Soul Weaver (35 page)

He stood several feet away, towering in the entry, then he lifted his head in her direction and… Did he just sniff her? Seriously, what in the hell was he? Since the humans had died out over twenty years ago, the earth was now an open habitat for all kinds of species.

Although most breeds retained a human appearance and anatomy, immortality was the common denominator, and with various factions of immortals came varying strengths and skills.

She had been raised in high-class private schools and had attended a small, prestigious college. The Northeast was a pretty good place to grow up. Most of the gruesome, evil-esque beings tended to lurk in the murky, secluded areas of the world. But she did recall hearing about a powerful clan of Pookahs residing in Scotland.

Oh.—Crap.

Pookahs were said to be tall (check), fierce (check) warriors with incredible strength and superhuman senses. A chill rolled down her spine. It was likely that the man before her was a Pookah, and though his kind couldn’t physically shift into an animal, she’d heard once that all Pookahs have some kind of animalistic influence over them.

Izel stared, both amazed and fearful—uncommon emotions for her to harbor.

The man tilted his head. “Do you no’ speak?” His thick Scottish accent rolled off his tongue like dark molasses, and she couldn’t help licking her lips. When a light breeze blew past him, she was bombarded with his spicy, masculine scent. She licked her lips again.

Mouthwatering.

Focus, Izel, focus!—
But it wasn’t easy. The man was stunning. Dangerous. And, worst of all, her whole body responded to him. She had seen handsome men before. Men that were nice and safe and obviously interested in her, but she was never able to summon up even the slightest bit of attraction. So why now, after twenty-five years of emotional indifference, in the middle of nowhere, staring up at a man that looked like he wanted to slit her from jeans to neckline and eat her for dinner, did her libido finally decide to kick in?

“I-I’m Izel Campbell.”

He lifted his chin, inhaling deeply. A look of pure disgust broke across his face. “You’re kin of the Mystic’s.”

Izel nodded her head. Many had referred to Euan Campbell as
The
Mystic. “I’m his granddaughter.”

His eyes widened. “Granddaughter,” he repeated. “No’ grandson?”

Her brows drew together, looking at the floor. She may not be supermodel beautiful, but she didn’t think she resembled a dude.

“You’re the McCall,” he finished, astonishment lacing his tone. Izel recognized the term and pursed her lips.
The McCall. Also known as
Son
of the Battle Chief.
Yeah, she got it—she’d effed up the family lineage when she’d popped out with two x chromosomes.

Her father had been the Battle Chief of the Campbell clan before he died, and the Campbell bloodline had always produced a male offspring. Until Izel.

She recalled her grandfather telling her once,
“Should you ever encounter one who refers to you as ‘The McCall,’ run… for they are an enemy.”

Her gaze lifted back to the man. He was inching closer to her—a menacing look on his face.

Double crap…
She stepped backward, attempting to put distance between them. The man eyed her movements but only stalked closer.

“This canna be,” he said, more to himself than to her. “The fact that you are female and no’ male”—he looked her up and down—“will no’ sway me in what must be done.”

Izel continued her small strides backward.

“Wh-what must be done?” she asked, not certain she wanted the answer. She saw the stranger’s ice-blue eyes focus on the hammering pulse in her throat.

“You,” he stepped closer, “must die.”

Izel scurried to the far corner of the tiny cottage. She felt the cold wooden wall on her bare shoulders and knew she was boxed in. He hovered over her like a vulture. What had begun as a mysterious quest for answers was turning into a fight for her life. A warm knot coiled in her chest. She was… scared? How could this be? Up until this moment, the curse placed over Izel at birth had inhibited her from feeling anything.

“Where is he?” Her voice broke with fear.

His eyes narrowed on her. “Who?”

A gulp stuck in her windpipe when she glanced at the stranger’s large boots, stepping closer. “My grandfather… Euan Campbell. What have you—”

The man cut off her shaky words with a grating yell, as if the mere sound of her grandfather’s name enraged him. She pressed her lips together, biting back a whimper. This could not be happening… she was about to die.

And she had let her grandfather down. She would never solve the mystery behind this journey he had sent her on—never understand why she was the way she was… totally and completely incapable of feeling emotions. Yet, her life was about to end and she finally understood disappointment.

A strange moisture filled her eyes. She touched the liquid rolling down her cheek and looked at her wet fingertips in disbelief. Tears? Impossible.

Her lower lip began to quiver. Not only would she die, she would die a failure. She glanced at her feet, wishing she was stronger, wishing she could fight like the other Fionn Warriors. But she wasn’t a Warrior, she was a Poet. All she could do was speak.

Her grandfather Euan was a Mystic, one of the most dominant and magical beings ever to walk this realm. Her father, James, had been a Warrior, and though she never knew him, he was said to have been strong and brave. Izel hung her head, a heat burning her insides and leaving behind a heaviness that threatened to strangle her.

She was a small female amongst proud, powerful Fionns. Not a fighter, but a simple Poet. Although she harbored the gift of persuasion somewhere within her body, she lacked control to harness it. Still… she had to try.

Her eyes shot back to the stranger as something surged through her. It came from the earth and worked its way through every cell until her shoulders shot back and her neck tingled. She might be a poor excuse for a McCall, but she was
The
McCall, daughter of the Battle Chief. And Campbells didn’t cower. Ever.

Attempting to access her gift, she reached out, lacing her words with magic. “You don’t want to do this.” The stranger didn’t halt at her words. Instead, he unsheathed his sword and took another step toward her.

“I nay take pleasure in endin’ the life of a female, but it’s what must be done.” His brogue was deliciously dense and had he not been speaking of her impending death, his voice might actually have turned her on.

Izel shook her head. She needed confidence and concentration behind the words she projected—without them, her speech was powerless. Unfortunately, she was currently lacking both elements needed to ignite her power. What she needed was her grandfather, Euan—why wasn’t he here? He was the one who’d sent her the damn letter in the first place, instructing her to leave behind her life in Manhattan and trek all the way out here.

Izel thought her grandfather would finally help her, maybe use his magic to “cure” her.

“What thoughts have you, ta give such an expression?” The man tilted his head, examining her and thankfully, momentarily, stalling his advance.

“I’m different.” It was the truth. And under the circumstances, it was all she could come up with. “Something’s wrong with me. I mean…” Yes, that’s exactly what she meant. Typically, she wouldn’t share her thoughts with a total stranger, but if it distracted him from killing her, she’d happily gab all night.

“I need my grandfather’s help. It’s why I came here. I don’t know why I’m this way.”

“What way?” he growled, obviously growing impatient.

“I can’t feel… anger, happiness, anything… I never—”

“Never?”

Izel swallowed loudly, shaking her head.

“You seem ta be
feeling
just fine now. I can scent your fear.” He dropped his chin but kept his eerie blue eyes locked on her.

Was he right? Izel gulped hard, terrified when a cool sweat broke out over her skin. Even more terrified that she was actually feeling terrified. She’d never felt anything. She was about to die—could see the promise of that in the stark cobalt eyes currently boring into her. What was happening? “This… this is a first.”

He smirked. “I must have a talent for bringing such emotions ta the surface.” He stepped closer, the muscles in his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. “I believe you owe me a debt of gratitude.”

Opening her mouth, she tried to reply, but couldn’t. This—fear?—she was experiencing was debilitating. He closed in on her. She slunk to her knees, too terrified to even continue speaking.

What a feeble attempt to save her own skin! A far cry from verbal conviction or persuasively enthralling her attacker. She was huddled in a corner, trembling for her life.

The man’s features softened slightly, and Izel knew what that look meant. He felt sorry for her. With his build and demeanor, Izel wouldn’t be surprised if he was a Warrior himself. He would undoubtedly be looked upon with fright and respect by his own kind.

Although his immortal age was indeterminable, Izel had a gut feeling that this stranger never hesitated in the face of a kill. He was made for war, a bringer of pain and death. She shuddered. She was a Poet, a pathetic Fionn, staring down a nightmare, incapable of defending herself as he raised the tip of his sword to her chin.

“Stand up, woman. Your snake of a grandfather would turn over in his grave ta see the last of his lineage die on her knees.”

The acid in her belly began to churn and fester so strongly it nearly made her vomit. The man had just referred to her grandfather as dead.
He can’t be dead.

Euan had always been good to her, perhaps too good. She had never been in danger, was never left on her own, and never afraid. Reality hit hard when she realized, for the first time in her life, she was all these things at once.

Just beyond the man’s shoulder, she saw the sun set over the countryside of her ancestral home. She rose to her feet, let out a shallow breath, and raised her neck to the blade. The room grew dark as the sun faded behind the hills of Scotland.

Darkness suddenly covered her entire body, and the breath left her lungs in an agonizing scream as her body spasmed over and over while her blood seemed to turn to lava. It felt like her bones were outgrowing her muscles, turning her body inside out and threatening to rip through her skin.
What’s happening?

He angled the tip of his blade to her jugular.

The woman gasped; her eyes widened. A rush of bright emerald swirled and stained her irises. Her breathing turned ragged. She panted, clutching at her chest. For the first time in a long time, Kelvin was caught off guard.

Was this a trick? A last-ditch effort to save herself? It couldn’t be, for the creature that rested against his weapon was changing right before his eyes.

A burst of intoxicating scent flooded his mind. He heard her heart thud loudly. Lowering his sword, he stepped back, mesmerized by her unexplainable transformation. He watched her cheeks pinken and her hair grow thick and glossy, changing from dirty blond to a deep chocolate brown. The large curls wound down her back, cascading over her newly olive skin. Her lips were deep crimson and her bright green eyes were fringed with thick black lashes.

She clawed at her shirt, shredding and removing it as if her life depended on it. Kelvin couldn’t help but gape at the black silk bra lining her full breasts. He ran a palm over his mouth, openly staring at her marvelous, newly exposed physique.

He wanted to help her—No! He wanted to kill her. No, he wanted to
taste
her. Her eyes squeezed shut; she clenched her teeth. This was not a look of pain. This was a look of strangulation. Yet nothing gripped her. Nothing that Kelvin could see at least. He stood there, helpless, watching this beautiful female writhe in agony.

She placed a hand against the wall to steady herself, peering up at him, her green eyes burning brightly. “Wh-what’s ha-happening to me?” she asked, struggling to force out each word.

Kelvin gazed in disbelief, too busy drinking in the sight of her to rationalize a coherent thought. Her scent was maddening. His breed of Pookah harbored an acute sense of smell, and he could instantly detect an odd sweetness in her blood, like pure sugar pumping through her veins.
Pure. Sweet. Mortal.

Mortal?

It appeared the little female wasn’t a Fionn after all, rather a human mystically disguised as one. He could see the magic roll off of her like a snake shedding old skin. How in the hell was this possible? Kelvin knew this woman’s kin, knew she was the offspring of an immortal Warrior. So for her to be human she would have to have two recessive genes.

And her mother must have had quite a bit of mortal blood in her as well.

The lass wasn’t lying when she claimed to be different. But did she know just how unique she really was?

He wouldn’t have relished killing her. Hell, he’d felt kind of bad for her, shaking and crouching in the corner. Taking the life of a meek woman didn’t harbor much pride, yet it had to be done.

She was the last of the Campbell bloodline and the heir to the Campbell clan, his most hated enemy. The enemy that had taken so much from him. From his brother. She was simply collateral damage he couldn’t help. However,
she
was also supposed to be a
he
. And
she
was the last human. The last full-blooded human in the world.

Kelvin fought to keep his rage. How could he hesitate? This was Izel Campbell, blood-bound to those who had murdered his kin.

She reached out, a tear dancing down her flushed cheek. “You!” she gasped. Grabbing his forearm, she yanked him closer, slinging herself against his body.

Kelvin tensed. This was too much. Her scent, her body, the feel of her fingers on his skin—they awoke something inside of him. His instincts bubbled in his veins with an urge so strong it glowed clearly in his mind.

My female.

Some kind of jolt hit Kelvin. For the briefest moment, he could sense Izel, feel her emotions as if they were his own. She was being overwhelmed, smothered from the inside out. Her expression hadn’t lied. He gritted his teeth. Flashes of white-hot light scorched beneath her skin. Kelvin knew this because, for a split second, he was feeling them
with
her, emotions so raw and strong they tore at his soul. What was happening?