“I doona have time, Hawk. If St. Clair said it was urgent, I was needed at Caithness weeks ago.”

“What relevance has Caithness to any of this, or to you? Sit. Talk. Now.”

Sensing no possibility of reprieve, Grimm paced as he began his story. He told them how, at the age of fourteen, he’d left Tuluth the night of the massacre and wandered the forests of the Highlands for two years, wearing his war braids and hating mankind, hating his father, hating himself. He skipped the brutal parts—his mother’s murder, the starvation he’d endured, the repeated attempts on his life. He told them that when he was sixteen he’d found shelter with Gibraltar St. Clair; that he’d changed his name to Grimm to protect himself and those for whom he cared. He told them how the McKane had found him again at Caithness and attacked his foster family. And finally, in the tone of a dreaded confession, he told them what his real name had been.

“What did you just say?” Hawk asked blankly.

Grimm drew a deep breath into his lungs and expelled it angrily. “I said Gavrael. My real name is Gavrael.” There was only one Gavrael in all of Scotland; no other man would willingly own up to that name and that curse. He braced himself for the Hawk’s explosion. He didn’t have to wait for long.

“McIllioch?” Hawk’s eyes narrowed disbelievingly.

“McIllioch,” Grimm confirmed.

“And Grimm?”

“Grimm stands for Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch.” Grimm’s Highland brogue rolled so thickly around the name, it was a nearly unintelligible burr of r’s and l’s and staccato-sharp k’s. “Take the first letter of each name, and there you have it. G-R-I-M.”

“Gavrael McIllioch was a Berserker!” Hawk roared.

“I told you you didn’t know so much about me,” Grimm said darkly.

Crossing the study in three swift strides, Hawk bristled to a stop inches from Grimm’s face and studied him, as if he might uncover some telltale trace of a beast that should have betrayed Grimm’s secret years ago. “How could I not have known?” Hawk muttered. “For years I’d been wondering about some of your peculiar … talents. By the bloody saints, I should have guessed if only from your eyes—”

“Lots of people have blue eyes, Hawk,” Grimm said dryly.

“Not like yours, Grimm,” Adrienne remarked.

“This explains it all,” Hawk said slowly. “You’re not human.”

Grimm flinched.

Adrienne leveled a dark look at her husband and linked her arm through Grimm’s. “Of course he’s human, Hawk. He’s just human … plus some.”

“A Berserker.” Hawk shook his head. “A fardling Berserker. You know, they say William Wallace was a Berserker.”

“And what a lovely life he had, eh?” Grimm said bitterly.

Grimm rode out shortly thereafter, answering no more questions and leaving the Hawk immensely dissatisfied. He left quickly, because the memories were returning of their own accord and with fury. Grimm knew he had to be alone when full recollection finally reclaimed him. He didn’t willingly think about Tuluth anymore. Hell, he didn’t willingly think anymore, not if he could help it.

Tuluth: in his memory a smoky valley, clouds of black so thick his eyes had stung from the acrid stench of burning homes and burning flesh. Children screaming. Och, Christ!

Grimm swallowed hard as he spurred Occam into a gallop across the ridge. He was impervious to the beauty of the Highland night, lost in another time, surrounded only by the color of blood and the blackness of soul-disfiguring desolation—with one shimmering spot of gold.

Jillian.

Is he an animal, Da? May I keep him? Please? He’s an ever-so-glorious beastie!

And in his mind he was sixteen years old again, looking down at the wee golden lass. Memory swept over him, dripping shame thicker than clotted honey off a comb. She’d found him in the woods, scavenging like a beast.

He’d be fiercer than my Savanna TeaGarden, Da!

Savanna TeaGarden being her puppy, all one hundred forty pounds of Irish wolfhound puppy.

He’d protect me well, Da, I know he would!

The instant she’d said the words, he’d taken a silent vow to do just that, never dreaming it might one day entail protecting her from himself.

Grimm rubbed his clean-shaven jaw and tossed his head in the wind. For a brief moment he felt the matted hair again, the dirt and sweat and the war braids, the fierce eyes brimming with hatred. And the pure, sweet child had trusted him on sight.

Och, but he’d dissuaded her quickly.