Loe raamatut: «The Masters of Time»
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
BRENDA JOYCE
Masters of Time series
“For intense emotions, power-packed writing, alpha males and building sexual tension, Joyce is unrivaled.
In the second installment of the Masters of Time she lures us into the seductive world of good and evil as the brotherhood of the Masters fights demonic powers. She grabs and holds you a willing captive from the opening until the very end.”
—RT Book Reviews on Dark Rival
“Her world of Healers and Masters is rich and the plot well-handled…The supporting characters are excellent, the sex scenes are plentiful…and the plot thick, making this sophomore series entry a fine entertainment, sure to gratify fans of the bestselling kickoff.”
—Publishers Weekly on Dark Rival
“Bestselling author Joyce kicks off her Masters of Time series with a master’s skill, instantly elevating her to the top ranks of the ever-growing list of paranormal romance authors. Steeped in action and sensuality, populated by sexy warriors and strong women, graced with lush details and a captivating story…superlative.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Dark Seduction
“A powerfully emotional, ingenious novel about a world peopled with characters that completely capture your imagination. The pages sing with excitement, drama and passion. Joyce sets the standard for otherworldly lovers.”
—RT Book Reviews on Dark Seduction
Also by Brenda Joyce
The Masters of Time
DARK RIVAL
DARK SEDUCTION
The de Warenne Dynasty
A DANGEROUS LOVE
THE PERFECT BRIDE
A LADY AT LAST
THE STOLEN BRIDE
THE MASQUERADE
THE PRIZE
Watch for the upcoming Masters of Time novels
DARK VICTORY
DARK LOVER
Dark Embrace
Brenda Joyce
MILLS & BOON
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This one’s for all of you who have supported
my new series, The Masters of Time,
with so much incredible enthusiasm!
Thank you!
Once again I must give my sincere thanks to
Laurel letherby, without whom I’d be lost in every possible
way. I also want to thank my editor Miranda Stecyk for her
phenomenal editing—especially her
line editing, which is the best I’ve ever had.
Please, keep on cutting!
PROLOGUE
Loch Awe, Scotland, 1436
“A HIGHLANDER WITH NO CLAN, no father but Satan’s spawn and ye still war for land? ’Tis not the land ye need, Lismore,” Argyll spat. “Ye need a father and a soul.”
Aidan of Awe trembled with rage, the glen behind him filled with the dead and the dying. His Campbell rival sawed on his steed’s reins and smiled savagely, clearly aware he had delivered the final blow that day, and galloped off toward his departing army.
Aidan breathed hard, blue eyes flashing. His breath was warm in the cold winter air, hanging there like the smoke from the camp’s fires. He could not know ifArgyll had chosen his words with care or not. It was not a secret that he was a bastard, born in rape and shame. Still, when his father was alive, he had been the king’s favorite and the Defender of the Realm. Aidan realized he could turn over Argyll’s meaning a hundred times and never decide if the man knew the entire black truth about the Earl of Moray. But in these dark and bloody times, only the most foolish of men would be oblivious to the war between good and evil that raged across the world, and the Campbell was no fool. Perhaps he knew of the matters secretly spoken of betwixt the Masters and the gods.
He turned now to stare at the last of the warring men, his leine soaking wet and clinging to his muscular body. His men were all Highlanders and they’d fought mostly on foot, with long and broad swords, with daggers and pikes. They were dirty, tired, bloody—and loyal to him. Men had died for him that day. The snow was red with their blood—and that of the Campbells.
Aidan took up his stallion’s reins. His men were returning from the glen, trudging tiredly toward him, their larger weapons heaved over shoulders, the wounded being helped by their comrades. Still, every man smiled and nodded at him as they passed. He spoke or nodded to each in turn, to let each man know he was grateful for their arms and valor.
Tents were raised and cook fires started. Aidan handed his stallion off to a young, hopeful Highland lad, when he felt a frisson of alarm. The emotion came from afar, but the vibration went entirely through him.
In that instant, he knew that the fear he sensed came from his son, who was safely at home.
Or so he had thought.
With his seven senses, he pinpointed Ian. His son remained at Castle Awe, where he had left him.
He did not hesitate. He vanished into time.
It took a very brief moment to be flung through time and space back to Castle Awe. The leap ripped him through the forest, pine branches tearing at him, and then past the rock-strewn, snow-tipped mountaintops, through white stars and bright suns, with such terrible gut-wrenching force and speed that he wanted to scream. The velocity threatened to rip him from limb to limb, and shred him into tiny pieces of hair and skin. But he had been leaping time for years, ever since being chosen, and he had learned how to endure the torment. Now his only thought was that evil was hunting his son, and his determination overshadowed the pain.
He landed in his own north tower, going down to all fours so hard it was as if his wrists and knees had shattered. The chamber was spinning with dizzying speed while he urgently tried to become oriented.
The room had not ceased turning when he felt a huge evil presence approaching, a power so great and so dark that he dreaded looking up.
With the evil, there was Ian’s fear and rage.
He raised his head, in growing horror.
A huge man stood in his chamber doorway, holding Aidan’s young, struggling son.
His father was not dead. Moray had returned.
Aidan leapt to his feet, eyes wide with shock, as the terrible comprehension sank in.
The Earl of Moray smiled at him, very much alive, white teeth flashing. “Hallo a Aidan.”
Aidan’s gaze slammed to his son. Ian did not resemble his mother, who had died in childbirth. He looked exactly like his father: fair in complexion, with vivid blue eyes, perfect and beautiful features and dark hair. It took him one moment to comprehend that Ian wasn’t hurt—yet. Then Aidan looked at the man who had alternately seduced, raped and tortured his mother—the deamhan who had spent a thousand years stalking innocent men, women and children all over the world.
Clad as a courtier, in long velvet robes of crimson and gold, he was blond, blue-eyed and handsome. He did not look a day older than forty years. “I decided it was time to meet my grandson,” Moray murmured in flawless English.
Aidan trembled. Nine years ago, his father had been vanquished at Tor in the Orkney Islands. His half brother, Malcolm, and Malcolm’s wife Claire had beheaded Moray in a great battle, but only with the help of a goddess. Evil could not live without a flesh-and-blood body, although it was rumored that the greatest demonic energy was immortal. Aidan had never really believed his father gone; he had secretly expected him to return one day. He had been right.
“Yes, I am alive,” Moray said softly, their gazes locking. “Did you really think I could be destroyed?”
Aidan breathed hard, preparing for a terrible battle. He would die to save his son from whatever Moray intended. “Release Ian. Whatever ye wish, I’ll do it.”
“But you know what I want, my son. I want you.”
Of course he did; nothing had changed. Moray wished to turn him into his greatest deamhan, a nearly immortal soldier of destruction and death.
“I’ll do as ye wish,” Aidan lied. As he spoke, he blasted Moray with his god-given power.
But his father’s teeth flashed in a delighted smile and he blocked the surge of energy easily. Then silver blazed from Moray’s hands like lightning, and Aidan was flung across the chamber into the far wall. The impact took his breath away, but he remained on his feet.
A dagger appeared in Moray’s hand, and he sliced through Ian’s ear.
Aidan shouted as blood gushed all over his son’s pale leine. “Cease,” Aidan roared. “I’ll do as ye wish!”
Ian choked on pain, holding his head. Moray grinned at him and pushed the piece of ear across the floor with the pointy tip of his shoe. “Do you wish to keep it?”
Aidan trembled in rage.
“Obey me and he will not suffer,” Moray added softly.
“Let me stop the bleeding.” Aidan had healing powers. He started forward for the piece of ear. He would put it back together, make it mend.
Moray held Ian harder, causing the boy to grunt. “Not until you prove yourself to me.”
Aidan halted. “I’ll heal him first.”
“You dare to barter with me?”
In that instant, Aidan knew that unless help arrived in the form of other Masters, they would battle to the death.
“No aid comes,” Moray said with a laugh. “I have blocked your thoughts. No one knows what you suffer now.”
He believed him. “Tell me what I must do to free an’ heal my son.”
“Father, no,” Ian cried, his blue eyes wide.
“Be quiet,” Aidan said firmly, meeting his gaze.
Ian nodded, mouth pursed, near tears.
“The village below Awe. Destroy it.”
Aidan went still.
Moray stared at him, smiling.
Aidan became aware of his heart pounding, slow and sure, sick with dread. He knew every inhabitant of that village. The villagers traded and bartered with the castle, with him, on a daily basis. They depended on him for their livelihoods and their lives. The castle defended the village from all attacks, and Awe was sustained by their services and goods. Most importantly, he was sworn before every god on earth to protect the Innocent.
He could not destroy an entire village of men, women and children.
Moray took the dagger and laid it against Ian’s throat. Blood oozed and Ian cried out, blanching.
Aidan leapt unto time.
He landed in the castle’s great hall moments earlier. The huge room spinning with shocking speed, he saw Ian there, calmly conversing with his steward. On his hands and knees, he tried to fight for his power and choke out words. “Ian. Son!” He would somehow prevent this, undo it. The rules were very clear—no Master could go back in time to change the past. But he would change the past now!
Neither his son nor the steward heard him.
Shocked, Aidan got up. “Ian, come here,” he began, but Ian didn’t hear him this time, either. His son walked from the hall, heading up the stairs.
They couldn’t see him or hear him.
Something had happened to his powers.
He refused to believe it. He ran after Ian, rushing up the narrow, winding stairs. The moment he reached the upper landing, he saw Moray materialize in the upper corridor, surprising his son. Like Ian, Moray could not see him. Aidan tried to blast Moray with power, but nothing came from his hand or his mind. Furious, desperate, as he saw Moray move to seize Ian, Aidan tried to blast him again, but with the same results. “Ian,” he screamed in near panic. “Run!”
But Ian did not hear him, and Moray caught the little boy in his powerful embrace. Ian began struggling, and Aidan almost wept as Moray started toward the north tower, dragging the nine-year-old with him.
Aidan ran after them. He launched himself at Moray, intending to assault him as an ordinary human might—but an invisible wall came between them, sending him reeling backward across the corridor.
Were the gods interfering? He was incredulous.
He cried out in fury and saw himself landing in the tower on his hands and knees. There were other rules. A Master must never encounter himself in either the past or the future. The rule was not explained. Afraid to move, he watched his younger self look up in horror.
“Hallo a Aidan,” his father said to the man he had been a mere moment ago. “I decided it was time to meet my grandson.”
Was this why a Master must never encounter himself in another time? Because he would lose his powers? For he could only stand there and helplessly watch as the drama unfolded—the very drama he had just lived through!
“Yes, I am alive,” Moray said softly. “Did you really think I could be destroyed?”
“Release Ian,” his younger self said. “Whatever ye wish, I’ll do it.”
“But you know what I want, my son. I want you.”
Aidan watched as his other self tried to blast Moray—and as Moray’s own power sent Aidan flying across the tower and into the far wall. He breathed hard, tensing, knowing what was to come. Before Moray lifted his dagger, he launched himself at him again.
Aidan crashed into the invisible wall and bounced off it, choking on rage and anguish. The dagger sliced off the lower lobe of Ian’s ear. Ian choked on a scream, and Aidan heard his other self roar in rage—as he did.
And as the other Aidan tried to barter with his demonic father to heal his son, a huge force began dragging him inexorably toward the trio. Aidan tried to halt, but he simply couldn’t. He was rapidly being swept toward his younger self.
Aidan braced for an impact, uncertain of what to expect when his body came into contact with his younger self.
“The village below Awe. Destroy it.”
But there was no impact. Briefly there was an odd, sickening sensation, and then he was staring at Moray and Moray was staring back at him. He was no longer a spectator to the terrible drama. He had gone back in time to prevent this moment—to change it—but now he was facing Moray. He had come full circle to the precise moment when he had leapt.
He could not destroy an entire village of men, women and children.
Moray took the dagger and laid it against Ian’s throat. Blood oozed, and Ian cried out, blanching.
Aidan’s mind raced and he shielded his thoughts so Moray could not lurk. He did not have the power to change this moment.
He was sick now, sick in his soul. “Release my son and I will destroy the village,” he said tersely.
“Papa, no!” Ian cried.
Aidan didn’t look at him.
Moray grinned. “You will have the boy when you have proven you are my son.”
“Papa,” Ian panted in protest.
Aidan looked at him and wanted to cry. “I willna be long.”
“I’ll die for them!” Ian cried, struggling furiously now.
Moray jerked him, his expression one of anger and disgust. “He will be useless to me,” he spat.
“You won’t need him. You will have me,” Aidan said, meaning it. He left the tower, feeling as if his soul had already left his body. His movements felt mechanical, except for the wild pounding of his heart and the lurching of his stomach. For the first time in his life, he felt raw fear.
He went swiftly downstairs, awaking the five armed men who slept in the hall. They fell silently into step beside him.
Outside, the moon was full, the sky a deathly black, stars glittering obscenely. He roused another two dozen men. As their mounts were saddled, the men gathered torches. One of the men came up to him, his face set and grim. “What passes, Aidan?”
He looked at Angus, refusing to answer. A steed was brought forward and he vaulted into the saddle, signaling his men to follow.
The troops rode through the gatehouse and over the icy bridge that spanned gleaming waters. When they reached the village on the loch’s shores, Aidan pulled up. He did not look at Angus as he spoke. “Burn it. Leave no one—not even a dog—alive.”
He did not have to look at Angus to feel the man’s absolute shock.
He stared ahead at the village, not bothering to repeat himself.
A moment later, his men were galloping through the thatched cottages, torching the straw roofs, which instantly became infernos. Men, women and children fled their burning homes, crying in fright, and his men chased them down, one after one, swiftly ending each life with one thrust of a blade. Screams of terror filled the night. Aidan sat his restless mount, not allowing it to move. He knew his face was wet, but he refused to wipe the tears. He kept Ian’s image close in his mind until the night was silent, except for the hissing of flames and a single woman’s sobs.
Her weeping abruptly ended.
His men filed past him, no one looking at him now.
When he was alone, he choked and slid from the mount. He began vomiting helplessly and uncontrollably in the snow.
When he was done, he stayed there, breathing hard. The screams echoed in his mind. He kept reminding himself that at least he had saved Ian. And he knew he would never forget what he had just witnessed, what he had just done.
He heard a movement behind him.
Aidan slowly got up and turned.
A woman stood by some trees, weeping soundlessly, clutching the hand of a small, terrified child. She was staring at him. His heart lurched in absolute dread. He unsheathed his sword and started toward them.
She didn’t run. She hugged her child and shrank against the huge fir tree, eyes wide. “Why, my lord? Why?”
The hilt of his sword was sticky in his hand. He meant to raise it. He said hoarsely, “Run. Run now.”
She and the child fled into the woods.
He tossed the sword at the ground and leaned his face on his arms, against the tree. Ian…he had to free Ian from Moray.
And then he felt the shocking, evil presence behind him. Tensing, Aidan whirled. Moray stood there, Ian in his grasp. He saw the blade Moray held flash silver.
“Give me my son!”
Ian made an odd, strangled sound.
Horrified, Aidan saw the dagger embedded in Ian’s chest. “No!”
Moray smiled—and Ian’s eyes rolled back in his head lifelessly. Aidan screamed, rushing forward as Ian became limp. But when he reached them, they were gone.
For one instant, Aidan stood in shock and disbelief. Moray had murdered Ian.
Anguish began, and with it, more rage than he had ever felt. He howled, holding his head, and furiously, he leapt back in time. He would not let Ian die.
He returned to that moment at Awe when he had found Ian in the great hall with his steward, but once again he had no power, and no one could see or hear him. He tried to assault Moray, but an invisible wall came between them and the past repeated itself, exactly. This time, he was a sick spectator as his younger self sat on his steed and watched his men destroying an entire innocent village.
And this time, when he saw himself discover the woman and child, he rushed forward. “Do it,” he shouted at his younger self. “You must do it!’
But the man he had been a moment ago did not lift his sword. “Run. Run now!”
The woman and child fled into the forest. He watched as his younger self turned to face Moray, who held Ian tightly to his chest.
And that huge, unnatural force began pulling him inexorably toward the trio. Aidan screamed in warning at Ian, at himself, but no one heard him. He saw the silver dagger flash.
The anguish was even greater now, but so was the rage.
He fell to his knees, howling and maddened, and then he leapt back in time again.
And again.
And again.
And each and every time, it was the same. An entire village destroyed by his command, one small woman and child fleeing and Moray still murdering Ian before his very eyes, only to vanish with his dead child.
And finally he gave up.
He roared and roared, blinded by the grief. He cursed evil; he cursed the gods. He was below Awe’s curtain walls, although he did not recall returning from the village. And then, finally, the tower roof above his head collapsed. The entire wing of the castle started to crumble. He wept, openly and brokenly, as the stone walls rained down upon him. And when he was buried beneath his own castle walls, he became still and silent.
Aidan waited to die.
