CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“HEY, NICK.” Kit Mars smiled at him, her eyes wide with interest. “I see you guys made it back in one piece.”
Nick looked up at her, still in his camouflage.
He and Jan had just gotten back and he was mad as all hell that Kristin Lafarge was dead.
He knew with every fiber of his being that she could have led him to some big bad demon honcho, because she was small-fry, interested only in petty revenge.
Jan had gone home. It had been an interesting jaunt, even if they’d failed in their mission.
And nothing bad had happened to any of the good guys.
“Stop drooling. You’ll get your turn when you’re ready. ” He knew what she wanted.
Kit smiled at him, wishing he’d let her go back in time soon. “Sam went back and she wasn’t even on board here for a week.”
“Sam is an experienced soldier.”
“I was a cop,” Kit pointed out.
“Sam is a Slayer. She’s been on the streets doing the dirty since she was a kid.”
Kit sighed. “I thought you might like to see this. It just came in. Courtesy of the Russian.”
Nick took the file, pleased, and opened the folder and saw a pile of glossies.
The top shot was the exterior of the Carlisle, one of Manhattan’s most exclusive hotels, second home to the city’s top politicos as well as visiting heads of state and other foreign dignitaries.
The Saudis especially liked it. It was a nice hotel.
He flipped to the next photo. “I asked Rose to get on this.”
“It gets better,” Kit said.
Nick stared at the interior of the ten-thousand-dollar-a-night presidential suite, noting the time and date stamp on the upper right corner. It said October 20, 2008, 10:02:38 p.m. It had been taken just a few months ago, not the other night, when Lafarge had booked it.
The room was empty and he flipped to what seemed to be the exact same shot—except the time stamp on top showed it was two minutes later.
He leaned closer. He stared at the shadows in the barely lit room, but he was not mistaken. One of the shadows glowed, its demonic aura unmistakable. A demon had obviously just entered the living area of that suite.
Suddenly Jan walked into his office, her hair wet, wearing jeans and a sweater.
She plopped a pizza carton down on his desk, along with a really cold bottle of Michelob Ultra.
She glared at him and said to Kit, “I’m not coming in tomorrow.
And don’t even think it. It’s not worth it. ” She stalked out.
He smiled at her backside. He was clearly forgiven. “Thank you,” he called.
She didn’t answer.
Then he looked at Kit before turning the top photo over and inhaled. Kristin Lafarge was now standing beside the demonic shadow, but she was clearly visible—and completely naked.
He was not surprised. Demons needed to feast on sex and power nightly, even a demon posing as a part of the city’s establishment or a foreign dignitary.
And a witch lover with some demonic blood was a pretty good pairing—except that the demon couldn’t get his jollies by finishing the evening off with murder.
Not if he wanted to use Lafarge, as he obviously did.
He flipped through the glossies, and saw Kristin in action in bed with the demonic shadow.
“She had a demon lover,” Kit said unnecessarily. “Someone who could afford one of the city’s most expensive hotel rooms.”
“I knew it.” He stood. “I bet she met with lover boy just before she went back in the past. Do you have those photos?”
Kit shook her head. “No.”
“Who paid for the room?”
Kit hesitated. “There’s a problem with the hotel records. We’re working on it.”
He was incredulous. “Who was registered there on October twentieth?”
Kit grimaced. “John Smith.”
His frustration knew no bounds. “Find out where she was and who she met on December ninth, damn it.” He’d known Lafarge could lead him to a major player, and now she was dead. “I want the demon who’s cruising our town, posing as one of the good guys,” he said. “Where is Rose?”
“She’s on her way back from a personal trip,” Kit said.
He stiffened. Kit was trying to block him from her thoughts. “She went to Scotland? For what?” he asked dangerously.
“She wouldn’t tell me.” Kit looked nervous.
“Get her in on this,” he said. “And, Mars? Tell Sam to stay away from her bad boy. I happen to know that Maclean isn’t one of us.”
Kit paled.
Blayde, Scotland
The summer of 1298
TABBY LANDED IN THE bedchamber she shared with Macleod.
She took a long moment to recover from the leap, sitting in the center of the room on the floor.
She was thrilled to be back. But as the room stopped spinning, as all the pain vanished, her senses returned and she knew instantly that he wasn’t present. He wasn’t at Blayde.
Her heart sank with dismay. Dread began. She reminded herself that even though he had gone to An Tùir-Tara, or had intended to go there, it was over now and he had survived, just as she had.
But where was he?
She couldn’t feel him anywhere. Tabby got to her feet, glancing outside.
The sky was brilliantly blue and it was pleasantly warm.
It was surely summertime. She had arrived with Macleod in the past on June 10, and his attempt to destroy Criosaidh at Melvaig had been five days later.
She was worried now about which day she’d arrived back at their home.
Then she recalled her sense that he was lost and that he needed her.
For one instant, she thought she saw him in a night-blackened forest, holding a sword in one hand. And evil surrounded him….
She inhaled, terribly frightened now. Tabby hurried downstairs, but only a housemaid was in the hall. She ran outside. It took her a moment to espy Rob on the ramparts. She called out to him, waving. He saw her and hurried down to the bailey. Tabby raced across the yard to him.
“My lady!” he cried, clearly relieved to see her. “Is Macleod with ye?”
Her heart lurched with more fear. “No, he’s not. Rob, how long has it been since he returned Coinneach to Melvaig?”
“’Tis been two days.” Rob’s blue eyes blazed and his face was grim. “I have heard Coinneach is arousing his allies an’ plans war on us now, an’ his mother is usin’ her magic to help him.”
Tabby went still. Criosaidh was still alive.
Of course she was—she wouldn’t die until June 1, 1550, if Tabby had changed history.
Now it seemed as if they would be rivals for the next two-and-a-half centuries.
She shivered. She was a Rose. If she had to fight that witch for two-hundred-and-fifty more years, she would do so and she’d win.
“The MacDougalls are always plottin’ against us,” Rob added quickly, as if to reassure her.
He then said, low, “He told me he would leap into the future to save ye in another time. I dinna realize he finally had his powers. I begged him not to go. What has happened to him? Why hasn’t he come back to us? ”
“I don’t know what has happened. But I know he’s coming back—I am sure of it.”
Rob looked at her with worry but Tabby couldn’t reassure him. She kept seeing Macleod in that forest, and evil was stalking him. Where was he?
She reminded herself that he survived. She knew it because she’d just been in his arms.
It’s all right, she told him silently. I’m here and I’m waiting for you.
She couldn’t imagine defending Blayde for the next two-hundred-and-fifty years without him.
Tabby felt sick. She held her stomach, thinking about how Fate—and history—could be changed.
Maybe the gods were angry with her for what she’d just done at An Tùir-Tara.
Now, she began to really worry. She’d just been with him on June 1, 1550, but he’d gone to Melvaig on June 19, 1550.
If he was meddling at An Tùir-Tara and being punished for it after she’d been with him in the sixteenth century, their entire life could be destroyed.
A terrible headache began. She refused to think about being at Blayde for the rest of her life without him.
Being able to leap into the past at any point in time meant that if someone made one slip, history could be undone and rewritten.
But the Book of Roses stated emphatically that history would only change if it had been miswritten.
“He’ll return.” Rob was adamant, but his expression remained worried.
The day passed endlessly. Tabby found herself on the ramparts, waiting for him to return, as if he was traveling by horseback. At dusk she gave that up, because he wasn’t a mortal and he would return by leaping time. She paced the hall, unable to eat, until Peigi insisted.
She fell asleep in his great chair before the fire, his wolf-hounds at her feet.
And she dreamed about him. In her dreams, he was somewhere in the night, always walking, his face grim and set, his feet bloody and blistered.
In her dreams, there were demons and wolves, and his sword dripped their blood.
Sometimes she saw him wandering through the forests as the fourteen-year-old boy.
When she awoke, he hadn’t returned, and she was even sicker with fear for him.
Something terrible had happened to him, she thought uneasily.
The sense she’d had before, that he was lost, escalated.
The hounds whined.
Tabby couldn’t even pet them. “C’mon,” she said hoarsely, feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all that night. She crossed the hall, the hounds racing her to the front doors, tails wagging. They began to bark in excitement.
Tabby opened the doors, the bright morning sunlight almost blinding her. Macleod was crossing the bailey.
He had come home. Tabby cried out in joy, flooded with relief. Then he stepped out of the shadows cast by the walls and her happiness vanished. She was stunned by his appearance.