Faelan said something not very gallant as he retrieved the dagger Grog dropped.

Bree ushered Faelan into her bathroom, since the first-aid kit was there, and remembered too late, so was the Jacuzzi. “Don’t move.” She wasn’t about to keep hovering over him half naked. Even wounded, he hadn’t stopped staring at her breasts. She put on the first thing she saw, an old T-shirt of Russell’s she’d planned to burn in a cleansing ceremony, and walked back to the bathroom where Faelan sat on the toilet lid holding her shirt against his wound. His fingers were long and lean, strong. He’d thrown that dagger like he’d been doing it forever. She could think of other things those fingers would probably do well, but until she found a way to keep her Prince Charmings from morphing into frogs, she couldn’t get romantically involved.

“Raise your arms.” She reached for the hem of his T-shirt, helping him pull it over his head. Her irritation was forgotten at the sight of all those muscles inches away and the bloody cut on his bicep.

She took a calming breath, which didn’t help at all, since all she could smell was him, and bent to get the first-aid kit from under the sink. When she looked back, she caught him staring at her butt. She scrubbed her hands and examined his wound. It was deep, still bleeding.

“You should get this stitched,” she said, after she’d cleaned it.

“No.”

“It’d be a shame to die of an infection because you were scared to go to the doctor.”

“I’m not scared… ouch! What did you do?”

“It’s antiseptic.”

“That hurt more than the knife. Well, do it then.”

“I’m done. Hold this gauze against it until it stops bleeding. I’ve got some pain reliever and sleeping pills, if you need them.”

“You need pills to sleep?”

“Not anymore.” Although she wouldn’t rule out tonight. “I hope this heals as fast as your palm.”

“That was a small cut, but I heal fast, unless I’m weak.”

“Good, because hospitals want ID, and you don’t exist.”

“ID?”

“Identification. Proof of who you are. We’re big on that in this century. If we go to the hospital, I’ll have to tell them you’re homeless.” If he stayed long, she’d have to get him a fake ID.

“I am homeless.”

“Be glad you’re sleeping in a bed and not a crypt.”

He gave her a wry smile. “What happened to your shoulder?”

“A wall collapsed in the chapel. A stone hit me.”

“That’s how your great-great-grandfather died,” he said, looking like a knight who’d failed to slay his damsel’s dragon. “I can take a look at it for you.”

“It’s fine.” The last thing she needed was those hands on her. She was already dying from his scent. It must be the rush that came from cheating death. Nothing like sexual energy to prove you were alive. “You’ve had a cut on this arm before. Another demon?”

Pain flickered over his face. “A long time ago.”

“Peter called. He wants to ask you some questions. I think he suspects you were involved in that man’s death.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were gone. He wants your phone number and address.”

“Do you think I killed that man?” Faelan asked quietly.

“I think those things in the chapel did. But I think it’s time you told me who you are and why you were buried in my crypt.”



Chapter 12


Faelan looked at Bree, expectantly waiting, face smudged with dirt, hair a mess, like she’d been rolling on the ground. She deserved some answers after all she’d done for him, and he was bloody tired of lying.

“I’m Faelan Connor, warrior of the Connor Clan of Scotland, as my brothers were, and my father before us, and his father before him. Since the beginning of time our assignment has been the same… to protect humanity from demons.”

“Scotland… since the beginning of time…” Her eyes danced.

Any other woman would have been sniffing smelling salts.

“This is incredible. I thought you had a bit of a brogue. Are there many warriors? Where do they come from? How come the world doesn’t know about this?”

He groaned. “You need answers like everybody else needs air.”

“You can’t expect me to see what I did and not have questions.”

She already knew too much. She’d read part of his clan’s Book of Battles, something no one was permitted to do except the Keeper. Faelan considered asking if she’d seen his name, or his brothers. Had they survived their duty to have families, find love? Or had they arrived and faced four ancient demons alone? Certain death. But even asking would’ve broken the rules, and rules had to be protected, although Bree didn’t seem governed by them. Like making a halfling disappear, something only a warrior could do. Michael must have intervened.

“There were many warriors before. I don’t know about now.” He didn’t understand why the world hadn’t been destroyed, but if there were humans, there must be warriors. Humans couldn’t exist without them. “The world doesn’t know about us because we’ve bled and died to keep it that way. The secret must be protected at all costs.”

She took a step back, clutching the roll of gauze. “Don’t tell me you have to kill me.”

He gave her his warrior stare. “Not yet.” But there was a time when she would have been killed because of the knowledge she held. If she wasn’t who she claimed to be, it would still have to be done.

“Just remember, if not for me you’d still be in the time vault. How did you get inside?”

“Druan—”

“You mentioned his name in your sleep. Was he the one in the chapel?”

“He makes the one in the chapel look like an angel. Druan’s been around for a long time.”

“You think he locked you in there?”

“I know he did.” Faelan sighed, knowing he’d have to tell her the whole tale. Most of it anyway. “I was sent to America to suspend Druan, but I couldn’t find him. I knew he had a lair nearby, but it was well hidden. Demons are cunning, especially the ancient ones. They don’t live to be the age they do by being dim-witted. I met Grog in a tavern. Called himself Greg. He’d heard I was looking for Jeremiah, that’s the name Druan was using. Grog claimed he held a grudge against Jeremiah; said he could take me to him. Bastard. I should’ve realized Grog was a demon.”

“You went after this demon alone?”

“I brought warriors with me, but I sent them to track down Druan’s minions. My brothers were supposed to be coming behind me, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Your brothers were warriors?”

“Aye. Strong warriors.” And loyal. Unless they lay dying, nothing could’ve kept his brothers from coming to his aid. By sending the other warriors away, he’d likely sent his brothers into a death trap. “When Grog and I got to where Druan was supposed to be, he wasn’t alone. There were a dozen more with him. I was hit from behind. When I woke, I saw you.”

“No wonder you tried to cut off my head. So the amnesia was always a lie?”

“I couldn’t tell you who I was until I knew who you were.”

“Who else could I be?”

Ah, but there were so many choices.

“Did all this happen near here?”

“Aye. By the old burnt-out farmhouse.”

“Samuel’s farmhouse? That’s just through the woods. Did you meet Samuel?”

“No. The house had already burned down.”

“Where did you stay? You had to sleep.”

“I got work on a horse farm a few miles away, so Druan wouldn’t notice me.”

“Not notice you? Wearing a kilt on a farm in America?”

“I didn’t wear the kilt here, only on the ship.”

“You had it on in the time vault.”

“I’d ripped my trousers the night before, tracking those halflings. The kilt was all I had clean. By then, it didn’t matter. I was going to suspend Druan and go home.”

“Suspend? Put him in the time vault?”

“It’s easier said than done, but aye.”

“What do you do with the time vault then?”

“It’s complicated.”

She stared at him, but let it go. “Is everyone in your clan a warrior?”

“Not all. The duty is handed down from father to son, on the son’s eighteenth birthday, but we’re always preparing, even as lads. At eighteen we enter formal training. After a year we go into battle. An older warrior fights alongside us for the first year. We’re released from duty at twenty-eight, unless we choose to remain.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” Or a hundred and seventy-eight. “I was put in the time vault in 1860. August 1860.”

“Just before the war,” she mumbled.

The war. His stomach twisted.

“That’s one hundred and fifty-one years. The book said one hundred and fifty. Why didn’t someone wake you last year?”

“My clan probably thinks I’m dead.”

“What about the women? Do they hunt demons?”

“You can’t be serious. Females don’t fight demons.” They kept the home fires burning.

“So if I wanted to hunt demons, I couldn’t, because I’m a girl?” Bree scowled and crossed her arms, covering her breasts.

“Why would a lass want to hunt demons?” The notion was laughable, but he didn’t dare do it with her scowling like that.

“For the same reason a man would. You act like women aren’t as good as men.”

“If anything, they’re better. That’s why they need to be protected—”

“I don’t want your protection. I want your respect.”

“You remind me of Alana.” Except she was perfectly content not hunting demons.

“Alana? Your wife?”

“My sister.”

“Your sister?” Bree sounded relieved, then sad. “How old was she?”

“Thirteen.”

A wistful look clouded her face. “I had a sister. A twin. She died.”

“I’m sorry.” Would she have been as reckless as Bree if she’d lived? As beautiful?

“You weren’t married?”

“No. We don’t usually marry until we’re finished with our duty. Females are a distraction. We’ve enough to worry about as is.”

“How old were your brothers?”

“Ian was twenty-five. Tavis was twenty-six.”

“Why do you think they didn’t come?”

“A battle, the weather. I’ll never know.”

Her eyes filled with sympathy. “It must have been terrible for your family, wondering what happened to you, where you were.”

He clenched his jaw, recalling the fear in his mother’s eyes when she heard he’d been assigned another ancient demon, the horror when she discovered his brothers were coming with him, and his reassurance that all would end well. “Aye. All I can do now is rid the world of Druan.”

“How do we find him?”

We? There was no we here. He was the warrior. She was the female. “I’d hoped to question Grog.” Which he might have managed, if Bree hadn’t gotten in the way.

“Is that why you didn’t use your talisman on Grog?” she asked, sorting through her little white box, pulling out tubes of ointment and other things he didn’t recognize, muttering to herself.

“That, and I was too weak to use it again.”

“You said those things in the chapel were part demon, what’s the other part?”

“Human.”

“Why would a human…”

“Mate with a demon? The human might not know. Demons can shift into much nicer forms.”

She leaned back. “Are you completely human?”

“I am,” he said, insulted. He could easily ask her the same.

“Can they choose any form? Animal? Human?”

“Aye, but most prefer human forms. They can do the most harm that way. They usually stick with one form. It takes them a while to get comfortable in new skin.”

“And to think I was worried about cellulite.”

“What’s that? Some newfangled weapon?”

She smiled. “It’s nothing you’d have to worry about. It’s more of a modern problem. Why didn’t those halflings shift like Grog?”

“Halflings don’t shift. A few learn how to project an illusion. Their natural form is still there.” So was the smell, but most humans weren’t sensitive enough to notice.

She wrinkled her nose. “Do they all stink like the one that grabbed me?”

Was there anything normal about this woman? “Only in their natural form, but the smell varies, depending on how much demon blood they have. A halfling that’s mostly human might not smell at all or need an illusion. Some of them look like you and me.”

“That’s frightening,” she said.

Bloody frightening.

“Where did Grog get that knife? He didn’t have any pockets or clothes.”

“They can summon their weapons at will, manifest them, like the clothes.”

“Anything they want?”

“Natural things from the earth. Metals, fibers, temporary things that leave with the demon.”

“What about those swords in the chapel?”

“Those were real. Only full demons can manifest material things.”