Page 91 of Dark Lover

Maclean said slowly, “He approached me, not the other way around.”

Nick stared. “This has just gotten interesting,” he finally said. “I mean, you’re not the only art thief in the world. Of course, you might be the only art thief with certain extra powers.”

Maclean didn’t speak. He seemed stricken by the concept that he’d been a target from the start.

“Nick?” Kit swallowed. “Do you remember that witch, Kristin LaFarge, that you were hunting? She met a demon we never made last October at the Carlisle Hotel here in the city. I know it’s probably a coincidence, but I just thought I’d raise it.”

“What is she talking about?” Maclean demanded.

“Tabitha Rose was being hunted by a witch, LaFarge, who chased her back in time. She was reporting to some higher up in the present and they used the Carlisle Hotel as a meeting place.” He wondered if it was a coincidence or not. LaFarge had died before they could get any info from her, but he knew she’d been given permission and the power to go back to hunt Tabby Rose by the honcho demon she’d dallied with. He’d still love to get a make on that demon.

“The monk speaks English as well as I do,” Maclean said suddenly. “He’s comfortable in this time, but he’s French.”

Maclean was telling him that the monk could have easily posed as a modern man.

Maclean faced Nick. “We’re wasting time. Hemmer’s evil. I knew it when I stole the van Gogh for him. And Hemmer’s working with the monk, who has great black power. Now they have Sam. Hemmer took her back to medieval times—wherever the monk is. I am certain.”

Briefly, Nick slipped into his thoughts again. They were more controlled, but his concern for Sam was huge. It was the kind of concern one felt for a lover, a best friend, a family member.

Maybe he had underestimated Maclean. He wasn’t the indifferent asshole he’d assumed him to be. On the other hand, Nick would categorize him as a selfish asshole until he handed over the page.

“Listen, Maclean. You don’t know that Hemmer took her back to the monk. He could have taken Sam to his island off Monaco, for all we know.”

“I do know. I’ve seen her. She’s being held in a dungeon, in chains.”

“What do you mean, you’ve seen her?”

“I have visual telepathy,” he snapped. “But I can’t see the date or the place name. You have agents everywhere—even in the past.”

“Yeah, we do,” Nick said, wondering how much he knew about HCU. “I have agents all over the map, in many different times. And then there’s Big Mama. We can feed her the case details while I put the word out. Sometimes, when an agent is missing in time like Sam, we can find a clue in actual historical records. Or one of our agents might hear something—a passing reference that means nothing to the average historian or civvy, but everything to us.”

Kit said, “Nick, that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack and you know it. It could take a week to turn up something that might not even pan out. Or it could take years.”

Maclean shook his head. “Sam doesn’t have days, much less years. They will torture her. She’s not afraid, but by the time they’re through, she’ll know fear.” His face hardened. “There is only one way to find her,” he said grimly. And he vanished.

Nick flinched as his screams began.

Loch Awe, Aug 11, 1527

HE’D NEVER TRIED to follow anything or anyone back in time before. But, as he recovered from the leap, he was certain he was in the right time and close to Sam.

He hesitated, slowly standing, on the threshold of Castle Awe’s great room. So much tension filled him that he could not move. He’d forgotten it all, deliberately. Now, everything came flooding back.

The room was huge, with raftered ceilings, stone walls and stone floors. God, it was so familiar, even if the furnishings had changed. The hearth remained the same, as did the pair of velvet chairs facing it. And the trestle table was still there, with two long benches, an armchair at each end. But there were crossed swords and a shield with a coat of arms on one wall, a rich, red and gold tapestry on another. Small windows had been added, with iron bars, in the unlikely case of attack or a siege. There were more chairs throughout the chamber and several beautiful chests and tables, as well as a pair of fine Persian rugs.

He remembered being a small, innocent boy in that room. There had been rushes on the floor, not rugs, and the trestle table, benches and the two chairs in front of the fire had furnished the entire room. He’d been happy then. There’d been a wolfhound bitch and her pups. There’d been a small horse. Hunting trips. Suddenly he could see his handsome father sweeping inside, calling out to him, fresh from a battle. He remembered running to him, to be lifted high up and then set down, shrieking with laughter.

Maclean breathed hard. He didn’t want the damned memory, even though most men would consider it a good one. But even worse was recalling Aidan seated at that table in a cloud of darkness, with the servants cowering before him, dining with his soldiers, who were demonic or possessed. He wasn’t there, because he was Moray’s prisoner, but he’d used his visual telepathy to go to his father, to beg him to hear him—to find him and rescue him! Instead, Aidan hadn’t been able to see or hear him. It was so fucking ironic. His father hadn’t been able to rescue him, but now, his life was devoted to protecting the children of this world from the evil that preyed on them.

He was already distressed, and standing in that great room was making him become even more uneasy and uncomfortable.

He shouldn’t have come back.

But Brianna had the Sight. Surely she could locate Sam.

Thinking about Sam made his gut twist unbearably. He bent over, holding his midsection, breathing hard, through the pain. They were going to do to her what they’d done to him…

And he forced himself to see. He went still, horrified.