To Rich Devin, Lance Taubold, Ripper,

       Eddy and Jack (and, okay, the duck!),

       to Tammy and Brian Russotto and Little Sly,

       and Laura Mills-Alcott,

       With love and thanks.

       And very especially to Bayley Crow—

       flooded out by Katrina to meet

       Rita and Wilma down in south Florida!

       —and her folks,

       and the incredible city of New Orleans.

       Thanks!

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Epilogue

      About the Author

      Coming Next Month

      Please visit New Orleans. This wonderful city,

       with its unique heritage, still needs our help.

       The Gulf area in general remains desperate,

       but we can help by pouring our tourist dollars into

       the shops, restaurants and hotels of this region.

      Prologue

      The land was drenched with blood, after years of desperate fighting, and there would be more.

      The knight sat atop his horse at the side of his king, watching as the troops rode through the valley below. Behind them rode Father Gregore, the warrior priest who had so often accompanied the new king on his quest to obtain and hold his domain, murmuring in Latin.

      The king cursed softly. “Damn them. So many,” he added, turning to his knight. “After all these years, the feeble son feels he must prove himself to be the equal of his father. Sweet Jesu, will we forever be fighting this scourge? If the invaders reach the village, we will see a savagery beyond anything we have witnessed yet, not to show strength, as it might have been with the father, but because he longs to give the lie to his very weakness.” He spoke with disgust and a hard-won right to bitterness.

      The breeze shifted, bringing with it a chill. The knight looked up, noting the sky. Darkness would come early, and according to the priest it would come earlier still today, for what Father Gregore called the Demon Moon would be upon them that night. Gregore was a great astronomer, as well as a healer. Many men had survived the field of battle because of his prowess.

      Gregore was an interesting man, to say the least. He had studied for the priesthood in Rome. His father had been a highlander, an ambassador to the papal court. His mother, according to local legend, had been a witch.

      Father Gregore had acted strangely throughout the day, cursing and muttering much more than usual. Now, as they assessed their enemy’s strength and planned their defense, he seemed stranger still. The knight respected the priest, though he was wary of his many incantations, intoned in a language bearing no resemblance to anything the knight had ever heard. A chill ran up his spine—an unusual sensation. He had faced ruthless enemies on the field again and again. He had watched his kinsmen and friends fall. Long ago, he had set his mind to the task with the knowledge he could never look anywhere but straight ahead, that there could be nothing but the fight for freedom to guide them.

      “He rides with the Devil’s own henchman,” Father Gregore muttered savagely.

      The knight forced the sounds of the priest’s voice from his mind and focused on the scene below. He pointed to the glen and the river, and the great tor beyond. “There,” he said softly. “There is where we must stop them.”

      “They’ll attack by day,” the king mused.

      “I don’t think we dare make that supposition,” the knight said.

      The king sat very still. “My household rests in that glen.”

      The knight was very aware of that, as well as the fact that the king had a number of illegitimate children. He had married for love; his bride had braved her own family’s disapproval for her husband. But there had been long times when they had been parted.

      One of the king’s by blood, a daughter, had quite recently come of age. She attended the queen, who bore her no malice. Like her father, she was fierce, loyal and dauntless. Like her mother, late of the Isle of Skye, she was beautiful. She was adept with a small bow, and had used her weapon successfully against the enemy. Her wit was as quick as her shot. Bold with her laugher, her ability to tease and seduce, she epitomized everything the knight fought for: the fierce, wild spirit of the land. A challenge, proud and independent, she had captured his mind along with his heart. Sometimes, sleeping on the rocky ground, he closed off the sounds of the night and the smell of blood. He felt himself seduced anew in his mind, a hint of the scent of her skin and the feel of her flesh teasing him in his dreams.

      He turned to the king. “They will not wait.” He pointed skyward to the rising moon. “It’s Father Gregore’s Demon Moon. They will see by its light, crimson and shadowed as that may be.”

      The king gasped suddenly and caught the warrior’s arm. The knight looked down to the glen below, and his breath caught, as had his liege’s. There was suddenly a great burst of laughter among the men there as what had apparently been a small scouting party made a triumphant return. Horses burst through the pass, hooves pounding, the riders shouting loudly enough to be heard by the force looking down on them.

      “A prize. A prize for our great king!” a man roared.

      And then the knight saw. The king’s daughter Igrainia, his own true love, bruised and muddied, straight and defiant still, was seated before one of the raiders, who shoved her from the horse at the feet of the very man who was now their most hated enemy. Yet thrown hard, the wind knocked from her, she rose quickly, her chin high as she looked into the eyes of their foe.

      Their enemy stared at the girl, then at his men. “The others?” he inquired.

      “Dead,” the rider said, and spat. “At her hands.”

      “And the queen?”

      “Escaped—while this one mowed down our men.”

      “And the so-called king of these outlaws?”

      “Nowhere to be found.”

      The enemy king, sly though not brave, cruel if not strong, assessed her, then looked around slowly. He raised his voice high, shouting so his words were an echo in the strange and eerie light that already seemed to be rising around them. “She shall die a traitor’s death! By the full rise of the moon, she shall die.”

      The knight’s horse pawed at the earth of the cliff. The king again set a hand upon his arm. “Hold.”

      “I will go alone,” the knight said. It felt as if his blood were boiling.

      “Demon Moon,” the priest muttered behind him. “She is lost already.”