Prologue

Black Mountains, Wales

92 A.D.

The howling of dogs in the distance told him that his Roman keepers had found his trail again. Rhys spat out a curse, along with some blood, and forced himself to keep going.

The site of Isca Silurium, the fort that housed the Second Augusta Legion, was a broad flat plain in a bend of the River Usk. It was less than a day’s easy march southward to the ocean, but Rhys had headed north and west to the interior. North and west toward his tribal lands. North and west to the hills, to the rough and rocky terrain that might discourage the many search parties and their savage dogs.

So far the rugged ground had only slowed them down. After three days, it had become obvious—the Romans were determined not to let their favorite gladiator go.

He was just as determined to remain free.

The landscape was beginning to look familiar as he left the southern lands behind him, lands that belonged to another tribe completely overrun by the Romans. After three decades of war, the remaining sons of their once proud leaders had been rounded up and sent to Rome, not as prisoners but as students. Education and assimilation were devastatingly effective at controlling a conquered people. Rhys knew that the young men would return to their homes every bit as Roman as their overlords. For all he knew, the same thing was happening in his own tribe and clan, perhaps in his own village.

If there was anything, anyone, left of it.

Like all of the Celtic tribes in this part of the country, his clan had struggled for decades to repel the Roman invaders. They had defended their borders ferociously, held the armored aggressors back for a full generation, but the Romans were relentless. The armored troops had withdrawn for a few years in order to quell a huge Celtic uprising east in Brethon. But when the Romans had finished slaughtering the warrior queen, Boudicca, and her thousands, they had returned to Rhys’ land with a vengeance. He hadn’t been old enough to hold a bow when the Romans targeted the spiritual heart of his people by falling upon the sacred island and slaying all the druids there. He had barely reached his full height when his father and older brothers were killed in a fierce battle to defend their village hill fort.

Sadly, their deaths had not purchased their people’s freedom. All the Celtic tribes fought with courage and skill, but they were no match for the organized and disciplined troops of the Empire. It wasn’t long before the Romans declared victory and levied taxes.

Not all the Celts were conquered however.

An older and battle-hardened Rhys began to lead raids on Roman patrols, using stealth and strategy to pick them off in the dense forests and misted hills. It wasn’t long before spooked soldiers had given him a nickname, whispered over campfires with many backward glances into the darkness—The Bringer of Death.

The patrols had dwindled for a time, even stopped for a while. Then one day a scruffy-looking patrol had wandered into Rhys’ territory. Unshaven, they looked lazy and lax. Older men these, some with unsoldierlike bellies. Laughing and talking foolishly like troops on leave, not a unit on patrol. They even fell out of the disciplined march from time to time, drinking from wineskins that were not army issue. It wasn’t all that surprising—Rome seldom sent its best and brightest to the far-flung frontier once a land had been subjugated. Yet, the patrol hadn’t fallen into any of the traps set for them, appearing instead to blunder around them as if by pure chance.

Rhys had thought about that many times since. It should have warned him that all was not as it seemed. It should have warned him….

The patrol had meandered off the path and was lolling on a riverbank when Rhys and his followers launched their ambush. No sooner had they broken cover than they found themselves facing Roman swords, looking into the sharp eyes of not only seasoned but elite soldiers. The undisciplined foolishness had been a clever facade.

But Rhys and his men were seasoned, too. The battle was fierce, the riverbank soon slippery with blood as Romans and Celts alike met blades. No one prevailed. They were evenly matched it seemed, until suddenly the sound of many horses, galloping hard, could be heard above the fight.

The Romans had timed their trap well. The elite unit had held the Celts’ attention long enough for a mounted patrol to catch up to them. Rhys yelled out for his followers to retreat just before a weighted net was thrown over him. A blow to the head silenced him, and he spiraled into darkness.

He’d awakened a prisoner, chained by the neck to four of his men, the only survivors of the battle. On the long march to Isca Silurium, two had died from their wounds. Once at the Roman fort, two more had been used as targets during a training exercise. Rhys had expected to be next, but the Romans had other plans for The Bringer of Death.

The newly built amphitheater just outside the fort walls needed fodder for its bloody spectacles. Intending to make an example of him, his captors had thrown him into the sandy arena, expecting him to die. When he didn’t, they brought him out again the next day. And the next. The Bringer of Death proved true to his name. For two years, against all comers, against man and beast alike, Rhys had been forced to fight for his life. The 5,500 soldiers stationed at Isca Silurium, who wagered their pay on him, alternately cheered him and cursed him according to their wins and losses.

He should have known the Romans wouldn’t easily give up their main source of entertainment here on the frontier. Plus the legion leaders were no doubt glad to have a task to assign to their bored soldiers, all of whom were likely wagering on who would find the gladiator first. Ironically, his escape was simply providing one more amusement for his captors.

Not that his escape had been easy. He’d broken the jailer’s neck at the first opportunity, but it was another slave who had stabbed him before he reached the walls. The wound was just under his ribs, and pain had sawed at him with every step since. He’d suffered worse, but the loss of blood was starting to tell. He was tiring fast, and sometimes he was dizzy. He pressed the heel of his hand to the bundle of dry moss that he’d bound to the wound and willed himself to go on.

The dogs howled again, closer this time. These were no game hounds but big war dogs, accustomed to hunting men. Accustomed to killing men. Rhys had used every clever trick he could think of to stay a scant step ahead, to buy time so he could reach the hill country. Now he needed to do something unexpected to throw the dogs and their handlers off the trail once and for all.

Rhys doubled back and headed for a steep hillside, angling his way downwind of the Roman hunters until he reached a shallow noisy creek. He could cover the rest of the distance by traveling up the center of the wide stream. The natural noise of the tumbling water would cover any splashing. He touched his fingertips to his collarbone, to the blue hound tattoo that leaped there, and breathed a prayer to the gods.

The water was cold enough to make him gasp, but it cleared his head, as did the jarring pain in his side. He jogged doggedly through the creek, sucking air through gritted teeth, one hand clamped tight against the wound. The bleeding was worse now, but he dared not slow down.

Shivering, Rhys left the stream at the base of the hill and considered. If he could climb its sheer slope, the dogs would be unable to follow. If he couldn’t, he’d fall to his death. Still free, he thought, he’d still be free. As long as he could see the sacred blue of the sky as he died... By all the gods, anything would be better than returning to the dark windowless cell of the Isca arena.

His breath hitched in his lungs as he began the ascent, pain knifing through his injury until his entire left side from head to toe throbbed savagely. The hillside appeared taller and steeper by the minute, and it seemed to take forever before he was even above the trees. He felt exposed on the rock face, although he knew the hunters’ eyes would be searching the ground for his trail. Even if they did look up, the forest branches would likely shield him from their sight.

Nothing would shield him if he fell. Rhys had to stop more and more frequently, clinging to handholds with eyes closed until dizziness passed. It was early summer, and he was sweating from exertion, but still he felt as cold as if it were winter. There was a strange tinny taste in his mouth. He knew that if he looked down, the rocks would be smeared with his blood.

Finally he gained a high narrow ledge that was covered with three late-blossoming rowan bushes and rested his elbows on it, gasping for air like a fish. The pain had become a live thing that raged in the cage of his body and shook his very bones. Rhys grasped the base of one of the bushes, seeking to steady himself, hoping that by resting a few moments he could somehow find enough strength to continue. Knowing that he had little left. He was spent, bled out like a deer with an arrow in it. His vision was narrowing. Behind the rowans, he could see no rock face, only darkness.

Gaping darkness…

By all the gods, there was a cave! He fought to drag his body onto the ledge, seeking to wedge himself behind the stout bushes. Agony reared up like an angry bear, slashing and biting at him. Still he struggled on, teeth clamped against the scream that threatened to rip from his throat. Just as it seemed certain that he would black out and tumble to the ground far below, he managed to heave his broad-shouldered frame securely onto the rocky shelf, with the sturdy bushes between him and the open air. Lungs heaving and heart threatening to smash through his chest, Rhys reverently touched his fingers to the blue hound on his collarbone just as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The full moon was high in the sky when he awoke at last. It was good to see the sky, he thought. Good to see the dark deep blue, an ocean upon which the stars could sail… He wondered if his father and brothers were up there, his sister. The members of his tribe who had stood against the Roman invaders. All dead, all slain…

The Romans. Immediately he listened for the sounds of dogs, of hunters, but there was nothing but the whir of insects, the calls of night birds and the barely audible squeak of bats. His pursuers had likely camped for the night, but no campfire smoke told him where they were. Rhys lay on his side, staring out from between the rowan bushes with his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Soft white petals had snowed down around him as he slept, but they did nothing to stave the chill from his body. With a strange kind of detachment, he knew he would die if he remained on the ledge, was likely dying anyway.

It would be easier to die.

Yet, the gods had decreed that one must struggle to live, and so Rhys once more forced himself to move. His head swam and his stomach lurched until pain leaped up and slapped him harshly into full awareness. Shelter, he needed shelter, he thought as his head cleared for an instant. If he could just get warm, rest for a while… He leaned unsteadily toward the dark cave entrance, reaching out a hand to feel his way. Withdrew it quickly as he realized there was light where there should be none. Light, faint but growing steadily, was coming from inside the cave.

Rhys quickly found himself surrounded by uncanny brilliance, a white light that shamed the full moon. He squinted into the light and for a brief wild moment considered flinging himself off the ledge or perhaps calling out to the Romans who were hunting him. But pain, exhaustion and blood loss combined to betray him. One thought remained in his mind as he passed out, a phrase every child in his village heard often, a warning that every elder in the village delivered in harsh whispers….

Beware the Tylwyth Teg.

Chapter One

Caerleon, Wales

21st Century

The dog was back.

Dr. Morgan Edwards tried hard to focus on the tour guide as he related the history of the ancient Roman amphitheater. The enormous arena, capable of seating nearly 6,000, had been built outside the walls of Isca Silurium, a Roman legionary fort. Legend held that, in another time, this part of Wales had been a favored base for King Arthur himself.

Morgan had been born and raised in America. Fascinated by her grandmother’s country, she was usually keen to learn all she could about it. Yet, her attention kept returning to the huge, black mastiff that sat silently by a square-cut stone. It surveyed her with the great sad eyes of its massive breed, a breed as ancient as the ruins around it.

Morgan had treated only a handful of mastiffs in her busy veterinary practice. Her clients by and large appeared to prefer beagles and wiener dogs, labs and spaniels. Her clinic in Spokane Valley, Washington, saw several Great Danes and St. Bernards as well, but the great black dog would dwarf those breeds. She knew that mastiffs had once been used by the Romans as dogs of war, their fearful size making them lethal weapons. They had been used in the arena as well, perhaps right where she was standing. The thought made her shiver, or maybe it was the strangeness of having seen the huge dog each and every day of her trip to Wales. While it never came close, it never failed to make an appearance. At first she’d thought there were an awful lot of the monstrous dogs in this small country. That is, until she’d spotted the distinctive metal collar around its muscled neck.

She grabbed the flowery sleeve of her traveling buddy, a tall white-haired woman named Miranda, whom she’d met at the beginning of the tour. “It’s here again.”

The older woman looked over her glasses with bright eyes, spotting the animal at once even as she clutched her travel bag. “How fascinating! I wonder what kind of energy it has. Probably negative, don’t you think?”

“Energy?”

“I’m sure it’s a barghest, you know. A grim. What the Welsh call a gwyllgi, though goodness knows I’m not pronouncing it right. A messenger from the faery realm, according to my book. Whoever sees a barghest is usually dead in a month, almost always by violent means. That’s how the story goes, but I’ve never heard of a barghest being out in broad daylight, have you? Are its eyes glowing red?” Miranda strained to see over her glasses.

Morgan hid a smile. As a child, her “nainie”—the Welsh word for gramma—had told her stories about the gwyllgi, but she hadn’t thought of it in connection with the flesh and blood animal that sat not thirty yards away. To humor Miranda, however, she dutifully shaded her pale blue eyes and squinted. The dog’s baleful eyes seemed amber, almost golden. “Nope, not even bloodshot.”

“Well I can’t say for certain then, but I suppose we shouldn’t take chances. I don’t want it heralding my demise or yours.” Miranda laughed, a pretty sound that reminded Morgan of delicate glass wind chimes, and followed the group now shuffling its way back to the bus. Morgan turned back to the dog. She’d always had a deep affinity for animals, a connection to them and, although the mastiff was intimidating, she thought she sensed a great sadness radiate from it.

She’d taken a few steps toward it when the bus driver sounded the high-pitched horn, signaling it was time to leave. Damn. “Do you need help? Are you lost?” she called out to the dog. She’d often been teased for talking to animals as if they were people, but she felt strongly that animals understood intent if not words—although many understood words better than their owners gave them credit for. “If you could just tell me what you want, I’d love to help you.” The dog blinked suddenly, rapidly, but otherwise didn’t move. Its expression remained mournful. To Morgan’s practiced eye, the animal didn’t appear neglected. Its black coat was as glossy as a raven’s wing and, although it was lean, she could see no ribs in the broad muscled body, no evidence of hunger. What did the dog want? Why was it following the tour bus?

The bus horn sounded again, and reluctantly she obeyed. As she took her seat beside Miranda, she looked out the window, but the dog was nowhere to be seen. There were only the green rolling hills and the silent ruins.

* * * * *

There were plenty of large modern motels in Wales, but this tour included much smaller and more historic lodgings. Part of the tour group was booked into the Three Salmon Inn and the rest, including Morgan and Miranda, in the smaller Cross Keys Hotel. Morgan thought the centuries-old building was charming and comfortable, but to Miranda it was downright exciting. “They have a ghost here, you know. Some say it’s a serving girl, and others say it’s a monk.”

Morgan’s eyebrows went up as she perused the menu in the hotel dining room. “Isn’t there a big difference between the two?”

“Well, a mysterious figure in a long gown could be either one, now couldn’t it? It says in the pamphlet that’s all that anyone has seen of it. I wish I could see it.”

“Maybe you will. I think the roast beef sounds good, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I like those little Yorkshire puddings that come with it.”

The waiter collected their menus and their orders, and Miranda pulled a book from her handbag. “Look what I found in the gift shop.”

Morgan took the proffered book—Hauntings in Wales—and thumbed through it. The older woman had collected several paranormal writings along the tour and probably had enough to fill a suitcase by now. Morgan had never met anyone who was so enthralled by the topic of ghosts. Well, there was her veterinary partner, Jay…. He seemed to be enthralled with anything that was strange or unusual.

“Every single castle, hotel, pub and crossroads we’ve seen so far has allegedly been haunted,” Morgan said. “I think people make up ghost stories to attract tourists.”

Miranda laughed heartily, her voice like a cheerful cadence of bells. “Well now, child, they’ve certainly attracted me!” Still chuckling, she took the book back and began reading a passage aloud.

Morgan wondered what her Welsh grandmother would have said about the subject if she’d been alive. Nainie Jones had believed in ghosts, just as she had firmly believed in the Tylwyth Teg, the fair folk. Morgan had listened for hours to her faery stories as a child, hanging on every word. Believing. But by the time Morgan reached her early teens, her belief had naturally faded. More than that, she’d discovered the fascinating world of science and already knew she wanted a career in veterinary medicine. She still loved to hear Nainie’s stories, of course, but had mentally filed them with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Her grandmother had sensed the change.

“Some people don’t believe because they’re afraid to, or they believe and hope they’re never proved right. There are many things all around us that are old and powerful,” Nainie had explained one day. “Magicks and mysterious realms, strange peoples not of this world. They’re not to be feared but to be respected, and it’s long been a gift in our family to know them. One day a leap of knowing will come to you, too, and you’ll see for yourself.” Nainie had pulled the shiny silver necklace from inside her dress and looped the cool chain around her granddaughter’s neck. She pointed to the sparkling medallion. “This has been in our family for generations, and it’s time it came to you. Keep it with you until your heart calls for it, my dear. It’ll show you truth when you need it most.”

Morgan had no idea what her grandmother was talking about—it felt like another of Nainie’s faery tales—but promised to keep the pretty necklace. She also promised herself to someday visit Wales and see the land that had sparked all the wonderful old stories. Years had passed before she could finally manage the trip, but she wasn’t disappointed. The tiny country was beautiful, rich with quaint charm, and she had felt comfortingly close to her beloved grandmother at every turn.

Now as Morgan sat at a table in a Welsh hotel, she realized that it was that feeling of closeness she’d really been looking for. She deeply missed the woman who had raised her. As Miranda finished reading the tale of the Cross Keys ghost, Morgan smiled at her. “You know, I’ve always wanted to visit Wales, but it’s been so nice to meet you on the tour and travel together. I hope it doesn’t offend you if I say it’s a little bit like having my grandmother along.”

“What a lovely thing to say, dear,” said Miranda. “How could I be offended when it’s obvious you loved her very much?”

“I guess I talk about her a lot, don’t I?”

“Not the way you think. You point out places and things she’s spoken of. Maybe you could tell me more. You said you lived with her?”

“My parents were killed in a car accident when I was three, and so I went to live with my grandmother in Spokane….” They were all the family each other had left, but it had been enough. Nainie Jones had a generous spirit and had loved Morgan with a marvelous blend of humor and patience. And Morgan had felt her grandmother’s pride in her at every turn, from the time she’d walked to kindergarten by herself for the first time to when she left for veterinary college on full scholarship.

“Nainie told me such wonderful stories, and she taught me through them, too. If I did something wrong, she always had a story that would show me why I shouldn’t do that again.” Morgan laughed then. “It usually worked. Although when you’re sixteen, it’s tough to be afraid of the Fair Ones stealing you away!”

Miranda’s eyes twinkled at that. “At that age, I imagine not being asked to dance would be far more terrifying than the Tylwyth Teg.”

“You know, I didn’t know what terrifying was until Nainie died.” Morgan had been in her second year of veterinary college when it had happened. “It was so unexpected. She’d always seemed so healthy, so full of life. But she passed away in her sleep. The doctor said it was her heart.”

“I’m so sorry. You must have been devastated.”

“I was.” It had been a terrible blow, bringing back all the pain and loss she’d felt as a little girl when her parents didn’t come home. And fear… This time, she was totally and completely alone in the world.

Study was therapy and so was work, and Morgan had thrown herself ever deeper into both. Within a few years of graduation, she had built up a thriving veterinary practice and had brought in two partners to help handle the volume of clients. The extra hands meant she could finally take a break, and it was long overdue. Morgan passed over the bright flyers advertising exotic destinations and told the travel agent to book her a trip to Wales.

“So here I am,” Morgan finished. “I can’t help but wonder if Nainie would be pleased if she knew I was here.”

Miranda’s bright eyes looked far away for a moment. “I think those who have gone on are very happy to know that they are still cherished.” Then her gaze turned mischievous. “And I’m certain your grandmother would have enjoyed it thoroughly when you asked the shopkeeper for a purple cat yesterday.”

Morgan grinned sheepishly. “I grew up hearing Nainie speak the language but I never quite got the hang of the pronunciation myself. You’re right; she sure would have laughed at that one!” In fact, Morgan could almost hear the rich deep chuckle that had seemed so huge for such a little woman. No one laughed quite like that, although Morgan had heard snippets and echoes of it on her trip, especially in a pub the night before last. Miranda had told her that the Welsh laughed with their entire bodies. Morgan could picture that. Nainie’s infectious chuckle had surely bubbled up from her very toes.

Miranda looked over her shoulder then back at Morgan. “You know, dear, I’m not really up to date on what girls consider handsome these days. Tell me, do you think that silver-haired fellow at the bar is good-looking?”

“Mmm, not bad at all. But the one standing by the door has a much better butt.”

It was a game they’d played almost every night of the tour, and it set the tone for the rest of the evening. The two women talked and giggled like high school girls throughout the meal, even more so when Miranda ordered chocolate cheesecake for each of them.

“This is so decadent!” Morgan laughed, picking off a decorative curl of shaved chocolate and popping it into her mouth.

“Not at all. One must take their pleasures where they can find them. Besides, I’ve heard it said that calories consumed while vacationing don’t count.”

“I sure hope not or I’m going to have to pay the extra baggage fee on the plane just for all the pounds I’m gaining.”

A woman with a seeing-eye dog passed their table, and the black lab reminded Morgan of the strange dog that had been following the bus. A sudden impulse had her flagging the waiter. “Do you have a bone left over from that lovely roast?” she asked him, then explained. “It’s for a pet.”

“Of course. I’ll be glad to wrap that up for you.”

As he disappeared, Miranda leaned over. “My goodness. Is that for what I think it is?”

“I can’t help it,” laughed Morgan. “Maybe it’s the vet in me, worrying that he’s hungry. Or maybe I’m just missing being around animals. But I thought I’d get the bone just in case.” In case she ever got close enough to the huge black mastiff to offer it.

* * * * *

The hotel room was abruptly plunged into blackness as Miranda switched off her reading lamp. “Is that too dark for you, dear?”

“No, it’s just fine, thanks. I sleep better when it’s dark.”

“Aren’t you even a teeny bit frightened to have that great black beast following you everywhere? Why, it gives me the shivers to know that it’s a harbinger of death.”

Morgan imagined Miranda had the same kind of shivers that many people did—there was a certain deliciousness to the fear and an eagerness for more. It was human nature to be fascinated by mysterious things, especially scary things. “I don’t think it’s following me; it’s just following the bus.”

She’d observed that pets could develop just as many neuroses and odd behaviors as their owners. In her own practice was an Alsatian that insisted on following the kids to school and waiting for them outside the fenced grounds. The school was four miles away, and the children were driven there, yet the dog’s behavior was understandable on some level. But the urge persisted even if it was a weekend and the children were at home. Unless tied up, the dog would make the journey, every single day.

The mastiff must have a similar compulsion. Why it chose to follow the tour bus around, Morgan couldn’t imagine. Maybe the bigger the dog, the bigger the object of its obsession. She’d already checked with the bus driver, but he was new and had never seen the animal before. The young tour guide was no help either. Thank goodness there was only a handful of miles between towns in this tiny country. Still, she fell asleep wishing there was something she could do for the enormous canine.

The dream began with a scent. The smell of cool damp earth and rain filled her senses, a faint whiff of horses followed by the warm tang of masculine human skin. She was naked, lying on furs and facing the open door of a skin tent. The breeze was slight but enough to make her shiver, and her nipples had hardened into tight nubbins. Her ass was warm, however. In fact her entire backside was heated, pressed tightly against a very large, very male body. Not a stranger, although in the whimsical reality of dreams, she didn’t know who he was. She wasn’t afraid, although she could feel the rock-hard muscles of his arms, his chest. A powerful man, yet every instinct told her that he was more than familiar to her. Morgan smiled as his large hand, a work-hardened hand, slid over her hip and traveled upwards. Her skin tingled deliciously beneath the rough palm, and she shivered again, not from cold but from pleasure as his hand rubbed over her breasts, fondling and squeezing.

His hot breath tickled the back of her neck as he applied soft open-mouthed kisses and measured bites. His broad fingers tugged softly at her nipples until she felt an answering tug deep in her core. He changed tactics then, making lazy circles and patterns on her belly. She writhed, impatient for more. Suddenly his hand slid between her legs, where she was already slick. He teased at her clit then stroked her deeply until she gasped. Now, now, now… She ground her ass into his groin, feeling his erection thick and hot, wanting it inside her, filling her, claiming her….

Suddenly a deafening crash overwhelmed all her senses. It filled the entire world, echoed and re-echoed, and Morgan sat bolt upright, clutching her ears. Where the hell was she? Then lightning strobed away the darkness, and she recognized the hotel room.

Her head was ringing as she sat there, waiting for her heart rate to slow down. Although whether it was hammering from fright or arousal, she couldn’t say. A cold blast of wind made her look up to see rain slanting inside the open window. Oh crap. Morgan got up at once, slipping a little on the wet hardwood floor as she reached for the window frame. Nothing happened. Morgan had to struggle for several minutes to work the old sash window loose. It jerked and slid only an inch at a time, as she tried to remember if the classic advice to stay away from windows during thunderstorms was true. Finally the casement was closed, and the storm, which must have been passing directly overhead when it awakened her, had moved off toward the north.

Relieved, she was straightening the wet twisted curtains when another flash of lightning made her stop dead and stare. A familiar creature, blacker than the night, sat at the edge of the parking lot. Looking up at her.

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