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Eternal

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Chapter One

At times, she felt an aching separation that could not be breached between her and the others, but on this special night, she was one of them. Tonight, all acknowledged that she was a member of this sept ... this clan that had existed since the beginning. Fifteen hundred years they had walked the earth side by side, apart from mortals and more powerful. Knowledge and immortality that, she knew, came at a terrible price.

As the twelve judges entered the room, candles hissed in a black oak chandelier and then ignited abruptly, casting light across the deeply scarred table that had come centuries ago from the green land that mortals called Eire. Macabre shadows of the tall hooded figures fell against the recesses of the four wainscoted walls. Near the door, the ship's bell clanged hollowly, sounding of its own accord, and she felt an inner thrill remembering how, long ago, the illusions had seemed so wondrous and magical.

As she moved to her appointed place at the judgment table, she felt a slight breeze off the bay. No matter that there were no windows in this sealed room, her senses were so keen that, even half a mile from the inlet, she smelled the tang of the salt air. She heard the sand fleas' endless digging and a hermit crab's footfalls in his moonlight stroll. And there was the scent of blood carried on the wind. Always, always the scent of blood.

The hooded council members gathered around the table, and she looked down at its marred surface, each scar as familiar as those she bore on her own immortal flesh. Instinctively, she tightened her hand on the hilt of the silver dagger tucked inside the sleeve of her cloak.

"Caraidean, we gather tonight in solemn accordance with the laws established by this sept ..."

The chieftain uttered the words of the sacred ritual. As always, he spoke in the old tongue, their native Gaelic, his gravelly voice crackling in the night air. With each ancient word, the circle seemed to grow smaller, the lives of those who gathered more tightly woven, until the energy in the room crackled and a faint blue light arced between them.

He chronicled, by rote, the establishment of the sept in the fifth century of recorded time. Those were the days when Rome was in decay and the great tribes of Ireland and Scotland struggled with old and new ways, battling for their faith. Christianity was on the ascent, but not without violence. It was a time when the sept developed a taste for power and for blood.

Then came the mallachd.

They were all damned by God for their refusal to reject their pagan gods, for their refusal to accept St. Patrick's message of the new faith. They were cursed for the blood of mankind they spilled.

With all the skill of a trained Shakespearean actor, the chieftain continued his time-honored speech. He reminded the council members of the vow taken only a short time ago. Only three centuries ago, a blink in the past. He warned of the nearly unbearable weight of the decision the High Council would make tonight.

She listened carefully as a human name was formally brought to the table of judgment, the sole reason for the gathering. Another voice quietly spoke. Specific details of the charges against the accused were given.

Stark. Cruel. Gruesome.

There was no doubt in her mind this human was a pestilence beyond redemption, one known as a serial killer to this generation, but she listened to every word. Carefully, she processed the information, refusing to allow her emotions to rule. There was a time for questions, but few were asked. Those around the table already knew of this man's heinous crimes. They had read the humans' newspapers. Watched CNN. The accused was clever, very, very clever and had evaded arrest for years, but it was his own private thoughts that had betrayed him to the sept.

Despite the evidence, the conclusion was not foregone; the pendulum could yet swing either way. Here in this place, there could be no measure of doubt. These who had been judged most severely by God Himself held compassion in their hearts that humans could not fathom. They possessed the bleak understanding that suffering did not end with death, and so they decided his fate slowly, deliberately, almost sadly.

The chieftain called for the aonta.

One by one, each member voted. Blade down, flat against the table was a nay-not enough proof to convict. Point down, knife tip thrust into wood was a yea. Guilty. Death to the forenamed.

She watched as an unearthly calm settled over the shadowed chamber and, one by one, the hooded figures cast their ballots. To her surprise, there was dissension. One member was not convinced of the human's guilt.

She was last to vote, the youngest and newest of the council, but she did not hesitate. She grasped the hilt of the sacred dagger entrusted to her for this life cycle, and thrust it, point down.

The decision was final. The human would die. She was the first to throw back the black hood of her cloak, the white gold of her Milesian signet ring sparkling in the candlelight. A rich, guttural cry erupted from deep inside her throat as she bared her canines....

The cell phone on the nightstand beside Fia's bed rang, startling her. She blinked as she lifted her head from the pillow and glanced at the digital clock, the numerals silky red in the stygian darkness.

Her last hours were hazy in her mind. She must have fallen asleep.

She sat up, throwing her feet over the side of the bed; one stiletto heel caught the sheet.

She hadn't even taken off her boots?

Out of habit, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before flipping open the phone and bringing it to her ear. "Special Agent Kahill."

"Christ-a-mighty, Kahill, don't you ever sleep? Just once I'd like to hear that husky voice, a little disoriented, drowsy, maybe. All playful. Sexy."

She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, feeling hung over, even though she'd not imbibed alcohol. "What do you want, Sedowski?"

"What does any man want? True love, of course. That's all I'm looking for."

"And your teeth? Will you be looking for them when I knock them out and they're spread all over the conference room?" Her tone was a warning, laced with just enough humor to keep the exchange light between them.

The night-shift supervisor chuckled. "Just sweet nuthins to me, Kahill." Then his voice changed and he was the old-school FBI agent she had admired since joining the Philadelphia Field Office nine years before. "Listen, I'd love to talk dirty with you, but I got a homicide needs your attention. Over in Lansdowne."

"Lansdowne?" She walked into the bathroom and turned on the cold water at the sink. She didn't need a light to know she looked like crap. "What? Some guy catch his wife cheating on him and strangle her with her pantyhose?"

"Got no details, Kahill. Only that the vic had her throat slashed, and an address."

"Give it to me."

Sedowski knew better than to bite on that one. Unlike some of the men in her office, he knew where the line was between light banter and sexual harassment. Besides,...