Awaken the Highland Warrior (3 page)

Out of habit, Bree touched her ears and found the left one bare. She hurried to the mirror, confirming her fear, and got another shock at her appearance. Her cheek looked like a microdermabrasion treatment gone bad, and her diamond wasn’t the only thing missing. A few inches below her ear, a chunk of hair had been sheared. She stared at the thin, pink line where the dagger had grazed her throat. Her missing earring was the least of her worries. Was she insane to take this risk?

Something bothered her about this whole thing, more than the peculiarity of finding a live man buried in a crypt.

She wasn’t comfortable leaving him unguarded, so after showering, she dressed again, removed his ice pack, and pulled the rocking chair close to the bed. The wind howled outside as she listened to the steady rhythm of the chair and tried to collect her thoughts. The walls faded and the room disappeared.

Grandma’s rocking chair creaked softly, making nine-year-old Bree sleepy at last. Her eyes were still swollen from crying, and her nose felt like a balloon. Her dad was in heaven now, Grandma had told her after they rescued Bree from the crypt, but she’d already known. She held her ragged panda closer, staring at the candle flame as she listened to Grandma’s fairy tale about big strong warriors who could destroy terrible demons—maybe even rotten cousins who locked girls inside crypts. It was way better than Snow White and a bunch of goofy little men.

“Time vaults,” Grandma whispered, “that hold demons until Judgment.”

Bree’s lashes drooped…

“Now, Bree.” Grandma’s voice was shaky but loud.

Bree opened her eyes as the window pane rattled and a flash of lightning lit the room. Grandma stood near the bed, but her dark hair was gone. She was gray, her skin wrinkled.

“Find the book, Bree! Help him.” Grandma vanished.

Bree launched out of the chair, the scent of lavender strong in the air. She stared at the naked man tangled in her sheets. Twice he’d called the chest a time vault.

Forget vampires… there was a demon in her bed!

Grandma’s story was no fairy tale. The legend of warriors and demons battling for the fate of mankind was true. Bree had opened the demon’s prison, tucked him into her bed, and let him kiss her.

She grabbed her tote bag, car keys, and the dagger. Halfway down the front steps, she stopped. It wasn’t because she was barefoot and it was the middle of a stormy night. This was her home, where she’d spent nearly every summer growing up. Her haven. She wasn’t running away. She’d done too much of that the past few months. No one would make her leave again, not even a demon. There must be some way to send him back. Her heart gave a funny little wrench when she thought about his kiss and how much he looked like her Highland warrior. But a legend was one thing; playing hostess to a demon was another.

Bree put down her bag, keys, and the dagger and punched in the number to Jared’s cell phone. She should’ve told him about the map before. He was her best friend. After leaving a jumbled message asking him to call, she started to dial 911, but there was no way anyone would believe Faelan was a demon who’d been locked in a time vault awaiting Judgment. She wouldn’t, if she hadn’t opened the darned thing.

Holding the dagger in front of her, she tiptoed down the hall to her bedroom. His dark head rested against her pillow, hand curled low on his stomach, where the sheet had slipped. She was struck by an insane desire to crawl in next to him, cuddle up and… cripes! Was he manipulating her mind in his sleep? She yanked the door closed, smashed her finger, and bit back a yelp.

Her grandmother had said to find the book. What book? She had as many as Bree. Bree headed to the attic, where the books were being stored while she finished the library. Help Faelan? How? She crossed the dusty floor, passing decades of history she hadn’t fully explored. Every minute she wasn’t working on the house she’d spent tending the graveyard, reading Isabel’s journal, or watching the archeologists dig. She hadn’t written in her own journal in months.

After searching several boxes, Bree was about to give up when she heard a thump a few feet away. A book lay on the floor.
Secrets of the Afterlife.
Grandma’s favorite. Why had it fallen? Bree dug through the box. Near the bottom, she found a thick leather-bound book with straps. Grandma’s journal? Bree had seen it only once. She’d surprised her grandmother, who quickly hid the book underneath a pillow. Bree had been searching for it when she found Isabel’s journal and the map.

Bree unclasped the straps, opened the book, and stared at the name written in faded ink on the yellowed page.
The Book of Battles of Clan Connor
. This was not Grandma’s journal. In smaller print underneath was written
By the order of…
The rest of the sentence was smudged. Bree sat on the attic floor, eyes growing wider with each page. She learned about secret clans and talismans of great power and ancient time vaults that held demons until Judgment. According to the book, the time vaults could be opened only after 150 years, the number Faelan had whispered in the crypt.

Her blood hummed. Was it possible? All those summers she’d visited as a child, had he been in there waiting for someone to wake him? She read on and found names and dates.
In the year 1749, the Demon Mour was suspended by Warrior Malcolm…
The last name was impossible to read. This was a record of battles between demons and warriors of the Connor clan. Bree quivered with excitement. Demons and warriors… it was real. How had Grandma gotten it? Why had she never mentioned it?

The book said warriors had talismans. Was that what Faelan wore around his neck? Was he a demon who’d stolen a talisman, or a warrior who’d hijacked a time vault? Bree ran her finger down the entries, searching for his name, but there were so many, and the writing so hard to read it could take days, weeks. Several pages later, she found something that made her mouth drop.
In the year 2053, the demon Lor was defeated by Warrior Darius Ander.

In the year 2053?

Regardless where Grandma had gotten the book, this was more incredible than Stonehenge or the Lost Colony of Roanoke. The last few pages were missing; only jagged edges remained, and the one that had survived was written in a language she didn’t recognize. Bree’s head swam, and an image started to take shape, but a noise sounded below, and the vision fled.

She put the book back in the box and closed the top. Gripping the dagger, she crept down the stairs, faintly registering the scent of lavender clinging to the air. She eased her bedroom door open, expecting to see something out of
The Exorcist.
He didn’t look like a demon. He looked like a man caught in the throes of a nightmare. His head tossed back and forth, damp hair clinging to his neck, sheets tangled with his legs. He mumbled a word here and there. “Druan.” The name from before, and another, “Alana.”

Alana? A wife? Had Bree kissed a married man? Let him rub his naked body against her? Was he a man? Did demons marry? If he had been married, his wife would be nothing but dust. Of course he’d have nightmares. Bree moved closer. A sheen of sweat covered his body. The fever had broken. He uttered one small sound that blew common sense away. He whimpered. If he was a demon, she was doomed.

She put the dagger on the table and took the cloth to the bathroom to dampen it. When she returned, his forehead felt cooler, and he seemed more at ease. She untangled the sheet from his legs and wiped the sweat from his face. And because she simply had to, she smoothed the tiny line between his brows. Moving the rocking chair to the corner of the room, she sat close enough to see him or hear if he called out in his sleep and near the door, in case she needed to run. Staying here was dangerous, but any treasure hunter worth her salt knew great discoveries required great risks. If this stranger had somehow traveled through time, she had to know why and how.

***

Faelan crouched behind the crumbling chimney of the burnt-out farmhouse. He could hear the worried breathing of the man beside him and hoped the coins jingling nervously in the man’s pocket were enough to buy his loyalty. The full moon was covered by clouds, and there was a thickness in the air that didn’t sit well, but he attributed it to the coming storm. Even the horses, hidden in the nearby grove of trees, neighed and stomped uneasily.

It was madness to take on a demon as powerful as Druan without other warriors to protect his back, but Faelan couldn’t wait for his brothers to arrive, not after what he’d discovered last night. In truth, he didn’t want his brothers here. While it was brave of them and the other warriors he’d sent away to offer their help, it was too dangerous for them to face an ancient demon without being assigned. One mistake could mean death. He wouldn’t risk their lives. He’d already warned his accomplice to flee as soon as Druan showed. Faelan felt the warmth of his talisman and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The time vault waited behind the trees, ready to suspend the demon, but if he had to be destroyed, so be it. One way or another, this would be finished tonight.

The wind kicked up, slapping his kilt against his legs. The first fat raindrop hit his nose, followed by the second and third. A jagged flash of lightning split the sky. Faelan flinched. “You sure Jeremiah’s coming?” That was the name Druan went by these days.

“Should’ve been here,” the man said, fretting. “Probably ran into the storm.”

It came fast, the sky blackening as wind howled through the trees. There was a loud crack, and sparks flew from a nearby pine. Faelan heard horses approaching, hooves pounding the ground like an army from hell. He gripped his sword. “You said he’d be alone.”

“He was supposed to be.”

At least a dozen riders entered the clearing, mounts snorting as the night flashed. There were too many. He could take Druan or the others, but he couldn’t take them all. If he tried and wasn’t strong enough, wielding the talisman’s power would kill him. He should have kept the other warriors with him, instead of trying to capture Druan alone. He would have to retreat.

Then Faelan saw them, sitting in the midst of the others, four figures taller than the rest. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Druan rode in front, flanked by the other three, faces any warrior knew from the time he could lift a sword. The demons of old, the ancient ones. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar.

What were they doing here?

He heard a gasp. His accomplice hadn’t run. The man stood frozen, staring at the ancient demons. The sky lit violet, and Druan’s yellow eyes found Faelan. The demon rode closer. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar followed, in demon form as well. They seemed puzzled to see Faelan. The remaining horsemen, halflings, and demons, closed in around them.

Faelan shoved the man behind him. He’d have to destroy Druan by hand and save the talisman’s power for the rest. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them all, but it might give the man with him a chance to escape. There was no way out for Faelan. He would die. His only hope was to take Druan and as many with him as he could. “As soon as they’re distracted, run,” he whispered over his shoulder. “I’ll try to hold them off until you’re safe.”

“Did you think you could stop me, warrior? Stop my war?” Druan hissed as Faelan raised his sword.

“I will stop you, you bastard,” Faelan yelled over the storm. “We both know this isn’t about war. The war’s just a distraction for this disease you’ve created. You’re planning to destroy every human on earth.” And by the time his clan and the other warriors got the message, it would be too late. Everyone would die.

Druan’s eyes widened. His thick, gray skin quivered.

“What disease?” Tristol roared, turning on Druan. Where the others were hideous, Tristol was striking. Long black hair flowed from a face that looked almost human, except for a slight bulge in his forehead. He was rumored to be the closest to the Dark One, hell’s favorite son. What was he doing with Druan?

“Lies. He tells lies.” Druan looked over Faelan’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Grog?”

“Grog?” Faelan tensed and started to turn as a jarring blow struck his skull. He’d been betrayed. It was over. The world was doomed.

***

He woke hard, chest heaving. He was here, not in the clearing. Not in the time vault. He was in a bed. He remembered the woman opening the vault and helping him inside the house. One minute he’d felt his skull explode, the next, he’d looked into terror-filled green eyes. Human eyes. It seemed an eternity had passed in between. It had, if the woman told the truth, and she must have, or he couldn’t be here.

Grief hit him again, as it had in the crypt. His mind clawed at the darkness, searching for faces forever lost. A woman’s smile and a lassie with dimples, two lads wrestling in the dirt.

What had he done?

A tear formed, but didn’t fall. He had no time for grieving, there was work to do, and he couldn’t ask forgiveness from the dead.

He touched the talisman. If he wore it, how could the world still stand? Or did it? He’d seen only one human, if she was that. Were there others? What he’d seen outside looked normal, not the wasteland he’d expected. And who’d sent the woman to wake him? Druan? Or one of the other ancients: Tristol? Malek? Voltar? No one else would have known where to look, and Druan had the only key. Someone with knowledge was behind this.

Faelan flexed his muscles, testing. His strength was returning, though his head felt like a split watermelon. That bastard he’d hired had betrayed him. Probably a bloody minion. He thought of the woman again. She’d saved him, for sure. If not, he could have been in that vault until Judgment. By freeing him, she’d saved mankind. Who was she? She couldn’t be a full demon and enter the graveyard. Was she a halfling? She didn’t smell like one. Or a minion? Then why wake him from suspension, offer him food and a bed? He’d keep quiet and see what part she played in this game. He wouldn’t think about what he’d seen in her eyes. It must be the time vault messing with his senses.

He sat up and the sheet fell away. He was naked. Her doing, or his? Pushing the covers aside, he stood, his body hard, aching. He needed a woman. Her. He’d dreamed of kissing her, his tongue dancing with hers, but it hadn’t felt like a dream. Was she entering his thoughts like Michael did? No minion could do that.

Faelan looked around for his clothes and saw a box with glowing numbers beside the bed. He cautiously touched it, but it wasn’t warm. Some kind of timepiece, judging by the number shown and the lack of daylight at the window. His clothes lay folded next to the box. Another kindness. But halflings and minions would use any means to carry out their master’s evil.

A quick search revealed he had one less thing. His dirk was missing. He should’ve hidden it with the key. The woman’s scent caught his nose. He tuned his vision and saw her in the corner, asleep in a rocking chair. He could just make out her face, but it didn’t matter. Every inch of her was etched into his brain. His body grew harder. He walked over to where she slept, her dainty hand holding his dirk. Did she understand the danger that came with waking him? Or did she hold it in protection against him? Who was she?

She was perfect, that much he knew. Long dark hair like strands of silk. Bonny eyes as green as the hills of the Highlands, and a soft, feminine mouth that made his water. Her breasts were full. He wanted to fill his hands while he tasted her. He’d start with her lips and move on until he’d had every part of her. He longed to feel her skin, her legs entwined with his, lifting around his waist, her body opening to him. What if she had a husband?

Did it matter
, he wondered, reaching for her.