CHAPTER EIGHT #3
Claire stared at the tawny Highlander. He just smiled at her. Then he said softly, never removing his gaze from her, “Calum, lad, I wish a few moments alone with the lass.”
Malcolm turned to Claire. She didn’t hesitate. “Please.”
He nodded grimly and strode off.
She was alone with the so-called abbot now. “So it’s all true. This is a world of good and evil, demons and Masters. The demons have superpowers, and so do you. You’re both descended from old gods. Malcolm is descended from that goddess, Faola. And this is a secret brotherhood.”
“Aye.”
Claire stared, finally accepting reality—or the ultimate nightmare. He stared back, patient but intent. It was so hard to bend her mind around the fact that Malcolm was the great-grandson of a deity. She finally said, with dread, “Is he immortal?”
MacNeil smiled. “None of us be immortal, lass. Brogan Mor died in battle from mortal wounds. He was two hundred and fifty-two.”
Claire had almost forgotten. “Can Malcolm die in a battle, too? The way his father did?” That thought made her even more distraught.
“O’ course he can. Any Master can die from the worst wounds, if no one heals him—or if he doesna heal himself.”
Claire had to know. “And if he isn’t hurt, how long will he live? Two hundred years? Five hundred years?”
“I dinna ken.”
“Take a guess!” she cried, trembling.
MacNeil sobered. “My guess would be hundreds of years.” His expression was searching now, as if he wished to understand the turmoil in her heart.
Claire turned to gaze at Malcolm. She wanted him to have a long life, but this was too much to bear. What if he lived a few hundred years? But it wasn’t as if they would be together. When she died at ninety or so, he wasn’t going to know about it—or even care.
I will care.
Malcolm’s voice sounded loud and clear in her mind, although he stood so far away she couldn’t hear him if he spoke to her.
“This is really hard,” she heard herself say.
She forced a smile that felt ghastly at MacNeil.
“I wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow in my bed in NewYork—in a sane world filled with criminals who are sociopaths and perverts, nothing more. ”
Compassion flitted through MacNeil’s emerald-green eyes. “We both ken ye canna return yet.”
Claire thought about Sibylla and the demon on the road to Dunroch. She shivered. “I have a major question. Why haven’t you guys brought all kinds of modern inventions back to this time? Why are you fighting with swords and not guns? For that matter, why not just suck the life from each other?”
His smile flashed. “I can take yer life away, but not the life of a powerful Deamhan—he’d use his great power to thwart mine. But if I wound him badly, I can take his life very simply, for he’ll be too weak to stop me.”
Unfortunately, that made sense.
“It takes a great effort to take life, lass. ’Tis often easier to take a man’s head with a blade. Besides,” he added, “we’re Highlanders. Even though we can travel to yer time, we live here.”
“What about the rest?”
He became serious. “There be many rules, Claire. When we make our vows, we swear to obey the Code. There be debate to some meanings, but certain rules are clear. A Master shall not change history. A Master shall not corrupt the present people. A Master shall not defy fate. Bringing your guns here would do all o’ that. ”
“And the demons? Surely those time-traveling twerps are into guns and gas.”
“We destroy them when they come, whether they bring the future with them or not. When they do, we destroy their weapons.” He added softly, “The Deamhanain do not take pleasure in using poison, gas or guns. They take pleasure in torture and pain inflicted with their own foul hands, in rape and then the murder o’ innocent life. ”
“Got it,” Claire breathed. She turned away, sick to her stomach. Is that what Sibylla intended for her? Torture, rape and then death?
She touched her throat and walked toward a pair of fir trees, pausing in the shade. She gulped air. Her mind was ready to shut down. “What other powers do the demons have? What is the worst they can do?” What is the worst Sibylla can do?
MacNeil’s gaze darkened. “If there be a power, there be a demon, somewhere, who has it.” His mouth hardened. “But there be a Master, somewhere, who has it, too.”
She was swept with unpleasant chills. “Great. Something to look forward to. Invincible demons.” Claire sat down on a small, handsomely carved bench.
“I just told ye, there be a Master to vanquish them.” He continued, revealing that he was reading her mind, “Sibylla has been given great powers o’ evil. She truly enjoys torture, takin’ life.”
She stared grimly at him. “Lucky me.”
“Ye have Malcolm to protect ye. He willna fail, lass.”
She began to tremble. “Why? Why am I here, MacNeil? Little old human, scholarly, cowardly Claire!”
“Ye have yearned to be here fer years,” he returned. “Ye have yearned to meet Malcolm. Why do ye complain?”
“That is not an answer!” she cried. “And how do you know this? Why was I expected? Damn it, what do the Ancients want of me?” And she realized she considered her journey through time to be fate.
“I have the gift o’ sight at times, but I dinna ken what the Ancients intend fer ye. They have nay let me see.” He stared intently at her. “My suggestion be this. Dinna fight yer fate.”
She stared. “Is Malcolm my fate?”
“I canna answer ye.”
“Like hell!” she cried, fists clenched. “You can’t—or you won’t?”
His face hardened, and in that instant, there was nothing pleasing or reassuring about him. “I willna.”
Claire retreated. He could be affable, even flirtatious, but now, there was no mistaking he was a powerful, authoritative man. Like Malcolm, he was a Highland laird—and on Iona, he was a virtual king. “Gotcha,” she said.
His face eased slightly.
Claire bit her lip. She wanted to know if she would make it back home and if Amy, John and their kids would live long, healthy lives.
“Ye will return, lass,” he said softly. “I be allowed to tell ye that much.”
Claire had expected to be thrilled. Instead, she was dismayed. Her stare wandered across the gardens to Malcolm, whose gaze was riveted upon them. Her heart lurched. One day, she would leave him.
She swallowed. “Can you please tell me about my family?”
“If I tell ye yer cousin doesna need ye, will ye believe me?”
Claire hesitated. Could she really trust this man’s interpretation of the future when it came to Amy and the kids? It hit her then that Amy had to be told everything. She might know that evil wasn’t as random as it seemed, but she couldn’t possibly know about inhuman demons, could she?
Or could she?
If the war between good and evil had gone on since time began; if cults existed like this Brotherhood to fight it; if she, Claire Camden, had uncovered the truth; then damn it all, others had to know, too.
“When will ye ask me what ye really wish to?” MacNeil said softly.
Claire became rigid and her gaze flew to his. Then she glanced at Malcolm. Suddenly, she felt as if Malcolm was listening to their every word, but that was impossible. She was sure that he was listening to her every thought, though.
But there was no avoiding the most frightening subject of all. It was hard to get the words out because she dreaded MacNeil’s answer. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “He is supposed to protect the Innocent, but he killed an innocent woman during sex. Was it an accident?”
“Aye.”
“Then explain it to me,” she cried softly. “Because it sounds like a crime of pleasure!”
“He was seduced into the crime by Moray.”
Claire felt all the blood drain from her face.
“Evil always hunts the young Masters, those who dinna ken their powers well. Moray wanted Malcolm to take pleasure in death—and then wish to take such pleasure again. He wanted Malcolm to turn demon, Claire.”
“Oh, my God,” Claire whispered. “He wanted Malcolm’s soul.”
“Aye. Moray lured Malcolm to Urquhart, battled him there an’ left him dyin’. Then he sent a beautiful maid to him—to tempt him to evil.”
Claire’s mind scrambled. “I don’t get it.”
He was very serious now. “The Ancients gave us the power to take life from others, not just to destroy evil but to enhance our powers an’ to save ourselves from mortality.
We are meant to live, Claire, for we are the salvation o’ mankind.
Malcolm was dyin’. He took life from the woman to heal himself—as he should.
But he didna realize he’d taken all she had until it be too late, an’ she lay dead. ”
Claire was on her feet, partly horrified—and partly mesmerized. “I would understand this, except they were having sex, MacNeil.”
“Ah, lassie, well, power be the ultimate pleasure. Power makes men hot,” he said softly, “an’ there be no rapture like havin’ more power swellin’ in the veins.”
Claire went still, a very graphic image coming into mind. Taking power was sexually arousing? Taking power and a life force made a man want sex? It was orgasmic?
“Aye,” he murmured, and he grinned.
His tone had become so seductive that she instantly knew he’d taken power during sex. She looked from his smoking green eyes toward Malcolm. He was now striding over, appearing enraged.
MacNeil said, his gaze sparkling, “When ye add sex to Le Puissance, there be even more rapture.”
When he grinned, appearing very much a naughty boy, Claire knew he had wanted to make her hot. It had worked. In spite of the dire nature of their conversation, every inch of her was inflamed.
She walked away from him, too stunned to be angry with such antics. In a way, this also made sense, because since time began, power was as much an aphrodisiac as beauty, if not more.
She whirled with sudden comprehension. “The women—the victims—they get off on it, too, don’t they?”
MacNeil nodded. “Like yer telepathy, lassie. What the man feels, the woman does, an’ the other way around.”
Malcolm seized her arm. “She’s had enough words with ye,” he told MacNeil furiously. “But I’ll be havin’ a few words with ye, meself.”
MacNeil shrugged. “Ye be very fortunate, Calum. An’ I be a man, as well as a Master. I canna help but admire such beauty an’ want it fer meself.”
Malcolm was ready to explode and Claire knew it. But before she could try to defuse his anger, MacNeil said, “I’d never betray ye, lad.” He shrugged as if he’d done no wrong and walked away.
Malcolm pulled on Claire, dragging her aside. Claire turned into his arms instead. His eyes widened, and then he gripped her shoulders. Claire stepped closer, knowing what she would find. His huge arousal hit her hip.
“Is that what happened?” she whispered.
“Aye.” His gaze held hers searchingly.
“But you were hurt—dying. With me, you’re fine. Why do you think you’ll lose control?” she cried, touching his cheek.
“Because I’ve known Le Puissance. Any man who has will want such rapture again. When I be with ye, lass, I have the urge to take one taste—one taste—o’ yer power.”
Claire stared into his heated eyes, aware that his desire, which should have frightened her, was having a very opposite effect. Her heart pounded far too rapidly now. “I trust you,” she said, and dear God, she did.
In spite of what he was saying, she moved deeply into his embrace, laying her cheek on his chest, listening to his thundering heart. Her body throbbed against his. Malcolm’s hands moved over her back. “Damn the MacNeil fer makin’ ye so hot.”
“You make me hot,” she managed to say. She looked up. “I do trust you. I am certain we can make love without resorting to…” She hesitated. “Le Puissance.”
And the moment she had spoken, she felt his body jerk and swell impossibly. “Nay.”
“Malcolm!”
“Canna ye try to ken? Moray wanted me to take pleasure in death. He wants me to lust fer Le Puissance.”
Claire stared back. Dread arose, and with it, fear. “You do want it again,” she said thickly. “You want it from me.”
“Aye,” he said as roughly. “Yer my test, Claire.”