CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM STARED at him, shocked. He turned away, reaching for his T-shirt. He shrugged it on.
Her brain buzzed. He was actually discussing the past. “I hate what happened to you. I want the monk to pay, too.”
He didn’t answer. He turned back to the window. Outside, the sun was rising and the morning was pale gray.
She’d probably used up all of her spare luck, but she said, “Do you dream about it a lot?”
He gave her a dark, are-you-kidding look.
She’d thought so. Sam slid from the bed. She shivered, but decided not to bother with a blanket—she wanted a bit of female power. Naked, she might hold his interest a bit longer. He might answer a question or two. She walked up to him. “Are the dreams always that bad?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
“No, Ian, it’s not an interrogation. It’s a friend being concerned.” She’d been right not to put on her clothes. He watched her now.
Sam poured herself a glass of water, and took a sip as his gaze moved down her body. “Yer freezing.”
She smiled and put the cup down, then laid her hand on his shoulder. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”
He didn’t pull away. “Get dressed. Not that I mind the show.”
She was offering comfort in the tiniest, most discreet way possible, and he was allowing it. She was exultant. “Aren’t you going to deny it, Ian? Aren’t you going to laugh at me, mock me, for calling myself a friend?”
His stare became impossible to read. His mouth curled, but Sam didn’t know if it was with scorn and derision or simple amusement. It didn’t matter. This was all his big cover-up. He shrugged. “If ye want to call yerself my friend, why would I stop ye? Ye can call yerself whatever ye like.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He looked from her eyes to her mouth to her breasts, then lower. He slowly looked up. “Ye can’t play me, Sam. Ye can’t work me the way ye work other men.”
Sam slid her hand to his nape. She felt him tense and knew he was going to pull away.
Sam glanced around, saw her thong and T-shirt, and picked them up. She slid the clothes on and said, “When my mother was murdered, I was twelve. I didn’t see the demon do it. But I saw him get up and leave her there, dead and drained of her life and power.”
Ian started. “I didn’t know.”
“My mother was like Tabby. She was a powerful witch with a heart of gold. No one was kinder.” To her surprise, Sam felt herself becoming upset. Her gaze felt moist. What the hell was that about?
“Did she look like ye or yer sister?” Ian asked quietly.
“She looked like me, except she wore her hair long, and it was champagne-colored, not platinum.”
He smiled. “Ye dye yer hair—if ye can call those wisps hair.”
“You like my hair,” she said.
His smile vanished. He said slowly, “I like yer hair because all I see when I look at ye is yer face and eyes.”
Sam went still. Her heart exploded with delight. “Wow,” she said.
And Ian Maclean flushed. He started abruptly across the room.
“I had such nightmares, too, Ian.”
He halted at the door, glancing at her.
“I started dreaming about how she died, when I hadn’t seen it. But I knew. Even though I was only twelve, I knew.” Sam felt a lump solidify in her chest. She told herself it was heartburn. “Life does suck, doesn’t it? It was her time to die, or so my grandma said, but I couldn’t ever accept that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“And it was my time to start slaying.” Sam shrugged.
“Are ye crying?” he asked suddenly.
“No, I’m not crying. I don’t cry.”
He made a sound. “How long did ye dream of her death?”
“A long time.” Sam grimaced and walked up to him. “I know my dreams were nothing compared to yours. But I get how awful a nightmare like that can be.”
He crossed his arms. “Ye don’t have the dreams anymore.”
“No. The dreams became less frequent in my early twenties,” Sam said truthfully. “I haven’t had the nightmare in years.”
He absorbed that. “I’m glad.”
He meant it. She smiled slightly. Then she said, “You’ve been through more than any one person should ever have to go through. The dreams need to stop.”
He laughed. “No one, not even a god, can control his or her dreams!”
She waited a beat. “Ian, have you ever thought about getting help?” she asked carefully.
“Ye mean…a shrink?” He was incredulous.
“At CDA, there’s a whole department filled with shrinks to help us screwed-up agents out. When Macleod took Tabby back in time last year, Nick forced me into evaluation. I had to talk to a shrink every week for an hour.”
“I’m not an agent. I don’t need a shrink.”
She knew what was coming—and she was right.
“Sharing my bed doesn’t give ye the right to tell me to go to a shrink. Yer a fool if ye think ye should worry about me now, because of some sex.”
She sighed. “I was waiting for the Maclean comeback. I’m so relieved!”
He picked up the plaid throw on the foot of the bed and tossed it at her. “If ye get pneumonia, ye’ll be too sick to leap home, and we don’t have antibiotics here.”
She was glad to be cloaked in the warmth of the plaid. “And you would care because…?”
“No one deserves to be stuck in this miserable time,” he said harshly. “Ye shouldn’t die because of me.”
Sam felt her eyes widen. He blamed himself for what had happened to her. “Why don’t you admit it, you like me, a little, and not just for sex. We’re—gasp—friends.”
And Maclean did not have a comeback. He simply strode from the room.
Sam found her skirt and pulled it on. She was thoughtful as she stepped into her boots, and very, very pleased.
That dialogue felt like a win. She almost felt warm and fuzzy inside.
Maclean could actually be normal, and he’d been somewhat honest. She was smiling as she started for the door.
She was probably the first real friend he’d ever had.
Life felt pretty good—and it was because of her growing relationship with Maclean.
Sam told herself she’d better start being careful. But she somehow knew that she’d ignore her own advice.
Tabby and Brie were downstairs, sipping some kind of herbal tea. Neither Aidan nor Macleod were in sight. Neither was Ian.
Sam grinned cheerfully at them.
Tabby’s graceful brows lifted. “Someone had a good night.”
It had been beyond good. But now, Sam recalled their conversation from the day before and all of her denials. She’d just told Ian—no, insisted—that they were friends. “I needed a good night’s sleep,” she said, straight-faced.
Brie smiled and pushed a steaming mug toward her.
“Where is everyone?” Sam asked, not bothering to sound casual.
“Aidan wanted to show Macleod a fortification he’s building on the lake’s northern shores. Awe is so large now that there’s a huge spillover of men and women to the village. He’s added a defensive set of walls there,” Brie said. “But they won’t be long.” Her face fell.
Sam knew she was thinking about Ian.
Brie said softly, “Aidan asked Ian last night if he’d join them. He said no.”
Sam hesitated. “I’m not going to give you platitudes. I don’t know if he’ll ever come around, Brie.”
“I will never stop praying for him and I will never give up hope. But it’s been twenty-five years. I want Aidan to be whole, Sam.”
Suddenly Tabby made a startled sound, and she turned white.
Sam had tensed impossibly. The heavy weight of evil was present—and it was familiar.
It was the monk.
He had come to them, and she didn’t think he’d come to negotiate.
He was playing offense; the men were gone.
It hit her then, how bold he was to dare to enter Castle Awe.
And she still didn’t have her weapons! She had one very lethal dagger, which she’d taken from the armory the moment she’d arrived at Awe yesterday.
Where was Ian?
“It’s Carlisle,” Sam said tersely, on her feet. She turned in the direction of the weight of his evil, but Tabby was already starting for the staircase there.
“Aidan,” Brie whispered.
Sam was on her sister’s heels. She turned, her dagger in hand. Brie was clutching the back of a chair. Brie was an empath. She was afraid for Aidan, then.
Brie looked at her, shaking her head. “It’s not Aidan, it’s Ian. His fear feels like a butcher knife, going right through the heart.”
Sam ran. She caught up with Tabby and passed her on the stone stairs. As she did, she heard stone cracking and crashing. She rushed to the threshold of the ramparts, aware that the terrible battle had begun.
It might be their last one. She paused. A small army of possessed giants was scaling the walls. They were heavily armed, their eyes glowing with inhuman determination. The watch lay dead, hanging from the tower windows. And Ian was alone on the ramparts.
If he was terrified, one wouldn’t know it. He was blasting the Highland giants as they crested the crenellations, his expression savage. They were an incoming tide, and they just kept coming in waves. Sam did not know how long he could keep up his one-man defense. “Ian!” Sam ran up to him.
He only glanced at her. “Get back! Get Aidan and Macleod!”
As if she’d retreat. Sam seized a sword from a dead giant.
Soft laughter sounded.
Sam looked up. So did Ian.
The monk of Carlisle stood on the highest level of the tower, grinning down at them.
His dark robes swirled in the breeze. His blond hair gleamed.
He slowly lifted his pointy shoe and nudged one of Aidan’s watchmen off the ledge.
The man’s body tumbled through the air, landing not far from where she and Ian stood. “Hello, Ian, Sam.”
Ian had paled but his fierce expression remained. “Bastard.”
Behind them, Tabby paused and began chanting, casting a spell.
“Ian!” Brie cried.
He whirled, hurling his power at another wave of attackers.
A growl sounded.
A demon dog crouched on the crenellations. She had no idea how it had gotten up there, but as it snarled, fangs dripping, she didn’t hesitate. That thing meant murder. She hurled her dagger at its heart as it sprang. She was expecting it to attack her. Instead, it leapt at Tabby.