Extending it just in front of me, I measure the weight. It’s not too heavy; my muscles tighten as they control it. “It feels okay.”

“Just okay, or does it feel more like an extension of your arm?” Tristan asks.

I heft it up and down and then smile. “Okay, yeah, I can feel it from my shoulder to my fingertips.”

“Aye, ’tis a good sign, then,” he answers. From a large black leather scabbard, he withdraws his own sword. A sapphire stone commands the hilt.

“Nice,” I say, looking it over. I glance up at Tristan. “Big.”

He hefts it a time or two. “Aye, but at my size ’twould do me no good to use a splinter, like the one you have. Now, would it?” He grins.

“Splinter?” I reply. I tap my blade to his. “Talk is cheap, big guy. Teach me, and I’ll show you what I can do with a splinter. Show me what’s what.”

Tristan nods. “Very well. Put your blade back in the rack.”

I blink. “Say what?”

“You’ve got to see a pair of true sword fighters duel before handling a crash course yourself,” Jake says.

Conwyk steps forward. Both men disrobe down to just their pants. My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets.

Across Gawan’s chest, down both arms, and from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine are intricately inked markings. Old-looking.

Very old indeed. They’re Pictish symbols, Jake offers in my head. Each stand for a number of men killed in battle.

Well, damn. I don’t even know what else to say about that.

Tristan and Gawan draw their swords, move to the center of the dojo. I, along with the team, move to the edges to watch. Beside me, Lucian and Eli. Each swordsman takes his position—back straight, legs apart and braced—and taps the other blade with his own.

Then the swinging and hacking begins.

Steel against steel rings out in the dojo, and I almost cover my ears at the sound of it. The muscles in both men’s arms tighten, flex, and rip as they swing, clash, and charge one another. They literally look as if they mean to hack off the other’s head. It’s amazing to watch. Sweat plasters their hair to their heads, rolls off their biceps and down their arms. Each makes a fierce grunt as they swing and lunge and steel collides with steel so fiercely, my insides quiver. In a move so fast I almost don’t follow it, Tristan flicks his blade at Gawan’s shoulder and nicks him. Gawan, almost as fast, flicks Tristan on the chin. Both draw blood.

In a chamber filled with vampires.

Eeesh.

My gaze immediately shoots over to the one vampire I least trust to control himself around spontaneous bloodletting: Victorian Arcos.

A slow grin lifts his lips. One dark eyebrow rises.

The clamoring of steel drags my attention back to Tristan and Gawan. I study their steps, their movements, and I can’t help but notice how graceful such large men can be. I know I’m witnessing an ancient art of combat—actually accomplished in ancient times—at work.

It’s beyond breathtaking.

Finally, the two warriors are pressed close, face-to-face, their blades pushed against each other. They’re both breathing hard, but not nearly as raggedly as I would expect after all that combat. Then, with his free hand, Tristan punches Gawan in the head.

In. The. Head.

Gawan lets out what can only be a string of weird, unintelligible medieval curses, rears back the hilt of his sword, and cocks Tristan in the jaw.

Godalmightydamn.

“Halt!” Jake yells and steps in probably just before the two get ready to throw down on the floor and wrestle, or just plain beat the crap out of each other. “Enough. Top form as always, Dreadmoor. Grimm, you’ve still got it. Simply amazing.”

Tristan wipes his brow with his forearm. “’Tisn’t as easy as it once was, I fear,” he says. “Whilst I have an interesting past, I’m one hundred percent mortal now.” He flicked a hank of his hair. “I vow I saw a gray hair yesterday morn.”

“You know I can change that for you,” Jake says, grinning. “If you wish.”

Tristan frowns. “Keep your fangs far from me, Andorra. I’ve existed longer than you, my boy, and I look forward to growing old with my bride.”

I like hearing that come from Tristan.

Over the next few hours, we remain in our original pairs and practice stance, movement, and thrusts. It’s a lot more involved than leaping, climbing up a newling’s back, and plunging a dirk into its heart. Of course, the sparring probably won’t be all that necessary.

We only have to take off their heads. That’s it.

We don’t have much time for practicing. And we still have to learn our way around old Edinburgh so we can actually hunt them.

“Damn me. Can we sup now?” Tristan bellows over the dojo. “I vow my gullet is empty. Andorra!”

Jake laughs. “Aye. Just for you, Dreadmoor.”

Tristan gives a satisfactory nod. “Appreciated.”

“Your markings are interesting,” a voice says from behind.

I turn and find Gawan standing there, his perceptive brown eyes taking in my exposed, inked arms. I shrug and smile, then incline my head toward him. “Yours are pretty intense, too,” I say. I draw a little closer, my eyes peering at the finely detailed black marks. “Jake tells me they represent deaths in battle,” I say. “But what are they?”

“At one time, marks of valor,” Gawan answers. “Now they’re naught but reminders of a time I’d rather scrape from my past.”

“That bad, huh?” I say, and stare at a particularly fascinating mark. “No disrespect, Gawan, but these symbols are beautiful.” I lightly finger one on his shoulder.

And that’s all it takes.

That simple grazed touch of my finger pad to his shoulder.

For the third time since arriving in Scotland, it happens. A wave of nausea washes over me and vertigo sends me spinning, turning head over heel, and shadows fall over me until I’m engulfed in blackness.

I’m now Gawan. It’s the time of the Crusades. I sacrifice my life for an enemy’s young son. I’m granted an earthbound life as a guardian angel . . . life flashes in frames, faster and faster, up until the present . . . Until Ellie . . .

“Riley?”

Eli’s voice pulls me from the dark mist. His hand is there against my back. His body is close. My vision comes into focus on his face, which is looking quizzically back at me. Gawan is next to him, his profound stare boring into mine.

“You were just saying how interesting that particular mark was,” Gawan says. “’Tis strange that you noticed it first. ’Twas my first mark.”

I look at Gawan. I glance at Eli. The rest of the team is hanging out, just talking. Everyone is pretty much in the same spot as when I swirled out of control and into Gawan’s past.

Had it happened that fast? Mere seconds?

At least I didn’t hit the floor this time.

“The symbols are fascinating artwork,” I say to Gawan.

“’Twas fine craftsmanship indeed,” he answers. Then, he studies me. “Andorra told Dreadmoor and myself of your abilities. Did you see thusly into my past? Just now?”

I nod. “Yes.” I cock my head, remembering everything I’d seen. “The girl. Ellie? Was she dead?”

A slight smile touches Gawan’s lips. “She is now my wife, but aye, she was more . . . in betwixt, as we say. Not quite dead. Not quite alive, either.” He looks at me. “I’ll tell you all about it soon enough.”

Now that I know Gawan’s past, or at least a small piece of it, I find him to be more than curious. There’s something else about him that strikes me. He’s more than just an ex-warlord and sword-swinging badass Crusader from the twelfth century. He’s more than a warrior once proud of how many men he’d killed. There’s something about him that wasn’t fully revealed to me in the vision, and is teasing at the edge of my consciousness.

I just can’t place my finger on it.

Maybe I should start wearing long gloves? Seems I can’t even graze someone’s skin without jumping into a portion of their lives. At the very least I need to learn control.

“Let’s clean up and meet downstairs in half an hour,” Jake says. He starts for the door. “Dreadmoor, Grimm,” he calls, “this way.”

With a nod, Gawan follows Jake and Tristan out of the dojo. Eli kisses the top of my head. “We should hurry,” he says. “I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”

I link my fingers through Eli’s and we move toward the doorway. A spark of excitement rushes through me at the thought of learning my way around the streets of old Edinburgh, the catacombs, the narrow alleys.

And bringing down the Fallen as soon as damn possible.

I’d like to go ahead and return to some sort of normal life.

I glance at Eli. One brow is raised.

Maybe that won’t happen for some time.

Part Five

CITY OF THE DEAD

‘Tis now the very witching time of night,

when churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.

—William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Aye, this lass is by far the most intriguing of Andorra���s pack of misfits. Riley Poe. I vow she’ll give the Fallen a run for their coin. Makes me want to stay and join the team, although I know my bride, Andrea, would no doubt clout my ears for doing so.

—Tristan de Barre, of Dreadmoor Keep

“Oh, hell. Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you guys downstairs,” I say to Eli, just as we start to leave our room. Noah’s at the doorway, waiting. “What’s wrong? Forget your purse?”

Idiot knows I don’t carry a purse. Not that there’s anything wrong with purses; there’s just no room on my person. Not while I’m lugging a sword.

Our task for tonight: conceal a sword while maneuvering through the fishbone streets of Edinburgh.

“Where’s your purse?” I throw at Noah. He grins and shrugs.