Mystical Warrior (13 page)

S
eeing that Gabriella had actually managed to fall asleep and that Misneach was softly snoring cuddled in her arms, Fiona leaned forward on the narrow bed she was sitting on to see better the television screen Trace had been watching almost constantly since he’d arrived. He pushed a button on a small electronic box beneath it, making the screen change to four separate pictures—one of the front dooryard, one looking from the house toward the ocean, another of the tunnel outside the room, and the last one of his half-cleaned kitchen. She had asked him how they could see into the pitch-black corridor without a light, and Trace had told her that the camera taking the picture used something called night-vision technology. So only the kitchen and tunnel pictures were clear, the other two screens showing mostly blowing snow.

“What is this room?” she asked. “And why do you have it?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her and arched a brow. “Are you telling me you’ve never had a hidey-hole to escape to for when things got a little scary?”

Fiona felt her cheeks heat up. “You don’t think it’s cowardly to hide in a closet or … a cupboard?” she whispered.

He looked back at the screen and gave a soft snort. “Hell, near as I can tell, the only reason I’m alive today is because I spent the first sixteen years of my life hiding.”

Fiona noticed that Trace’s cheeks also darkened, his scowl as he went back to studying the screen indicating that he probably hadn’t intended to disclose that bit of information—at least, not to her.

But then, didn’t she know how men hated to admit any weakness?

Nevertheless, his comment piqued her curiosity. “I can’t imagine anything sending you into hiding,” she said lightly. She beamed him a warm smile when he glanced at her sharply. “I thought the only thing young boys were afraid of was girls.”

He snorted again and looked back at the screen. “I
wish
I’d been afraid of girls. It would have saved me a lot of rides in the backseat of the sheriff’s car.”

“So, what did you hide from?” she asked, even as she wondered where she got the courage to pursue her questioning. But then, hadn’t she already figured out that Trace was more bark than bite, at least when it came to women?

“From a drunken old man whose idea of discipline involved a thick leather belt,” he growled, hitting another button that changed the screen yet again.

Fiona straightened in surprise. “The sheriff beat you?”

He looked at her. “Not the sheriff; my father.”

She gestured dismissively with her hand. “Whose father
didn’t
beat them?” she said, giving him a crooked smile when he scowled at her again. “Heck, I can remember Papa chasing Kenzie and Matt halfway down the mountain to give them a good whooping at least once a week. And if you think a belt hurts, you’ve obviously never been on the wrong end of a willow stick.” She broadened her smile at his incredulous look. “Didn’t you know that hiding would only worsen the punishment when you eventually showed up?”

He turned on his stool to face her. “Did your father beat you? With a
stick
?”

“Just once, when I was ten, just so I’d appreciate his restraint because I was female, he told me.” She smiled again. “I remember that his being lenient on me certainly didn’t sit well with Kenzie and Matt, when we were all guilty of the same crimes.”

“What sort of crimes warranted a beating?”

Apparently, she had managed to pique
his
interest. “Neglecting our chores often got us a good smack, but sneaking down to the village, which was strictly forbidden, almost always meant a trip to the barn for Kenzie and Matt. So, what sort of crimes do modern boys commit that will send them running from their fathers?”

He turned back to the screen. “Sometimes all a kid has to do is be born.” He gestured at the room, not looking at her. “Did you happen to notice how clean my hidey-hole is?”

Guessing he wanted to change the subject, Fiona stifled a frown. His father had beaten him simply because he’d been born? “I did notice,” she said, making sure she sounded impressed. They’d been sitting down here for nearly two
hours, and the storm outside—from what she could see on the television—didn’t show any sign of letting up. “Only I’m afraid you made it too impenetrable, as even fresh air can’t get in.” She wrinkled her nose when he looked at her. “No offense, but you stink.”

He stood up with a pained groan, keeping his weight on his left leg, and slowly stretched his arms over his head. “I guess that’s the price you have to pay for leaving skunks on my workbench.” He stopped stretching and frowned at her. “How in hell did you get that heavy compressor up on that barrel? And for gosh sakes, why?”

Fiona leaned back on the bed against the wall and gazed down at what she guessed was a weapon strapped to his bandaged thigh. “I was trying to make it easier for you to find all your tools.” She raised her gaze to his and shrugged. “And I’m stronger than I look. Are you divorced?”

As she’d hoped, her question caught him completely off guard, and he actually took a step back. “What?”

“You have to be in your early thirties, and even though I realize men and women get married later in life today, I was wondering if you were married and are divorced. And if so, why?” She arched a brow, just to confound him further. “Did she divorce you, or did you leave her?”

“I’ve never been married,” he growled. Only when he spun around to pace away and drew up short against a wall of the tiny room, he spun back toward her. “And for your information, I don’t intend to
ever
get married.”

“Do you prefer men, then?”

“No!” He blew out a harsh breath and glared at her. “What is it with you women, anyway, that you can’t stand seeing a guy happily single?”

“God designed everything in pairs.”

He snorted. “He sure as hell didn’t think that one through, did He?” He pointed at her. “If you women would spend less time trying to figure out how to drive us men insane and more time—”

Knock-knock-knock; knock-knock-knock.

Trace stiffened, his gaze whipping to the door.

Fiona sat forward and also stared at the door. “That’s the secret knock,” she said, frowning when he didn’t move. “Aren’t you going to let them in?”

Knock-knock-knock; knock-knock-knock,
this time a bit harder.

“Here’s the thing,” he said quietly, going to the television screen. “There is no secret knock, because I just made that up for you this morning.” He hit several buttons, then straightened and looked at the door again. “And you, Gabriella, Misneach, and I are the only ones who know this room even exists.”

Knock-knock-knock; knock-knock-knock,
this time a whole lot harder.

Fiona jumped to her feet when something slammed into the ceiling over their heads, shaking the walls of the room. She looked at Gabriella, but the girl remained sleeping. Misneach, however, was curiously staring at the door, his ears perked forward and his tail gently thumping against Gabriella’s coat.

Trace bent down to look at the screen more closely, then straightened with a muttered curse. “I can’t tell what that is,” he said, pointing at the television. “Can you? It looks like it’s … half man and half some sort of … animal.”

Fiona squinted at the screen. “Whatever it is, it appears
to be covered in snow.” She looked at Trace. “But how can it know the secret knock?”

“It can’t, because there
isn’t
one.” He slipped into the backpack he’d been wearing when he arrived, then pulled what she recognized as a handgun out of the sheath on his hip, did something to it, and slid it back into the sheath. “Okay, time for plan B,” he said, turning to push a shelf full of supplies away from one of the walls.

He turned back to her and pointed at the door. “You don’t open that door for anything, you understand? No matter what you hear or what you might see on the monitor, you stay put. The batteries in the surveillance system will last only about another six hours, so after that, you … well, just don’t open the door.”

He reached on top of the cabinet he’d moved, took down a leather pouch, and unzipped it. He pulled out another handgun and held it for her to see. “This is a weapon that shoots projectiles when you pull this trigger,” he said, showing her a small lever inside a metal ring on the underside. He took her hand and wrapped her fingers around the handle, holding the shaft of the weapon away from them. “It’s a revolver, and it’s loaded, so you point it at whatever you want to kill and just pull the trigger. It’s going to make a deafening noise and jerk violently, so don’t be surprised. You have six bullets, and after that, you hold it by the barrel and use it like a club. Got that?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Good. Only you be careful what you shoot at. If the bullet hits a wall or the steel door, it’s going to ricochet and possibly come back and hit you or Gabriella. So, pull the trigger only when you’re sure of your target.”

He took the gun from her and set it on the table beside the television, then cupped her face between his large, callused hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as calm as you are,” he murmured, his sharp gray eyes looking directly into hers. “Why aren’t you hysterical?”

“Because I already know that dying is nothing to fear,” she whispered. “And getting hysterical serves no purpose.”

“You must be aware that some fates are worse than death,” he returned softly.

“Aye. But I also know that I can survive most of them.”

He started to lower his head but then hesitated. “Aw, hell,” he muttered as he tilted her face up and covered her mouth with his own.

The gentleness of his kiss surprised her. He didn’t take possession of her mouth but
gave
her his. And when he slid one arm around her shoulders and pulled her up against him, Fiona was even more surprised to feel herself melting into him.

Knock-knock-knock; knock-knock-knock,
this time hard enough to rattle the heavy door.

“Don’t read anything into what just happened,” Trace growled as he straightened, although he continued holding her. “That kiss was only in case I don’t make it back.”

“You needn’t worry; I know how men’s minds work.”

“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”

She smiled. “Are you sure they didn’t kick you out of your war for being tardy, or are you waiting for this particular battle to come in here to us?”

He still didn’t let her go; if anything, his arm around her tightened, and his hand cupping her head twitched slightly. “I’m changing the signal to one knock, then three, then two.
If you hear anything else, you wait two days before you come out.”

Knock; knock-knock-knock; knock-knock.

Trace jumped back and spun toward the door, his expression incredulous. “Goddamn it, what in hell is going on!”

Gabriella sat up with a gasp at his shout, and Misneach jumped down and ran to the door, his tail wagging excitedly, and started whining.

“For the love of Zeus, Huntsman, let me in before these demon bastards can finish me off!” came a muted shout from the other side of the door.

“That’s Mr. Oceanus!” Gabriella cried, rushing to the door.

Trace pulled her back when the girl reached for one of the latches. “We can’t know that for sure,” he said, nudging her toward Fiona. “It could be a trick.”

“Or it really could be Mac,” Fiona said, wrapping an arm around Gabriella. “Kenzie told me the energy coming in with the storm is very powerful, and Mac is one of the most powerful drùidhs ever to exist.” She turned Gabriella and pointed at the screen. “Do you recognize either the man or the animal?” she asked.

The girl bent down to see better, but whatever was out there was leaning with its back against the door, and Fiona could only see what appeared to be a pitchfork in its … was that a flipper?

“What was Mac the last time you saw him?” she asked Gabriella.

“He came to me as a little boy,” the girl said. “So I wouldn’t be afraid, he told me. The picture isn’t very good,
and it’s black-and-white. But that appears to be some sort of sea creature.” She looked at Fiona. “You know, like one of those … walruses, I think they’re called, that live far to the north on the ice.” She pointed at the screen. “See, doesn’t that look like the end of a tusk? Oh! I do recognize the trident! That’s the drùidh’s staff Mr. Oceanus used to bring me here,” she said excitedly, turning to Trace.

But he had disappeared.

Fiona walked over to look behind the cabinet but found only solid wall.

“Where’d he go?” Gabriella whispered, also looking behind the cabinet.

Fiona took hold of the girl’s trembling hand and moved back to watch the screen. “He mentioned something about a plan B,” she said. “I guess that means he’s gone out to see for himself what’s knocking at our door.”

“But how did he leave? Is
he
a magic maker, too?”

Fiona shot her friend a reassuring smile. “I believe Trace prefers technology over magic. And he strikes me as the sort of man who wouldn’t build a hidey-hole with only one way in and no second way out. There must be a secret door in the wall.”

“H-how can you be so calm?” Gabriella asked, looking back at the screen.

“We have a drùidh and a powerful warrior on our side, Gabriella. They won’t let any harm come to us.”

“But Mr. Oceanus is wounded,” the girl quietly cried, pointing at the screen. “See, he’s slumped against the door. And Mr. Huntsman is also wounded.”

“Not badly enough to slow him down, apparently. And Mac—” Fiona snapped her mouth shut when she saw what
looked like the shadowed figure of a man appear on the screen at the far end of the darkened corridor.

“That’s Mr. Huntsman,” Gabriella said with a gasp. “But what’s he holding?”

“It’s a handgun.” Fiona picked up the revolver Trace had left her and tucked it into the waist of her pants, being careful not to touch the trigger. “It shoots bullets out of the barrel, and that way, you don’t have to be close to something to kill it.”

They both turned silent then as they watched Trace slowly make his way along the edge of the corridor. Whatever was leaning against their door tried to get up, and Fiona saw it lift what now looked like a human hand, the three-pronged trident pointed at the ceiling over Trace’s shoulder.