Hope of Heaven: Project Prometheus, #2

By Esther Mitchell

Peter Talladay never expected to lead a normal life again, after his battle against a demon in the Iraqi desert left him partially crippled. Accepting his infirmity seemed the only sane, and logical, thing to do. But visions of an ancient cairn and a howling Irish Bean Si have risen up to trouble his dreams, and his immobile state frustrates him.

 

When beautiful, fiery Hope MacKenzie ventured into his world, he found a whole new reason to be afraid. Now, the chasm of his nightmare is growing steadily, and only a man strong enough to cross the bowels of Hell itself would ever have a chance at the Heaven Peter craves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: FyrRose Productions
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781955301022

Book preview

Prologue

Eire, c. 9000 B.C.E.

Blood hammered through his veins, his heart beating with the rhythm of the ocean as fear and disorientation overcame him. He rose unsteadily and stumbled from the waves, water pouring from him as he collapsed on the rocky beach. Where was he? What land was this? All he could recall was the thrashing violence of the waves filled with the power of Onuris' magic as they battered his only escape from the island he called home. A home he no longer had.

Cold shivered through him, and he crawled toward the shelter of the trees beyond the beach. He had to get out of this wind and find warmth. Then, as memory flooded though him, new fear crashed over him and he slid his hand into the folds of the baldric across his broad chest. He didn't relax until his fingers closed over the sharp smoothness of the spearhead hidden there.

Relief spurred him forward until he gained the shelter of the forest. He was in pain and bleeding, and he needed to find help. He fell beneath a towering oak, clutching his side in an attempt to slow the blood flowing from the wound he received when his ship broke up in the storm. If only he knew what land he came ashore on. Was he among friends, or foes?

The rustle of underbrush alerted him to the presence of another. His lids fluttered open, and lifted. All breath stopped, and a new pain clutched him -- sweet where the other was bitter. She was beautiful in an Otherworldly way. Her pale skin was creamy and flawless, her hair bright as a flame. Her eyes captivated him. Eyes like a rainbow at the end of a storm.

He blinked. The smile on her face was as mysterious as those eyes. I knew you would come.

Lugh turned his head slowly, breaking her gaze to see who she spoke to. When he saw no one else, his brow furrowed. Me?

Her smile widened, full of genuine warmth. Aye, Shining Brow. I told my grandfather you would come. Now he will see my vision was true.

Curious in spite of himself, he allowed her to help him up, and leaned on her shoulder. Lugh was surprised when her slight frame turned out to be stronger than it appeared. As they headed through the trees, he focused on this beautiful woman who was his salvation, and ignored the distant rumble of thunder from the sea.

*****

Burn Cleary Farm, Ireland

August 1, 2001

A keening wail sifted across the moonlit field, stirring the high, dark grass into a seething ocean of shadows. Sweat stood out on his brow and dripped, icy, down his spine as he ran through the moving shadows. His breath huffed out raggedly, and his entire being ached with a torment he never knew could exist. Ahead of him, salvation glowed like a silvery beacon in the darkness, but it remained just beyond reach and the howling grew steadily nearer behind him.

With a cry of terror, Peter Talladay bolted upright in bed, his hand grasping futilely for the weapon no longer stashed beneath his pillow as adrenaline poured through him, his heart pounding harshly. Searching wildly in the dark for the danger stalking him, his surroundings finally penetrated the fog in his mind and reality crashed over him, both relieving and terrifying. This was his room at Burn Cleary. He was back in Ireland, where he'd sworn never to set foot again until he died.

Well, he was as good as dead now, wasn't he? Peter flopped backward, allowing himself a brief flicker of self-pity as he stared at the shadows sifting across his bedroom ceiling. For years, he stayed one step ahead of the bloody Bean Si. He survived more years and suicide missions than a mercenary twice his age had a right to expect, with not a single mission bought in cowardice or dishonor. Not even the last one, he conceded with a sigh, though it ended his career with this indignity.

Peter pillowed his arms behind his head, his gaze fixed into memories. She was a pretty lass -- all sweetness and smiles with a face Helen of Troy would envy. Yet, from the moment he opened his eyes in that devastated Lebanese canyon to find her standing over him, he knew she wasn't for him. She was out of bounds. Oh, he came to love her all the same over the ensuing months, but there was no lust in his feelings for her. He only wanted to protect the innocence he saw in her. When he recognised his best friend's reluctant fall for the gentle Sumerian woman, no man could've been happier than Peter. Matthew Raleigh deserved happiness, and Peter did everything in his power to see it come to pass, including deliberately drawing a demon's wrath down upon his own head. He refused to regret his choice.

The physical pain lessened and all but disappeared over the past fourteen months. He rarely thought of it anymore. Nevertheless, something changed in his soul as he looked into those glowing, demonic eyes. In an instant, he knew he was a dead man. His mobility was limited, and nightmares stole away the oblivion of sleep. Aye, the Bean Si mourned him loudly, and he no longer cared.

Disgusted with his morbid thoughts, Peter sighed deeply, and named his apathy for what it was -- dangerous. Rolling over, he reached for the bedside phone and punched familiar numbers. He needed help. He needed a friend.

Chapter One

Three Weeks Later

This had better be good.

Exasperated, Hope MacKenzie reached to shove the mass of auburn curls away from her neck only to stop short when she touched empty air, a reminder her hair was nearly two feet shorter now.

Damn. Eleven years and thirty thousand miles of separation, and she still wasn't used to the short pixie cut of her hair. Strange how she could remember quite clearly exactly when, and why, she chopped it all off the first time. Bob.

Hope winced at the memory. She took her kitchen shears and hacked off every last strand of the waist-length hair Bob adored the day her world came to a crashing halt. Then she lifted her chin and walked out the door, more brash and bold than she ever felt in her life. Chalk up one more point for the rebellious troublemaker everyone thought thoroughly beaten.

A small, smug smile flitted across her face as she recalled the stunned looks she received from all those people she thought were her friends. Her final revenge was to take something back for everything taken from her. Her youth, her innocence, her dreams, even her hero -- all swallowed up by the greedy machine of the military world. But the moment she walked out, she finally realized there was still something she could reclaim, and she did so with a vengeance. She reclaimed her self.

Hope's euphoria collapsed as she realized how much she risked her still-fragile self-confidence, coming here. But, damn it, Manara said it was important, and Manara never exaggerated. The concerned tone of her friend's request touched Hope, and she agreed to help in any way she could. She envisioned suffering children, or tormented women, or even innocent men caught in the crossfire. She didn't see the bombshell until Manara dropped it straight into her lap. The dreaded word crackled through the phone line between Sidon and Boston and effectively blew Hope's hard-won peace to smithereens: Military.

Damn Manara! Savagely, Hope jerked the steering wheel of the tan Jeep, sending it flying precariously around a sharp bend in the curving road. Important, her ass! Manara knew perfectly well Hope had a standing practice of never treating military men. Manara knew even better Hope avoided men in general as much as possible. For the first time in seven years, Hope nearly denied her best friend, yet... something made her pause. If only she knew what.

Hope frowned. She might not know why she stopped short of a flat-out denial, or why she finally agreed to bend the one rule she never bent, but she did know one thing. Manara would never ask her for more than she could give. So, instead of refusing, she asked the only question she was unable to resist, why me?

Manara's response, as always, held the serene ring of absolute certainty: Because you are the only one who can.

When the chosen Poet-Priestess of Ishtar admitted she couldn't handle something herself, Hope knew it was bad. Manara knew how demons worked; she'd battled the damage they did to her people all of her life. But Manara also knew just how skilled Hope was. Manara's mother trained Hope, after all. And Alzena declared Hope's ability to tap into the human soul on both the physical and astral planes a unique Gift.

Hope sighed. Too bad she didn't agree. After her return from the Middle East, she tried to go back to standard medicine, but weird things kept happening, and she kept getting involved in unusual cases. Then Terrence Lifford came into her life. Together, she and the exorcist, who became her friend, created the Guiding Light Spiritual Wellness Clinic -- one of the most well known paranormal medical centers in the world. They had patients from all over the world, handled everything from illnesses needing holistic medicine to demonic possessions. They specialized in impossible cases, for all that her cousin, Faith, thought she went off the deep end.

Still, all her experience didn't help Hope understand this situation, yet. Manara's story spilled out so fast Hope was left more than a little confused. Something about Peter Talladay being a good man, and in trouble. Manara didn't elaborate, and Hope refrained from making a caustic comment about the fallacy of Manara's words. In Hope's experience, the words good and military didn't even belong in the same sentence.

Manara described his wounding only vaguely, focusing instead on his apathy toward the healing process, and her own belief he suffered the residual effects of a demonic attack. Years of acquiescence toward her situation allowed Hope to identify with the image of a man calmly facing his own demise. She knew she couldn't say no -- not to Manara, and not to the enigmatically wounded Peter Talladay.

With a sigh of resignation, Hope glanced over the beautiful Irish countryside as she sped along the winding roads. Manara could always read her, and knew exactly how to get her attention—through her heart. Hope became a doctor because she couldn't bear the thought of human suffering. However, modern medicine only went so far, and Hope was conscious of the wounds all the medical degrees in the world couldn't heal, no matter what Faith said. So Hope trained under Manara's mother, Alzena, to become a Healer, not just of broken bodies, but also of shattered souls. In the years since, she only regretted she'd never been able to heal her own battered soul. But she could help Peter Talladay.

Absently tapping one hand against the steering wheel in time to the rhythmic beat of Paul Simon, Hope wondered what kind of man Peter Talladay was. Arrogant, more than likely, with a smugly superior attitude toward women. Every military man she knew had ego to spare. Not one of them ever considered listening to her. Fleetingly, she imagined a hard-faced soldier, confined to a wheelchair and hating every moment of it. He was probably stewing in bitterness and pride. Great. A weary sigh broke from her lips as she prepared herself for the confrontation sure to come. He'd resent her intrusion into his life as much as she resented being tricked to come treat him. What a team they'd make, she decided with a tired smile. There were definitely days when loyalty wasn't necessarily a virtue. Still, she owed Manara her life. If this man was so important to her friend, the least she could do was attempt to help him.

As she crested the hill above Burn Cleary farm, Hope jammed on the brakes as a vision slammed into her from out of nowhere.

She lifted her gaze to the man who stood over her, his tall form as solid as the rocks of the hillside surrounding her valley, his pale hair catching the sunlight like a halo. He was like the Oak God, so strong, eternal. Her breath stalled and she dug her hands into the soft earth beneath her to keep from reaching for him as his storm-cloud colored gaze held her spellbound. She refused to believe her ears.

You are leaving.

He nodded. His brow wrinkled in a concerned frown as he crouched to her level. One large, artistic hand smoothed away fiery curls from her face, where the wind settled them.

But why?

His expression softened as he gazed into her eyes. You are this land, and all that ties me here, sweet Dechtire. For your safety, I would give anything.

Her eyes closed as she fought the truth of those words. She knew what he spoke of, though she wished she could claim ignorance. The Spear is safe. All of your secrets are safe here.

He didn't hear her, she could tell by the faraway expression in his eyes, the wistful look on his face. The Milesians are on the waves already. They bring with them a wind fit to change this land forever.

Fear filled her to the core. She was desperate to keep this man by her side. Where will you go?

He smiled softly as he stroked her cheek again and leaned closer, until less than a breath of space remained between them. Where all the Tuathe will one day follow. We will not be separated for long, my love. But there is one final request I must make.

Anything.

A man will come here, from the Milesians. He will seek peace, when the rest scream for bloody war. He will deny all power, including the Spear. Before you join me, gift him this land. He and his will guard it, and the Spear, until our return.

Before she could voice her assent, his mouth found hers, and his kiss catapulted her through the Cosmos.

Hope jerked back to awareness with a gasp. Staring down at the farmland below, she touched her fingers to her lips, which still tingled from his phantom kiss. Rolling fields of the greenest grass she ever saw rippled along the surrounding hills and valley floor like an emerald ocean, broken only by the dappled stands of ancient, fruit-laden orchards and the pale lines of stone walls. This was the Ireland a ten-year-old Hope, trapped in an ocean of unforgiving concrete, dreamed of. The Ireland of her beloved grandmother's birth lay before her, looking as untouched as Eden. A sensation of homecoming swirled through Hope to settle deep in her heart.

Don't be silly, Hope told herself sternly. She'd never been to Ireland before, and Grams was Belfast born and raised. Hope had no reason to feel so attached to this place. Yet, the feeling lingered, filling her with giddy trepidation. What awaited her at the end of this road?

Hope shook off the eerie tingle of déjà vu, eased off the brake, and allowed the rental Jeep to glide down the winding dirt road toward the cluster of stone buildings nestled in the center of the valley. She had a job to do here, and the sooner she was about it, the sooner she could put distance between herself and the solitary and surly mercenary she was going to be stuck here with, alone.

She couldn't have been more wrong if she tried, Hope decided in shock as she pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the farmhouse. Manara forgot to mention she wouldn't be at this task alone.

The barking of a dog greeted her first, bringing a woman to the doorway of the immaculately kept old building. Hope grinned in pleasure as she recognized the petite woman who cautiously skirted an excited, but huge, German Shepherd.

Shahdi! She turned off the ignition just as the other woman reached the Jeep. Manara didn't mention you'd be here.

Shahdi smiled, her china blue eyes -- so strange with her darker complexion -- radiating welcome. It is good to see you again, Doctor MacKenzie.

The twinkle of mischief in the Persian woman's eyes brought a wry grin to Hope's face.

Still at that game, are you? Glancing around, she frowned slightly. Is Manara around somewhere? How'd she meet up with this mercenary, anyway?

A sly smile touched Shahdi's impish features. "Mukarramma has changed many times over since you last saw her, Hope. Not always for the good, but she is finally happy."

So where is she?

"Not here, though she does occasionally come through here. She is at Nineveh, now, overseeing the construction of the new Temple. With Sayyid Raleigh's help, we are finally prepared to begin construction."

Hope nodded blankly. She had no idea what Shahdi was talking about, except Manara wasn't here, which deflated her good mood slightly. She'd hoped to catch up on the years they spent apart. Manara was, after all, as close to Hope as her cousin, Faith. Like sisters.

Hope opened the Jeep's door and slid from the driver seat. She froze as her feet touched the ground, and a shock of energy raced through her, blindsiding her with the return of her vision. She shivered as she came out of it this time. That man... and those eyes. Those storm-cloud grey eyes, with their powerful intensity, remained with her even longer than the energy of his kiss.

Shaking off the vision, she forced herself to exit the vehicle, and promptly landed back in the seat as eighty-plus pounds of sheer canine excitement hit her solidly, yipping like an excited puppy.

Cain!

Hope laughed at the horrified tone of Shahdi's voice and the comical expression on the Persian woman's face as she struggled to overcome her fear of the large animal as he set about trying to lick Hope to death. Hope's heart warmed and melted beneath the unrestrained greeting. With the ease of a woman who spent half her life around large animals, Hope grasped the canine by his scruff and gave him an affectionate ruffle, before gently, but firmly, setting him away to look into his large, cocoa eyes.

Is that your name, baby? Cain?

Instantly, the dog sank to the ground, sitting at attention on his haunches with his head tilted at a curious angle. Hope smiled. One thing for sure, he was one highly intelligent animal.

She looked up from Cain at Shahdi's gasp. What?

How--

Hope chuckled. Shahdi had a flair for the dramatic, at times. I think he's harmless, Shahdi. He's definitely well-trained.

Shahdi looked dubious, but said nothing more on the issue. Hope shrugged it off. She was more interested in what happened to Manara, anyway.

So then, you get to fill me in. Manara said Mr. Talladay's a mercenary. How on earth did she ever meet him? Hope quirked Shahdi a look as she turned back to the Jeep, reaching for her bags. I thought the ban was still in place.

Sly humor twinkled in Shahdi's eyes as she grinned. Not anymore.

Hope nearly dropped her bags, startled. Her gaze flew immediately to the farmhouse. Are you saying...

The other woman laughed merrily. "No. Peter is one of Sayyid's soldiers. He helped destroy the demon at Nineveh, and risked his life for Mukarramma and Sayyid."

Hope's brow furrowed in consternation. "Who is this Sayyid you keep going on about?"

Shahdi smiled shyly, her blue eyes bright with an admiration Hope had never seen in the feisty, petite woman before. "He is the Warrior-King, sent by Inanna to reclaim the temple, and Mukarramma's heart."

Hope halted in her tracks, her eyes going wide in disbelief. Manara, in love? She'd believe it when she saw it. He must be really something.

He is, Shahdi said, her voice slightly awed, before she grinned broadly. But then, so is Peter.

Don't even, Hope warned, rolling her eyes.

Shahdi blinked at her innocently, but Hope could see the shrewd twinkle in her friend's eyes.

I mean it, Shahdi, she said sternly. "Don't go getting any of your little matchmaking ideas about me. No matter how charming your pet mercenary is, I'm not interested. I'm here because Manara begged me to help him and that's all. Got it?"

Shahdi sighed dramatically. As you wish. But I think you are making a mistake to close love out of your life.

"It's my life, Hope countered grimly. I'll decide what's a mistake."

As she followed a suddenly silent Shahdi into the house, Hope had the gnawing feeling her words would prove prophetic. What on earth had she gone and gotten herself into this time?

If Hope was surprised to discover she wasn't alone in this rather distasteful task, her first sight of the man Manara asked her to treat left her stunned speechless.

Peter Talladay didn't have the hard, uncompromising look of any mercenary she ever encountered before. A thin scar bisected the right side of his face, from temple to jaw, adding to his allure -- like an old-time pirate come to life. Energy radiated from him like sunlight, despite his obvious pain and lack of sleep. Her pulse picked up and her breath clogged in her throat.

Talladay's face was firm, even if his cheeks had the sunken look of a man who slept little. Dark circles hovered around his eyes, nearly obliterating the thin marks of laugh lines at their corners. His features were even and symmetrical, and he was smooth shaven, with close-cropped hair the color of rich, peaty mud. His nose was scarred and slightly crooked. Obviously, he broke it more than a few times. His eyes... as Hope finally met his slate-grey gaze, her world tilted. She was surprised to find herself still standing. Peter Talladay had the most intense eyes she'd ever seen in her life. Those were the same storm-cloud grey eyes she saw in her vision when she arrived. Yet, beneath the intensity of his gaze, she detected a hint of self-effacing humor. If he was a man pursued by ghosts, there was certainly no evidence of it in those eyes.

Nor was there any evidence of weakness in his appearance, Hope acknowledged, her pulse pounding. He must have some range of movement and one hell of an exercise regimen, because, even after a year and a half of confinement in a wheelchair, Talladay still had the physique of Hercules, with shoulders broad enough to carry the world if he tried, and the powerful legs of a marathon runner. In fact, except for a dim awareness of his wheelchair, Hope wouldn't have imagined this man to be ill at all, let alone spiritually and physically tormented.

Hope tore her gaze away from him as her heart stuttered with conflicting emotions. Shahdi moved to stand beside Peter's wheelchair, and placed one hand companionably on Peter's broad shoulder.

Peter, this is Doctor Hope MacKenzie. She has just arrived.

So I see. The roll of a light brogue in his rich, deep voice shivered straight to Hope's core, and the touch of ironic humor in his statement pinned her in place when she wanted to flee. Peter's eyes twinkled, telling her he noticed her discomfiture, and was in no hurry to alleviate it. Thank you for coming all this way, Doctor MacKenzie. I'm afraid I've been little help to these lasses, though they've tried their best.

Forcing herself to see out his game, Hope nodded brusquely. Mr. Talladay, I presume.

Peter, he corrected quietly, his eyes alive with an emotion she couldn't identify. Hope stared at the hand he proffered as if it were a dangerous animal. Her insides contracted in dread, and she realized how big of a mistake coming here was. Dear God, how was she supposed to treat the man when she was terrified to touch him?

Trying to maintain her steadily slipping calm, Hope ignored his hand and gave him another brisk nod. If you'll give me a few minutes to settle in, Mr. Talladay, I'll be happy to go over the treatment schedule and procedures with you.

She executed a hasty about-face and retreated through the open door, calling herself a coward as she went. She had to get out of there. She was desperate to get away from the fear and the confusion, but the irony of it all was it followed her out. If her vision meant what she thought, Peter Talladay had the means to destroy her very safe world.

Peter's mouth lifted in a wry grin as he stared at the closed door. Doctor Hope MacKenzie was no simple woman, and she intrigued him as nothing had in a year and a half. He was stunned when he looked up to find her standing in the doorway, moments ago. Manara said Hope was competent -- the best, in fact -- but she never said a word about beautiful. As first impressions went, Hope was unforgettable. A defiantly short crop of auburn curls. Creamy skin, dotted with light, delectable-looking freckles. Features so delicate she looked breakable, and eyes so hard he knew she wasn't. Exotic and ethereal, those almond-shaped eyes captured him and refused to let go. He stared into them for long moments, his pulse pounding hard, as he tried to determine if they were blue or green. Those eyes eluded him, just as she finally had.

Wry humor caused him to smile as he realized he wanted to taste those full, satin-smooth lips of hers. His hands itched to discover the velvet-soft skin beneath her sinfully short shorts and clinging tank top. Most ironic of all, however, was the pendant around her neck. She wore a small fairy necklace, set with a tiny globe of amber -- a Fae charm for a changeling woman. Aye, Hope MacKenzie came in one hell of a package, but she made it pointedly clear she had no interest in him either as a patient, or a man. He swore the temperature dropped ten degrees by the time she left the room.

What do you make of her, Shahdi? he asked the woman beside him, even as he contemplated the closed door.

Hope is a very competent Healer, Peter.

He laughed quietly. So Manara said. That wasn't what I asked.

She is a very giving and passionate woman, Shahdi assured him gently, laying one slim hand on his shoulder. She looked pleased. The twinkle in her eye was one Manara warned him to watch for six months ago, and with good cause. It usually meant Shahdi had devilment of some type up her sleeve. He raised a questioning brow at her, and the devilish twinkle in her eyes faded, replaced by troubling sadness. "But she can be driven and stubborn to a fault. She has been badly hurt, and does not give of her trust easily. I am afraid Mukarramma caught her unawares in this, and she is reacting to her own emotions. But you will see; she is gentle and warm."

Her candid words drove a spike of emotion through Peter's heart he refused to study too closely. He battled pain and suffering every day of his life, as a Promethean. In Iraq, he faced the worst terror of his life in the labyrinth beneath Ishtar's temple. He faced down a galla -- according to Manara, gallu were demonic servants who gathered souls for the Babylonian Underworld's goddess, Ereshkigal. Until the galla sent him flying into a wall, and he awoke unable to feel his legs, he never knew fear. Yet this intriguing bundle of fiery temptation and icy disdain terrified him. He wasn't even sure why. Her presence -- which everyone assured him was his best chance of healing -- should relieve him. Now he met her, he had doubts. Like why, every time he recalled the woman in question, did the legends of changeling waifs and Fae sidhe come to him?

"Warm? You're kidding, of course."

Shahdi shook her head emphatically. "I have known Hope many years, Peter. The only person I know to be more kind than Hope is Mukarramma."

Peter recalled the icy chill wrapped within Hope MacKenzie's whiskey-smooth voice, and frowned. There was no compassion, no vitality, and no warmth in her response to him. She despised him for some reason he couldn't fathom, which intrigued him. What secrets lurked in those changeling eyes of hers?

I think, he said quietly as he turned his wheelchair back toward the window, the woman you know as Hope MacKenzie is dead, Shahdi. Perhaps we should find out why, or this will prove awkward for all of us.

"Peter, she is a warm--"

No, he broke in harshly as he stared out over the orchard. "Ice is warmer than this Doctor MacKenzie."

Chapter Two

Red Widow's eyes narrowed behind dark, designer sunglasses as she stepped through the sliding, bulletproof glass doors of Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath, Ireland's busiest airport, and into the sunny August daylight. She pulled her Ray Bans down her nose to look over them as she scanned the sea of useless faces. A cold smile tipped up the edges of her lips as she focused on the stern, handsome features of the tall man leaning against the hood of a black BMW. He spotted her in the next instant, and straightened from his slouch against the car as she pushed the glasses back into place and strode briskly toward him.

Is it done?

Her clipped demand appeared to surprise him -- not something she imagined Dimitri Lapinov was used to experiencing. Her spies told her Rachel Murray gave Lapinov an assignment in Syria. It took Red Widow nearly a year, and more pacts than she cared to recall, to ferret out what task Black Widow put on the Tarantula leader. Joy wanted it done, her way.

"Nyet. The burly Russian opened the passenger door of the vehicle for her, and Red Widow slid in, frowning when his gaze never even flickered over her slim, designer jean encased legs. How could any man be immune to her charms? I have only just begun, Joy."

She tapped her foot against the floorboard impatiently as he rounded the front of the car and opened the driver's door. Once he was inside, she demanded, Why didn't you tell me what she asked you to do?

He sighed in clear annoyance. My business with Rachel was not yours. The Tarantula Brigade serves all of the Widows, without boundary. You know this, Joy. We are not bound by allegiance to anyone except Onuris.

Her eyes narrowed and she ripped off her shades to glare at him. "Damn it, Dimitri, Burn Cleary is mine. Rachel may have ignored that fact, but you had a duty to tell me she overstepped her bounds again."

She is dead, Joy. What does it matter, now?

Her glare narrowed on him. She couldn't believe he was this thick. I have to be able to trust you, Dimitri, if we're going to work together. I can't have you keeping secrets from me.

He sighed again. He was not on your land when I began the assault.

Her fists clenched, until a crunching sound warned her she was about to destroy a two hundred Euro pair of sunglasses. She eased her grip, but not the coldness of her glare.

If you believe Talladay isn't connected to Burn Cleary, and its spirits, no matter where he travels in the world, then you're a fool.

His jaw tightened, and he shot her a warning look. That is not what I meant.

Good. She settled back with a grimace. I've already got one fool chasing after his own glory out there.

He lifted a brow. I assume you refer to Gordon McGuire.

Red Widow's lips drew back in a silent snarl. Gordon McGuire. The eternal thorn in her side. The fool was still in love with a dead woman, even a year and a half after her death, and he actually believed he had a right to possess O'Bannon land and the Cairn. If she didn't need him to get at the Spear, she would have already had him killed. Now, if only she could solve the problem of Peter Talladay. Then she would only have one blood O'Bannon to deal with. Whether she liked it or not, she had to trust Dimitri to do his part.

*****

Burn Cleary Farm

"This procedure will involve many techniques I'm sure you'll find unfamiliar and unconventional. Let me assure you they are quite effective. From what information I've been given, it appears our primary concern is in getting you mobile again..."

The rest of her rapid speech faded from Peter's attention as he studied the woman seated across from him with covert amusement. She was babbling, strung tighter than a garrote at strangulation point. Her eyes shifted restlessly about the room, determined to look anywhere but directly at him.

Do I make you nervous, Doctor MacKenzie? He broke in blandly, and watched her startled gaze turn sharply his way. They really were very captivating eyes -- neither blue nor green, but an intriguing blend of both.

Of course not! Hope snapped with a defiant lift of her chin. Why would you make me nervous?

That, he allowed some of his amusement to slip into his voice, is precisely what I've been trying to figure out, myself.

Her eyes blazed a