Mystical Warrior (12 page)

Hell, maybe he
would
put the skunks in her SUV.

As for Fiona … well, old lady Peterson had been a schoolteacher, and Trace was pretty sure he’d seen one of those handheld antique school bells kicking around here somewhere—the ones teachers would ring to call kids in from recess that could be heard nearly all over town.

It could definitely be heard as far as his upstairs apartment.
And seeing how it was his tenant’s fault that he was out of commission for a week, he should probably find that bell and ring it whenever he needed something.

Hell, maybe he’d been going about this attraction thing all wrong. Instead of going out of his way to make sure Fiona wasn’t afraid of him, he should be making sure she absolutely, positively, without question disliked him.

Because really, what man could possibly be attracted to a hostile woman?

It certainly had worked on Mac when the fool had tried to steal Maddy from William. But after spending a single afternoon with Peeps, the drùidh had decided he sure as hell didn’t want to spend a lifetime with a woman who called him pond scum to his face.

Trace took another large bite of his sandwich and felt some of the cheese plop onto his chest. He frowned down at the clean shirt he’d spent twenty minutes hunting for this morning and tried wiping it off, only to end up
smearing
it into the material.

Well, Christ, he’d been out of the military only five months, and he’d already turned into a slob. Come to think of it, he hadn’t gotten his hair cut since he’d come home, and he bothered to shave only once a week, and then only because he went to his mom’s for Sunday supper—usually wearing clothes still damp from the dryer because he’d forget to throw in a load of wash the night before.

Giving up on the shirt, Trace stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and used the towel to wipe the cheese off his face. He stopped in mid-wipe to crush the soft material into his nose and frowned. Apparently not all of his olfactory cells were dead, because he’d swear he could smell
roses—just as he had the afternoon Fiona helped him bank the house.

Great. Wonderful. How friggin’
nice
of her to spread her scent over all his stuff.

The porch door slammed open, and Trace dropped the towel when he heard footsteps running through the kitchen. “There’s a storm coming,” Fiona said, barging into the living room. She kicked the footrest closed on the recliner and tried to haul him out of the chair. “Come on, I have to get you to the basement where you’ll be safe.”

He refused to budge. “What do you mean, a storm’s coming? As in a plain old nor’easter or a storm involving one of Kenzie’s displaced souls?”

She hauled Trace to his feet—but only because he let her. “All I know is that it’s an unnatural storm,” she said, thrusting the crutches under his arms. “Gabriella’s bridling Buttercup so I can take her home.” She started shoving at him. “I promise I’ll be gone only twenty minutes, and then I’ll gallop right back here to protect you,” she said, giving him a harder shove when he didn’t move.

Was she serious? She intended to come back and
protect
him?

Trace let the crutches fall to the floor, grabbed her arms to stop her shoving, and held her facing him. “Calm down,” he said evenly, “and tell me how you know it’s not just a plain old snowstorm.”

“I just know!” she snapped, struggling to get free. But when he wouldn’t let her go, she went perfectly still. “Don’t make me hurt you,” she softly threatened.

Was she
serious
?

Christ, he was tempted to let her try.

His shirt pocket suddenly started ringing and vibrating at the same time Fiona’s jacket also started ringing. Gabriella came rushing into the kitchen just then and ran into the living room to the sound of
her
phone blaring out a jaunty tune.

Fiona jerked free and reached into her pocket even as she reached toward his chest with her other hand. “This one’s yours,” she said, handing Trace his cell phone as she plucked hers out of his shirt pocket.

All three of them said hello at the same time.

“We have company coming, Huntsman,” William growled into Trace’s ear. “And I need ye to keep Gabriella there with you until it’s over.”

“But I want to help!” Trace heard Fiona cry into her phone.

“What’s coming in?” he asked William. “And what do you need me to do?”

“There’s not enough time for ye to get the women to Kenzie’s,” William said. “So we’re counting on you to keep them safe. Can ye manage okay with your knee?”

“I’ll manage. Do you have any idea what we’re facing?”

“Nay, except it appears to be an unusually powerful energy. Kenzie believes whoever is chasing the soul seeking sanctuary is hell-bent not to let him reach us, so this may run well into the night. Maddy is talking to Gabriella right now, but I need ye to … my sister might …” The Irishman blew out a heavy sigh. “Hell, there’s a good chance the girl may get hysterical.”

“I will keep her and Fiona safe,” Trace promised, closing his phone when the line went dead. He turned to find Fiona still arguing with her brother. He plucked her phone out of her hand and snapped it shut.

“Hey!” she cried, trying to grab it back.

He shoved it into his pants pocket. “You want to help,” he said quietly, nodding toward Gabriella, who was staring sightlessly ahead at nothing, “then help your friend get through this.” Trace picked up his crutches and hobbled into the kitchen. “Where’s Misneach?” he asked, stopping at the door to slip into a jacket.

“He’s still outside,” Fiona said, her arm around Gabriella as she followed him.

“Go to the mudroom,” he instructed. “You’ll find a door hidden inside the back wall of the closet. It opens onto a set of stairs that leads down to a corridor. Take a left at the bottom, and you’ll eventually come to another door made of steel. Open it, and you’ll find a flashlight on a shelf on the right. Take Gabriella into the room and then bolt the door closed behind you. And Fiona?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t unlock that door for any reason, unless you hear me knock on it three times, and then not until I’ve done it twice. Got that? Two sets of three knocks, and that way, you’ll know it’s me.”

“But—”

“There’s enough food and water to last you several days,” he cut in. “But you wait at least two days before you come out if I don’t show up before then.”

“But you must come with us. You can’t even walk!”

Trace shot her a slow grin. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll hurry back to protect you.”

The look she gave him was fierce enough to turn away the coming storm. He opened the outside door and found Misneach standing on the porch, the pup’s hackles raised as he growled menacingly toward the ocean.

Hell, there seemed to be an epidemic of heroes going around.

Trace scooped up the pup, limped over to Gabriella, and placed him in her arms as he nodded at Fiona. “Let her be responsible for Misneach so she’ll have something to do. Go on, head down to the room.” He had to physically turn her around and then nudge her. “And don’t forget, two sets of three knocks, or two days.”

He was surprised that she didn’t argue, even though it was obvious that she wanted to. But then, eleventh-century women were taught from birth not to contradict men, weren’t they? Which was nice in a crisis, he supposed, but likely boring the rest of the time.

Trace followed as Fiona led Gabriella into the mudroom, and he waited as she opened the closet door and pushed against the back wall. “There’s a hidden latch on the left, and it opens inward, so watch that first step. It’s going to be pitch-black, and you won’t find a flashlight until you reach the room, so you’ll have to feel your way.”

Fiona scowled at him standing there watching her. “Did they kick you out of your war because it took you all day just to get to the battle?”

Apparently, being obedient didn’t mean she had to be silent.

God help him, he wanted to kiss that scowl off her face.

He handed Fiona her cell phone. “It won’t work in the room, because the walls are thick and lined with steel, so shut it off to save the battery for when you come out. Oh, and Fiona? Don’t touch any of the equipment I’ve got down there.” He shot her a grin. “Or you just might find a
real
mess to clean up when you come out.”

“Please come down with us,” she whispered, her eyes filled with concern.

“I will, just as soon as I see exactly what we’re up against.”

Gabriella gave a soft scream when something slammed onto the porch roof before it smacked against the railing on its way to the ground.

Trace figured that was one less shutter he’d have to take down.

He touched the young girl’s chin to make her look at him. “You’re safe, Gabriella. Nothing and no one can breach that room. But it’s going to be your job to keep Misneach calm, okay?”

“M-madeline told me she and Sarah were on their way to Kenzie’s house,” Gabriella whispered, “because Eve has a powerful weapon to fight off the dark magic. Did Kenzie give you a magical pen, too?”

Trace smiled. “I have something just as magical and even more powerful.”

“What is it?”

He brushed the girl’s hair over her shoulder and gave Misneach a quick scratch on the ear. “It’s called modern technology. So if you hear a loud boom and the room shakes around you, you’ll know that I’m making my own kind of magic,” he said, giving Fiona a nod and softly closing the closet door.

Just as soon as he heard them start down the stairs, Trace looked around the mudroom. He grabbed one of the folded sheets he spotted on the dryer. He limped into the kitchen, sat down, pulled his multitool out of its sheath, and cut the sheet into strips. He wrapped a couple of the
strips tightly around his right knee and stood up to test his leg.

Leaving the crutches by the back door, Trace limped onto the porch and then shouldered his way through the blinding snow and gale-force wind blowing in off the bay. Seeing the fidgeting horse tied to a post when he entered the barn, he slipped off its bridle and pushed it into the storm, figuring that it stood a better chance of surviving outside. He shooed the goat out behind the horse, then went to the chicken coop and opened the door to let them choose to stay or leave.

He walked to the back of the barn and looked out the window, but the blizzard conditions wouldn’t let him see more than a couple of feet. The old barn gave a loud snap when a strong gust shifted the structure, and over the howl of the wind, he heard a large branch snap off a tree out front and crash to the ground.

A cold chill that had nothing to do with the plummeting temperature raced up his spine when Trace heard the eerie and now familiar sound of screaming demons.

Christ, they sounded close.

A dark … something … momentarily cast the window in shadow, causing him to step back in surprise. Why in hell weren’t they chasing the soul to An Téarmann—which was a good six miles away—instead of coming here? It was supposed to be known throughout all of time that Kenzie’s home was a sanctuary the black magic couldn’t breach.

Trace headed into the attached shed at a limping run, scattering several of the hens, and squeezed behind the rows of stacked firewood. Dammit, he wasn’t prepared to face an army of demons; about the only thing he
was
prepared for was to ride out whatever sort of hell they brought with them.

He folded back a heavy canvas tarp, grabbed his backpack, and slid it over his shoulders, then strapped his sidearm around his waist and lashed it to his thigh. He had hoped he’d have more time to be fully operational, but even though he’d been working like a madman for two months, he’d only been able to build the safe room, secure the immediate perimeter, and install less than half the electronics he needed.

He’d had no idea the tunnels even existed when he’d bought the house, and he probably never would have known if he hadn’t stumbled upon them when he’d been searching the cellar, looking for a structurally sound place to build a safe room.

Apparently old man Rusty Peterson’s grandfather had done a bit of smuggling in the late eighteen hundreds and early twentieth century, and based on some of the old newspapers and crates Trace had found in them, Gavin Peterson, Rusty’s father, had continued the family tradition and actually expanded the tunnels during prohibition.

If Rusty’s sons had been aware of their family history, they hadn’t told Trace what a gem he was getting when they’d sold him the house.

Then again, there was a good chance the secret had died with Rusty Peterson. He hoped it had, as the fewer people who knew about a hidey-hole, the better.

Except that now Fiona and Gabriella knew about the room, but considering their own laundry list of secrets, Trace figured he could trust them with his.

When he heard what sounded like a window blowing
out in the barn, he sidestepped his way farther down the back side of the woodpile. Since he wouldn’t be much help to William and Kenzie with a bum knee, and because he didn’t know shit about fighting
physical
demons without Kenzie’s magic, the only sensible thing to do was retreat.

Sliding a few heavy boxes out of the way, relieved that Fiona hadn’t gotten this far in her cleaning, he stuck his finger in a knothole in the floor and lifted a hidden doorway. Taking one last look around, Trace stepped down into the darkness—even as he wondered if the women had noticed how spotless he kept his hidey-hole.