Chapter Six
The next day
Faelan sat on the hillside watching a small dot in the distance; Ma worked near the elderberry bush they’d planted, yanking weeds with a vengeance, stopping every few minutes to brush back her hair. She hadn’t taken the news well. No one had. She’d begged his father to go to the Council again. It would do no good, Da had said. The Council couldn’t go against Michael. They hadn’t the first time, why would they now? It didn’t matter. Faelan would go anyway and they knew it.
His brothers offered to drop their assignments and go with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. They had been assigned their demons for a reason. They’d argued and finally reached a compromise. They would join him after they finished their assignments. This wouldn’t be a short trip. Just getting there would take weeks, and then he would have to track Druan. There would be plenty of time for his brothers to reach him before he suspended Druan. Or destroyed him. He wasn’t sure if anyone could get close enough to an ancient demon to shackle him. The shackles had a paralyzing effect on demons, subduing them long enough for warriors to lock them inside time vaults, which were then transported back to Michael to be kept until Judgment. But shackles might not work on an ancient demon.
Faelan didn’t want his brothers involved in another battle against an ancient demon, but nothing on earth could stop them from coming. The Council had also insisted on sending a group of warriors to accompany him. He considered sneaking off as he had with Onwar, but he didn’t want to anger the Council. And, in truth, he didn’t want to travel to America alone. He would let them accompany him, but he would do his best to keep them from the heat of battle. He wouldn’t lose anyone else like he’d lost Kieran.
The assignment made no sense, why Michael would send him now, when he was only weeks from being finished with his duty and could finally take a mate. Would he ever meet the woman who haunted his dreams, or would he die like his mentor, just before he was ready to retire?
Nandor whinnied softly. Faelan reached up and rubbed the stallion’s head. “I know. I don’t want to go, but what choice is there? Druan has to be stopped.” Faelan swatted away a midge that was looking to make a meal of his leg. He needed time to breathe the crisp highland air, to let the hills and glens wipe away the battles and blood and grime, but the ship would sail in three days. His goodbyes would have to be said quickly.
“One more race before I go?” he asked Nandor. He kept ready for battle by racing against the stallion. The horse threw back his head in challenge. Faelan tucked the dirk Kieran had given him into his boot and stood. Nandor pranced in anticipation, and then man and horse started running. Faelan ran as if all the demons of hell chased him. He heard the battle cries from Onwar’s castle and the screams of demons, and he saw the sad determination on Kieran’s face just before he died. Faelan ran until his lungs felt like they would burst. He heard Nandor’s hooves pounding the earth and looked over to see the horse even with him. They kept the pace for another few yards, then Nandor pulled ahead.
“You win,” Faelan yelled. “Again.” He stopped and bent over, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He dropped onto the grass, feeling it tickle his legs. Nandor trotted over and lowered his head, nudging Faelan’s shoulder. Faelan rubbed the stallion’s head and looked out over the lands where he’d grown up. He knew he couldn’t delay any longer. “It’s time. I’ll see you soon.” But something in his heart told him he wouldn’t. Nandor followed, whinnying softly at the fence as Faelan left.
The journey wasn’t pleasant. Storms plagued their maritime travel. The trip took weeks, and half the warriors the Council had sent with Faelan were ill from the effects of the rolling sea. The angry waves didn’t trouble Faelan. What bothered him was this feeling of apprehension and doom. It felt as if he was leaving Scotland forever. Leaving his family and friends. His horse. Leaving a mate he hadn’t even met. If his dream lass was in fact his mate. He hadn’t dreamed of her since Michael’s visit. The only thing that made the journey tolerable was finding the parting gifts his family had slipped into his trunk. Alana had sent a portrait of him that she’d painted so he wouldn’t forget her. As if he could. Ma had packed some shortbread and his father had given him a new razor. Ian gave him a piece of leather to tie back his hair. Ian was always teasing that Faelan’s strength was in his hair, like Samson. And Tavis had sent the white stone.
Faelan spent his time aboard ship studying the information he’d gathered about Druan. The demon was exceptionally vain, but the ancient ones usually were. Druan was several centuries old, at least seven hundred. He had been causing problems for a long time, but in the past two centuries his power had increased. Druan had become very dangerous.
When they stepped off the steamer ship at New York harbor, it was like entering a different world. This wasn’t his first visit to America. They had lived here for a while after Liam’s death, but the place had changed. The progress was astonishing for a country so young. He could feel the spirit of hope and strength, but underneath something dark was gathering.
It didn’t take long to see evidence of Druan’s work here. The north and south were at each other’s throats like brothers fighting over a horse. At any tavern you could hear talk about slavery, westward expansion, and the upcoming election. Many had their hopes set in Abraham Lincoln, but there was talk of war. If they didn’t work out their differences, strife and hatred were going to tear the young country apart.
It was nothing new. Battles and injustice had existed since the beginning of time and could be found anywhere. And demons were usually behind it, stirring up trouble in hopes that humans would destroy each other. It wasn’t just war that caused the trouble. Famines and feuds and politics also played their roles. God knew Scotland had had its share of heartbreak and wars; from the Jacobite uprisings to highland clearances carried out in the name of agricultural progress. Many had been forced to come to America. Some as indentured servants, others who had come willingly, in hopes of finding a better life.
Faelan’s clan was wealthy enough to escape some of the troubles, freeing the warriors to focus on the real source of the problems, not the governments and greedy landowners who were mere pawns in the Dark One’s attempt to rid the earth of humans.
Faelan and the other warriors spent several days tracking Druan. Usually, he enjoyed the hunt, but this time, he longed for home, for green hills and crisp air instead of dirty streets and human stench. But he put his head into his mission, working night and day, and soon they picked up Druan’s trail. The demon was using his old disguise, Jeremiah Long.
Faelan left some of the warriors in New York City searching for clues to what Druan was up to, and to locate Jeremiah’s business associates—likely minions or other demons—while he and the remaining warriors followed Druan’s trail to a little town outside Albany. The trail dried up again, but Faelan knew the demon was here. He could feel him.
It was crucial that Druan not know Faelan was on his trail, so he took a job on a horse farm so he could move around the area unnoticed. The other warriors did the same, blending in while they searched the area. But it was as if the earth had swallowed Druan. Faelan hadn’t expected it to be easy. Ancient demons were cunning and powerful, and Druan hadn’t lived this long by being an easy target.
After a few weeks, he discovered that Jeremiah was known in the area, but he was an elusive man, rarely seen. No one was sure where he lived, but when Faelan stopped at a nearby tavern to eat, he learned that one of Jeremiah’s men sometimes came in for a meal or a drink at the end of the week. Faelan had one of the warriors watch the tavern. Faelan had just reached town early one evening when the warrior met him and said a man matching the description had just entered the tavern. Faelan hurried there, and after making sure his dirk was hidden, he went inside. The smell of beef cooking and the sound of glasses and cutlery clinking made his stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten since morning.
He spotted the man sitting alone at a table with two chairs. Luckily, the place was crowded with not many seats left. Faelan walked closer and the man looked up. “Do you mind if I sit, friend?”
He shrugged and motioned toward the chair. “Help yourself.”
Faelan removed his hat and took a seat. “Thank you. The place is full.”
The man glanced around the room at the filled tables and nodded, then went back to drinking his whisky. It was near the bottom. He seemed to be taking smaller and smaller sips.
“I’m...Daniel,” Faelan said. “Could I get you another drink for your kindness?” He motioned to the near empty glass.
“That’d be appreciated. I’m a bit low on money.”
“I’ve a bit of money and I don’t like to eat alone.” He hadn’t planned to eat, but he might not get another chance.
Faelan had found nothing loosened a man’s tongue like buying him a drink. Minutes later, Faelan was digging into a slice of roast beef and listening to Greg’s woes.
“Scoundrel, that’s what Jeremiah is. Treats all of his help like dogs.”
“Shame. I’m looking to meet with Jeremiah myself. But I don’t know that he’d be happy to see me. I’ve got some business with him, but I’d rather keep it quiet. I’d be willing to pay.” He cut another bite of roast.
Greg looked up from the plate of food Faelan had provided. “I could use some money.”
“I’ve an idea,” Faelan said, and they made their plan.
He waited until Greg left the tavern before slipping outside. He planned to follow him and see if he could find Druan’s lair. To Faelan’s right, a carriage was unloading. A man with a limp climbed out, followed by a well-dressed young couple, newly married, judging by their intimate smiles. The woman wore a long green dress that matched her eyes. Faelan felt a strange pull, and it disturbed him. He didn’t lust after other men’s wives. It must be the dark hair and green eyes.
The older man nodded to Faelan. “Fine day today.”
“Not bad,” Faelan said, too distracted for pleasantries. He tipped his hat as the couple approached, and darned if the woman didn’t trip over the hem of her dress and drop her satchel at his feet. Good manners demanded that he help. He and her husband gathered the scattered items, waiting as she crammed them back inside her bag.
She flashed a grateful smile as Faelan handed her the last item, a heavy book engraved with a rose. Her eyes met his, and the smile slid from her face. She blanched, pulled her satchel close, and then turned away, hands shaking. The men nodded thanks, not noticing her reaction, and the three strangers walked inside.
Greg was already out of sight. Faelan thought about the woman as he followed Greg’s scent—unwashed male. In fact, it was hard to get her out of his mind. It must be the woman’s eyes. They were the same shade of green as his dream lass’s. Her eyes were the only part of her face that he could see clearly. He hadn’t dreamed of her since he’d left Scotland, and he was afraid he’d lost her.
Greg’s odor mixed with other unwashed males and finally Faelan gave up the search, going instead to scout out a hiding place for the time vault where he and Greg had arranged to meet. Now that he had a plan to meet Druan, Faelan needed to get the other warriors out of the way. They were all brave men and not one of them would hesitate to come to Faelan’s aid, regardless of their own safety. So he sent them back to New York City to help the warriors he’d left there. By the time they found out that the trouble wasn’t in New York City, Druan would be suspended or destroyed. Then Faelan would meet the others, and they could all go home.
He was on his way back to the farm where he was staying when he was attacked by several halflings. He knew what they were by their smell. At least one of them was almost a full demon and stank like hell, and he mentioned Druan by name. Faelan didn’t use his talisman. He needed to question them and find out where Druan was hiding. The halflings were desperate, and terrified of Druan. That made for a harder fight than it should have been, and he had to kill or be killed. Only one halfling hadn’t yet died.
“Where is Druan?” Faelan asked.
The halfling cowered. “I don’t know.”
Faelan pressed his dirk against the creature’s throat. “You’re dying. I can make it quick, or painful and slow. Tell me where he is and what his part is in this war.”
The halfling clutched his wounded chest. “The war is just a cover for something worse.”
Worse than war? “What’s he planning?”
“He’s creating some kind of disease.”
“What kind of disease?” Druan’s father had created the plague. Was he following in his footsteps?
“It will destroy all humans.”
My God. “How does it work?”
“I don’t know. He only talks about it with the sorcerer, Selwyn.” The halfling pulled in a shallow breath. Faelan knew the creature didn’t have many left. “It’s...almost ready. I overheard them talking.”
“Where is it? How can it be stopped?” But the halfling’s eyes had clouded with death. Damnation. He couldn’t suspend or destroy Druan until he knew what he’d created and how to stop it. He would have to get close enough to shackle the demon and find out what he had planned.
He spent much of that night trying to find Druan. He searched the woods in the direction Greg had disappeared. He didn’t find a demon, but he smelled something strangely sweet. He caught a flash of long, pale hair and slipped closer. It wasn’t a woman, but a man hurrying through the woods. Faelan watched him, noting his movements were unusually graceful. And fast. Faelan ran after him, and when he thought he was closing in, he suddenly tripped and fell. His trousers, already torn from his fight with the halflings, were now ruined. Faelan climbed to his feet, looking to see what had tripped him. Nothing was there. Not a stick or a stone, but the sweet smell was strong. Faelan continued to search for him, but the strange scent disappeared along with the man’s tracks.
When he returned to the horse farm, Faelan opened his trunk to look for another pair of trousers, but he couldn’t find any. He’d have to wear the torn ones and hope his arse didn’t show or put on his kilt. Disguising himself wouldn’t matter as much now. Tomorrow night it would be over.
Faelan saw the portrait Alana had painted, and he ran his finger over the four leaf clover that she used to mark all her paintings. One leaf for each of them. Faelan, Ian, Tavis, and Alana. He gathered all the gifts his family had given him and studied each one. God, he missed them. Tavis and Ian should have arrived by now. He wanted them here almost as much as he wanted them to stay away. But if the halfling was right about Druan’s disease being ready, it was too late to wait for help anyway.
When Faelan finally collapsed in his bunk, his dream lass came. This time she felt more real than ever before. And in the morning when he woke, her presence was so strong he almost expected to see her squeezed beside him in his narrow bunk. His battle marks tingled, and he touched his chest, remembering the feel of her cheek pressed against his skin. He didn’t get up right away, but stayed there remembering her touch, her voice, her lips, and he knew that if for no other reason, he had to save the world for her. But somehow he felt as if he was saying goodbye.
He spent the day searching for Druan again. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. All he could do was go forward with the meeting Greg had arranged and hope Druan showed. Faelan sent warnings to the warriors in New York City and also to the clan in Scotland. If he didn’t succeed in destroying Druan, at least the clan would know what Druan was up to. Michael would then reassign Druan to another warrior.
That night, Faelan crouched behind the crumbling chimney of the burnt-out farmhouse. He could hear Greg’s worried breathing and hoped the coins jingling nervously in the man’s pocket were enough to buy his loyalty. The full moon was covered by clouds, and there was a thickness in the air that didn’t sit well, but he attributed it to the coming storm. Even the horses, hidden in the nearby grove of trees, neighed and stomped uneasily.
He’d already warned Greg to flee as soon as Druan—Jeremiah—showed. Faelan felt the warmth of his talisman and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The time vault waited behind the trees, ready to suspend the demon if Faelan got his answers.
The wind kicked up, slapping his kilt against his legs. He’d opted to wear it rather than his torn trousers. It made him feel closer to home. Soon, he would be back in Scotland. The first fat raindrop hit his nose, followed by the second and third. A jagged flash of lightning split the sky. Faelan flinched. “You sure Jeremiah’s coming?”
“Should’ve been here,” the man said. “Probably ran into the storm.”
It came fast, the sky blackening as wind howled through the trees. There was a loud crack, and sparks flew from a nearby pine. Faelan heard horses approaching, hooves pounding the ground like an army from hell. He gripped his sword. “You said he’d be alone.”
“He was supposed to be.”
At least a dozen riders entered the clearing, mounts snorting as the night flashed. There were too many. He couldn’t take them all alone. Then Faelan saw them, sitting in the midst of the others, four figures taller than the rest. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Druan rode in front, flanked by the other demons of old, faces any warrior knew from the time he could lift a sword. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar. What were they doing here?
He heard a gasp. His accomplice hadn’t run. The man stood frozen, staring at the ancient demons. The sky lit violet, and Druan’s yellow eyes found Faelan. The demon rode closer. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar followed in their true forms. They seemed puzzled to see Faelan. The remaining horsemen, halflings and demons, closed in around them.
Faelan regretted getting an innocent human involved, but it couldn’t be helped now. He shoved the man behind him. It was too late for retreat. He’d have to destroy Druan by hand and save the talisman’s power for the rest. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them all, but it might give Greg a chance to escape. There was no way out for Faelan. He would die. His only hope was to take with him Druan, and as many others as he could. “As soon as they’re distracted, run,” he whispered over his shoulder. “I’ll try to hold them off until you’re safe.”
“Did you think you could stop me, warrior? Stop my war?” Druan hissed as Faelan raised his sword.
“I will stop you, you bastard,” Faelan yelled over the storm. “We both know this isn’t about war. The war’s just a distraction for this disease you’ve created. You’re planning to destroy every human on earth.” And by the time his clan and the other warriors got the message, it would be too late. Everyone would die.
Druan’s eyes widened. His thick, grey skin quivered.
“What disease?” Tristol roared, turning on Druan. Where the others were hideous, Tristol was striking. Long black hair flowed from a face that looked almost human, except for a slight bulge in his forehead. He was rumored to be the closest to the Dark One, hell’s favorite son. What was he doing with Druan?
“Lies. He tells lies.” Druan looked over Faelan’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Grog?”
“Grog?” Faelan tensed and started to turn as a jarring blow struck his skull. He’d been betrayed. It was over. The world was doomed.
***
“You weren’t supposed to bring the warrior yet,” Druan hissed, after the rest of the League had left to get out of the storm. It had taken all his persuasive powers to convince the others that Faelan had lied. They had all been furious, particularly Voltar and Tristol. Druan still wasn’t sure Tristol believed his story. Everything would have been destroyed if they had uncovered his plans for the virus. Centuries of work would have been wasted.
Grog wiped rain from his face. “I apologize, master. I mistook the time.”
If Druan didn’t know better he would suspect that Grog had brought Faelan early in hopes that the warrior would be successful in his attempt to destroy Druan. Surely Grog wouldn’t do such a thing. Druan had taken the demon under his wing, helping him rise in power. “Onca,” he called to one of his halflings. “Help Grog move the warrior.”
“The storm is getting worse,” Grog said. “Should we wait until the rain stops?”
“No. We must do it now.”
Druan watched as they dragged Faelan to the time vault Grog had seen the warrior hide behind the trees. Druan was elated to find that it existed. He had searched for one of the magical boxes for too long with no luck. Now, he would see if the rumors were true. The strange box was beautiful, made of wood and metal that had been etched with symbols. Green stones were set in the corner. The Druan put the round disk he’d found in Faelan’s pocket in the lock. He turned the disk and heard several clicks. Cautiously, Druan raised the heavy lid and looked inside. The interior of the box was covered in the same green stone as those on the outside.
“Lock him inside.” He stood back as Grog and Onca lifted Faelan and laid him inside. “Careful,” Druan warned. He wanted the warrior in good condition when he awoke to witness the destruction of mankind. Assuming the time vault actually worked. Even if it didn’t, capturing the Mighty Faelan would teach the archangel the folly of sending a warrior to destroy an ancient demon. This would be a kick in heaven’s teeth.
Druan rubbed his hand—still burning after he had tried to take Faelan’s necklace—and studied the unconscious warrior’s face. “Sleep well, warrior. I have great plans for you.” He slowly closed the lid and locked Faelan inside. Then Druan handed the key to Onca. “Mark this place and guard the key with your life.” He turned to the other demons who were digging Faelan’s grave. “Dig faster,” he roared above the crash of thunder. “We don’t have much time.”