Page 65 of Dark Embrace

His stare did not waver. “Go to sleep. I’ll be outside.”

Brie could see his tension as well as feel it. He yearned to join the pack.

The wolves had quieted. Brie was certain they were close by, waiting for him. And now she realized that his chest fell rapidly and heavily, the panting of a canine. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, slipping from the tent. The moment the flap fell closed behind him, the wolves howled all at once, a huge and savage night cry.

Brie leapt beneath her covers and pulled them up high. She didn’t have to strain to feel him now. He wasn’t blocking anything from her.

He lusted for the wolves; he lusted for power, blood and death.

She was forgotten.

THE ROYAL LIEUTENANT OF THE NORTH, Robert Frasier, adjusted his clothing carefully. He replaced his codpiece, jerked up his dark hose and tied the drawstring firmly. He tugged down the short skirt of his black velvet surcote, trimmed in gold. His body vibrated with pleasure and power. In another moment or so, he would summon another woman to his bed.

A bottle of fine French wine sat on the table in his tent. He crossed the spacious area, stepping across the dead bodies on the floor—two beautiful women and a beautiful squire. Without a thought for them, he poured a glass. As he sipped, he recalled the events of that afternoon—events that had propelled him to take so many Innocents at once, with most of his army within hearing distance, just outside his tent.

Rage began.

In fury, he tossed the glass aside, receiving no satisfaction as it broke.

Aidan had healed the witch.

Demons did not heal.

He roared in rage and threw the wine bottle at the tent wall. He had known before Aidan was ever birthed that he would have the greatest power of all his sons. A goddess had come to him to taunt him with it.

“This child, your 1,025th son, will be the greatest of your progeny. He will have a power even greater than your own,” Faola had whispered. “We have great plans for him.”

He had been sleeping and he instantly awoke. He had stared at the beautiful warrior goddess, whom he had never before seen. The goddess had been sent to the ancient kings long ago to mother a race of warriors to defend mankind. He had been certain this was a dream—or a jest. But he had taken one look at her burning eyes and realized she spoke the truth.

“Why tell me this?” he had demanded.

“There will be great travail. There will be great tragedy. You will covet his powers. You will be his test. Only one of you can prevail. This is written.”

Faola began to fade before his very eyes. He had demanded that she wait, but she had laughed at him and disappeared.

Satan had approached him many millennia ago, his offer so tempting. Moray had accepted it instantly and their bargain had been sealed. He could not comprehend why Faola would come to him now. But Satan was more devious than any god, and it crossed his mind that Satan could certainly test him, too. Perhaps Satan had engineered this rivalry with his son and the test was really about him, Moray.

Moray had made certain that Lady Margaret, Aidan’s mother, was kept in good health until the child was born. He had quickly put spies amongst the Maclaine foster family, although he soon realized his young son would never die a natural death. He was never sickly. He never fell, never sprained a tendon, never suffered a broken bone. From infancy he could move small objects across tabletops and drop flies with a glance. His foster parents were afraid of him, and only Brogan Mor’s will insured that Aidan remained with them.

He had waited twenty-one years for his son to come to manhood, for manhood was always the best time to show a new recruit the pleasure and power of evil. But he had been too late. Aidan had already been chosen by the Brotherhood, and he had taken sacred vows to defend mankind and keep Faith.

Moray had been enraged, but he had calmed soon enough.

Hadn’t Faola—or Satan—told him there would be great travail and greater tragedy?

The hunt had begun.

It had taken him another fifteen years to drive Aidan to evil. He had enjoyed every moment of watching Aidan destroy that village of innocent men, women and children, even if he had not lifted his own sword even once. For he had felt Aidan’s torment. He had savored every moment of his son’s anguish. It had increased his power briefly.

When it was done, Aidan should not have cared about anything or anyone except himself, his power and his next victims. Lust for evil should have ruled him.

But in spite of the crimes he’d committed against God and Innocence that day, he had let the survivors run away to hide. He still loved his son—and demons did not love anything or anyone.

He hadn’t been turned completely.

His behavior over the past decades confirmed it. He wasn’t a true deamhan. He was only half deamhan, lusting for power as all deamhanain did but leaving his victims alive. Like a man with one foot in two disparate worlds, Aidan ignored destruction and death, but did not cause it or relish in it. It was almost incomprehensible. It was not acceptable. It was infuriating.