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