Page 1 of Dark Embrace

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 if Argyll 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.