Читать книгу Vanished - Maureen Child - Страница 8

In Ireland, two thousand people vanish every year.

The Irish countryside was quiet and the darkness was absolute, as it could only be far from the lights of a city. Here, beside the narrow road that led to Westport, the night felt empty, but for the squares of lamplight in the distance, marking the places where farmhouses stood in silence.

In the grassy field, ancient tombstones tipped and tilted crazily as if they’d been dropped from heaven and left to stand as they fell. Trees bent in the wind, and their bare limbs clattered like a muttered conversation. A fairy mound rose from the ground and lay littered with wildflowers that looked black and white in the starlight. A sigh of something ancient whispered in the darkness, and far away, a dog moaned into the quiet.

A young woman stood in the center of the stones, as she’d been told. She waited, impatiently checking her wristwatch and shrugging away the superstitious twitch at the base of her spine. The stones were eerie enough during the day, but at night, when the sky was black but for the stars, the woman half expected ghosts to rise up and chase her out of their graveyard.

The woman shivered again at the thoughts jostling through her mind and shrugged deeper into her coat. There was nothing to fear, after all. Hadn’t she grown up here? Didn’t she know this road to Westport well enough to travel it in her sleep?

No, the only thing to worry her was that maybe the man she waited for had forgotten his promise to meet her. Maybe he was with someone else. Maybe…

“Darlin’,” a deep voice whispered from close by. “I knew you’d come. I’ve been waiting for you.”

She whirled around, a smile of welcome on her face. Something blacker than the darkness rushed at her. She screamed as a howl lifted into the air, and a moment later the cemetery lay empty in the night.

“What was that?” Alison Blair stopped dead and felt the small hairs at the back of her neck stand straight up.

The long, undulating howl still quavered in the air as she stared back down the road into the darkness.

“A dog, no doubt,” the guard at the wrought-iron gate muttered in an Irish accent so thick it almost sounded as though he were speaking Gaelic.

“Scary dog,” Aly muttered, turning back to watch as the big man studied her ID card. Frowning, she said, “It’s not a forgery, you know.”

He flicked a glance at her from under thick black brows, and she deliberately lifted her chin and met that stony stare with one of her own.

The man nodded in approval, then said, “There’ll be hell to pay when the boss hears you’ve come.”

“I know.” As a member of the Guardian Society, Aly knew she would be as welcome here as a flu virus.

Even in the best of circumstances, Immortal Guardians weren’t exactly the most hospitable people in the universe. They lived alone, worked in secret and protected their real identities from a world filled with people who would never understand.

Chosen at the moment of their death, the Guardians were given the choice of either moving on to whatever awaited them or accepting immortality and the task of defending humankind against the demon threat. The Guardians were devoted to doing their duty and in general preferred to do that duty with as little interference as possible.

Both from humanity and the Society.

The Society had existed as long as the Guardians themselves. Generation after generation the families who belonged to the Society had worked with the Guardians. Some of those Guardians reluctantly accepted the help of the Society, and some…didn’t.

Rogan Butler, Irish warrior and a Guardian centuries old, fell into the latter category.

“As you can see,” she said, reaching out to take the papers identifying herself as a Society member, “I am who I say I am, and I need to see Rogan Butler immediately.”

“He’ll not be happy.”

“Fortunately,” she said, “his happiness is not my responsibility.”

She really should have waited until morning to come and beard the lion in his den or lair, she thought, turning her gaze to the two-storied manor house beyond the iron gate. But she’d flown in from Chicago expressly for this meeting, and she wanted it over and done with.

Of course, if her sister Casey had bothered to come along with her, Aly thought, she wouldn’t be feeling so on edge. Strength in numbers, after all. But though she’d been happy enough to come along on the trip to Ireland, Casey had insisted on reminding Aly that she wasn’t a member of the Society. Casey had been the first member of the Blair family for centuries to not pick up her hereditary calling.

And Aly remembered clearly the argument they’d had at the B and B just an hour ago.

“You could come with me just for moral support,” Alison had said as she and her sister fought for space in front of the tiny bathroom mirror.

“Oh, right. That sounds like a good time.” Casey tugged at the hem of her V-necked, red T-shirt until it showed just enough of her breasts, then smiled at her elder sister. “Look, Aly, this secret-agent thing is your deal. Not mine. I didn’t join the Society, remember?”

Aly scowled, hip-checked Casey out of her way and pulled her long, thick blond hair into a ponytail at the base of her neck. Then she wrapped the elastic band with a dark blue scarf and let the ends trail across her shoulders. Staring into the mirror, she gave herself the once-over before answering her sister. Dark blue jacket, white button-down oxford shirt tucked into dark blue jeans and black boots. She looked fine. Businesslike but casual. Friendly but stern.

Then she rolled her eyes at her own thoughts and turned from the mirror to face Casey. “Yes, I remember that you didn’t join the Society. I’m not asking you to be officially there. I was just looking for some company.”

Casey muscled her way in front of Aly to check her own reflection again. She fluffed her short, dark blond hair and shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re so nervous about this. Rogan Butler isn’t the first Guardian you’ve ever spoken to.”

“True.” Aly sat down on the edge of the bathtub, stretched out her legs and said, “But he’s the first one who refused to talk to me on the phone. And our psychics refused to call the Ireland office so one of their members could deliver the message in person, so…”

Casey shook her head, fluffed her hair again and leaned in to smooth another layer of dark red lipstick on her mouth. When she was finished, she straightened up, smiled at her reflection and said, “Imagine that. Jealous psychics. Aren’t they supposed to be above all that?”

“They should be,” Aly admitted. “But you know how they are. Especially Reginald.”

“You’re defining the reasons I didn’t want to join the Society, Aly,” Casey said. “No way do I want to spend all my time trying to soothe cosmic egos.”

And maybe she had a point, Aly thought now, grimly steeling herself for her meeting with the Irish bully known as Rogan Butler.

“Well, then,” the guard said, his musical accent rising up and down as he spoke. “I’ll get the gate. Just drive on up to the manor. You’ll be met.”

Aly got back into her car and swallowed hard as the guard unlocked the gates and swung them open. She steered her car, absentmindedly noting the tidy lawn and the spill of golden lamplight pouring from the lead glass windows of the manor and lying across the gravel drive.

Aly’s stomach pitched a little, and she told herself to get a grip. She wouldn’t allow a Guardian to make her nervous. As a member of the Society, she had every right—no, a duty—to give him the information the Chicago psychics had discovered.

She parked the car directly in front of the double doors and stepped out, pocketing the keys. Grabbing her purse, she headed for the house and stopped dead when those double doors were pulled open and a giant of a man stood backlit against the entryway.

Rogan Butler.

It had to be.

His shoulders were broad, his hips were narrow and his legs were long and thick with muscles. His black hair hung loose past his shoulders and lifted in the icy wind like a battle flag. As she watched, he folded massive arms across an impressive chest and stared down at her.

“Alison Blair?” His accent was, if possible, even thicker than that of the man at the gate. And his voice was like thunder. Deep and powerful.

“Yes.” Apparently his security man had alerted him to her identity. “And you’re Rogan Butler.”

“I am. Why’ve you come?”

So much for niceties. “Because you wouldn’t take my phone call.”

“I had no wish to speak with you. I still don’t.”

Limned in lamplight, his features were in shadow, but Aly didn’t have to see his face to know he was frowning. She could feel his scowl, his irritation, flowing from him in thick waves.

Her nerves jittered a little, and for one moment she wished she were anywhere but there. But there hadn’t been another available Chicago Society member to make the trip, and the Society psychics so guarded their “visions” they hadn’t wanted to call Ireland and get one of the local members to deliver the message.

So, here she was. Facing down one of the most legendary of the Guardians, and she had to fight to keep from getting back into her car and driving away. But if she did that, she’d never live it down.

“The Society will find no welcome here.” He said it briskly, as if already dismissing her.

“We’re not your enemy, you know,” Aly countered quickly. “We’re on the same side. Fighting the same war.”

“Is that what you think, then?” He came down one of the steps and stopped. “And how many demons have you fought, Alison Blair?”

“None, but—”

“A thousand and more demons have fallen beneath my blade. All without the help you’ve come so far to offer.”

“The Society is—”

“Useless?” he offered.

“There’s no reason to be insulting, either.” She walked toward him, forcing her feet to move despite the fact that her muscles were locked up as if desperately trying to keep her in one place. “I’ve come with an important message and I’m not leaving until I’ve delivered it.”

He blew out a breath and came down the remaining steps until he stood on the drive right in front of her. Aly tipped her head back to stare up into his eyes. Green, she thought. A shining, clear green that seemed almost iridescent in the pale light. His jaw was hard and square and bristled with a day’s growth of whiskers. His mouth was firm and flattened into a disapproving line, and his heavy black brows were drawn down on his forehead.

He was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen.

And despite the fact that his irritation still simmered in the air around him, Aly felt a small twist of something hot and needy bubble into life inside her.

Which was just unacceptable.

“Fine, then deliver your message and be on your way.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss this outside.”

“You’re a prissy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Prissy? Prissy?” Narrowing her eyes on him, she said, “I’m an official representative of the Guardian Society. I’ve just spent twelve hours in a plane to get here. Then I had to rent a car and try not to nod off at the wheel while I forced myself to drive on the wrong side of the road.” He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she kept right on, feeling her sense of righteous indignation build up and spill over. “The hotel lost my reservation, and my sister and I had to search for a local B and B. After getting to our room, instead of having a meal or taking a much-needed nap—or even, God help me, going for a drink with my sister—I got in that blasted car with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the damn thing and drove straight here, only to be treated like a common criminal by your security thugs and now to be insulted by you. If it weren’t in humanity’s best interests to give you this message, believe me when I say I’d as soon keep my mouth shut, turn around and go home.”

When she finally ran down, Aly took a breath and waited for him to order her off his property. Fine. She hadn’t handled her first official assignment very well, but she’d like to have seen anyone else handle it better.

“Well, then,” he said after an impossibly long moment, “you’d best come inside and give me this all-important message.”

He stepped back and waved an arm, silently inviting her to precede him into the house. Lifting her chin, she did just that, taking the steps slowly as jet lag began taking its toll.

She stepped into the entryway and paused just for a moment to take a quick look around. Polished wood floors gleamed in the lamplight, and colorful rugs were scattered along the narrow hall that stretched off to the back end of the house. To her left was a formal sitting room and to her right what looked to be a library. A fire roared in the stone hearth, wall sconces shaped like oil lanterns threw soft, electric light onto the paneled walls and over-stuffed furniture in shades of forest green and burgundy offered comfort. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and every table top was crowded with towering piles of hardcover books.

She loved the room immediately.

“This way,” he said and walked past her into the clearly masculine room. Making directly for an escritoire, he opened the carved doors to reveal crystal decanters and drinking glasses. “You’ll have a drink, then tell me.”

“No, thank you.”

“You look as though you’re ready to keel over,” he said, dismissing her argument as he poured amber-colored liquor into two glasses. “A little of the Irish will set you straight in no time.”

He came back to her and handed her one of the glasses. She took a sniff and frowned. “I don’t really drink whiskey.”

Tossing his own drink back, he swallowed, then said, “This is Paddy’s. It’s like no other. Drink it down and tell me what you’ve come to say.”

Easier to do as he wanted rather than fight him on something that didn’t seem very important. Mimicking his action, Aly took a breath, lifted her glass and poured the liquor down her throat in a straight shot.

Instantly, fire bloomed inside and stole her breath. Gasping a little, she handed the glass back to him and slapped one hand to her chest. “Thanks,” she managed to say when she was able to choke out a word.

Rogan set the glasses down onto the nearest table top and watched the woman who’d come all the way from the United States to see him. He had no use for the Guardian Society. He was a warrior and had managed, since the day of his death in 1014, to battle demons without the help of those who thought themselves to be a part of the Guardian legacy.

There were others, friends of his, who had made use of the Society from time to time, but Rogan believed a man worked better when he was alone, a hard lesson he’d learned centuries ago and one he kept always in the forefront of his mind. He needed nothing from anyone and wanted no “help” in performing his duty.

He’d been ready to order Alison Blair off his property when she’d found her spine and given him a dressing-down like no one had dared to do in centuries. And with that outburst of temper, she’d won a glimmer of admiration from him, a glimmer strong enough to allow her into his home—however briefly.

“Say what you must, then, and be on your way.”

“If this is Irish hospitality, it’s sadly lacking.”

“Ah, but you’re not a guest now, are you?” He turned from her, walked to his favorite chair and sat down, kicking both legs out in front of him and crossing his feet at the ankles. “You say you’ve a mission to fulfill. Then fulfill it and be done.”

He watched her and saw anger flash in her blue eyes quickly before she was able to hide it from him. Instantly, he wondered what kind of woman it was who buried her emotions so completely. The women he’d known in his life had all worn their hearts in the open, risking bruising and hurt but unable to do anything else.

And as that thought sneaked into his consciousness, it was followed by an ancient memory, one he rarely allowed himself to entertain. The image of a woman rose up in his mind. Her long, black hair flying about her head in the sea wind. Her blue eyes shining, laughing. Her mouth curved in welcome for him. And before he could pause a moment to enjoy them, the images shifted, changed, becoming the nightmare that haunted him still from time to time.

Rogan shut off his thoughts with the ease of long practice and turned his focus to the woman still standing across the room from him. Irritated suddenly, he said, “Sit, will you? And say what you’ve come to say.”

Her boot steps were muffled on the thick carpets as she moved to the chair nearest him. She perched on the edge of the chair, folded her hands in her lap and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. That was the only sign of her agitation, and again Rogan was forced to admire her self-control.

While the fire crackled and hissed in the hearth and tree limbs driven by the ever-present Irish wind scratched at the windowpanes, she watched him steadily for a long moment. Then she said softly, “One of the Chicago seers has had a vision.”

He gave her a half smile. “Wouldn’t that be a seer’s job?”

She didn’t answer that jibe. Instead, she began to give him a bloody lecture.

Her surprisingly prim voice carried just over the hiss of the fire. “As you know, the Society psychics are some of the most powerful in the world. Society membership is hereditary. For centuries, the same families have protected the secrets of the Guardians and done all we can to help you in your fight against the demon incursion—”

Scowling, he snapped, “If you’ve come only to give me a history lesson, Alison Blair, I’ll remind you I’ve been living history for longer than you would care to consider.”

She frowned right back at him. “Each generation, ” she said, a bit louder than before, as if daring him to try to talk over her, “more psychics are born into the Society, and with each generation one or two of those seers has incredible strength.”

“And would you be one of those with the power of second sight, darlin’?”

“I would not,” she said, pausing just long enough to give him an irritated nod. “I have some psychic abilities but nothing in the range of the seers. Reginald, the seer who sent me here, is extremely powerful. His visions are always clear. His messages have saved countless lives, including those of your fellow Guardians.”

“We’re immortal, love,” he said, hooking his arms behind his head in a lazy move that belied the tension coiling in the pit of his belly. “We’ve no lives to be saved.”

“Immortal, yes, but you can be desperately wounded, taking years to recover.”

Annoyed, he said, “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“I’m trying to impress on you just how important it is for you to listen to Reginald’s message.”

“Then deliver it, by damn.”

She drew her head back and stared at him. In the firelight, her blue eyes shone with the reflection of the flames until it looked as though light were dancing within her. Her mouth was tight, her posture was so stiff it was as if she’d a poker stuffed down the back of her jacket and her knotted fingers were almost white with her repressed fury.

“You are the rudest man I’ve ever met.”

He brushed that aside. “Ah, but I’m not a man, am I? Besides, you’ve not seen rude yet, Alison Blair, but if you don’t get on with it, you very well may.”

She ground her teeth together as if trapping inside words that wanted to spill from her mouth. It was almost entertaining to watch. Almost. But time was flying by and Rogan had no interest in sitting by the fire with a woman, no matter how attractive he found her; it was past time for him to be out on the hunt.

“Fine, then,” she said after a long moment’s pause. “Reginald has seen the rise of a very dangerous power. Here. Soon.”

He laughed. And when her features stiffened in shock, he laughed harder. “This is the so important message? Your seer’s looked beyond the veil and seen trouble, has he?” He rubbed his jaw and pretended to give the matter great thought. “What kind of trouble do you think, then? Could it be…demons?”

“Are you really so arrogant you can’t accept help when it’s offered?”

“I don’t need your help. Or apparently the help of your gifted seer. I know there’s trouble, don’t I?” He stood up and looked down at her from his great height. “Demons are nothing new to me, Alison Blair.”

“This isn’t an ordinary demon,” she said quietly, as if she were measuring each word and weighting it down with patience before speaking it. “Reginald saw an extreme amount of energy surrounding the nearest portal. He says that it’s building daily and that there’s a danger beyond the normal threat.”

Rogan scowled at her and thought about the seer’s message. He’d known for days now that something unusual was happening. There had been reported cases of people mysteriously vanishing all over Ireland. And there’d been more demon activity lately as well. He didn’t like any of it.

She stood up and that flicker of admiration, respect he’d felt for her earlier, sharpened a bit. She wasn’t put off by his great size or by the reputation and legends surrounding him. He’d give her points for foolhardy bravery if nothing else.

“I’ll do what I can to look into the seer’s vision,” he said, though it cost him. He didn’t want to take orders from a psychic. Nor from a woman.

“Thank you. I’ll make my report to the Society.”

“You do that.”

“You don’t have to like me or the Society,” she said, clearly irritated that he wasn’t more appreciative of the effort she’d gone to in delivering this oh-so-very-vague message. “But you could at least show some respect.”

“Respect?” His voice boomed out before he could stop it. “For psychics and seers who sit in the background and make proclamations? Who have visions too late to help? Who see things that can’t be changed and then demand reverence for their faulty abilities?” Rogan moved in closer, until he could feel her body heat reaching out to him. Rage pounded in his brain and thundered through his veins.

“The psychics do their best,” she countered, blindly defending the group that was her family’s legacy. “Visions aren’t always clear.”

“Aye,” he agreed, feeling the fury threaten to overcome him. “But they don’t admit to mistakes, do they? No. They speak as if from the Mount and expect all to listen and revere. Well, I’ve no use for seers, Alison Blair. And even less use for their servants.”

She swallowed hard and he could see agitation suddenly take hold of her. Still, she kept her gaze fixed with his. “I’m no one’s servant.”

“And yet here you stand, at their beck and call.”

“It’s my duty.”

“And now you’ve done it, and it’s past time for me to be doing mine,” he muttered thickly, grabbing her upper arm to steer her out of his house.

But as he touched her, something unexpected happened, something dazzling. An arc of what could have been lightning jolted between them. White-hot heat and something more sizzled in the air, and Rogan released her instantly.

He knew that sizzle and flash.

He’d felt it just once before.

For his Destined Mate.

But she had been dead for hundreds of years.