CHAPTER TEN #2
He didn’t answer, slipping from the tent. The moment the flap fell closed behind him, the wolves howled all at once, a huge and savage night cry.
Brie leapt beneath her covers and pulled them up high. She didn’t have to strain to feel him now. He wasn’t blocking anything from her.
He lusted for the wolves; he lusted for power, blood and death.
She was forgotten.
THE ROYAL LIEUTENANT OF THE NORTH, Robert Frasier, adjusted his clothing carefully.
He replaced his codpiece, jerked up his dark hose and tied the drawstring firmly.
He tugged down the short skirt of his black velvet surcote, trimmed in gold.
His body vibrated with pleasure and power.
In another moment or so, he would summon another woman to his bed.
A bottle of fine French wine sat on the table in his tent.
He crossed the spacious area, stepping across the dead bodies on the floor—two beautiful women and a beautiful squire.
Without a thought for them, he poured a glass.
As he sipped, he recalled the events of that afternoon—events that had propelled him to take so many Innocents at once, with most of his army within hearing distance, just outside his tent.
Rage began.
In fury, he tossed the glass aside, receiving no satisfaction as it broke.
Aidan had healed the witch.
Demons did not heal.
He roared in rage and threw the wine bottle at the tent wall. He had known before Aidan was ever birthed that he would have the greatest power of all his sons. A goddess had come to him to taunt him with it.
“This child, your 1,025th son, will be the greatest of your progeny. He will have a power even greater than your own,” Faola had whispered. “We have great plans for him.”
He had been sleeping and he instantly awoke.
He had stared at the beautiful warrior goddess, whom he had never before seen.
The goddess had been sent to the ancient kings long ago to mother a race of warriors to defend mankind.
He had been certain this was a dream—or a jest. But he had taken one look at her burning eyes and realized she spoke the truth.
“Why tell me this?” he had demanded.
“There will be great travail. There will be great tragedy. You will covet his powers. You will be his test. Only one of you can prevail. This is written.”
Faola began to fade before his very eyes. He had demanded that she wait, but she had laughed at him and disappeared.
Satan had approached him many millennia ago, his offer so tempting.
Moray had accepted it instantly and their bargain had been sealed.
He could not comprehend why Faola would come to him now.
But Satan was more devious than any god, and it crossed his mind that Satan could certainly test him, too.
Perhaps Satan had engineered this rivalry with his son and the test was really about him, Moray.
Moray had made certain that Lady Margaret, Aidan’s mother, was kept in good health until the child was born.
He had quickly put spies amongst the Maclaine foster family, although he soon realized his young son would never die a natural death.
He was never sickly. He never fell, never sprained a tendon, never suffered a broken bone.
From infancy he could move small objects across tabletops and drop flies with a glance.
His foster parents were afraid of him, and only Brogan Mor’s will insured that Aidan remained with them.
He had waited twenty-one years for his son to come to manhood, for manhood was always the best time to show a new recruit the pleasure and power of evil. But he had been too late. Aidan had already been chosen by the Brotherhood, and he had taken sacred vows to defend mankind and keep Faith.
Moray had been enraged, but he had calmed soon enough.
Hadn’t Faola—or Satan—told him there would be great travail and greater tragedy?
The hunt had begun.
It had taken him another fifteen years to drive Aidan to evil.
He had enjoyed every moment of watching Aidan destroy that village of innocent men, women and children, even if he had not lifted his own sword even once.
For he had felt Aidan’s torment. He had savored every moment of his son’s anguish. It had increased his power briefly.
When it was done, Aidan should not have cared about anything or anyone except himself, his power and his next victims. Lust for evil should have ruled him.
But in spite of the crimes he’d committed against God and Innocence that day, he had let the survivors run away to hide. He still loved his son—and demons did not love anything or anyone.
He hadn’t been turned completely.
His behavior over the past decades confirmed it.
He wasn’t a true deamhan. He was only half deamhan, lusting for power as all deamhanain did but leaving his victims alive.
Like a man with one foot in two disparate worlds, Aidan ignored destruction and death, but did not cause it or relish in it.
It was almost incomprehensible. It was not acceptable. It was infuriating.
Only one of you will prevail.
And now Aidan had healed the Rose witch.
Moray had always intended to finish the hunt and finish the turning, but he had been very preoccupied these past sixty-six years, all of them spent in New York City, London and Edinburgh—the triangle of his growing empire.
In those cities, death and destruction were on the rise.
In fact, anarchy was on the rise in every major city in the world, and he knew his cohorts well.
Last night he had leapt to New York in 2008.
Mayor Bloomberg had finally called in the National Guard, which had pleased Moray to no end. He had a plan for the Guard—oh, yes.
Nothing would stop him now. He would be the victor in this trial with his half-demon son. The little witch had power—as did her friends—but he wasn’t concerned. He had returned after almost seven decades because he finally had all the power he needed.
And it did not come from the dead on his tent floor.
AIDAN SAT CROSS-LEGGED ON THE ground. The moon was rising above the mountains against a purple sky. A few stars had joined it. He stared up at the flame-colored moon, desperately wishing he were with the pack. The urge to lift his face and howl was bone-deep.
I don’t like the Wolf.
Of course she didn’t.
The urge intensified. The Wolf had been his salvation ever since the fall. He stared toward the forest, where pairs of glowing eyes met his. The pack continued to wait for him. He could hear them panting softly in the night.
His heart surged. He felt his hackles rise. He felt saliva gather. He was hungry…. When had he last eaten fresh meat?
But he glanced down the rise toward his tent, feeling for Brianna, who was drifting to sleep. He could not go with the pack; he had to stay and guard her from the evil in the night. She had almost died that day because of his war with his father.
But he had healed her.
He hated thinking. The Wolf was thoughtless. He glanced back at the forest and met the steady, intent gazes of the wolves. If he left Brianna now, he had little doubt he would return to find her hurt or dead.
Tired of waiting for him, the wolves turned away one by one, and faded into the forest. Aidan stared after their slinking forms, violently wishing he could go with them.
His head pounded with confusion. Once, long ago, he had been wary of the creature and frightened of it. Then, he had welcomed the Wolf as his best friend. But tonight his heart warred with his body. He could not trust the Wolf to stay sentinel over Brianna that night.
He growled in frustration.
The pack was gone, having sped off into the forest. He stood and started slowly down the ridge. He pushed open the flap and glanced into the night-darkened tent.
One candle burned. The light flickered over Brianna as she slept, curled up on her side, facing him. Her dark hair was loose, a thick mane of waves framing her small, pale face. She was breathing deeply and evenly, and in sleep she looked like a tiny angel of compassion and grace.
She thought herself plain; he thought her beautiful.
A fist seemed to go through his chest. It was the fist of desire, and it chased away the ravenous bloodlust.
Why don’t you take me?
He tensed. There had been many virgins, he had no respect for Innocence. But he didn’t want to taint her. She deserved far more than a night of passion in his bed.
Why are you so afraid to go to bed with me?
He wasn’t afraid. She would not heal him by giving him her lush little body.
Sharing a bed wasn’t going to miraculously change him into the man he had once been.
And even if it could, he would not allow it, just as he wouldn’t allow their “friendship” to heal him, either.
He would never consider them friends. For the moment, in this war, they were allies.
Even if he wished for them to be friends—or lovers—Moray’s return had made that impossible.
He had been terrified when she’d lain dying in his arms.
He had not had much time to brood upon the events of the day. He reeled inwardly now to know he still had his great white power. How was it even possible?
Had his devout mother been a Healer? If so, he had never been told of it.
So he was not as heartless as a half deamhan should be.
He did not regret healing her and giving her back her life.
But she was stubbornly fighting for his soul, when he did not care at all about it.
She must not be the one to pay the price for his war with Moray.
The war with his father had already cost him Ian.
He stared at her pale face, her cheeks slightly flushed from the winter sun, her lashes thick and dark on her cheeks, and his heart turned over, hard.
He must not have feelings for her. He knew that. And he didn’t—other than a strange admiration for her tenacity and courage. As for the desire, apparently a part of him had not died along with Ian. But he would ignore his human side, no matter what, until she was gone.