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But he, more than any, knew there were ways.

“Could he have been changed as well?” Lola asked. “Some other vampire?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

He jumped to his feet, stood in the middle of the room, looking around. He remembered that earlier vision—his mother describing what could be, Gabe listening with wide eyes.

“All you need is a little imagination,” she’d said. “Close your eyes and picture the tree. Red and silver—it’s in the corner almost as tall as the ceiling. A holly wreath on the door. And there’s a log fire in the grate. Red velvet curtains keeping out the draft. Thick rugs on the floor.”

The room was exactly as she’d described. Running a hand over his face, he tried to make sense of his thoughts.

He hurried from the room, to the bedroom at the back of the house. Looked around, then headed for the dresser. His hand reached out and he picked up the small oval frame. Ran his fingers over the picture of a woman. Dark red hair. He glanced up; Lola stood in the doorway. “My ma,” Lachlan said.

She came to stand beside him. “She was beautiful.”

“This was a wedding present from my da to my ma,” he said. “She was only sixteen. We didn’t save much when we fled the castle the night my da was killed. But Gabe went back for this. He knew my mother loved it.”

The fence and the gravestones? Had Gabe done that? While Lachlan had run from the country he’d loved and never looked back. He’d put Scotland from his mind, because he couldn’t bear to think about it and there was nothing left of his past. But he’d been so wrong.

Had Gabe been here all this time? Somehow he had survived Culloden. Somehow, he had survived for nearly three hundred years.

“Lachlan.”

He glanced up as Lola spoke his name. She held something up in her hand. A braided leather necklace and hanging from it a yellowed fang. Not a vampire fang. More like a canine, but bigger than any dog he had ever seen.

Werewolf.

Something clicked in his brain. And he headed for the door at a run.

Chapter Twelve

“Lachlan!” Lola called out to him, but he was beyond listening.

The front door slammed. Where was he going so fast? Clearly, he’d thought of something. She glanced at the necklace she held in her hand.

Ugh.

It wasn’t even a nice white fang but yellowed with age, or usage. She didn’t like to think of that.

And big. Big, like the werewolves who had growled and snarled and nearly ripped Lachlan’s throat out last night.

She hurried back to the living room, grabbed Lachlan’s long leather coat from the floor, and pulled on her boots.

Through the snow, the tracks were clear. And she ran after him, hugging the coat around her. Her knees were freezing, but she ignored the cold.

She passed the spot where her blood still stained the snow crimson. Then farther. Finally, she came upon Lachlan. He stood just outside the circle of werewolves. As though unwilling to enter. Nothing had changed. They were frozen in time.

Lachlan was still naked from the waist up, his feet bare, but he didn’t appear to be affected by the cold. No doubt a vampire thing.

He was staring at the man in the mask. It covered his upper face but left his mouth clear and she could see the dark shadow of stubble on his cheek. He had thick black hair, pulled into a ponytail, and was dressed in black. Black jeans, a black silk shirt, a leather jacket. His arm was raised, the sword in his hand.

Was this the same man from the vision? It could be, but she’d only seen a brief glimpse. Not enough to be sure.

Lachlan took a step closer, then another. Lola followed. He came to a halt in front of the man, then reached up and stroked his finger along the edge of the blade. A bead of blood welled up. “My da’s sword,” he murmured. “Gabe got it at the same time as the picture. He got it for me. Risked his life. I said he should keep it. It was his most prized possession. God, he spent hours cleaning the blade. And I didn’t even recognize it.”

He licked the blood from his finger. Then took a deep breath and slipped the mask from the man’s face.

He looked older than Lachlan, but maybe werewolves aged differently from vampires. And harder. Harsh lines bracketed his face. A scar ran down from his forehead, across his cheek to his upper lip. His eyes were blue, but cold as ice. His expression fierce.