Midnight's Promise
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To Dad—
For telling me I could do anything or be anything I wanted
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So much work goes into getting a book ready, and I couldn’t do it without my fabulous editor, Monique Patterson, and everyone at SMP who was involved. Y’all rock!
To my amazing agent, Louise Fury, who keeps me on my toes.
Melissa Bradley, my assistant and my rock. Thanks for everything you do. You make my life easier, and for that, I owe you so very much, and a chocolate cake.
A special thanks to my family for the never-ending support.
And to my husband, Steve. For the laughs, the adventures, the date nights, and your continual support. I love you, Sexy!
CONTENTS
The Dark Warrior series by Donna Grant
Praise for the Dark Warrior novels by Donna Grant
CHAPTER
ONE
Rothiemurchus, Scotland
October
The weather didn’t matter. The temperatures didn’t matter.
No feelings, no emotions.
No entanglements.
That was the kind of life Malcolm Munro led. The kind of life he’d come to accept.
He had already been walking down such a road when the primeval god inside him was unbound. Evil had infused him and, had he been worried about his soul, the god might have had a chance to take over.
But Malcolm hadn’t been worried, nor had he cared what happened. He was dead inside. The only thing that kept him attached was the thread of family that was all but severed now.
Malcolm hunkered next to one of the two-hundred-year-old pines. It was private property he was on, but with Rothiemurchus being the largest surviving area of ancient woodland in Europe, there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
The forest was a living being. In every tree, every flower there was a timeline of history waiting to be discovered. Malcolm had no need. He knew what was there.
The past.
He put his hand on the bark of the pine and inhaled deeply. Just a few steps away was a tree well over three centuries old. It stood strong and unyielding, a protector for the forest.
Malcolm once thought himself such a guardian for his clan. How easily things changed, and always so unexpectedly.
He picked up a scent of deer, splintering his thoughts out of the darkness. His eyes snapped open and they hastily scanned the dense forest of rowan, birch, holly, willow, and juniper to name a few.
A herd of red deer was nearing. The thrill of the hunt was the only thing that caused any sort of excitement to rush through him.
Malcolm’s enhanced hearing picked up the sound of the deer running toward him, their hooves pounding upon the ground. He remained squatting near the tree, waiting.
His heart began the rhythmic thumping of expectation, of eagerness. A slow tilt pulled at his lips when he felt the rumble of thunder through his body. A mortal wouldn’t have heard or felt it, but Malcolm was different—in so many ways. Lightning sizzled in his veins, yearning to break free.
It was always the case when a storm rolled in, and the one coming was going to be vicious.
With the hunt and the storm, for just a moment, Malcolm felt a smidgen of contentment. Just as soon as the emotion was named, it vanished. He refused to think more about it as the deer came into view.
His claws, long and maroon-colored, extended from his fingers. He could go days without food, but hunting helped to curb more of his … ferocious … parts.
Malcolm shifted silently, his gaze locked on one of the does. Just as he was about to give chase, a wave of magic—untainted and exquisite—brushed him.
He paused, giving the deer time to pass him. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt the magic over the past week. Each time was the same. It was strong magic, pure magic. And it glided over him like the softest down, the smoothest seduction.
It cajoled, persuaded. It enticed.
This time, however, it was closer. Though Malcolm knew he shouldn’t, he found himself rising to his feet and turning toward Aviemore where the magic originated.
His claws and fangs disappeared and his maroon skin faded as he walked to the small, charming village. There was no hesitation, no thought. He had to see who the magic came from and why it affected him so deeply.
When he arrived, Malcolm kept to the shadows between buildings as he reached the center of town. He watched the traffic around Tesco’s with lazy abandon. People rushed in and out, sometimes with one bag, sometimes laden with groceries.
Aviemore was one of the busiest towns in the Cairngorm area. In the summer, tourists came to golf, hike, bike, and see the beautiful scenery like Rothiemurchus. In the winter, it was a skier’s paradise. Slopes in every direction. It didn’t matter what time of year it was with the many distilleries near and around the River Spey to visit.
From his spot situated between the buildings, Malcolm observed a young family walk out of Tesco’s. The parents were holding hands while their two young boys raced each other to the car.
Malcolm wondered if they knew how precious their smiles and laughter were. He couldn’t recall the last time he had done either. There hadn’t been a reason. At least not for him.
There wasn’t much left of his soul, but what remained reminded him often of what his life could have been had he not traveled that road from Edinburgh to MacLeod Castle five centuries earlier to check on Larena and Fallon.
Deirdre would never have sent her Warriors to kill him. Broc wouldn’t have found him near death, nor would Broc have brought him to the castle to be healed.
Sonya wouldn’t have used every bit of healing magic she possessed, and he wouldn’t have woken to find himself scarred—and maimed.
Malcolm wouldn’t have faced a bleak future of not ruling his clan and having nowhere to go. He wouldn’t have looked at each day as if it were a curse instead of a blessing.
He wouldn’t have left MacLeod Castle. He wouldn’t have been trapped by Deirdre and had his god—a primeval god he hadn’t known traveled through his bloodline—unbound. He wouldn’t have been blackmailed by Deirdre to do her bidding in order to keep Larena safe. He wouldn’t have been pulled forward through time by four centuries.
And he wouldn’t have lost his soul.
All because he’d wanted to see how his cousin fared.
Malcolm pushed away from the corner of a building and crossed the street to amble into Tesco’s to see exactly what was inside. Even though he had been in this time for a couple of years, he still found it odd to witness how far his beloved Scotland had come in four hundred years.
Being pulled forward through time with Deirdre hadn’t been something Malcolm was prepared for. He had acclimated quickly thanks to the primeval god inside him. Yet, he missed the way things were.
The quiet that settled over the land, the simplicity of life. It hadn’t been an easy life. He’d had to hunt for his food, and if he missed a kill, he went hungry. It had been a learning experience every Scot endured—man or woman, child or adult.
The beauty of his land hadn’t faded, but the people weren’t the same. Not worse, not better, just … different. There was peace within the clans, which some would say was a vast improvement.
It wasn’t as if Malcolm had enjoyed the clan battles. They had been a necessity of life as a Highlander, especially one who was son to the laird. A clan, after all, was only as strong as its laird.
Malcolm walked through the produce aisle before he turned left and went down another aisle. He heard a gasp from a woman beside him. There wasn’t a need to look to know she’d seen his face.
Odd how he sometimes forgot the one thing that should never be forgotten.
“Did you see his face?” she whispered to her companion.
Malcolm couldn’t blame her. He didn’t enjoy looking in the mirror. It was one of the reasons he let his beard grow. Not only did it hide some of his scars, but he didn’t need to shave and see the horror that was his face.
When Deirdre unbound his god, she also used her magic to hide his scars. His god, Daal, had been the one who healed the injury to his right arm and shoulder.
For a short period of time, Malcolm looked as he once had. On the outside.
Inside, he was still a broken, damaged man. There was no anger, no joy, no peace. There was … nothing. Because of that, Daal had naught to use to take over. Malcolm’s icy demeanor, his bleak outlook, left him with an iron fist of control over his god.
As soon as the last bit of his soul was gone, however, things would change. Daal would take over, and Larena would be hunting him.
She wouldn’t be alone either. The rest of the Warriors and Druids at MacLeod Castle would use every ounce of magic and power they had to track him and kill him.
If it came to that. Malcolm could make it easy on everyone and take his own head. It wouldn’t be simple, but he hadn’t been a superb hunter for nothing. The right trap would take the head off anything, even a Warrior.
He walked out of Tesco’s on his way back to the forest when the feel of magic stopped him dead in his tracks. It wasn’t just any magic either. It was particularly sweet, infinitely wild, and exceedingly sensual.
It left him reeling, listing.
Lurching.
He swiveled his head to find the source of the magic jogging across the street toward him while she held onto her purse.
Her hair was the color of chocolate and hung in large curls past her shoulders. Those curls bounced while she ran. When she reached the sidewalk on his side of the street, she smiled easily at a woman who passed her.
Malcolm couldn’t tear his gaze from her oval face. From her high cheekbones and small nose to her full lips and gracefully arched eyebrows. Her eyes, a magnificent color of clear blue, were her most dazzling feature.
He swiftly stepped into the shadows behind a group of people and discreetly watched the Druid. Her khaki jacket hung open, revealing a deep purple shirt that hugged her breasts. As she passed, his gaze went to her perfectly shaped ass the jacket didn’t cover.
