“Where’s Druan?” His voice was a growl, body taut, like a lion ready to pounce.
Bree stumbled backwards, but he followed, his eyes as hard and cold as the dagger at her throat. He scanned the shadows as if he expected a horde of demons to appear, before his fierce gaze settled on her again.
A thousand disjointed thoughts tumbled in her head as the blade pressed harder. “Who are you? How did you get here? Are you a ghost?” She wasn’t sure she believed in ghosts, but she also didn’t believe in dead men rising from their graves, and this one was wearing a kilt.
“A ghost?” Dark brows drew into a flat line. He lowered the dagger, opened his other hand, and stared at it. “No.” He didn’t sound sure.
She wasn’t, either. He looked too muscular for a spirit, but there was no doubt she was talking to a man who should be dead. And he was standing between her and the door.
The blade flashed, and Bree screamed. A trickle of red appeared on his palm. She pushed past him, but he caught her arm, spinning her around. A jolt shocked her, and they both flinched. His blood was warm and sticky against her skin. She decided she’d die fighting.
Pulling free, she grabbed the shovel from the floor and swung it at his head. He stopped it with one hand, tossed the shovel deep into the crypt, and shoved her against the wall. She flailed with her fists and then lifted her knee. He pinned it between his thighs. She was trapped. She sagged against him, waiting for the blade to plunge, but the only thing she felt was a hard body in damp clothes holding her still.
“Impossible,” he muttered, releasing her. He stepped back, the dagger still red with his blood. “Who are you?”
“I’m Bree. Who are you? Why did you do that?” she asked, staring at his hand.
“To be sure.” He wiped the blade on his kilt and slid it into a sheath at his side. “Where’s Druan?” he demanded.
“I don’t know anyone named Druan,” she said, wincing as she touched her stinging face. At least he’d put the dagger away.
He frowned and leaned closer, studying her cheek. She stood, not breathing, as warm, calloused fingers brushed her face and dark eyes reflected the lantern’s golden glow.
“It can’t be.” He stared at his hand as if it had betrayed him. “You fell hard,” he said, his voice softer, with an accent she couldn’t place. “Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. There was a dead man talking to her. And he looked familiar. “You tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where am I?” he asked, muddy fingers grazing the crypt wall.
“Where? New York, near Albany…” She gulped. “Earth.”
“How did I get here?”
“New York, the crypt, or earth?”
“How did I get in a crypt?” he asked quietly, and she knew the question wasn’t intended for her. A better one would be how he’d gotten out—alive. She looked at the disk, still in the lock. Locks weren’t made just to keep things out. They also kept things in. Her stomach took a hard dive. A ghost would be one thing, but ghosts didn’t bleed.
He spun back toward the burial vault. “What year is this?”
She told him, watching as the color drained from his face.
“No.” He rubbed his hands across his forehead, leaving a streak of blood. “A hundred and fifty years.” The words were barely a whisper. Clasping his chest, he moved toward the open door of the crypt. He didn’t move like a normal man; he flowed, like water over rocks in a stream. As if each muscle moved in perfect harmony with the others.
“It’s still here,” he said, staring into the night.
“What’s still here?” Before the question left her mouth, an image of charred earth, smoking and desolate, reared up like a serpent from a forgotten dream. One of her premonitions? She was still reeling when he walked back to where she stood.
“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice gruff again.
For someone who’d just been freed, he wasn’t very gracious. “I followed the map. Who are you? How did you get inside that chest?”
“Chest?” He looked at the burial vault. “I can’t remember,” he said, licking his lower lip.
He was lying. Bree knew it as surely as she knew she wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t dead. This man wasn’t a ghost. He was a thief. He’d probably stolen her treasure when she wasn’t watching. He couldn’t have locked himself inside, which meant someone had left him for dead. An accomplice? Or was it a joke? He
“Where’s my treasure?” she demanded. She’d searched too long to let anyone steal it.
He swayed and grabbed the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“The time vault… I need to lie down.”
Time vault? Did he mean the burial vault? “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?” Thief or not, she couldn’t refuse him help if he was injured.
