Page 150 of Dark Lover

“No, you’re not,” he said. And he lifted his hand.

The black power went through her like a butcher knife. Sam looked down, expecting to find herself cleaved in two. There was blood everywhere.

And as Moray walked away, it took her one second to realize that she was bleeding out.

SAM WAS IN THE MAZE.

Ian realized he was in a small cell, and he ran to the door, but it was bolted from the outside. She could not be in that maze by herself!

And he was afraid—but not for himself.

It no longer mattered if this was a virtual reality or not. Because she was with Moray.

He closed his eyes and began to pray, meaning his every word. If the gods intervened now, if they kept her safe, he’d give up his entire life. He’d do whatever they asked. If they wanted him to go back to his time, he would. If they wanted him to be a Master, like his father, he would. He’d give his millions to charity, live like a pauper. He’d even die, if they preferred his death.

But as he begged, bargained and prayed, he heard absolutely nothing from the other side. The steel door was cold beneath his cheek and he finally opened his eyes. They hadn’t heard him during all the years he’d been a captive, and he was pretty sure they hadn’t heard him now. But he was strangely calm.

He was going to find Sam.

Surprised, Ian stepped into the hallway, but not of the maze. Instead, shocked, he found himself in the entry hall of the house in Brooklyn where he’d spent most of six decades as a prisoner. Instantly his gut curdled.

Ian?

He started. Sam was trying to find him. Sam, where are you?

But there was no answer. And then the monk stepped out of the small parlor, smiling benignly at him. He stepped back, wanting to run away.

“How was school, Ian?”

He reminded himself that the monk was dead and that this was not real. He remained acutely aware of who he was and what he had to do now—but that little boy was fighting to come to life, too. “Ye don’t exist,” he returned as evenly as possible.

“Of course I exist. I take care of you. Do you have homework?” the monk asked softly, his eyes gleaming.

And Ian knew what he wanted. He turned to face the stairs, his instinct to flee up them, the little boy emerging.

“You can’t run. There’s nowhere to hide,” his grandfather said.

Surprise stopped him in his tracks. The hatred and need for revenge rose up. The little boy vanished. Ian turned to face Moray, who laughed at him. “Where is she?”

Ian? Help me!

He heard Sam so clearly, it was as if she were in the other room. “Where is she, you evil bastard?” he shouted.

“Find her if you can.” And Moray vanished, as did the quaint foyer of the townhome. He stood in the concrete hallway again. Breathing hard, he looked down the endless hall at the dozens of identical doors. Was she in one of those rooms?

Striding forward, sweating, Ian opened the first door. He was shocked. The nine-year-old boy was inside, with his grandfather, and it was a memory he preferred to forget.

He slammed the door closed and leaned against the wall, trembling. He did not want those memories now! And the hatred was so vast it shredded any lingering fear. Moray knew his shame. Moray wanted to throw it in his face. But Sam was in one of the rooms, possibly being tortured.

He began a room-by-room search, ignoring each memory as it came, ignoring the pain, the fear and the shame. Five doors later, he paused, out of breath and almost mindless now. There were too many doors. He’d never find her this way. Too late, he realized that in this game, as always, he wasn’t meant to succeed. This game was meant to torture him. This game was meant to defeat him and bring him to his knees.

“What have ye done to her? I will kill ye, ye sonuvabitch!” he shouted at the empty hallway.

Moray did not answer him.

He strained for her. Sam!

He heard her moan.