Morrigan's Cross
Page 14
Hoyt wallowed in his first twenty-first-century shower, and wondered if he might find a way to duplicate it, by science or magic, once he returned home.
The cloths hanging nearby were as soft as the bed had been. He felt decadent using one to dry his skin.
He didn’t care for the clothes, but his own were soaked. He debated going out and getting the spare tunic out of his case, but it seemed best to follow Cian’s advice in wardrobe.
It took him twice as long to dress as it would have. The strange fastenings nearly defeated him. The shoes had no laces, but simply slipped on the foot. He was forced to admit that they were quite comfortable.
But he wished there was a bloody looking glass so he could see himself. He stepped out, then came up short. The black king was still on the sofa, drinking from the glass bottle.
“That’s an improvement,” King observed. “You’ll probably pass if you keep your mouth mostly shut.”
“What is this fastening here?”
“It’s a zipper. Ah, you’re going to want to keep that closed, friend.” He pushed to his feet. “Cain’s gone on down to the club. It’s after sunset. He fired me.”
“You’re burned? I have salve.”
“No. Shit. He terminated my employment. He’ll get over it. He goes, I go. He don’t have to like it.”
“He believes we’ll all die.”
“He’s right—sooner or later. You ever see what a vamp can do to a man?”
“I saw what one did to my brother.”
King’s odd eyes went grim. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Well, it’s this way. I don’t figure to sit around and wait for one to do it to me. He’s right, there’s been rumbling. There’s going to be a fight, and I’m going to be in it.”
A giant of a man, Hoyt thought, of fearsome face and great strength. “You are a warrior.”
“Bet your ass. I’ll kick some vampire ass in this, believe me. But not tonight. Why don’t we go on down, see what’s jumping. That’ll piss him off.”
“To his... ” What had Cian called it. “His club?”
“You got it. He calls it Eternity. I guess he knows something about that.”
Chapter 4
She was going to find him. If a man was going to drag her into his dreams, push her into out-of-body experiences and generally haunt her thoughts, she was going to track him down and find out why.
For days now she had felt as if she stood on the edge of some high, shaky cliff. On one side there was something bright and beautiful, and on the other a cold and terrifying void. But the cliff itself, while a little unstable, was the known.
Whatever was brewing inside her, he was part of it, that she knew. Not of this time, not of this place. Guys just didn’t ride around on horses wearing cloaks and tunics in twenty-first-century New York as a rule.
But he was real; he was flesh and blood and as real as she was. She’d had that blood on her hands, hadn’t she? She’d cooled that flesh and watched him sleep off the fever. His face, she thought, had been so familiar. Like something she remembered, or had caught a glimpse of in dreams.
Handsome, even in pain, she mused as she sketched it. Lean and angular, aristocratic. Long narrow nose, strong, sculpted mouth. Good, slashing cheekbones.
His image came true on paper as she worked, first in broad strokes, then in careful detail. Deep-set eyes, she remembered, vividly blue and intense with an almost dramatic arch of brows over them. And the contrast of that black hair, those black brows and wild blue eyes against his skin just added more drama.
Yes, she thought, she could see him, she could sketch him, but until she found him, she wouldn’t know whether she should jump off the edge of that cliff or scramble back from it.
Glenna Ward was a woman who liked to know.
So, she knew his face, the shape and feel of his body, even the sound of his voice. She knew, without question, he had power. And she believed he had answers.
Whatever was coming, and every portent warned her it was major, he was tied to it. She had a part to play, had known almost since her first breath that she had a part to play. She had a feeling that she was about to take on the role of her lifetime. And the wounded hunk with the clouds of magic and trouble all around him was slated to costar.
He’d spoken Gaelic, Irish Gaelic. She knew some of it, used the language occasionally in spells, and could even read some in a very rudimentary fashion.
But oddly enough, she’d not only understood everything he’d said in the dream—experience, vision, whatever—she’d been able to speak it herself, like a native.
So somewhere in the past—the good, long past, she determined. And possibly somewhere in Ireland.
She’d done scrying spells and locator spells, using the bloodied bandage she’d brought back with her from that strange and intense visit to... wherever she’d been. His blood and her own talent would lead her to him.
She’d expected it to be a great deal of work and effort. Doubled by whatever work and effort would be involved in transporting herself—or at least her essence—to his time and place.
She was prepared to do just that, or at least try. She sat within her circle, the candles lit, the herbs floating on the water in her bowl. Once more she searched for him, focusing on the sketch of his face and holding the cloth she’d brought back with her.
“I seek the man who bears this face, my quest to find his time, his place. I hold his blood within my hand, and with its power I demand. Search and find and show to me. As I will, so mote it be.”
In her mind she saw him, brow furrowed as he buried himself in books. Focusing, she drew back, saw the room. Apartment? Dim light, just slanting over his face, his hands.
“Where are you?” she asked softly. “Show me.”
And she saw the building, the street.
The thrill of success mixed with absolute bafflement.
The last thing she’d expected was to learn he was in New York, some sixty blocks away, and in the now.
The fates, Glenna decided, were in an all-fired hurry to get things started. Who was she to question them?
She closed the circle, put away her tools and tucked the sketch in her desk drawer. Then she dressed, puzzling over her choices for a bit. What exactly did a woman wear when she went to meet her destiny? Something flashy, subdued, businesslike? Something exotic?
In the end she settled on a little black dress she felt could handle anything.
The cloths hanging nearby were as soft as the bed had been. He felt decadent using one to dry his skin.
He didn’t care for the clothes, but his own were soaked. He debated going out and getting the spare tunic out of his case, but it seemed best to follow Cian’s advice in wardrobe.
It took him twice as long to dress as it would have. The strange fastenings nearly defeated him. The shoes had no laces, but simply slipped on the foot. He was forced to admit that they were quite comfortable.
But he wished there was a bloody looking glass so he could see himself. He stepped out, then came up short. The black king was still on the sofa, drinking from the glass bottle.
“That’s an improvement,” King observed. “You’ll probably pass if you keep your mouth mostly shut.”
“What is this fastening here?”
“It’s a zipper. Ah, you’re going to want to keep that closed, friend.” He pushed to his feet. “Cain’s gone on down to the club. It’s after sunset. He fired me.”
“You’re burned? I have salve.”
“No. Shit. He terminated my employment. He’ll get over it. He goes, I go. He don’t have to like it.”
“He believes we’ll all die.”
“He’s right—sooner or later. You ever see what a vamp can do to a man?”
“I saw what one did to my brother.”
King’s odd eyes went grim. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Well, it’s this way. I don’t figure to sit around and wait for one to do it to me. He’s right, there’s been rumbling. There’s going to be a fight, and I’m going to be in it.”
A giant of a man, Hoyt thought, of fearsome face and great strength. “You are a warrior.”
“Bet your ass. I’ll kick some vampire ass in this, believe me. But not tonight. Why don’t we go on down, see what’s jumping. That’ll piss him off.”
“To his... ” What had Cian called it. “His club?”
“You got it. He calls it Eternity. I guess he knows something about that.”
Chapter 4
She was going to find him. If a man was going to drag her into his dreams, push her into out-of-body experiences and generally haunt her thoughts, she was going to track him down and find out why.
For days now she had felt as if she stood on the edge of some high, shaky cliff. On one side there was something bright and beautiful, and on the other a cold and terrifying void. But the cliff itself, while a little unstable, was the known.
Whatever was brewing inside her, he was part of it, that she knew. Not of this time, not of this place. Guys just didn’t ride around on horses wearing cloaks and tunics in twenty-first-century New York as a rule.
But he was real; he was flesh and blood and as real as she was. She’d had that blood on her hands, hadn’t she? She’d cooled that flesh and watched him sleep off the fever. His face, she thought, had been so familiar. Like something she remembered, or had caught a glimpse of in dreams.
Handsome, even in pain, she mused as she sketched it. Lean and angular, aristocratic. Long narrow nose, strong, sculpted mouth. Good, slashing cheekbones.
His image came true on paper as she worked, first in broad strokes, then in careful detail. Deep-set eyes, she remembered, vividly blue and intense with an almost dramatic arch of brows over them. And the contrast of that black hair, those black brows and wild blue eyes against his skin just added more drama.
Yes, she thought, she could see him, she could sketch him, but until she found him, she wouldn’t know whether she should jump off the edge of that cliff or scramble back from it.
Glenna Ward was a woman who liked to know.
So, she knew his face, the shape and feel of his body, even the sound of his voice. She knew, without question, he had power. And she believed he had answers.
Whatever was coming, and every portent warned her it was major, he was tied to it. She had a part to play, had known almost since her first breath that she had a part to play. She had a feeling that she was about to take on the role of her lifetime. And the wounded hunk with the clouds of magic and trouble all around him was slated to costar.
He’d spoken Gaelic, Irish Gaelic. She knew some of it, used the language occasionally in spells, and could even read some in a very rudimentary fashion.
But oddly enough, she’d not only understood everything he’d said in the dream—experience, vision, whatever—she’d been able to speak it herself, like a native.
So somewhere in the past—the good, long past, she determined. And possibly somewhere in Ireland.
She’d done scrying spells and locator spells, using the bloodied bandage she’d brought back with her from that strange and intense visit to... wherever she’d been. His blood and her own talent would lead her to him.
She’d expected it to be a great deal of work and effort. Doubled by whatever work and effort would be involved in transporting herself—or at least her essence—to his time and place.
She was prepared to do just that, or at least try. She sat within her circle, the candles lit, the herbs floating on the water in her bowl. Once more she searched for him, focusing on the sketch of his face and holding the cloth she’d brought back with her.
“I seek the man who bears this face, my quest to find his time, his place. I hold his blood within my hand, and with its power I demand. Search and find and show to me. As I will, so mote it be.”
In her mind she saw him, brow furrowed as he buried himself in books. Focusing, she drew back, saw the room. Apartment? Dim light, just slanting over his face, his hands.
“Where are you?” she asked softly. “Show me.”
And she saw the building, the street.
The thrill of success mixed with absolute bafflement.
The last thing she’d expected was to learn he was in New York, some sixty blocks away, and in the now.
The fates, Glenna decided, were in an all-fired hurry to get things started. Who was she to question them?
She closed the circle, put away her tools and tucked the sketch in her desk drawer. Then she dressed, puzzling over her choices for a bit. What exactly did a woman wear when she went to meet her destiny? Something flashy, subdued, businesslike? Something exotic?
In the end she settled on a little black dress she felt could handle anything.
