him.
Ian had been in demonic captivity as a child. Now she recalled that Aidan had fallen to the dark side as a result of his thinking Ian murdered. Aidan of Awe had a record of nearly demonic activity that spanned decades. She knew. She’d handed the file over to Brie herself.
Ian had been presumed dead for decades…which meant he’d been a demon’s prisoner for all that time.
A chill went through her.
Demons thrived on torture, abuse, rape and murder. It was a miracle he was still alive. But the emerging facts were beginning to explain a lot. No wonder he was such a hard-ass. He’d been so unlikable, so cold and unfeeling—until he’d had the breakdown.
What had they done to him?
She was never going to forget the sight of him on his hands and knees, trembling violently, tears streaming.
Her heart seemed to stir within her chest. Sam jerked in shock, and she looked at her reflection in the mirror. For one instant, she saw herself standing there, naked and cut, and her blue eyes seemed unusually soft and worried.
Her eyes looked like Tabby’s, except for their color.
Her sister was the kindest woman she’d ever known. Tabby worried about everyone. Tabby’s compassion knew no bounds. Tabby often had that look in her eyes.
Damn it. She, Sam, was never concerned. She took life in stride. She fought for the Innocent, was prepared to die for them, but she never had and would never shed a single tear over an Innocent’s murder. She hadn’t even cried when she’d realized her mother was dead. She’d gone hunting, instead.
Her composure did not slip now. The image of her mother’s murder was engraved on her mind, and she wanted it that way. She’d been twelve years old, walking home from school alone, because she’d cut her Spanish class so she could play street hockey with the boys. But they’d pissed her off and she’d gotten into a fistfight and gone home instead. When she’d walked into her front yard, she’d seen the man getting up, her mother lying prone and lifeless on the ground.
Sam had run to her mother, and had quickly realized Laura was dead. Tears had burned her eyes, but the grief had been dull because there was so much rage. She welcomed the fury, the need to strike back, the burning revenge. She leapt up and set chase. The demon had been halfway down the block. But instead of confronting her, he’d vanished, leaping into time.
She’d meant to murder him with her bare hands, even though just a skinny kid.
“Coward!” she had screamed.
She’d spent a year hunting him but he’d never come back.
Now, sixteen years later, she knew she’d never find him. He might even be vanquished by someone else’s hand. But every time she brought a demon down, there was a deep, internal satisfaction. Laura would be proud.
Being cold-hearted was far more than a means of survival. It was the only way to win. She was a Slayer. And that made her a soldier. No soldier could succumb to compassion, much less sorrow. There was no room in her life for regrets. She took the mouthwash and poured it over her rib cage. It stung. Compassion was not a part of her MO. And it was an especially bad idea where Maclean was concerned.
If he thought her sympathetic toward him, he’d use it to his advantage.
Grim now, she doused the wound with the rest of her scotch. It was a good thing she still thought him a complete bastard. There was no sympathy to be had. He wasn’t that kid in captivity anymore. He’d survived—people survived the bad, the evil and the ugly, all the time. She took an emerald-green towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, staring at her set face in the mirror. And she made a pact with herself.
No matter what they’d done to him, it wasn’t her business; she had a war to wage.
Sam picked up her cell and dialed Kit, who was back at the office. “How was the rest of the party?”
“Boring. Good caviar, though.”
“As if you’d know. Did Hemmer take you on the VIP tour?”
“No, but he asked a lot of questions about you. He’s either smitten or really suspicious. Where are you? I’m about to leave.”
“I’m at Maclean’s. 1101 Park Avenue. It’s been an interesting night. Can you swing by and bring me clothes? My dress is in the trash.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“It was just subs, Kit.”
“Yeah, I heard about the Rampage after you left. I’ll be about thirty,” Kit said, hanging up.
Sam took the small purse with her, and retrieved her messenger bag. Checking in on Maclean while clad in a towel was asking for trouble. But she was assigned to him and his PC was on the desk in the library, almost waving a red flag at her.
She smiled and went over to it and sat down. When she realized she did not need a password to log on, she shook her head, disbelieving. Then she sobered. She didn’t need a password because Maclean wasn’t worried about anyone invading his privacy. The bimbos he slept with wouldn’t bother, and she would hazard one good guess that he didn’t have friends—not even a single one.
He was that difficult, that asocial, that much of a loner.
She was a loner, too, but she enjoyed the occasional drink with Kit, her boss and some of her other coworkers. Even that jerk, MacGregor. But Maclean was just unlikable.
She had the grim notion that she might start feeling sorry for him, if she wasn’t careful. She had that odd churning in her stomach again. It was nonplussing. So what if he lived a life of extreme isolation? And for all she knew, he hung with a bunch of equally unlikable jerks.
It was time to work. Shoving her speculation aside, she started to log onto HCU’s immense database. It was time to become acquainted with his file.
But logging on required three different passwords. As she waited, she glanced at his desktop and then at his Documents folder. She might never have this opportunity again. Sam logged off from HCU, deciding to snoop into his hard drive instead. But it was all mundane stuff. He had numerous investments, a categorized and insured art collection (hmm), and lists of operating expenses for his two homes. He had auto insurance for five snazzy cars, and home owner’s insurance. It was all so routine that it was boring, when nothing about Maclean was boring.
The red flag that had gone up began waving.
A file labeled Travel contained his various itineraries from the past two years, as he jet-setted around the world—either in first class or on privately chartered jets. For a man who could leap through time, it was really strange.
Sam wondered if he was keeping a low profile because of Scotland Yard. But his profile would be even lower if he leapt in and out of Paris, instead of flying there first-class.
Kit called and told her she’d be there in five minutes. As Sam hung up, she decided to check his Web activity. She went online and checked his mailbox.
It took her two seconds to learn that he was having an erotic conversation with a man—and another ten to figure out
