Maureen Child - Vanished

“Fine, then,” she said after a long moment’s pause. “Reginald has seen the rise of a very dangerous power. Here. Soon.”

He laughed. And when her features stiffened in shock, he laughed harder. “This is the so important message? Your seer’s looked beyond the veil and seen trouble, has he?” He rubbed his jaw and pretended to give the matter great thought. “What kind of trouble do you think, then? Could it be…demons? ”

“Are you really so arrogant you can’t accept help when it’s offered?”

“I don’t need your help. Or apparently the help of your gifted seer. I know there’s trouble, don’t I?” He stood up and looked down at her from his great height. “Demons are nothing new to me, Alison Blair.”

“This isn’t an ordinary demon,” she said quietly, as if she were measuring each word and weighting it down with patience before speaking it. “Reginald saw an extreme amount of energy surrounding the nearest portal. He says that it’s building daily and that there’s a danger beyond the normal threat.”

Rogan scowled at her and thought about the seer’s message. He’d known for days now that something unusual was happening. There had been reported cases of people mysteriously vanishing all over Ireland. And there’d been more demon activity lately as well. He didn’t like any of it.

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.

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.