Page 90 of Dark Lover

She was not going to become one of the Twelve, or rather, the Thirteen.

He’d never forgiven himself for his agents who were MIT.

He knew he was going to flash back. This time, it was like a knife going through his temples. He fought it, breathing hard.

When Maclean remained standing before him, when the room did not shift into that horrific stormy night on the highway with evil inhabiting every shadow, when the fiery explosions did not begin—when he didn’t hear the children’s screaming—he knew he’d won.

For the moment.

Maclean didn’t know about the agents who’d died in some god-forsaken time on his watch. Maclean didn’t know about those agents who’d gone back and who were never heard from again, no matter the years of searching. Maclean didn’t know he held himself responsible for the lost, the missing, the injured and the dead.

He didn’t know he had nightmares about every single one of them.

He didn’t know about the flashbacks.

And he especially didn’t know that his guilt was well deserved. It was his punishment for failing Katie and the kids, and later, for failing Jan.

Maclean didn’t know any of this. Nick smiled at him. “I’ll cut you a deal, Maclean. I might be able to help you find her, but you’ll have to cooperate.”

Maclean was shocked. “Ye want to bargain when her life is at stake?”

“I work for Uncle Sam. Sort of like a mindless robot. I receive orders. I fulfill them. Now, my orders are to acquire the page. Hand over the page and we’ll give you what we have on Hemmer and Carlisle.”

Maclean’s power exploded.

Nick hadn’t expected such an immediate or violent reaction. He was hurled backward into the wall behind his desk. He hit the credenza there so hard he heard the teakwood crack.

“Fuck you,” Maclean snarled. “I’ll find her myself.” He whirled, but Kit Mars stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, blocking his way out.

“Hold on, Maclean,” Nick said, rubbing his back. He hadn’t expected Maclean to cave. “What do you have, Kit?”

Kit looked back and forth between them. “Not much. The monk seemed to rule Carlisle with an iron fist from 1502 to 1527. He was feared wherever he went—even the king of Scotland opened his best state rooms to him. The bishop of Carlisle was under his thumb. People died whenever he was crossed—as in entire villages, Nick. The last date I have on him is August 27, 1527. He was at the Carlisle Cathedral that day and was never seen again.”

“Someone must have done the world a favor,” Nick remarked. “Maybe it was our Sammie.”

“Nick?” Kit whispered, ashen. “Is Sam back there?”

Maclean whirled to face her. “The monk took her.” He confronted Nick, seething. “That’s no help. For all ye know, he went to another time an’ took an alias. Demons from the past leap to the future all the time! Ye know it—half the demons in this city are from the past! What do ye know about Hemmer?” he demanded. “Why does Hemmer work with the monk?”

He was right. The monk might have simply fled Carlisle in 1527 to live elsewhere for a long, long time. “We know that he was buddies with Robert Moran. They had quite a few business dealings in the seventies, eighties and nineties.” In case he didn’t get it, Nick said softly, “You know Moran, right? Aka your granddaddy?”

Maclean gave him a furious look.

“Hemmer was just your average entrepreneur before he met Moran,” Kit said grimly. “He had a few investors, but he was a kid from the Bronx from a blue-collar family, who just barely graduated high school. He could talk the talk, though, which was how he managed to make those first few deals. It was tough going, and most of his deals went south. But after he started with Moran, he had investors galore. He went high, high risk and his income exploded. Almost overnight, he became the name on everyone’s lips. It was as if he had the Midas touch, could do no wrong. Every deal he made added millions to his coffers. And you know the rest.”

Maclean stared at her. “He’s not a demon. He’s human and very, very evil.”

“So what did he do to get the power to leap?” Kit asked.

“He sold his soul for the millions,” Nick remarked. “And he probably met Carlisle through Moran. Carlisle was one of your guards.”

Maclean flinched. “Is that in my file?”

“I’ll never tell,” Nick said softly. For one instant, he wanted Maclean to pay for not handing the page over but then he thought about Sam. “Any chance you remember him from the time of your captivity?”

“Hemmer? No. If I had, I’d never have stolen the van Gogh for him.” Maclean started.

“What is it?” Nick demanded.