent? “I don’t believe so either, Rose,” he said softly. “Then go home, doctor. You need your rest. We’ll keep a good eye on her, me and the other girls.” Liam looked at Rose, really looked at her for the first time in a very long period. He had forgotten the kindness of her expression, of her voice. “Thank you, Rose,” he said. “I’ll do that, but not just yet. I’ve not quite done reading.” The tiny woman gave him a knowing glance, sympathy and a certain solicitude together, and then she exited the room, taking the chart with her to dutifully enter the

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notations elsewhere. Liam returned to the chair by the lamp, opening the book to a section of verse by one Thomas Moore, who had hit his stride in the first half of the nineteenth century with some rather fertile rhyme. Even so, Moira had been fond of a great many of his poems. One in particular Liam had enjoyed reading to her in the still, wee hours of the morning. “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,” he read, “which I gaze on so fondly to-day, were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms like fairy gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored....”

Chapter Seven Moira’s sobs were harsh and dry as she vacillated between anger and anguish and a feral disgust. Hunched beneath Padraic’s dirty cloak, she relived the assault behind eyes squeezed tightly shut, wanting to retch but finding she could not just will it to happen. Clutching her stomach, she rocked back and forth where she sat. After a moment she opened her eyes, frowning down at the spray of drying blood across the sleeve of her tunic and on the skirt beneath. She looked up to where Padraic stood by the brazier, turning the coals with an instrument that vaguely resembled a pair of tongs. The night was not really cold enough for the brazier’s use, but she thought he might have ordered the heat brought into the chamber for her sake. Beneath the woven cloak she was shivering as if fevered. He turned at the movement of her head, the dull red glow of the embers dancing in his oil-dark hair. “Where have they gone?” she asked him. “I do not know,” he said. Moira nodded, swallowing bile. Somehow, both Ahern and Aileen had managed to flee. Moira remembered Aileen screaming, her face laid open to the pale bone of her cheek, blood oozing through her fingers. “Fuck,” she said, lurching abruptly to her feet. From the other side of the small chamber Padraic lifted a brow, but made no comment. Even if he didn’t understand the expletive, the significance of the word was not lost on him. Striding across the floor, Moira paused in front of the narrow aperture high up in the wall, tipping her face to it. A draft of air shimmered as it struck the growing heat of the chamber. She could smell the night in it, cool and green and mingled with a variety of faint scents less pleasing. “I have never done anything so violent in my life. I don’t know that I would have, had she not tried to strangle me,” Moira murmured. “The other ... the other was ... was wrong. It was rape, an assault on my person, but it was not an attempt to take my life.” Padraic said nothing, leaving her to wonder if her last assertion was all that much of a certainty. When Ahern had insisted she was subject to his whim, it seemed he had planned for her to be around for a while, but that might just have been speech designed to inflame him, or Aileen. Or the both of them. During the earlier argument between the prince and his half-brother, she had mistaken Ahern’s reaction to Padraic’s words as the result of some sort of affection for

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the woman named Aileen. She saw now that the relationship of those two was indeed symbiotic, but there seemed no shared tenderness, only depravity. Aileen’s taste for women was not what troubled her, just Aileen and Ahern’s preference for force rather than mutual consent. And this woman had been betrothed for political reasons to Padraic. Moira blinked and sighed. Not any more, she supposed. “What will happen to me now?” she asked without turning. For a moment Padraic made no answer. Moira looked back over her shoulder. He was standing very still, almost not breathing, then he exhaled. His eyes were shadowed, the flare of a single bright blue flame from the wood coals reflected in each. “You requested my protection and I granted it. That has not changed.” Moira turned back to the window. The trembling began to lessen. She unclenched her fists over the wool skirt clothing her thighs. “And what would you request of me in return?” she asked. It was a simple question, really. She had already shown herself willing to bed him. Despite recent events, she knew she would take a great deal of comfort in that closeness, the abandonment of self in heated union. Outside the window she heard a voice raised in challenge and a terse reply. Padriac appeared beside her, listening. After a moment the second voice receded, moving away into the night. She saw the prince’s shoulders relax. “We will be undisturbed for some little while yet.” Moira nodded, accepting of the circumstance. She had no idea what would come of her hasty action in defense, for what she might be condemned or what retaliation might be administered, but for a time, at least, she was safeguarded by the measures Padraic had taken, surrounding himself with men whom he could trust, and therefore her as well. “Are you hungry? I will have something brought to us here.” “No. Thank you. The bread was enough.” At the inclination of his head, she knew that he had sent the hunk of dark bread and the mead to her. She had not been certain before, but had thought it perhaps the perversity of his brother to see her cared for and then to attempt violation. In memory, bitter gall rose into her throat. She nearly choked on it. Her heart began to pound in her breast. Agitated, she turned on her heel, striding back across the chamber. The flooring was not dirt, but stone laid carefully into a random pattern. For the first time since entering, she took note of the indications of rank in the tapestries on the wall, the spartan but ample furnishings, the fact that the pallet upon which she had been sitting was raised from the floor on a wood and rope frame to keep it from the draft that even now rustled the edge of her skirt. Pausing, she swept back that garment, frowning at the condition of her bare feet and ankles, muddied and torn from briers and stones. Crouching down, she scrubbed the detritus of her travels with her hem, harder and harder, warm, salt tears running over the high curve of her cheekbones. A spate of words tumbled from her mouth, some of them spectacularly profane. She laughed in caustic humor at her use of them. There was a tinge of hysteria to the sound. Catching her breath, Moira hunkered down over her heels, wrapping her arms around her legs, her forehead pressed to her bent knees. When she felt his hand in her hair, she flinched inwardly, but otherwise held herself still. His touch was gentle, tender, smoothing her locks back over her crown to

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gather them at the base of her neck. “Hush, mo chroi,” he whispered. “You are a prince,” she answered, voice muffled against the folds of her skirt. “You should take more care whom you address as ‘my heart.’ “ “Why would I not mean it when I call you such?” he asked. “You don’t know me,” she answered, lifting her head and folding her arms across her knees, her chin resting on the firm flesh of one of them. She tipped her head a little, eyeing him sidelong. “And you should not risk giving anyone the ability to make a claim to your affections.” “I could deny I have said such a thing,” he suggested mildly. “Would you?” “Nay,” he said. “I didn’t think so.” “Therefore,” he said, “I am ofttimes a lonely man.” Dipping forward onto her knees, Moira straightened her spine, wiping the moisture from her face with the flat of her fingers, her left hand bunched in her skirt. Padraic maintained his mellow grip on her hair as he crouched beside her on one knee, observing her closely through his long-lashed, dark eyes. “We have tonight,” he said. “Likely no more than that. I cannot choose as another man would. And I would not make of you a concubine, kept with or without the knowledge of the woman I must wed.” “Not Aileen?” she scarcely breathed the name. “Not Aileen,” he concurred. “But there will be another to take her place. So it must be.” “I know this,” she said. And if a child was made he would be, like Ahern, named bastard. She turned her gaze to the brazier, to the wisp of smoke rising above the smoldering embers. There would very likely be no child. Not if this was their only night together. If she could prevent the spilling of his semen into her body, she could preclude the occurrence of conception. And tomorrow she would leave here, leave this place, leave him. “I want to go home,” she whispered. “Did you not tell me that your home is no more?” “So it is not,” she replied, exhaling. He was her hope of survival, of safety, and yet she must walk away from him, into risks unknown, unforeseeable. Although there were at least two who hated her here, who might yet be a danger to her, at least she was cognizant of that peril. Yet if she stayed, Padraic must, in time, turn away from her. I want to go home, she said again, but not aloud. God, what was she to do? Padraic leaned forward, pressing his mouth to her temple. His breath was warm, lightly scented with something resembling cloves. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping the last trace of moisture from her skin. “For this night,” he said, “you are my heart. Aye?” Her lips curved. “Aye,” she echoed, and turned her head to kiss him. **** Steam curled from the surface of the water. Moira held her hand over it, reveling in the warmth. She had merely mentioned a desire to bathe and Padraic had gone to the door, somewhat bemused by her request, and ordered a wooden tub brought in, one that

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was stained and smelled suspiciously like dye, but was nonetheless clean. Several steaming buckets of water were dumped inside, only filling it a third of the way, but she smiled at Padraic in genuine gratitude. Even if he was just easing his loneliness, satisfying his own errant lust, his kindness was genuine. Her enthusiasm for her bath was only dampened by the moment when she realized there would be no privacy. Loosening the lacings on his boots, Padraic pulled them off and laid down on the wool-stuffed mattress, his arms behind his dark head. His eyes glittered in the illumination of the brazier and a single taper. “You mean to watch me, don’t you?” “I do,” he stated simply. Pursing her lips, Moira shrugged, yanking off her skirt and tossing it aside. The tunic was long and voluminous, falling to just above her knees. Compared to what she had been wearing when first she’d seen Padraic and his company, she might as well have been dressed in a burlap sack. Nevertheless, the rustlings of movement on the pallet behind her stilled. Ignoring the warmth that the knowledge of his observance brought to her skin, Moira dipped the edge of her sleeve into the water, scrubbing off the last of the soil from her feet. There was no need to sully the bath she was hoping to soak in. Stepping into the water, she flinched as the heated liquid seared already tender skin, stinging cuts and raw abrasions. Untying the belt at her waist, she opened her tunic, preparing to slip out of it and into the tub without too much exposure. As the cloth slipped down her arms, she remembered Aileen, the manner in which she had removed the garment from her body, as if she had all the time in the world. They had never expected Padraic to come. Why was that? Pulling the blouse back up onto her shoulders, she clutched it tight for a moment at her throat. She bit her lip. Had they something planned for Padraic as well, and that plan had miscarried? “Moira?” “Are you hastening me?” “Never,” he assured her. She could hear the smile in his voice. Well, he was safe. If some plot had, indeed, been in place, it had met with failure. Letting the warm breath of her lungs out slowly through her nose, Moira once more began to remove the tunic. And once more she hesitated, this time at a whispered command from Padraic. “The water will grow cold,” she said. “I see the steam rising still,” he pointed out. She heard him climb from his narrow bed, padding across the floor on feet nearly silenced by design of the garment he wore, stockings and breeches woven in one piece. Turning her head slightly, she glanced over her shoulder. He had removed his shirt. The rosy glow of the brazier danced over the musculature of his chest and arms. Dark hair curled in a silky mat, tapering down his taut belly. She turned her gaze to the fore, staring at their two shadows on the wall. The difference in height and size was clearly evident. She had noted how both he and his brother towered over the other four who had ridden with them, with Padraic the taller of the two. Even his shadow showed evidence of his bearing, his grace in motion, his strength. She closed her eyes as his hands cupped her shoulders, palms curved and warm. The balls of his thumbs kneaded the flesh at the base of her neck.

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“You are lovely here,” he said, lightly tracing the side of her throat. “And here,” running a finger beneath her shoulder blade. Catching the fabric of her tunic in his fingers, he pulled it down her arms and cast it elsewhere. Moira shivered as the air touched her skin. “And here,” he said, delineating the narrow line of her waist. “And here,” his voice somewhat huskier, his hands moving to curve around the arched bones of her hips, fingers fitting into the indentation of flesh just beyond. He stepped close, pressing against her, and she could feel the heat of him, the taut length of his body, the flutter of his breath across her crown, behind her ear, on her skin where her neck curved into her shoulder as he kissed her there, the edge of his teeth making light contact as he withdrew his body from hers. “And here,” he said again, reaching around before her to take her breasts in his hands, fingers lightly circling her nipples. She pressed herself into the curve of his palms, wanting direct contact, but he continued quite deliberately to tease her, and then he released her breasts to lay his hands flat against her belly. “And here,” he whispered, following the contours of her stomach and moving lower, both hands sliding between her legs. He kissed her shoulder blade, the center of her back, the curve of her left buttock as he crouched behind her and gently parted her legs just enough to allow him to fondle the folds of flesh between, slick with arousal. “And here,” he said, pushing his fingers inside of her. She moaned in pleasure, a rush of heat welling up from her womb into her limbs. He held her with one hand fastened around her knee, the other moving in long, slow strokes. She felt her legs begin to tremble, the only thing keeping her from dropping to her knees into the water the anchor of his one hand. And then he stood up. “Sit,” he said. “I will wash you.” “Oh.” The abrupt cessation of his attentions left her breathless and wanting more, which was very likely, she mused, his intention. “Very well.” With his hands on her shoulders she lowered herself with her knees drawn up into the water, the displacement of which brought the level to her waist. Steam billowed around her face, deepening the flush of her cheeks and clinging to her eyelashes. Kneeling on the floor behind her, he cupped water in his hands, pouring it over her, starting at the top. She tipped her head back to let the warm fluid flow over her face and along her throat, then dropped her chin to her knees to feel the same sensation down the length of her spine. From somewhere he produced a rag of cloth, which he dipped into the bath. Then he cupped the back of her head in his hand, urging her to lift her face to him. With remarkable tenderness he washed her brow, the hollow of her eyes sockets, her nose and cheeks and chin, pausing once to touch his lips to hers. She yearned toward him, lifting herself slightly out of the water to meet his mouth. With the tip of his finger, he urged her back down, then he scrubbed her back, the length of her arms, taking particular care with her hands. “You were burned,” he commented, unfurling the fingers of her left hand. “Not badly,” she answered without elucidation. Returning to her arms, he trailed the cloth along the underside to her breasts and then her abdomen. She yelped as he came in contact with the area just below the curve of her ribs. Arching back slightly to look, she observed a half-circle of blue-black bruising.

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His fingers followed the course of her gaze in a light touch. “How did this occur?” “I fell. It’s nothing.” He made a noise of dissension in his throat. “And this?” he asked, touching her again. Her nipple tightened. She looked and saw a staggered ridge of tiny marks across her flesh. “Aileen,” she said. “She bit me.” He said nothing, cupping her breast in his hand. His brows lowered, some emotion moving in his eyes that she could not read. It might have been a dark and livid lust as he envisioned the event. Then his aspect cleared and the lust now evident was his alone. He bent, tongue flat as he licked the perimeter of her nipple before closing his mouth over it. A wave of heated pleasure moved along the surface of her skin. She shoved her fingers into his thick, dark hair and held him there against her breast, respiration quickening. He opened his mouth long enough to murmur a pair of words against her flesh. “Touch me,” he said. She needed no further direction. Reaching out of the tub, she stroked him through the fabric of his breeches and felt him leap against her hand. “For you,” he said, withdrawing to flick his tongue across her breast. “When you want me, you must tell me.” Amazingly, he went back to the process of her bath, yet it was not quite the same as it had been. For one thing, he neglected to pick the cloth back out of the water, running his wet hands over her knees, kneading her calves, her ankles, her heels, the soles of her feet. She purred in pleasure as the tension left her body. All the time he continuously repositioned himself for a more advantageous angle, for ease of movement and access. Moira relaxed, letting her head drop back over the rough edge of the makeshift tub. Suddenly her eyes opened, staring up at the smoke-stained roof overhead. She picked up her head to look at him. His sodden, dark hair had fallen, dripping, across his eyes and he was watching her from beneath his lashes, his face damp, expression smoldering, hands that had forced her knees apart still resting on her thighs. He continued to meet her gaze. “Stand up.” Remembering his words while they were riding, both desire and threat, a tremor took her, a chill that shivered her flesh as she obeyed him, rising out of the water into the much cooler atmosphere of the chamber. He stood as she did, shirking out of his breeches so that he was naked before her. From head to toe, he was so beautifully made she felt her heart skip a beat. She reached out to touch him, to draw him near, to stroke him again. His fingers closed around her wrist. “Do you want me now? Remember this. One night, if that, is all we have.” She drew several shallow breaths while she considered. “Not yet,” she said. He nodded, satisfied with her answer, crossing to stir the coals in the brazier. Watching him, she admired the curve of his back, his locomotion, the taut length of his thighs, his firm buttocks. One night. They would do well to make the best of it. When he did not immediately return to her, Moira patted herself dry with a square of linen that had been brought for that purpose, then bent to pick up her scattered

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clothing, and his, folding the garments loosely and placing them on a stool. She retained her tunic, preparing to put it on against the slight chill in the chamber. “Leave it lie,” he said, “and come to me here.” She complied, crossing the floor toward the warmth of the glowing coals. His frank and admiring gaze brought a blush to her cheeks. As she neared, he slipped his hand around her own and lifted it to kiss her palm, and then her wrist. “Do you know what I thought when first I set eyes on you?” She shook her head, damp tendrils falling across her forehead. He brushed them away. “That you were mine. That I knew you.” Moira’s brows dipped together. “How very extraordinary.” He shrugged, a quick jerk of one shoulder. “Aye. T’was a fleeting thought, and made as little sense to me as it does to you now. Still, I could not withdraw it, nor forget what I had thought, and it has stayed with me. That you are mine. That you know me.” That you are mine. That you know me... Something in his words stirred a memory just out of reach, circling in a shadowed place like a dream-thought lost forever to waking recall. She felt strangely lonely in the aftermath of recognition, bereft, and stepped up against him, laying her cheek against the firm flesh of his chest, pressing her lips to his inner arm as he encircled her in his embrace. His heart beat beneath her ear, slow and steady. “Mo chroi,” he said again. This time she made no argument against his sentiment. She opened her mouth against the solid arch of his muscle and felt it move as he lifted his arm to stroke her hair with an open hand. She scented his skin, clean sweat and the thin wood smoke and his own underlying musk that was utterly masculine and moved through her senses in a manner that sent a frisson across the surface of her skin. Turning her head, she ran the tip of her tongue over his chest and felt the stippling of his flesh trailing her caress. The tiny bud of his nipple was hard as she passed over it, eliciting from him a subdued, rumbling groan of pleasure. She closed her eyes and repeated the action. Palming the base of her skull in his large hand, he pulled her close, respiration ragged as he urged her not to stop. His penis was turgid and heated, pressed between them. Wriggling her hand along her own belly, she stroked him in a languid caress, starting with his testicles. On a sharp intake of breath he grabbed both of her shoulders, pushing down on them gently. She supposed that had she hesitated at all he would have released her, but she obliged him more than willingly. His hands slipped into her hair, snagging in a tangle with a muttered apology. “Shhh,” she whispered, and took him into her mouth. She could feel the coarse, dark hairs on his legs rise beneath her hand as a shudder of pleasure coursed through him. “Muirnin,” he murmured, breathless, “mo r n.” She smiled at the endearments, flicking her tongue over and around the glans. He spoke again, a word she did not understand, and pulled away, dropping to his knees. He kissed her hard on the mouth. “No more,” he said, his forehead pressed to hers. “By and by you may return to that, but not now.” Beneath her hands his muscles quivered as he strained to regain mastery of his body. A beautiful man, battle-hardened, scarred, his dark hair, dark eyes, suddenly familiar to her and very dear. “I know you,” she whispered. “I am yours.”

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He kissed her again and she opened her mouth beneath the pressure of his, felt the force of his breath in the moist hollow and across her tongue. Rising up, he took her with him, her arms circled about his neck, her legs around his hips, held there by his firm grip on her upper thighs. It was a remarkable feat of agility and strength, standing to his full height with her in his arms, but he made it seem effortless. He slid himself between her legs, but not into her, cushioned instead against her aroused flesh, hot and hard and intoxicating. “Padraic,” she said against the full curve of his mouth, arms clasped across his shoulders, one hand settled against the back of his neck, “I want you now.” “Nay.” She blew out a breath of laughter, of frustration and lascivious amusement at his delicious torment. “You said I had only to tell you,” she reminded him. “So I did,” he agreed. “Nay.” She moved her hips in an attempt to take him in, but he made short shrift of her efforts by delivering a swift and stinging slap to the fleshy curve of her buttock. It didn’t hurt so much as surprise her, and she yelped, pulling herself up and away from his hand. “Patience,” he whispered against her ear. His mouth moved to the side of her throat, to the heavy pulse of her blood beneath the surface, then to the pronounced curve of her collar bone. She arched back in his embrace, presenting her breasts to him. His breath, warm and moist, passed across her nipple, followed by the flat of his tongue, and then his teeth, gently, evoking a response that had nothing to do with remembered anguish, only pleasure. Carrying her to the bedstead, he set her on her feet on the narrow mattress, placing her breasts on a level conducive to his mouth’s expedition over her skin. The muscles of her womb contracted in longing as his hand slid between her legs, palpating the moist flesh, parting her, his fingers gliding back and forth over a path made slick by her intense arousal. She moaned in wordless pleasure. “There are none to see us now,” he said. She nodded, then bit her lip to keep from crying aloud as he trailed kisses down the curve of her stomach, pausing only long enough to stroke the swollen flesh of her clitoris with an exploratory finger before closing his mouth over the same. His hands on her thighs were all that kept her from collapsing onto the mattress below, ensnared by the heated caress of his mouth between her legs. When she came, he was very much aware of it, of the climactic surge through her flesh, throbbing in her breasts, and would not relinquish her. “Now?” she asked hoarsely, still trembling, still feeling the pulse of sensation. He said nothing, but wrestled them down onto the soft, uneven mattress and thrust himself inside of her in a fierce and fired rhythm that gave her no room for breath, for coherent thought. She convulsed around him in final release as he spilled himself inside of her, his cry of liberation echoed by her own. Only later, as he lay beside her in the darkness, the coals burned to mere embers and the breath of his murmured words soft against her ear, did she recall her determination to prevent the unleashing of his sperm into a possibly fertile womb. Biting her upper lip, she turned toward his shadowed countenance and kissed him, silencing his recitation of a passage of verse of which he was particularly fond. “Leannán.”

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“Sweetheart,” she responded in kind, and kissed him again. His fingers drifted to lie across her stomach, the arm around her shoulder pulling her close. He angled his leg over hers beneath the napped weave of the blanket. “Sleep,” he said. She nodded against his throat. Whatever had happened, there was no undoing it now.

Chapter Eight Opening her eyes, Moira remembered for a moment Padraic’s whispered verse, but the words were different and it was another man’s voice. She stared into the darkness, dimly aware that it was not the dreaming that had woken her up, but something else, some noise that thrummed just beyond hearing. She moved a little on the mattress, stretching her legs beneath the blanket, realizing as she did so that she had ample room to do so in the narrow confines of the bed. Sitting up, she peered around the chamber in search of Padraic, lips parting to call his name. A hand closed around her mouth. “Moira, hush. Get dressed. Be quick, and silent.” Padraic did not need to repeat his command. Impelled by the urgency in his tone, Moira scrambled from the bed, taking the clothes he thrust into her arms. Once dressed, she joined him by the narrow window where she could see his upturned profile, the darker shadow of his hair, and little else. She pressed her mouth to his ear. “What is it?” He raised his hand, a finger extended, touching it lightly to her lips to stop her speaking again. Beyond the aperture she could hear stealthy, rapid speech, too low and too quick for her to understand. No challenge was offered. The deeper, gruffer voice of the guard had been silenced. In exactly what manner, Moira did not care to consider. Beside her, Padriac turned his head, glancing around the chamber behind. He moved across the floor, scooping a handful of water from the tub as he went, which he sprinkled over the remnants of the embers in the brazier. With a hiss, smoke rose in a billowing cloud as the last of a faint rosy hue was vanquished from the chamber. Near the window Moira strained to hear any indication that someone had heard the noise, but the voices continued their fluid discussion. Looking back toward Padraic, she saw him toss something pale in color, the linen she had dried herself with perhaps, over the brazier, willing to risk slow combustion but not the further escape of smoke. A winking flash of steel showed that he had drawn his weapon from whatever place he had laid it down. Observing his preparations, Moira felt her heart began to race. Her mind, however, was not frantic with trepidation, but markedly lucid. Silent in her bare feet, she went to his side, miming a need for something of her own to use for defense. At first, she was not certain he could see her, but then he bent to her ear. “Where is that which you used against Aileen?” he asked, so quietly his words were little more than air.

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Moira’s hand moved to her waist, even though she knew that even the sling she had made was not there. “The cead-rai-re,” she whispered back, “is gone. I didn’t have it with me when you brought me here.” He seemed momentarily puzzled by her reference, then he shrugged, the oneshouldered gesture eloquent even in the dark. Taking her hand, he led her to the door. With painstaking care, he lifted the crossbeam that barred it. She wondered why they did not just stay there, secure in the chamber, then realized that they could not hold out within walls forever. Those outside would only have to wait. Pushing the door open just enough to slip through, Padraic stood in the gap and listened. Moira held his breath as he did, straining her ears for any sign of a presence immediately outside the barrier. Hearing nothing, she waited for the prince’s signal to move forward through the gap. His long-bladed knife was shielded from reflection against his breeches. He was without his cloak. With eyes accustomed to the darkness, Moira glanced back and thought she saw the blankets on the bed humped as if someone lay beneath them and guessed he had put his outer garment to that use. Outside, she stood pressed to the wall as he eased the door shut again. No need to forewarn whoever was out here of the possibility that they had made a hasty exit. His fingers clasped around her own, tugging her into motion. Stealthily, they turned away from the voices and into the night in single file. **** Her lungs were burning with her effort to keep up with Padraic’s loping stride, the muscles of her legs stinging, her feet battered and torn. They would never get away if she faltered much further. She could hear the baying of hounds in the distance. Wolfhounds, Padraic had told her in grim acknowledgment of her breathless inquiry. “Padraic! Padraic! Prince!” she called to him to make him stop, just for a moment. He halted, returning to her in a pair of strides. “Do not call me prince, Moira. There is no necessity for that.” He, too, was getting winded, she realized with alarm. As he stood before her, he bent slightly, one hand on his knee, the other clutched to his side. Following her gaze, he grimaced. “I was injured in the fighting with Ahern when I came for you. T’is naught but a blunt wound from his fist. When we are safe, it will not keep me from taking you again.” He grinned in the starlight, teeth flashing. She was not fooled. “I would think that I am the one being sought, not you. I disfigured your betrothed, caused you to engage in combat with your half-brother. You are still their prince. I will go on and you should return by some other route, so that you do not meet up with them alone.” He shook his head, dark hair blowing back from his furrowed brow in the breeze. “Those are not my men who follow, but Ahern’s. Neither one of us will see the light of morning, if they catch us.” Moira closed her eyes. A shiver coursed her spine. “I hold you back. I am too slow.” To his credit, he did not resort to pointless argument of that fact. He straightened, looking about the sparse forest. Slowly, he drew his knife from his belt. For a fleeting instant she thought that perhaps he meant to kill her before he went on, rather than have her fall into the hands of his brother and the likelihood of much cruelty and pain. But he

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merely indicated direction with the flash of metal. “You are not wrong, a ghrá mo chroi,” he stated. “We cannot hope to outrun them together, but neither will I leave you here to face that fate alone. What must you think of me, that you would expect I might? There is a place, over the crest, where time out of mind a village once stood. I will hide you there and go on, then return for you.” Grasping her elbow, he assisted her up the incline, pushing her ahead of him. She welcomed the warmth, the fierce grip of his fingers on her arm, regretting the loss of physical contact between them as they ran, regretting that she had brought him to this pass. For although the enmity between Padraic and his bastard brother had existed long before her arrival in their lives, she knew her presence had hastened their troubles to this crisis. Clutching her skirt in her free hand, she grunted as she stepped once more on a projection in the soil. Halting, she asked Padraic to cut a swath of fabric from the hem of her skirt, which he then split. She wrapped them around her feet, lifting her head as the sound of baying echoed through the hollow somewhere on the opposite side of the hill. “I’m sorry, Padriac,” she said to him. He merely shook his head, clutching her to him briefly, his kiss tender and forgiving. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It is of no matter. Come, we must hurry a little longer.” As they descended, they passed a growing number of boulders. One in particular caught Moira’s attention, looming out of the earth, black against the night. Her eye seemed drawn to it as they zigzagged down a track that only Padraic was able to see. As they neared, she witnessed the glimmer of starlight in water lying in a small basin carved in a flat stone before it. Padraic went straight to the standing stone, and paused. “Quickly,” he whispered, “your hand.” Obediently, she held her hand out to him. Swift as lightning, he dragged the blade of his knife lightly across two of her fingers, squeezing the blood onto the stone. With a gasp, Moira drew her hand back, sucking the small wounds and tasting the copper tinge of blood on her tongue. “I must leave that which is precious to me, in offering to the old ones. My own blood is meaningless to me now.” At his words, Moira felt tears pricking her lids. She watched as he spoke soundlessly, then he lifted his head to the night sky, uttering a quick, Christian prayer. And so it was, she knew, the mingling of the old faith with the new. “This way,” he said. “The place is haunted, so they say, but I hid here once as a child. Nothing came to disturb me. When I returned home a day later, Ahern was beaten for losing me in the forest.” His voice was harsh in recollection. Even as children, Ahern had apparently suffered the stigma of his birth. Moira suspected Padraic’s role in the disparity of the brothers’ upbringing through no fault of his own haunted him more than any ghost. Despite his dismissal of spirits in the forest, as they entered the remnants of the village--tumbled structures overgrown and only hinting at their former existence--Moira felt a cat’s paw dance the length of her spine. The call of insects in the night, the rustle of leaves and creaking of branches overhead seemed dulled, almost silenced. Even the baying hounds and the more infrequent shouts of men seemed very far away. She could only hope that was true, that perhaps the wolfhounds had lost the scent and had gone

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astray. Yet she doubted it. “There is a dry cistern here,” Padraic said. His voice, too, was subdued, muffled as if in a wadding of cotton. Moira was suddenly afraid to be left there alone, yet she knew if she did not hide herself in this place that Padraic would not be able to escape their pursuers. She could not be responsible for that. “Here,” he said, and released her hand, bending to clear away woodland debris. With a grunt, he shoved aside the stone on top. “How did you remember where it was? In the dark?” He shook his head. “I do not know.” Hefting a stone, he dropped it into the black depths. Relatively quickly it hit bottom with a shallow, fluid plunk. Whatever water lay at the base, it was not deep. Even so, it was very dark in there and she could feel the chill rising up from the earth. “Take my hands and I will lower you down. If I remember aright, there is a rock below with a flat base where you can sit. The wait may be long.” Fitting her fingers into his, Moira nodded, smiling at him bravely. Nevertheless, her hands shook and he squeezed them tightly. “Do not fear, leannán.” “I’m not afraid,” she lied. Plainly, he did not believe her. He looked at her long in the night, his eyes as blue as midnight made black by shadow and nearly shielded from her view by the length of his lashes. “I will return for you soon, I swear it, my heart. But you must be very still. Any sound you make will echo. Once you are within, I will push the stone nearly across. When the daylight comes, you will see it.” She nodded, trembling uncontrollably, but she knew for his sake that she must delay no longer. She sat down on the coping, her legs dangling in empty air, then held her arms up, pressing her feet against the stone to either side in support until his grip on her was firm. “Once more,” he said. “What?” “Kiss me once more before we part.” Tipping her head back, she felt the warmth of his mouth on her own, and then he had swung her out over the opening, lowering her with care into the darkness below. She marveled at the tensile strength in his arms, his back, as he bent to extend himself as far as he could. Her toe touched water, icy cold, and she whispered up to him to let go of her. He did, and she dropped, losing her balance. Righting herself, she found the stone he had told her was there and clambered onto it, tucking her feet up underneath her. Her skirt was already soaked, the chill liquid wicking into the fabric. It would not be long before she felt the effects of exposure. “Soon,” he whispered down to her. “I will lead them a merry chase, and then return for you ere long.” With that, the dark silhouette of his head and shoulders withdrew from the starfilled sky. The capstone slid back into place, with just a margin left open to the air. It was not enough. The blackness below was absolute. Oh God, she whispered soundlessly, blind panic making her heart race. She bit her lip against uttering her fear aloud. She could not let Padraic hear her. He must run as fast as he could now that she was no longer holding him back. She remembered, too, his

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admonition to remain quiet. Even though she knew those who hunted them were not near this place, she felt that there were other things whose attention she did not wish to call. Leaning her head back against the slime of the bounded wall, she stared into the blackness and held herself as still as death.

Chapter Nine The book slid from Liam’s hand, striking the floor and waking him with a start. A hush at the nurse’s station indicated to him that the hour was late, indeed. The air of brisk efficiency was gone and in its stead was a quiet and gentle ambience. Reaching for the fallen volume, he saw that someone had placed a blanket across his legs, a clear indication of just how soundly he had been sleeping. Setting the book on the table, he stared across the room at Moira. All the lights in the room were off, the monitor turned slightly from its former position, as if the amber illumination of the measurements moving across the screen might possibly have disturbed his rest, or Moira’s. Draping the blanket over the chair arm, Liam stood, stretching his arms above his head. The door was partially closed, a pale luminance from the hallway forming an elongated triangle on the floor and reflecting on the metal bed rails. Scratching his stubbled jaw, he walked softly to the side of the bed. His lips twisted in a slow, sad smile as he studied her face, so very still and pale. He touched her bandaged hand lying outside the sheet. The dressing had unraveled, and he lifted her fingers into his own seeking to remedy that condition. Unwinding the bandage, he removed the treated gauze beneath for a quick inspection of the only burn that was of consequence. Exposed to the air and the faint illumination filtering into the room, he viewed once again the peculiarity of its shape. Like a crescent moon it was, burned from the heel of her palm to her fingertips. She had been holding something she had unearthed, or so an eyewitness to the incident had reported, but the item had not been recovered. If it had been any metal but gold, the object had likely acted as a conduit for the surge of powerful electricity that struck her, then evaporated from the force. Gently he laid her hand back down. The dressing needed to be renewed. He would get a nurse in here in a moment. Curving the fingers of both hands around the bed rail, he leaned his weight onto his arms, head bowed in contemplation of her stillness. There was something different about it, about the way she held herself in unconsciousness. Involuntary spasms were commonplace in cases such as hers, but it was as if she were preternaturally still, like an effigy of herself. The color she’d possessed earlier in the night in her cheeks had faded. Reaching out, he laid the backs of his fingers against her jaw, her forehead, the lids of her eyes. She seemed cold to the touch. Feeling the skin of her arms, her throat, the fingers he had just uncovered, he realized that she was quite cold. Straightening, he crossed the floor and yanked open the door, startling a nurse seated behind the station desk. Liam glanced at the clock. Rose was no doubt long gone. “What’s your name?” he asked the young woman.

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“Rita.” “Do you know who I am?” “We were warned that we would find you sleeping in the patient’s room, Dr. Mackenzie,” the young woman admitted with a smile. “Well, then,” he said, somewhat taken aback. “Would you mind taking Ms. Delaney’s temperature, Rita?” The woman rose with alacrity, no doubt alarmed by his tone, and followed him back into the room. Inserting the probe into Moira’s ear, she frowned at the readout and repeated the process. Liam leaned to view the numbers over the nurse’s shoulder. “Oh, bloody fucking hell,” he said.

Chapter Ten Hypothermia was setting in. She knew it was, if only by her inability at this point to shiver and her overwhelming desire to just close her eyes and sleep. She had heard noises, almost like voices, disembodied and floating in the blackness. Whether hallucination or fact she could not discern. But they had stopped some time ago. Her eyes closed, or she thought they did. There was no way of telling, now. Bright flashes of light, tiny pinpoints brilliant in the dark, danced against her lids. She saw faces fading in and out and heard the voices again, seeming to speak her name. Denizens of this long ago, haunted place come to call. One of them looked very like Padraic and she started awake, fearing he had died. “No,” she said aloud, her voice whispering along the damp walls like birds’ wings brushing the stone. “I let you go so that you might live. Don’t die. Don’t die...” Tears stung her eyes and trailed in narrow warmth over her chilled cheeks. I want to go home, she thought again, but for a time could not remember where that might be. Her left hand began to itch and she rubbed it over the damp wool of her skirt, eliciting a stinging discomfort as skin met rough fibers. Her legs were numb. She could feel her heart rate slow, become ponderous in her breast. There was danger in the forest overhead, but there was death here for certain if she stayed. She did not know if she would have the strength, at this juncture, to climb out of the cistern, but she knew that she must. By now Padraic was long away. Even if she climbed into one of the trees, perhaps her scent would be missed by the dogs, if they came, and she could watch for her lover’s return from above. It would be warmer there, and when the sun rose she would know it on her upturned face and in her limbs, feel the heat of life return to her blood. Slowly she rose, her bound feet slipping from the flat stone into the murky, frigid water. Her body bid her sit back down and rest, sleep until strength returned, but her thoughts grew more lucid with action and she knew the folly of giving in to the weakness of her body. With grave concentration, she fit her fingers into the piled and slippery stone of the cistern wall, dragging her feet out of the water and onto the flat surface where she had been seated. There was no residue of warmth there from her body and she wondered if she had already drifted so far from life that she left no hint of her corporeal

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existence. Ignoring that question, she struggled to find a toe hold in the wall, her skirt dragging around her ankles. Progress was slow and taxing, but it seemed to return much needed circulation to her system, spreading a thin and scarcely effectual warmth to her muscles. Halfway up she paused to rest, legs locked far apart, the pressure of their immobility and her own will to survive keeping her anchored, fingers inserted with fierce grip into gaps between the stone. A fey light grew around her like the moon in the mist, barely perceived at first, until she realized that she could see her hands, the wisps of her hair floating about her face. She looked up to the gap left by Padraic around the capstone. The grey light of pre-dawn filtered down and with it an icy realization. Even if she climbed to the top, she would not have the leverage nor the strength to move that stone. She gritted her teeth, refusing to dispense with hope just yet. And then she heard it, a sound that withered what hope remained. Agile and swift, the pattering of four-footed creatures moved through the damp and deteriorated leaves blanketing the earth above. The snuffling focus of an animal on the hunt echoed down into the cistern like a heated breath in her ear. She was not certain at what point in history Ireland had wolves, but she didn’t believe the animals she heard were anything but a trained pack of canines searching a scent on the sparsely forested hillside. A moment later she was proven right. A man’s voice, hoarse but distinct, spoke to another. “Damned beasts cowered at the ridge through the night. I couldna get them to come any closer afore this. Got the scent o’ ‘er now, though.” Moira did not hear the response, if any was made. The wolfhounds had become confused near the cistern, passing it by, then returning again, whimpering softly. She didn’t dare to move, not even for a better hold as her legs threatened to give out. “Dia, I care not for this place. The hair stands on my arms, it does.” The speaker was nearer now, his footfalls thudding in impact. The dogs continued to whine, circling. Moira held her breath. “Get on, now, ye divils. Naught there but a cocked stone. Seek! Seek!” And then, “Foolish hounds,” either to himself or to someone near as the dogs bounded away, voices raised in mournful discord. Moira listened for a reply, but none came. The heavy footsteps of the handler passed by. Cautiously, Moira exhaled. Another footfall sounded, throbbing through the earth hard by the cistern. A branch snapped with the crack of a whip, making Moira start. The fingers of her right hand slipped and she scrabbled to regain her grip, the chilled muscles of her legs straining to keep her from dropping back into the water below. Dread darkened her sight. No, not dread, but a shadow above, blocking the curve of sullen light. She glanced up, praying that the dimness of the cistern concealed her well. That if anyone had paused nearby they had not heard her movements, could not see her hiding within, would not be aware of her fear floating up toward the sky like a palpable miasma. “Well met, little witch,” said Ahern quietly, his eyes glittering as hard as blue sapphires in the dimness created by his position, peering into the narrow space left open by Padraic so that she might see the sun. The low menace of his voice reverberated through the hollow cylinder of rough hewn stone, tripping along her skin. **** Moira stood still as stone, her clothes rent and muddied, her wrists raw where the

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rope had bitten into the flesh over slender bone. She could smell the blood on them, taste it in her mouth where the a narrow branch had been forced lengthwise between her teeth and then bound there by a tattered strip of cloth torn from her own skirt. Ahern had tried to rape her in the forest, before the other fellow had returned with the dogs, but without his fiery-haired cohort or a display of overt fear, he remained shriveled and so had struck her instead. Her arms were marked with defensive bruising and from her scalp a thin ooze of blood had dried on her forehead, a tendril of hair locked into it like an insect caught in dark amber. Unable to speak, and unwilling to make the attempt for the amusement of her captors, Moira held her tongue loosely in her mouth, working it occasionally to swallow lest she choke on the accumulation of saliva at the back of her throat. A tribunal of sorts was convening to give voice to the official charges against her. She already knew what they would be. Ahern had delighted in telling her. Strangers all of them, with the exception of Ahern, crowded into the chamber. Nearly the last to enter was a rather tall man in the robes of some religious order, followed closely by Aileen. She entered with her red head bowed, glancing up only once to glare at Moira with hatred in her eyes. On her cheek her wound was ugly, red and poorly stitched. The man in robes was a friar who apparently served the religious needs of those gathered. It was obvious that they knew him, respected him, even feared him. Aileen continued her sanctimonious act, even going so far as to clutch her cheek on occasion with an expression of silent suffering. Moira looked away from her. The assault on Prince Padraic’s betrothed was the first charge brought against her. Unable to speak out in her own defense, Moira stared at the friar, her gaze holding his own until he looked away uncomfortably. Secrets were not kept in a community of this size. No doubt even he had heard of the woman’s propensities, sheltered as he might be among others of his kind. No mention was made of Aileen’s culpability, just a brief description of her wounding without reference to the circumstance which had prompted it. The second and most damning, of course, was the accusation of witchcraft; that with her arts Moira had seduced the prince and his half-brother as a means to foment hatred and jealousy, to throw the minor kingdom into turmoil. Of Padraic there was no sign. Again and again at the sound of footsteps on the flags outside Moira looked to see him arriving, but it was only a straggler here and there, cramming near the wall to observe the proceedings. At last she dared to turn her eyes toward Ahern. His expression as he returned her look was one of gloating and no concern. He knows, she thought. He knows where Padraic is and that he will not come forth to save me. Oh, God, he must not be dead. Please, please, do not let him have died at his brother’s hand. Blinking back tears, Moira lifted her head to better attend the words now being spoken. Someone, God bless them, was demanding proof of her sorcery. It was Aileen who spoke in response, standing up and pointing. “She consorted with the devil himself. Look. She bears his mark upon her breast.” What?

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Ahern stood forth to display the mark with a flourish, whipping open her tunic to bare her breast to the eyes of the crowd. The friar stepped close, frowning as he bent to examine her nipple and the bite marks upon it. Fools! Moira thought. Even if they had no idea that Aileen’s teeth made that mark, why did they not think that either Padraic or Ahern could have left behind that evidence of a passion less than gentle? After all, she was supposed to have seduced them both with her black arts. But nothing was said of that. No doubt was cast upon Aileen and her accusation. No one thought to question how, precisely, the woman knew the mark was there. In the meantime, the friar was taking a little too much time in his examination of her breast. His hand was cold, slicked with sweat, and when Moira looked at him she saw something more than clinical interest in his gaze. She backed away, a tiny step. Meeting her eyes he released her. Ahern, of course, made no move to pull her tunic back into place. “There is more,” Ahern announced abruptly. “More? The proof presented thus far is sufficient, but I would see more,” said the friar. Oh, no doubt you would, Moira thought angrily, but she could not imagine what else there might be. Ahern came close again, passing between her and those gathered in the room. Deliberately, tauntingly, he rubbed his calloused palm across her recently poked and prodded nipple, then quickly grabbed her bound hands as if nothing had occurred. “Look,” he said. “Look here.” Yanking her arms out before her with cruel strength, he grabbed her left hand and forced her fingers flat, bending her hand at the wrist at a painful angle so that all might see what he had to show them. A gasp went out from those standing nearest. The friar’s face blanched. “What is this?” he demanded. “A sign!” Ahern cried out. “Today is the sixth day of the moon, a holy day of old, and she mocks it with her very flesh.” He tossed aside her hands in contempt. Moira snatched her arms back, lifting her hand to peer into her palm. There, itching and inflamed, was a red and blistered impression of the cead-rai-re. Where the hell had that come from? Suddenly she remembered Padraic’s comment the night before, when he had been bathing her. You were burned, he had said, and she had responded, Not badly. Not badly? Why had she not seen what he had seen? Confused, Moira lifted her head. Ahern was watching her with a sidelong glance of triumph, although even he seemed perplexed by the burn on her palm. In the audience, Aileen made her presence known again. “Fire came from that brand on her hand, and did this!” she cried as she pointed to the wound on her face, embellishing a story that had already been told to everyone’s satisfaction without truth. Moira wondered fleetingly what had happened to the druid’s crescent, after all. It if was in the possession of either Ahern or the vindictive Aileen, it would never be brought to light. What would be the purpose? The production of such an item would be anti-climactic. Indeed, the gold had more value to them than the

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explanation of how they had come by it. Moira looked at the friar again. Was he an educated man? Not likely. Leastwise, not in a fashion that would save her life. “You are guilty as accused,” he stated in a monotone, gazing directly into her eyes. “You will be bound and thrown into the sea to drown, as befits one of your unnatural creation. God help you. God help us all.” And that was that. **** Still bound and gagged, Moira was made to walk the distance to her doom. She had not realized they were so close to the coast. Long before they reached the cragged cliffs, she could hear the pounding of the surf upon the rocks below. Like the Pied-Piper of Hamlin, she was followed from the fortified village by every one of its citizens. Unfortunately, she doubted that even one of them would follow her into the sea. Every step of the way she held onto the hope that Padraic would arrive, even though by saving her he would be condemned as her consort. Perhaps they could fly far from this place to reside in some sort of compromise and peace. He had shown himself the night before willing to turn his back on his title, his people, for her sake when he fled with her into the forest, away from Ahern and his hunting hounds. Hadn’t he? Yet where was he now? Not dead, please not dead, but if not, why had he not returned for her at the cistern and, finding her absent, come to the obvious place where she would have been taken? There were signs of struggle for him to find there beside the cistern and on the long road back. Surely he must know where she had gone. Even without his assistance, she planned for escape. If she was not bound too tightly, she might work her way free before the ocean overwhelmed her. If she were not dashed to death on the rocks, first, in her fall. She swallowed, nearly choking, fighting down panic. I am not ready to die, she began silently in her head in a litany of acknowledgment. I survived being struck by lightning, I am not ready to die less than twenty-four hours later. I am not ready to die. As they neared the cliff head, the fog shredded and the sun shone down in an odd condition of golden glory. It was warm on her head, in her hair, on her cheeks and on her lids as she closed her eyes for just a moment. If she were to die this day, then she had better prepare herself for it. She did not know what to ask for, except forgiveness. I have occasionally hurt people in my life, people I loved. I would ask that you help me not to do that anymore, given the opportunity to make that choice again. And if not, please ask them to forgive me. I thought I was doing the right thing. I was rather stupid, wasn’t I? Opening her eyes, she saw that the friar was making some sign over her, possibly hoping to save her necromancer’s soul from eternal damnation. Well, she was not that of which she had been accused, so perhaps the poor man had already succeeded. Ahern came forward to bind her ankles together. She wondered how she was going to walk the rest of the way to the edge. Feeling rather beatific, she nodded at him. Startled, he stood up hastily, signaling for several of the stronger warriors to come to his aid. Without another word uttered they lifted her from the ground, carrying her to the jagged ledge that was the cliff. Beyond, the sky looked limitless and eternal. Below, the sea was grinding the rocky shoreline with relentless energy.

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No. She had survived the lightning, but that was, perhaps, the only favor she was to be granted. That, and Padraic’s protection. She thought of him, fondly and with regret, and then looked to the sky once more. She did not want to see the rocks as they came up to break her into tiny bits. As the men hurled her onto into the open air, the sensation felt vaguely and very briefly like flight. After that, the impact of the water was like being hit with the flat of a giant iron. Somehow, her body had missed the rocks, but it would not be long before the ocean dashed her back into their unyielding embrace. The sound of the water in her ears was like an enormous hissing, frothing in her nose and turning her about, tumbling her over and over as she tried to pull the gag from her mouth in order to gulp in what air she could while she remained afloat. She had heard that wool absorbed forty-percent of its weight in moisture before you felt the dampness. She could not attest to the truth of that. Not only was the fabric of her garments immediately saturated, they were soon forty-percent of her own weight, if not more, dragging her bound legs down into the foaming, saline sea. The gag was gone, torn from her mouth and head along with a great many strands of her hair, but her ability to suck in the air was seriously reduced by her inability to reach it. She could hear the thunder of the waves on the rocks, the relentless thrust of the ocean’s surge to the headland, and all the while she was drifting further and further beneath the surface, eyes open and seeking the golden sun that had shone so fleetingly up above.

Chapter Eleven “She’s stopped breathing.” Liam closed his eyes in a swiftly uttered plea, his fists clenched against his wrinkled trousers, the muscle in his darkly stubbled jaw tightening. As Moira’s condition worsened throughout the long night he had relinquished the care of her to another physician, knowing his professional detachment irretrievably compromised. Early this morning Ryan Donnelly had detected fluid in her lungs and announced to him that pneumonia had set in. It seemed too soon for such a complication, but the proof was there in the ragged, moist, struggling breaths. Opening his eyes, Liam turned to the window while Ryan and two of the nurses worked to clear Moira’s airway. His whole body tensed against the urge to fly to her, to push the others aside, to take her in his arms and force breath back into her lungs. Instead, he lifted his dark eyes to the window glass and the strangely golden sun rising into the sky, shredding the fog of dawn. Once, so very long ago, she had told him that she was afraid of drowning. That she had read somewhere that it was an easy way to die, but that she did not believe having one’s lungs fill with water, forcing oxygen from your body, from your blood, your muscles, your tissues, your brain as you suffocated could be anything but horrific. He had tried to tell her that it didn’t quite happen that way, but she had not believed him. She told him she had nightmares about falling into dark water and drifting, hopeless, beneath the surface to drown.

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“Oh, God,” he whispered. Behind him the flurried, controlled process continued, simple, concise commands and simpler responses. His self-imposed inaction was making his skin crawl in desperation. His stomach clenched. He could not help but visualize her fear, the settling darkness of an intellect shutting down, seeping away from life, from existence. Although he knew she had not reached that pass, that all that could be done was being done, that this was only the latest crisis in what might be many, he spun on his heel and crossed the room. An image was forming in his mind, unbidden. He was overwhelmed by it. Several strides from the bed he stopped. It was perhaps only the result of too little sleep, but he felt suddenly as if he was somewhere else, watching from a distance. The sun seemed filtered through a screen that broke down the spectrum of light into its individual components, striating the room with a haze of individual colors. In it, all figures but Moira’s were dulled. Her body on the bed, fighting for air, was ablaze. The vibrant aura of light was slowly rising above her, trailing gossamer strands like angel hair that groped along her body, detaching themselves one by one as if reluctant to sever the connection. He heard her voice in his head, remembering it, he supposed, from before, but the words were none he had heard her speak in the past. I am not ready to die, her voice said to him. He blinked, his breath discharging in a rough expulsion. Without recognizing the action that had brought him to the bed, he was there beside her, shoving interfering hands aside, rolling her onto her stomach and executing the technique he had learned early on, before his physician’s training. Both Ryan and the nurses tried to pull him away, calling for an orderly to assist them in their endeavors to restrain him. Suddenly they stopped. Moira coughed, choking, lungs heaving, as a spew of liquid sprayed from her mouth onto the floor. “What the hell is that?” someone asked. The orderly, newly arrived, bent over the puddle in frowning examination. “Damn me if it doesna look like feckin’ seawater,” he said. Liam had little attention to spare for the conversation, for with the ejection of the fluid from her lungs Moira’s eyes had opened. Gagging still, her hand came up with deliberate intent and wiped her mouth. She swallowed, grimaced and turned her head to look at him as he pulled her upright and into the loose circle of his arms. She stared without recognition from eyes that were as green as he remembered, the color of moss, of the moss growing on the stone walls of his childhood home, and then her brow furrowed and a moment later smoothed again. “Liam Mackenzie,” she stated hoarsely in wonder. “Aye,” he agreed. “Liam Mackenzie. Welcome back to the world, Moira, dear.” **** Moira lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sound of Liam’s voice as he read to her from that incredibly weighty book of Irish poetry she had given him years ago. He had been doing that every night since she wakened from the dreamless state of coma. Struck by lightning. And living to tell of it. What were the chances of that? As he recited verse after verse in his deep and rumbling tones, she remembered lying in the dark of her room in her apartment in Seattle listening to his voice over the seemingly infinite stretch of the telephone line. She had been miserable without him and trying hard not to show it. And then one night he had told her how strongly he felt about

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her, about the two of them, what their separation was doing to him. She had deliberately pulled away from him then; not because she had no desire to share with him the things he wanted, which were, in essence, one and the same with her own, but because...Because, what? Because she was an idiot. She had some idea that she might prevent him from doing that for which he was destined, that he was meant for greater things than she could show him. God, what drivel. The truth was, she had been afraid of how much he loved her. By the time she had realized just what she was throwing away, it was too late. He was marrying someone else, even invited her to the wedding. At the time, she had thought the invitation a little galling, nervy, designed, perhaps, to show her that he had moved on with his life. Naturally she hadn’t gone, though she sent a gift. She received a note thanking her from his wife, along with a photo of the couple on their special day. He, tall and dark and startlingly handsome in his tux, and she vividly attractive with her flame-red hair and an absolutely gorgeous gown. Later, another note had come from him, simple and concise as always, saying that he missed her. At the wedding, of course. That was all that he’d meant. It was the last she’d heard from him. Until now. “Won’t your wife feel neglected if you spend all your time at the hospital with me?” she asked without opening her eyes. His voice trailed off. She peered through the lashes of her right eye to where he sat, his oil-dark hair highlighted by the lamp above his head. Slowly he closed the book on his knee. “I’m not married anymore,” he said, looking directly at her, as if he knew she was watching. And, of course, he would. He had always caught her watching him when she’d hoped he wouldn’t notice her staring, drinking in the sight of him, so handsomely wrought that it sometimes made her heart hurt to look at him. He was the same man, older, grown less god-like in his good looks and more breathtaking. She closed her eye again. “I’m sorry,” she said. He made a noise in his throat, of dismissal, she thought. When he didn’t continue reading, she cracked her eyelid once more. The book was in his hand, upended on his knee, and with a decisive movement he set it aside. He stood up and she took note again of his remarkable height. She had always felt protected by that, by the difference in their size, the fact that he could envelop her in his arms and shield her from the world. Slowly he crossed the floor, graceful in his stride. Knowing she was not fooling him, she opened both her eyes and watched him come. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and took her hand, turning it palm up along his thigh. She curled her fingers to lightly squeeze his own. He seemed lost in a study of their interlaced fingers, and then he turned his head to her. His eyes were dark, the color of midnight, long lashes making shadows on his cheekbone. “That you know me,” he said, his head tipped slightly to the side. “That you are mine.” At his words she felt something in her memory stir just beyond reach of recall, like a dream-thought from long ago. “What?” she asked. “You asked me once what made me happiest, and that was my reply. That you

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know me and that you are mine.” “Oh,” she said on a release of breath, and felt something in her soul suddenly open. She swallowed, hard, raising her eyes to his. How long had she been missing him? She had not realized until now the empty place inside of her that had been waiting. “I do know you,” she said. “And I do believe I am still yours, if you’ll have me. I wouldn’t blame you if you said no, of course,” she added, witnessing a slight alteration of his expression. “I made quite a mess of things, between us, when you put your heart into my hands. I don’t know what I was so afraid of.” For a moment he said nothing, then a slow smile turned up the corners of his handsome mouth, banishing the shadow of a pain that seemed ancient. He pulled her up into his arms. “Saying no, leannán, was not what I had in mind,” he whispered against the crown of her head. “And I never quite took my heart out of your hands. You’ve had it in your possession all along.” She closed her eyes, feeling the last of her remembered fear and uncertainty spiral away into the air and vanish. Leaning her cheek against his chest, she listened for a long time to the slow, steady beat of the heart she held dear.

Epilogue The wind off the ocean whipped Padraic’s dark hair about his head, pressed the length of his cloak against the backs of his knees and sang along the fine, sharp edge of his sword. He stood straight and still, his dark eyes staring out over the headland, over and past and beyond the rocky, jagged coastline into the face of the sun sliding slowly to the sea. Two days hence he had come too late. There was nothing of her to retrieve, her body lost to the surging tides. He had buried the thing she called cead-rai-re in remembrance of her, scattering the ground with leaves of rosemary. He could still scent the fragrance of the plant on his fingers. Aileen, when pressed, had given the strange golden crescent to him before he had her banished. He risked the schism of the tribes by his action, but no matter. One day there would be--there must be--another to take her place at his side, as she was to take the place of his first who had died in childbirth. But not soon. No, not soon. Fingering the bound wound in his side beneath his tunic, Padraic turned from the limitless sky of the west to descend to the mounted men waiting below. Once, Ahern’s place had been there among them. The company was diminished by his brother’s absence, despite his treachery, his ignoble demise. He would not be rejoining them in this life. Perhaps in another. Before mounting, Padraic turned once more to the west, touching his fist to his heart, then raised it, palm open, to the setting sun, the color, suddenly, of her hair. Will I know you when our souls meet again? he wondered. Releasing his breath from his lungs, he thought that he would.

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LORD OF THE NIGHT By Annalee Blysse

Chapter One Tulum, Mexico Camille Baron stopped jogging and held her breath as the sun rose over the horizon in a blaze of gold that captured her senses. Rays of sunlight scattered through a billowing cloud on the horizon. The color deepened to a bright orange. The vista was so lovely she sat in the cool sand on the edge of the surf to watch. Thankfully, she’d decided to make use of her non-refundable ticket and go solo on her honeymoon. Camille sighed. How ironic that she’d never really considered her ex-fiancé coming with her when she’d made travel plans. The thought didn’t help ease the pain that came with being a jilted bride. Perhaps it was for the best that Seymour had run off to Switzerland with a flight attendant a week before their wedding. Really, she’d rather watch the sunrise with her grandfather. Her grandfather had told her how Tulum reminded him of the Yucatan he’d known in his youth. Robert Baron had studied the Maya for going on sixty years. She’d always wanted to travel here with him, but managed to miss every trip when he’d visited the ruins in this town. He assured her she’d missed the land at its loveliest, before the droves of tourists found their way into the region. Her grandfather wasn’t that much for mixing with tourists. At moments like this, neither was she. She was thankful for the serenity that came with the deserted beach. “Very lovely,” a deep, smooth voice interrupted her thoughts. She gazed up. A tall, dark and very muscular man stood next to her. His tanned skin glowed in the morning rays. He wore an incredibly sexy pair of swimming trunks that hinted at his form in a way that made her stomach tighten. Oh, boy … where did you come from? “I try to catch every sunrise,” he said, his voice thick with an accent she couldn’t quite place. “It seems we have something in common.” Though sunglasses hid his eyes from view, her sixth sense told her that he wasn’t watching the sunrise. He was watching her. “This is my first time in Tulum,” she said, gazing again at the sparkling water of the Caribbean. “You don’t sound like a local.” “No, not a local. But I visit my home as often as possible.”

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want.” “I only asked because, I’ve rented a private home myself.” “Yes, I noticed.” She’d left in the dark, over an hour earlier. Had he been following her? Suddenly being on a secluded beach didn’t feel so comforting. “I didn’t notice you.” “A woman jogging alone should be more aware of her surroundings. Especially considering the stories I’ve heard about this stretch of beach.” She hoped the smile on his face meant that he was teasing her. “I was behind you,” he said, pointing at a huge home visible through palm trees. “I was on my way home.” He sat next to her, reclining on his elbows and stretching out his legs. “I need to work at staying fit myself.” Having a great view of his form, she figured he must work at that a lot. He was masculine perfection. In her whole life she’d never sat so close to someone with abdominal muscles that begged to be caressed. “So, what are these stories I should be wary of?” “Stories about me, of course.” “Of course.” She smiled back at him, still feeling wary. “Maybe it would help if I knew who you were.” “You may call me Shad,” he said in an authoritative tone that sounded like he was giving her permission. “And your name?” Somehow, compared to “Shad,” introducing herself as Dr. Roberta Baron seemed too … stuffy. Only about five people called her by her middle name. That was testament that she didn’t have enough friends or family. Actually, Seymour had never called her Camille. When they’d met, she should have taken that as a sign their relationship was doomed to fail. He’d, of course, blamed her on that account. He said she never let him into her personal life. But, it wasn’t her fault that he’d never wanted to get to know that side of her, and there was nothing wrong with wanting to appear the professional at work. “If you’re inventing an alias, you’re not being quick enough.” “Camille.” He raised one brow, as if he didn’t believe her. “And, it is my name. My friends call me Camille.” “Then Camille it is.” “Shad doesn’t ring any warning bells. I haven’t heard a single story about you.” “You wouldn’t have. The housekeeping staff knows me only as Mr. Jacek. But, don’t worry; it isn’t so much me that they are afraid of. It’s the many strange occurrences that happen when I’m around that they gossip about.” He grinned. “I pay well, so they stay despite the problems at the house.” “This sounds intriguing. Your house is only haunted when you’re there?” “By a jaguar, not a ghost. They say that the jaguar follows me. They call my home--” “Na Balam.” “Mmm-hmm ... home of the jaguar. You have heard of it?” She shook her head. “Then, you speak Mayan?” “I can repeat most of the words the tour guide used at the ruins yesterday. Did I

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pronounce it correctly?” “Very well.” He laughed. “This evening, you and I will dine after sundown. At Na Balam. You can see for yourself if the jaguar visits.” No. She couldn’t do that. The last thing she needed was to spend time with a man that looked like him. That most certainly meant candles, and probably alcohol, and ... she would easily be led into another doomed relationship. “I’ve got plans.” “You can change them.” “How do you know that?” Camille teased. When he merely stared at her with a smug expression, she continued, “I’ll be at Chichen Itza.” “Why would you want to mill around with crowds of tourists, when you could be here enjoying the seafood paella my housekeeper Rosita will make in honor of you?” “Because it is only on the equinox that the serpent of light and shadow makes an appearance on the face of the Kukulkan Pyramid--another word I picked up thanks to my tour guide.” “If not tonight, then tomorrow.” Camille stretched as she stood. “We’ll see.” “Don’t leave yet.” “I’ve got to get ready for my trip.” “Run away if you must. But ... I will catch you Camille.” That’s what she was worried about. There were benefits to being stuffy. It kept her safe. She was so good at losing her head over men, and this one would be easy to get involved with. But, no matter how handsome he was, she needed to avoid him. She’d tried to have a meaningless fling before, to get over her first break up. That was how she’d met Seymour. She didn’t have a good track record with relationships, and her score on one night stands was an embarrassment. **** Planet Marehet Jacek Merrick woke from a deep sleep to the incessant drone of his private communicator. That could mean it was only a handful of his closest relatives. He took a wild guess and decided it was Shad. “By the Gods, what do you want?” “Something has come up.” It was Shad. “I’m extending my stay. I need you to attend the Tri-System Summit for me.” Merrick could guess what had come up. His brother had a lot of strong points, but women were not one of them. “Is she that important?” “Trust me, there’s nothing on the agenda that you can’t handle.” “The point is I have other things to do. I suggest you bring her home and attend the--” “You’re assuming it is a woman--” “Of course it is a woman. Question is … who?” “I can’t bring her off-world. She’s human.” Merrick laughed. “I am working my ass off to find you a genetically-compatible bride, and you’re busy chasing a human being?” “You would too, had you met her first.” Probably. His brother and he had similar tastes when it came to members of the opposite sex. “Have I mentioned before what an annoying bastard you can be?”

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“Twice this week,” Shad said. Merrick signed. Damn but being the younger brother of a crown prince was a pain sometimes. “I’ll attend the Summit, but I can’t cover for you forever. Come home next week.” “Thanks, brother. This one is something special.” Merrick shook his head. They’d all been special. **** When Camille returned from Chichen Itza, she walked into her bungalow and was overwhelmed by the scent of roses. In the living room she found three dozen red roses in a huge crystal vase. The note that came with them was as insistent as the man. Simple. Forthright. She was to go to Na Balam at sundown. Camille stared at the invitation, convincing herself she couldn’t go. Two hours later her resolve dissolved into frustration when an older man showed up to drive her over. “I am Rodriguez. Mr. Jacek say bring you.” “Thank you, but no,” she said. “I’ve got plans.” “No habla engles,” he responded. “Mr. Jacek send me.” “No.” “No habla engles.” Though Camille spoke little Spanish, it didn’t escape her that the word “no” meant the same thing in both their languages. She gave in and decided to take up the communication issues with Shad. Rodriquez didn’t talk during the drive to Shad’s home. On her side of the car, the jungle was tamed by spacious vacation homes hugging the Caribbean. But on the other side, the dense foliage was dark and foreboding. Fifty feet in, was another world. A world that could easily hide a jaguar. When they pulled down a driveway, Camille watched the moon hanging over the Caribbean. Not far from where they parked, a lone palm tree swung out over the beach and swayed in a gentle breeze. She was at a loss for words when she entered his home. He stood at the top of a stately staircase, in a dark linen suit that hung from his frame in a way that had her feeling dizzy and light-headed. She could feel his blue eyes piercing her from across the room. “You look as lovely as the other morning.” Shad leaned against the railing, a smile curling across his lips. “Flushed, as if we just made love.” Oh, boy. She felt flushed. Camille grasped her top and fluttered the material against her midriff, creating a breeze that did nothing to cool her down. Seconds pressed on and Camille felt more uncomfortable with each of them. So far she was doing a lousy job of settling the communication issues the two of them were having. He wasn’t flirting fairly. He was much too sure of himself, and she was very unsure of how to handle him. Finally, he broke the silence. “Dinner is waiting on the patio.” “Look. I appreciate the flowers, and the invitation, but I’m not interested.” “Rosita’s paella is best when served hot,” he said as he walked down the stairs, his eyes never leaving her. “I promise you’ll find it very interesting.” “I’m talking about you.” Shad winked at her. He took her elbow and led her through a sliding glass door.

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Gauzy lace curtains billowed around her as a salt-laden breeze caressed her heated skin. As she’d imagined, the table was set with flickering candles. Beside the table sat a bottle of champagne on ice, more roses, and three folk musicians who immediately began to serenade them in Spanish. When Shad pulled out a seat for her, she sat down with a gracious nod. “This is lovely, but staying for dinner doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. I’m not looking for … a relationship.” He sat across from her, smiling broadly. As they ate the deliciously spicy dish paella, Shad continued to flirt. Camille admitted to herself that she wasn’t doing a very good job of appearing uninterested. In truth, she was toying with the idea of taking him up on his offer. But only if she was sure they were on the same wavelength. “I’ve recently come to the end of a long relationship, and I’m not looking for another.” “You’ve nothing to worry about. I just want sex.” Camille nearly choked on her rice. Finally, she said, “Your honesty is appreciated, though a little surprising.” Shad stood and poured her a glass of champagne, handing it to her. She drank half of it and coughed again. “Where I come from,” he said, “we prefer setting the rules before we take a lover.” Her thoughts exactly. Sort of. “Where are you from?” “Far away. But, I’d rather talk about you. Since the moment I saw you, you’ve consumed my mind and body. I can think of nothing but sinking into you, and what you’ll taste like, and how sweet the sound of your release will be.” Man, but it had been too long for her. She and Seymour’s sex life had been nonproductive. The only decent sex she’d had in years was with a vibrator. Somehow, she didn’t think that would be the case with Shad. He didn’t seem capable of truly bad sex. The issue she had with that was ... he’d grow on her. She’d end up wanting more. She definitely didn’t need that in her life. It was time to concentrate on her career. Her promotion to Associate Professor would start in the fall. Concentrating on her work at UCLA’s Department of Physics and Astronomy would keep her plenty busy. Camille sighed. Her thoughts mirrored the last argument she’d had with Seymour. He’d told her that she always gave him the impression her studies were the most important thing in her life. That wasn’t true. She wanted to love someone and get married and have a family more than anything. And that was exactly why she needed to take some time off from men. Her mindset was much too dangerous to play games with a man like Shad. “I’m sorry. I need to go now. I can’t be here.” “You can, and ... we will. I will have you.” We’ll see.... Just thinking that scared her. **** Merrick woke and stared at the blinding red light that indicated an incoming emergency transmission on his private communicator. He’d turned the sound off. He hadn’t thought about his brother’s ability to initiate the strobe. He would have slept elsewhere if he had. Truthfully, he’d half expected this call. His brother was due this afternoon, so naturally, he’d call.

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“I’m staying another week,” Shad said the moment Merrick accepted the transmission. “There isn’t anything on my schedule that my staff can’t handle between now and then. You know where to reach me if I’m needed.” “Is she that good in bed?” Merrick asked. “I don’t know yet.” Merrick burst out laughing. “By the Gods this is an emergency. Stay, by all means. Take as long as you need.” “I’m so pleased my sex life is amusing you.” “Should I come to Earth and show you how it’s done? We wouldn’t want it getting out that Prince Jacek has lost his edge.” “She’s mine,” Shad muttered, then disconnected. Merrick couldn’t help but wonder just exactly who she was. She definitely sounded interesting. **** Her vacation passed quickly as Camille tried her hardest to avoid Shad, but found it impossible. He went jogging on the beach every morning the same time she did. He followed her to each of the Maya ruins she toured, and was quite the tour guide. She wouldn’t be surprised if he knew as much about the Maya as her grandfather. He even waited patiently while she searched every curio shop she could find for something special for her grandfather. Well, not that patient. He’d finally asked, “You never buy anything, why keep shopping?” “I’m looking for something unique.” Shad held up a colorful jaguar mask to his face. “This isn’t?” “That’s unique. But, it is also modern.” “You’re looking for antiquities? We could go burglarize a museum. You’d make the most adorable cat burglar.” Camille laughed. “A quality replica will do.” “Very smart idea. I’m not sure the Mexican prison system allows for conjugal visits.” “We’d both be arrested.” Shad grinned. “I’ve enough funds to pay off the officials.” Camille mimicked his grin. She did too, but hadn’t told him that part of her life. Nor was she planning on it. He hadn’t talked about the source of his wealth, why should she talk about hers? Actually, he knew half of it, and she appreciated that Shad didn’t pry. The other day he’d invited her sailing. She’d declined. When he hadn’t immediately dropped the idea, she explained she’d lost her parents at a young age when they’d drowned at sea. She just hadn’t explained they’d been on a yacht at the time, and that she’d inherited her mother’s fortune. He’d only asked if she hated the ocean. No, not at all. I live by the ocean. I love it. I just hate boats. “I thought we were friends. And you’d leave me to rot in prison?” “Definitely not. We don’t have enough time to waste with you in prison.” The next day Shad brought her to Cancun’s open-air market, and introduced her to a vendor that had artwork with astronomic prices. She finally picked out a scepter with the likeness of a jaguar carved on it. “Is it Olmec? Or Mayan?” The vendor shrugged. Camille wasn’t sure herself. But, she was certain her grandfather would know,

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and would love trying to decipher the symbols etched on the back. “My grandfather will love this!” “That’s what you’re buying? For your grandfather?” Shad asked. “What’s wrong with it?” “It looks like a sex toy.” “It does not!” Okay, so it was phallic. She’d seen plenty of images of richlyadorned Mayan men holding a huge staff–equally well adorned–with a scepter like this mounted on top. “Don’t worry. What’s good for the kings of the Maya is good for any man.” He had a huge grin on his face. “I’ve got a scepter myself; mounted on a very large staff that visually indicates my virility.” Camille groaned inwardly. “Shad.” “Yes?” “It’s getting late. If there’s traffic we’ll be late for Rosita’s dinner.” After dinner, Shad showed her his own collection of artwork. He did have a scepter. It really was mounted on a huge staff, right over his bed. She tossed him a curious glance. “Show that virility, huh?” He raised one brow, his grin widening. “No other wall space did it as much justice.” Having the urge to test that out for herself, but worried at the same time, she changed the subject. “Can I take pictures?” “How shall I pose?” “Your artwork! To show my grandfather.” Shad’s face took on a serious look. “You’re leaving in a few days. The time we have left will not be enough.” “Shad, I--” “Take your pictures and I’ll have Rosita’s husband drive you to your bungalow. She’s worried about you walking along the beach alone. She says the jaguar hunts early in the evening, and that she’d seen him stalking you.” **** The next day Shad didn’t join for her morning jog on the beach. She toured the ruins in Tulum again, and admitted that she missed his company. Where could he be? He’d said himself they had little time left to spend together. By evening Camille came to the conclusion that spending the remainder of her vacation with Shad wouldn’t be the worse thing she could do. She was certainly attracted to him, even if she wasn’t head over heels in love. For the first time in her life she thought she could enjoy the carnal side of life without the trappings of emotion. To her those seemed the perfect ingredients for a harmless fling. Before talking herself out of her decision, she walked down the beach to Shad’s home. Rosita seemed surprised when she arrived. She was probably worried about this jaguar that supposedly prowled the area. Camille had given up worrying it existed. “Mr. Jacek asleep.” “I don’t think he’ll mind if I wake him up.” “No. No wake.” She heard his voice from behind his bedroom door. “It’s too late. He’s probably heard me already.”

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Then, she heard a woman’s voice screaming–in pleasure from the sounds of it. “Oh, I see,” Camille said. Rosita stared at her with a concerned look on her face. “Please don’t mention I stopped by.” As she left, by way of the beach, she ducked into the jungle growth as Shad, a woman, and another man stood on the balcony, watching the moon over the Caribbean. She stared wide-eyed, feeling like a criminal, as the naked woman sandwiched between her two lovers swayed slowly to the beat of soft music that drifted along the breeze. Camille sighed, feeling relieved, aroused and jealous all at the same time. Wow, had she ever misjudged Shad’s interests. Catching him involved in a ménage a trois was the last thing she’d expected. Trying to escape the images in her mind, she ran back to her bungalow and hurriedly packed her suitcases. Camille threw them in the trunk of her rental, and slid behind the wheel. She started the car but hesitated before driving off. The road to town passed his home. Rosita would surely tell Shad she’d been there, and if he saw her sneaking away he’d guess why. She didn’t want to take the chance he’d follow her. He had a way of reading her what it was she was feeling. If he saw her again, she wouldn’t be able to hide her conflicting emotions. She didn’t know what scared her more, that he’d realize how fascinated she’d been, or that she wasn’t so sure she’d say ‘no’ if he asked her to stay. Leaving the headlights off, she backed out of the driveway. The moonlight was bright enough that she could make out the road. Camille drove slowly, praying an oncoming vehicle wouldn’t force her to switch on her lights. As she passed Shad’s house she held her breath and slowly let it out. A few hundred yards later, she checked the review mirror. She saw a dark shadow twenty feet behind her car. Then ten feet. It ran like a cat. When two blue-green eyes reflected the moonlight, Camille didn’t wait long enough to find out if Rosita had been right. She stomped on the gas, switched on the headlights and got the hell out of Dodge. **** Jacek Merrick woke from a deep sleep to someone pounding on his door. Of course leaving his communications equipment disconnected wouldn’t work. That damned brother of his. An aide told him, “Jacek Shad is on the communicator, sir.” “Yes, I guessed,” he grumbled, getting down on his hands and knees and plugged in the communicator. When he answered the transmission, he left the frown on his face. “I don’t care if you haven’t seduced her yet. It’s time to come home.” “I’m going to.” “Then, why are you calling?” “I want you to come to Earth and find her.” Merrick laughed. “Didn’t work out, huh?” “No. Her trail disappeared in Cancun. But ... you’re much better at this sort of thing than I am. I need you to come right away.” Being the head of his family’s private security force meant he was obligated to do what his brother asked. However, being the prince’s younger brother gave him the freedom to complain first. “Finding you a suitable wife was proving to be a pain, and there is no doubt in my mind finding this human will be just as irritating. Besides, father won’t approve.” “I’m not asking you to stop the search for my bride. But, I want this woman first.

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I need this woman first. I’ve never been attracted to any woman the way I am to her.” “I take it she doesn’t feel the same way?” “She does. But, she’s human.” “Which means?” Shad shrugged. “Javez and Bunzy came to visit.” “If you wanted her that badly, you should have sent them home. Earthlings don’t view sex the same way we do on Marehet.” “I don’t need a lesson in human sexuality. I need you to get your ass in gear and find her.” **** The next day, Camille was at home in Los Angeles being chastised by her grandfather for her gift. She’d thought he would love it. Instead he yelled at her. “You brought this across the border? You could have been arrested!” “The scepter is a replica.” “Then my name isn’t Robert Baron.” He stared down his nose, disappointment etched on his face. “Where did you get it?” She was disappointed in herself. If her grandfather said it was original artwork, it was. That meant she’d smuggled contraband across the border. She could have gone to jail. “I bought it from some guy at the open-air market in Cancun. I paid cash. No receipt.” Her grandfather frowned. “Which is what a criminal would want.” “I wanted to get you something you’d enjoy. This scepter has some interesting symbols at the base.” “I noticed,” he said, his expression changing to a look of fascination. “They are in a dialect that I’m not familiar with. In fact, I’ve never seen anything like this.” “That’s why I got it for you!” He shook his head with a sigh. “Forgive me, darling. I’m acting like an old fool. I do appreciate your gift. But, I also plan to make sure it is returned ... after I study it.” After they ate dinner together he returned to his apartment over the garage. Camille went to soak in the tub and set about relaxing after the stressful mess her vacation had become. **** Merrick’s trip to Earth was looking fruitless. About the only lead he had was an airport employee in Cancun that recalled a woman that fit her description boarding a plane for Los Angeles. Merrick flew to L.A. and met with his cousin Javez. The man was their prime operative in California, which meant it was Javez’s job to ensure that their people adhered to Marehetian law and remained undetected among humanity. He seemed amused this task had landed in his lap. Merrick couldn’t blame him. “Why didn’t Shad didn’t bring this up?” Javez asked. “It would have been easier if I’d seen her.” “She didn’t tell him where she lived.” “So this Camille might actually live in … Boise?” “Where’s that?” “Idaho.” “I think we can rule out states that don’t have coastline. She lives near the ocean.” “Still not a lot to go on. There are probably twenty thousand women in California

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named Camille. And I bet half of them are blonde and in their mid-twenties.” Merrick knew that. There was little hope of finding Camille among millions. “Do your best.”

Chapter Two One Year Later Los Angeles, California Camille turned on her computer, watering a fern that hung in the corner of her office while she waited for it to boot up. Watering her plants was all she had to do. All this weeks’ papers and quizzes were graded. Lesson plans for next week were set. But, there was no getting out of scheduled office hours. She gazed at her watch. Three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. She doubted anybody would stop by. A half-hour later she was so bored she decided to work on her grandfather’s Web site. She logged into and quickly changed the layout of one page, adding a new image and a few quotes. It only took her ten minutes, but as she finished, guilt washed over her that she’d used UCLA resources. Camille didn’t know why. Nobody really cared that the receptionist forwarded jokes to everybody from here to San Diego. She sighed. If she were honest, she was worried about the subject matter, not the time she’d used. After all, she was an astronomer and her colleagues would consider her grandfather’s Web site a joke--at best. Basically she would agree with them, and that was why she felt guilty. Camille loved her job. But, she loved her grandfather even more. She felt terrible for not believing in the culmination of a lifetime of studies. Robert Baron’s life had been devoted to the study of the ancient cultures of Central America. He’d always been highly respected in the field. The problem was, lately he’d latched onto the eccentric idea that the jaguar gods of the Maya had actually been shape shifting beings from a planet called Marehet. As much as she wanted to believe him, the relic she found didn’t offer enough proof. Camille shook her head. The truth was, she was partly to blame that her grandfather came up with such a fanciful idea. She’d given him that damn jaguar scepter last spring. It had been that relic that started him down this path. And she’d followed willingly, if not encouraged him. It had been her idea to start a Web site! At one time she hadn’t seen the harm in publishing his theory up on the Internet. She hadn’t thought anyone would notice, or if they did notice, that they wouldn’t take the information seriously. After all, his ideas sparked wonder, but they read like fiction. But, someone had noticed. Within a few weeks she’d received the first anonymous e-mail requesting that she remove the Web site. Camille had ignored the request and deleted the message, marking the sender as a spammer. When the e-mails continued to show up, she’d left them unopened in her trash bin. Another week passed before the anonymous visitor obtained a new e-mail address and wrote another message insisting if she didn’t “cease and desist” there would be

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consequences. That time she replied with a reasonable explanation that she didn’t plan on complying and included a hyperlink that lead to the Bill of Rights. A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Camille sighed. “Come in.” “Dr. Baron?” A young man named Theodore walked in, a backpack slung over his shoulder. “How can I help you?” He shook his head. “Not me really. Uh … something strange just happened.” “What’s wrong?” “Some guy asked me all kinds of questions about you. Real weird stuff, like what were your lectures about.” “That’s weird?” “I think he wondered if you believe in little green men.” “Little green men?” “Well, actually he asked if you discussed the Mayan belief that they originated from the constellation Pleiades.” Oh, great. Yesterday she received an e-mail threatening to expose the Web site to her supervisor here at UCLA. She’d been so angry she sent a terse reply indicating she refused to back down. It seemed her adversary was planning on testing her resolve. “I may have. Many cultures around world use the night skies to explain away the mysteries of the Universe. But I have normally added that here at UCLA we use science, not myth to accomplish the same goal.” Theodore laughed. “I just wanted to let you know. The guy could be a real whack job. I was just worried he’s stalking you or something.” “Why would you think that?” “He was asking all kinds of personal questions. But I don’t know anything about your personal life, and I’m not one to gossip.” “Thank you Theodore.” “Ted.” After the concerned student left, Camille sat behind her desk resting her forehead in the palm of her hands. She still had ten minutes. Before she shut down for the day, she checked the email in her work account. There was one message waiting for her. “Consider this your last warning,” had been typed in bold black letters above an animated image of a black jaguar. “The Web site must be removed today.” The signature line was, Ek Balam. Her mind dragged the memories of Shad’s home in Mexico to mind. She didn’t want to think about the coincidence. It was too strange. “You can’t scare me,” she said. The receptionist took that moment to poke her head in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to let you know it is time to go home Dr. Baron.” “Yes, I know. Thank you.” **** The sound of a cat purring was out of place in her dream. Camille Baron didn’t need to be asleep to know that. She didn’t have a cat. Half aware, she felt the bed dip beneath the weight of a massive body joining her. Camille snapped awake. She held her breath, listening for sounds that didn’t

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belong. The raspy sound of a cat’s purr tickled her ears. The hair on the back of her neck itching, she gazed into the darkness next to her. The shadows on her bed pooled into the shape of an enormous cat. Her heart lurched in her chest. On the edge of her thoughts hung the words ... Ek Balam. Black jaguar. Lord of the night. She squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head. No. No. It couldn’t be. Whoever had written the threatening e-mail this afternoon had not broken into her home and released a jaguar! This was only a bad dream. As her rational mind took over, she tried to convince herself that Johnny Clarkston’s cat had managed to sneak into her house. She opened her eyes a crack. The feline intruder was still there. Its huge body spanned the length of her bed, and put a dent in the mattress that had her own body gravitating toward it. She had to guess it weighed upwards of three hundred pounds. No, it wasn’t the Clarkston’s Maine Coon staring at her--and it was staring at her. Golden eyes, shining from the dark, watched her without blinking. Her heart fluttered. The jaguar was a predator so dangerous that entire cultures had both feared and worshiped it. And, here one was, lying next to her. Thank God it was still purring. “Nice kitty,” she whispered. The jaguar flicked its tail, swatting her bare shoulder. Then the beast curled its tail around her midriff, tickling her. “Stop that,” she said, pushing the tail away. The wildcat hissed. Oh, my God! I’m going to die. Camille dived out of her bed. Torn between grabbing her robe from the chair or reaching for her phone, she chose the first. When the wildcat hissed again, she dropped her robe. It fluttered to her feet. The wildcat’s eyes never left her. Shakily she reached for the phone. The cat’s tail started swatting wildly. When she picked up the receiver, there was no dial tone. Oh, great! She weighed her options. Someone had to have released the wildcat in her home. More than likely they were still here. That left running to use the phone in her grandfather’s apartment out of the question. But, there was the intercom system. Camille ran into her bathroom, slamming the door and locking it. Turning on the intercom, she buzzed her grandfather in his apartment above the garage. Behind her, the jaguar slammed itself against the door. The wood groaned under the assault. Her grandfather woke after a few buzzes. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice scratchy from sleep. “Call the police, there’s an intruder in the house with a-a--” Again the jaguar hit the door that separated her from a bloody death. The door jamb splintered but didn’t give. This was it. This was the moment. Her life flashed before her eyes, and it didn’t take long. Tears flooded her vision. Face it, Camille, you’ve lead a boring life. The jaguar’s screeching roar surrounded her, shaking through her body.

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At least her death wouldn’t be boring. “That sounded like a jaguar,” her grandfather said. “Yeah, call the police!” Again the wildcat struck the door and it gave way with a splintering crash, flinging open with a bang. Camille stared at the dark opening, watching, waiting, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do. She grabbed a can of mousse anyway. It was the largest item within reach. She shook off the insanity of the situation. She’d been reduced to trying to defend her life with a can of new and improved mousse. If I survive this, I’m going to.... What would she do? Something different. Anything different. Everything different. “Have you considered what this means?” her grandfather’s voice rattled over the intercom. Camille suddenly realized that the jaguar wasn’t attacking. Why not? It had the perfect opportunity. She tiptoed toward the door, pushed it closed again, standing behind it with her ear against the wood. Her grandfather repeated his question. “Have you considered what this means?” “What does what mean?” “This proves I’m right.” “I’m sorry, but I’m not following.” Her ear was still affixed to the unmoving door. Beyond her, there was silence. Was it still there? Waiting? Ready to pounce. “You do realize why there is a jaguar in the house, don’t you?” “I think it’s gone.” “It’s one of them,” her grandfather continued, “a Marehetian.” Okay, now she was following. That was exactly why she was worried about telling her grandfather about the e-mail message that she’d received. She hadn’t wanted him to jump to this conclusion. Camille sighed. The black jaguar in her bedroom had everything to do with the Web site, but absolutely nothing to do with the shape shifting jaguars. She needed to focus their attention on that. “There is a human here. A human with a jaguar.” “No, it’s--” “Can we have this conversation after you call the police?” “I did. I’m on hold,” he said. “But, there’s nothing the police will be able to do. They won’t allow themselves to be caught. They’ve been here for thousands of years and they’ve kept their presence well-hidden.” Hiding is easy for a race of beings that don’t exist, she thought. Her grandfather was an eccentric. She suspected that deep down he knew that. Normally she wouldn’t dream of insulting him, but right now she felt like screaming the truth. There is no such thing as shape shifting Jaguars from outer space! Instead, she said, “Now is not a good time. This has nothing to do with Marehetians.” “How else would you explain the jaguar?” “It’s just a sicko with an unhealthy interest in the Web site. That’s it.” “What?” Robert screamed. “What are you talking about?” Camille groaned. She couldn’t lie now. “I’ve been receiving e-mails suggesting that I remove your site from the Internet.” “Don’t you think you should have told me?”

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“I didn’t want to ... worry you.” It wasn’t the whole truth. But, that was part of her reasoning. “So you let it get the point that they are trying to threaten you? That’s why they’re here, you know. This is important. You should have told me!” They weren’t just trying to threaten her. It was working. The only upside to the whole situation was the jaguar seemed to be gone. She assumed the intruder had overheard her on the intercom and fled the scene, taking the wildcat with him or her. “I’m still here,” her grandfather started speaking, his voice moving away from the intercom. She heard him tell the dispatcher, “We’ve got an intruder.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s great news. We’ll be waiting.” “What’s going on?” she asked. “There’s a patrol car in the area. The police will be here in a minute.” That was great news. Camille pushed open her bathroom door, flipping the light switch to reveal she was indeed alone. It was only then she realized she was still naked. Laughing at herself, she pulled on an old pair of sweats. She stopped laughing when, for one moment she considered that if her grandfather was right it hadn’t been a wildcat in bed with her. If that was the case, the languid way the jaguar had rubbed her belly with its tail while purring up a storm would have meant that.... Pursing her lips, she mentally refuted all of her grandfather’s ideas. There was no such thing as shape shifting aliens.

Chapter Three When his cousin Javez turned off their stolen police car, Jacek Merrick shifted into his human form and stepped out of the shadows. “How the hell did that happen?” Javez asked, his eyes on Merrick’s half-mast erection. “She caught me off guard,” Merrick said with a chuckle as he rummaged around in the back seat for the clothing he’d left behind when he shifted into a jaguar. He hastily pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. “The point of this break-in was to catch the woman off guard.” “Who would have guessed she sleeps in the nude?” He’d been shocked breathless. Not just because she was beautiful, but because that young man Ted had called her a prude. Now that Merrick had seen her with his own eyes, it was easy to assume Ted had been shot down. “She’s the sexiest human being I’ve ever seen.” Javez rolled his eyes. “Seems to me, if our positions were reversed and I was trailing the ‘sexiest human being’ I’d ever seen, you’d tell me the bedroom was off limits.” “She left me no choice. The woman sleeps like a rock. I couldn’t scare her if she didn’t know she had an intruder.” “So, is she going to tell us that she saw a jaguar, or a peeping tom?” “I didn’t alter that part of the plan.” Though, that had been difficult to manage.

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She had thrown him for a loop. It wasn’t just catching a glimpse of his stubborn adversary’s naked body that distracted him. It was the fact that he still wasn’t in control of his own body. Merrick envisioned the way the moon had fallen on her pale skin, and the way her rounded breasts had jiggled, begging to be held. Licked. Caressed. Her blonde hair had fallen around her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts with a mass of curls. He’d wanted so badly to pull her next to him and see if she was as soft as she looked. But, he shouldn’t be worried about what she looked like. He still didn’t know how she’d learned of Marehet, or how the man she’d talked to on the intercom fit into the equation. He was involved, that was certain. Somehow Merrick had to figure out how. “Jacek Shad would approve of her home,” Merrick said as he followed his cousin up Roberta Baron’s long driveway. His eldest brother had five vacation homes on Earth, and this one would fit right in with the lot. “The main house is a monstrosity. She’s got a six-car garage-which is filled with vehicles I assume are expensive. There’s a swimming pool--” “Are you a real estate agent now? I live here, remember? I know what types of homes are in Topanga Canyon,” Javez insisted, his voice low. Well, he hadn’t known. He’d only been to Los Angeles one other time. And the search for Camille had never panned out so he may never have returned. But Jarvez had asked for reinforcements when R. Baron failed to respond to every request to remove the Web site that identified his people. He’d been under the impression when he left Marehet that R. Baron was a man. What a nice surprise that she wasn’t. This whole mission was proving to be full of surprises. Jarvez had told him R. Baron was a scientist, but he’d been shocked that his quarry had ended up being an astronomer at UCLA--one Dr. Roberta C. Baron. First of all, her position was vastly at odds with her Web site, which was full of the pseudoscientific terminology that caught the attention of late-night talk radio enthusiasts. Secondly, the simple fact was, one of her coworkers said she didn’t earn enough money to pay the property taxes on the “ranch” she owned. Even though she didn’t own any horses or cattle, Merrick could see for himself Roberta’s coworker hadn’t been lying. The home was proof she was wealthy. The receptionist had called her Hollywood heiress, said her mother was rumored to have been a movie star, but “Dr. Baron” wouldn’t talk about it so she wasn’t sure. Because she kept her job despite the money, Merrick assumed Roberta had a career she loved. By all accounts she was a well-respected scientist. Unfortunately, she hadn’t responded to threats to expose her for a “crackpot” to her colleagues. So maybe the threat of a jaguar would help. He had to hope so. When they reached the house, the door opened. “Thank God you’re here.” She was every bit as lovely as she was when she’d first awaken. The scrubby old UCLA sweats effectively hid her feminine shape, but did nothing to stop her warm, musky scent from surrounded him, capturing his senses. She smelled of mint and adrenalin. He told himself it was fear, not arousal that had her on edge. But his cock didn’t care. When her eyes stole up and down his frame, lingering on his obvious arousal before she met his gaze again, Merrick came to the conclusion that he wanted to get to know this woman. It had been a long time since a woman had affected him like this. It

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would be a damn shame not to give into the temptation. Javez flipped open his badge. “I’m Detective White.” She nodded her head, but her eyes were focused on him rather than his cousin or the badge. Her warm brown gaze was intent and full of curiosity. She bit her lower lip, wrinkling her nose in thought. He fought the urge to reach over and pull her to him, and taste her mouth to see if she was really that sweet. His cousin continued, “This is my partner, Delacroix.” “Hmm,” she said, locking her gaze with his own. Her blonde hair fell in a loose cascade of curls around her shoulders. “Your eyes are gold.” “And, yours are lovely.” Merrick winked at her. She blushed slightly, but planted her hands on her hip and frowned. “I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like yours. Where are you from?” He found her actions much more alluring than she could possibly imagine. He rather liked a woman who was ... stubborn. Dr. Roberta Baron was certainly that. He liked them better when they had high, firm breasts that stood up and begged to be worshiped. This woman in particular had him craving for a taste of every part of her. By the Gods he wanted her out of that dingy sweatshirt, and in his arms. “You’re not going to tell me where you are from?” she asked insistently. “France,” Javez answered for him. “You don’t sound it,” she said, then looked at Javez. “Detective White, you said?” “I thought you needed a police officer? Where my partner was born is not what we should be discussing.” She frowned again, making him want to thumb the V between her brows. “Can I see both your badges?” Javez handed over his badge again. Merrick chuckled, and handed her the badge he’d lifted off one of two detectives they’d found in a bar. The men would wake up in a seedy motel with hangovers and assume they’d passed out drunk. When she handed him back his badge, their fingers brushed and molten heat poured through his veins. Her fingers were velvet smooth. He wondered if she’d be that soft and warm everywhere. “Come with me.” “That would be my pleasure.” **** The man captured her in his heated golden gaze, licking his lips. It unsettled her how familiar he looked. But, she knew without a doubt that she’d never seen him before. She would never forget a man who stared at her this intensely. Then there was the fact he looked and sounded so exotic. She breathed again, not realizing she’d stopped, and turned away from him. “This way please,” she said when she’d gathered the ability. As she led them into her living room, she could feel his eyes on her. She turned briefly. He watched her, appreciatively, following her every step. The effect was so tangible, she could feel his gaze searching the outline of her body. A tight feeling coiled in her belly. Unconsciously, she straightened and walked in professor-mode. She mentally laughed at her innate reaction. She’d just vowed to start living differently. If she wanted to have something interesting to happen in her life, she needed to start acting like it. Having an insanely handsome stranger staring at her backside counted as interesting.

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He had dark brown hair, almost black, that curled around his neck. His skin was a rich shade of mocha that made her want to touch him. When she had touched him, the sparks flew straight down her spine. She had to figure out some way to let him know she was interested in what it was his eyes told her. Besides being gold, they held the look of a predator. Her heart fluttered as she realized he looked at her as if she was prey. His prey. Camille smiled and added a little swing in her step. When they got to her living room and she motioned for them both to sit down, she caught the amused grin on his face. Her heart fell. Being a source of amusement for members of the opposite sex was a constant theme in her life. Maybe she’d misread the signals. It wasn’t as if she had much experience. She could count the number of failed relationships or one-night stands she’d had on one hand. The point was she wanted something different. She didn’t need more of the same. No sense trying to attract this man if she’d end up making a fool out of herself. She wanted to live, not be laughed at. Just then her grandfather walked into the room. Camille shot him a worried glance, mentally pleading that he’d behave himself. He shook his head with a smile. Oh, brother. She knew that look. Her grandfather was going to make this conversation interesting. Camille plopped down on the couch. “Robert Baron, this is Detectives White and Delacroix. Robert is my grandfather. He lives in an apartment over the garage.” Delacroix sent her a gaze that made her stomach feel like a candle flickering in the wind. He sat in the sofa across from her, stretching out, one arm draped over the love seat, the other hand resting on his muscular thigh. Detective White didn’t sit. He wandered around, studying her belongings. “Have you noticed if anything is missing?” he called from across the room. “No. I don’t think they were here to steal. It was a threat.” “Why do you think that?” Delacroix asked. Camille described the e-mail correspondence she’d been receiving, including the latest. “Let me get this straight,” White said. “You think whoever wants you to remove this Web site released a jaguar in your home. He or she has repeatedly threatened you. Yet you’ve kept the Web site online?” “You’re wrong on one point. Whoever wants her to remove our Web site is the jaguar,” her grandfather piped in. Detective White tried his hardest to keep a serious look on his face. “You’re saying a computer literate jaguar is threatening you?” “If you saw the Web site,” Camille said, grasping her grandfather’s hand, “you’d understand. But, it’s a long story.” “It’s relevant?” Delacroix asked. “If the Web site is relevant, we’ll need details.” Camille mused at the thought Delacroix looked and sounded like Shad Jacek. Their build was the same. The resemblance was uncanny. Stranger yet, Shad had repeatedly spoken of jaguars. What would be the odds of that coincidence? One in a trillion? Camille continued, “I believe the jaguar’s presence had everything to do with the theory expressed on that Web site.” “Which is?” Delacroix asked. “You can give us the short version.” She nudged her grandfather. Robert said, “The ancient cultures of Central

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America had the stars central to their creation mythology, and quite often the focus was on the Pleiades.” “I’m aware of the history and mythology of that region.” “So, you know certain sects within the Maya believed their leaders and gods could shape-shift into jaguars.” “I suppose you could shape shift into a jaguar yourself,”--as he spoke, he winked at her--”if you to had the help of hallucinogenic drugs. That too was part of the ancient’s tradition.” Robert laughed. “You don’t need to lecture me. I spent my life studying their culture. That is what I believed myself. I’ve since discovered that they exist.” “Who exists?” “Beings that can shift into the shape of a jaguar. They are from a planet, Marehet, which orbits Maia, one of the stars in the constellation Pleiades.” Delacroix stared at her, his golden eyes flashing. “You’ve referred to the Web site as stating a theory. Yet, you’ve got proof?” “Science requires more than the physical proof that we have,” she said. “You doubt your grandfather,” Delacroix stated. It wasn’t a question, and Camille was annoyed at the line of discussion. She angled a look at Robert. “I support your theories. I created the Web site for you.” Her grandfather smiled at her. “You can admit the truth, love.” She sighed. “I teach astronomy. I’m fascinated by the possibility, but if you’re asking if I bring this up at work, the answer is no. The evidence we have isn’t enough. If I made it public I’d end up in supermarket tabloids. UCLA wouldn’t appreciate employing an astronomer whose defining thesis was summed up in an article that said, “Astronomer proves that jaguar men run among us. Has she met these beings? Will her children be kittens?” Detective White cleared his throat. “Can we get back to the threats, and what happened this evening.” “That’s simple. I woke up with a jaguar ... in my bedroom.” “You’re sure it was a jaguar?” Delacroix asked. “Yes! I saw Bird on a Wire.” “Bird on a Wire?” “You know, the movie with Mel Gibson. Goldie Hawn. In the zoo scene, the rogue federal agent runs into a pair of jaguars.” “I don’t go to movies.” Detective White broke in. “Jaguars aren’t native to California.” She sighed. “I’m only saying that someone released a jaguar in my house. I don’t know where they found it.” Detective White shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll take a look around.” Delacroix said, “And you can show me the Web site and e-mails.” When they sat in her computer room, he surfed through the main pages of the Web site, a smirk on his face. “The best advice I can give you is to comply with their demands.” “No.” “Why not?” “It’s a matter of principle.”

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He snorted, yet tossed her a look of admiration. “I have to be honest. Finding the culprit will likely be impossible and they could come back.” “I’m not afraid.” “You probably should be. Someone willing to release a dangerous wildcat in your home isn’t a nice guy.” “This is not the first time I’ve been stalked by a jaguar. They seem to like me well enough not to attack.” He smiled then. His eyes shined more when he smiled. He really was incredible to look at. All muscle and masculinity. “This isn’t the first instance?” “That was a long time ago. A woman said she saw a jaguar following me. I didn’t really believe her … until I saw it myself.” He pulled up the webpage with a small image of the jaguar scepter. “Is this your proof?” She nodded. “Can I see the original?” “No.” He frowned at her. “We can’t help without cooperation.” “I’m being cooperative. It’s not here.” “Where is it?” “That doesn’t matter. Even if they want the scepter, they can’t have it.” Before the police left, Delacroix warned her again to remove the Web site, at least until the situation was resolved. That probably wasn’t bad advice. Her grandfather seemed to agree. “I don’t want you in danger.” “It irritates me to be pushed around. This is a schoolyard bully’s tactics and I don’t appreciate it.” She stretched a kink out of her shoulder. “Where is the scepter?” “I sent it to Professor Merida at El Museo de Antropologia e Historia, in Cancun. He never put it on exhibit. He was curious about the markings, but without corroborating proof, he wouldn’t put his career on the line making this information public.” Her grandfather shook his head. “I wonder why you do? You are risking your reputation to help me. Why?” “You’re my grandfather.” “But, you don’t believe me.” “No. But, I believe in you.” That was what it boiled down to. She might not believe there were shape shifting aliens on Earth, but Robert had stumbled onto a question that no anthropologist had been asked before. This find was the culmination of a lifetime of study for him. He needed to follow this path. “Would Professor Merida give it back to you?” she asked. “He passed away two months ago. He did me a favor, taking the scepter anonymously. So, there is no way that I can retrieve that piece. The scepter is gone for good.” Robert smiled at her. “Are you going to take down the Web site?” “I’ll think about it over a nice round of surfing. I’m not going to get back to sleep and the sun will rise in an hour.”

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Merrick stood at the edge of the foam and watched his little professor gliding along, below the crest of a gigantic wave, precariously balanced on the flimsy board she stood on. She appeared to catch a glimpse of him, lost her balance, and tumbled into the bubbling surf. He ran into the water, dove in and swam toward her. He was relieved when her arm clasped her board and she hauled herself out of the water. “What are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly, moving to sit astride her board. She was dressed in a black wetsuit that outlined her perfectly. The sun wasn’t high enough to share much heat. Her thighs were bare, and the water was cool. Her teeth chattered. Merrick was chilled himself, and his waterlogged clothing made it worse. “I should ask you the same thing. There’s a sign over there that says this area is inhabited by sharks. Not to mention, your visitor last night could easily have followed you. Out here, you’re an easy target.” She straightened, frowning at him. “If you came here to hassle me about removing my Web site again, you’re wasting your breath. I’ve decided that I’m not giving in.” He studied the tilt of her chin, the wrinkle in her nose, and the firm pout on her lips. The woman was spirited. He liked that about her. That spirit would prove interesting when channeled into other activities. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to shore.” When they waded out of the surf, she stuck her board into the sand. “What is this thing?” “You’re kidding, right?” she asked, her voice had taken on a teasing tone. When he shook his head, she chuckled. “You’re not from France, are you?” She pushed her unruly hair out of her face, tucking stray locks behind her ears. Merrick reached over, removing an errant strand stuck to her lower lip. She didn’t pull back, but didn’t advance. He fought the urge to grasp her neck and pull her forward for a kiss. The thoughts had his body hot enough to keep the chill at bay. “I’m from France.” “Besides the fact I’ve gone surfing in France myself, you don’t sound French.” She squinted at him. “Actually, you have the same accent as somebody I met once.” Now that was interesting. Had she met a Marehetian before? There was always that chance. It would help explain how she’d found artwork that carried symbols from his language. Merrick asked, “And where was he or she from?” She eyed him suspiciously, raising one brow. “He was secretive about where he came from too.” “I’m here now. Los Angeles, the City of Angels. You are more inquisitive than your country’s immigration officials.” She laughed. “It’s an awfully large city to show up at the same beach.” “It wasn’t an accident. I followed you.” He watched another man, out on the waves on his board. “This is called surfing then? Is it that common?” “I wouldn’t say that. Nobody would guess that on the few days I don’t work, I’m a regular beach bum.” That didn’t surprise Merrick. The people she worked with knew very little about her. She held many secrets, all of which he wanted to see past. “What else will keep me guessing?”

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She sucked on her lower lip, looking worried. “Nothing really. I work. I come to the beach. I create Web pages for my grandfather. I really don’t lead a very interesting life.” He winked at her. “Interesting enough that you go swimming in shark-infested waters.” “No, you went swimming in shark-infested waters. I surf.” “Teach me to surf.” Her eyes darted up, then she squinted, seemingly locked in indecision. After a long moment, she said, “Only if you promise not to discuss your work.” Merrick nodded. “I’ll leave it alone for a few hours.” They walked up the beach to her vehicle, a feat that wasn’t all that easy for him, being in skintight, waterlogged jeans. He dragged his shirt over his head, wringing it out and draped it the car he’d borrowed for Jarvez. “What happened to the police car?” They’d dumped it at the motel the owners were passed out in. But, she didn’t need to know that. “I’m not on duty.” Roberta ran her hand along the convertible’s soft top, staring intently at him. “Kind of a coincidence, you know. I wouldn’t have expected you to own a black Jaguar.” It was Javez that had the flair for the ironic. “I’m borrowing from ... my partner. I’m sure he bought it long before your intruder showed up.” “An expensive vehicle for a police officer.” True, but Javez wasn’t a police officer. “You own an expensive house for an astronomer. How do you afford it on your salary?” “I inherited it from my parents.” She snatched her hand back, as if burned. “I shouldn’t have asked like that. I didn’t mean to sound callous.” “That’s fine. You couldn’t have known. And, it’s been nearly twenty years. …” “Your grandfather raised you?” “And me him, he’d say.” She stared up the beach. “Is this part of your investigation?” “Not at all.” “There’s a surf shop nearby where you can buy a wetsuit and a rent a surfboard, but they won’t open for a while. Would you like to grab some breakfast first?” Merrick slapped his thighs. “I’m not dressed for the occasion.” “I’ve got a few towels in the trunk. You could strip to your shorts. We could run through a drive-thru.” “I’m not dressed for that either.” “Oh.” She gazed at him in wonder, her eyes focused on that part of him that was heated enough without her attention. His jeans became unbearably tight. “We can go to my house,” she said quietly. “It isn’t far. While your clothing dries, I’ll cook you breakfast.” “I’ve got a short attention span. If you bring me home, I will lose interest in learning to surf.” “Oh.” Merrick grasped her arm and pulled her against him. She was warm, wet, and smelled of the ocean. She leaned into him, rubbing against his belly, the rough fabric of her wetsuit harsh against his bare skin. Their eyes caught, and she stared at him.

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“There’s always tomorrow,” she said, her eyes questioning him. Merrick dropped his head, bringing one hand up so he could angle her neck to meet his lips. He licked her bottom lip, tasting the salt and inhaled her scent. Fire shot through his veins, but he forced himself to pull back. Guilt tore at him. He didn’t want making love with her to be a means to an end. He wanted her to come to him freely, understanding that he wanted her ... not information. There wasn’t much time until she realized he wasn’t a police officer. When those two detectives that he and Javez had impersonated realized they’d supposedly responded to a 911 call last night, they would follow up. At least he would, if he was in their position. “I know the people who want your Web site shut down,” he said. “You don’t realize what you’re up against. They won’t take no for an answer.” She stiffened. “Who are they?” “That information is classified.” “I don’t understand how you could know that already.” She tried to pull back, but he held her waist tight against him. “How could you have responded so quickly last night?” “That is classified information too. All that is important is that you will remove that Web site and give me any evidence you have that is relevant in this case. It is the only way to resolve this situation.” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t want to give in to these people.” “You must.” She tried to pull back again. “Let go of me. I told you I didn’t want to hear about it.” Merrick hooked a thumb below her chin and angled her face toward his again. “That’s why I told you why I’m here, before we make love. I don’t want you thinking I seduced you to get you to comply with my demands. I want you to know my intentions beforehand, so that when we’re together it is because we need each other.” “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself!” He was sure that he wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever met. But, he wasn’t sure how to complete his mission without hurting her emotionally. It didn’t matter what course he took, she’d end up hating him. That thought didn’t sit well on his conscience. “I’m sure of one thing,” he said in a low voice. “What?” “I’m going to make love to you.” **** An hour later Camille stood over a frying pan making a complete mess of a California omelet, going over what he’d told her, trying to convince herself she was making a mistake. But she couldn’t. She did want this man. She wanted him so badly that when she imagined him sitting behind her, dressed only in a slight towel wrapped around his waist, she couldn’t wield the spatula. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her flesh, and it heated her entire body. It had been too long for her. It had been a year since her relationship with Seymour ended. Over a year without sex. But it wasn’t just physical desire that attracted her to him. He

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was different from any man she’d ever met ... except one. Shad Jacek. The buzz of the juicer distracted her. She turned and watched Delacroix make a complete mess of squeezing oranges. Tiny drops covered his chest, her table, and the floor around him. But, he didn’t seem to mind. He was completely fascinated with the task she’d given him. “Almost done, Delacroix?” He didn’t respond. “Breakfast is ready. Are you?” He looked up from the juicer, his eyes filled with amazement. He popped a finger in his mouth and moaned in pleasure. “What are the fruits that make this juice called? I’d like to buy some again.” “You’ve never heard of oranges?” “You’re teasing me again. I take it oranges are more common than surfing?” “I’d say.” His ignorance made her wonder more than ever who this man really was. Not having heard of surfing was one thing, but how could a police officer in L.A. not have heard about oranges? There was the Orange Freeway. A cop that didn’t know the layout of the freeway system would be handicapped in an emergency. Then, there was neighboring Orange County -- named for the many groves of Valencia oranges that had once filled the valley. There was even an Orange, France. “Okay, Delacroix. Fess up. Where are you from?” “Merrick.” The way he said it, it sounded like Mark with a funny twang. “Delacroix is much too formal considering what I’m thinking.” “You changed the subject.” His eyes took on a passion-filled glaze. He licked his index finger, his tongue curling around it. His hands were incredibly sexy. She couldn’t wait to feel them on her skin. “Right now, all I want to do is discover how much sweeter these oranges will be when I kiss the last drops off your lips after you’ve lapped the juice off me.” Camille swallowed hard as he stood, moving toward her in two strides, sweeping her off her feet. She was nearly six feet tall and wasn’t a skinny-Minnie. Merrick had six inches on her, and was broad and well-muscled. But, as he started up the stairs taking the first three steps in a single bound, she got nervous. “Oh lord, put me down.” “What would be the fun in that?” Before she could argue her point, he’d reached the top. The man moved like lightning. Strong. Fast. He wasn’t even breathing hard. The next thing she knew, he was stretched out across the length of her California king-sized bed, hands latched behind his neck, feet crossed at the ankles, waiting for her. His eyes followed her as she moved to the foot of the bed, his gaze urging her to join him. Camille ran her hands down her hips, lifting the edges of her robe and grasping the elastic bands of her panties. She shimmied out of them. Lifting one leg, she knelt on the edge of the bed then bent forward. Merrick’s eyes were on her breasts, visible now that her robe had fallen open. She crawled over him, until she straddled his thighs. She placed her hands along his hips. “Lift up so I can get rid of this towel.” When he did, his thighs brushed hers, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her heated blood. She grasped the damp towel at his waist and yanked it off, then threw it

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across the room. His hands moved to her waist, untying the knot and parting her silk robe. He ran his hands up her stomach until he cupped her breasts. Merrick pinched her nipples through the lace, rubbing the fabric over them. Camille shrugged off the robe, reaching behind her back and unclasped her bra. When it fell from her shoulders, he removed it for her, tossing it aside. Naked on top of him, she leaned back, her eyes on his cock. He was beautiful. Wrapping her hand around his shaft, Camille stroked the length of his erection. The breath left his body raggedly, his eyelids fluttering. When she reached the head of his penis, she circled her thumb, teasing the silky soft flesh, smearing the drop of liquid she found. He took a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Camille leaned forward, resting her palms on the headboard on either side of his face. Merrick groaned when she licked a tiny drop of dried orange juice off his chin. She ran the flat of her tongue over his lips, and his cheek, tasting the fruit, the salt from the ocean, and the man. Her senses were hyper-alert, memorizing the taste, the textures as she followed the contours of his face. “Who are you, Merrick?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “Who are you really?” “I could ask the same of you,” he replied, his eyes blazing. “You’re not at all the woman you appear to be, Roberta.” “You can call me--” He placed his index finger against his lips. “Kiss me.” She bent lower, brushing her breasts against his chest as she nibbled a path down his neck. Sucking, biting, and licking her way down his chest and belly. She pressed her belly against the hard ridge of his erection. He was hot to the touch. Burning up. His thighs nudged her legs apart and he raised one knee until his thigh was flush with her center. Closing her eyes, Camille rubbed against his skin until her labia opened exposing her clit. He grasped her hips, helping her move against him. The friction sent tremors through her body. “Now,” she pleaded. “I want you inside me now.” Merrick lifted her by the hips, until she was poised over his erection, his cock nestled against her. He parted her folds with his fingers, pinching her clit between his forefinger and thumb and twisting lightly. She leaned back, sinking against him until his cock was hard against her opening, poised to enter. She sat down as he thrust up. Camille flinched. She was so tight, the pressure burned. But he felt too good. She tried to ride him, but Merrick clasped one thigh with his free hand, effectively restraining her. With the other hand, he gently rubbed the tight nub between two fingers. Frustrated, she clenched her inner muscles pushing against him. He grinned, watching her closely. “Tell me what you feel.” “Good.” He tossed his head back, laughing lightly. “Saying that sex feels good is like naming a fruit by the color. That’s obvious. I want to know what you’re feeling right now.” Camille gripped his cock with her muscles. “I feel you. Your heat. It is radiating through my body, warming all of me.” He changed the rhythm and pressure of his fingers as they danced in new patterns around her clit. “Oh, lord. There are no words to express how that feels.”

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“Try.” She closed her eyes and focused on the sensations, but it was impossible to concentrate on one thing. “I feel you everywhere. You’ve got my nerves dancing like your fingers.” Within moments she wriggled over him, pleading, “Now, please.” Carefully he rolled them over until she was beneath him. Holding his weight off her, the only part of them that touched was at their sex. Merrick lifted his hips until he almost left her, then thrust forward. She raised her hips, her belly meeting his for a moment until he withdrew and thrust again. Her channel was so wet, so ready, yet the friction was intense. It wasn’t just the huge size of him that fit perfectly. She could feel every ridge, as if his cock expanded to fill her completely with each stroke, caressing her inner walls. He moved against her slowly, then increased the speed, driving into her harder with each thrust, consuming her thoughts. Camille reached up, holding his waist, guiding him toward her center. She leaned up, licking one of his nipples, then wrapped her arms around him, wanting and needing to increase the contact. She felt soft against his hard, muscular body. Their eyes caught and he slowed again, each thrust overwhelming her. The sensations wrapped around her, crashing like the waves on a beach. Seemingly reading what was happening to her, he reached between them and softly stroked her clit until she exploded around him. With one hand he cupped her backside and angled her until he stroked deep inside, hard and fast. Merrick called out her name as his body jerked against her, his warmth flooding her. After a moment, he dropped to his elbows, resting against her, covering her. She could feel his body trembling, right along with hers. “Mmm... Roberta.” “You don’t have to call me Roberta,” she said. “None of my friends call me Roberta.” “Mmm-hmmm....” He winked. “We are much more than friends. What should I call you, kitten?”

Chapter Five Merrick followed the line of her lips with one finger. “Camille,” she whispered softly, licking the pad of his finger. “My friends call me Camille.” A heavy feeling deep in his gut brought him out of the sensuality of the moment, and back into a very different reality. His eyes opened wide, and he studied her closely. “Roberta C. Baron? That’s your middle name? Camille.” “Yes.” It had to be her. And, Shad was going to kill him. Merrick muttered in his language. Camille stared at him, looking too curious. He dropped his weight against her, pressing his face against her neck, holding her tight. It

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didn’t matter that she and Shad never consummated their relationship. Shad had claimed her as his own. After a moment he rolled off her, but held her still with the weight of one leg draped over her. “And you vacationed in Mexico about a year ago.” Camille tried to push him off her, her brow coming together in a V from worry. He caressed the wrinkle with the pad of his index finger, trying to make it go away. “How do you know that?” she asked. Before he answered her, the phone rang. He stared at it, then her, waiting for her to pick up. A pout framing her lips, she answered, “Hello.” “Roberta Baron?” the caller answered. Merrick recognized the voice, it was the man he’d impersonated. Camille wouldn’t realize that his hearing was acute enough to pick up the other end of the conversation. He decided to play ignorant as long as he could. “How may I help you?” she asked. “This is Detective Samuel Delacroix. Last night you made a 911 call and--” “Yes, but now is not a good time. I have to go.” Merrick was surprised at her answer. She knew that he’d lied to her, that he wasn’t who he claimed to be, but she wasn’t frightened. Instead, she tried to get rid of the man on the phone. Finally she insisted, “Listen, I can’t talk now. I’m hanging up. Call me later.” She slammed the phone down, then left it off the hook. “Who was that?” Merrick asked, trying to appear concerned. “Let’s get back to how you knew I was in Mexico.” Merrick rolled onto his back, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. “Mexico. You spent two weeks in Mexico. You stayed at a bungalow in Tulum.” “Is Shad ... your brother?” Merrick nodded. “I saw the resemblance. But when you said your name was Delacroix, I assumed you told me the truth. Are you even a cop?” Merrick shook his head. “My name is Jacek Merrick.” “Why did you impersonate a police officer?” “I told you that. I’m here to get that Web site off the Internet and collect the evidence you have regarding the existence of Marehet--the scepter.” Camille pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, great. As if that makes a lot of sense. You’re telling me that you believe my grandfather’s theory?” “It’s not a theory.” **** “What isn’t a theory?” Camille asked, staring at the man before her. Was he referring to Marehet? Shape shifting jaguars? Why was any of this important to him? When he didn’t answer her, she took a deep breath and held it. Finally she exhaled. “What do you mean? What isn’t a theory?” Merrick rolled toward her again, curling against her. He caressed her cheek with the flat of his hand. She felt the heat from his body increase, saw sparks of light coalesce as his body faded away and faded back into a black shape. “Lord almighty,” she whispered. “My grandfather is right.”

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Camille wasn’t frightened, but her nerves shook anyway. The jaguar--Merrick-blinked his golden eyes in a slow motion, staring at her from behind heavy lids. Even if she hadn’t witnessed the transformation, she recognized the look in his eyes. It was him. There was no question in her mind. “I am not on hallucinogenic drugs. This is really happening.” Merrick curled up his lips, hissing. She reached out, stroking his velvet fur. She could feel as well as hear him purring. In the light of day, he wasn’t pure black. She circled her fingers around one of the dark-brown rosettes along his shoulder. “You’re very beautiful.” He curled back his lips and snarled at her. “Handsome then.” Merrick purred again. He flicked his tail across her shoulder, caressing her upper arm. Camille shook her head. It seemed as if a man was a man, even when he was an alien from another planet that could shape shift into the form of a jaguar. Faded memories of her vacation in Mexico flooded her mind. Shad was a shape shifter too. He’d teased her, telling her fanciful stories of the jaguar that appeared only when he was in Tulum. “The man who posed as your partner,” she said. “Is he like you too? A shape shifter?” Merrick nudged her neck with his muzzle, then licked her. His tongue was rough. Camille pushed him away from her. “None of that. I’m going to get dressed and call my grandfather over.” Merrick hissed at her. “Is that a ‘no’?” He swatted her backside with his tail. “I will tell him, you know. This isn’t something I can keep secret from him. So, you might as well let him see you.” Merrick licked her midriff, running his abrasive tongue along the curve of one breast. “No way!” He snarled at her, pressing the pads of one foot against her shoulder and pushing her over. He extended his claws until the pinched into her skin. Camille snorted back. “Acting like this will not help rekindle the mood. We’re not having sex.” The aura glowed around him again, and within a second he was human again, one hand cupped around her breast, his thumb caressing her nipple. “It’s for the best that you feel that way. My brother will be pissed as hell that I made love to you.” “What?” she asked, calmly. “Why would he be upset?” The parting image she had in her mind was of Shad with another couple, why would he be upset she was interested in another? “You belong to Jacek Shad.” “I don’t belong to anyone.” “He claimed you. By our traditions you belong to him. I can only have you if he invited me into the relationship, or when he is through with you.” Camille couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was amused that she was more shocked at those ideas than the notion she was lying next to a handsome alien from a distant planet. Despite years of training that insisted beings like Merrick couldn’t exist,

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she’d instantaneously accepted that he wasn’t from her planet. However, the notion she’d been claimed as property by a man she’d never even kissed, but she’d seen in an intimate situation with a man and a woman was incomprehensible. “Does it matter what I think? I don’t want to have anything to do with your brother.” “No. It doesn’t matter. You belong to him. I can’t have you.” “Merrick, in case you’ve forgotten, you’ve had me, without his permission. I was yours. You were mine. We’ve already made love.” “He’ll figure that out, unfortunately.” Camille jumped out of bed. “Unfortunately? Do you regret what happened between us?” “Of course not, nor would I regret it if we made love again,” he said. “It’ll be our last opportunity, before I have to tell him--” “I’d rather you didn’t, to tell you the truth. He’s a jerk.” “I can’t lie to my brother.” “Of course, I get it.” This was exactly why she’d never been bold. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours and already she was hoping that she was something more than a woman he’d picked up at the beach. “You got what you wanted. Just don’t expect me to be passed on.” Merrick shook his head. “That is the farthest thing from my mind. I’m not passing you on. It is unfortunate timing. Shad will still want you, but he has other obligations so he’ll allow me--” “I don’t belong to your idiot brother!” “I’m obligated by blood and by my word to honor his wishes. I have to tell him that I found you.” Planting one hand on her hip, she pointed at the door with the other. “Get the hell out of my bed. In fact, get the hell out of my life!” He frowned at her. “No.” “I want you to leave. Now!” “It’s the way of my people, Jacek Shad is first in line to the throne--” “Royalty? I knew it. He acted like it. But, that doesn’t mean he owns me.” Merrick grinned. “He does. It’s the way things are. We’ve got no choice.” “No! That’s where you’re wrong.” She yanked open a drawer and grabbed a pair of old granny panties and pulled them on. Then she dug around for her ugliest bra. “I’ve got a choice. I’m not part of your culture.” “Don’t do that, kitten.” “Do what?” “Get dressed.” She tossed him a look meant to kill. “Don’t you dare refer to me as ... a kitten. I don’t want any part of you, your brother, or your planet. You should be thankful I feel this way. Isn’t that why you came here? To get me to take that Web site off the Internet so nobody would learn the truth.” “I messed that up.” “No, that’s the only part you got right. I’ll take the Web site down. I’ll even convince my grandfather to stop looking into your people.” He sighed. “I’m glad you’re being reasonable despite your anger.” “I have a condition.”

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“What’s that, kitten?” “That you walk out, right now, and never return. I don’t want to see, or your brother, again. Ever. Is that understood?” “I can’t agree to that.” Camille yanked a T-shirt over her head and then a pair of old jeans. She ran downstairs to the laundry room, retrieved his clothing and returned to her bedroom. The stubborn man still lounged across her bed like he owned the place. If his brother was a prince that meant he was too. The arrogance made sense now. She tossed his clothing at him. “Cats don’t realize they aren’t in charge. I’m in charge here. Get the hell out of my house.” He crawled out of bed and rose up in front of her in all his naked splendor. Camille found it difficult not to look at his erect penis. His abdomen. Belly button. It was perfect against the hard plane of his abdomen. The sexiest belly button she’d ever seen, in fact. Swallowing hard, she cleared her throat. “Get dressed, Merrick.” He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her against him. The thick feel of his cock against her was her undoing. When his lips descended on hers, urging her to open up, her resolve melted under his heated assault on her sensibilities. Their tongues meeting in a frenzied mating. He nipped at her lips, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth and tugging lightly. Merrick grasped her backside, pulling her up until she wrapped both legs around his waist and clung to him. “I can’t believe you want me to leave.” “I can’t believe you won’t! What we’ve shared is merely physical. Now is the perfect time to end it.” Merrick laughed loudly. “I may desire you more than any woman I’ve ever met, but there was more to what happened between us than sex.” “Hrrmph.” The door bell rang. “Put me down, please.” He did as she requested and peeked out the window. “When you talk to the police, don’t bring up my people. There will be consequences I can’t control if you did that.” Her heart clenched in her throat. Was that a threat? “If you leave, and for good. I don’t want a man who doesn’t want me.” “You’ve got that dead wrong, kitten.” His gold eyes fastened on her. “And I won’t leave without the scepter. I can’t leave it behind, it provides a clue to my people’s existence.” “I can’t give it to you.” “You don’t have a choice, love.” “You don’t understand, I can’t--” “Go to the door before they break it down.” After the real Detective Delacroix finished asking her questions and left, Camille felt guilty she’d lied. What she’d done was like aiding and abetting. No, wait, who was she trying to fool? When it came down to it, she was a criminal. But, the truth would have made her sound insane. Sharing the truth may have eased her conscience, but it would have only caused more difficulties. Merrick’s car was still in the driveway, but he was not in the house. She walked in the backdoor of her grandfather’s apartment. “Grandfather? Merrick?” The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she heard a car start. She ran to

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the front door, watching as Merrick drove off, her grandfather in the passenger seat. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. A slip of paper on the kitchen table caught her eye. With leaden feet, she walked to the table, her finger’s brushing the paper. Bring the jaguar the beach Tuesday morning. I’ll bring Robert. Tears slipped down her cheeks silently. Staring at the note, rereading it repeatedly, her body shook uncontrollably. This was proof that Merrick would go to any length to keep his people from the public eye. Camille had to believe that he wouldn’t hurt her grandfather, but then, she didn’t really know him. She knew nothing about him! His betrayal cut deep. Her grandfather was her only family. She couldn’t believe Merrick had kidnapped him, not after ... she told him that. Shaking off the worry, Camille wondered how she could get the jaguar scepter in time. That was the only option that would ensure her grandfather’s safety. She returned to her office, and after she deleted the Web site files, she searched for information on the museum in Cancun. It didn’t take long before she knew there was no way she’d obtain the real scepter. But, there was one that looked enough like it to fool Merrick long enough to ensure her grandfather was safe. She picked up the phone book and found Harold’s number. He was one of her grandfather’s oldest friends. And a pilot. He’d been flying into Mexico since her father was a child. He was retired now, but he would be able to help her. “Harold?” she asked when he answered the phone. “Camille? Is that you?” “Yes,” she said, working to keep her voice steady. “What can I do you for?” “I need to get to Cancun and back in three days without anyone asking questions. I’m wondering if you can get hold of a jet, and a pilot?” “Sure. Why?” “I can’t tell you. But, it’s important.” Within an hour he called back, giving her an address to meet him at 8:00 A.M. in the morning. The rest of the day, she worried about whether or not Shad would still have the scepter, and how she’d be able to hide the fact she’d stolen it. What she needed was another replica to replace it with. It didn’t need to be perfect, just enough to fool Rosita until after Tuesday morning. Camille headed to a craft store. The clerk, seemingly noting her look of confusion, took her in hand and quickly sent her home with what was promised to be easy-to-use clay that she could bake in her oven. She also had some acrylic paint that would help give her creation the look of aged jade. By midnight she had in her hands what looked more like an extraterrestrial sex toy than a jaguar scepter. Shad had teased her about the phallic shape of the relic. When he saw her handiwork, he’d get a kick out of it. It looked like a dildo. When she finally crawled into bed, sleep was a long time in coming.

Chapter Six

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Tulum, Mexico Dressed in black from head to toe, Camille she stole along the edges of the jungle outside Na Balam. She had absolutely no idea how she was going to get in the house without tripping the alarm system. When it came down to it, she’d made a lot of plans. But, not nearly enough. She snuck around the circumference of the house, studying her options. When she rounded the corner near the garden shed, she stepped on a rake. The handle smacked her in the face. Wincing in pain, she stumbled backward. The rake fell again, clattering against a window. A light flicked on inside Shad’s home. Camille ran and hid behind a palm tree. Rosita’s husband stepped outside, with a gun. Panic took over, and she was sure he’d hear her heart pounding. Camille clung to the tree, praying fervently that he wouldn’t notice her. Seconds passed and he walked toward the beach, leaving the door behind him wide open. It was her only chance. She ran forward, peering inside to ensure she was alone. Thankfully, Rosita seemed to be in bed still. Camille slipped inside and tiptoed up the stairs and into Shad’s bedroom. She padded to the bed, hopped up and balanced in front of the staff. Thankfully, it was still mounted on the wall. She’d prayed that Shad hadn’t moved it. If he had, the entire trip would have been for naught. If the piece had been missing, she would have nothing to barter with Merrick for the return of her grandfather. With a tiny pen light she searched the staff, looking for any wires that would indicate the artwork had an alarm. Knowing who Shad was, she’d assumed this scepter was the real McCoy. She wouldn’t blame him for having it well protected. Still, her heart fell when she noticed the scepter rested against a pin that was undoubtedly an alarm. But, she had a solution to that. Thanks to the many movies she’d watched, she knew all about not tripping alarms. However, she wasn’t sure how to get her hands on any of those fancy gizmos they used in Hollywood. She’d decided duct tape was the answer. Duct tape might be lo-tech, but it was one of the more useful items known to mankind. Camille knelt and unpacked the burglary kit she’d devised. A diving knife. Wire cutters. Twine. The tape. Batteries for her pen light. Hadn’t it been Ocean’s Eleven they’d needed batteries? A small first aid kit. Her toothbrush. She’d wondered where she’d packed that. And of course, the extraterrestrial dildo she’d made from modeling clay. Holding her breath, and trying to remain still, she carefully slipped a length of duct tape between the scepter and the alarm trigger, taping it against the wall without applying more pressure. Camille listened for sounds that indicated she’d fumbled. But nobody came running. She slipped the staff off the hooks holding it against the wall and sat down. It took her awhile to replace Shad’s jaguar scepter with her fake. When she was done, she shook her head. Hopefully Rosita didn’t plan on dusting tomorrow. Camille mounted the staff again and packed her belongings. Now to get out of here without getting shot.

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She slipped back downstairs and stared at the alarm system. She’d seen Shad punch in the code once. It had been easy to remember. She tried it, hoping it hadn’t been changed. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. It worked. She set the alarm again, and rushed out the door. **** Planet Marehet “I won’t have you interfering with this mission,” Merrick said, raising his voice. “I’ve got everything under control.” “Under control?” Shad asked, his voice smooth and even. “The point was to convince them Marehet didn’t exist. Kidnapping the woman’s grandfather and bringing him here won’t accomplish that.” “He wasn’t kidnapped. I left her with the impression that he was. But he was invited and is here of his own accord.” Shad’s eyes darted at his staff, milling around his office suite, doing their best to eavesdrop while looking busy. This was, after all, great news for gossip. It wasn’t all that often he and his brother argued publicly. “Everyone clear out,” Shad insisted. Ten aides filed out of the room. When the chambers were cleared, Shad turned to him with a glare. “His granddaughter is Camille. My Camille.” Merrick caught his brother’s gaze, full on. “He carries her scent,” Shad growled. “You do too, little brother.” “I didn’t realize who she was until after I’d--” “You fucked her?” Shad asked quietly. When he didn’t answer, Shad scrambled right over the top of his massive wooden desk and grabbed Merrick by the lapel of his jacket. “You’re not denying it.” “It was more than sex. I’m in love with her.” Shad growled. “What did you say?” “I’m in love with her!” Shad hauled back and punched him in the nose. Merrick shrugged him off. He wiped the blood from his upper lip, stared at it, and ignored the sting. “I deserved that, but, if you hit me again I’ll beat the crap out of you.” “Does anyone else know they are the same woman?” Merrick sighed. “Javez.” “Ah, by the Gods! Javez hates me. He’ll talk just to see me squirm.” Merrick had the urge to terrorize his brother, but, he didn’t. “He won’t talk. I explained it would be in his best interest to keep the whole mission private.” “That still leaves the issue that I claimed her first.” “It won’t matter. She’s pissed with me, and never stopped being angry with you. She thinks you’re an idiot. Her attitude will likely be worse now that I’ve taken Robert. So, I suggest that you withdraw your claim before people start asking questions.” “Me? Withdraw a claim I have over a woman I haven’t slept with yet. Can’t do it! Everyone would suspect I had an ulterior motive.” “She’s the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. Save face and begin to spread the rumor that you’re concerned it’s taking so long to find a bride. That would be plenty reason to stop taking lovers.”

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Shad refused to give, so their conversation didn’t improve. But, all in all, he’d taken the news much better than Merrick thought he would. As the day passed and his eye darkened, dozens of individuals asked him how he’d got a shiner. His day wasn’t truly ruined until Robert Baron guessed the truth. “Your brother give you that black eye?” “No.” “Sure he did.” Robert leaned against the balustrade, his eyes on the distant purpletinged sea. “I know that he chased after her in Tulum last year, and that she left before they became involved.” Merrick refused to acknowledge the man. “Are you packed? We’re leaving now.” “Leave without me, I’ve got an appointment with the head of your Department of Earth Studies first thing in the morning.” “You don’t have a choice.” “Short of drugging me, you’re not getting me back on your space ship.” “If need be, I’ll do it.” “Merrick,” Robert said, turning from the vista before them. “I’ve spent my whole life studying the cultures of other people. It’s not just what I did for a living. It’s who I am. I plan to stay. I will work here, with your scientists. This is the chance of a lifetime.” “Camille will expect you.” “She’ll understand,” Robert said with a sigh. “She’s a scientist too. Any scientist worth their salt would kill for the chance to make a discovery like this.” “Which you’ll never be able to share.” “I don’t care. Knowledge is valuable in and of itself.” Merrick sighed. “She won’t believe me. I let Camille assume that I kidnapped you.” Robert laughed. “Have fun trying to explain the whole situation to her then. No one would guess it, but she’s a wild thing. Takes after her grandmother.” He’d guessed it. He’d guessed it a year earlier when she walked out of Shad’s life without a fair-the-well. He’d guessed it again when she had walked into his. He didn’t want history to repeat itself, but he was sure it would. Somehow, he would find a way to convince his brother to retract his claim. He would make her part of his life. But, that wouldn’t happen if he couldn’t regain her trust. “You are coming with me!” “It’s not my fault that you jumped into the sack without having a firm base of trust and love to fall back on. If she’s interested, you’ll be able to fix this. If she’s not, it’s your own fault.” That was not something he had any intention of discussing with Camille’s grandfather. “You are jumping to conclusions.” “I’m an old man, but I was young once.” Robert grinned widely. “I saw the looks you two gave each other. But, I’m still not going back with you. If you want my granddaughter, you’ll have to get her on your own.” Merrick cursed in his own language. Jacek Shad walked out onto the veranda, a smug expression on his face. “No, Merrick. He’s not leaving with you. I’ve arranged an extensive schedule for our guest.” Merrick cursed again. “You won’t need to exchange him anyway, she won’t have the scepter,” Shad said.

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Merrick folded his arms across his chest. “How could you know that?” “Rosita called. They were awakened by a disturbance. Rosita searched the house for anything out of place. It seems Camille exchanged my scepter for a fake.” “Why would she do that?” Merrick asked, his eyes falling on Robert. “I sent the original piece to a museum in Cancun.” “She didn’t tell me that.” Robert shrugged. “Well, you didn’t tell her I’m here of my own free will, did you?” He turned to his brother and cursed some more in Marehetian. “I’m leaving now. Before I get back, you need to have withdrawn your claim over her.” Shad grinned. “I don’t think I will.”

Chapter Seven Camille arrived early and waited in her car at Topanga Point. Merrick arrived an hour after she did, without her grandfather. He pulled into a parking spot next to her and hopped out of the black Jaguar. He wore a wetsuit and there was a surfboard sticking up out of the backseat of the convertible. If he thought she was giving him surfing lessons, he had another thing coming. “Where’s my grandfather?” “He’s safe,” Merrick answered. “Where’s the scepter?” “Safe.” “I don’t see your surfboard.” “I didn’t imagine that you’d have the nerve to ask me for a surfing lesson after what you’ve pulled.” Merrick chuckled. “Your grandfather is fine. He left with me because he wanted to.” “Easy to say without him here to corroborate your story.” “I want you to teach me to surf.” “Find someone else. There are plenty of instructors available.” “I want you,” he said, his voice low. The curve of his brow and fire in his eyes had her stomach fluttering. What was it about this man that had her so willing to believe him? It was more than sex she craved. She wanted Merrick to keep looking at her like she was someone worth knowing, as a woman, an individual. Every other man she’d ever met wanted her for her money, or her position at the University, but never for herself. “How did you get a black eye?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she insisted, “Did it have anything to do with my grandfather?” “Your grandfather is fine. I’ll bring you to him after our surfing lesson.” He was avoiding something. It made her want to pop him in the other eye. “What if I said no?” “I’d insist, and I’d get my way.” He winked at her. “I may not have taken your grandfather against his will, but I am the only way you’ll see him.” “I can’t believe you’re acting like a jerk, and expect me to comply!” “You’ve used that word several times.” He smiled at her. “Go get what you need.

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I’ll be waiting for you, trying to come up with a way to prove I’m not acting like dehydrated, spicy animal flesh.” Mumbling to herself she opened her car door and slammed it behind her. She drove off, heading for a nearby surf shop. She had to wait fifteen minutes for them to open. Turning up her radio, she sang along and tried not to think about Merrick. When she returned, Merrick was planted in the sand, leaning back on his elbows. His eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, and oh-so handsome. Camille sat down in the sand, picking up a handful and throwing it at her feet. Merrick opened his eyes and smiled at her. Resisting the urge to smile back, she said, “This is a good place to start. The basics are easier to practice on land.” He looked around. “People are watching.” “Oh, brother,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Would you rather them watch you make a fool out of yourself trying in the water first?” He chuckled. “All right.” “Okay then, lay your board down in the sand, and lie flat down the center with your feet at the tail block, and your hands gripping the rails--that’s the sides.” After he did as she instructed, she ran her hand along the surfboard’s nose. “See how the nose came up?” He nodded. “That’s too far. So, you need to inch forward.” When he found the right position, she said, “Now push up with your arms, and bring one foot beneath you.” As he did as she asked, she ran her hand down his calf and pushed his foot forward and nearly perpendicular to the length of the board. His eyes were on her, his face inches from her own. His breath was warm against her cheek. When he leaned toward her, his eyes focused on her lips, Camille scooted back and denied them both. “The surfing lesson, Merrick.” He winked at her. “What next?” “Just push up into a standing position.” He did, and again, she repositioned his feet. “That’s all there is to it?” he asked. “It is more challenging when the surface below the surfboard is moving, but mostly it’s so simple a monkey could do it.” He frowned at her. “A new insult?” “Actually, the maneuver is called the monkey method,” she said, grinning. He gaped at her, but didn’t say anything. “You’ve got to keep the board lying flat in the water, facing the shore as the whitewater approaches you. And you’ve got to stand quickly. When you’re out there, you’ll want to start when the wave is only a few feet from you, and be up and ready when it hits.” Merrick nodded. “All right, so, what next?” Camille stood next to him. “Now for the proper stance. See your feet? They’re in the right position. But you’re too tense. You need to relax and bend your knees so you’ll be flexible out on the water.” “You could always kiss me; that would help.” Camille didn’t comment. “When you’re riding, if the nose comes up, you can lean forward like this.” She placed one hand on his waist and splayed the other across his lower back. She pushed him gently. “You might have to scoot your feet forward, but keep them in the center of the surfboard or you’ll wipe out for sure.”

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“Mmm.... I don’t think I got that quite right. Show me again.” Camille pushed with all her might and he toppled over into the sand, grasping her legs and bringing her with him. She slapped his wandering hands away. “If that happens out in the water, try to avoid bringing me down with you. It would also be a good idea to avoid getting beamed in the head with your own surfboard.” After he practiced, she led them into the water. He paddled out next to her, watching her more than the motion of the waves. When she stopped and sat astride her board, he followed her lead and gazed at the breaking waves beyond them. “We can’t go out there until you can control the surfboard. You need to learn on the waves that have crested. Look for the long white, bubbling waves. People call this area the soup.” Merrick grinned. “A little more creative than naming oranges.” Camille guided him into a few waves. It took him a few tries to stand and ride a wave into the beach. He was a quick learner, and it helped that he was strong and agile. She found it difficult to keep her eyes off just how strong and agile he was. The play of his muscles kept her enthralled. Much to her dismay, he repeatedly caught her ogling his body. The morning passed without any major dings to anything except her defenses. His surfboard looked new, but her wits were taking a beating. He took advantage of every chance he could to find reasons to touch her, and his persistence wore her down. When Merrick decided he was ready to tackle a larger wave, they paddled out farther. He was successful on the first wave he caught, but wiped out on the second. When he surfaced, coughing and sputtering, she asked, “You all right?” “I think I swallowed a jellyfish. Are they edible?” “Ick.” “Just kidding.” He slid back onto his board. “Okay, one last wave then we can leave.” “To see my grandfather?” “We’ll get the scepter first, but yes, I will bring you to him.” “Let’s go to him first. I’m not giving it to you, unless--” He grasped her neck and pulled her into a kiss. His lips slanted over hers hungrily. There was a desperate, fierce quality to his touch. His fingers dug into her upper arms, clinging to her. Camille ignored the impulse to pull back and wrapped one arm around his back, pressing her body against his. Their tongues met. Warm. Slick. Salty. He groaned deep in his throat and as quickly as he started, he pushed back. The breeze on her bare flesh felt colder. Damn if she didn’t want him. It wasn’t fair. Instinctively she knew wanting him would prove dangerous for her heart. “Why did you kidnap my grandfather? I would have cooperated.” “I told you Robert came with me because he wanted to.” She stared at him in disbelief. “Why should I believe you?” “So I can prove to you that I’m worthy of your trust,” he said, staring at her for a long moment. “Can I trust you?” “I haven’t lied to you.” “If I bring you to your grandfather, you’ll hand over the jaguar scepter.” “Yes.” Merrick caressed her cheek. “It goes both ways, kitten.”

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“I told you not to call me that.” She sat up tall. “And, don’t kiss me again either.” “At least for a few more hours,” he teased as he watched for an incoming wave and nodded his head toward shore. “Let’s go.” Over an hour later they were back at her home. He told her, “Call your employer and take the rest of the week off.” “Why?” “Your grandfather is on Marehet.” “What!” “Now do you believe he came willingly? I offered and he jumped at the chance to see my planet. He refused to return with me. I begged and pleaded. I almost trussed him up and hauled him back over my shoulder, but Shad wouldn’t let me.” Camille believed him. Of course her grandfather would have accepted that offer. “Okay.” “Will you give me the scepter then?” Camille didn’t know what to say. Now that she didn’t need to exchange the relic for her grandfather, having it seemed wrong. She’d stolen it. “I’d rather give it to your brother.” His nostril’s flared in anger. Or maybe it was jealousy. She wasn’t sure, but wanted to know. “After all, by your beliefs, don’t I belong to him.” “Yes.” Her heart clenched in her chest. Well, it wasn’t jealousy then. “So nothing has changed? If your brother was here, you’d step back and ... willingly give me to him?” “Our culture is different from yours. Women usually have more than one mate. I’m not pleased that Shad is primary to me when it comes to you, but, I accept that we’re both attracted to you.” Camille was at a loss for words. “You’re right, we need to go then. I’ll give the scepter to your brother. Bring me to my grandfather.” They drove in silence to his cousin Javez’s home. They went into the backyard and Merrick punched a few buttons on his watch. The air swirled around her and Camille looked up. A triangular patch of sky above her blurred as if the light was distorted. A few moments later, a ramp fell out of the sky in front of her, revealing a doorway into what had to be a UFO. Only, it wasn’t unidentified. It was a flying object. Merrick swung his arm toward the opening. “After you.” He led her to the cockpit and showed her how to buckle in. He left for a moment to stow her belongings, then joined her. She watched as him as he manipulated a hologram computer interface of some sort displayed in front of him. None of the symbols made any sense to her. As he worked, he explained the computer system, and the ship in general. He gazed at her. “I take it your understanding of hyperspace is more advanced than the average science fiction fan.” “Nothing but theories to me. Who’d have thought the ideas worked?” “They do. We’ll pass almost instantaneously from this sector to my own. But, for safety’s sake we won’t make the jump through hyperspace within the influence of a gravitational force like Earth. So it’ll take a few hours of flight time.” When they took off, they flew over the Earth at amazing speeds. She guessed they were heading due south into Mexico. “Where are we going?”

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“We’ve got one stop.” Below them the landscape passed in a blur. Amazingly, in less than a half hour, the ship slowed and they drifted over Cancun. She slid Merrick a glance. He watched the city before them, silently. Soon they hovered over what could only be the El Museo de Antropologia e Historia. Camille sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew I stole Shad’s scepter?” “You could have explained yourself, if you’d wanted to.” “Humph.” As if he was Mr. Perfect. “We’re going to break into that museum?” “I am. You’re going to stay here.” After he left, she paced the confines of the spaceship. It was difficult to ignore she was worried about Merrick. Camille was more confused about her feelings about Merrick than ever. The emotion he stirred in her overshadowed anything she’d felt for his brother. Repeatedly, she told herself that she didn’t give a whit about his beliefs. Yet, at the same time she feared she’d have to accept those beliefs if she wanted Merrick. They were part of him. And, despite his tendencies to irritate her, he’d grown on her like no other man had. She was beginning to think she was in love with him. She tried to imagine if she could take two lovers into her life. Into her heart. It would be a lie to say she’d never been attracted to Shad. Could she have sex with him, with both of them, knowing that would eventually mean she and Merrick would be free to see each other? Would it matter that Merrick was free? She lived on a different planet. Talk about a long distance relationship.

Chapter Eight It was late afternoon when they arrived on Marehet. Merrick landed his ship at a sprawling spaceport, and hailed public transportation to bring them to the capital. As they passed through the countryside, she was struck by how familiar the foliage looked. If it wasn’t for the sky being blue tinged with lavender in broad daylight, she wouldn’t have thought she was on another planet. Merrick angled her a curious look. “What?” She smiled widely. “This reminds me of rural France.” “Marehet was manufactured from life that originated on Earth. We’ve got many vineyards. But the wine we produce isn’t like anything you’ll find on Earth.” “I take it oranges weren’t imported?” “Not on this planet. But I may correct that oversight.” “There are more manufactured planets?” “Yes. Marehet is one of ten planets modeled after Earth. One other shares this sun – Maia, a star in the Pleiades. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what you call the other two other stars in the Tri-System. We are spread across the galaxy, but bound by our creation.” “Where are your creators now?” “Here and there.” “You don’t want to tell me?”

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“There isn’t much to tell. They’re like you, very secretive. They use whatever name suits them at the time and they’re true shifters so they blend well wherever they go.” Camille frowned. “When we met, you’re the one that lied about you name!” Merrick laughed at her. “Very true. Have I apologized about that?” “Not really.” “Then please forgive me. At the time it seemed like the best way to get you to do what I wanted.” “Right.” She gazed at the passing scenery. “What is a true shifter?” “From what our scientists gather, they are pure energy. They haven’t really shared much with us. But we know they can materialize into any form of life they desire.” It sounded unbelievable, but if she could believe Merrick could shift, why not this too? “My grandfather must be having the time of his life. When can I see him?” “Any time you want. But, I thought I’d show you a little of the city. Would you like to stretch your legs?” “That would be nice,” she said. Several miles later he requested the driver to stop, and paid him to deliver their luggage. As they walked, Merrick answered all her questions. She was fascinated by the architecture. Most of the buildings were made from stone, and none of them looked futuristic. In the United States, the largest cities sprawled on for miles, or grew straight into the sky when the entrepreneurs ran out of room. Here, the city was compact. “How many people live here?” “Less than a million. Marehet’s entire population hovers around forty million individuals.” “On your entire planet?” “Our population of fertile females is dangerously low. That’s the main reason triads are encouraged when compatible individuals are found. Those women who can reproduce are required to have children with more than one male to keep our race strong.” That concept of being required to reproduce was alien to her realm of experience. “You make it sound like selective breeding. Do the women have a choice?” “Not as much as you take for granted. But few complain because we have little choice. Like our planet, we are a manufactured race, so we have to maintain our genetics or lose that which makes us unique.” “Genetic engineering?” “Yes, but without the negativity you’ve grown up with. When we allow natural selection to take over, we quickly lose the ability to shift into our animal form.” “But, what about love?” Rather than answer, Merrick covered her eyes, and began to lead her forward. “Keep them closed and let me guide you. I want this to be a surprise.” A minute later Camille heard the faint pounding of surf. Breathing deep she caught the tangy smell of salt water on the breeze. Above her she heard birds squawking. Finally Merrick stopped, standing directly behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Cocooned by the warmth from his body, she sank against his chest. She soon forgot the ocean and concentrated on the hard feel of him against her, the touch of his hand, the

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ridge of his cock against her backside. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.” The sand at her feet was bright white, stark against the deep blues and purples of the ocean beyond. The setting looked like something out of a fantasy artist’s dream. “This must be why you kept the viewscreen off when we landed. It is so lovely.” “Like on Earth, the ocean is best viewed at eye level.” “Nobody is here though.” “A part of my culture I wish to improve. Many of my people are too busy working to enjoy the world around them.” “Is this why you wanted me to teach you to surf?” “Totally,” he said, mimicking his best surfer accent. Camille turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his middle. Merrick held her, tightly against him. All too soon his stance stiffened, and his arms fell to his sides. Wondering what was wrong, she looked up. She couldn’t read the emotions spread across his face. “Hello Shad,” he said, not turning around to acknowledge his brother. Her nerves twittering, Camille stepped back and saw the man she’d met in Mexico as he stopped, standing next to Merrick. They were the same height and build, and now that she saw them together the resemblance was less than she’d imagined. One must take after their father, the other their mother. “Brother,” Shad said, without looking at Merrick. His eyes were on her. “Camille.” His features softened. “You are as lovely as the day we parted.” All the confusion over the past days crashed through her. Tongue-tied, Camille could only think of the change in Merrick. How he’d pulled away, distanced himself when Shad approached. Her mind and body were in shock over the dismissal. Moments before he’d been open to her. Now, he was a stranger again, appearing cold and aloof. The scientist in her tried to rationalize that she shouldn’t be hurt, that his behavior was motivated by customs she didn’t understand. But, her feelings won out. The dismissal hurt beyond belief. “I never expected to see you again, Shad.” “Merrick is very good at what he does. I fully expected he’d find you someday.” “What exactly does he mean by that?” she asked Merrick. Before he could answer, Shad interrupted. “Merrick, leave us. I have something I need to discuss with our guest.” Merrick caught her gaze, his face without expression, before he left their side. Her heart fell as she watched his retreating back. Shad took her elbow and pulled her toward the water. “Let us walk for a while, like our time together in Tulum. You once enjoyed my company.” She gazed at Shad. “I did, but--” “You were angry,” he said. “But you came to me that night. That only firmed my resolve to find you and explain. I’ve thought of you often. Can you tell me that you’ve never thought of me?” “Maybe I have, but that changed the moment I met Merrick.” “Perhaps he was a stand-in for me?” “He’s different from you in many ways.” “Name one.” That was difficult. They were both arrogant. Both handsome. Both intelligent. Both had a sense of humor. “He’s got golden eyes, and you’ve got blue.”

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“Name one that matters.” “He’s willing to give me up, and you aren’t.” Shad appeared shocked. “I prepared for an argument.” Camille shrugged. “I’ve been trying to convince myself I could have sex with you, if the end result would be that Merrick and I would be free to explore our relationship. But, I can’t go through with it. I’ll always know that it was me that had to bend. Neither of you is willing to meet me in the middle.” Shad sighed. “What is the middle? If you don’t accept me, then it is you that won’t bend.” “The point is that you and I were over when I saw you with that other woman ... and man.” Shad sat in the sand, motioning for her to join him. “On my world that doesn’t matter. I still desire you.” “Get a grip! Are you that spoiled?” He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. “Pretty much.” “Think of this as character building then.” Shad leaned forward until his lips grazed her ear. “I’m very skilled at the art of persuasion. I have a knack for convincing people they want what I want.” “I recall,” she said, trying to ignore the warmth of his breath against her skin, or the way she tingled when his lips brushed against her. “Do you think you’re right about everything?” he asked. Camille shook her head. “I wish I understood your world. But, I don’t.” He leaned back on his elbows. “You’ve come to your conclusions without knowing the whole story. Merrick insisted I release you from my claim. I refused. He hasn’t told you because he has to obey me. At least publicly.” Intrigued by his words, Camille watched him. Shad sighed. “And you’re wrong that he and I don’t meet in the middle. I gave in. He doesn’t know that yet. What fun would sibling rivalry be if we couldn’t terrorize each other?” Relieved, she leaned back herself and stared at a lavender-tinged cloud on the horizon. She wondered what sunset would be like in this place. “I don’t see why you included me in your game.” “It isn’t a game. My decision will weaken people’s perception of me. But, my family can afford one more chink in the armor before we’re ousted from power. It helps that Merrick is the chosen leader of the Jaguar. Several generations ago, another family held the position of Lord of the Jaguar. Having both positions with the Jacek family will help avoid a civil war.” Camille knew nothing of their history. “Seems like such an idyllic place. You worry about war?” “Marehet has been at peace for nearly a thousand years. It will be to all our benefit if that remains the case.” He stared at her. “It’s very complicated, but, suffice it to say that darker periods in our history made life much different on Earth. You know of your grandfather’s work, so you know why the people of Central America feared the jaguar.” Yes, she did. The Maya were known to sacrifice people as part of their religion, and one of the gods was a Jaguar. Her grandfather hadn’t described that to her. She’d

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seen it on the History Channel of all places. They used to capture a live jaguar and warriors would feed it the still beating heart of a fallen enemy. “If humans were sacrificed for Marehetians, no wonder you don’t want to advertise your presence. Human beings wouldn’t want you around!” Shad shook his head. “It is a complicated history our people have together, and the mistakes that my people have made in the past are no worse than the mistakes of human beings.” He caught her gaze then, a sad look in his eyes. “Tonight at dinner I will begin to tell people that I’ve changed my mind. There will be much gossip. But we’ll just have to deal with that.” Camille believed that there was more at stake than she understood. She may have initially agreed to take down the Web site because she’d been worried about her grandfather. But, she also assumed these people had a host of reasons for wanting to remain hidden. She might not understand all those reasons, but she could respect that. From the same standpoint, she didn’t want to be the root of a problem that affected their society. “Can we just fake it? I’ll come to your bedroom and people can assume that we-” Shad laughed loudly. “Do I strike you as a man that can pretend that I no longer desire you?” “What can I do? How can I make this right?” “Fall for me again and let everyone know it,” he said, his blue eyes shining. “Come, let’s head to the palace. Your grandfather is anxious to see you.” “And I can give you your scepter back.” He laughed lightly. “You’ll have to tell Merrick how you broke into my home. We’ll need to fortify the security system.” But she didn’t see Merrick again. Instead she spent the rest of the day with her grandfather. **** Merrick watched Camille as Shad introduced her to their guests. She was dressed in a tight, gold gown that hugged her curves. Even without jewelry, she was ravishing. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that she clung to Shad’s arm. It didn’t help that he could tell by the nervous way her eyes darted around the room, looking for him that she wasn’t fully at ease. He worried if his actions were unforgivable in her eyes. Shad had enlightened him about their conversation on the beach. Every word, emphasizing those parts that dug deep. Somehow, he had to show her that she meant more to him than what she assumed. When finally it was time for dinner, Shad led Camille to a table at the head of the dining room. He pulled a seat out for her that Merrick knew meant his brother didn’t plan to sit next to her. When his brother left her side, she tugged on his arm, indicating he should sit next to her. Merrick took the seat next to her, holding out the next for his cousin Jewel. Leave it to Jewel to ensure she was in the thick of things. While the first course was served, Jewel blurted out, “You’ve met my brother Javez.” “Only briefly,” Camille admitted. “I thought his name was Detective White. Merrick and he impersonated police officers to trick me into removing a Web site with information about Marehet.” For several minutes the conversation revolved around that, and how she’d

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removed the Web site later. Finally Jewel asked, “How did he convince you to remove the Web site?” “I’m a scientist, not a politician. Shad has assured me Earth has enough political strife without getting involved in galactic business, so I deferred to Shad’s wisdom.” Merrick almost laughed aloud. He hadn’t expected she’d lie. “And here I thought Shad sent Merrick to fetch you,” Jewel continued. “Who’d have thought it had to do with the security of our people.” Camille peered around him and caught Jewel’s gaze. “Shad told you about me?” Jewel look flustered. “Shad’s normally too busy to discuss his latest attachments. But, it is common knowledge that he’s been looking for a woman named Camille.” Camille was silent for a moment, picking at her food. Finally, Jewel said, “Funny it was that relic that led Merrick to you, and even more interesting that you are here. Why did Merrick invite you here?” “I don’t think the details of his investigation are up for discussion.” Merrick peered down his nose at Camille. “This room is full of loose-lipped gossips. That’s a wise decision.” Jewel frowned. “You’re not referring to me, Merrick?” “Oh, not at all,” he drawled. “I know you’d never discuss family business outside these walls.” Camille leaned around him. “Can I ask you a personal question? There is one thing they’ve told me I’m confused about, and I’d like to ask a woman her thoughts on the matter.” “Of course,” Jewel said. “Don’t listen to this part, Merrick,” Camille instructed. “Hard to do that with you sitting in my lap.” Camille ignored him and lowered her face slightly. “The idea of a triad is very confusing to me. Being torn between two lovers isn’t something I’ve ever dealt with before.” “Torn?” “When I met Merrick … well, let’s just say I never expected to see Shad again.” As she spoke, his mind focused on her words, but his body focused on the images she brought up in his mind. He would very much like to have her stuck in between himself and Shad, and push her to a state of mindless pleasure. But, he assumed she was being honest that being part of a triad was confusing to her. Jewel’s hand fluttered at her throat. “Merrick, you’ll make your brother into the laughingstock.” Camille reached over and grasped Jewel’s wrist. “Merrick turned me down, and brought me to Shad. I confessed I’d developed feelings for Merrick.” Camille turned and looked at Shad. “I believe Shad was bothered by that fact, but they both say it is normal for a woman to be involved with two men. But, on Earth I’ve found men will say anything in situations like this. So, I wanted to hear it from a woman. Is it true?” “Quite normal around here.” Camille sighed. “I’m still not sure what I’ll do.” Merrick was concerned when Camille ate her dinner in relative silence. It seemed that her mind was busy. At first he’d thought her talk with Jewel was for show. But, now he wasn’t so sure.

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Chapter Nine A jaguar waited in the room a butler delivered her too. If it wasn’t for the fact the jaguar had golden eyes, she would have thought this was Shad’s bedroom. It had a big bed to match is ... virility. She wanted to tease Merrick, but could see that he was in no mood to banter. His tail was twitching and he looked very much like a predator. “Well, are you going to shift? I can’t talk to you if you’re staring at me like that.” She watched in fascination as the light gathered and Merrick appeared, lounging on the bed, gloriously naked. Even if he wasn’t fully aroused, he’d be difficult to deal with. His eyes captured her in that predatory gaze. “I can’t talk to you while you’re staring at me like that either.” “Come here, kitten,” he said insistently. “There is nothing we need to talk about anyway.” “We have plenty to discuss!” Merrick smiled at her. “Your lies at dinner tonight should be enough. Nice of you to try to save Shad’s reputation.” “I wasn’t lying.” Merrick slid his hand over the silk sheets, his eyes calling her to him. “Does that mean you’re open to the idea of accepting us both?” “You would enjoy sharing me? Giving me to another man?” “Yes, because you would too,” he said, sounding very serious. “Nothing will happen until you’re comfortable. I’ll wait until you come to see there is no stigma here, nothing strange, and nothing unusual.” “There’s a fine line between being seduced, and being forced.” “If I was that skilled in the art of seduction, you wouldn’t be standing over there.” He winked at her, grinning. Camille walked toward him, easing her body onto the bed and stretched out on her back. She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on the sensations picking up in her body. As Merrick slowly drew the soft material of her dress up her thighs, her nipples tightened and the feeling stretched to her center as warm moisture flooded her sex. Her breath caught as he slipped her panties over her hips, his fingers brushing against her mound too briefly. Opening her eyes, she watched Merrick as he eased back to his knees and inched her panties down her legs, caressing her. When he was done, he captured one ankle, his thumbs kneading her instep. “You are so lovely, so soft.” He kissed the pad of her big toe, then the soft skin in the hollow at her ankle. He trailed a path of tender kisses up her legs, slowly nudging her to open for him. Camille gasped when his lips found her center, his tongue barely grazing the slit, teasing her. His eyes glazed over with passion, and something more. “Would you like me to kiss you, here?” “Yes....” Merrick moved over her, his lips coming down on one breast. He tenderly bit her

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nipple through the puckered fabric. “Or here?” “Yes,” she said, arching into him. But he slipped higher and kissed her neck, nibbling at the tendon as she angled her head to the side. “Here too?” “If you don’t stop teasing me, there will be no kissing, anywhere.” Merrick chuckled softly, laying atop her, trapping her. “Every part of you deserves attention. Triads aren’t just a biological necessity for my people. They are other advantages. Sharing desire only increases the experience for all three lovers.” That was easy to imagine. Her mind might balk, but her body was more than open to the idea. As he spoke, she ached to feel both their hands, exploring her, bringing her pleasure. “What of jealousy? Can Shad accept that I care more for you?” “He will have to. Shad is upset with me for taking his position as primary. He only backed down because he doesn’t wish to hurt or confuse you. If you were accustomed to our traditions, he wouldn’t have done that.” Swallowing hard, Camille admitted, “Maybe ... we could try.” “No maybe, love.” Camille grasped his face between her hands. “It would probably be easier to feel sure of myself if Shad were here. Talking is the problem.” Merrick smiled. “You don’t have to talk. Just press that red button on the console.” Before she could convince herself otherwise, she pushed the button. Feeling nervous anyway, she turned back to Merrick. “You never finished kissing me.” “You didn’t make up your mind where,” he said as he urged her onto her belly. “Everywhere,” she whispered. He inched the zipper down the back of her dress, then slowly dragged the material off her body. The silky material pulling against her felt like a caress. When finally she was naked, Merrick flipped her over and knelt between her legs. “Open for me.” He watched her, smiling, slowly sinking toward her center. Camille relaxed when he caressed her thighs. “You’re so sweet. I can almost taste you now. Wet and hot and ready.” She squealed when his tongue slipped past her labia and circled her clit. The slick feel of his mouth against her consumed her senses. She was hardly aware when Shad joined them. He leaned over her and kissed her, his tongue parting her lips and meeting her own. He tasted of sweet red wine. She wondered if it came from the vineyards she’d seen on her way in from the spaceport. Closing her eyes, Camille she focused on the sensations. Shad’s slick tongue against her lower lip. Merrick’s tongue running along her slit, teasing her vagina. He entered her with one finger, then two, gently caressing her interior, then thrusting a little harder. Camille lifted her hips to the motion, wanting Merrick inside of her, needing to feel his power. Shad kissed her harder, pulling at her tongue, nibbling her lips. His fingers caressed her breasts, pinching her nipples. The energy in her body swirled around, heating up at her core until her body shivered, needing release. They drove her right to the edge and stopped, leaving her hanging there on the precipice. Before she could ask why, they’d shifted positions. She tasted her arousal on Merrick’s lips, the erotic taste of her sex new and exciting. Shad licked the length of her,

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then sucked her clit between his teeth, then flicked his tongue rapidly until her release exploded from her with a raspy cry. Merrick leaned back, watching her, his eyes taking on that sensual, glowing quality. Immediately, Shad rose over her, clasping her backside in one hand and angling her hips. He drove into her, thrusting fast and deep, filling her. He waited a moment, her inner muscles contracting around his hard length. When her body stopped shaking, he began to move against her slowly. Reaching out, she found Merrick’s cock and encircled it with one hand. He groaned as she mimicked the speed and rhythm of Shad’s thrusts. But a minute later he stopped her, his eyes half-mast. “I want to be inside you.” Camille focused Shad’s eyes, watched his face, his lips. She focused on contracting her inner muscles against Shad’s thrusts as he moved against her with increasing speed, hitting her deep inside. She caressed his back with one hand, and Merrick’s chest with the other. Time blurred into a haze of sensation. Merrick reached between them and gently rubbed her clit until another orgasm hit. Shad’s harsh cries reverberated through her when he came. Camille tightened, feeling each contraction, and the warmth of him filling her. With a contented sigh, he sank onto the bed beside her, pulling her against his side. Camille ran her fingers over his lips, feeling as sated as he looked. Merrick nuzzled up against her back, the entire length of his hard body touching her, his cock pressing between her thighs. A long white later he draped one of her legs over Shad’s moving up until he entered her from behind. Merrick gyrated slowly against her, as she arched her back to help him thrust deeper, and deeper yet. “Kiss me, Shad,” she said. He rolled to face her. “I waited too long for you. Much too long, Camille.” She laughed. “Probably good for you.” She angled her chin up and licked his lips. She tasted different on him. His scent was unique, his own. In the far recesses of her mind, she recalled that about him. Even though they’d never made love, never kissed, she’d memorized so many details about him. It seemed amazing she could already identify the two if her eyes were closed. As Merrick thrust into her harder, the sound of his breathing harsh against her neck, she considered that this was just the start. Shad reached down and caressed her, bringing her to release almost immediately. When she came out of the bliss that came with orgasm, it occurred to Camille they’d done this before, and she had a lot to learn. But, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t uncomfortable at all. Sandwiched between them, their heat, their scent surrounded her from all directions, she shivered slightly as her mind started filtering through new and different possibilities. She felt like a virgin again. The difference was, she wasn’t afraid. She might still be unsure of herself, but she wasn’t worried about it. She drifted off to sleep thinking that was a first when it came to sex, and men in general. She felt comfortable. There was no fear lingering in the back of her mind. **** The days passed too quickly and one morning Camille woke between Merrick and Shad. It was Shad who reminded her, “It’s Sunday afternoon on Earth. You’ll be leaving

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us today.” “You could always stay with us,” Merrick said, sleepily. “Sell your home to Javez. Quit your position and work here with your grandfather.” “What happens when Shad marries?” “Once I marry, I will not be able to take a lover,” Shad said. “But, if I have enough children, Merrick won’t be forced into an arranged marriage.” “What?” she asked, jumping from the bed. Merrick rolled toward her, lying naked across the foot of the huge bed. Her legs felt weak, but she stood her ground. “You’re not available either?” “Not right away.” Camille sat on the other corner, hugging her knees, resting her chin on them and stared at Merrick. She’d heard before multi-cultural relationships were a challenge, but this was ridiculous. “Maybe never?” Merrick insisted. “I want you to be part of my life.” “When? After the requisite number of acceptable heirs has been reached?” “You’re already part of my life now!” Camille glanced back and forth between the two, magnificent men. Both were aroused and stared at her with desire flashing behind their concerned expressions. To her, they weren’t fighting fair. For the first time in her life, Camille felt like crying over a man. Maybe even two. She didn’t know. But, it was confirmation that she was in love. She couldn’t imagine life without Merrick. There was no more denial, just acceptance. For the first time in her life, she knew that she loved and it didn’t matter. But, she refused to allow the tears to fall. That was a weakness she wouldn’t show. “Every relationship is a risk. But, this time I know the outcome. And, it’s an outcome I can’t accept. I won’t accept it.” Merrick said, “I won’t let you go, Camille.” “I’m not giving you a choice,” she whispered. “I can’t stay here any longer.”

Chapter Ten One Month Later Merrick stood at the balustrade of his brother’s private balcony. Surprisingly, his father walked out from the room, his eyes taking them both in. “Father, what brings you out of hiding?” “The two of you are worrying your mother. She’s so distraught she went to a spa.” His eyes were focused on Shad. “What is this I hear about you not claiming the woman Merrick found?” Thank the Gods their father was on his side. Finding Shad’s bride had started as a task Merrick had been set with, now it was his mission in life. He’d finally found one and Shad wasn’t going to do anything about it. Shad said, “She’s not the right woman for me.’

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“The medtech reports that she is a perfect match,” their father said, evenly. “Draven fell in love with her.” “I don’t care,” their father said. “I certainly do!” Shad insisted. Though Merrick couldn’t blame him, every day away from Camille was one day too many. “Even if you claimed Grace, I have to wait until she’s pregnant before I’m free of my obligation.” “Merrick,” his father interrupted. “I’ve little patience for your fascination with this woman from Earth. It’s half the reason everyone’s upset.” Merrick sighed. “It’s more than a fascination.” “Get over it. You’re going to marry too.” “I’m going to marry Camille.” Their father was silent a long time before he finally said, “Sometimes duty is more important than the moment.” “I’m waiting until Shad has an heir on the way. After that I’ll forfeit the line.” “No, you won’t.” “Four times in our family’s reign, an heir to the throne forfeited to maintain their position as Lord of the Jaguar. I’m going to find Shad a wife, then I’m going to marry Camille and remain the leader of the jaguar.” His father shook his head. “She left, I’m told. What if she won’t return? Will you give up your position as the leader of our race too?” Truthfully, he didn’t want to worry about that being a problem. But, those words she’d shared with Shad, not him, still tore at him. She thought he could give her up. But, the truth was, if he gave up everything to join her, he’d have little of himself to offer. She’d told Shad she wanted him to meet her in the middle. For him, the middle had to include Marehet. He hoped Camille would see it that way. “It may not matter anyway,” he admitted. “She won’t wait forever, and I will wait until Shad is married and has a child on the way.” “That won’t be long. He’ll be announcing his engagement at a banquet next week.” Shad cursed beneath his breath as their father left. “It appears as if I’m going to get married. At least one of us will get to be with the woman they love.” **** What a day, Camille thought as she parked her car in the garage. She dragged into the house, toting a heavy bag full of papers that still needed to be graded and a bag of food from her favorite restaurant. Camille flicked on her living room light and stared. A golden-eyed jaguar she’d never seen before reclined on her couch, looking very regal. Wary, she sat on the sofa across from ... her? The jaguar seemed female. She was petite and delicate, and really very lovely. “We’ve not met before, but I assume you know who I am.” She waited a moment, while the jaguar stared back. Finally, she decided her unexpected visitor had no plans on shifting in front of her. “I’ve got take-out Chinese. If you’d like some, feel free to borrow something from my closet, then join me for dinner.” Five minutes later a dark-haired woman sat across from her at the table. Camille could see a certain resemblance to Merrick. This woman was probably the younger sister she’d heard of, she seemed much too young to have mothered six sons and a daughter.

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“I’m Merrisa.” That would mean she was their mother. Camille was surprised Merrisa introduced herself by her given name. Having received a few lessons on propriety during her short visit on Marehet, she knew normally first introductions to the queen involved a long title. As they began to eat, Camille said, “You don’t have anything to worry about. I don’t want to cause any trouble for your family.” Merrisa laughed. “Too late for that.” “You still have nothing to worry about.” Merrisa smiled. “Neither do you. I’m only here to find out who you are.” Taken aback, Camille started to ask why, but Merrisa held up her hand. “I’ve met Robert. Growing up with him as a guardian must have been quite the adventure. Tell me about your childhood.” The hours flew by as they both talked about their lives. Every time she tried to bring up Merrick, or Shad, or ask why she’d come, Merrisa ignored her. Camille couldn’t make up her mind exactly what had motivated her arrival. When she finally left, she admitted her husband thought she was at some intergalactic resort spa, so she needed to be there soon or he’d figure it out. That left Camille with the notion that Merrick and Shad weren’t aware of her visit. She worried about it most the night. It had been difficult to remain angry with Merrick for being devoted to their family before she’d met his mother. But accepting that part of him didn’t solve anything. Merrisa had all but said she’d have to talk with Merrick herself. But, how could she do that? He was on another planet. Just before dawn, half aware, she felt the bed dip beneath the weight of a massive body joining her. Camille snuggled toward the warmth, the musky scent of Merrick surrounding her with a feeling of comfort. She fell back asleep to the sound of a cat purring. When her alarm went off, Merrick shut it off for her. “Can you miss work today?” Yawning, she mumbled, “Not really.” She stretched against Merrick, feeling lazy and decadent, yet desperate to shuck her nightgown and feel his silky skin against her own. “But, I don’t have classes today and brought my work home with me.” “Very good news,” he said in her ear, pressing against her back. He ran his hand up her stomach and cupping one breast, flicking her nipple. “I forfeited my line to the throne.” Merrick covered her mouth before she could speak. “But I won’t leave my position as Lord of the Jaguar. I can’t. It’s too important. So you’ll come to Marehet.” “Is that a request?” “Yes, of course. You can come visit here whenever you like, though not often enough to keep your teaching position--” “I quit weeks ago.” “Why?” She sighed. “My supervisor wasn’t amused that a certain Ek Balam claimed I was a ‘crackpot’.” He stiffened. “I didn’t send the e-mail to your supervisor.” “I know. I did. The resulting conversation wasn’t nearly as interesting as waking up next to you.” Before Merrick could say another thing, she covered his lips with her fingers. “The first time you were in my bedroom, scaring the wits out of me, I vowed to start living a different life.”

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He shook his head. “Not too different. We’ll marry. Have children. Raise them. Some half-breeds can shift, so, you may end up with those kittens you were worried about.” “Very different,” she said. “What of Shad? Why does he have to marry for genetics if there is a chance he could have children with the woman he loved?” “That is how he’d describe his situation. He refused the woman I’ve found for him, though our father is trying to dissuade him.” “Why did he do that?” “You.” He held her tighter. “I shouldn’t have said that. That is between you and Shad.” “This sure doesn’t sound like I’ll fit in. Your father will hate me.” “We do have younger brothers. My father will get over it.” “That’s what your mother implied. I couldn’t get that much information out of her.” “You’re even more stubborn.” Merrick laughed. “But, if you’d taken down that Web site and handed over the relic without a fight, we’d have never met.” Camille pinched his side. “It’s a good thing Shad found it for me at the market in Cancun.” He sat up. “No wonder he assigned me to find you.” “What do you mean?” “That scepter carries the markings of more than my people. It signifies the owner is part of our family. He knew how much he wanted you then.” “Or maybe my grandfather. He knew it was a gift for him.” Merrick smiled at her. “He loves Marehet.” “I hope I will too.” “You will. You asked me once if there was love for my people.” Merrick grasped her hand, placed it against his chest. “It’s here. Inside me. Inside you. We’re not all that much different. Not only will you fit, it’s where you belong.”

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CURSE OF THE CAT’S PAW By Tracy L. Ranson

Dedication: To Dor, who is my inspiration for all that I do. You're the best friend anyone could ever ask for.

Chapter One Jamie VanWell stared out the small window of the seven-sixty seven watching the cotton white clouds stream by the silver wings. Bright reams of sun broke through, highlighting the tops of the clouds, making it seem like they were floating far above the earth. Anxiously, she rolled her crucifix necklace in her fingers. Scotland. A land she'd only heard of in tales told to her by her old grandma, Bridget Hathaway. Grandma had been born in Scotland but her family wasn't originally from there. They'd been English aristocrats during the time of King William the Longshanks. After his conquering of Scotland, English families had been encouraged to move there and purify the land of 'Scottish Rabble.' Her family had been one of the ones 'encouraged' to go. Jamie looked down at the tiny box in her lap, the outside looking very much like a small gift for someone, the wrapping on it bright and festive. Inside was something that no one would ever want as a gift. It was a mummified cat's paw. She'd gotten it past security by putting it into her blouse and tucking it deep inside of her bra. She didn't want any questions about why it was there and where it came from. There was no time for that. Jamie let out a deep sigh and leaned back into her seat, continuing to stare out the window. Thankfully there was no one next to her trying to engage her in some inane conversation, asking what the gift was for. No, this was her secret and her secret alone to bear. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear her grandmother regale her with

RELIC stories about the paw, about how they had always tried to get rid of it and how it always seemed to come back. According to the legend, the paw had been passed down in Grandma's family from generation to generation. Evil would follow the bearer until everything belonging to the last heir of the Munro clan had been returned. Jamie's eyes flew open. Did she think for one moment that some crazy curse was following her around? Sure, her family had endured bizarre deaths and accidents as well as divorces but didn't everybody? Tears flooded her eyes every time she thought of divorce. Stuart VanWell had been the top lawyer in Los Angeles when they met at a gallery opening. She'd flown in because her best friend, Leslie Harper, was doing at showing at the Modern Art Gallery on Melrose. Stuart had been there as Leslie's date, his lecherous eyes still on the lookout for something better. Jamie smirked. What he'd found was her. After a brief meeting at the opening, they'd parted company and she had never thought she'd ever hear from him again. Boy, was she wrong. The next day, she'd come back from a shopping trip down Rodeo Drive with Leslie to find her apartment full of long stemmed red roses, her favorite. After that, he'd been relentless in his pursuit, going so far as to drop Leslie for her. She'd resisted until Leslie told her to go ahead and enjoy herself. Stuart had been nothing more to her friend than a quick lay until something better came along. Even with her friend's blessing, she still resisted his charm until one night where she'd drank too much wine and lost control. She snickered. Some night. After the third bottle of wine, she'd accepted his proposal of marriage, realizing there was no one else in her life, except for her stray cat Charlie who had recently died. She was alone in the world. Everyone else in her family was gone, including her mother who had been ensconced a nearby nursing facility for the last ten years of her life. After the wedding, Stuart insisted on her total range of attention, forcing her to shelve her dream of being a world famous archeologist, and to become the quintessential Hollywood wife. Go to the best parties; wear the best designer clothes money could buy.... Hastily, she wiped away the tears as those hated memories flooded her mind. Try as she might, she could never have pleased Stuart. Her cooking was lousy though she'd attended top notch cooking course, learning all his favorite meals. Another complaint was that she was lousy in bed. When did objecting to someone else's sick fantasies become a lousy lay? Stuart could be, at best, two people. Outwardly, he was warm and charming, a real debonair guy, especially to those who could advance his career. In private, he rained down her all kinds of emotional hell because of the demons he was fighting within himself. She had even tried to have a baby thinking it would calm him down but it didn't. Jamie leaned her head back, continuing to watch the white stretches of clouds. She had wanted that baby terribly but it was never to be. Stuart had seen to that. Her heart had remained empty since that terrible day when Stuart beat her

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RELIC almost senselessly, killing the four-month old fetus within her. She could have killed him then but when she got pregnant a year later, she hugged the news to herself. Stuart had calmed down and was seeing a doctor about his growing paranoia. She'd thought everything would be okay. That was until she came home from a shopping trip and caught Stuart in bed with his secretary. How could he do this to her? Several days later, he was gone, leaving her alone and pregnant. When she had informed him of his impending fatherhood, Stuart looked straight into her eyes, “Get rid of it.” Suddenly, the captain's voice cut in, “Please put on your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen. We are about to land at Edinburgh Airport. Our arrival time is two o'clock. Have a nice day.” Jamie quickly strapped on her seat belt and sat back, her fingers clenching the ends of the hand rests hard. She'd always hated flying. *** Ian took another swig from the bottle of Scotch, feeling the burn down his throat. Who did this upstart American woman think she was? Coming over to his country and snatching his ancestral land right out from under him.... He swigged some more, emptying the bottle in the process. Why in the hell did this woman want his land so badly? As far as he was concerned, the Hathaways had never existed. Unfortunately, the last remnants of their kind were around to remind them that they indeed had and still do. Angry black skies rumbled over head, threatening to bring down the rain. Tall grass waved in the breeze in the nearby meadow, growing as quickly as possible in this wet climate. Fortunately, this section was completely clear of their kind. Giant oaks sprung up around the tiny meadow. Their presence made him feel better, knowing that their strength would protect the buried ashes of his beloved wife and son. He stared hard at the small bronze placard in the ground, the tears welling up in his eyes. Carved in raise relief were Celtic symbols, old pagan ways of keeping away evil spirits. Not that he was pagan by any means but Bridget always treasured her Celtic heritage and kept these signs around the house. Unfortunately, the ancient signs did no good that day on the road to Edinburgh.... He pounded his fist against his knee. If only they were alive! With them by his side, perhaps the American woman would understand what this place meant to all of them.... Ian's tears fell, gracing his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe them away, having been a long time since he'd shed them. Ever since his wife and son's death in the tragic train accident three years before, the fight within him had gone. The only thing comforting him now was his nightly bottle of Scotch. Without it, he couldn't go on. Drawing up his knee, he laid a lazy arm across it, letting the hot tear continue to roll down his face. How could God do this to him? Before their

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accident, he'd been a God-fearing man but now, how could he believe in such a vengeful Being? Ian leaned forward and ripped the few blades of grass growing up around the placard, tossing them aside. I love you my bonnie lass, Bridget, he murmured, as well as my bonnie lad, Sean. If I could, I would be with you right now. In the past, he'd contemplated suicide but changed his mind at the very last moment, almost as if there was a hand to stop him. Why did it allow him to live in such torment? Why could it not let him do what he was supposed to do? Suddenly, the wind kicked up, wild and sharply cold, reminding him that along with the storm, winter was not far away. There were animals to tend to as well as crops to be laid in. Thankfully, he'd hired several hands from the village. If all went well this year, he's have a bumper crop of wheat and wool. Ian, the wind seemed to whisper as the icy fingers slipped down his open collar, caressing his skin much like Bridget used to. Closing his eyes, Ian could think of nothing but her. He'd long to touch her body again, holding her in his arms throughout the night.... Not wanting to dwell in the memories of the past, Ian rose on slightly unsteady feet but he managed to correct his stance, thanks to his nightly practice of whiskey before bed. He stared down at the weathered metal, feeling his anger rise and burn a hole through the calming veil of the alcohol. His fists balled at his sides. No matter what it was going to take, this woman was not going to waltz into his life and take everything that belonged to him. Blowing a kiss to the grave, Ian turned on his heel and stalked off toward the house, consulting his watch along the way. Damn, it was already almost two o'clock! The woman's plane was supposed to land then. Tack on another half hour to forty five minutes in order to get through customs and she should be ready to be picked up by three o'clock Ian hurried his pace but not because of the American. He needed to get showered and get some coffee down him. The last thing he wanted was a toss into a cell because of public intoxication.

Chapter Two Jamie waited nervously outside of the Edinburgh Airport baggage claim, her fingers digging deep into the leather of her purse. Where was the man supposed to pick her up? All around her tourists bustled, looking for their own ways into the cities; there was the smell of exhaust as the taxis pulled up to the curb and gathered their fares. Despite the newness of the airport, she could see the much older buildings in the distance, possibly from the medieval times. I'm really here in Scotland, she thought to herself, I can't believe it. Planes zoomed over head, cutting through her thoughts. She looked up, the

RELIC gray skies greeting her. Strangely, the sky almost seemed different here than at home, and not just because of the lack of sun. She could feel the sense of history, making her archaeology nose itch. If only she were here under better circumstances.... Another car buzzed near her, drawing her attention. Each time, she had hoped it would be Mr. Munro, the present tenant of Craogh Mor, a land supposedly in her possession now. Where was he? Her thoughts centered on Ian Munro, the man who the Scottish lawyer had said held her land. What kind of man was he? How old was he? She stared at weathered concrete in front of her cream colored designer pumps, pondering about Mr. Munro. Was he an old man, wizened by time and back-breaking labor or a stately, elderly Scottish gentleman that still could wear a kilt well? Moments ticked by with no sign of anyone coming to the exit she was standing at. Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Ugh! She'd forgotten to change to Scotland time! Thankfully there was a tall wrought iron tower clock nearby that read almost two o'clock. Good. He should be here any minute. Jamie stood on the weathered stone platform, rocking lightly back and forth on her heels. No sign of him yet. She paced lightly, listening to the rhythm her heels banged into the wood, her gaze trained out onto the road. No sign of him yet. Just then, a truck rumbled up the paved road. It came toward her through the slight fog enveloping the land. The body of the truck could have once been red, the color having faded to a dull brick hue. Rust showed through in spots. Her heart banged in her throat as the truck pulled to a stop in front of her. She wasn't prepared for what faced her. A tall man emerged; his black hair sweeping into his warm brown eyes. Simple wool encased his strong upper body, accentuating his muscular build. Hooded eyes stared out from beneath a slash of inky black lashes. The expression residing on his face wasn't particularly warm. “You must be the American lass,” he announced with a thick Scottish brogue. She nodded, not sure what to make of him. “I am,” she called out, bending down to pick up her heavy designer valise. “Is the house far from here?” He slammed the truck door shut. “Far enough,” he commented as he walked around the truck, stopping to stare at her luggage. “Is that all you have?” “Yes,” she tugged on the handle, finding it a little hard to pick up. “Pick it up and throw it in the back of the truck and let's run down the road to the house,” he said a bit gruffly as he walked back to his side of the truck. Obviously, he was going to be no help to her. Scowling, she bent down and tried to pick it up, finding it too heavy. “You cannot pick it up yourself, lass?” She shook her head. With a scowl on his face, the man left his place beside the truck and picked her case in an angry fist, flinging into the back of the dirty bed of the truck. “Be careful with that!” she cried. “Just get in,” he snapped, stomping to the other side and sliding in behind the wheel. Jamie yanked the door open and got in beside him. “Thanks a friggin' lot,”

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RELIC she growled. “You're welcome lass,” he said mockingly as he started the engine and gunned it. “By the way, how did you know it was me standing there waiting for you?” “Because you look as though you don't belong.” He watched her wince at his words. Good. Maybe if he was cold enough to her.... Ian's side glance traveled down the lovely shapely legs encased in light colored silk, the matching skirt riding high to show even lovelier thighs. Lust nipped at him. Did she wear a suspender belt under that? His beloved Bridget had worn once in a while, knowing that he couldn't resist her tempting treat. Forcing his eyes to move, he trailed upward to her face. Tenseness rode the ridge of her jaw, hardening her features. From this angle, he couldn't see what color her eyes were but he was sure they were brilliantly colored. Her skin looked as soft as dew-filled rose petals.... “Are we going to sit at the airport all day and listen to the engine running?” Her acerbic words cut through the lust rising in his body. “As you wish, Princess.” **** “The fan belt's shot,” her driver announced from under the hood. Emerging, he was wiping his greasy hands on a well-worn bandanna. “We'll havta walk the rest o' the way, lass.” The road they were on looked like something out of a medieval novel. “Don't you have reliable transportation?” He strode toward her, his towering form all but blocking out the sun. “Not all of us can afford luxury cars,” he sneered. “Some of us have to work for a living.” She jabbed a finger into his hard chest. “I work damn hard for my money,” she snapped. “What I meant was don't you have anything other than this truck that was reliable? I said nothing about a luxury car.” “I guess my plebian tastes are too much for your noble blood,” he growled as he turned toward the road and started walking. “Hey you....” she tried to call his name but realized quickly that she didn't have it. “I don't even know your name!” Her driver stopped and spun on his heel, kicking up dry dirt in a thick plume. “My name is Ian Munro but I suspect that the barrister has already given it to you,” his scowl deepened. “It's my heritage you're trying to steal.” Jamie felt the cold creep all over her body. When Mr. McPherson said he was sending someone to pick her up from the airport, she'd never dreamed it would be Mr. Ian Munro himself! “Look, I'm not stealing anything! It was left to me by my mother who died recently.” “Start walking,” he ordered as he turned away. “Night's coming and you don't want to be out on the Moors at night.” Disgusted with his behavior, she reached into the truck to retrieve her bag but remembered that she couldn't lift it over the side. “Can you grab my case?” she called out to Ian.

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RELIC “Leave it. I'll send someone for it later.” Damn him! Why ... she started walking when sharp pinches dug into her feet, forcing the silk hose to grind against her skin, creating blisters. Friggin designer shoes. “I'll wait with my things then.” Ian turned again, his eyes conveying a hidden anger. “No, it's too dangerous for you.” “I can't walk.” His dark brows knitted in fury. “Why not?” “I'm not exactly dressed for walking. Ian threw his hands up in disgust and stormed over to her. “You look fine,” he snapped. “Come on.” “My shoes are killing my feet so I'll have to stay here.” She held her ground. There was no way she was going to let this backward Highlander get to her. His gaze flicked to her shoes. “Why didn't you wear something more practical?” “I hadn't planned on your truck breaking down and having to walk to God knows where. If I had, I would have been prepared.” Ian scowled some more and held out his large hands. “Let me see those.” She stepped out of them and handed them to Ian. “I've got to warn you, they're not your size or color.” “You Americans always think you are so witty,” he stated savagely as he hooked the heels on the lip of the truck bed. “What are you going to do now? If you think I'm going to walk to Craogh Mor barefoot and tear up the skin on my feet, you've got another thing coming.” “Oh, you're not going to have to walk without shoes,” he retorted, his tone laced with malicious savagery. His hand rested on the back of the shoes, sitting there as if waiting for something to happen. Anxiety filled her as she watched his thumb stroke the lace covering the rich leather. “What are you going to do?” His smile, all the while sensuous, contained a dangerous fire. “Just this.” With a slam of his massive hand, the five hundred dollar heels went flying not the bed of the truck with an explosive fore. “What did you do that for? They were expensive shoes!” she cried, trying to get into the back of the truck to retrieve the heels. Maybe, she could find a good shoe repair place in Edinburgh, she could get them fixed. “Now they're practical.” His hand at the waistband of her skirt halted her motions. “I'll get them later,” he growled as he pulled her down and handed her the newly misshapen shoes. “Here, you'll need these. It's going to be a long walk.” “How long?” she put her feet into her shoes, trying not to show how furious she was with him because what would be the point if she was? It obviously wouldn't bother him. “Long enough that we should get started,” his tone brooking no argument. As if to end the conversation, he turned his back to her and started walking. Gritting her teeth, Jamie grabbed her purse and followed him, distant thunder telling her that a storm was just around the corner. Would they make it in time?

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Chapter Three Jamie sucked in her breath as she stood in the elegant foyer. High oak beamed ceilings rested overhead, ancient and imposing. Dark furniture was scattered around the large room. Rich tapestries decorated the dark mahogany walls, the crowing jewels being the coat of arms at the end. Gleaming swords crossed beyond the artfully crafted shield, the falcon and rampant lion standing out proudly. “This is a beautiful home you have,” she commented, the awe filling her voice. “You mean your home,” he said sourly. “I guess I'll show you to your room.” “Thank you,” were the only words she could get out, unable to tear her gaze from him. Anger and disappointment abounded him, slicing into his aura. What made him so packed with fury all the time? With Stuart, it was easy because he'd been filled with demons she understood but couldn't control. Ian was utterly different. She wanted to be sympathetic to him but her better senses warned her that Ian was in a dangerous mood. She followed him quietly, listening to the steady tattoo of his boot heels against the ancient wood. He said nothing as he strode angrily across the deserted hallway with her hot on his heels. “How long have you lived here?” Jamie thought perhaps she could break the uneasy silence growing between them with some light conversation but she was wrong. He said nothing. At the end of the hallway, he paused at the door. “I expect you'll be wantin' the master suite.” “No,” she said quickly. “I'm not going to be here long. Any small room will do.” Ian stared at her hard, not knowing what to think. When he'd first met her, she'd seemed like a very pampered princess. Now she seemed to be filled with some sort of compassion. He'd imagined she'd be demanding his bedroom along with everything else. “What do you mean lass?” His curiosity was aroused, not to mention other things. “I only came here to sign papers relinquishing my claim to Craogh Mor. I'll be gone in two weeks.” “Relinquishing your rights? To whom?” he demanded, his heart beating out of control. This woman he could deal with but if she was giving the property to some high and mighty development company, he'd be ready to kill himself. An engaging smile spread across her luscious and inviting lips. “Why to you, Mr. Munro. I know the history of this place and well--I guess I'm trying to right the wrongs of the past.” He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. His family had been given

RELIC these lands by King Alexander I in exchange for their loyalty to his crown. That was until Longshanks ascended the throne. “What made you decide to do that?” In an effort to cleanse the land of the Scots, Longshanks invited English families to settle on seized lands. As if that hadn't been bad enough, he also brought back the practice of Prima Nocta or First Night. The English lord of the land would bless the newlywed couple by taking the bride into his bed on the first , thus blessing the marriage. “Because I can't ask you or anyone to leave a place you've called home all your life,” she said softly, touching his arm. Ian said nothing as he turned away, his bewilderment growing. He had wanted to hate her--hell, he needed to hate her, for is own sake as well as his family's! Yet with each word out of her mouth or curve of her body, he found that he couldn't. She was fast reminding him of Bridget. “Follow me.” **** Jamie slumped on the bed, feeling dirty. She'd longed for a hot shower after walking all that way to the house. Her pantyhose had ripped, the tatters of her shoes resembling misshapen bits of leather lying on the floor. She was tired but not tired enough to keep from thinking of Ian. Despite the gruff exterior, he had a sexy body and a voice that sounded just like Sean Connery, the kind that would turn a woman to butter with the deep, dulcet tones. Unfortunately, deep down he hated her and could she blame him? If someone marched into her family home and announced they were moving in, she'd be pretty pissed too. That was the reason why she couldn't do that to Ian. When Mr. McPherson called her initially, she was stunned and could barely say anything when he asked if she wanted the current 'tenant' to vacate the property immediately. She gave him a polite 'I want to wait' phrase and waited a few days, thinking about it all. For days, she'd sat in front of the fireplace, staring at Mom's urn on the mantel. What would Mom have done in this situation? Then the answer came to her. Give it back the rightful owners. “Meow!” She whipped around at the sound, searching for the source. Nothing was there. Dammit, what she hallucinating too? She knew she was tired and could have sworn she heard a cat mewling.... “Meow!” Jamie jumped again at the sound, leaping from the bed. There was a cat in here with her and she was at a loss where it was. It had to be hiding around her somewhere. Just then, a pretty calico cat emerged from under the bed limping. Horrified, she looked down to see the poor thing holding a bloody paw, the top part of it missing. She scooped it up quickly. Surprising it didn't try to run away from her despite its injury. Holding it close to her, she felt the silky tips of the fur stroking her cheek lightly. “Who did this to you, huh?” Jamie stroked between its ears which the cat seemed to enjoy, its purring getting louder. “Who ever did this to you will pay.” Jamie stroked the delicate animal for another moment before setting it down on the bed where the cat started cleaning its injured paw. “Stay right there, kitty,”

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RELIC she ordered. “I'm going to get to the bottom of this and get you to a vet.” She stormed downstairs with the intention of finding Ian. Unfortunately, she nearly ran down an older woman in the foyer. “Excuse me but do you know where Ian Munro is?” She coolly calculated the woman before her. Short in stature, the woman seemed older than she looked. Black hair, shot with streaks of white, framed her round face. “Ye must be the new mistress of Craogh Mor,” the woman exclaimed with wide-eyed contempt, her Scottish accent thick. “No ...Yes--” she stammered. “Where's Mr. Munro?” “He's a bin seeing about getting ye truck back here.” Before Jamie could say anything else, Ian strode through the door carrying her suitcase. “What's going on here, Mrs. McDonald?” Jamie gripped him by the wrist, tugging him toward the stairs before Mrs. McDonald could respond to his question. “Come with me!” she ordered, dragging him behind her. Vaguely she heard the thump of her suitcase hit the floor but she ignored it. The only thing that mattered to her now was finding out who injured the cat. “If this is your way of seducing me, Mrs. VanWeld, its not going to work.” Ignoring his comment, she tugged harder. “Come on!” At the door, she stopped and flung it open. “Who did this?” Ian peered in cautiously, one brow rising in question. “Did what?” “This,” she marched in and pointed to the bed, not bothering to even look at it. “Someone here hacked off this poor cats paw and I'd like to know did it so they can be prosecuted.” Ian approached the bed and laid his hands on it. “There's no cat here,” he said, patting the coverlet. “There's nothing here.” Jamie whipped her head around, staring hard at the bed. Ian was right. There was nothing there except a few wrinkles on the bedspread. “There was a cat,” she insisted as she dropped to her knees and searched under the bed frantically for the animal but it was no where in sight. Ian let out a loud belt of laughter. “You've just seen the elusive ghost cat of Craogh Mor.” She paled. “What do you mean?” “I mean it was a ghost.” “No way,” she cried, rising to her feet. “I held it and felt its soft fur against my cheek.” “Trust me, it was ghost.” His brows cocked upwards. “You don't know the legend?” She said nothing. “I take that as a no.” Ian sauntered over to the settee and lowered himself down, draping his arms over the back in a casual fashion. “Would you like to hear the story?” She couldn’t help but stare at the way his jean-clad legs crossed over each other, the denim wrapping over the lean lengths like it was a second skin. “Okay,” she said, walking across the room on shaky legs, choosing to sit on the bed instead of next to him. “Come sit by me,” he suggested, patting the empty space next to him. “I don't bite.” Shakily, she got up and closed the gap between them, lowering herself onto

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RELIC the settee at the farthest end. “So what's the story?” His sexually charged smile deepened. “Let me begin.” **** Jamie was stunned by the tale Ian had spun. “So you're telling me that your ancestor was so jealous of this cat, he lopped off it's paw?” A slight titter of laughter echoed from Ian's mouth. “It's a little more than that. His wife had possessed this cat since her childhood. After my ancestor married her, the cat never left her side, always hissing when any man came near, including my grandfather. He'd heard rumors about this cat, on how certain nights and full moons that this cat would turn into a man and make love to his wife. It was also whispered that the cat was part of the Fae, cursed into a cat's body until the end of time. Supposedly this Fae man spurned the advances of a witch's ugly daughter therefore sealing his fate forever.” He coughed slightly. “Until the cat is completely reunited, then the ghost will continue to come back to Craogh Mor.” “So in order to gain revenge, the witch turned him into a cat?” “Precisely.” Jamie sat there silently, taking in all that he'd said. Could it possibly be true? With everything that had happened to her in and her family, they could certainly use the luck. Death, divorce, murder and insanity ran rampant through her family, all attributed to that little bit of mummified cat flesh in her room. “That's a nice story but there's no such thing as the Fae.” “Are you that much of a realist that you can't believe in what you cannot explain?” “I am a realist, Mr. Munro, and I don't live in fantasy,” she quipped. “The story is nevertheless intriguing so please continue.” Strangely, she felt compelled to let him know that she wasn't a daydreamer; she was a scientist who kept her feet firmly planted on the ground and not in folklore. “One day, my grandfather was so enraged at the cat he had tried to kill it,” Ian continued, “He chased it through the kitchen with an axe but to no avail. The only thing he'd managed to do was to cut off its paw. For the cat, all he could do was to crawl to my grandmother's garden and die.” “That is so sad,” she said, the tears springing to her eyes. She'd always been an animal lover and the idea of someone being cruel to one outraged her to no end. “I guess your grandmother was heartbroken.” “Aye, she was,” he continued. “After she discovered the poor body in the garden, she buried it in secret location and cursed her husband for it's death. He died not too long afterwards.” “Let me guess. He tripped over something and hit his head, while everyone blamed the cat for doing it,” she interjected, the secret hope that it was the case rising. “Nay,” Ian finished. “He died of a strange illness caused by a mysterious scratch on his face.” Jamie digested the rest of the information. If that was true, all she could say was You go Kitty! The old man had certainly gotten his comeuppance. “So you do really think I held a ghost?” Ian bounced up from the settee and held his hand out to her. Shakily, she

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took it. “More than likely, lass,” he announced as she rose to her feet. “I assume you must be hungry after this long journey.” She nodded. “I am. When is lunch?” “The woman you almost ran down in the foyer is Mrs. McDonald and she's the housekeeper. If you haven't frightened her too badly, lunch should be ready in about twenty minutes.” “That's fine,” she said, heading for the door. “I'll just run down and get my luggage so I can shower.” He held up his hand. “I'll get it lass. Remember you could not even lift it before?” She blushed. He was right. If she couldn't pick it up before what made her think she was going to get it up a long flight of stairs? “Thanks, Mr. Munro.” Ian held his hand up. “Please call me Ian, Mrs. VanWeld....” It was her turn to stop him. “Only if you call me Jamie.” She saw the beginnings of a smile curl his lips, indicating the wall of ice surrounding him was starting to crack. “Then so be it, Jamie. I will return in a few moments with your luggage.” With that, Ian was gone, striding out the door with a whistle on his lips. Closing the door, she leaned against the cool carved wood, her thoughts running amok. Why did he have to be so damned handsome? Jamie stole a glance at the package with the paw in it. Well, if the legend was true, she could finally put her past behind her and work on her future. She slumped down onto the bed. That presented another problem. If she was to lift this curse, she had to find the remains of the cat and bury it all together.

Chapter Four Ian trudged up the stairs after being stopped by several of the servants asking inane questions about this and that, putting off the inevitable. Now he had to face her. Standing outside her door, he paused for a moment. Why was this woman so appealing to him? Was it the soft lilt of her American accent or the way she moved with sensual grace? He rubbed the back of his neck hard, as he always did when he was thinking. Had he gone mad? Damn, maybe three years was too long to go without sex. Ian shook his head and drained all thought of her, standing a bit straighter. Well, it might be time to get it over with. Without thinking, he opened the door and stepped in, making the worst mistake of his life as he closed the door behind him. Jamie stood in the middle of the room stark naked with her back to him, toweling her wet hair dry. He couldn't help but stare, his gaze burning along the sensual curves, toward the gentle curve of her ass.... He was so entranced with her, he didn't even notice her turning around. Her blood curdling scream filled the room, making him jump. “What are

RELIC you doing?” she demanded angrily, using the wet towel to cover herself. He managed to catch a glimpse of her perfect breasts before she managed to cover them, hardening him even more. “Bringing your luggage lass,” he dropped her case unceremoniously on the floor. “You're welcome.” “Thanks,” she snapped. “You can leave now. Your free show is over.” “I'm glad I didn't have to pay for it,” he growled, incensed at her suggestion that he was some sort of pervert. “I'd certainly be asking for my money back.” “Damn you!” she cried, raising her free hand to strike his face. He caught her wrist. For a moment, they were caught in each others eyes, the electricity in the air sizzling as the temperature rose. Unable to stop himself, Ian bent his head and swept across her lips, light and feathery, enticing her to play. Much to his surprise, she didn't need much encouragement. Jamie's hand circled around his neck, pulling him closer as she kissed him with a hard urgency he found exhilarating. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, the towel between them falling to the floor in a cream colored puddle. His hands wandered all over that delicious body, making him harder than he'd ever been in his life. Jamie's body was now beyond her control at Ian's expert hands. Never had she known a man's hands to be so tender. Strangely, she was titillated with the fact that he was clothed and she was naked, her nipples brushing against the soft material of his shirt, turning to stone. Refusing to break the kiss, Ian bent down and picked her up, winding her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. With his hands firmly under her thighs, he could feel the moist heat of her desire penetrate his fingertips. Jamie couldn't get enough of his lips--the silkiness of his hair. Since Stuart's departure, no man had gotten near her. She'd buried herself in getting her life together for so long, she didn't realize how hungry she was for passion. Lying her down on the bed, Ian continued to kiss and caress her, all the while her fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt. Tiny bits of plastic went flying as she ripped his shirt away, exposing his naturally tanned skin. Well-formed muscle greeted her, the flesh of her fingertips dancing with excitement as she wandered over those hardened planes, her body trembling. Breathlessly, Ian pulled away from her, discarding all the rest of his clothes, kicking them away furiously. He returned to her, his lips blazing a trail of scorching kisses down her neck toward her breasts where he captured a ripe rosy nipple in his mouth, teasing it with his tongue and bringing it to blossom. Jamie arched against him, wanting him to take her into his mouth completely. His hair felt like strands of silk in her hands as he continued to kiss her body, moving down toward her navel where he toyed, running his tongue around the rim before plunging deep inside. She couldn't believe sex could have ever been like this. Her body was so alive and electrically on fire, she was afraid she was going to burn out any second. Ian couldn't help but taste her sweetness, the gentle scent drawing him ever closer. Much to his surprise, she didn't have any hair below. Strangely this excited him as he parted her tender lips and found the core of her desire, already

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RELIC blossoming from his ministrations. Her juices were abundantly there, teasing him. Gingerly, he touched her inner lips and felt her quiver. Taking this as an invitation, he dipped one finger inside of her, reveling in the way her hips rose to meet his strokes. Unable take it anymore, he took the tiny nub between his lips and teased it with his tongue until it blossomed to full power. Jamie's hips rose beyond her control, arching to meet every stroke. God, why couldn't this have been this good ... shudders of orgasm shook her body, making her cry out in ecstasy. Ian, grinning, rose from between her legs and lowered himself over her. His lips immediately went to her neck again, the scent of their desire rising to pepper the air around them. She felt him enter her smoothly, her legs wrapping around his hips securely while allowing her hips to rise and meet his slow, sensual strokes. Jamie held him close, her hands gripping his well formed ass hard as he deepened his strokes, the feeling she was heading for a multiple orgasm rising. Sensing this, Ian worked his body in such a way in order to prolong the feeling so that they both came at once. Gasps of ecstasy escaped her, the fact they weren't exactly alone at Craogh Mor escaping her completely. Suddenly, she felt him shudder and followed in suit, both of them coming with a mind-blowing orgasm. Ian dropped to her side, breathless and sweaty. “Forgive me, lass,” he begged. “I did not mean....” She turned over to him, cuddling to his side. “There's nothing to forgive. I wanted it just as much as you did, maybe more.” Strangely, his eyes turned misty as he looked at her. “We shouldn't have done this.” “There's nothing wrong with two people enjoying themselves in bed. As a matter of fact,” she traced a finger down his stubble filled chin, “I enjoyed it so much that I wouldn't mind going for round two in a bit.” Ian leapt from the bed and started grabbing his clothes, dressing frantically. Jamie sat up quickly, staring at him, her heart thumping a wild beat. “What's the matter, Ian? Did I say something to upset you?' “You don't understand what happened here,” he snapped as he pulled on his boots and drew on his shirt. “I understand perfectly, Ian. We had a great time in bed but I'm not sure why you're freaking out about it,” she commented, her anger rising at his insistence that what they had done was so terrible. “Can you tell me one reason that you feel what we did was so wrong?” He stopped and glared at her with a stare full of daggers. “Because I'm a married man.” **** Ian stood outside her door, silently cursing himself. Why did he tell her that he was married? Absently, he looked down at his left hand. The only reminder left of his marriage was the white ring around his third finger where his band had been. That ring had been cremated along with Bridget and Sean, to show that his heart had gone with them. Since their deaths, he'd immersed himself in working, ignoring

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RELIC his own needs. Now, after making love to Jamie, a slumbering beast that he'd put to bed was waking up, looking for food to feed its hungry appetite. Would he ever be able to put it to rest with her around? Numbly, he turned away from her door and moved down the hallway to his own room. Stopping a short distance away, he looked at her door once more. The only thing he could do now was tell her the truth and make up for it. **** Sleep eluded her for most of the night. She tossed and turned, her mind in a panic. First, she encounters this 'ghost cat' then she has sex with Ian. What was wrong with her? Distant cries coming from the garden made her sit up and take notice. Who was outside crying? Jumping out of bed, she hurried to the window, staring out into the night. In the ghostly light of the moon, she could make out the wisp of a shape, misty in content, hovering above one of the flower beds as if searching for something. Her hand went to her mouth as a tight knot of fear formed in her belly as she watch the wisp slowly take on a human form. Long hair, light in color, streamed down the hazy back, the ends gently riding the night wind. Jamie remained frozen in terror, unable to speak as the pounding of her heart beat steadily in her ears. She was seeing another ghost. Fear wrapped around her, refusing to let go, making the knot in her belly tighter. Unable to tear herself away, she watched the filmy figure drift over the center of the flower bed. Suddenly, the smoke became more solid, showing a slender lithe female body, still in its prime. It moved a little more toward the center. Before her eyes, the figure bent down and plucked something from the wide expanse of flower. Adding to her mounting horror, she watched as the ghostly woman picked up the broken body of the phantom cat, its fur clearly matted and dirty. The woman held the animal to her chest, wailing wildly. That must be Ian's ancestor, she thought to herself, unable to move herself. As she watched, the cat in the woman's arms started to writhe, almost if was coming to life. Slowly it’s shaped changed, the limbs lengthening to those of a human male. The fur disappeared and became smooth skin, shiny and pale, his hair curling down his back. Suddenly, woman's wailing had stopped, turning to cries of terror. The larger figure tried to take her into his filmy arms but she refused, floating away quickly with the other phantom chasing her from the garden. The fear tightened in her throat, her body rigid. Why was one ghost fleeing from another? More importantly, who were the elusive night phantoms? **** He watched her elegantly sleeping form in the chair by the window, the excitement building. Finally he was going be human again, his plan for ruling the world still bubbling in the hazy corners of his mind, its intricacies not forgotten. He would be a king among men and from his wrath, they would cower before him, feigning completely loyalty until death. He smiled. He had his own ways to make them comply with his wishes. His mind turned for a moment to his former mate, Arthiana Munro, the

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woman he had chosen long ago to be the mother of the new race of man. What a bad choice that had been. She was weak where this one was strong, a woman worthy of being a queen. He narrowed his eyes at her. Such lovely limbs, her flesh so soft. It made him angry that he needed that bastard to impregnate her but that was the way it had to be, at least for now. Later on, he would be the one impregnating her. He would so much as kill any man who looked in her direction.... Pushing the rage down, he quietly emerged from the shadows, floating soundlessly several inches above the floor. With no amount of effort, he scooped her up in his wispy arms and carried her to the bed, gently laying her down and covering her up. He thought about the paw, scowling. The body of the cat must not be reunited or else his plan would fail. He would be taken to the depths of Hell where he belonged, the last bit of his existence wiped out from the earth forever. The memory of the day he was forced into the cat rose, raising his ire even more. If his Dark Lord interfered as he should have, the Holy Being would not have cast him into that hated form, forcing him to forage as an animal for his food and shelter. Thankfully, he had managed to get Arthiana to take him in as a pet during her childhood, ingratiating himself within her life strongly. That was until she was married. That bastard hated him and the feeling had been mutual. Suddenly, one morning, it came to him. If he were free of the cat's form, he could travel as he wished and do as he wanted. Even live again if he so chose. Remembering his grimwar, he knew that in order to do that, he would have to invade the body of a newly conceived infant. Anger thrummed through his misty form as he drew away from the bed and retreated into the shadows of the room. Soon, very soon, he was going to live again. Nothing would stop him this time.

Chapter Five Jamie wandered around the garden where she'd seen the ghost the night before. Nothing seemed out of place, not a petal dropped to the ground or broken stem. She frowned. What exactly did she expect? She looked around a bit more, just staring at the property. Earlier that morning, she'd seen Mr. McPherson about it and he'd promised to have the papers ready to go in a few days. Taking a deep breath, she relished in the smog free air, fragrant and fresh. It was so much unlike Los Angeles, where the smog and commute was enough to kill anyone. Here would be a great place to raise children.... Her thoughts stopped, allowing her eyes to grow misty. After her last miscarriage, the doctor told her the chances of ever having children were nil. Stuart's savage beating had left so much scarring in her uterus that it was impossible for her to carry a baby full term.

RELIC Not wanting to dwell in the hurt, Jamie the left the garden and hurried to the house, her mind awash in a myriad of thoughts. There were a thousand questions that she needed answers to. She smiled. There was only one man who could provide them. Jamie hurried down the stairs, trying not to step on any of the women working on dusting the intricate spindles of the staircase. Distantly, she could hear the other women singing old Celtic tunes in deeply Scottish brogue as they cleaned various parts of the old house. Unfortunately, her mind was elsewhere when she burst into the kitchen, nearly running down Mrs. McDonald. “Beggin' ye pardon, lass,” Mrs. McDonald said quickly as she handed one of the younger girls a bowl of cut apples. “I don't mean to be running into you like this,” she said, her eyes scanning the kitchen for any sign of Ian. “Where's Mr. Munro?” “Out tending tha stable,” Mrs. McDonald answered, wiping her pudgy fingers on the hem of her apron. “Is there a something amiss?” “Oh,” she said, surprised by the other woman's words. “I thought he'd be out enjoying the day with his wife.” Hopefully, this woman knew nothing of what transpired between them yesterday and with any amount of grace, Mrs. Munro would know nothing of it either. Mrs. McDonald's pale face twisted into a mask of confusion. “Why would he want to spend the day under a tree?” Now it was her turn to be confused. “I'm not following you.” The housekeeper's expression turned much more serious. “His wife has been dead for the last three years.” **** Ian forked the soiled straw out of the stall onto the wheel barrow, muttering Gaelic curses under his breath. Why in the hell did Neal McManus, his stable hand, have to be sick today for? He wasn't in the mood to do this by himself, especially with the headache he was nursing. With all the horses on the estate, he'd be lucky if he was done by the evening meal. He jabbed at the pile of smelly straw, jerking it over to the cart. What possessed him to have sex with Jamie? From the time he woke up until the time he went to bed, all he could think about was her. The warmth of her skin, the silkiness of her smooth legs ... a curve of a smile graced his lips That was why intrigued him most. She had no hair on her arms nor on or between her legs, something most European women didn't bother with. His old friend, Richard O'Leary was always extolling the merits of going to bed with an American woman. “Oh, boyo, you donna know how sweet smelling they are and clean! There's not a stitch o'hair on their bodies,” he'd nudge Ian at this. “There's a no worrying about tha hair tickling the back of yer throat if'n ya know what I mean!” Yeah, he knew what Richard meant. The tender folds of her flesh gave him the most pleasure, perhaps even more than Bridget.... As he thought of Bridget, a small voice prompted to look up and glance at her grave. Dropping the pitchfork, Ian stormed to the small window at the back of the stall. Anger flashed through his cheeks as he watched Jamie sink to her knees

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RELIC next to the small plaque under the tree, her hands clasped together as if she were deep in prayer. How dare she? He didn't want her to know that Bridget was dead, at least until he was ready for her to know. Storming out of the stable, he grabbed his shirt and put it on. There was no time like the present to head down to Culloden's Pub. **** “Do you believe in ghosts?” he leaned back in his chair at Culloden's, waiting for Nihall McKweon's answer. Nihall gave him a hard glare. “Are ye asking if I believe in ghosts? Ha!” his friend guffawed, “That it'd be like askin' a drunk if they like their pint of ale now and then.” He leaned back in his chair, staring at Nihall. That was an utterly stupid question. They'd been raised on folklore as well as the legends of the banshee and the wailing ghosts of the Moors. “You are right, that was stupid of me to ask.” Nihall leaned foward, his amber eyes full of seriousness. “What is wrong with ye, Ian?” He downed his pint of ale and signaled for another. “It's a woman.” “If that it’s all it be, then ye have no problems!” he laughed, throwing his head back. “Take her to bed a few times and that should solve all ye problems.” “You don't understand, Nihall, this isn't just any woman.” “Who is the lucky lass?” “The American woman whose crossed the ocean to take my land.” “Now that is a problem,” Nihall agreed, taking a deep drink of his ale. Once it was empty, he slammed it on the table. “I'd seduce the lass and play with her a bit before she takes ye land out from under ye.” Ian stared at the table, his fingers digging into scarred wooden top. “It's not that easy, Nihall.” “Of course it is!” he insisted,” All women are easy to seduce, especially one that's come a stealin' yer land.” He looked at his friend. “She's not stealing it.” “Just how is she not stealing it?” “She's signing back to me in a few days.” “Well, that makes things a little different now,” Nihall said, his voice filled with sympathy. “What do you plan to do about her?” Ian slumped in his seat. “I don't know.” **** Jamie settled into a cozy chair in the front room with a good book she'd brought with her. A fire crackled in the ancient fireplace, the flames licking up the sides of the blackened hearth, the silence broken occasionally by the pop of a pine knot bursting. The blaze bathed the room in a golden glow, highlighting its rich dark oak paneling. Portraits graced the walls of this old house, mostly of Ian's ancestors, not hers. Perhaps if her family had not abandoned Craogh Mor back to the Munro's a century after their seizure, their portraits might have hung here instead. Family legend has it that their flight was due to the paw, given to them by the insane matriarch of the family, Arthiana Munro. Bad luck soon followed, forcing the Hathaways to flee in terror.

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RELIC While her thoughts continued to circle around the legends, she started at the dark room, filled with priceless antiques. If they could speak, what sort of tales would they tell? Betrayal, intrigue or love? Before she could think anymore about it, she heard a car coming up the gravel drive, the rocks flying everywhere. Rushing to the window, she looked out to see a dark BMW rumbling up the road, noticeably weaving. Who in the hell was showing up here at this time of night? Her question was answered in the guise of Ian stumbling out from the right side of the car. Obviously he was drunk and was going to need help getting into the house. Forgetting what had already transpired between them, she hurried out the door. “What have you done to yourself, Ian?” she questioned as she rushed to his side. “Get away from me, “ he growled as he wove uneasily up the short flight of steps to the door. “I'm not leaving you in this deplorable condition,” she retorted as she helped him up the last few treads. “You're fucking drunk.” “You're right on at least one count,” he slurred as he roughly pushed her against the stone doorway, the edges of the quarried stone digging in her back. “What do you say we fix the fucking part?” She pushed him away so hard that he was knocked off balance and grabbed on to the railing for support. “Take it easy, lass. I'm not into the rough stuff.” “What you're going to be in is bed,” she snapped as she helped him up and through the door. His limp hand stroked her cheek. “Is that an invitation?” “No, it isn't,” she snapped. **** Getting up to his room had been a chore and a half. Finally, she'd reached the top and asked what direction his room was in and he merely grunted his response. Pushing down toward the room she'd assumed was his, she threw open the door and shoved him in. “Ye really like the rough stuff, don't ye lass?” he stated, his brogue thickening almost to a point past understanding. “Shut up, Ian,” she snipped as she shoved him into a chair. “Don't move.” “Where ye going?” “I'm going to throw you into the shower and get you cleaned up.” Launching into a Gaelic tune, she left him there, entertaining himself, surprised that he had an amazingly good voice. Walking into the bathroom, she got everything ready. Soap, towels, shampoo and plenty of fluffy bath towels. Turning on the water, she leaned over and let the warmth of the water trickle over her hands. “You're so beautiful,” Ian murmured softly behind her. Before she could turn around, she felt his hands slip beneath her silk camisole caressing her breasts in a slow sensual fashion, igniting the smoldering fire within. “Come ... on ... Ian,” she stuttered as her nether lips got wet with each movement. “Let's get you showered and into bed.” “That's what I had in mind.” She sensed his determination about it but she

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RELIC wasn't about to fall into bed with him just because she was an available piece of pussy. She was her own woman and when she went to bed with him again, it would be all for the right reasons. “I'm not in the mood and besides, you've drunk enough beer to keep Edinburgh afloat for the next century.” She felt his hard on slip in the cleft of her buttocks as he pulled down her silken shorts. “Does this tell you something?” Before she could say anything, she felt him slip the smooth head of his penis against her moist slit, teasing and nudging for entry. “You know you want me, Jamie,” he murmured low as he tried to maneuver himself into better position. “I do but not like this.” Before she could finish, he was inside of her, moving slowly and teasing her to the limit. Her clit was swelling to twice its original size. “You want it, Jamie,” he repeated, his hands gripping onto her hips for support. She couldn't do anything but revel in the feelings he evoked in her. Even without the extensive foreplay, every cell in her body was about to break out with an orgasm, the moans escaping. Taking this as an invitation, Ian's strokes deepened in intensity and urgency--the sound of his own cries of ecstasy mingling with hers. Suddenly, she felt him shiver and come, well before she did, the last thrust of motion dying away. He withdrew and collapsed to his knees to the floor, his head hanging low. “I don't feel so good.” Jamie stood up on wobbly legs and felt his forehead. It was a little warm but nothing more than usual. “Wh ... what's the matter?” “I think I'm going to throw up.” This was what she was afraid of. Pushing aside the glow of her orgasm, she turned around and got him to face the toilet, making it just in time. He threw up hard, the sweet-sour contents of his belly falling forward. She gagged at the smell, holding his head tenderly until he was completely finished. “I'm sorry, lass,” he said, his eyes turning misty. “I donna know what's come over me.” “Get in the shower,” she said softly, helping him to his feet. He did as she commanded. Water sluiced all over his body, his head hanging down. She washed him completely, just like a child. Jamie flicked off the taps when she was through and helped him out. Strangely, he said nothing as she toweled him off, his head still low. “Ian, what made you drink yourself silly like this?” She ran a comb through his tangled mass of dark hair but he was still silent. Taking this is a sign that he was going to pass out soon, she got from the bathroom to the bed, sliding his magnificently naked body under the covers. He murmured slightly as he nestled in. “I love you,” he mumbled. “What?” She knew this had to be a mistake. “I love you, Bridget,” he repeated. There it was. He must be thinking that she was his dead wife. It might do him some good to think of her. “I love you too, Ian.” Quietly, she turned on the light and was completely amazed by the room. A

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RELIC giant tester bed resided in the middle, the top covered in a gauzy material. When the lights had been off, she'd only seen the shape of it enough so that she could navigate Ian around it. Now, bathed in the warm golden glow of the lamp, she could appreciate its magnificence. There was an armoire on one wall, carved out of the most beautiful oak, stamped with intricate designs. Next to it was a dresser of the same wood, the golden handles brightening the room. On top was a glass tray full of perfumes and lotions. Hovering on the wall behind the furniture was a large mirror framed by an old gilt frame. She caught glimpses of herself, her hair a tangled mess while there was the stain of her orgasm still on her cheeks. Normally, it would have taken her a long time to be able to sleep with someone yet she'd had sex with Ian twice in two days. Why? **** He watched them with detached fascination, his misty fingers curling around the edge of the doorway. They were moving closer to the time of his revitalization, the woman's body ripening quickly. The rubbish about her not being able to have children was nonsense. She would be able to bear many children without difficulty, with her first child being his new entry into the world. He watched her wander around the room a bit more, stopping when she heard the man moan in the bed. On lithe legs, she hurried over to him, sinking down on the bed and brushing his fevered brow. The man seemed to quiet down, the soft snores emitting from his lips. Good. The man would know he was here and that would not do him any good. His gaze flicked to her hands brushing his brow. They looked compassionate and tender, qualities he had always wanted and spent centuries searching the world over. In the same manner, they looked strong, almost strong enough to lead an army. Perhaps this woman was far superior than he had originally thought. **** Jamie felt his forehead, stroking his cheek softly. “Oh, Ian, I'm so sorry about all of this,” she said, her tears tracking down her stained cheeks. “You still love Bridget.” she sniffed, trying to hold back her sobs. “That's why you told me you were married.” She stopped for a minute. “I'm going to be gone in a week and you won't have to worry about me anymore--though I'll never forget you.” She laid a soft kiss on his lips. He responded slightly in his sleep, his hand winding in her hair. “I love you,” he murmured again, leaving off his dead wife's name. Jamie said nothing, knowing those words weren't for her. Once she was gone from here, she would be nothing but a distant memory to him. Rising from her spot, she went to the other side of the bed and curled up next to him. Instinctively, his arms reached out for her and pulled her close, his head going to her chest. Gently, she stroked his hair, feeling the silky strands under her fingertips. A bead of water slipped from the corner of her eye. She was never going to forget him as long as she lived.

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Chapter Six Ian awoke with a pounding head, the light entirely too bright for his liking. What in the hell time was it? Leaning over, he glancing at the clock through narrowed eyes, the throbbing in his head intensifying. How much he drank last night? He remembered arriving at Culloden's after seeing Jamie at Bridget's grave.... He felt the blood pool to his feet. Now he remembered what happened. He'd come home last night and Jamie was here, helping him up the stairs and into the shower. Ian's thoughts trailed off at the shower, suddenly remembering in all too much detail what happened. He'd stumbled into the bathroom and saw her bending over the tub in a silky shirt with matching shorts ... he almost hardened at the thought. She was so beautiful and ripe for the taking, he couldn't help himself. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling of the bed, the gauzy curtains gathered at the top. How could he do that to her, much less to himself? Aye, he'd felt something for her, a feeling that went beyond fondness but not as deep as love. Was it mutual attraction? “Good morning!” Jamie announced as she swept in bearing a tray of food for him. “How are you feeling?” Instead of wearing that sexy as silky top and shorts like she did last night, she was dressed in a linen suit with a string of modest pearls around her neck. Her blonde hair had been swept up in the back and held in place by a small diamond clip. Damn, she looked just as hot as she had last night. “Not so good,” he mumbled, his belly rumbling at the smell of eggs and bacon. “My head is killing me.” “It's no wonder with all the alcohol you drank last night,” she commented and set the tray across his knees. Taking the napkin out, she spread it across his naked chest, her nails lightly raking his skin. Damn, was she ever going to quit teasing him? “Your breath could have lit the entire city of Edinburgh for a week.” “Thanks,” he mumbled and looked down at the food. There was a big mound of bacon and eggs not to mention toast with marmalade as well as tea and coffee. He was amazed to see the eggs cooked just the way he liked them. “Tell Mrs. McDonald thank you for me. This looks delicious.” “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I cooked it myself. Mrs. McDonald went town to pick up some supplies.” Picking up the fork, she handed it to him. “Eat up before it gets cold.” Digging in, he found that it tasted as delicious as it looked. “Good?” he nodded. “I'm glad,” she continued as he ate. “I only learned to cook in the last few years. Unfortunately, that didn't stop Stuart from leaving me....” she trailed off, her eyes misted over. “I'm sorry about everything, Ian. I should never have come here.” Her tenseness broke through her stoic mask of calm. “No, lass, you have every right to be here....”he trailed off, not really knowing what else to say to her. Jamie secured the tray on his lap and rose from her seat, grabbing her purse. “I've got to go to town.”

RELIC With that, she spun on one high-heeled shoe and left the room, leaving him in complete silence. He stared at the delicious breakfast he had no desire to eat. Why in the bloody hell was he always messing everything up? **** Jamie stared at the rundown building, making sure that the address was correct. Boarded up windows greeted her, as well as broken panes, staring at her like a gap-toothed child. She frowned. What sort of influential lawyer would have an office in a place like this? She'd imagined the most modern, all glass building with valet parking and beautiful landscaping out front. Instead it was a dump. Taking a few Euros from her purse, she handed it to the taxi driver and exited, her throat tightening. Today was the day that all wrongs would be right again. “Please sit down, Mrs. VanWell,” Mr. McPherson gestured to the deep leather chair across from his desk. She sat down and crossed her legs, her ankle shivering nervously. The sooner she signed the necessary papers, the quicker she'd be on a plane back to the States and out of Ian's life forever. “Thank you,” she slipped her purse from her shoulder and laid it in her lap. “About the papers, Mr. McPherson....” He held his hand up. “I'm sorry Mrs. VanWell but there's been a problem with the documents.” Her brow rose. “What sort of problem?” The older man leaned forward, the sun shining off his bald pate, his wrinkled, spotted hands rubbing together. Clearing his throat, he looked at her through pale gray eyes. “Well, I hate to say this but they've been lost and it will take another week or two to have copies brought from Edinburgh.” “Can't they be faxed over? I mean it’s really important that I leave tomorrow.” Mr. McPherson's smile spread wide, the wrinkles around his mouth deepening. “We may seem like we're moving with the times but we're really not. You see, the archive where the papers are stored is old and doesn't accommodate such things as fax machines because electricity can't be run to that building So someone must copy the ancient scrolls carefully....” “How long did you say again?” she interrupted, her heart thumping against the wall of her chest. “A week, maybe two. I'm not sure. But please, be patient. They will be here quicker than you think.” Jamie stood up and shouldered her bag again, holding her hand out. “Thank you, Mr. McPherson, for all you're trying to do. I guess another week in your beautiful country would do me some good.” “That's the spirit!” he exclaimed as he took her hand, pumping it vigorously. For a moment, she felt a definite chill in his touch but quickly dismissed it. “If you'll excuse me, I'll have to go on down to the ticket office and change my airline reservation.” He rose and skirted his desk, escorting her to the door. “You don't worry about a thing, lass. Everything will be taken care of.”

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168 “I'm sure it will, Mr. McPherson. Please notify me if they happen to arrive

early.” “I will most certainly, Mrs. VanWell.” Shaking those thoughts from her mind, Jamie descended the steps, her heels making a hollow bang on the treads. Okay, so she had to spend another week, maybe two here and then she'd be homeward bound. Her only problem now was how to stay away from Ian for that time. Charles McPherson leaned his head against the door, feeling the coolness of the glass through his scalp. Why did he have to do a ghost's bidding? He was perhaps the most influential lawyer in all of Scotland.... “Because you know that we will all be free,” whispered the voice in his ear. “Until all is made right, we are all doomed.” “Yes--yes, I know, Arthiana,” he mumbled as he ambled toward the small serving cart filled with cut glass decanters filled with the best whiskey and scotch available. Removing the top of the bottle of whiskey, he threw it aside and filled an empty tumbler, sans ice. “Drinking will not make me go away,” Arthiana urged again. “I am always here, watching and waiting.” That thought unnerved him completely. This was not only his office but he also 'entertained' here because he didn't want to be caught at home with a rent boy. “Tell me something I don't know,” he snapped and filled his glass again, draining it in the same manner. Cursed this damn gift of being able to communicate with the dead! He was sorry the day this entity arrived in his life, making everything miserable until he obeyed it. “They must not conceive the heir before the feline's body is reunited and laid to rest.” “Of course,” he asked mentally as he slumped down into his chair, feeling the slow burn of the alcohol winding its way through his system. “But how am I to stop them?” “You must do everything you can to stop them from coupling until the cat can be found.” “How am I to do this? Spend every waking minute with them?” His fingers massaged his tired temples. He knew exactly who Arthiana had been warning him about. Sir Galdon of Rais. The man had lived hundreds of years before, a servant of Satan and said warlock. Bent on ruling the world, Galdon sacrificed hundreds of men, women and children to his Dark Lord, hoping to gain the power needed to rule. As legend goes on, God intervened and cast Galdon's soul into the body of a cat, forced to live by his wits and not his power. Galdon not only cursed God, he also cursed Satan for leaving him to fend for himself. It was after this that Galdon became the pet of Arthiana Munro. After this, he had discovered what he needed to do to become human again. Charles leaned back, staring at the stucco ceiling as the rest of the legend rumbled through his mind. Galdon had baited Arthiana's husband into killing him, thus freeing his soul and leaving him to look for his opportunity. From what Arthiana had told Charles, she had conceived a son shortly after the cat's death.

RELIC Galdon had tried to take over the infant and would have if Arthiana had not miscarried the baby. Shortly after her ordeal, a spirit came and warned her that if she was to have a child, she must leave Craogh Mor and return once the child had been born. Galdon would be tied to the land and not her. No matter where she went, he could never follow her. “Now you understand how imperative this is,” Arthiana's sweet voice regaled him. “Galdon must be stopped at all costs.” **** Jamie spent most of the gorgeous day in her room after she returned to the manor, avoiding Ian. Mrs. McDonald had brought her some food but she wasn’t hungry. All she could think about was Ian. She knew the feelings dwelling deep within her were developing into something far deeper than friendship. Unfortunately, he couldn't reciprocate her feelings because his heart had been buried with his wife under the tree. There was no use in thinking that there was a future for them. “Meow!” She whipped her head around at the sound, her heart freezing, turning the blood in her veins to ice. The phantom cat was back. Wordlessly, she watched as the ghostly cat walked into the room, limping as it held its bloody paw from the floor. Light shimmered in a silvery aura around the cat, the light coming from some unknown source. Follow me, its eyes seemed to beckon. She pushed up from the chair slowly. “Lead on, boy,” she whispered. **** Ian's sleep had been troubled and fitful at best. First the guilt about Sean and Bridget stabbed at him like a sword. He was betraying their memory by having any thoughts of Jamie. His life should have stopped when theirs did. He had no right to be even remotely happy. Next his thoughts centered on Jamie. He'd lost her first physically but the loss of her emotionally was almost more than he could stand. Jamie presented a major threat to Bridget's memory and forced him to be the way he was. Ian's fists clenched at his sides. No, he had to stop and explain to her what was going on before she left for America. He owed her that much. He rolled to his side and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable bliss to take him far beyond his problems, where nothing else existed. Bang! Ian sat up with a jerk at the sound rebounding through the room, the anger surging through him. Why in the blood hell didn't he lock that before he went to bed like he normally did? Shoving back the covers, he got out of bed and stormed across the room. Just as he put his hands on the windows to close them, he happened to look out toward Bridget and Sean's grave. There he saw a white misty figure hovering over the small grave site. Heat slipped from his body as he watched, the sudden lurch of fear tightening in a knot in his belly. Moonlight rained down on the pallid earth, casting gray shadows everywhere. His inner voice nagged at him to follow. Should he? Without warning, his fear left him as swift as water from a fall, allowing

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RELIC him to take a deep breath. There was only one way to find out. **** Cool dewy grass was soft under his feet as he made his way to the misty figure not caring that he was completely naked. All that mattered was getting down to the figure he knew to be Bridget. Silver moonlight filtered through the dense copse of trees. Chilly night winds blew, with a gentle whisper and the night air smelled of the sea. Distantly, he could see the figure flitting above the blackened sticks full of leaves surrounding them, heading toward one spot in particular. The figure stopped under Bridget's tree, as he had taken to calling it, beckoning with a wispy arm for him to follow. He obeyed, coming to stand next to the tiny plate nestled in the ground. “What do you want from me?” he mumbled all the while staring at the bronze plate emblazoned with Bridget and Sean's dates of birth and death. “Forgiveness,” it seemed to whisper. “Why do I want your forgiveness?” It didn't seem right to question the ghost but he had to anyway, not knowing where this entire scene was going. “Forgive yourself,” the faintly female voice told him. He fell to his knees next to the grave, the tears falling down his cheeks. “I should have been the one driving....” A misty finger covered his lips. “Be quiet and listen.” Suddenly, the phantom brightened, almost like the sun, becoming steadily solid as human flesh, the exact replica of Bridget. “Bridget,” he murmured breathlessly, unable to believe she was here, before him again. “You've come back to me!” Bridget's angelic smile widened; her dark hair framed her angelic features. Light colored material decorated her lithe body, seeming to be the clothes she'd been cremated in. “Only for a while, my love, just as before.” His eyes widened, the tears he'd not shed in all these years, falling down his face. “Why are you here?” Through out this time, his mouth had not moved, no sound emitting from his lips. They were communicating through telepathy. “I've been watching you in all the time I've been gone and I've seen how hard you've been on yourself since then.” His tears continued to fall unabashed. “I can't go on without you anymore, Bridget.” She clasped his hands strongly in that familiar embrace, sinking to her knees in the soft dewy grass beside him, her smile brightening. “You can and you will.” Her gaze flicked to Jamie's bedroom window. “There is a girl in there that I dare say is falling in love with you.” He paled. “No, it isn't possible....” “Yes, my love,” she interrupted, “she I, and I would venture to say that you're falling in love with her.” “No!” he protested. “It's you that I love.” “As I will always love you, Ian,” she communicated through her smile. “You must move on and forgive yourself. Remember, you're alive. So stop living as though you're already dead.”

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171 “I want to be with you,” he begged. “No, my love, 'tis not your time yet. Besides, you're son is waiting to meet

you.” “Sean? Where is he?” Bridget caressed his face ever so softly with her hand. “You have a son coming with this woman, Ian, as well as many other children.” Suddenly, her deep blue eyes turned dark, conveying every bit of seriousness. “She will ripen soon so you must refrain from her or else you will unleash destruction on us all.” His curiosity grew. “What are you talking about?” Without warning, a light blossomed above her head, forcing her to look up. “I've got to go my love but think on everything I have told you this night. Never let it escape you.” “But how....” “Just live your life with her. 'Tis all right for you to live again, especially love. When the time is right, we will be together again.” She looked back to him. “If you keep my memory alive in your heart, I will never be truly dead.” With those words hanging in the air, Bridget's solidity faded, turning to a misty gray shapeless form. Blackness enfolded him, forcing him to claw his way back to consciousness. Opening his eyes, Ian saw he was back in his own room. He looked to the window. They were locked tightly. Sweat beaded his brow, the room filled with the sickly, sweet odor of stale alcohol. He sniffed. It was him. Unfortunately, the booze caused some sort of fever that made him dream of Bridget. He frowned. Was it a dream or did it really happen?

Chapter Seven Jamie followed the cat downstairs with quiet footsteps, an ancient board creaking here and there, breaking the stillness of the house. The mist shrouded animal trotted ahead of her as if he missed nothing about his body. She frowned. Where was he going? In the drawing room, he stopped, circling around the room, as if he was looking for something. Suddenly, the cat jumped onto an ornate, antique table, looking mournfully at the wall. “Meow!” he wailed. “What is it?” She stared at the animal that looked at her before turning his attention back to the wall, an odd light glowing in the ghostly eyes. Her heart banged an uneasy rhythm as the knowledge grew that there was something behind the wall that he wanted. “What's there?” she whispered. It placed a wispy paw on her arm, casting a mournful gaze at her. Before she could even think of anything, the cat leaped down and sauntered over to the old oak cabinet filled with old leather bound books, and down near particular set, the

RELIC tip of its tail bopping silently. “What are you trying to tell me boy?” The cat turned and pawed at a green book, pulling it out. Jamie bent and picked up the book, reading the gold gilt lettering in the shaft of moonlight streaming through the window. LORD SIMON'S BOOK OF MORAL CODES. Looking down, she watched with fascination as the cat pulled out several more books with his good paw until it created a space large enough for him to fit through. She watched him disappear through it and heard him scratch viciously with the remaining good paw, as if he wanted to tear through the back. Leaning down, she pushed him out of the way. Gingerly, she put her hand into the dark, wary of anything that may be hiding there. At first, she felt the cool, smooth wood under against the flesh of her fingertips. What was this feline digging for? Then she felt it. There was an intricate lock in the back. Sinking to her knees, Jamie lay down and scrunched herself against the bookcase so she could reach further inside. Fumbling, she worked the strange latch, trying to figure out its odd intricacies. Who in the hell crafted this thing? Click! The lock snapped, popping open a little wooden doors. Taking a deep breath, she reached inside. She rummaged around the black hole, her hand feeling nothing but the thick layers of dust residing there ... she grimaced. The nasty feel of sticky cobwebs decorated her arms, making her want to cry out and draw back but she refused There was something here that she was supposed to find ... her fingers quickly brushed against something covered in pitted leather. Grasping it, she drew it out into the room. Blowing the dust off of it, she stared at the dusty book that was about the size of a diary. Who did this belong to? Leaning against the bookcase, she opened it. Arthiana Munro was neatly scripted into the upper left corner. As for the rest, she couldn't make it out because it was too dark to see. Rising to her feet, she looked around for the cat. He was no where to be found. With the curiosity building, she ran up the stairs to her room and locked the door securely behind her. **** “Jamie, are you awake?” Jamie struggled to the forefront of consciousness, the haze surrounding her mind started to clear, the thick brogue of Ian's breaking through. “Um--oh--yeah,” she said quickly as she got up from the chair where she'd promptly fell asleep reading the diary of Arthiana. The book fell from her lap and landed on the floor with a thud, a sound that she hoped Ian hadn't heard. “Can I come in?” “Just a minute,” she said quickly as she picked up the book and placed it under her pillow. Padding across the room, she unlocked the door and was face to face with Ian, a sight she hadn't seen in days. “Yes?” “Are you busy today?” “Not really,” she said, her thoughts turning back to the diary. “Just some

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RELIC light reading.” “We need to talk,” he murmured softly. His dark brow rose. “You know what we need to talk about.” Her gaze tripped over his form, the insides of her pussy quivering with anticipation. Ian wore tight jeans topped with a matching denim shirt, the confines of which were stretched across his thick arms and shoulders, fitting like a second skin. Why did he have to look so damned sexy lounging against the door frame casually, his black hair sweeping across his brow? “Honestly, Ian, it won't happen again.” He stood up, his arms falling to his sides. “That's where you're wrong,” he whispered as he stepped in, his hands cupping the shelf of her jaw, drawing her closer. “I want it to happen again.” With great effort, she pulled away. “No, Ian. You've made your stance clear and I respect that. So let's just go our separate ways and forget it ever happened.” He advanced on her with slow masculine grace, his arms wrapping around her and drawing her close. “You are one woman I can't forget,” he murmured as he lowered his head, his lips just inches from hers, “nor do I want to forget.” Ian's lips brushed hers softly at first, placing feathery kisses around the outer edges, encouraging her to respond. Her inward resolved melted as quickly as the first snow at the sign of spring, her body turning to molten iron under his hands. Suddenly, his kisses became harder, more urgent as he explored her mouth with infinite expertise, urging her to dance with him. Her heart pounded hard as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding onto him tightly. The tight bulge of his jeans pressed into her belly, indicating his rising desire. She longed to be under him, swimming in the sea of ecstasy. ... Without warning, he pulled away. “I will go mad until I can have you again, my Jamie lass.” “Why not now?” she whispered breathlessly, her body on fire. “Because it will be all that much sweeter when we make love again,” he kissed her forehead, breaking the embrace. “Do you ride horses?” “A little, why?” she asked. “Meet me down at the stable in a half hour.” **** “Why did you bring me here?” she demanded as they stopped the horses at his wife's tree, the marker bearing her and their son's name on it. She'd been here before under her own volition. Now she was here under duress. “Come down here a minute and I'll tell you,” Ian ordered as he dismounted and walked over to the tiny plaque, the reins slack in his hands. “All right, “Jamie sighed. With a quick flick of her jean-clan leg, she was down on the ground, closing the distance between them. “I'm very sorry about your wife, Ian. I never meant....” “Her ghost has followed me since her death,” he started, staring at the embossed metal. “I've felt guilty every day.” “Why?” “Because I was the one who was supposed to be going to town that day, not Bridget and Sean. If it had been me driving that car....”he trailed off as the sadness

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RELIC filled his voice. She laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Don't do it, Ian.” “I have to, Jamie because there are some things I've got to tell you before we can continue on,” he said, turning to her. “It's best to start at beginning, is it not?” She nodded. “The day after their burial, my world turned upside down. I used to be the most respected architect in Edinburgh and used to own my own firm. Munro and Associates,” he gaze dropped. “Now it all seems an entire world away.” “What happened?” “The day after they were buried, I buried myself in whiskey. Not just a little but a lot. Within a year, I lost all the respect I'd worked so hard for as well as my firm.” “I'm so sorry, Ian,” she whispered quietly. “What happened after that?” He looked up into the sky for a moment as if to compose himself and turned to her, his eyes misty. “After that, I sank into a depression so low that I contemplated killing myself.” “Oh, God, Ian. Why?” “Because I had nothing else to live for.” He looked down at the grave. “I can't tell you how many times I'd wish my ashes were here too.” “But you have Craogh Mor as well as everyone here,” she offered. “You're well known in town and liked by everyone.” “I know,” he continued. “Everything worsened, especially when Mr. McPherson told me about you.” Guilt riddled her. “I'm sorry about that, Ian. If there was any other way to do this by faxes, attorneys or any other way, I would never had come here and completely ruined your life.” Ian looked at her with a pure light shining in his eyes. “You didn't ruin my life, my dear. In fact, you've saved it.” She was stunned and confused. “I don't know what you mean?” His fingers lifted her chin higher so that she stared straight into his face. “From the day they were buried until you arrived, I'd done nothing but drink. Ever since you've been here, I haven't thought about getting myself snookered every day to ease the pain.” “What about the other night? You were certainly snookered then?” “Do you want to know why?” “Tell me.” “Because when I saw you up here at Bridget's grave, I fell to pieces. She was my secret and my memory to harbor, something I never wanted to ever let go. I was afraid that if you knew about her, you'd try your damnedest to take her away from me.” “Oh, Ian, I never meant to do that. I was merely paying homage to her memory,” she wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him close. “She was part of your life and I don't want you to ever think you have to stop thinking about her. As long as her memory lives on in your heart, she's not really gone.” The moment those words left her lips, Ian jerked away and stared at her, his eyes blazing. “Where did you hear that?” “M … my mother used to tell me that all the time. Why? What have I said

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RELIC that was so wrong?” “Nothing,” he said quickly, drawing her back into the circle of his arms, hugging her tightly. “'Tis a sign from heaven.” Now it was her turn to draw away. “What sign? What are you talking about?” Either he was drinking now or was entirely loopy. She wasn't sure which. “Nothing,” he said as he guided her to the horses. “Shall we eat lunch in town or here?” “What about a picnic lunch out on the Moors?” She'd always dreamed of something like that, making love among the mossy stones.... His tone quickly changed. “Perhaps we should eat at Craogh Mor for today. Tomorrow....” She stormed over to her horse and mounted with a flourish. “Why are you so afraid to be alone with me?” “There are some things you don't understand, lass....” “Like what?” Jamie said, the anger building up inside of her but she refused to show it. “Tell me what it is and help me to understand.” Ian opened his mouth and shut it just as quickly. Her pain increased fourfold. “That's what I thought,” she stated tersely and swung up into her saddle, turning her horse toward the house. “When you want to talk and explain to me what I don't understand, you know where you can find me.” **** Ian watched her ride away, the fury building in him. Why didn't he tell her the reason he was shying away from her? It wasn't by choice that was for sure. If he had his way, he'd have had her forty times by now but with Bridget's dire warning, he couldn't. Pounding his fist against his open palm, he resented the fact that he had to hurt her like that. There was nothing he wanted more than make love to her among the beautiful fields of the Moors but with so much at stake, he couldn't risk it. His heart lurched with excitement. A son. This beautiful woman would eventually be carrying his child, giving him the reason to live again. Her life was something he was not about to risk for anything. Ian, the wind seemed to whisper behind him. Turning, he thought he saw a misty shape float around the tree, hovering above the grave. He rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. Backing up as the fear invaded his body, the shape started taking on a more human form. Slowly, the shape emerged into the figure of a woman, her clothing reminiscent of the past. Yards of cloth draped around her body. Dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, covered by a sheer veil. “Greetings, my descendant,” she said without moving her mouth, the telepathy flowing easily. “Greetings,” he answered mentally, ignoring the whinnies of the horse that by now was quite spooked by the spectral image. “I am Arthiana, my dear grandson and I am here to help you.” “Help me from what?” “The devil I took into my bosom.” He was utterly confused, the fear slipping from his body like water sluicing

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over stones. “What are you speaking of?” “Sir Galdon of Rais.” “He had disappeared hundreds of years ago....” “No, he did not. He was transformed into a cat, forcing me to be his lover by bewitching me. After my husband killed him, I hid his body but I could not find the paw. I did not find out until after my husband's death that he had hidden the paw, in part as a trophy of his triumph over the cat. What he did not understand was that by keeping the beast whole, Galdon would have been powerless. When he is not whole, Galdon has more power than anything you can imagine.” “What does he want with me or more importantly, Jamie?” “You see, he yearns for a young, fresh soul to get into and become human again in order to spread his evil.” Her kind mouth spread into a knowing smile. “Come, you must have heard of his legend, have you not?” “Not, I have not,” he answered, all the while staring at the figure. “Then, let me tell you for it will be your only defense against him.”

Chapter Eight She ate very little, merely picking at the food at her plate, staring off into space. Why did his tone change when she mentioned the Moors? It wasn't like she was going to rape him or anything. Maybe with a little thoughtful persuasion.... Jamie looked up, staring into the dark of night. It was a beautiful land here, making her yearn to stay here. There was nothing left for her really in the States anymore. She was completely on her own now with plenty of money to keep her financially sound. Deep sighs escaped her throat. Maybe she should buy a house here.... Distantly, she saw glimpses of golden light weaving in and out of the black trees, hidden by the darkness of the night. Rising slowly, she rushed to the kitchen and looked out that window, her heart pounding hard. What was that? “Ah, I see the village women are coming,” Mrs. McDonald commented dryly over her shoulder. She whipped around, the steady rush of blood in her body slowing down. “Why are they coming here?” Turning back to the window, she watched the line of cars snaking up the long drive through the canopy of trees on either side, their lights shining in the darkness. One by one, they stopped in front of the house, their occupants emerging with baskets in their hands. “Did anyone tell you about the small gathering we are to have the day after tomorrow?” Her brow rose. “Gathering?” So far, she hadn't heard anything but that wasn't a real surprise. Every time Ian got even close to her, she made some lame excuse as to why she had to leave. If he didn't want to be around her, she was happy to accommodate. Mrs. McDonald nodded her graying head. “Aye, they are coming here to

RELIC celebrate your installation as the new mistress of Craogh Mor and introduce themselves.” She stared hard for second, not believing what she was hearing. Everyone still thought she owned Craogh Mor. No one had told them all that she was signing over to Ian. “Th ... that's fine,” she said quickly, crossing her arms over her bosom in an effort to hide her confusion. “Does Ian know?” Mrs. McDonald's rich warm laughter filled the kitchen. “He is the one who ordered it, lassie,” she answered and gently nudged Jamie out of the kitchen. “If you will excuse me, I have much work to do and very little time to prepare for it.” Jamie could take a hint. Leaving the kitchen, she swept out of the dining room to her room. Ian was out for the evening, picking up some parts in town as well as checking on friend whom he claimed was ill. Her heart broke. More than likely he was in town getting laid by some hot woman, proving the fact that he only wanted her because she was available, right here for his use. Tears threatened. That was how things had always been. People used her for what they could get out of her and tossed her casually aside, with Stuart being the prime example. He had only wanted her to be the trophy wife, something to take out and parade once in a while when the situation dictated it. Well, it wasn't going to be her anymore. Ian, with all his pretty words, was pulling away from her, despite her obvious affection for him. Sinking down into the padded damask chair by the window, Jamie sank down and let the tears flow. He hovered in the shadows, listening to her sobbing, angry at the man for not doing what he was supposed to! The time for her ripening was coming up and there was no possible way, he was going to miss it. Misty fingers wrapped around the tester of the bed, the fury rising higher. Instead of coming together, they were growing farther apart and that would not do. He had given the woman his first pupil's book to read in the hope that it would spur her to take the man back into her bed but so far, she had read very little, just enough perhaps to make it interesting. The time had come for him to take matters into his own hands. He stared at the pillow. The book was there, hidden away until she was ready to read it. Taking his phantom arm, he swiped the delicate silk clad pillow from the bed in her direction. The woman jerked, her stare torn between the pillow and the bed, her heart pounding in fear. How in the hell did that happen, he had heard her say, the fear rising high within her. By me, he wanted to tell her. Her nervous gaze darted about the room as she rose from her chair and picked up the pillow, her terror growing within her. He could sense it, feeding on it like a ravenous beast. Part of him wanted to feed on it and explore the outermost banks but time was of the essence. He pressed back into the shadowy recesses, watching as she picked up the book and retreated to her chair. Good. That part had been taken care of. Slipping from the shadows, he passed her and went through the closed door, drifting down the staircase. His body was going to be discovered by tomorrow no matter what.

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RELIC **** Jamie shivered as the chilly air passed by her, seemingly to head out the door. What was that? She looked to the far end of the room and saw with relief that the window was open. It was just a light evening breeze, nothing more. She looked down at the book in her lap, the leather still feeling soft under her fingertips even after all these centuries. Poor Arthiana. From what she had read the night before, Arthiana had been a beautiful young girl, in love with one man doomed to be tied forever to another she didn't love. Flipping the book open, she turned to the back, curious to see what the last entry said. I feel Galdon closing in, his phantom arms trying to wrench the life from my body as I sit here in this small cottage in the Culloden Moor. I know I am safe from him yet I know he is waiting. There is no possibility of him being able to possess my child but my own body is another matter all together. With the demise of the feline body enshrouding his spirit, Galdon is everywhere, ready to take my life at any given opportunity, his power unimaginable. I cannot let that happen for with my death, the secret of how to stop him will be taken with me. I have, however, made provisions that it does not. This book was protected by a priest from his prying eyes so future descendants will have the knowledge to stop him. Aye, I will confess it here since I have no husband to confess it to. Galdon senses it but is powerless to do anything because of God's protection. I, however, will not be so fortunate. I know the madness will take me soon. I can feel it. Not only is the madness coming for me, the Hathaways are as well, much thanks to Longshanks. They are to have my land in return for their loyal service to the English Crown. I can work in their household if I wish to remain at Craogh Mor but I do not know what I will do. If I leave, my child will die, that much I know. If I stay, I will risk losing all of my capabilities but my child will have shelter and food as well as clothes. Suddenly, the handwriting seemed to trail for a moment before becoming stronger again. I must write all of this down before I cannot remember it anymore. Galdon can only be stopped one way. He must never be allowed to be born again. In service to his Master, Galdon was given one hope of returning to life. He would have to wait until the right couple conceived the child that would allow him to live again. That man and woman would consist of the Hathaway and Munro line, a perfect union of souls together. At the precise moment after the child has been conceived, Galdon will enter the woman's womb and paralyze the soul of the infant, sending it back to God. With this act, it will bring destruction upon the world. Galdon will be content with nothing less than the entire world under his feet. The woman who will give birth to him will be the consort he chooses and begin a race of man that will be devoted to evil. This must not happen. If, long after I am gone, the man who reads this will heed my warning. The child must not be conceived until after the cat's body is buried in consecrated ground.... There was more there but the words suddenly swirled in front of her, becoming a thick blur. Was this talking about her? No, it wasn't possible. Her uterus was so damaged from Stuart's beating that it was unlikely that she'd ever get

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pregnant. She slammed the book shut. This was all a mad woman's ramblings.... A horrific crashed echoed from the downstairs, shaking the entire house. Jamie leapt out of her chair, the book falling to her feet with a slam. What was that? Grabbing her robe, she threw it on over her short red baby doll nightgown, her mind racing. What in the hell did that? **** Jamie stood at the doorway of the living room, her jaw dropped. At the far corner where the cat led her was a gaping hole about three feet in diameter. Ancient mortar still clung to the ragged edges, a pile of plaster on the floor that was a silent testimony that this house had been updated through the centuries. “My word!” exclaimed Mrs. McDonald behind her, flanked by the rest of the servants. A chorus of 'What happened?' and 'Who would have done such a thing?' echoed through the crowd behind her, making her a little edgy. “Did anyone see anything?” she said quietly as she stared in amazement at the mess, her heart pounding out of control. “Not a thing, missus,” said the butler who was the furthest back. “Just the crash,” rambled the upstairs maid. Gingerly, she walked into the room, making sure that she didn't step on any of the plaster. Reams of moonlight stormed through the room, bathing the room in a silvery glow. Going over to the light switch, she flipped it on, chasing away the dim shadows of the night. White dust peppered the deep red carpet under her feet. At the bottom near the baseboard lay a heavy bust of one of Ian's ancestors. Reaching down, she tried to pick it up and found it too heavy for her. “Can anyone pick this up?” All of them shook their heads. “Now come on! Someone had to have picked this thing up and flung it against that wall!” “It was no one, miss,” Mrs. McDonald offered, stepping forward from the crowd. “It had to be someone!” she reiterated. “Things just don't fly off and hit the wall by themselves!” “Only if there be a ghost behind it,” the older woman countered. Before Jamie could answer, the door opened to the great foyer, revealing Ian entering, looking tired. “What in the bloody hell is going on here?” “This!” she yelled and turned, pointing to the hole. Just as she was about to open her mouth to answer him, she saw the shadow of it. Suddenly, her world turned hazy and black. The last thing she heard was Ian's voice calling to her as she sank into consciousness.

Chapter Nine “I think she's a comin’ round,” Mrs. McDonald's voice announced. Jamie

RELIC opened her eyes, blinking hard several times. Ian's handsome face hovered over hers, the concern crossing in waves. “Jamie? Are you all right, lass?” She rubbed her eyes hard as the pounding of her heart increased. “I'm fine,” she muttered, looking around at all the concerned faces circling her. Pushing up from the couch, she stared into the empty hole. “Where's the cat?” “What cat?” Ian questioned as he looked at the gaping crevice. “There was a mummified cat,” she insisted as she got up from the couch and looked into it. “That's what made me faint.” Ian followed her and stared into the hole. “There's nothing there,” he said slowly, his warm handing winding around her shoulder, pulling her close. “Wait a minute, now I see. During the old days, people wanted to ward off evil spirits when homes were constructed so sometimes they'd wall up a live cat in the wall to keep them at bay.” She shuddered at the thought. “But this cat wasn't alive, Ian,” she whirled around. “It was the dead cat of your ancestor.” “What do you mean?” he questioned, his strong hands holding her hard. “That cat--oh, never mind,” she turned away. If she told him the story, it would make her sound like an utter crackpot and loony tunes. “I'm going to bed.” “Wait,” he pulled her closing, waving his hand in order to dismiss the servants. “What are you trying to tell me?” Utterly exhausted, she strode over to the couch and sat down, putting her hands between her bare knees. “That cat held the spirit of Sir Galdon of Rais. Once it was dead, his spirit was allowed to roam in this house but it could never rest or leave, at least not until the cat's entire body was reunited. In this, he would be strong enough to--to--,” she couldn't finish it. The subject was too painful. “Penetrate the inner sanctum of a newly conceived soul and be reborn to rain his destruction down on the earth,” Ian concluded as he sank down on the sofa next to her, his arm going around his shoulder and pulling her close. “Why didn't you say this before?” “Because I thought would think I'm this crazy American woman with foolish ideas,” she offered as she leaned against him, thankful for his generous warmth. “No, I wouldn't have lass,” he reminded gently, his hand caressing the side of her face. “In Scotland, we believe in things much differently than you but that would not have changed my thinking about you.” She looked up at him, his skin golden by the lights of the lamps filling the room. “What thinking is that?” “That I love you, Jamie VanWell,” he brushed his lips against her forehead, firing the sexual desire that ate at her for him. “I want you to be my wife.” “But--what about Bridget?” The last thing she ever wanted was Ian to feel as though he had to stop thinking about his first wife. “She's still in here,” he pointed to the middle of his glorious chest,” but so are you. From the first moment I saw you, I knew there was something special about you. What I didn't know was that you were going to change my life forever.” “I felt the same way about you,” she confessed, “and not because you're

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RELIC totally hot.” Ian let out a wild belt of laughter. “Your American euphemisms. I think that's what started it all. You didn't put up with any of my overbearing ways.” “You mean your bullshit,” she gently corrected, snuggling deeper into the crook of his arm. “No, I wasn't much for that though when I was married to Stuart, I had to.” “I'd love to get my hands on your first husband,” he said, the menace in his voice growling slightly. “He had a woman like you and treated you like crap. Well, that won't happen again, rest assured.” He tilted her head up. “You still haven't answered my question.” “Oh, you're right,” she said, the magnitude of what he asked finally sinking in. “We've only known each other a short time....” The prospect of living under another woman's shadow was not particularly inviting. “We belong together, Jamie. You feel it and I feel it.” She felt the tears grow. “I do feel it, Ian but that's not enough. Your heart belongs to Bridget and always will. You blame yourself for their deaths....” He shook his head. “Not anymore because I know that I must learn to live again and I've been given that opportunity with you. Granted, we have not known each other very long but what is that to two people in love? I'm a part of you just as you are a part of me whether or not you like it. It's not Craogh Mor that draws us to together, it's destiny.” Ian's lips lowered over hers, his hand cupping the shelf of her jaw, drawing her closer. She tasted the hunger in his kiss and returned it with equal fervor, their tongues engaging in a torturous dance of seduction. Thankfully, Ian had dismissed the servants before otherwise they'd be in for a free show. Pulling away from him slightly, she blazed a trail of hot scorching kisses down his neck to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing, you little minx?” he murmured as she slid from the sofa to a small vacant spot between his legs. He shifted slightly to allow her room. “I'm going to give you a little taste of things to come, so to speak,” she purred as she unbuttoned his jeans and brought his zipper down. His rock hard prick sprang forward, the tip already wet. Ian certainly didn't believe in underwear. She licked the underside in a languorous fashion, her fingers kneading his balls lightly. His hips bucked slightly, his hands threading through her hair. Ian sank into the warm waters of desire, his dick hardening more than it ever had in his life. Bridget had never indulged him this way, preferring to keep to the more mundane sexual aspects no matter how hard he had encouraged her. She always preferred to dress up to entice him but when it came to the sexual act, she always wanted to do it with the lights out and at night, no other time. Her tongue was practiced as it danced across his flesh, making him very hungry to be inside of her but he couldn't. It was just too early. After the cat had been reunited and buried, he was certainly going to enjoy her to the hilt. Jamie's mouth felt like the finest velvet as she took him in, her experienced hands worked the shaft as well, the lure of the orgasm building in intensity. Her strokes were even, making his hips thrust upwards as she took him in deeper, her tongue making strange little muscular contractions--suddenly, the rush filled him

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RELIC and he was unable to stop. “Jamie!” he moaned loudly as he exploded in her mouth, his hands gripping her hair hard. Extracting herself from him, she looked up through electrically charged eyes. “You have my answer, Ian.” “Is this little act a yes?” “Very close,” she answered, getting up from her knees and tucking him back into his jeans. Settling on the couch next to him and snuggled into the crook of his arm, her hands toying with the edges of his shirt. “I think I could live here very happily quite easily.” “Shall we tell everyone tomorrow night?” “Not yet,” she purred and pulled away from him. Performing fellatio on him was just an appetizer. The main course was still to be had. “Let's seal the deal.” “I--I … can't Jamie but before you go off the deep end, I'll tell you why.” She kept her anger at bay though it threatened to consume her. “Why not? After what I just did....” “Just hear me out, okay?” “Okay,” she murmured, willing herself to listen. This had better be good. “The reason I can't take you upstairs right now and make mad passionate love to you is because the time isn't right.” She frowned, pulling away and crossing her arms over her chest. “What do you mean? There's no better time than right now!” “I can't because the next time we have sex, you're going to get pregnant and that can't happen right now.” Now she was furious! How dare he say something like this? “For your information, Mr. Ian Munro, I can't get pregnant now nor at any time from now,” she jumped off the couch and headed for upstairs. “So get that thought and any life that we intended to live here out your mind.” She felt his hand on her arm, whirling her around. “You're not going anywhere until I give you the full story.” “Let go of me!” she snapped, trying to wrest herself free. “I'm not listening to anything else you have to say.” “Oh, yes you are!” With one swift move, Ian bent down and threw her across his shoulder, taking her back into the living room where her flopped her on the couch. “Now sit there and listen,” he ordered, waggling a finger in her face. “But....” she growled but Ian threw her such a menacing look, she shut up. “Now, since you've told me your story, I'll tell you mine.” “All right,” she mumbled and sat back, watching Ian pace uneasily before. “Do you remember the night that I came home stoned out of my skull?” she nodded. “Well, I had a little visit that night from Bridget.” She felt herself brighten. “What sort of visit?” “A very reassuring one, I can tell you.” He paused for a moment as if to gather his thoughts. “With that visit, I learned that I can go and live not feel guilty for it. She taught me that. Her death was inevitable because that was her destiny. It was after this that I knew I was free to love you.” “Great story but I've heard enough,” she said, attempting to get up from the sofa.

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RELIC He leaned down close to her so that she couldn't mistake his words. “If you get up from that couch again, I'll be forced to punish you in a slightly painful but pleasurable way. Am I understood?” Ian's sexual magnetism hit her like a brick, making her shiver with lust. “Yes. Finish your story.” “Thank you,” he mocked as he stood up. “After Bridget's visit, I was also granted a small audience with another of my ancestors who warned me of impending disaster if I did not wait to touch you again.” “What in the hell have you been drinking that you've been seeing all these ghosts?” Never mind the fact that she'd had several encounters with the phantom cat, she still thought he was smoking crack or something. “I could ask the same thing of you,” he said sarcastically, voicing her thoughts. “After all, you've been prowling around the house chasing that damned phantom cat. “ “I have not,” she protested weakly. He laughed lightly. “You have because I've heard you, Jamie but enough of that. What I'm about to say is very important to both of us.” “How so?” “Why don't you just sit back and listen for a minute?” **** Jamie listened to the quiet of the night, her heart thumping hard. She knew now that she loved Ian with all her heart. Even in this short amount of time she'd known him, he was the man for her. No one else would do. Ian's soft snores echoed through his large bedroom. After their little talk, she now understood what was going on. If she had sex with him before too early, it would give Galdon the opportunity to rise again. Part of her wanted to believe she would conceive and have Ian's baby, but she knew it couldn't happen. The doctors assured her that it was impossible. She let out a weary sigh. Now came the bigger part of the picture. If the cat's body wasn't in the wall, where had it gone? It was most certainly there when she looked initially. Frowning, she thought a little deeper about it. Could it just have been a dark shadow she'd seen? Pushing Ian's arm over gently, she slid from the bed and stood up. Now if all this was true, according to Ian and his ancestor's diary, once the cat was together and buried in consecrated ground, Sir Galdon's spirit would descend into hell where it belonged. She froze. What if she didn't have the paw anymore? Hurrying from Ian's room, she made her way down the hall and entered her room quietly, her bare feet crossing the stone floor. Her heart thundered in her chest as she started her search, pulling up the suitcases and checking them. No paw. Picking up her purse, she rifled through it like a mad woman. It had to be here somewhere ... ah, here it was! Jamie plucked the box from the bag and opened it, staring at the empty contents of the box, her jaw dropping. It was gone. Frantically, she searched through room, tearing everything apart. It wasn't under the bed nor under any furniture where it could have rolled but didn't.

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Dammit! She wanted to scream aloud because the fucking thing was right here several hours ago and she was the only person who knew of its existence! Jamie sank down onto the bed, burying her head in her hands. Why didn't she tell Ian she had the paw in the first place? When she'd first met him, she thought him utterly unbearable and didn't want to share any crazy notions of curses and omens with him, especially the one about the mummified paw. He would have thought her to be crazier than ever. Now she wished she had shared it with him. He didn't think she was crazy at all or full of fantasy. What they were facing was real, nothing something out of some fairy tale. She balled her fists at her sides. Where could it have gone? If Ian didn't know about it and no one else, who would have known to take it? **** He watched from the shadows, as the woman berated herself for losing the paw. She didn't misplace it or anything nor had the man taken it. It had been one of them, the Hated Ones who were in a hurry to see him in Hell where he belonged. Carefully, he had watched from the shadows as his old chosen one had entered the room and had taken the paw with the intention of reuniting it all. Thankfully, he had other plans. Springing from the shadows, he had tried to stop Arthiana but since her death, she had grown as almost as powerful as he had. Back and forth, they had fought each other, the room filling with the alternating dark and white light, unseen by the humans nearby. Humans could be fickle creatures, choosing to believe what can be seen and touch, refusing to believe in something not of this world. In the end, Arthiana had won, wearing him down to nothing, leaving him almost powerless. Swiftly, she had departed with the paw, the intention quite clear. He scowled. Arthiana had defeated him once; she was not going to do it again.

Chapter Ten Morning sped by quickly with the host of servants readying the tables ready for the evening feasts. Striped party tents went up all around the house, peppering the land with the white and blue awnings. Jamie rode into town earlier in the morning tucked against Ian to Mr. McPherson's office. The anxiously awaited papers had finally come and were ready for them both to sign. She was relieved because this entire ghastly business of who owns what was over. It was Ian's now, where it should have been all along. After they'd come back home after a quick detour and some heavy petting on the back roads, Ian retreated to his room and instructed her to go to hers because there was something there for her. Quickly, she ran upstairs to find a box sitting on the middle of her bed wrapped with a bright red bow. Swift fingers tore it apart. Inside was a beautiful jabot blouse made of silk and a plaid skirt with matching sash. “Mr. Munro wants ye wear that,” Mrs. McDonald said softly from the

RELIC doorway as she entered. “He will announce tonight that ye will be his bride soon.” “Ho--how will everyone take that?” As far as anyone knew, she was still the titled landholder in Craogh Mor. Since her arrival, most of the people here treated her with a wary type of suspicion, including Mrs. McDonald at times. She shrugged her thick shoulders. “As well as can be expected,” she sighed and pulled the native attire from the box. “Aye, Mr. Munro's clan colors will look nicely on ye.” “So that's what they are?” Jamie hadn't had a chance to bone up on her Scottish lore and history before she arrived so she was a little clueless. “Aye,” Mrs. McDonald's head bent in acknowledgment, her pudgy fingers grasping the ensemble. “Come, let's get ye dressed. The feast will be starting soon.” “But it's only about three!” she protested. Movement caught her eye and she looked outside in time to see a caravan of cars riding up from the nearby village full of people. “Are they all for the feast?” “Aye, they are lassie--forgive me … Mrs. Munro.” Mrs. McDonald corrected herself. “Nothing to be forgiven for,” she remarked idly as she slipped out of the sleeves of current clothing, the excitement storming through her veins. This was one party she didn't want to miss. **** Night covered the land all around them, blanketing Craogh Mor in deep silver light. Golden torches chased the shadows away from the dense thickets, casting a pale shine to the party area. Tables covered in white linen, laden with haggis, crowdie, salmon and black buns. Scotch and whiskey flowed like water while bag pipers filled the air with their sweet song. Jamie partook of the drink more than the food because of her anxiety, the booze burning a hole in her empty stomach. So far, everyone she'd met treated her quite well even thought they still eyed her with some suspicion. Thankfully, once Ian made her announcement, she could make hers and clear the air. “How do you feel?” Ian whispered into her ear as they walked along the side of the feasting area. “Fine,” she said slowly, feeling the alcohol color her brain. She wasn't exactly drunk but she wasn't exactly sober either. Stopping mid stride, she turned to look at Ian. Silver threads of moonlight wound through his hair, shining a deep blueblack. His eyes held fathomless depth of emotion. A loose, white shirt covered his upper body, the edges parting slightly to show his chiseled chest. Tartan, comprising his kilt, covered his lower half topped with his dress sporrans. His polished thistle sgian dubh hung at his side, more for ornamentation then anything else. Kilt hose covered his well muscled legs, exciting her no end. “What are you thinking love?” “How would you like to accompany me on a little walk?” His smile widened as the sparkle in his eye deepened. “I thought ye would never ask.” They walked a mild distance from the party, far enough to be alone yet they

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RELIC could still hear the noise coming from it. “Do you love it here, Ian?” “Aye, that I do,” he responded as he pulled her into a dense thicket, taking her into his strong arms. “What I love even more than this is you.” He took her lips in an urgent crush, making her heart beat even harder. She wanted him now more than even, her pussy very wet as the thought of having sex with him surged through her. The wait had been entirely too long. Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, sweeping her hand under his kilt. “Let me see what Scotsman wear under their kilts,” she purred against him, feeling his silky manhood hard in her hand. “I guess they don't believe in underwear.” He moaned as she stroked him. “Not with you around,” he groaned as he urged her to a tree, placing her back against it. Urgently, he freed her breasts from the confines of her blouse and pleasantly discovered that she wore no bra. “Is this for me?” “Entirely for you,” she purred sensuously. The ripe taste of her plump pink nipple in his mouth was like sweet ambrosia, a drink he'd abstained from for far too long. Jamie arched against him, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her even closer. She moaned aloud, urging him to do more. Slowly, he lifted the edge of her skirt up and touched her thighs, discovering that she had worn no panties. “You are an amazing woman, Jamie,” Ian murmured as he touched her quivering lips, his fingers sliding inside of her, making her even wetter. “So are you, Ian,” she gasped as he stroked her blossoming nub, her hips rising to meet his ministrations. He slowed his strokes because it was entirely too painful now. He had to be inside of her, feeling her velvety softness. Extracting his hand, he slipped inside of her moist cavern easily, feeling her muscles almost instantly hold him captive. Jamie wrapped her legs around his waist as he supported them both against the tree as they locked together in a passionate kiss. She rocked against him, aiding him in his motions. He felt so good inside of her, almost like an antidote to a poison floating through her veins. Her body felt renewed and alive, an emotion only he could provide. Higher and higher they climbed, their voices rising in unison as the ecstasy escaped them. Ian shuddered and she followed, the thin sheen of sweat flowing over them from their exertions “I love you,” he murmured against her cheek as he slipped out of her and slowly let her down to the ground, his chest heaving. “I don't want anyone else but you in my life.” “Nor do I....” Before she could finish her words, a collective white mist formed around them, swirling in the moonlight, growing with each minute. Ian stepped in front of her, as if to protect her from the growing haze, his eyes watching every moment of it. Suddenly, the mist took on the shape of a human, tall and well built, most certainly a man. The image cleared quickly, becoming that of a medieval Scottish man dressed in tartan, his sword drawn. Pale light filtered through the figure, making it seem more ethereal. Thick hair covered the chin and cruel looking lips, a

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RELIC wild desperation in his hazy eyes Threateningly, he pointed the sword at Ian's chest. “Give me the woman, she is mine,” the eerie, displaced voice growled. “She belongs to me,” Ian warned as he retreated slightly, forcing her backwards as he eased himself in front of her. Normally, she wouldn't put up with being thought of as any man's property but in this case, she was going to make a definite exception. “She carries the child that will make me human again,” the man reiterated, advancing on them both. “So give her to me.” “You will have to kill me first,” Ian sneered as he kept out of reach with her behind him. Her heart pounded. It was Galdon of Rais standing before her in ghostly form. “Go back to Hell where you belong.?” “Oh, I have been in Hell for these past few hundred years and I will stay there no longer,” the ghost snapped as his phantom sword sliced through the air, giving off an evil hiss. “As for your death, that can be easily arranged.” “I know all about you, Galdon,” Ian growled in a menacing tone. “I know what you did to my ancestor and why. As for your entering the child, that is something I will not allow.” The specter let out an unearthly howl ringing through the trees. Jamie looked to the crowd at the party and no one seemed to notice what was happening or chose to ignore it. “Somebody help us!” she screamed into the dark night. “They cannot hear you little one,” Galdon snarled as he advanced toward her. “I have made sure of that.” She snapped her head toward him. “Ian's right. If I am pregnant, we will never....” “Silence!” he ordered, the claymore going from one to the other. “Neither of you have any choice in the matter,” he moved in a circular motion, almost like a predator circling its prey. “Give me your body now so that I may be reborn.” “Never!” she screamed and lunged toward him. If indeed, she did conceive a child from their tryst by some miracle then she must save that child from all cost. The ghost knocked her to one side, sending her among the small, low lying scrub. “Damn you!” she'd heard Ian scream as set to contend with the phantom. Whipping around, she watched as the ghost plunge his sword into Ian's chest. His hands gripped the ethereal blade, his eyes full of pain. “NO!” she screamed and rose to her feet, rushing to his side as he slumped to the ground. Picking up his limp body, she held him close, searching for his wounds. There wasn't any. “Please don't die, Ian, we've got so much life to live,” she sobbed, rocking him back and forth. “Come with me!” the ghost yanked on her arm in an effort to tear away from Ian. “Kill me too because I'm not leaving him,” she said stubbornly, holding her ground. “I have urgent need of you yet woman,” he snapped viciously as he continued to pull on her arm. “After your service to me is through, perhaps I will grant your wish. But for now, come with me!” Just as he was about to yank it out of the socket, a brilliant light filled the

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RELIC area, almost as bright as the sun. At first, it started as a small globe, growing as it floated toward her. Right about her feet, it hovered, lengthening almost into a human shape. She shivered, holding Ian tightly as she rocked a little. Was this bastard calling for reinforcements? Without warning, the light split in half, becoming two figures instead of one. The light on the left flew past her, toward the ghostly specter of Galdon, pushing him backward with a misty hand so that he would let go of Jamie's arm. The other figure floated toward her and stopped at Ian's feet. Gradually, the shape began to change, the features defining into that of a woman with long dark hair and very modern clothes. “Bridget?” It was the first name popping into her head. The figure nodded. “'Tis I, Ian's first wife,” she said telepathically, her hands holding a small bundle. “I have come here to help along with Arthiana.” Jamie looked to her left to see Galdon held against the tree by the former figure that had become the slender guise of a woman, her ethereal hand holding him by the throat. “It's too late. Ian's dead,” she called out through the torrent of tears falling from her eyes. Bridget shook her head, the clouds of mist tangling around her face. “Not dead, only sleeping. Galdon had not the power to destroy Ian's life. When he died, it died with him. Unfortunately, his death only made him stronger in other ways.” She bent down and touched Ian's hand with a gentle stroke. “Ian, 'tis time to wake up.” Tears streaked Jamie's face as she continued to hold him, rocking against him gently. “Please wake up, Ian,” she murmured softly against his silky hair. “I love you.” Suddenly, Ian drew in a sharp breath, gasping for air as though he had actually been dead for the last few minutes, his body writhing. “Wh--what is happening?” He immediately turned to the light. “Bridget?” His lips didn't move. She tilted her head. “Aye, 'tis me, Ian and I came here to help Arthiana escort Galdon back to hell where he belongs.” “But....” Bridget looked at her and she felt her heart swell. “I am where I am happy, Ian as well you are too. This woman will make you happy beyond all measure and give you many children. Take pride in that love and you will have no obstacles.” Gingerly, he held his hand out and touched hers. “I will, Bridget,” he murmured aloud. Bridget lifted her spectral head and looked to Arthiana. “I must go because Arthiana will need my help taking him to the gates of Hell.” “No, Bridget do not go....” “I must, Ian,” Bridget stroked his cheek softly then hers. “Find happiness in each other.” Before either one could say anything else, Bridget floated over to where Galdon was being held captive, the scowl on his face murderous. “Let go of me!” Galdon hissed, trying to free himself from their grasp. “Do not worry, lass,” called a man from the other side of the glen. She looked to see him standing there, his curled around something, a shovel in his other

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RELIC hand. “Galdon will see his hell.” “Who are you?” she questioned in a shaky voice. “Nihall,” Ian answered in a soft voice as the man rushed over to them. “My friend who is well versed in Galdon's legend.” “Aye, that I am,” Nihall commented as he stepped forward and held his hands out. “I have what you have asked me to protect.” Bridget's ethereal face turned toward his voice, her smile shining brightly. “And I have the rest, my friend. Did you bring the holy water?” Nihall nodded. “Good. We must dig quickly and bury it before Galdon regains his strength. I know not how long Arthiana can hold him.” Nihall started digging with the tip of the shovel, the thin metal biting into the soft earth. Bit by bit the mound of dirt grew, almost at a frantic pace. Jamie joined in, trying to get the hole as deep as possible. “Stop,” Bridget ordered. “Now bless the ground.” Nihall dropped the shovel and pulled a small book out of his back pocket, flipping quickly through the pages. “In the name of the Lord, I consecrate this ground,” he whipped a bottle of colorless liquid out of the same pocket as the book and sprinkled the ground in the shape of a cross. “This evil soul will relegated to the fires of hell in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Once his words died away, Bridget laid her bundle into the hole. “No!” Galdon screamed, the intensity of the light changing around him. “I will not allow you to do this!” “Drop the paw in, Nihall,” Bridget ordered. Holding his hand up, Nihall dropped the mummified paw into the hole. “Bury it.” Suddenly, an unearthly howl penetrated the air around them as Nihall threw the dirt back in, their bones shaking with fear. Together, they held a collected breath from their spot on the grass and watched all of the figures combine into one light and become a glowing orb, hovering for a few minutes before vanishing off to the east. “I don't believe this, Ian, “she gasped as the fear flooded her body. “You were nearly killed....” “But I wasn't.” She helped him up from the grass and checked him over thoroughly. There was nothing wrong with him at all. “How is this possible?” “Because the blade wasn't real, lassie,” Nihall offered as he slung the shovel over his shoulder. “It stabbed Ian's soul, not his body.” “Aren't they one in the same?” “Equal but separate some say,” he offered as he looked to Ian. “Are you all right, my friend?” Ian walked a little unsteady for a moment but quickly regained his composure. “Aye, I am, Nihall.” He took a deep breath. “As you said, it only stabbed my soul, not my heart.” “Thankfully, your heart had armor on it,” Nihall said, walking a bit ahead of them. “Otherwise you would be dead.” She stopped Ian on the hill. “What did he mean?” He laughed softly. “Your love surrounded my heart, shielding it from harm.

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Had I not had it, I would have died.” “That's one thing you'll always have,” she replied, her body still trembling after the ordeal, the air remarkably quiet even for a large party going on. “Do you want to head back to the festivities?” Ian pulled her into a tight embrace, tilting her face up to meet his. “There's only one place I want to be.” “Where's that?” His gazed deepened. “In bed, holding you in my arms.” **** “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.” She turned to Ian, waiting for his kiss. Bending low, he took her lips in a soft passion, his fingers cupping the underside of her chin. He turned her body to molten fire. She'd been waiting for this day for the last few months, especially now that she was in her eighth month of pregnancy. Part of her wanted to wait until after the baby was born but Ian wouldn't hear of it. He wanted his child to be born with his name. Cheers ran up around them as the village residents threw rose petals of good luck, the dewy shower landing all around them. Breaking the kiss, they greeted everyone and took their well wishes of a good life together. She wanted to be more enthusiastic about it but with her growing belly, she couldn't be She looked like a blimp in the white lace dress, her abdomen seemingly sticking out more every day. “You are positively radiant and sexy,” Ian whispered into her ear, his fingers lightly stroking her protruding belly. “I wish I could have you right now.” Her excitement grew. “What's stopping you?”

The End