of ancient text. The symbols started below his collarbone, coming to a point above sculpted abs. A necklace lay in the center, held by a brown leather strap. Something inside her shifted, a memory edged in, then slid away. She dragged her gaze from his tattoos and forced herself to concentrate on his face. It held no threat, only remorse.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You were dreaming. You have a fever.”
“Need rest,” he mumbled, eyes drifting shut.
“Wait. Do you need a doctor? Food?” She started to stand so she could cover him, but he grabbed her hand. The tingling started again.
“No doctor… rest… disease…”
“Are you sick?”
“Find it… destroy…”
Bree leaned closer. “Destroy what?”
“The world… stop… war.”
She felt a shiver creep in, but he was asleep. She pulled the sheet over his lap and checked his temperature. High, but not dangerous. She put the ice pack on his head, cleaned the blood from his face, then moved the cloth down the thick column of his neck and over the symbols on his chest. She wasn’t brave enough to clean the smudge low on his stomach, next to the faint line of hair that disappeared below the sheet.
Another scar crossed his left bicep, larger than the others. She ran her finger along the raised ridge, wondering what had put it there. Chill bumps appeared on his skin and rose on hers as a faint sound echoed in her ear, like the distant clang of a sword. She turned her attention to his necklace. It was unusual, round, about the size of a silver dollar. She couldn’t identify the metal, but it looked old. She touched it. Warm, like the vault had felt just before she opened it. Symbols were engraved on the front, similar to the ones on the treasure chest and the disk. Warning bells rang in her head.
How could the symbols on his necklace look like the ones on the treasure chest and the disk? Her disk?
Faelan’s head jerked against the pillow. “Sorry.”
Was he apologizing again for choking her? For kissing her? Stealing her treasure?
His hands gripped the covers. “Father… shouldn’t have sent them away…”
Sent who away? His father? Was this Druan person his father? “It’s okay,” she said, stroking his arm, but all this talk of disease and war was making her uneasy.
His hand unclenched and reached for hers. He pulled in a quick, shallow breath and calmed. Dried blood covered the cut on his palm. Picking up the washcloth, she wiped away the crust exposing a thin, pale line. A scar.
Her throat went dry. She dropped his hand. Less than an hour ago, she’d watched him cut it with the dagger. No one could heal that fast, except a superhero. Or Dracula
Vampire!
Bree sprang off the bed, clasping her throat. He’d crawled out of a crypt at night. He was strong, mysterious, and healed inhumanly fast. But vampires didn’t exist, did they? She’d always wondered… the eternal undead, shapeshifters. She had to do something. What? A stake through the heart? A silver bullet? No. Silver bullets were for werewolves. Why hadn’t she waited for Jared? He’d know what to do. Archeologists loved dead things.
Light. The overhead light was on, and he hadn’t burned. Was that why he passed out? She needed something stronger. Bree yanked the shade off the lamp and held the bare bulb close to his face. His lashes flickered, but he didn’t scream, didn’t start cooking. Didn’t even moan.
The legends varied, but they were consistent on one thing: vampires needed blood. If he was so weak, why hadn’t he drained her in the crypt? Where were his fangs? With that dagger, who’d need them? Maybe he was good and drank only from animals. Or maybe she’d read too many paranormal stories. Vampires were just a legend, no matter how intriguing the idea. She’d felt Faelan’s heart beating and the warmth of his skin. And who ever heard of a vampire with a fever? Who was he, then?
She picked the dagger up off the floor, examining it for the first time. It looked even older than his clothes. A dirk, at least early eighteenth century, similar to one she’d authenticated last year for a prince. The narrow blade was about ten inches long, the rounded hilt made of bronze. She checked his clothing piled on the floor, disappointed there was no
Where did he get this outfit? Not the local costume store.
His clothes looked old, his dagger even older. He had an accent like nothing she’d heard and an uncommon name. His necklace had symbols similar to the disk that had been in her family for generations, a disk that turned out to be an elaborate lock. The chest—time vault, he called it—had felt warm before she opened it. He’d muttered something about 150 years, and he healed inhumanly fast. On top of it all, he was wet and muddy, but it hadn’t rained in weeks.
A wide yawn nearly dislocated her jaw. She needed a good night’s sleep to sort this out. There was probably a good explanation for everything, like he was a Scottish thief who’d heard about the treasure. There were lots of caves and lakes nearby where he could have hidden it and gotten wet. He probably had an accomplice who double- crossed him and left him inside the chest to die. But how would he have known about the disk? Cousin Reggie? He’d always been as fascinated with the disk as Bree had. He could’ve found the map and entry in Isabel’s journal years earlier, the sneaky little twerp. He could have even made a copy of the disk. It sounded crazy, but it was saner than her vampire theory.
Bree pulled the covers up to Faelan’s chin and started cleaning the tracks that had dried on her floor. Next she tackled his clothes—noting the lack of underwear—cringing as she applied Spray ’n Wash to his linen shirt and his kilt. She hand-washed away the dirt and blood. Even if the garments proved to be relics, he needed something clean to wear. She headed for the bathroom, trying to forget about sizzling kisses and fangs and mud that shouldn’t
