The plan wherein they would all go to London and all be in jeopardy.
During the latter part of the afternoon, while Chloe and Gwen had packed for their trip to London—the trip that was never going to happen—he’d gone down to the dungeon and interrogated the man from the sect of the Draghar himself. He’d used magic to ruthlessly strip the information from his mind, but as Drustan had assured him, although the man knew there was some way to re-imprison the thirteen and prevent the transformation, he did not know the specifics of it.
That a way definitely existed was enough to fill Dageus with a heady exhilaration, and a seething impatience to see it done now.
The four of them gathered for dinner in the great hall, and shortly thereafter, he swept Chloe back up to bed, where he made love to her until she collapsed, replete in his arms.
He’d held her then, savoring the feel of her in his arms for nearly another hour before he’d finally left their bed.
And now, as he stepped out into the night, he was ready. It was time to face the enemy and finish things for once and for all.
Alone.
He would never permit any of the people he loved to take this risk with him. ’Twas he who’d created the mess and ’twould be he who fixed it. He was at his best solitary, unencumbered—the Gaulish Ghost again, a sleek, dark wraith, scarce visible to the human eye—with no need to watch over his shoulder to protect someone else.
He hadn’t saved Drustan for Gwen once, only to lose one or both of them now. And he would never lose Chloe.
He knew they would be furious, but with luck, it would be over before they even awakened, or at worst, shortly thereafter. He needed it this way, needed to know they were safe in the castle, so he could keep his mind focused on his goal with no distractions.
He would penetrate the Draghar sect’s headquarters, search their records, locate Simon Barton-Drew’s address, hunt him down, and peel from his mind the information he needed. The thought that he might, in a short time, be free of the exhausting battle he’d been waging for so long was hard for him to comprehend. The idea that, by morning, he might be able to return to Chloe, naught more than a Druid and a man, seemed a dream too good to be true.
But it wasn’t. According to Trevor—and a mind so ruthlessly violated was incapable of lying—Simon Barton-Drew knew how to return the ancient ones to that prison from whence they’d come.
The flight to London was short, though it took him several frustrating hours to locate The Belthew Building. He’d not been in London before, with the exception of the airport, and it was confusing to him. He stood outside the unlit building for some time, studying it from back, front, and all sides. It was a large warehouse constructed of stone and steel, with four floors, but from what Trevor had confessed, that which he sought would be found belowground.
He took slow, even breaths of the chill, foggy night air. Moving briskly, silently, he approached the building and worked the lock with a softly murmured phrase. That made twice today that he’d used magic, and he dare use it only sparingly henceforth.
Even now the beings within him were stirring. He could sense them reaching out, as if trying to fathom their surroundings.
He opened the door and slipped partly in, punching the code into the keypad. He was prepared; he had lifted all the knowledge he needed from Trevor’s mind and committed it to memory. He knew every sequence of numbers, every alarm to circumvent, every passkey.
Stepping across the threshold, he felt a sudden pinching pain in his chest, deep in a ridge of muscle. He shrugged his shoulder, trying to work the kink out, but it didn’t go away and, bemused, he glanced down.
For a moment the sight of the silver dart quivering in his chest simply baffled him. Then his vision swam alarmingly and narrowed to a dim tunnel. Blinking, he stared into the dark room.
“A tranquilizer,” a cultured voice informed him politely.
A few moments later, cursing viciously, Dageus crashed to the floor.
He roused—he had no idea how long later—to the sensation of cool stone against his back. As his drug-induced stupor receded slowly, he became aware that he was securely restrained.
He felt strange, but was unable to pinpoint exactly what it was. Something was different inside him. Mayhap the lingering effects of the tranquilizer, he decided.
Without opening his eyes, he flexed minutely, testing his bonds. He was chained to a stone column several feet in diameter. Thick-linked chains bound his arms behind him, around the column’s circumference. His ankles were chained together as well, bound again to the base of the column. Without calling upon magic, he could move naught but his head.
Keeping his eyes closed, he listened, noting the different voices that spoke over the next few moments, tallying the numbers of his enemy. Half a dozen, no more. Had they not drugged him, they would never have taken him, and if he could get free, he would have no problem escaping. He reached out with his Druid senses, testing the strength of the chains.
Bletherin’ hell, he thought darkly. There was a binding spell on them. He poked at it lightly, testing its strength with magic, not wishing to use more than was necessary. But instead of a subtle, directed probing, a sudden, uncontrolled rush of power ripped through him, far more than he’d meant to use, more than he’d ever used at a single time before. He felt the instant response of the thirteen; they began murmuring in their incomprehensible language, their voices buzzing like insects inside his skull. He was bombarded with sensations. . . .
Icy darkness. Endless stretches of bickering amongst themselves. Enforced eternal togetherness with no escape. Periods of lucidity, longer periods of madness, until finally there was nothing left but rage and hatred and an all-consuming thirst for vengeance.
His whole body shuddered. ’Twas the strongest taste of them he’d gotten yet and it was so revolting that, had his hands been free, he suspected he would have clawed at his head in a futile effort to gouge them out of his skull.
He realized two things then: the sect of the Draghar was more advanced in Druidry than he’d thought, to weave such a powerful spell into cold iron, and they’d given him something besides a mere tranquilizer. They’d given him some kind of drug that was impairing his ability to control the power within him. He was like a man who’d consumed too much whisky, who could, intending a gentle caress, lash out with a killing blow, out of sheer sloppiness.
And he had no doubt that such a blow would turn him fully dark.
He inhaled shallowly, forcing his senses outward, away from the chaotic buzzing in his mind. He tasted the air, trying to envision the shape of the room from the echo of conversation. It seemed to be low-ceilinged, and long, and there was a faint odor of moss on stone. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He was fair certain he was in the catacombs beneath the building.
What a fool he’d been, barging in, underestimating his foe! He’d acted rashly, driven by impatience and a desperate need to protect those he loved. Not once had it occurred to him that the sect of the Draghar might have people watching him, reporting his every move. Apparently they had, for they’d certainly been ready for him. What was their plan? To use this deadly drug to force his transformation?
“He’s coming around,” someone said.
He would have preferred they continue to think him unconscious, buying precious time for the effects of the drug to diminish, but evidently, though he’d remained motionless, he’d given himself away somehow. Mayhap his chest was rising and falling more deeply. He opened his eyes.
“Ah, there you are,” a tall, lean man with salt-and-pepper hair said, moving to stand before him. The man looked at him for a long moment. “I’m Simon Barton-Drew, master of the sect. This isn’t quite how I’d hoped to meet you. My apologies for the restraints but, for the time being, they are necessary. I assume Trevor is dead?” he inquired politely.
“Trevor lives,” Dageus said, modulating his voice carefully. He would betray no sign of his inner conflict to the man. “U
nlike your Order, the Keltar do not take life without cause.” No matter how much he would have liked to.
Simon circled the stone column. “Nor do we. All we’ve done was necessary to serve the purpose of restoring our rightful powers. To fulfill our destiny.”
“They were never your rightful powers. They were given by the Tuatha Dé and they were the Tuatha Dé’s to reclaim when it became evident man would abuse them.”
Simon gave a short bark of laughter. “Thus speaks the man who broke his own oaths. See it as you wish. No matter, you will lead us.”
“I will never fulfill the Prophecy.”
“Ah, so you know of it. I wondered if you did. When did you find out? Did Trevor tell you? Not that I blame him, for I know what you’re capable of. It’s all here.” He swept an arm behind him, at piles of manuscripts and texts stacked carefully on dozens of shelves. “All that the Draghar can do. All they will teach us. The power to move through space and time, the power to open the realms.”
“The Draghar you worship nearly destroyed the world once, trying to open the realms. What makes you think that once they’re free, they won’t again?”
“Why destroy the world when they can rule it?” Simon countered. “I believe we can determine what went wrong the last time they tried to go after the Tuatha Dé. Our world is far more advanced now than it was then. And there are so many faithful followers waiting to welcome them.”
“What makes you think they have any intention of becoming part of your little Order? Why would they remain with you?” Dageus goaded.
“What do you mean?” The briefest flicker of unease flashed across the man’s lean face.
“If they can travel through time, what is there to prevent them from returning to their own century? What do you think they want more than anything?”
“To reclaim their power. A chance to live again, to rule again. To take their rightful place in the world.”
Dageus tsked mockingly. Though he couldn’t understand their language and didn’t know what the Draghar’s intentions were, Simon didn’t know that. Sowing doubts could be a useful weapon. If he could keep him talking long enough, mayhap enough of the drug’s effects would pass that he could risk probing Simon’s mind. “They want bodies, Simon, and they will have the power to return to their own. Once you release them, how will you stop them from going back? You won’t be able to control them. They may destroy your Order the moment I change. What use have they for you? They’ll return to their century, keep the war from happening, and utterly rewrite the past four thousand years of history.” Dageus laughed. “Like as not, none of us will ever even be born by the time they’re done changing things.”
Och, aye, the men in the room looked decidedly uneasy. Uneasy was good. Violent dissension would be even better.
“You’ll be releasing a power that you can’t possibly begin to understand and have no hope of mastering.” Dageus gave him a chilling smile.
After a tense silence, Simon waved a dismissive hand. “Enough. I am not going to fall for your ruse. The Draghar would not try to return because they would run the risk of being imprisoned again. They will never risk that.”
“So you say, when in truth, you know nothing about them. I do.”
Simon’s jaw set and he motioned to two of the men standing nearby. “I will not be swayed from the course of the Prophecy. It is my sworn duty to fulfill it. And I may not know as much about the Draghar as I’d like, but I do know much about you.” He glanced at the men. “Bring her,” he ordered.
The men hastened from the chamber.
Dageus went rigid. Her—who? he nearly roared. There was no way, he told himself. Chloe was safe and sleeping within the castle’s warded walls.
He was so very wrong.
When they returned a few moments later, his gut clenched. “Nay,” he whispered, lips scarce moving. “Och, nay, lass.”
“Och, aye, Keltar,” Simon mocked. “A lovely woman, isn’t she? We tried to get to her in Manhattan. But fear not, you may have all of her you want once you’ve yielded to the inevitable. I suspect the Draghar will be hungry for a woman after four thousand years.”
The men roughly half-dragged, half-carried Chloe forward. Her hands and feet were bound and her face ashen, streaked with tears.
“I’m so sorry, Dageus,” she gasped. “I woke up when I heard the car door slam and ran outside, trying to catch you—”
One of the men cuffed her into silence, and every muscle in Dageus’s body screamed. He closed his eyes, fighting the dark storm rising in him. I am a man and a Keltar. I will not lash out blindly, he told himself over and again. It was several moments before he managed to open them again and when he did, their gazes locked.
I love you, she mouthed. I’m so sorry!
He shook his head, rejecting her apology, hoping she understood that he was saying no apology was necessary. It was his fault, not hers. I love you too, lass, he shaped the words silently.
“How touching,” Simon said dryly. He motioned the men holding Chloe to bring her forward, stopping them half a dozen paces from the column to which Dageus was bound. “Having a private plane has its uses,” he said, smiling. “She was here before you’d even landed in London. And now my men will kill her unless you’d care to prevent it. Being bound should present no obstacle for a man with such power.”
“You son of a bitch.” Dageus strained violently against the chains, but to no avail. Without magic, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Rage consumed him, accompanied by the fierce temptation to use the most horrific power at his disposal. He could taste the potency of the ancient ones, piling up in the back of his throat, begging to be freed. The words that brought death coiled on the tip of his tongue. He wanted blood, and the beings inside him were lusting to spill it.
Simon had planned his strategy well. He’d drugged Dageus so he wouldn’t be able to control the amount of magic he used, taken captive the woman Dageus loved more than life itself, and was now going to kill her, unless Dageus used magic to prevent it.
And if he used magic to save her, he would transform.
It was inevitable, he realized with a peculiar detachment. This was it. He was backed into a corner with no way out. There was no way he would permit Chloe to be harmed. Ever. She was his mate, she held his Selvar. His life was her shield.
For a split second, a curiously suspended instant in time, it was as if he were there in the catacombs, yet not there. His mind slipped to a quiet place where memories flashed in swift conjunction.
He was seeing Chloe for the first time, standing in the misting rain on a bustling street in Manhattan. He was discovering her beneath his bed. He was feeling the lushness of her lips when he’d stolen that first kiss.
He was feeding her bites of salmon. Listening to her haver incessantly away about some obscure tome, her eyes sparkling. Watching her puff on a fat cigar.
He was seeing her sleepy-sexy eyes when he’d brought her to her first peak on the airplane. Making love to her in a sparkling pool beneath an endless blue sky in his beloved Highlands. Spilling inside her, becoming part of her. Watching, as she perched on a chair and practiced saying that she loved him to a shield, then turning to shout it at him. Saying it again, after he’d told her his darkest secret. Remaining steadfastly at his side.
And in that strange quiet moment, he realized that had he not broken his oath, had he not gone through the stones to save Drustan, he would never have met Chloe. Ironic, he mused, that his fate had required his own fall to lead him to the woman who’d been his salvation in so many ways. Had he been given the choice, to go back in time and choose not to break his oath and never meet Chloe Zanders, he would have resolutely walked into the stones and done it all over again, with full awareness that it would lead to this moment.
Simply to have the joy of loving Chloe for what time he’d had.
From that quiet place, his mind glided swiftly to another: to the bitterly cold night he’d danced upon his ice-slicke
d terrace wall. He’d done it because he’d always known that he could end it all by dying. Simple solution, really. No vessel—no resurrection. Mate, endgame, and match.
A part of him had been so weary of fighting.
But he’d resolved that eve to continue fighting, and relegated thoughts of suicide to his arsenal of the last resort, loathing the notion of it.
Then he’d met Chloe, who’d given him a thousand reasons to live.
He smiled bitterly. He couldn’t call forth the magic necessary to free her and see her safe without also releasing the Draghar, which put him in an impossible position.
He would never usher in that “epoch of darkness more brutal than mankind has ever known,” of which the Prophecy foretold. There was no telling how many millions might die. What if those words he’d taunted Simon with truly were what the thirteen planned to do? What if they did intend to go back in time? Mayhap fight the war all over again? Mayhap win this time?
It would utterly change four thousand years of mankind’s history. Man might no longer even exist in present times by the time they were done.
Nay. His choices, his chances, had all been exhausted.
Och, love, he grieved, it wasn’t supposed to end this way.
When he opened his eyes, it was to discover that they’d stuffed a gag in Chloe’s mouth. Her aquamarine eyes sparkled with tears.
“Cut her,” Simon said softly. “Show him her blood.”
Dageus bit down on his tongue, filling his mouth with a bitter metallic taste. He knew he had to time it to perfection. He had to make certain he inflicted a sufficiently mortal wound on himself that he would die before the transformation was complete, but not before the sect members were dead and Chloe was free. He steeled himself to act with flawless resolution. A single moment of hesitation could undo him. He had to be one hundred percent committed to dying.
And that was a damned hard thing to be when looking at Chloe.
One of the men drew a blade over the skin of her neck, and crimson droplets welled. Chloe writhed in their arms, bucking and struggling.
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