Vanished

She stood up and that flicker of admiration, respect he’d felt for her earlier, sharpened a bit. She wasn’t put off by his great size or by the reputation and legends surrounding him. He’d give her points for foolhardy bravery if nothing else.

“I’ll do what I can to look into the seer’s vision,” he said, though it cost him. He didn’t want to take orders from a psychic. Nor from a woman.

“Thank you. I’ll make my report to the Society.”

“You do that.”

“You don’t have to like me or the Society,” she said, clearly irritated that he wasn’t more appreciative of the effort she’d gone to in delivering this oh-so-very-vague message. “But you could at least show some respect.”

“Respect?” His voice boomed out before he could stop it. “For psychics and seers who sit in the background and make proclamations? Who have visions too late to help? Who see things that can’t be changed and then demand reverence for their faulty abilities?” Rogan moved in closer, until he could feel her body heat reaching out to him. Rage pounded in his brain and thundered through his veins.

“The psychics do their best,” she countered, blindly defending the group that was her family’s legacy. “Visions aren’t always clear.”

“Aye,” he agreed, feeling the fury threaten to overcome him. “But they don’t admit to mistakes, do they? No. They speak as if from the Mount and expect all to listen and revere. Well, I’ve no use for seers, Alison Blair. And even less use for their servants.”

She swallowed hard and he could see agitation suddenly take hold of her. Still, she kept her gaze fixed with his. “I’m no one’s servant.”

“And yet here you stand, at their beck and call.”

“It’s my duty.”

“And now you’ve done it, and it’s past time for me to be doing mine,” he muttered thickly, grabbing her upper arm to steer her out of his house.

But as he touched her, something unexpected happened, something dazzling. An arc of what could have been lightning jolted between them. White-hot heat and something more sizzled in the air, and Rogan released her instantly.

He knew that sizzle and flash.

He’d felt it just once before.

For his Destined Mate.

But she had been dead for hundreds of years.

Chapter 2

Casey tapped the toe of her shoe to the insistent beat of the traditional Irish music pouring out of the pub behind her. Even here on the sidewalk, the music was rich and full, making her consider going back inside despite how tired she was. With drums, pipes and fiddles, the small group of people huddled in a corner of the pub had the locals dancing and the tourists wishing they knew how to step dance.

Her first day in Ireland and already she was in love with the country. The cold, Irish wind buffeted her, the Guinness she’d drunk warmed her from the inside and fuzzed her jet-lagged mind into a kind of easy fog and the tidy streets of Westport made her feel safer than she ever had back home in Chicago. Even now, when it was nearly midnight, she wasn’t worried to be alone on a street corner waiting for the taxi she’d called.

And, okay, maybe that was foolish, but she wasn’t going to obsess about it. She’d stay in the light of the pub, within shouting distance of help, if she needed it. But she wouldn’t. The people were all so friendly. She’d talked all night, tried a dance step or two and then laughed like a loon when she hadn’t been able to keep up with an elderly man who, though he had to be at least a hundred years old, was as light on his toes as a ballet dancer.

The night had been a great welcome to Ireland, one her sister had missed. “Poor Aly. Off being the dutiful little soldier when she could have been here having fun.”

In the pub, the music abruptly shifted from a wildly paced tune called “Finnegan’s Wake” to something slow and sad and just a little dreamy. Casey sighed as the notes soared into the night and told herself that this sense of freedom she was experiencing was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to accept her legacy and join the Society.

For centuries, her family had served the Guardians. And what had they gotten for it? Very little. Heck, the Guardians themselves barely tolerated Society members. The pay was stingy, the respect was almost nonexistent and because you took an oath of secrecy, you couldn’t even tell your friends what you did for a living!

“No, thank you,” she muttered as if she were having the familiar argument with her elder sister. Aly had been working for the Society since she was eighteen. She’d been the “good” daughter, the obedient one, the one who did whatever their parents expected of her. She’d been sucked into the secretive Society and had immersed herself in the traditions and rules, much as their parents had. Aly bought into the mentality of serving humanity and helping the Guardians, and Casey had never been able to change her mind.

Well, for Casey it was different. She’d never been convinced that the “demon threat” was all that horrifying. After all, the demons had been trying to take over humankind for thousands of years and they hadn’t succeeded yet. How terrifying could they possibly be? No. She was more convinced that it was Guardian propaganda that had kept the Society members in practical servitude for centuries.

“They’re no better than cosmic bullies,” she muttered. “Ordering us around like we’re peasants, then ignoring us when it suits them. Ten to one, Rogan Butler didn’t even let Aly get close enough to deliver her stupid message.”

Shaking her head, Casey determinedly turned her mind from her sister and the Guardian she was sent to meet. After all, it was so not her problem. She was here to enjoy herself, and that’s just what she was going to do.

“But where is the stupid taxi?”

Another gust of icy ocean air blew in off Clew Bay and wrapped itself around Casey like a long-lost lover. She shivered a little and wished she’d worn a heavier jacket. But the black leather had gone so well with her outfit that she hadn’t wanted to spoil her look.

A voice drifted to her, and she turned toward the sound. Just across the wide street, a three-foot-high stone wall separated the road from the Carrowbeg River. The length of the wall was dotted with trees and old-fashioned streetlamps that offered more in ambiance than in actual lighting.

She listened harder, but when she didn’t hear anything more, she brushed it off and again stared down the street, willing her taxi to appear.

“Help me…”

There it was again. A sigh almost lost in the rush of the river and the whisper of the wind, never mind the music still erupting inside the pub. Frowning, she thought about stepping into the pub to get assistance but then reconsidered. If she was imagining the call—and chances of that were good, since she was so tired she could hardly stand upright—she’d look like a fool.

Quickly, she looked up and down the street and then crossed the road in a fast trot that had her boot steps echoing softly around her. Clutching the edges of her jacket together, she walked up to the short stone fence and stared down into the fastmoving river. She didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anyone, so she must be more jet-lagged than she’d thought.

Despite the streetlamps, it was darker here than it had been in front of the noisy pub. Shadows were everywhere, crouching in patches of deeper black, and Casey was suddenly uneasy. She glanced around her but saw no one. Nothing. Yet the sensation of being watched was so real, so bone-deep certain she couldn’t shake it. A chill snaked along her spine. She looked back at the pub and took comfort in the bright splash of light streaming through the wide front window. She wasn’t alone. Help was just a shout away.

“You’ve come…”

A voice. Deep, musical, mesmerizing. Casey pulled in a long, deep breath, then let it slide slowly from her lungs. She swayed and felt her head go light, as if a fog had slipped into her mind, shrouding her thoughts, wrapping her brain in a haze that grew thicker with every beat of her heart. She shook her head, tried to clear it, but the fog remained, thick, warm.

“Who are you? Where are you?” She held her breath and waited for that compelling, soothing, completely sexual voice again.

“Ah, darlin’…I’ve been waitin’…”

“Yes,” she whispered, licking her lips, sighing as unseen fingers moved over her body, stroking, touching, enticing.

A shadow lifted from the earth, twisting in the wind, contorting itself, writhing as if fighting to come into existence.

Casey couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

She could only watch, breathlessly.

And the dark came alive. A howl lifted into the air, and a moment later the river walk was empty.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” Aly said, rubbing her upper arm with her free hand as if trying to ease a bone-deep burn. Where he’d grabbed her, her skin still tingled, still hummed with the unexpected charge of electricity that had arced between them.

She’d been a member of the Society for more than ten years. She spent her days researching the different Guardians and the legends and tales that surrounded them. She knew all about the myth of Destined Mates. And she’d read about the bonding that happened between them, the link that sprang to life at first touch and how that link became stronger over time.

Well, no, thank you.

“I’ve no idea what you’re blatherin’ about,” Rogan muttered and didn’t look any too happy about the situation himself.

Although, he hadn’t been exactly a cheery man since he’d first opened his door for her. So, that probably didn’t mean anything.

“I know the legends,” she said, just to make sure he knew exactly how she felt about this. She wanted no mistakes, no misunderstandings. She was here to do a job, see a little of Ireland, then go home. “The Destined Mate thing? I know all about it, and you should know, I’m so not interested.”

“Don’t recall asking you to be interested.”

She ignored that, as she ignored the sizzle in her blood and the near-overpowering sense of recognition her soul was feeling. No, no, no. “I’ve got a life, thanks, and I’m not looking to subjugate myself to some medieval warrior who doesn’t even know the meaning of common courtesy. And now that I’ve done what I was sent here to do, I’m gone.”

“Be on your way, then.” He swung one muscular arm out in a wide arc, showing her the way out as if she couldn’t remember it for herself. “No one’s keepin’ you.”

“Fine.” Everything in her yearned to stay. Feelings she didn’t want crowded her mind, her heart, but she ruthlessly shut them down. Clearly, she’d been spending too much time at work and not enough time building a social life. If she could be this attracted to a crabby, overbearing Guardian, she really needed to get out more.

She turned on her heel and started for the front door. Just as she stepped into the entryway, though, she looked back at him. The fire crackled behind him, flames dancing in the hearth. Lamplight fell down onto him, making the black of his hair gleam almost blue. Those pale green eyes of his sparkled and shone with a glint of fury she hadn’t noticed a moment before, and his full mouth was flattened into a grim slash.

God, he was amazing. Her body burned, but her mind was in control. And she was glad to see that he was no happier about that little jolt of something sizzling than she was. Then they could both ignore whatever it had been and go on with their lives. As it should be.

“Good luck with your demon hunting.”

He folded his arms over that incredibly broad chest and muttered, “And you go back to your seer. Tell him I’ve no interest in anything he has to say.”

She left him there in that wonderful room and told herself as she went that the buzzing in her blood had nothing to do with his touch.

After Alison Blair left, Rogan found he couldn’t settle. His own home, the place he’d lived in for more than two hundred years, felt like a prison cell. It was as if the walls were closing in on him and air was too hard to come by. Damn woman should never have come.

The blasted Society had had no business sending her to him. He hadn’t taken their calls, had he? Wasn’t that plain enough that he’d no wish to hear from them? He prowled the confines of his library and found no pleasure in the books he’d collected over the lengthy span of his lifetime. He slapped both hands onto the Connemara marble mantel and stared down into the flames leaping and dancing in the hearth. Shadows flickered and lights shifted, and in the fire’s depths he saw Alison Blair’s face again and the surprise in her eyes when his touch had sparked off feelings neither of them wanted.

“Blast the woman,” he muttered, feeling the hot, roiling ball of fury build in his gut and churn viciously. And as he closed his eyes to the image of her, he made a solemn vow. “I’ll not do it again. I’ll not be led by my cock for the amusement of the Fates.”

And just saying the words aloud refocused his strength. Reminded him of who and what he was. Rogan Butler. Guardian. Warrior. And the softness of a woman had no place in his life—his was a world of blood and death.

That thought spurred him into action. He wasn’t a man to stand still. Pushing away from the fireplace, he strode from the room, his long legs moving quickly, silently through the house. What he needed right now was a battle. Clean. Simple. He gathered his weapons, threw on his coat and went on the hunt.

As Rogan moved through the bitter, cold night, his long black coat slapping around his legs, he searched for a telltale swirl of demonic energy that would steer him in the right direction. Trace signatures left behind when a demon entered our dimension were invisible to humans, but to Guardians they appeared as faint washes of color.

“There you are, you bastard,” he murmured, as his gaze caught a faint swirl of deep orange streaking through the stand of woods at the edge of Lough Mask.

The bitter taste of it was on the wind, and he turned, lifting his face, scenting his prey. His senses honed to a keen edge, Rogan sprinted soundlessly through the woods. The surface of Lough Mask looked like tarnished silver lying beneath a sliver of moon. The stars shone brilliantly in a black sky but shed little light on the countryside.

But Rogan didn’t need light for his work. This he knew better than anyone else alive. He was one of the oldest Guardians, and he’d been fighting demons for what seemed an eternity. Scenting the air again, he smiled grimly and lost himself in the trees. His steps were silent, his breathing steady and hushed. His gaze swept the terrain he knew as well as he knew the layout of his own home.

This was his country. He’d lived and died in Ireland and chose to remain here as one of the Guardians who defended the island against demon encroachment. He was Irish to the bone, and this very ground was a part of him. He’d traveled the globe and never found another spot like this one. Always, he’d been drawn back here, to County Mayo, where Gaelic was still spoken, as it should be. The old ways were remembered here. Revered.

Here no farmer would think to run a tractor across a fairy mound—unwilling to risk angering the little people. Here trees were left to stand tall in the fields and crops were planted around them. Here ruins of castles echoed with the ghosts of warriors long dead.

And here his own memories both comforted and tormented him.

The wind on the water churned whitecaps that slapped at the surface of the lake and sounded like hundreds of cats lapping at cream. The trees around him bent and swayed. His eyes narrowed, and every one of his Guardian senses reached into the darkness. The scent was clear, but the faint wash of orange had dissipated in the wind.

A crack of a twig.

A hiss of breath.

Rogan spun about and pounced.

The burly demon had thought to sneak up on him and Rogan would have laughed at the very idea, but he was too busy, swinging a sword he had carried for eons. The very balance of the heavy blade felt a part of him, an extension of his arm as he whipped it through the air with such power the wind sang as it caressed the finely honed metal.

His blade hit home with a smack of steel against flesh. The demon howled in fury and pain and charged Rogan in desperation. Wild, burning eyes flashed in the darkness and long, lethal claws swiped at him. But Rogan was more than ready. He’d been bred to fight, and over the hundreds of years that had passed since his death, his abilities with a blade had become legendary—even among the Guardians.

The demon snarled, his jaw dropping to reveal jagged teeth nearly two inches long. The stench of demon blood fouled the air and Rogan hissed in a breath. His heart pounded frantically and his blood rushed. He dropped into a crouch, swinging his blade in another wide arc from which the demon leaped back to avoid. Minutes ticked past, and the wind around him tossed dirt and leaves into the air.

And Rogan hardly noticed. His focus was on his opponent. On the battle. He fought because it was his duty. Because a warrior was all he was.

Because he knew nothing else.

Again and again they clashed viciously. The defender and the beast. “You should have stayed in hell, demon. There’s no place in Ireland for the likes of you.”

The demon spat at him, and its saliva mixed with blood, bubbling into a frothy acid on the ground at Rogan’s feet. “Guardians are few and we are many.”

Rogan leaped through the air, and as he came down, he brought the hilt of his sword crashing into the demon’s skull. The solid hit staggered the beast, and it dropped to the earth, stunned. Rogan planted one boot on the small of its back and held it pinned to the ground while it cursed and screamed. In a moment he’d secure the bloody damn thing and cart it off back to the portal and its rightful dimension. Demons were hard to kill here on this plane. The most a Guardian could do was capture it and send it back to hell.

“Bastard!” The demon twisted and writhed in a futile effort to free itself. “You’ll pay for this! I’ll see to it! Armies of demons will descend on you and yours.”

Rogan stepped heavier on the beast until it ran out of air to shout with. “Many you may be,” he agreed, smiling now that the fight was ended, “but we’ll outlast the lot of you.”

And while his captive fought desperately to escape him, Rogan slid his sword into its scabbard and lifted his face to the night sky. Victory and one less demon to threaten humankind this night. He’d done his duty. Done what he was meant to do.

Yet still the emptiness inside him rattled as it had for too many years to count.

“Casey?” Aly called quietly and stepped into their shared bedroom at the Radharc na Oilean B and B on the banks of Lough Mask. There were two twin beds covered by handmade quilts in beautiful shades of blues and greens. A wide dormer window overlooked the fields stretching out behind the farmhouse, and the lamp on the small table between the beds gave off a soft, warm glow.

Along with enough light for Aly to see that Casey wasn’t back yet.

A flicker of worry sputtered into life inside her, but Aly told herself to calm down. She closed the door behind her, crossed the room and stared out at the sweep of open fields that lay at the feet of the Partry Mountains. There wasn’t enough moonlight to see much, but she made out the blurred white patches of the sheep huddling together in the field for warmth. The end of March in Ireland was cold, even for the animals used to the biting wind.

Turning back around, Aly frowned as she stared at her sister’s empty bed but told herself that Casey was an adult, old enough to take care of herself. She’d be back before long and no doubt be lording it all over Aly for the good time she’d missed because she’d had to deal with Rogan Butler.

Just the thought of the man’s name had Aly rubbing her arm again. She could swear she still felt his touch on her skin. Which was just weird.

Her heartbeat quickened a bit as she remembered the cold gleam in his clear green eyes as he touched her. He’d felt that buzz of something molten between them as well as she had. And he hadn’t looked any happier about it than she was. Small consolation.

Sighing, she eased her suitcase off the bed, then stretched out atop the quilt. Not bothering to change into her pajamas, she lay in the soft glow of lamplight and stared up at the sloping ceiling. But she wasn’t seeing the clean, white paint over the eaves of what had once been the attic of the working farmhouse.

Instead, she was seeing Rogan Butler, frowning at her. She heard the rolling music of his accent and the deep reverberation of his voice as it sizzled along her spine. She remembered every moment with him so clearly it was as if it had been etched into her brain.

“Now, isn’t that a lovely thought?” No. It wasn’t. She didn’t want to think about him. Didn’t want to consider what that hum of electric charge between them might have meant. And surely didn’t want to see him again.

And yet…

His face filled her mind as her eyes closed and her body surrendered to the jet lag tugging at her.

Casey still hadn’t returned by morning.

Aly fought down a cold lump of fear in her belly and told herself there would be an explanation. Car trouble, maybe. No. She was going to catch a cab. Then perhaps an accident. Oh, God. That wasn’t a good thought.

She went downstairs at the crack of dawn, but since the B and B was situated on a working sheep farm, her hostess was already up and busy. Aly accepted a cup of coffee, got directions on how to get to the city of Westport, then climbed into her car and took off.

The bucolic Irish countryside did nothing to dispel the sense of urgency bubbling inside her. Something was desperately wrong. She felt it. Aly knew her sister, and though Casey liked to have a good time, she wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have gone home with a man she’d just met.

Which left only one possibility.

Casey was in some kind of trouble.

The owner of the B and B had made a couple of phone calls for her, checking in with the local hospitals, but there was no record of an American woman being treated or admitted. So fine. She wasn’t in the hospital. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be lying in a ditch somewhere and…

“Stop it,” she told herself. She wasn’t going to let her imagination take over. There would be a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe Casey hadn’t been able to get a cab back and had stayed at a hotel in town. “But if she’d done that, she would have called to let me know.”

The narrow road unwound in front of her like a black ribbon snaking through lush fields of green. On either side of the road, gorse bushes sprouted tiny yellow flowers in clusters so rich and thick that you couldn’t see through them to the farms beyond. On her right, Lough Mask lay spread out into the distance, a watery sun splotching the gray surface with flashes of brilliance.

When a car headed toward her, Aly gulped in a breath and held it, steering her car as far over to the left as she could. The gorse bushes scraped at the car, and as the other driver passed, he lifted a hand in greeting and drove on.

Aly blew out that breath and took another. She couldn’t imagine driving these roads all the time. It was terrifying. But at the moment, she had more to frighten her than tiny roads, careless drivers and the sheep that suddenly wandered out in front of her.

Stomping on the brake, Aly jerked to a stop and waited while the white-and-black sheep stared at her as if she were an intruder. And, hell, she was. She should never have come here, Society or not. And she certainly shouldn’t have brought Casey with her.

Casey.

Honking her horn, Aly eased off the brake and crept up on the sheep as slowly as she could. But she didn’t have the time to simply sit parked while the damn animal decided where it wanted to go. Clearly irritated, the sheep glared at her, then bounded across the road and Aly was once more flying down a narrow strip of asphalt, muttering unintelligible prayers as she went.