to die.
He would never forgive him for it.
Malcolm of Dunroch came up the stairs at the hall’s far end, a large, powerful man in a leine and dark-green-and-black plaid, wearing both long and short swords, his muddy boots indicating a long, hard ride. Dirt flecked his bare thighs. His face was flushed with anger. “Ye canna march on Inverness with the rebels,” he said harshly, striding up the hall. He gave Aidan’s naked body a quick, dismissive glance.
“Do ye nay march on Inverness with Donald Dubh an’Lachlan Maclean, yer cousin?” he mocked, knowing Malcolm was too busy saving Innocence to bother with political intrigues. Politics didn’t interest him, either, but feeding and horsing his four thousand men did.
And destroying the Campbell was something he could still do for his son.
Malcolm’s face hardened. “Ye’ll hang with the traitors when they’re defeated,” he said tersely, legs braced as if to bar his way.
“Good,” Aidan said softly, meaning it. He wasn’t afraid of death. He looked forward to it—as long as Ian was avenged first.
Malcolm seized his arm. “’Twas not yer fault. Ye have yer destiny to return to, Aidan.”
“Yer nay welcome here. Get out,” Aidan roared, shrugging him off. He whirled, entering the tower room and slamming the door closed behind him.
His damned brother was wrong. He had failed to keep his son safe. He had saved hundreds of Innocents, but not his own son; he would never forgive himself for it. He steeled himself against the anguish, but too late.
From the door’s other side, he heard Malcolm’s every silent thought. I willna let ye die an’I willna give up on ye. Nor will I be leavin’ Awe soon.
Furious with his brother, hating him for refusing to lose faith, Aidan threw the bolt down on the door. Inside it was dark and cold. No fire burned in the stone hearth and every small arrow slit had long since been nailed closed with shutters, so the darkness was complete.
Eventually Malcolm would leave. He always did, as there was always a deamhan to vanquish, an Innocent to save. Malcolm served the gods as if his vows were his life, with his wife at his side. But Malcolm was not a deamhan’s son. He was the son of the great Master, Brogan Mor, and a Master himself—as well as the laird of the Macleans of south Mull and Coll. They had nothing in common.
Malcolm had been raised at Dunroch by his father and then, after Brogan Mor’s death in battle, by his uncle, Black Royce, to be chief of Clan Gillean. Aidan had been sent as an infant into a nobleman’s foster care, for his mother had retired to an abbey to spend the rest of her life there. Malcolm had often gone to visit Lady Margaret at the abbey, ever the dutiful son. His calls had been welcome. Aidan had met his mother but once, when he was a Master, and she had not been able to look at him. He had quickly left her to her prayers and repentance.
He had grown up an outsider; his brother had been the next great laird, a Master whose vows were his life.
Aidan had forsaken his vows the day of Ian’s murder.
If Moray’s return was fated, the gods, apparently, had written his son’s death, as well. He hated the gods passionately and he cursed them now—as he did every single day of his life.
He felt Malcolm leaving the hall, going below, and his mind began to ease. His senses intensified impossibly. Tonight, he thought, he would find and destroy Moray.
Tonight, he would tear Moray’s throat out with his teeth. Then he would feed his heart to the wolves.
And he gave into the wolf, a savage and ruthless beast he could barely control, an animal intent on mayhem and death. He lifted his face toward the moon and howled. Outside, he felt the pack gathering and begin to howl in return, lusting for blood and death. He quieted, leaving the wolves to their eerie, savage chorus. He was ready now.
He walked to the center of the circular room and sank to the floor, where he sat cross-legged on the cold, hard stone.
More than six decades had passed since his son’s murder. His demonic father could be in any time, in any place. Moray clearly thought himself the victor in their privy war, but he was wrong. Their war would never end, not until one or both of them was vanquished. He didn’t care which it was—as long as Moray went to the fires of hell with him.
He began sifting through the sands of time, in the future and the past, through deserts and mountains, villages and cities, searching for Moray’s evil power.
Hours passed. He strained through time, evil everywhere, a long, painstaking process. The moon rose. He did not need to see it to know. The hairs on his nape prickled, like hackles rising. But the blackest power he was hunting eluded him.
He could not give up. He growled in frustration.
And through the hours of the day and then the night, Innocence wept for salvation. He heard every single cry for aid, for his senses were not just attuned to evil but to its helpless prey. Men, women and children begged him to rescue them from destruction and death.
He would not recall the last time he had protected Innocence. It was before his son had died.
He ignored their cries now.
He did not care who died.
TABBY UNLOCKED THE DOOR FOR HER, giving her a smile. “Isn’t it great to be home?” she asked.
Brie didn’t smile back. She stepped into her loft, wearing the clothes Tabby had brought her—an oversized sweatshirt embroidered with a blue-and-gold dragon and her comfy loose-fit jeans. She was more worried than ever about Aidan. She’d spent another full day at Five, under close observation, and she was champing at the bit. She had been taken off all sedation and the antianxiety medication, so once again she could think clearly. Aidan was no longer being tortured, and he was no longer crushed by stone. She couldn’t feel anything from him at all.
God, was he even alive?
She was adept at blocking out human emotion, for it was a necessity in order to get through each and every day. But she hadn’t been able to block his torment at all. His emotions had consumed her as no one’s ever had before, even across centuries. What, exactly, did the fact that she felt him so powerfully across time mean?
Everything was meant to be, and every Rose woman knew it.
Brie shivered as Tabby’s cell phone rang. Brie shut and locked the door, going to her work station on the far side of the loft. She sat down at her PC, which remained in sleep mode. He could not be dead.
Tabby came over. “That was Sam. She’s talked to every contact and snitch she knows. It looks like you’re right. He’s not here.”
Brie whirled her chair to face her. “How could I empathize across time?”
Tabby clasped her shoulder, their gazes locking. “You must really love him, Brie. It’s the only explanation I can think of.”
Her heart lurched. Her crush had been so safe and silly, until now. Loving him was terrifying, because he would never love her back—even if their paths crossed. “It’s just a crush,” Brie whispered, turning back to her PC. She was praying that there was another reason for her amazing empathy.
But
