Eventide

stroke his dark stubble-dusted jaw with my knuckle. “Why? You want something, Dupre?” I smile.

Settling his lips over mine, Eli nudges my mouth with his and kisses me slowly. “Hell yeah, I want something. But so does Julian Arcos.” He kisses my nose. “And my father.”

“I know why,” I say, and move from the quilt. The embers from the night’s fire smolder in the hearth. “Valerian. He knows about me. We need to get back home.”

“Then let’s go,” Eli says, and pulls his jeans on.

We hurry, dress, Eli smothers the embers in the fireplace, and we leave the cottage.

“Dupre, Poe,” Noah Miles says with his cocky grin and strange mercury eyes. “Nice you could make it.”

Eli ignores his friend and moves by him. As I follow to do the same, Noah’s eyes lock with mine. The corner of his mouth lifts. “Miss me?” he says.

I jam my elbow in his ribs. “Hardly.”

Noah laughs and puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Poe.”

I shake my head and follow Eli into the foyer. Suddenly he turns, stops, and slips my hand into his. “I forget you were out of it most of the time you were here,” he says, glancing down at me. “Stay with me. Closely. And try not to start any fights.”

I just stare at him, and he grins and leads me into what is hands down the epitome of what Hollywood would consider Dracula’s castle. Dark. Gothic. Ominous. Brass sconces embedded into the stone walls hiss and flicker as we pass, and large tapestries stretch from floor to ceiling. Long beam wooden rafters crisscross overhead, and ornate chandeliers cast a low amber light over the massive room. The fireplace, large enough for three people to stand upright in, takes up one whole wall. A group of people stand there, four men and two women, none of whom I’ve ever met. We move toward them.

As we near, a big man who seems to be addressing the group turns and faces us. He wears his nearly waist- long black hair straight and pulled into a ponytail. Green eyes meet mine and fasten. I can tell he’s weighing me. Probably trying his damnedest to read my freaking mind. Good luck with that, Tonto.

“You’ve missed a button,” he says to me, and inclines his head toward my shirt. I ignore him and meet his stare wordlessly.

He smiles, and I’ll admit right here and now: the man is ridiculously sexy.

“Riley, this is Jake Andorra,” Eli introduces. “Jake, stop being an ass.”

Jake inclines his head. “My apologies,” he says without breaking his stare, and I notice he has an odd accent. Not Romanian. Not French. Something else. Something old.

“Pict,” he whispers close to my ear. “And Tonto would’ve never made it out of here alive.”

I lift a brow. “Nice. Now stay out of my head.”

Chuckles break the silence of the others.

“Jake runs WUP—Worldwide Unexplained Phenomena,” Eli explains. “He’s not used to being one-upped.”

“I’m not yet still,” Jake corrects. “Nice to finally meet you, Riley Poe.”

“You’ve got a great house,” I say, remembering the beautiful manor home on Charleston’s battery. “So what do you want with me?” I ask bluntly. With all the hell going on in Savannah, the last thing I want to do is linger in Drac’s castle when I could be on a plane heading home.

“’Tis I who want to meet you,” another man with a similar accent says. He approaches and without warning, grasps my hand in a shake. Unlike Eli’s lukewarm skin, this man’s is warm. “My name is Darius.”

And the moment his hand envelops mine, I experience firsthand the powers given to me by Julian Arcos.

My equilibrium tilts, my body goes rigid, and everyone around me fades into shadows…

When my vision clears, I’m not alone. I’m not at Castle Arcos. I’m not even me…

*   *   *

“Darius? What have we done?”

Gasping for air, Darius fixed his stare on the bloodstained earth he knelt upon. Resting his forearm against the hilt of his sword, he wiped his sweating brow and glanced about. Eleven Celtae druids lay dead, their bodies entangled within their black robes.

“What we had to do,” Darius answered. He rose and met the questioning eyes of the younger Druthan. “The dark magick within the Dubh Seiagh is unimaginable. The Celtae used it, Ronan. To allow them to live would mean destruction for us all.”

Ronan nodded and wiped a streak of blood from his cheek.

Just then, a sharp gust of wind swept over the moor, stirring the robes of the dead, and a blanket of mist settled over the browned and bloodstained heather. The twilight’s dim glow made the desolate moor hazy, and thunder crackled in the distance. Darius glanced up. “We havena much time.”

As the wind grew fiercer, the other Druthan warriors gathered, making their way through the fallen Celtae to stand at Darius’s side.

Darius met each of his brethren’s gazes. “You know what must be done. Four of our future kinsmen will become the immortal Arbitrators. I sacrifice my own bloodline. Who else?”

Three more Druthans raised their hands without hesitation.

“Well done,” Darius said.

“What of the Archivist? Whose bloodline will he come from?” asked Ronan.

“None of ours.”

The wind screamed then, and Darius quickly muttered the ancient Pict verse that would name the Arbitrators twelve hundred years into the future. And, the Archivist, centuries beyond. By that time, the language of the Dubh Seiagh would be dead and forgotten. Only the Archivist would have the ability to read it. Thus, destroy it. Until then, it would stay forever hidden.

When the last word was spoken, a deathly silence fell over the moor.

It was done.

As the Drutha glanced around, gasps filled the still night air. Darius hurried to the first Celtae body and knelt down.

‘Twas as though every ounce of bone and muscle and matter had been sucked out of the Celtae’s skin, leaving it a flat and empty sack of cauterized flesh.

Just then a scream, high-pitched and chilling to the bone, ripped over the moor, followed by another, and another, over and over. The wind picked up once again and roared through the air with gale force.

“Darius!” Ronan yelled. “What is this?”

Darius closed his eyes.

They’d killed the Celtae.

But their souls had escaped…

Quickly, he mouthed another verse, unrehearsed, unplanned. Desperate.

And prayed with fervor that it worked.

As fast as it occurs, it stops. Only now do I realize the scene lasted only a few seconds—as long as it takes Darius to shake my hand. The second he releases me, the vision disappears. My head is spinning as vertigo grabs me. A small wave of nausea washes over me, and for a minute I think I’m going to barf all over the guy. Surprisingly, after a few deep breaths, it subsides.

I look at him wordlessly. He’s tall, muscular, with dark auburn hair pulled back much like Jake’s, and disturbing, ancient amber eyes. The vision I’d witnessed was from a long time ago. I’d been nothing more than a fly on the wall, watching.

“What did you see?” he asks quietly.

I look at him. “Everything. You, others, on a windy moor, blood,” I say. “You killed the others. You instructed them.”

“No, you don’t understand.” A woman I hadn’t noticed before moves closer to me. “There’s more to it,” she insists.

“Ms. Maspeth,” another big guy warns.

“I’m Sydney,” she says, looking at me with an almost desperate look. She’s blond, pretty, yet…harsh at the same time. Sort of like me, I guess. “Please.”