CHAPTER EIGHT
THE FOLLOWING SUNRISE, Claire waited to mount her mare, shivering.
A dozen men were preparing to mount up, as well, and the gatehouse doors had been opened, the portcullis raised.
Through it, she could see the shadow of the drawbridge as it was lowered.
She turned her gaze and instantly found Malcolm.
He had yet to mount and was speaking with Seamus by the castle’s interior entrance. Claire’s heart turned over, hard.
She had had one of the worst nights of her life. She’d barely slept, tossing and turning, her mind racing, but every time she’d opened her eyes, she’d seen Malcolm seated by the fire, awake and watchful. He’d watched over her the entire night.
Before Malcolm’s terrible declaration last night, she had been eager to go to Iona where she would see the shrine and hopefully the Cathach, as well. But how could she be excited now when her world was unraveling at the speed of light?
Moray be the lord o’ the darkness.
His spawn be the Deamhanain.
Claire had spent the entire night convincing herself that evil was human. She had prayed that demons and the devil did not exist. But it had been impossible to convince herself that she was right and Malcolm wrong.
What if everything Malcolm believed was actually true?
Claire did not want to go down that road, not today, not ever.
But that’s what scholars did—they asked, what if?
She stared at Malcolm. He looked exactly the way a man dedicated to vanquishing evil should.
He had the charisma of a leader, the power of a warrior, and he was so damn gorgeous.
He looked as if he was the one descended from the gods.
Malcolm turned. His gaze was as concerned as it had been last night, but she did not want his kindness or his concern.
She was very ashamed of her hysterical and cowardly behavior.
It wasn’t going to happen again, no matter what.
Panic and fear weren’t going to solve anything.
And she already knew that bad things went bump in the night.
Claire thought about Amy, who had to be worried sick about her by now.
How many times had Amy stressed how evil criminals today were?
God, did she know something? How could she not, when her husband was in the Bureau, even if he was in counterterrorism?
He had to have inside information; all cops talked, including feds.
If the world was as Malcolm claimed, then evil was deliberately and purposefully stalking its innocent victims, seeking destruction and death.
If Malcolm was right, evil had a terrifying new face.
Malcolm approached, his men now mounted. He smiled at her, but his gray gaze was searching. “Ye didna sleep well.”
It wasn’t a question. “Neither did you.” Claire noted that he didn’t look tired at all. She wouldn’t be surprised if he could go days without sleep and remain unaffected.
“’Tis a short trek to Iona,” he said. “Ye can rest there.”
Rest was not on her mind. “I am sorry about last night,” Claire said tersely. “It will never happen again.”
He shrugged. “Yer a woman, lass. Ye need a man to protect ye.”
Claire smiled grimly. She did not want to fight with him. The fight had been knocked out of her last night.
A moment later, she was mounted beside him and they were riding through the gatehouse, the portcullis slamming down behind them.
They crossed the drawbridge. The moment the last rider cleared the bridge, Claire heard it being raised.
The trail down to the beach was as steep as she recalled, forested ridges on their right, the cliffs on their left. And then the temperature dropped.
Instantly, beneath the horse’s hooves, in a single heartbeat, the dirt turned white with frost.
The leaves and thistle on the sides of the trail turned white, too, and her breath made puffs in the air.
And Claire knew.
So did Malcolm. He shouted a command in Gaelic. He glanced at Claire. “Ye stay back!”
Before Claire could exclaim or protest, he was on his charger, galloping down the road with his men, one warrior having seized her reins. She tried to jerk her reins back, because all she could comprehend was that evil was hunting them and Malcolm was not going to face it alone.
“Let go!” she screamed.
The man was young, huge and annoyed. He reached for her—and Claire jammed her Taser into his arm. He collapsed.
She seized her reins and kicked her horse as hard as she could, galloping headlong down the trail, holding the saddle horn, determined not to fall off.
Malcolm’s war cry rang out in all its bloodcurdling intensity.
Her heart went wild. She rounded a corner and saw Malcolm’s men furiously battling their attackers.
Already, bloody bodies littered the road.
She saw him whirl his charger, meeting a vicious assault with his shield.
A moment later his attacker lay on the ground, face-first. And as suddenly as it began, the battle seemed to be over.
She sawed on her reins. Five men in mail lay prone on the ground. Huge relief began.
The mare halted, flinging her head about in protest. Claire didn’t want to go closer, not yet. She wanted to see what Malcolm was going to do now, because they’d taken three prisoners.
Malcolm dismounted and handed his shield off. His swords sheathed, he approached the three prisoners, who were being held by his men. Claire tensed, uncertain. She had a very bad feeling. Malcolm’s expression had never been so ruthless.
Malcolm paused before the trio. She saw him look at one man, dismiss him mentally, then look at another and finally face the third. A terrible light flickered in his eyes.
The third man, a tall, fair-skinned giant with blond hair, paled as if with pain.
Malcolm said something to him in Gaelic. Claire knew he was demanding answers.
The other man gave the most evil smile Claire had ever seen and her gut turned over with dread.
Malcolm spoke again.
The giant stared coldly back. Malcolm didn’t move a muscle. He skewered the giant with his stare and the man went down on his knees, as if pushed. But Malcolm hadn’t touched him, and his men stood behind the prisoner to prevent his escape.
Claire’s skin crawled. What was happening? The giant seemed to be in some pain. Malcolm’s stare burned and the prisoner went abruptly down on his back, as if flung by a huge force.
Malcolm pressed one booted foot on the man’s throat.
Claire bit off a cry.
And now, although Malcolm spoke in Gaelic, Claire understood. “Moray neo Sibylla?” Moray or Sibylla? He wanted to know who had sent them.
The giant sneered.
Malcolm smiled with such menace that Claire froze—and then she silently begged him to stop. He did not. A terrible crack sounded as he stepped harder on the man’s throat. Claire cried out.
But the giant, his neck now bent at an impossible angle, spoke. In French, he said, “Your lord sent me and he’ll send others. There is no place for her to hide.” He snarled, very much like an animal, spittle on his mouth.
Claire couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced with hurtful speed.
Malcolm removed his boot from the man’s neck. A terrible expression formed on his face and his stare never wavered.
“Stop, Malcolm,” Claire cried instinctively, but it was too late. The giant’s snarl had frozen. His face was a stiff mask, his eyes wide and lifeless now.
In utter shock, Claire slid from the mare, walked over to the woods and knelt. As she tried to vomit, she heard Malcolm giving orders and the men mounting. What had just happened? What had he done? Then she heard him come to stand behind her.
“Ye were t’ stay behind.”
She couldn’t throw up, she realized. She turned. He held out his hand, his expression no longer utterly ruthless, just harsh and grim. She refused it, staggering to her feet. “What did you do?”
He stared, his eyes glittering. “I be sworn to vanquish evil. He be a Deamhan. We do not allow Deamhanain to live. He’d kill ye the moment I turned me back.”
She panted. “He didn’t die from a broken neck!”
“Nay.”
Oh, God, she thought. “What did you do? Suck his life out?”
Malcolm turned away, then back. “We need ride.” He was angry now.
Claire had seen it with her own eyes. “You killed that monster using some kind of kinetic power, didn’t you!”
He didn’t answer—and it was an answer enough.
“What are you?” she cried.
IONA WAS JUST a few miles long and as wide, with low, lush green hills dotted with sheep, and pearl-white beaches. As the galley they were in approached, Claire huddled in her brat, chilled to the bone.
Malcolm had killed that creature with a look.
He had superhuman powers, too.
What did that make him?
She glanced at Malcolm where he stood in the galley’s bow. Last night he had spent the entire night making certain she was safe. He had done so more to comfort her than to protect her from evil beings.
But evil was out there. That creature hadn’t been human.
Claire closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready to use the word demon, not even in her own thoughts.
And then she felt him stand above her. She looked up. He stared down at her with that concerned expression she was becoming so familiar with. “I be sorry,” he said grimly, “that ye saw what ye did.”
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“’Tis forbidden.”
“You’ve told me everything else!”
He hesitated and she saw he was truly uncertain.
“Who am I going to tell? The pope?”
“’Tis nay amusing t’ jest in such a manner.” He was harsh.
Claire reminded herself that, in this time, heresy was the most serious offense in Christendom, more so even than witchcraft.
Any Catholic clergyman who had witnessed what she had would believe Malcolm was both a heretic and a sorcerer.
He’d be prosecuted ruthlessly. If fortunate, his punishment would be excommunication and exile.
“I am trying,” she said, low, “to keep it together. And maybe I can remain sane, if you just tell me what I need to know.”