Nora gasped urgently, “Gage—please!”
Shoving down all thoughts but the action that needed to be undertaken, I pulled the curved dagger from the sheath inside my leather jacket. The thin blade was wickedly sharp, honed to a fine edge, the symbols inscribed on the bone shaft a proclamation of an age lost in time.
Stilling the tremble of hesitation, I raised the dagger high above my head and looked at Nora. I didn’t bother with wasted words, wasted apologies, wasted regrets. She knew what was in my eyes, the anger, the denial, but also the inner steel to do what was necessary. She knew I wouldn’t balk at the task laid before me.
Shoving aside the anger that boiled in my chest, at the secret she and my grandfather had withheld from me for the last three years, I pulled at the fledging scraps of humanity remaining inside me, the scraps that kept me balanced on the right side of the Druidic code. Taking a deep breath, I uttered in a low, emotionless voice, “I wish you rest on the road ahead. Good journey.”
Nora’s eyes burned with emotion. Regret was there, and apology. There was also fear, an indication she wasn’t ready. I held her gaze, and she read the inevitable. Knew that I would do what was needed. Her eyelids fluttered closed in acceptance of the coming sentence, succumbing to what destiny had in store for her. Nora whispered softly in return, “Good journey.”
Her voice finished on a sharp sigh as I whet the blade smoothly across her throat. Her eyes flew open in response, her back arching in shock as her gaze again latched onto mine. I held it, fighting the urge to turn away and watched as Nora faced her death with her eyes wide open—as she’d done with every other threat. A warrior against the darkness.
My innate senses caught that final, sluggish beat of her heart before silence reigned eternal. The woods crouched behind me, silent sentinels to the life now departed.
Prophecy had claimed its due.
Nora was gone.
2
Gage
Present day, Scotland
I blinked, bringing myself back to the present. The memory of Nora’s death was a dark stain on my consciousness. A loss that would always burn with not just despair, but anger—red-hot, full-blooded anger.
Because Nora had lied to me. For three years.
And so had Reuben.
My grandfather had been so besotted by his protégé that he’d gambled everything on the woman—even his life.
The cool kiss of that dark, fated night was gradually replaced by the interior of Ian’s apartment. Ian’s interest in history was mirrored in the eclectic mix of paraphernalia in the room in which I now sat.
I felt penned in, the room too small and cramped for my liking. My senses were straining, still on full alert since the bomb in the Corvette’s trunk had exploded. I had warded the apartment to the best of my ability, but I knew the wards wouldn’t hold long—a few hours at best. I could taste iron at the back of my throat, knew that my reserves were flagging. The last fifty-six hours had been excruciating, and at most I’d only grabbed a few hours of sleep on the plane from New Zealand to Scotland.
The sooner we were at the Estate, the better.
A few hours longer. Let her rest.
My hands clenched into tight fists at the unwanted thought, burning with self-disgust. I wasn’t meant to feel for her, wasn’t meant to care for her. She was a mission, duty only. And outside the bounds of those shackles, I had promised myself I would feel nothing for this Daughter of Winter. The last one left.
A small sigh rent the silence in the room, and I flicked my gaze to the object of my thoughts. The woman to whom I was shackled by a prophecy over two thousand years old.
Brydie MacKay, Nora’s granddaughter, lay on Ian’s couch a few feet away from me. She was curled on her side, knees tucked up under an old patchwork quilt Ian had placed over her when we entered his apartment fifteen minutes before. She hadn’t awoken as Ian carried her from his Range Rover into the elevator. Nor did she make a sound as we exited the elevator into his apartment.
I’d followed them into the living room, watching silently as he gently laid her on his leather couch, taking care not to jolt her awake. His fingers lingered longer than necessary, his gaze heavy with a mix of emotions.
He placed the patchwork covering over her, tucking it gently around her shoulders. As he straightened back to his lanky height, he paused, eyes on her face as he whispered, “She looks just like Nora.”
I shifted my gaze to his face, catching his soft, brown gaze, noting the emotions he already felt for her. Fool.
“She may look like Nora, but she’s nothing like her,” I bit out. Brydie MacKay was untried and ignorant.
His brown gaze had flicked to mine, a furrow creasing his brow as he searched my face. “Who are you angry with, Gage? Is it Brydie or Nora? Because if it’s Nora, this woman doesn’t need that baggage. She’s been left as much in the dark as you have. Don’t take it out on her.”
I’d clenched my jaw, and the words spewed forth in a harsh torrent of anger, “Stay the fuck out of it, Ian. The Daughter of Winter is not your responsibility. She’s mine alone.”
He’d bristled then and turned to fully face me, his body tense as if preparing for a physical blow. But he surprised me, he didn’t cower, and his voice was firm as he said, “I don’t care what you threaten me with, Gage, but if you hurt this woman, I’ll make sure you live to regret it. Holding whatever grudge you still hold against her grandmother—not to mention Reuben—will not be eased by taking it out on her. You know her history; you know what Nora did to her. She’s as much a victim of Nora’s motives as you are. If she’s to succeed in the task she has before her, you’ll do well to remember that.”
I’d snarled then, low and dangerous; the thin thread of control that had held my temper in check during the last few hours snapping in a final, inevitable swoop. “As I said in the truck, Ian, our relationship is not your concern, and if you interfere one more time, I’ll give you a lesson that you’ll never forget. I don’t care if you’re one of the descendants; nobody interferes with my business. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”
His hot gaze didn’t falter, but his frame tensed even further. “I hear you.”
Even though he’d verbally submitted, I felt the physical aggression in his stance. Knew he still internally fought my command, knew my warning would eventually turn into a physical lesson. And I wondered at the hold this Daughter of Winter already had over one of my closest friends. A chill, foreboding thought had sprung to life then. Would she wrench away the power I held over them? Would she change the course of the events to come?
I didn’t deal well with spontaneity, nor did I deal well with being a follower. I was a leader, and the only way this mission would succeed was if I led them—the descendants, The Oaken Tree, everyone. There was no other way around it. Brydie knew nothing of her heritage, nothing of the powers she’d inherited. She wasn’t a leader; that task would fall on my shoulders alone.
Ian was aware of the edge I balanced upon, the emotions I was holding in check. He knew that if he pushed just one more inch, I’d blow. And the consequences of my losing control would be a catalyst because I’d felt the fire lick up my spine, tasted the smoke that curled on my tongue. I’d wanted to erupt. Had been tempted to erupt since the bomb went off hours earlier—when I saw Brydie knocked out cold on the damp grass beside the road. My heart had frozen at the sight, a parody of the image of her grandmother only a week before. I’d contemplated for a moment whether Brydie was still alive. But then the tattoo running down the back of my neck had flared to life, a sharp prick of recognition that she still lived; a silent, all-consuming need that I see to her, that I save her. Now, the comedown from all that tension still left me raw.