“Huh?” Donny said with confusion.
Scotty clucked his tongue. “It means—Never mind. I kenned she’d be needin’ me because I kenned the state o’ things here and I ken her temperament. Beth’s impetuous, and smart and brave, but she’s prone to running into trouble to save others even at risk to hersel’.” He cast a swift glance at the other man and arched an eyebrow. “Is that English enough fer ye?”
“Actually, no,” the younger immortal said apologetically and then quickly explained, “You have a really thick accent. I don’t catch half of what you say.”
“Well, at least ye admit it,” Scotty said dryly. “That makes ye a cannie lad.”
Donny looked uncertain. “Is cannie good?”
“Aye,” he said with grim amusement. “Now shut yer geggy. This road is gravel and winding. I need to concentrate at this speed.”
Donny hesitated and then asked, “Is geggy—”
“Yer mouth. Shut yer mouth, lad,” Scotty growled.
“Aye, sir. I mean yes, sir. I’ll shut it,” Donny said quickly, and managed to do so for all of two minutes before asking, “But how do you know this Beth? I mean, you’re from Scotland and she came from Spain. How—”
“Shut it,” Scotty snapped, and then asked, “How much farther?”
When the young man didn’t answer right away, Scotty cast a questioning glance his way and noted the battle on Donny’s face as he tried to decide which order to obey.
“Well? Do no’ be a bampot. Answer me!” he roared.
“We’re almost there!” Donny blurted. “Turn right at the end of this road, and then it’s half a block up on the left.”
Scotty nodded with a grunt, but didn’t relax. He had a bad feeling Beth needed him, and he wouldn’t relax until she was safe and sound.
Beth leapt back, avoiding being beheaded by mere inches. She actually felt the swish of the wicked-sharp ax the rogue was swinging at her. It stirred her hair in passing, or so she thought, but when she saw the handful of dark red tresses that then dropped to the ground, cut clean off, she snapped, “You bastard! I just got my hair done!”
Furious, Beth leapt forward, her sword singing through the air. Before his head hit the ground, she was turning to ensure there were no other attackers. Her eyes widened incredulously and a low roaring started in her ears as she took in the dozen men and women who had come running from the house and formed a half circle around her.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, her mouth suddenly gone dry. Mortimer hadn’t been sure how many minions this rogue might have made, but had guessed that it couldn’t be more than three or four. After all, according to the intel he had, Walter Simpson had been rogue for only a week or so. Yet she’d already taken out four men and two women and now was faced with a dozen more? Either Mortimer’s intel was wrong, or Walter was a fast worker, she thought grimly, drawing herself into a battle stance and preparing to skewer the first one to charge on her.
She might not be able to take on twelve at once and win, but she wasn’t going down without a fight, Beth thought grimly and gestured with her sword for them to bring it on. No one moved at first, which just irritated her. She had never been a patient person, and frankly, if she was going to die, she’d rather get it over with quickly. Beth just hoped that the whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes business wasn’t true. She could really do without witnessing that particular train wreck. Living it had been bad enough.
“Come on,” she growled impatiently, raising her sword. “I plan on taking at least four of you with me. Which of you will it be?”
Unfortunately, that just made her would-be killers all take a nervous step back. It seemed no one wanted to die that day.
“What are you waiting for?” a furious voice roared, drawing Beth’s attention to the house.
Walter Simpson stood just outside the front door with a whimpering blonde next to him, held upright only by his grip on her upper arm. She was pale, with blood trailing down her throat and soaking into the top of her torn pastel green sweater. But she was alive, and still mortal, Beth thought. She almost started toward them, but was reminded of her own situation when Walter bellowed, “Kill her, dammit!”
The order from the man who had turned them apparently held sway. Beth watched warily as the rogues closed in, crowding together for the approach . . . and then the lot of them were suddenly mowed down by a black SUV that raced past her and toward the house.
Beth gaped as some of her would-be attackers flew up in the air, and others were simply crushed under the wheels. There wasn’t a single person left standing once the SUV had passed. The rogues were scattered about the yard in front of her like toppled bowling pins.
It was the sound of the SUV crashing that finally drew her attention from the people in the yard. At the speed it had been going, the driver hadn’t been able to stop before plowing into the front of the house. He hit exactly where Walter and his latest victim had been just moments ago, and for a heartbeat Beth was horrified by the thought that the pair had been hit and crushed into the front of the house. Not that she would have mourned Walter Simpson, but the woman had been an innocent, and guilt and regret began to soak into her at the thought that she’d failed her. But then a sob drew her attention to the driveway, and she saw Walter dragging his victim toward a car. It seemed he’d managed to get both himself and her out of the way in time to avoid the vehicle. Now he was making his escape . . . and intent on taking the woman with him.
Issuing a throaty growl, Beth burst after them. She had the advantage. She wasn’t trying to drag a struggling victim with her. Beth raised her gun as she ran, then aimed and pulled the trigger, only to curse when nothing happened. She was out of darts. She’d known she was close to empty, but had thought she had one, or maybe even two, left.
Throwing the dart gun aside with disgust, she brought her sword around in front of her to grasp the hilt in both hands with the blade down. She then raised it over her head and launched herself into the air much as someone would do if they were jumping on someone’s back. Only Beth leapt a little higher, and as she came down she punched the blade into Simpson’s back just above his shoulder blade. With all her weight crashing on top of it, the sword was forced through flesh, muscle and bone at an almost vertical angle and came out just below his hip bone.
Walter Simpson staggered under the impact and released the blonde as he crashed face-first to the ground. Beth went down with him, but rolled into a somersault that took her right off him. She didn’t let go of her sword as she went either, and felt the resistance before it sliced its way out and followed her.