Читать книгу Dark Victory - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 13

A HOLY HIGHLANDER WAS in the city, and he had just taken a demon down.

Nick Forrester decided this might be a really interesting night.

He was a tall, powerful man with rugged good looks, brilliantly blue eyes, and the kind of appeal no woman had ever refused. He was utterly devoted to his agents, the war on evil and HCU, in that precise order. Sitting in his corner office, on the phone with one of his contacts at the New York Times, he felt Sam Rose before he saw her. He turned to wave her into his office as Paul Anderson said, “They’re breaking the story even as we speak.”

“Motherfucking shit,” Nick replied, slamming down the phone. He felt himself go into battle-ready mode. There was nothing he loved as much as a good battle, not even sex.

Sam’s eyes were wide with interest, although a moment ago she’d been wearing a don’t-read-my-mind poker face. And even while speaking with Anderson, he’d instantly known she had a secret. He did not like his kids keeping secrets, not unless they were personal ones. And then they’d damn well better keep secrets, because he didn’t like his kids having personal lives.

Either you were in this war or you were a bystander, it was that simple. And if you were in, love, romance, family and all that shit was out.

He’d made a really smart move three months ago, when he’d lured Sam into HCU and his employ. She was a soldier in every way, right down to her kick-ass, martial soul.

“Goddamn it,” he said, facing her. “There’s been a sighting.”

He eyed her as he picked up the blue phone, a direct line to his agents in the field. “There’s a Blondie down on Thirteenth and Broadway,” he said. The highest level of demons were beautiful, blond, blue-eyed and almost angelic in appearance. They’d been given a slew of appropriate—and inappropriate—nick-names.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“It’s almost impossible to believe, but a Highlander has surfaced in the city. He took out a cop. I’ve got Angus bringing the goods to Five.”

“Okay.” Sam turned her back on him, walking over to a chair. She sat down. Even though she wore short skirts most of the time, and he’d seen her gorgeous and very strong legs hundreds of times, he stared at them while he thought about the night to come.

Being clandestine meant keeping a low profile. The press still thought the war was with crime, not evil. CDA had its own medical center. Shot-up, maimed and dead agents were all brought to Emergency there. Five had a morgue, too, and some very serious labs. Those were mostly filled with vanquished demons—if the demon could be brought in before disintegration began—and occasionally, the surviving sub.

She turned. “Do we know this one?”

“I don’t think so,” Nick said.

They exchanged a long and steady glance, and he didn’t have to read her mind to know she was thinking about the trip they’d made into the past.

He turned and walked to the wall of windows that looked down on Hudson Street. Outside, it was dark, the streets icy and gleaming with patches of snow, sleet and slush. Winter in the city sucked for most people, but he actually liked it. His blood continued to rush.

He did not like losing an agent in the vast expanse of time. Every agent at HCU had been handpicked by him for their respective jobs. He considered each and every one his responsibility, and when one went MIT, he went ballistic.

And he also went back.

The holy, time-traveling Masters of Time rarely surfaced in this city. They seemed to prefer medieval periods. CDA had sightings of them as early as the eleventh century, but the more contemporary the period got, the fewer the sightings.

The Highlanders were not the only warrior society out there. CDA had evidence of two other secret sects dedicated to the war on evil, one ancient, one modern. From time to time he came across men who had some of the same extraordinary powers he had. These men lay low, revealing themselves only to vanquish the enemy, and then they vanished, like ghosts in the night. Pretty much the way he did.

The Masters were an interesting bunch. They loved and warred like any other medieval Scot, but secretly worshipped pagan gods, most of whose names no historian had ever recorded. They defended a set of three holy books, and came out of the medieval woodwork to defend the good and the innocent and kick the ass of a demon honcho or two. Then they vanished back into the local population and their particular time. Only an experienced agent could identify a Master from the average Highlander, whether on paper in HCU’s immense database, or while in the field.

He’d lost count long ago, but over the course of the two decades he’d been at HCU, he’d probably traveled into the past a dozen times, usually on the heels of a great demon. He’d had exactly three encounters with Masters in all that time. Maybe it wasn’t that odd—he’d chased demons into the past all over the world, as far back as the first century, when the Romans were about to rule the world. The closest he’d ever come to a Highlander was last September, right there in the city. The Highlander had been turned against the Masters, and he’d taken his own agent hostage, vanishing into the past with Brie Rose. Nick had gone back to find her because there was nothing worse than losing an agent in time.

He’d found Sam’s cousin Brie and dragged her home before he could chat with her holy friends—and she’d gone back to her Highlander anyway. Her case file might have MIT stamped across it, but he knew she wasn’t really missing in time. She was just fine.

He’d had the chance to debrief her extensively, and now he knew more about the Brotherhood than anyone at CDA had ever known. Of course, encounters between CDA agents and Masters—and civilians and Masters—were as old as the agency and maybe, for the latter, as old as time. But the Masters remained secretive. They refused to talk about what they did; they simply fought evil when they had to, and were devoted to the war on evil in Scotland.

Except, a few hours ago, a Master had nailed a demon just a few blocks away from HCU.

Were they coming out of the medieval closet? And if so, what did that mean?

He refused to worry, but agency analysts were predicting the end of the world—literally. That was how dire the war had become. If it wasn’t turned around, every high government agency in the free world would be infiltrated by demons and controlled by evil within another decade.

He’d taken Sam with him into the past to find her cousin. It was about the toughest test he could give any agent, new or not. She’d passed with flying colors.

So why was she looking really tense? Why was she worried?

He lurked and his concern vanished. He was not interested in a war of witches, although he knew her civilian sister was a witch.

“Why would you think the Highlander is someone we know?”

She shrugged. “No reason.”

What wasn’t she telling him? “What’s wrong with you? Bad lay last night?”

She gave him a look. “There’s no such thing. Maybe the Highlander followed the demon here.”

He liked her arrogance—a lot. But her comment gave Nick pause.

He had decided well over a year ago that the witch burnings were not as random as most of law enforcement believed. He also disagreed with the agency’s social anthropologists and shrinks who claimed the gangs were simply on a new demonic high, and it was cooler to burn people at the stake than to murder each other gangland style. He knew with every fiber of his being that there was a rhyme and a reason to the burnings. He was absolutely certain that there was one great black power behind all of the gangs in the country, if not the world, and that their leader was a medieval demon.

And he had made it his personal mission to nail the sonuvabitch.

So if the Highlander had followed a medieval demon to New York, he’d jump for joy if the incident was somehow connected to the witch burnings. “We know nothing about our holy friend—although I intend to change that.”

“It was too quiet this weekend, until now,” Sam said after a reflective pause.

“Yeah, it was like a vacation.” He hated vacations. “Let’s not speculate. We have a priority. We need to find our medieval ally before someone else does.”

“Why?”

Before he could tell her about the breaking news, the child screamed.

He knew that horrific sound inside and out. It was a part of his soul and he’d hoped to never hear it again.

The young girl screamed, and he heard the roar as the sedan went up in flames. He inhaled, flinching. He had no time for a flashback now.

But he saw the inferno on the night-darkened freeway and he heard the heavy, black laughter.

“Nick? You okay?”

He heard Sam, but vaguely, as if she was speaking to him from far away. He breathed hard and realized he felt sick. He’d just had a goddamned flashback!

It took him a moment to push the image away. When he had, he was at his window, staring down at the cars passing below on the slick city streets.

Holy shit. He’d vanquished the flashbacks about a decade ago. He couldn’t understand why they were starting up all over again.

He’d pretend it hadn’t happened—so it hadn’t happened. He had the best secretary money could buy—and money couldn’t buy Jan, only her own, personal demons could. Jan was classified Level Five at HCU and she’d been at his side through the best times and the worst times. Once upon a time she’d been his best field agent. If she ever learned he was having flashbacks again, she’d hound him so bad he’d cave and go to a shrink. Of course, by then, hell would have frozen over and the war would have been won or lost.

He got it together and faced Sam. “Here’s the deal. The Highlander got Brad with his sword in front of a bunch of cops and civvies,” Nick said.

Sam faced him, her eyes wide.

“The press got wind of it and they’re going with it. I can’t close it down. They’re calling him ‘the Sword Murderer’—original, don’t you think?”

“Shit,” Sam said. She was a bit pale, when Sam was usually the coolest cucumber he knew.

“He also took at least one hit from our city’s finest,” Nick added. “Of course, a teensy-weensy bullet probably won’t bother him very much.” He picked up the white phone and made a single call. It would stop the cops from hunting their Highlander down. He could do that much.

He smiled cheerfully at her after hanging up. “The cops will be put to bed shortly. But the story is breaking on the evening news right now.”

“It will cause hysteria,” Sam said, heading for the door. “We have to find him before one of the vigilante gangs does.”

Normally, Nick didn’t mind the dozens of violent vigilante gangs in the city. They were no match for the demons, but they sure as hell helped the war effort—even though their activities were against the law. CDA, the cops and the Feds all looked the other way.

He wasn’t looking the other way now.

The Highlander was wounded—and from all accounts, on the run. He needed their protection. “Let’s go find the holy warrior,” he said. “And see if we can help our medieval friend.”

HER NEWSPAPER TUCKED under her arm—she usually glanced at the front page in the teachers’ lounge when her class was in fifth-period music—Tabby walked into the school where she taught first grade. She greeted a half-dozen other teachers as she strolled toward her classroom, still trying to get focused on the day to come. She loved children and she loved being an elementary-school teacher, especially in public school, where many of the kids so needed direction and guidance. But she’d slept badly last night. Her dreams had been anxious and stressful—they’d all been about the dark Highlander.

She’d awoken with the certainty that he was in trouble, more so than ever, and that he needed her.

One strange visit to the Met and her life had changed so quickly, she thought.

And something was up. Sam hadn’t come home that morning. She worked at night—evil played after dark and hid in the daylight. But she was usually home at sunrise. Tabby knew she should assume whatever Sam was doing was routine, but her senses were telling her otherwise. Something was happening, and she wished she knew what.

Tabby entered her classroom and some of her anxiety vanished. The room’s walls were covered with the kids’ cheerful and colorful paintings and pictures, their latest spelling assignments, and maps of the city, the state and the country, with important landmarks flagged. Some articles they’d discussed from newspapers and magazines were also taped to the walls.

She always had a really good vibe when coming to class, and that hadn’t changed. First period was current events, so Tabby laid her copy of USA Today down on her desk, and with it, the article she’d clipped for the kids from the New York Times.

She glimpsed the paper’s headline and cried out.

Sword Murderer Threatens City. Tabby sank into her chair, scanning the article, somehow already knowing what she was going to find. A man dressed in a medieval Highland costume had murdered a man in Tribeca last night. He had escaped the authorities, but he was wounded, armed and dangerous.

Tabby began to shake. He was in the city, and he was hurt.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “I can help you.”

Come to me, she thought, straining for him. Come to me.

“Hello,” a cheerful voice called to her.

For one moment, Tabby was so focused that she heard the woman but couldn’t move or open her eyes. Then the woman spoke again and Tabby came back to the present.

She got up, drenched with perspiration, and faced a woman she had never seen before. The woman had very fair skin and hair, and she was wearing a beige suit that gave her an oddly bland appearance. “Are you okay?” the woman asked.

“I’m fine—I was lost in thought,” Tabby said, aware that she’d spoken the truth.

“I’m filling in for Marlene, and I just wanted to pop in and introduce myself,” the woman said, smiling. “I’m Kristin Lafarge.”

Marlene was vice principal, and she was on maternity leave. Tabby smiled in return, walking forward so they could shake hands. “Hi. I’m Tabby Rose, although you probably already know that.”

“I do,” she said pleasantly. “And I’ve heard great things about this school. I’m looking forward to my time here.”

“It’s a great faculty and a great group of kids, for the most part,” Tabby said.

Kristin glanced at her desk. “Just what we need, a nutcase on the loose in the city, running people through with a sword.”

Tabby smiled grimly. “I’m sure he’ll be apprehended.” Please keep him safe, she added silently, a prayer.

“I hope so. Although it’s not in the news, it’s all over the school that the victim was murdered eight blocks from here.”

He had been so close. Tabby lived five blocks from the school. She breathed hard as Kristin left, promising they’d catch up in the teachers’ lounge later. The vice principal was hardly out of the door when Tabby ran to her desk. She seized the newspaper. The murder had happened at eleven o’clock last night—when she’d been asleep, dreaming about him.

Had he come to her neighborhood because of her spell?

She inhaled, shaken. Was it possible that she had cast such a powerful spell? She had to call Sam. HCU would help him. Or was Sam already on the case? Was that what she’d been working on last night? But her first students began arriving, and Tabby couldn’t linger on the phone. Instead, she sent Sam a text message.

Have you found the Highlander?

Then she began greeting her class. If she did not get a grip and focus on her students, it would be an endless day for her, and unfair to them. Besides, a medieval warrior with the power to travel through time could probably handle a few cops and a wound or two. But she was not relieved. As she greeted her kids, she almost expected him to walk into her classroom, but every time she looked up, a parent or a student stood there.

A tiny, pretty blond girl named Willa, who happened to be one of Tabby’s brightest pupils, came into the classroom. “How are you, Willa?” she asked. Willa could already read and write at the second-grade level, and she was always asking questions that were amazingly insightful for a six-year-old.

Willa asked, “Can we have a spelling bee?”

Tabby laughed, and laughing felt good. “A spelling bee! You must have seen that show on TV over the weekend. I’ll think about it.” It was a foregone conclusion that if they had a spelling bee, Willa would win it.

More children filed in, greeting her with happy smiles, calling out to one another eagerly. It was a really good group of kids. But she couldn’t relax and she couldn’t stop worrying—or glancing at the door. When a few of the parents and caretakers expressed concern over the Sword Murderer being on the loose, Tabby reassured them all that the school was completely safe. Was he nearby?

If only she had a moment to focus, she would meditate and try to feel his presence.

Finally her last student arrived. Tabby shut the door, asking everyone to settle down so they could talk about the lame-duck presidency. “Does anyone remember what that means?” she asked. As she showed the class a picture of a duck, the kids shrieked and made outlandish comments. She let them carry on, her gaze drifting to the newspaper article.

“Ms. Rose? Ms. Rose!”

Tabby jerked, realizing the kids had settled down and were waiting for her expectantly. She heard her classroom door open, but did not turn. Assuming it was a staff member, she said, “Who wants to try to tell me what a lame-duck president is?”

Only Willa raised her hand. Tabby noticed that the kids were distracted by whoever had come into the room, but she said, “Willa?”

“Why are they locking the door?”

Tabby turned as she heard the lock click. Two teenage boys stood by the door, clad from head to toe in black, their complexions eerily pale and made more so by the application of pancake makeup.

Her heart began to thunder uncontrollably. The boys had the appearance of the subs that ran in the gangs burning civilians. She prayed the boys were Goths, not possessed humans. The sub gangs had always preyed on the Innocent in large groups—until last week’s Rampage. As for her “new” sixth sense, the only feeling she was getting was that these boys were definitely looking for trouble.

She managed to feign a calm she did not feel as she slowly put the paper aside and stood up. “Hello.” The children must not be alarmed. “Can I help you?”

The boy who had pitch-black hair with flame-colored streaks dyed in it grinned. “You sure can, Teach.”

She didn’t know if she finally had the power to sense evil or not, but she knew these boys were evil. While she didn’t know what they wanted, she did know their intent was purely malicious. How was she going to protect the children?

She turned from them and smiled at the children. “I have a great idea. Everyone sit down on the floor in a small circle, with the paper. Find as many items relating to the President as you can.”

One of the teen boys snickered.

“Come on,” Tabby said, wanting to gather the children into one tight group. As they all sat down on the floor, as far from the two boys and the door as she could get them, she handed Willa the article. “Willa, I want you to be the group leader and make a list.”

Willa stared at her with her big, intelligent blue eyes. Tabby smiled more fully; Willa knew something was wrong. “Are they going to watch the class?” Willa asked.

“Maybe.” Tabby smiled, when she heard the whirring of a drill.

She whirled and saw the blond boy drilling holes into the door. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” the dark-haired boy said. He pulled out a long metal object from his backpack.

The blonde was now drilling a set of holes into the wall, and Tabby realized they were adding a bolt to the door to lock her and the children inside the classroom. She lowered her voice, aware of her fear rising. But she somehow breathed and tamped it down. “Whatever you intend, do it to me. But let the children go.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, pretty lady. We are definitely doing it to you.” He laughed at her.

Tabby wet her lips, knowing she must hold her fear at bay for the children’s sake. She sent a silent message to Sam—telepathy was huge for them. “What’s your name?”

He bared his teeth and said, “Angel. You like that…Tabitha?”

They knew her name. Then comprehension flashed in her mind—her name was on the door. “You want me, not the children. Please, whatever you want, I won’t resist. But we have to let the children go, now.”

“We’ve got plans for the kiddies,” Angel said.

“Ms. Rose?” Willa asked.

Tabby jerked, wishing Willa hadn’t left the security of the circle of children, as false as it was. She took her hand. “Willa, go back to the other children.”

Willa looked carefully from her to Angel and then to the blonde, who was drilling screws into the new lock on the door. “Is he locking us in?”

Before Tabby could come up with an excuse for what was happening, Angel said, “We sure are, pretty girl.” He walked away and dumped the contents of a huge duffel onto the floor.

Tabby cringed as she saw the kindling.

He poured gasoline on it and grinned. “What’s wrong, Teach? Afraid of fire?”

Tabby breathed. “Go back to the other children, Willa.” But now she saw that every child had his or her eyes trained upon the drama that was unfolding.

Angel’s hand snaked out and he seized Willa, who screamed. “Maybe we’ll start with her, witch,” he said to Tabby.

Tabby sent Willa a reassuring glance, and Willa fought her tears and stopped struggling. “Let my student go,” she said, and it was not a request.

Angel nodded at his blond friend, ignoring her. The blonde produced matches and began to light one.

Tabby’s heart thundered as he lit the match. Her mind raced with lightning speed. Willa was going to be burned at the stake, and perhaps the other children would, too. And then they’d burn her. She needed a spell.

Dear God, it had to work.

The pile of kindling burst into flames. The children screamed, except for Willa, who was deathly pale now. But she could not calm the other children. Tabby closed her eyes and murmured, “Fire fears water, fire needs rain. Fear fears water, give us rain. Rain douse fire, give us rain.”

“She’s casting a spell,” the blonde said, sounding a bit alarmed.

Tabby opened her eyes. Nothing had happened; nothing had changed. Her students were crowded together by her desk, some of them crying, and all of them were staring at the fire roaring in the front of the classroom. The blond boy seemed nervous, but Angel looked pissed. Tabby was expecting the fire alarm to go off, but it did not. Surely they hadn’t been smart enough to dismantle the fire alarms last night or that morning before school?

Tabby glanced at the ceiling and saw a wire hanging off the closest alarm, and her heart sank. The fire alarms had been tampered with. Then she saw a yellow mark spreading across the ceiling.

“Come on, pretty girl—girls get to go first,” Angel said, grinning.

Willa screamed as Angel started to drag her toward the fire.

Tabby realized there was a water mark growing on the ceiling. As she rushed forward to fight for Willa, water dropped on her head—once, and then again and again. But a few drops of water weren’t going to put out the fire. She reached Angel and Willa; the blonde seized her, restraining her. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.”

“Let her go,” Tabby said furiously, struggling to jerk free of the blonde. She was wearing her usual two-inch heels and she ground down as hard as she could onto the instep of his foot.

He was wearing sneakers and he howled, releasing her.

Tabby seized the can of kerosene and flung it at Angel. He cursed, releasing Willa, wiping the few drops of kerosene from his face. The fire suddenly roared, turning into an inferno. Tabby seized Willa and shoved her closer to the children. “Run!”

“Like hell,” Angel sneered. His eyes were black fire.

The next thing she knew she was in his arms and he had the blade of a knife pressed hard against her throat. She froze.

“There are many ways to kill a witch,” he said softly.

Tabby didn’t move, afraid he was going to sever her carotid artery.

“Do it and let’s get out of here,” the blonde said, “before she casts another spell.”

“Sounds good to me.” Angel grinned wickedly.

Dinna move.

Tabby heard the command, spoken in a heavy Scot brogue, as clear as day. Her fear vanished. Stunned, she looked across the classroom, past the fire.

The dark Highlander stood outside. He was staring at her through one of the windows. Their gazes locked. His was hard and ruthless, like his set face.

Tabby began to tremble.

And glass shattered. Energy blazed and the fire exploded, the heat intensifying. The children screamed, as did the blond boy, who was hurled backward into the bolted classroom door. Angel cried out as the Highlander bore down upon them both, sword raised. Panicking, Tabby pushed at Angel’s arms, but he didn’t release her.

The Highlander towered over them and smiled dangerously. “Release her or die.”

Tabby stared into his ice-cold eyes and knew he meant his every word. She wanted to protest but could not form words. His power was so strong, she inhaled it. It wrapped itself around her, male and thick and potent.

Angel knew he meant it, too. He dropped the knife but did not release her, wrapping both arms around her now. “I’ll let her go—outside.”

Tabby failed to breathe. Angel meant to use her as a human shield, in order to escape.

“A foolish choice,” the Highlander said softly.

She heard him again, although he did not speak. Dinna move….

Tabby met his dark blue gaze and knew he was going to free her somehow. He would triumph—this man never lost. Her life was in his hands, but she trusted him with it. She didn’t move, obeying him.

The silver blade flashed.

Tabby wanted to scream as it arced down toward her. Watching that blade descend was the most horrifying moment of her life. She had made a mistake; she was going to die. But it was Angel who screamed, as the sword came between them.

For one more moment, he held her. Then, as Angel’s head toppled away from his shoulders, she was in a headless man’s arms. He collapsed and she was released. The children screamed. Tabby jumped away, shocked.

The Highlander had beheaded Angel while he held her. He could have taken her head, too!

Aghast, she met his gaze. Then she saw the blond sub pointing a big black gun at him from behind.

She gasped as it went off.

He turned, and silver blazed from his hands. The blonde was hurled back again, and this time, as he hit the wall and crumbled to the floor, Tabby knew he was dead.

And then Tabby ran to the children, urging them to crowd around her. “Don’t look over there!” She had never seen a man decapitated before. Of course she hadn’t. This was New York City, 2008, not Scotland in 1550. She choked back bile and fear.

Most of the kids were crying. Bobby Wilson wanted to go home. As they huddled tightly together, several in her arms, she tried to get past her horror and shock. He had saved her life. He had done what he had been taught to do. He was the product of his violent, barbaric times.

But he had beheaded Angel while she was in his arms.

“The fire is spreadin’,” he said, and she felt him standing behind her. “Ye need to take the children from here.”

Tabby turned to look at him, incapable of saying a word, her pulse soaring. She met his dark, intense blue eyes, eyes she had seen at the Met—and in her dreams.

“Ye dinna wish fer me to kill the boys?” His blue gaze chilled. “They intended fer ye to die a verra unpleasant death.”

And that was when she realized he wasn’t the same Highlander—not exactly. He was the same man she’d briefly seen and touched at the Met, she had not a single doubt. But he wasn’t blistered and burned. His hard, determined face was scratched from glass, and he had a scar on one high cheekbone, but there were no burns, no blood, no blisters. In fact, he was damned gorgeous. His tunic was bloodstained, and there were cuts on his arms, face and legs from leaping through the glass, but he had not been in a fire recently. This man had not been at An Tùir-Tara.

Instead, he looked exactly as she had imagined he would before ever being in that fire.

“You’re not from Melvaig or 1550, are you?” she somehow said.

His face tightened with obvious displeasure. “Nay.”

She breathed hard, uncertain. Was he angry? If so, why? She wanted to back up, but she needed to get the children to safety. “Can you get the door open for us?” As she spoke, the school’s fire alarms finally went off.

For one more instant, his gaze held hers, searing in its intensity. Then he strode to the classroom door and wrenched it off its hinges. Tabby somehow smiled to reassure the children and she began herding them quickly that way. Behind her, there was an explosion.

The children screamed but Tabby cried, “Walk, don’t run. Everything is fine.” The Highlander stepped to the first child and took his hand, restraining little Paul Singh from running, clearly understanding that they must proceed without panic. She glanced behind her and saw that pieces of pipe and the plaster ceiling had collapsed and fallen to the floor.

In the hall, faculty were evacuating the children, trying to maintain a calm and orderly manner, as if this were a fire drill. The principal, Holz Vanderkirk, and Kristin came running up to them. “Are you all right?” Kristin cried, seizing her arm, her eyes wide and trained upon the Highlander. Police sirens sounded, screaming.

Kristin and Holz were clearly assuming that he was the Sword Murderer and a threat to them all. Tabby wanted to explain that there had been an attempted witch burning and that the Highlander had saved her and the children. She turned to face him, instead. “It’s all right,” she cried, when she knew no such thing.

His blue gaze met hers. It was the gaze of a professional soldier, devoid of all feeling and all fear. Then he turned and hurried back into the burning schoolroom.

Tabby screamed, “Come back!” She was afraid for him.

He ran into the fire as the ceiling began to fall in. Plaster and pipe hit him, but if the debris hurt him, he gave no sign. She froze in horror as he skirted the blaze, heading for the shattered window. Suddenly the fire exploded again, and then a wall of fire separated them.

Her insides curdled.

Standing on the other side of the fire wall, by the window, he paused and looked at her.

Every horrific emotion she’d felt yesterday at the Met flooded her, incapacitated her. The feeling of déjà vu was intense. There was outrage, fury, there was horror and dread. And there was love—the kind of love she had never felt before, but had dreamed of.

She loved him.

An expression of bewilderment crossed his dark face.

The fire wall blazed between them.

Even if he wanted to, he could not cross it.

He turned and leaped out of the window; Tabby felt her legs give way.