Maureen Child - Vanished

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.