Dark Victory. Brenda Joyce

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      “Put the weapon down!”

      Macleod withdrew the blade. The deamhan collapsed. Standing over him, Macleod breathed hard and slowly faced the soldiers. Both men were down on one knee, and had small, strange black weapons pointed at him.

      Macleod glanced swiftly around. He was at a crossroads, with lights that changed from red to green on all four corners. He glanced at the milky night sky—no moon or North Star could be seen. “I dinna wish to fight. Tell me, what place is this? Where am I?”

      “Hands in the air, sonuvabitch! Weapon down!” The first soldier shouted at him, while the crowd behind them murmured in surprise.

      No one had ever called his mother a bitch. It was an unimaginable insult. For one moment, he was in shock. And then rage rushed over him, through him, and he wanted to murder the soldier for his words. The fact that he was out of his time did not matter. But he somehow controlled himself. Breathing hard, he said, “Where am I, soldier?” But before he had even finished speaking, his power exploded.

      Silver sizzled in the night and both men were hurled backward by the blazing light.

      The remaining crowd screamed, fleeing. He saw two black-and-white vehicles with the red, white and blue blinking lights coming toward them at quick speed, making that high, whining noise. We have an officer down…Code black…Armed and dangerous…reinforcements…

      He heard a hundred frantic thoughts, a dozen sharp commands, and he felt the fear, the hatred and anger. As jumbled as the thoughts were, he knew that more soldiers were coming—and they would hunt him now for what he had done to one of their own.

      Macleod ran.

      Sharp sounds followed him. As he passed a building with a large window, it shattered. He had seen stained glass once, in a great cathedral at Moray. As the shards bit into his arms, he was stunned to realize the window had been covered with clear, nearly invisible glass. Just as he turned the corner, something burned like an iron brand deep into his shoulder.

      It was painful and he gasped, but it could not compare to the thrust of a sword. And now he saw the hundreds of vehicles coming toward him on the street. In the distance, behind most of them, was one that carried soldiers, with its blinking lights on top of the roof.

      He paused and glanced behind. More soldiers had turned the corner and were in pursuit, on foot, their black weapons drawn.

      A woman was stepping out of a building. Behind her, the interior was brightly lit. Most of the buildings were alight, but several were in shadow. Tonight the dark would be his friend.

      He ran up the street, the sharp, popping sounds following him. The iron brand felt worse now but he ignored the pain and seized the door to a building that was not lit. It was locked, but he wrenched it open easily. Then he stepped into the blackness inside, barring the door by bending the locks back into place. It would only hold the soldiers back for a moment, but a moment was all he needed.

      He swiftly checked the first three doors. The fourth door was what he was looking for. Macleod ran up the stairs, listening to the soldiers entering the small front hall below.

      How the fuck did he break the locks?

      Forget about it. He’s heading for the roof—the fucking fool.

      He smiled savagely to himself, running up the stairs, counting fifteen flights. He finally burst onto a large, square roof and ran to one end, looked down, and then to another. He did not hesitate. This way felt right. He chose the southern end and leaped to an adjacent roof, about two stories lower, and ran across that, heading in the direction he thought was east. He ran by pure instinct now. The next roof was higher but he leaped onto that, and then onto another, and another, until the soldiers were far behind him.

      He began to become familiar with the strange sounds of the city night; he began to comprehend the city’s noisy rhythm. He slowed to a walk. There was no reason to run now; for the moment, he was safe.

      And he paused, listening to the night—feeling it.

      Awareness began.

      He opened a window and slipped into a dark vacant building, his pulse taking on a new rhythm. Aware that he was alone, he began to explore it, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Within moments, he realized he was in a building meant to house children. The tables and chairs were tiny, and children’s toys and drawings were on the walls.

      He began to smile.

      Her presence was everywhere.

      Macleod settled down to wait.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      A HOLY HIGHLANDER WAS in the city, and he had just taken a demon down.

      Nick Forrester decided this might be a really interesting night.

      He was a tall, powerful man with rugged good looks, brilliantly blue eyes, and the kind of appeal no woman had ever refused. He was utterly devoted to his agents, the war on evil and HCU, in that precise order. Sitting in his corner office, on the phone with one of his contacts at the New York Times, he felt Sam Rose before he saw her. He turned to wave her into his office as Paul Anderson said, “They’re breaking the story even as we speak.”

      “Motherfucking shit,” Nick replied, slamming down the phone. He felt himself go into battle-ready mode. There was nothing he loved as much as a good battle, not even sex.

      Sam’s eyes were wide with interest, although a moment ago she’d been wearing a don’t-read-my-mind poker face. And even while speaking with Anderson, he’d instantly known she had a secret. He did not like his kids keeping secrets, not unless they were personal ones. And then they’d damn well better keep secrets, because he didn’t like his kids having personal lives.

      Either you were in this war or you were a bystander, it was that simple. And if you were in, love, romance, family and all that shit was out.

      He’d made a really smart move three months ago, when he’d lured Sam into HCU and his employ. She was a soldier in every way, right down to her kick-ass, martial soul.

      “Goddamn it,” he said, facing her. “There’s been a sighting.”

      He eyed her as he picked up the blue phone, a direct line to his agents in the field. “There’s a Blondie down on Thirteenth and Broadway,” he said. The highest level of demons were beautiful, blond, blue-eyed and almost angelic in appearance. They’d been given a slew of appropriate—and inappropriate—nick-names.

      “What’s going on?” Sam asked.

      “It’s almost impossible to believe, but a Highlander has surfaced in the city. He took out a cop. I’ve got Angus bringing the goods to Five.”

      “Okay.” Sam turned her back on him, walking over to a chair. She sat down. Even though she wore short skirts most of the time, and he’d seen her gorgeous and very strong legs hundreds of times, he stared at them while he thought about the night to come.

      Being clandestine meant keeping a low profile. The press still thought the war was with crime, not evil. CDA had its own medical center. Shot-up, maimed and dead agents were all brought to Emergency there. Five СКАЧАТЬ