Читать книгу Dark Victory - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 12

“MISS, WE’RE HERE,” the cabdriver said.

Tabby was so distressed by what had happened at the Met that she’d zoned out the entire taxicab ride downtown. Now she saw the brick façade of the building where she shared a loft with Sam. As she dug into her purse to pay the cabbie, the Highlander’s dark image remained engraved on her mind. Her pulse accelerated. He was hurt and he needed help.

She paid the driver, tipping him generously, and slid from the taxi. The Highlander had been in that fire at Melvaig. It was the only conclusion to draw. She assumed that the amulet had drawn him to the Met. If she hadn’t touched his hand, she might have thought him a ghost. But he was no ghost—she’d felt a man’s strong hand beneath her fingers and it had not been her imagination.

She trembled. He had clearly traveled through time from the medieval world. Was he a Master, like Aidan and Royce? And why had she been chosen to see him? What did Fate want of her?

She inhaled, still shaken. Even if he was one of the brethren, he was hurt. She was not a Healer, but that didn’t matter. No Rose would ever turn her back on anyone in need. She was beginning to think that she was meant to help him. She couldn’t think of another reason to explain what had just happened.

He must have walked out of that fire. He’d looked as fierce and savage as a warrior who’d just left a medieval battlefield after a bloody and barbaric battle. He was so huge and so muscular, so powerful, that even hurt and anguished, he had been daunting.

Of course, she didn’t even know if her spell had worked.

Tabby wasn’t hopeful. She was pretty good with simple, classic spells—like sleeping spells—but inventing a powerful spell to bring someone to her across time and having it work was a whole different ball game. She might never come face-to-face with him again. That would almost be a relief. On the other hand, their brief encounter was not that of two normal strangers passing on the street. Not when she was a Rose, and he, a Master.

The front door to the building had high-security locks. After glancing behind her to make certain no one was going to follow her inside, she unlocked the door and stepped into the front hall. Another locked door was there, which she unlocked. Inside, the lobby was spacious and modern, with green plants spilling over planters built stylishly into the travertine floors. At the elevator, she leaned her head against the burnished metal door while waiting for it.

It crossed her mind that he had looked at her as if he knew her.

Tabby jerked away from the elevator as the door opened. She had to have imagined that! But he had somehow seemed familiar—or was that because she’d become so obsessed with him? But almost every moment at the Met had felt like déjà vu.

There were twelve floors in the building; their loft was on the eleventh floor, because eleven was a master number. The Roses always looked at the numerology of everything that they did, and tried to choose appropriately. It was more tradition—and superstition—than anything else.

The moment Tabby opened the triple locks on her front door—before she could even cross the threshold—she knew that something was wrong. She didn’t know if she suddenly had a new sixth sense, one warning her of danger, or if it was mere human instinct.

She froze, staring wide-eyed into the large spacious interior of the loft. For one moment, nothing seemed out of place. An immaculate white kitchen was to her right, while a great room with a media area, a living area and two desks faced her, done in shades of beige and chocolate. The far wall was whitewashed brick, as were two central pillars. She and Sam had chosen the furnishings together, and everything was sleek and modern, classic and timeless, right down to the pale leather sectional and the glass coffee table.

Her gaze slammed to the iron-and-glass table in front of the sectional and she inhaled. A huge bouquet of bloodred roses was in a vase in its center. It had not been there when she had left for the Met that morning. Sam had left at dawn to work for a few hours at HCU, and Tabby knew she hadn’t been back since. No one had access to their loft, except for Kit. Tabby knew she hadn’t stopped by, either—and certainly not with red roses.

Tabby said firmly, “Who’s there?”

Only silence greeted her.

She hated weapons in general, and only carried pepper spray with her, except at night, when Sam insisted she arm herself with a .38. Tabby had been using a protective spell for years; it was one of the few spells she could summon up really quickly. It didn’t afford total protection—madmen and demons could breach it if they were really determined—but most humans could not.

“Good over me, good around me, good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting me,” she murmured swiftly. Then she stepped inside, straining to hear, aware of the white cocoon she was in. She had left the door open so she could run if necessary. “Who’s there?” she said again, more loudly.

The loft was quiet and it felt vacant. Nothing felt awry or evil. She went to the kitchen drawer, took out her gun and went to the first bedroom door. It was wide-open and she glanced inside the room, which was filled with the gray light of dusk. Sam’s bedroom had one dark, almost ebony wall, but the rest of the furnishings were beige. Still, she could see clearly and it was empty.

She checked the closet and the hall bathroom; they were empty, too.

Refusing to put down her guard, she checked her own blue-and-white bedroom—also empty.

Only somewhat relieved, Tabby put down the gun and locked the front door. Someone had left the roses. She walked over to the sofa and sat down, looking for a card. There wasn’t one.

She pulled off her knee-high, medium-heeled brown boots and stared grimly at the roses, wondering what kind of threat they were. Had they been a romantic gesture, they would have been delivered to the front door. The roses were an omen—and not a good one. She’d call a locksmith tomorrow and have the locks changed.

The dark Highlander’s image returned to her mind. Tabby hesitated, and then went to the locked chest at the loft’s far end, set against the brick wall. She unlocked it with the key she wore on the chain beneath her pearls and took out the Book of Roses.

She was pretty sure that the spell she’d made up on the spot at the Met wouldn’t work. The Book of Roses contained just about every spell ever invented. But the Book was almost two thousand pages long. Some of the passages needed translation—they were in a very unusual and ancient form of Gaelic. Although Tabby had been studying the Book for seventeen years, she did not know it thoroughly—only a very ancient Rose ever could. Her grandmother Sara had studied the Book for generations, and had been able to find spells in a heartbeat—assuming she didn’t already know the spell by heart. But Grandma Sara had been an amazingly powerful and wise witch. She had died of old age in her sleep a few years ago, and Tabby still missed her—she always would. But she often felt as if Grandma was with her still, smiling with approval and encouragement. Just then, she desperately needed her guidance.

Because finding the right spell could be a huge challenge. Once in a while, Tabby could find a spell in a few hours, but usually it took days or even weeks to locate the exact spell she needed. She was almost certain she had neither days nor weeks to find the Highlander.

She prayed for some otherworldly help and began thumbing through the book, pausing to read bits and pieces and key words. As she did, his powerful image remained firmly implanted, front and center, in her mind.

The words began to jumble. Tabby stared at them, realizing she was exhausted from the events of that day, but she did not intend to quit. “Who are you?” she murmured, staring at the pages before her.

Of course there was no answer. She sighed, curling her legs up under her, telling herself she wasn’t going to take a nap, not now, not when she needed to find him. But she could close her eyes just for a minute, she thought.

Her lids drifted closed. She cradled the Book to her chest. She refused to fall asleep; instead, she relived their brief encounter at the Met, hoping for a clue as to who and what he was. But nothing in her memory changed and she was so tired…

Suddenly he was looking at her—and the burns and blisters were gone from his face and body. He was gorgeous. She sat up, wide-awake.

Sheer disappointment claimed her. The Highlander was not standing there in her loft; she had been dreaming.

She tightened her hold on the Book. Her heart was thundering. At the Met, it had been impossible to make out most of his features. She had surely invented such masculine beauty. Real men did not look like poster boys for a romance channel version of Braveheart.

Someone knocked on her front door.

Tabby tensed. It was impossible for a visitor to get into the lobby and upstairs to her door without buzzing from the downstairs front hall first. But someone was knocking loudly and insistently on her front door. Someone had gotten through the building’s locked doors. She became really alarmed, glancing at the red roses, her concern for the dark Highlander now taking a backseat to the intruder at her door.

“Tabby, are you home?” her ex-husband demanded.

Tabby jumped to her feet. Randall was banging on her front door? She hadn’t seen him since the divorce, twenty-one months ago, except by chance one night, when he’d been out on the town with a nineteen-year-old Russian model—one of the many models he’d cheated on her with.

Her gaze slammed to the roses. No, it was impossible. He’d never start things up again—not that she would let him.

“One moment,” she cried loudly, flustered and uncertain. Even though she had no wish to ever see him again, she felt a moment of distress. She had loved him. They’d been intimate, a couple; they’d been husband and wife. She’d given him two years of her life—and she’d thought it would be forever.

But their marriage had been a lie—one big, fat, long lie. Randall was ambitious and successful, on a fast track to the top, making millions of dollars for his clients and himself. He’d been smooth, charming, macho and charismatic, and she’d truly thought he loved her wildly, with all of his heart. While she’d thought that, he’d been out on the town with the city’s most beautiful women—the kind of women he could brag to his cronies about.

As she went to the front door, she could not imagine what he wanted. “Hello, Randall. This is truly a surprise.”

His gaze slid over her from head to toe, in a very familiar way. He smiled and shook his head. “Even barefoot, you’re as elegant as ever!”

She felt herself bristle, but she contained the surge of anger. She did not want any flattery from him.

Now he said, dropping his tone, “You could walk out of a steam room in a towel, Tabby, and you’d never have a hair out of place.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Aw, come on. You could be First Lady, another Jackie O.”

“I hardly have that kind of ambition.” She trembled. “What are you doing here, Randall?”

His brown gaze was warm as it met hers. “I’ve been missing you and I decided to do something about it.”

She had stopped trusting him a long time ago. “We haven’t seen each other in almost two years. How did you get in?”

“Do you like the roses?”

She inhaled, very taken aback. Suddenly she was angry. “Randall, what are you doing?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’ve been thinking about you. I’m glad you like them.” His focus moved to the roses. “They’re gorgeous. I paid top dollar. When I ordered them, I told the florist only the best will do.”

“They’re inappropriate, Randall.”

He grinned. “I think they’re really appropriate—gorgeous, yet classic.”

It was hard to breathe. Randall had always admired her style, her sense of fashion and her grace. He had been so proud of how “elegant” she was. By the divorce, she’d come to hate that word. She vividly recalled a party on a humid day in the Hamptons. As they’d pulled into the driveway, Randall had told her again how elegant she was. It had suddenly bothered her. She’d wanted him to pull over, grab her and make love to her as if she was a sexpot. Sex was usually the last thing on her mind.

Tabby stared at him in dismay. “What happened to your Russian girlfriend?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve grown up.”

She was beginning to have an idea of why he had come.

“I can see the skepticism on your face. Tabby, how many dumb models can a guy go out with before he gets it?”

“I have no idea,” she said truthfully.

“You’re still angry with me. I don’t blame you. But I have great news and I want to share it with you!”

“Whatever it is, I’m happy for—” she began to say, but he cut her off.

“I meant what I said, Tabby. I have grown up. The truth is that we shouldn’t have married three years ago—I wasn’t ready. But things have changed.” Excitement flared in his eyes. “I’ve been offered a top position at Odyssey, Tab. I mean top—as in my salary is doubling. With the clients I’ll have, I could be making eight or nine mil a year! Not only that, in a couple of years I’ll be in position to make CEO, if not there, at another major firm. This is it, everything we’ve always wanted!”

She’d never doubted he would make it to the very top of New York’s financial world, so his news was hardly a surprise. But CEOs at firms like the Odyssey Group needed suitable wives—wives who knew how to charm the city’s elite and their husband’s clients, wives who knew how to graciously hold fund-raisers and dinner parties, trophy wives who were fashionable, attractive, charming and elegant. She felt ill, realizing what he wanted. “I am very happy for you. But it’s late.”

He approached, his eyes blazing with excitement, and he seized her hand. “We can go to the top together, Tabby, I know we can!”

She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go. “I can’t do this again.”

“I will never cheat on you again,” he said seriously.

Randall had never taken no for an answer, she thought, dismayed.

“Beyond the impeccable manners, you are still the kindest woman I know. Everyone makes mistakes, even you. Won’t you give me another shot? Because I am being sincere, Tab.”

She knew she must not give him another chance, and she had meant it when she said they were done. But the truth was, everyone did make mistakes and everyone deserved a second chance.

The dark Highlander loomed in her mind, as he’d been at the Met, bloody and burned.

Randall suddenly let her go. He was smiling. “Just think about it. You’re also the fairest person I know. Take your time. I’ll call you.”

Because she was proud of her manners, she walked him to the door, although she balked at allowing him a kiss on the cheek. When he was gone, she poured a huge glass of red wine and carried it to the sofa. She sipped, in absolute disbelief, her temples pounding.

She was angry. She hated being angry—anger had never worked for her. Anger made her uncomfortable. As far as she was concerned, it didn’t work for anyone. Civility and compromise were always the best path.

But no matter how polite she intended to be, how gracious, how fair, Randall’s return was unacceptable.

Besides, she had another man in her life, didn’t she? The joke was a bad one, but Tabby smiled anyway.

Her telephone rang.

She hesitated, certain it was Randall, then saw Sam’s number pop up on the ID screen. She seized the receiver. “Sam, we have to talk.”

Sam hesitated. “Yeah, we do.”

Tabby felt herself still. “What did you find out about An Tùir-Tara?”

“I got in touch with the foremost authority on the subject, a historian at Oxford in Britain.”

Dread began. “What happened?”

“Well, he’s the one historian who says the clan war between the Macleods and MacDougalls was not the real reason for the fire in 1550. There’s nothing written down to support the theory, but there is another oral tradition.”

Tabby had a bad feeling.

“Folklore has it the fire was a result of a war of witches.”

Tabby cried out.

WHAT HAD HAPPENED? Where was he?

Had he just journeyed through the universe?

Macleod lay very still, afraid to attempt to move. Having landed on stone, there was pain, although he was aware of it lessening as he lay there. And there was so much noise, most of it unfamiliar. People had been screaming, although their screams were ceasing now. He bit back a moan, and realized that he could move his fingers and toes. He had been hurled across the sky, past stars and suns. Was this the leap that MacNeil and the brothers spoke of?

The torment was fading swiftly now and he became aware that the people standing around him were speaking the same strangely accented English as the golden woman. He opened his eyes. Some of the women wore the same fashion of clothes that the goddess had, their skirts knee-length. His thoughts sharpened. She had summoned him. But now, he wondered if she was a mortal like the other people crowding over him. Or perhaps she was a near immortal like him? She certainly seemed to be from this time.

Was she there? He certainly wanted a word with her now.

Somebody call 911…Is that a costume…?

He could not comprehend their words very well, but he clearly heard and understood their thoughts. Slowly, Macleod looked past the excited crowd.

Is he dead? Did he fall from the roof?

He shut out their thoughts, stunned.

The night sky was oddly starless, but still light and milky, as he had never before seen it. Hundreds of soaring towers filled it, the highest towers he had ever seen. He was in a huge city. Where was he—and in what time?

He forgot her and her summons. He gripped his sword and slowly began to sit up, realizing his body was not broken after all. The people who had gathered around him cried out and ran farther away from him. He noted that no one carried weapons but he did not relax his guard. Now, he saw that the golden woman was not amongst the crowd. He wondered what that meant and if it was some kind of trick. It didn’t matter. He would find her sooner or later. He would make a point of it.

He dismissed them all, his gaze returning to the astonishing sights around him. What kind of people could build such tall buildings, crowded so closely upon one another? Were they impregnable? And the windows within the towers were strangely lit. They could not be illuminated so brightly by rushes and candles.

He stood up, looking warily around. The men wore strange hose and very short tunics. His eyes widened. Horseless vehicles were passing along the black stone street.

He became absolutely still, adrenaline rushing. No mortal could make a wagon or a carriage move without the power of a slave or a beast.

“He’s alive!”

Macleod ignored the man. A screaming sound that did not come from any animal or human made him turn, seeking its source.

One of the horseless vehicles was speeding toward the crowd, passing the other carriages. Red, blue and white lights were blinking on the roof. The vehicle screeched to a stop and the whining noise ceased. Doors slammed as men in dark clothes stepped out of the vehicle. From the way they began to approach, he knew that they were soldiers.

Macleod tensed. He was in a strange world and he did not know what kinds of powers these soldiers had. He had never fled a battle in his life, but he was certain now that he had leaped through time. He had to be far in the future. He should try to learn the secrets of this world before any attempt at engagement. And he had to find the woman. He did not like being flung through time without his consent. He wanted to know why she had cast her magic upon him—and most of all, why she’d haunted him for so many years.

But he was not a coward. He stood absolutely still, shifting his weight so he was evenly balanced, his right hand on the hilt of his long sword. If he had to fight, he hoped his powers would not fail him—and he certainly hoped that the dark soldiers did not have immortal powers, too.

“What’s going on?” a black-clothed soldier asked firmly, his intent gaze on Macleod. From the way he stared, Macleod knew he expected a fight.

The woman in the knee-length gown ran to him and began telling him that Macleod had fallen from the sky. As she gestured, he felt the icy cold fingers of evil chill the nape of his neck.

They had deamhanain in this time and place, too.

He hadn’t taken his vows, but he had been able to instantly sense evil’s presence from the moment he’d taken his first steps as a toddler. He had instinctively and passionately disliked evil ever since he could recall, and had been vanquishing evil since he was a small boy capable of wielding a child’s dagger. Macleod gripped the hilt of his sword, slowly turning to face the deamhan. A tall, blond man stared at him, smiling with bloodlust. The deamhanain desired the death of the good and the godly every bit as much as the brotherhood wanted evil gone. Its eyes slowly turned red.

Macleod didn’t bother to smile back.

“Hey, you, buddy.”

Macleod knew one of the black-clad soldiers was speaking to him; he ignored him.

The deamhan grinned and blasted him with his black power, which flared crimson as it was hurled at him.

Macleod blocked the blast with his sword, using his other powers, and he was pleased when it blazed silver as it struck the demonic force. He hurled his power at the deamhan simultaneously and it went down, the people around it screaming and fleeing.

“Drop your weapon!” the soldier shouted at him.

Macleod ignored the command, advancing swiftly, sword raised. The deamhan leaped up and sent more energy at him, but he was weakened now and Macleod did not pause. He lunged, so swiftly and powerfully that his blade tore through the deamhan’s power, running right through his chest and out the other side.

“Put the weapon down!”

Macleod withdrew the blade. The deamhan collapsed. Standing over him, Macleod breathed hard and slowly faced the soldiers. Both men were down on one knee, and had small, strange black weapons pointed at him.

Macleod glanced swiftly around. He was at a crossroads, with lights that changed from red to green on all four corners. He glanced at the milky night sky—no moon or North Star could be seen. “I dinna wish to fight. Tell me, what place is this? Where am I?”

“Hands in the air, sonuvabitch! Weapon down!” The first soldier shouted at him, while the crowd behind them murmured in surprise.

No one had ever called his mother a bitch. It was an unimaginable insult. For one moment, he was in shock. And then rage rushed over him, through him, and he wanted to murder the soldier for his words. The fact that he was out of his time did not matter. But he somehow controlled himself. Breathing hard, he said, “Where am I, soldier?” But before he had even finished speaking, his power exploded.

Silver sizzled in the night and both men were hurled backward by the blazing light.

The remaining crowd screamed, fleeing. He saw two black-and-white vehicles with the red, white and blue blinking lights coming toward them at quick speed, making that high, whining noise. We have an officer down…Code black…Armed and dangerous…reinforcements…

He heard a hundred frantic thoughts, a dozen sharp commands, and he felt the fear, the hatred and anger. As jumbled as the thoughts were, he knew that more soldiers were coming—and they would hunt him now for what he had done to one of their own.

Macleod ran.

Sharp sounds followed him. As he passed a building with a large window, it shattered. He had seen stained glass once, in a great cathedral at Moray. As the shards bit into his arms, he was stunned to realize the window had been covered with clear, nearly invisible glass. Just as he turned the corner, something burned like an iron brand deep into his shoulder.

It was painful and he gasped, but it could not compare to the thrust of a sword. And now he saw the hundreds of vehicles coming toward him on the street. In the distance, behind most of them, was one that carried soldiers, with its blinking lights on top of the roof.

He paused and glanced behind. More soldiers had turned the corner and were in pursuit, on foot, their black weapons drawn.

A woman was stepping out of a building. Behind her, the interior was brightly lit. Most of the buildings were alight, but several were in shadow. Tonight the dark would be his friend.

He ran up the street, the sharp, popping sounds following him. The iron brand felt worse now but he ignored the pain and seized the door to a building that was not lit. It was locked, but he wrenched it open easily. Then he stepped into the blackness inside, barring the door by bending the locks back into place. It would only hold the soldiers back for a moment, but a moment was all he needed.

He swiftly checked the first three doors. The fourth door was what he was looking for. Macleod ran up the stairs, listening to the soldiers entering the small front hall below.

How the fuck did he break the locks?

Forget about it. He’s heading for the roof—the fucking fool.

He smiled savagely to himself, running up the stairs, counting fifteen flights. He finally burst onto a large, square roof and ran to one end, looked down, and then to another. He did not hesitate. This way felt right. He chose the southern end and leaped to an adjacent roof, about two stories lower, and ran across that, heading in the direction he thought was east. He ran by pure instinct now. The next roof was higher but he leaped onto that, and then onto another, and another, until the soldiers were far behind him.

He began to become familiar with the strange sounds of the city night; he began to comprehend the city’s noisy rhythm. He slowed to a walk. There was no reason to run now; for the moment, he was safe.

And he paused, listening to the night—feeling it.

Awareness began.

He opened a window and slipped into a dark vacant building, his pulse taking on a new rhythm. Aware that he was alone, he began to explore it, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Within moments, he realized he was in a building meant to house children. The tables and chairs were tiny, and children’s toys and drawings were on the walls.

He began to smile.

Her presence was everywhere.

Macleod settled down to wait.