She might not be able to take on twelve at once and win, but she wasn’t going down without a fight, Beth thought grimly and gestured with her sword for them to bring it on. No one moved at first, which just irritated her. She had never been a patient person, and frankly, if she was going to die, she’d rather get it over with quickly. Beth just hoped that the whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes business wasn’t true. She could really do without witnessing that particular train wreck. Living it had been bad enough.
“Come on,” she growled impatiently, raising her sword. “I plan on taking at least four of you with me. Which of you will it be?”
Unfortunately, that just made her would-be killers all take a nervous step back. It seemed no one wanted to die that day.
“What are you waiting for?” a furious voice roared, drawing Beth’s attention to the house.
Walter Simpson stood just outside the front door with a whimpering blonde next to him, held upright only by his grip on her upper arm. She was pale, with blood trailing down her throat and soaking into the top of her torn pastel green sweater. But she was alive, and still mortal, Beth thought. She almost started toward them, but was reminded of her own situation when Walter bellowed, “Kill her, dammit!”
The order from the man who had turned them apparently held sway. Beth watched warily as the rogues closed in, crowding together for the approach . . . and then the lot of them were suddenly mowed down by a black SUV that raced past her and toward the house.
Beth gaped as some of her would-be attackers flew up in the air, and others were simply crushed under the wheels. There wasn’t a single person left standing once the SUV had passed. The rogues were scattered about the yard in front of her like toppled bowling pins.
It was the sound of the SUV crashing that finally drew her attention from the people in the yard. At the speed it had been going, the driver hadn’t been able to stop before plowing into the front of the house. He hit exactly where Walter and his latest victim had been just moments ago, and for a heartbeat Beth was horrified by the thought that the pair had been hit and crushed into the front of the house. Not that she would have mourned Walter Simpson, but the woman had been an innocent, and guilt and regret began to soak into her at the thought that she’d failed her. But then a sob drew her attention to the driveway, and she saw Walter dragging his victim toward a car. It seemed he’d managed to get both himself and her out of the way in time to avoid the vehicle. Now he was making his escape . . . and intent on taking the woman with him.
Issuing a throaty growl, Beth burst after them. She had the advantage. She wasn’t trying to drag a struggling victim with her. Beth raised her gun as she ran, then aimed and pulled the trigger, only to curse when nothing happened. She was out of darts. She’d known she was close to empty, but had thought she had one, or maybe even two, left.
Throwing the dart gun aside with disgust, she brought her sword around in front of her to grasp the hilt in both hands with the blade down. She then raised it over her head and launched herself into the air much as someone would do if they were jumping on someone’s back. Only Beth leapt a little higher, and as she came down she punched the blade into Simpson’s back just above his shoulder blade. With all her weight crashing on top of it, the sword was forced through flesh, muscle and bone at an almost vertical angle and came out just below his hip bone.
Walter Simpson staggered under the impact and released the blonde as he crashed face-first to the ground. Beth went down with him, but rolled into a somersault that took her right off him. She didn’t let go of her sword as she went either, and felt the resistance before it sliced its way out and followed her.
“Gor, that’s mingin’! Do ye always have to make such a mess, lass?”
Beth blinked at that voice as she sat up, and then turned to peer with disbelief at the man approaching her. Tall with the kind of shoulders and thick arms only a man raised wielding broadswords in the middle ages could usually obtain, Cullen MacDonald, or Scotty, as he had come to be known, had long hair that was a mixture of deep red and dark chestnut. He looked like a medieval warrior walking toward her, except, instead of a plaid, he was wearing black leather pants with his white linen shirt.
“Scotty?” she said now, sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. But it certainly looked like him, she acknowledged as her gaze slid over his face, taking in the familiar gray eyes with silver specks, aquiline nose, and thin upper lip over a fuller lower one. It was a face she’d seen in person perhaps a handful of times, but had seen repeatedly in her dreams. Usually wet ones.
“Aye.” He stopped next to her and held out his hand, offering her aid in rising. “’Tis glad I am to see ye did no’ get yerself beheaded ere I could get here and save ye.”
“Humble as ever, I see,” Beth said with dry amusement, ignoring his hand and getting up on her own.
“Uh, Mr. Scotty?” an anxious voice called. “This guy’s waking up.”
Beth turned her head to see a young ginger-haired immortal standing by one of the rogues they’d run over. The man was moaning and slowly shifting on the ground.
“Shoot him with the dart gun, then, Donny boy,” Scotty ordered, not bothering to glance his way.
“What dart gun?” Donny asked uncertainly.
Biting her lip to keep from grinning, Beth watched Scotty briefly close his eyes and grind his teeth together with impatience. Opening his eyes, he peered at Beth’s amused face as he said, “Pray, tell me, lad, that ye did no’ come a’huntin’ without a gun.”
“Okay,” Donny said after a hesitation.
Frowning, Scotty turned to eye him. “Okay what, boyo?”
“I won’t tell you?” he said, his voice a squeak, and then, clearing his throat, he glanced nervously to the man at his feet who was pulling himself slowly to a sitting position and asked, “Do you have a gun I can use?”
Scotty heaved out an exasperated breath, and turned to walk to the younger immortal’s side, withdrawing his short sword as he went. “Nay, lad. I never carry a gun. I use this,” he said, and, holding the blade upward with his hand firmly around the bone grip, Scotty whacked the rogue over the head with the brass pommel.
Beth winced at the sound of crunching bone and shook her head as the rogue tumbled back to a prone position.
“I think you cracked his skull,” Donny said with awe, staring at the rogue.
“That I did,” Scotty said with satisfaction. “Now go get a dart gun and chains out o’ the weapons locker in the back of the SUV ere all o’ them start waking up. And Donny,” he added, bringing the younger man to a halt just as he started away. When the man reluctantly turned back to face him, Scotty said solemnly, “Lesson number two: never go on the hunt without a weapon.”
Nodding quickly, Donny turned and rushed to the SUV with its nose presently buried in the front of the house.
Scotty immediately spun back to Beth.
“What are ye doing here in Canada, Scotty?” she asked as he returned to her. “Not enough rogues in the UK right now to keep you busy?”
“It has been a bit slow lately,” he said with a shrug. When Beth merely raised an eyebrow at that, he added, “As it happens, I was just debating where to go on me vacation when I heard ye were spread thin over here just now, what with most o’ yer hunters in Venezuela, so I thought . . .” He didn’t bother finishing and merely shrugged.
“You just thought you’d spend your vacation from hunting rogues in the UK hunting rogues here instead?” she asked with disbelief, and then reached up on tiptoe to knock on his forehead as if it were a door. “Hello! Is there anyone home in there?”
“Oy!” Scotty leaned his head back away from her knocking fist and glowered at her. “I swear, ye’re the only lass brave enough to do something like that.”
“Because all the other girls think you’re the bogeyman and are scared to death of you,” Beth said dryly.
“But ye’re not,” he said with certainty.
Beth snorted. “I’ve met the bogeyman, and you’re not him.”
“Aye, I suppose ye have met him,” Scotty said solemnly.