Awaken the Highland Warrior

“I could go with her. For protection,” Ronan said, his face hard. “Then meet you in Albany.”

Faelan turned and moved inches closer to the tall warrior. “She doesn’t need any more of your bloody help. Or anything else you have to offer.” He’d heard about Ronan’s exploits with the female sex. It appeared he was trying to add Bree to his list of conquests.

Ronan stepped forward, bringing them nose to nose. “She’s sure not getting anything from you. Everything she’s done for you, and you throw her out like yesterday’s trash. I don’t care if you are a legend. She deserves better than that.”

The horse skittered away, sensing the tension.

“I’m taking care of her,” Faelan said, moving to steady the stallion. Conall would keep an eye on her.

“What you’re doing is acting like an ass. She spent last night in a chair because you were in her bed.”

“I’ll wager you had a solution.”

“What if I did? Unless she’s your mate, you have no say in the matter. And you sure as hell have no say over where I sleep.”

Faelan knew if he didn’t leave now, one of them would end up on the floor. He opened the door to the stall. “I’m going for a ride before I do something you’ll regret.” His groin still ached, but it would serve as a reminder that women and warriors didn’t mix.

“I liked you better when you were in the time vault.” Ronan punched the stable wall and walked away.

Faelan stayed out all day, riding the horses, grooming the horses, complaining to the horses. He watched the moon rise and considered waiting for the sun, anything to keep him away from family members and warriors who kept popping around corners and out from behind trees like jack rabbits, their dark looks heaping on the guilt.

Sorcha was the only one who understood.

The next morning, his stomach forced him to breakfast. The smells of eggs, bacon, beef sausage, potato scones, and kippers were ruined by Ronan’s black glare. Anna, Brodie, and Shane didn’t look any happier. No one spoke but Coira.

“Faelan, I found this in Bree’s room. She must have forgotten it.” Coira laid a book beside his plate and patted his shoulder. At least she wasn’t glaring at him. “Could you get it to her? Or I could mail it, if you’ll give me the address.”

It was the sketchbook Bree’s mother had brought. Faelan swallowed a bite of tasteless bacon and opened the first page. There were drawings of the graveyard and a lassie standing inside a glowing crypt, blood dripping from her hands as she reached for the burial vault. The bacon felt like a live pig tromping in his stomach. There was a castle—Druan’s or the clan’s, he couldn’t tell—and a face in the window, drawn by a child. The torment of the tiny artist leapt from the pages, in the evil slant of the eyes and the thick skin on the head and tiny pencil strokes where Faelan knew firsthand there were sharp teeth.

Druan.

Faelan’s fork clattered to the table. How could a child draw a picture of an eight-hundred-year-old demon?

He turned the page and stared at the last sketch in shock.

For God’s sake. How many coincidences could one person bear?

He shoved back from the table, catching his chair before it crashed. “I have to go…” He left the others staring after him. Holding the sketchbook, he hurried to the phone. Bree didn’t answer her cell. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to calm the panic. Sorcha had warned him this was somehow connected to Bree, that she was in danger. He’d thought sending her away would fix it.

Faelan tried Bree’s mother and found she knew nothing about her daughter coming to visit. Maybe Bree hadn’t told Orla. Using the credit card Sean had given him, Faelan called the airline and arranged for the first flight home. Home, where was home? He was stuck between times. He would arrive before the others, but he needed to make sure Druan didn’t escape and that he was far away from Bree. And he needed time to settle his thoughts, figure out what he would do after the battle was over. Figure out if he could fix the damage he’d done to Bree.

Faelan grabbed a suitcase and started throwing in clothes. The door opened, and Ronan stepped into the room. “What do you want now?” Faelan asked.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Worse. I think Bree’s in danger.”

“’Bout time you showed some concern for her safety,” Ronan said as his gaze fell on the open sketchbook. “What’s that?”

“Druan… drawn by Bree when she was not much more than a bairn.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You have no idea what’s happening here.”

“Then enlighten me.”

***

“Hello, Druan.”

The fine, human hair on Druan’s neck rose. His skin melted, bones cracked and popped as he shifted. He spun and faced the tall, raven-haired demon that women of all species followed like bees after honey. “What are you doing here?” Druan spat, furious at his lack of control, while Tristol remained calm.

“You know I don’t need your welcome. How’s your little virus?”

Druan’s claws lengthened. “How’s your mother?” he jeered, using the only weapon he had. Tristol’s eyes reddened, the only outward sign of his hatred, and Druan felt a moment of triumph at the flash of fear that crossed Tristol’s face. If the Dark One knew Tristol’s secrets, he wouldn’t last two seconds, but then neither would Druan, if the Dark One found out he’d created a virus while he was supposed to be focused on that war. The Dark One had