Drustan, remember our ancestor, Cian, who I was talking about recently? Well, uh, he’s here.
He shook his head, muttering a string of curses.
He thought for a moment, absently watching the still-fully-compelled salesman—that was a serious wallop his ancestor’s Voice packed—load the stolen goods into Cian’s SUV, wondering how he might spend the most time with Chloe yet still manage this new wrinkle.
His eyes narrowed. Camping gear. His kinsman was purloining camping gear. Was he squatting somewhere on Keltar land? The gall! How long had he been there?
He angled around the store employee and peered deeper into the SUV.
He blinked. Then he blinked again, very slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a moment before opening them.
It was still there.
It couldn’t be! By Amergin—’twasn’t possible!
Was it?
“Move,” he growled at the salesman, employing Voice without even thinking about it.
The salesman stepped obediently aside.
Dageus reached into the SUV, pushed aside the blanket half-concealing the object, and another string of curses spilled from his lips.
“Impossible.” But the proof of it was right there before his very eyes.
He’d never seen it before—verily, he never thought to see it—but the Draghar had.
The Dark Glass.
One of four unholy Unseelie Hallows.
At one point, the glass had actually been in their possession. They’d never been able to translate the spells necessary to use it, though not for lack of trying. Nor had they ever discerned its purpose.
It was a mystery to him as well, but he knew all he needed to know: His legendary ancestor of allegedly epic moral turpitude had one of the forbidden Unseelie Hallows in his possession.
And he was alive. And here in present day.
What the blethering hell was a Keltar Druid doing with the blackest of black magycks? They were Seelie guardians, not Unseelie!
The situation was far grimmer than he’d thought.
Rubbing his jaw, he pondered his options. They were few. He’d felt the power in his ancestor. He didn’t delude himself for a moment that he’d be able to subdue him with magyck, unless he called on some of the Draghar’s tricks, a thing he was highly reluctant to do.
Nor could he hope to use brute force without the possibility of innocent bystanders getting caught in the fray. Especially not if the formidable Druid simply lashed out with a spell to stop him.
Yet he needed to get the man to Castle Keltar.
Once there, mayhap together he and Drustan could bind him, question him, discover what was going on, and what to do about it.
His gaze slid back to the Dark Glass.
It exerted an unpleasant pull on him. Made him hunger to touch it. He’d heard tell that the Dark Hallows tended to have such a dangerous effect on men with power in their veins. He’d never experienced it before and hoped not to again. He felt both a constant, irresistible urge to reach for it, and also a bone-deep chill warning him away.
Eyeing it warily, the simplest solution occurred to him. One that would keep his need to touch it to a minimum.
His ancestor wasn’t the only one who could use Voice. Dageus excelled at it too. Though he doubted he could outright contradict anything his ancestor had commanded, he was fair certain he could work around it.
Placing a hand on the salesman’s shoulder, he instructed him quietly but forcefully, “You will give me the keys to that SUV. And when he returns for his vehicle you will tell him he will find it here.” Plucking a pen and one of the young salesman’s business cards from the pocket of the glassy-eyed man’s crisp white shirt, he scribbled the address of Castle Keltar. “You will give him these keys, and direct him to that vehicle.” Handing the salesman his own set of keys, he pointed down the street to the vehicle he’d recently purchased, a Hummer it was called, though in his estimation it leaned more toward a roar than a hum.
The salesman nodded blankly.
Dageus had no doubt his ancestor would come, sword swinging, to reclaim the Dark Glass. The man was fiercely aggressive by nature and, given that he was freely dabbling with black arts, he would be even more so.
Like as not, he’d be dangerously violent. He and Drustan would be wise to sequester Chloe, Gwen, and the young twins away.
Carefully, without making contact with the glass, he rearranged the blanket over the mirror.
Then, circling round to the driver’s side of the SUV, Dageus tossed Chloe’s boots onto the passenger’s seat, climbed in, fired up the engine, and headed for home.
“But he’s your descendant, for heaven’s sake!” Jessi exclaimed. “How can you just walk away from him?”
The moment she’d seen the man “Dageus” scowling at Cian, she’d been struck by their sameness. The more she’d stared back and forth between them, the more convinced she’d become that they had to be related somehow.
Though Cian’s descendant had been dressed in expensive, tailored black trousers, a black turtleneck, and a buttery-soft leather jacket, though he’d been well groomed and polished, his civilized appearance had failed to conceal an innate primitiveness that was just like Cian’s.
She’d tried to point it out, but they were kindred even in their edgy tempers and excess testosterone. She’d not been able to spit the whole sentence out because they’d kept talking over her.
She’d continued her assessment, periodically attempting to interject her thoughts, to no avail.
Both had long dark hair, both had strong, chiseled Celtic features, both had arrogance shaping the very curve of their spine, conquest in the cant of their heads upon their shoulders, and an extra something running in their veins besides very blue, very pure blood.
Both had a base, seething sexuality. Both had powerful, highly developed physiques. And there was no denying it, Dageus was incredible looking.
But Cian was more man than his descendant. Rawer, more elemental. Dageus was leaner and prettier. Cian was larger, rough, tough, down-and-dirty—and hands-down sexier.
“Hey, wait for me!” she called, sprinting to catch up with him. While she’d been mulling over her thoughts, he’d stalked off again. He was disappearing from her view down the Sugar/Spice/Dry Goods aisle.
For a man from the ninth century, he was a quick study. Upon entering the grocery store, he’d eyed a cart consideringly, glanced around at other customers, snatched it, and begun pushing up and down aisles, examining items, selecting various cans and tins, tossing them in.
Instant Suisse Mocha—woohooo! Jessi took two tins of it from the shelf as she sped by, caught up with him, and dumped them in the cart. She’d not missed the gas stove and pots he’d heisted, and was greatly looking forward to a cup of chocolaty coffee once they got back to their “camp.”
“Aren’t you the least little bit curious about him?” she pressed.
He grunted. “Now is not the time for new beginnings, lass.” He cast the words over his shoulder at her with a scowl. “I’ll make none.”
Though she tried to hide it, a flicker of hurt flashed across her face. No new beginnings. She knew that.
And it shouldn’t bother her. It wasn’t as if they were making a new beginning or anything like that.
They were just stuck with each other for a while.
He wanted sex from her, nothing more. And this morning, he’d not even wanted sex. She was merely his means of remaining free from Lucan until he could have his vengeance. And he was merely her means of staying alive.
He couldn’t have made his feelings any plainer, really. Since the airport, all she’d gotten in the way of a kiss had been a stupid peck on the forehead that a chicken could have done better.
But like an idiot, she’d begun reading more into things than was actually there. They were forced to share close quarters, there was danger, and it was just making everything feel more intense than it was. On top of it, the man was devastatingly sexy, powerf
ul, smart, and magic, to boot. Who could blame a girl?
No new beginnings.
Damn it, it shouldn’t bother her!
But it did. She tried to turn away, but his hand flashed out and caught her by the chin.
“Let me go,” she snapped.
“Nay.” His grip was implacable on her jaw.
There was little point in fighting for control of her face; he could have hoisted her into the air with that one big hand on her jaw, if he’d wished.
He searched her gaze a long silent moment. “You truly doona ken it, do you? Excepting with you, Jessica. You, lass, are the exception to everything,” he said softly.
As if he’d not just knocked the breath out of her with those words and left her feeling weak-kneed, he released her chin, turned away, and began pushing the cart again.
Jessi stood in the aisle, gaping after him. Then she broke into a sprint and caught him again. Closing a hand on his forearm, she tugged him to a stop. “You mean, you’re not just stuck with me? You like me?” She wanted to kick herself the moment she blurted the stupid question. Puh-thetic, Jessi, she winced inwardly. That was worse than the “I carried a watermelon” line from Dirty Dancing.
His gaze was dark with some unfathomable emotion as he stared down at her. She stared, trying to determine what it was. It was an emotion she’d seen several times before, and at the oddest moments.
It was regret, she realized abruptly.
A subtle yet bottomless sorrow in those beautiful, darkly lashed eyes.
But what was he regretting, and why at this moment, as opposed to any other? It made no sense to her!
Suddenly he smiled, and the sadness was vanquished by whisky heat. “Aye, Jessica, I like you. And I’m not just stuck with you. You fit me here, woman.” He thumped his chest with his fist.
Then he shook her hand from his forearm and pushed off with the cart again. Jessi watched him move down the aisle, all sleek animal muscle and dark grace.
Wow. He wasn’t a man of many words, but when he used them, he certainly used the right ones. You fit me here. You are the exception to everything.
Crimeny.
It was how she’d always thought a relationship should be. People should fit each other: some days like sexy, strappy high-heeled shoes, other days like comfortable loafers—but always a good fit. And if you cared about someone, they should be the exception to everything; the number-one priority, the one who came before all others.
He was halfway down the aisle from her now, plucking a can from the shelf—her primal hunter/gatherer procuring food by modern means, she thought, with a soft snort of amusement. As she watched, he examined the can intently, read the ingredients, then returned it to the shelf and chose another, repeating his thorough study of it.
The contrast between his rough, tough-guy appearance and the domestic act he was performing did funny things to her head.
She had a sudden, breathtaking vision of a dark-haired little boy sitting in the seat of the cart, laughing up at Cian, grabbing at his swinging braids with chubby little fists, while his daddy inspected the ingredients on a jar of baby food. Her mind’s-eye picture of sexy, strong man with beautiful, helpless child made something soft and warm blossom behind her chest.
Just then, two women sashayed around the corner, toting baskets on their arms. They were about her age, model-slim and very pretty.
When they saw Cian, their eyes widened and they did double takes.
Her soft and warm feeling popped with the abruptness of a balloon bursting.
As they made their way down the aisle toward her—the nerve of them!—they turned around three more times to check out his butt.
His butt. Like it was public property or something.
Her hands fisted. A thundery little storm began to brew.
Unfortunately the women ruined the beginnings of a perfectly good brood by smiling at her and whispering in a sisterly, conspiratorial manner as they passed, “Heads-up, sweetie, major eye-candy ahead. Check it out.”
As they moved into the next aisle, Jessi blew out a gusty sigh. They’d just had to be nice.
Crossing her arms, she glared at Cian’s butt. Did it have to be so perfect? Couldn’t he have been a little shorter? Maybe he should cut his hair. No, she amended hastily, she loved his hair. It was sexy and silky, and she really wanted to see it without all those braids in once. Not to mention, feel it sweeping her bare skin.
Something in her tummy did a flip-flop. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. It was a scary feeling. The dratted green-eyed monster had gotten her again. She felt downright possessive of him. Like he was hers or something. What was happening to her?
Cian turned just then and glanced back at her. His eyes narrowed. His hot gaze swept her from head to toe. He wet his lower lip, caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and flashed her a wicked smile.
His expression could not have more clearly said, The moment I get through doing what must be done, I’m going to be all over you, woman.
She brightened. “Okay,” she said, nodding agreeably. It was looking like it might just turn out to be a banner day in Jessi St. James’s world, after all.
He tossed his dark head back and laughed, his gilded-scotch gaze glittering with lust and unconcealed masculine triumph.
He was still laughing when he disappeared.
* * *
19
Banner day, her ass.
No bones about it—she hated that mirror.
It took Jessi nearly an hour to find her way back to the SUV.
Or rather, back to where the SUV had been in her other life—the one in which her possibilities for survival hadn’t looked quite so grim.
When they’d stormed from Tiedemann’s earlier, Cian had swiftly rearranged the mirror to his satisfaction, so their new “purchases” might not slip and slide in transit and damage it, then he’d turned and loped down the streets of Inverness at such a furious pace that it had been all she could do to keep up with him. She’d hardly glanced left or right, and hadn’t paid any attention to where they were going, nor had she even bothered trying to gather the breath to talk to him, until they’d finally stopped at the grocery store. Ergo, she’d not realized how far he’d taken her, evading his descendant, until she’d attempted to retrace her steps through the unfamiliar Scottish streets.
Then—because she’d been watching for the SUV, not the store—she’d actually sprinted past Tiedemann’s twice before realizing their stolen rental vehicle was no longer there.
“Shit, shit, shit!” she cried, staring at the empty space in front of the store.
She glanced farther down the street, thinking perhaps the SUV had inexplicably sprouted feet and moved itself while they’d been gone—stranger things had happened of late. Or maybe she’d just forgotten exactly where she’d parked it on the cobbled avenue.
Nope, not a single big, black, stolen SUV. On either side of the street.
How bad could one person’s luck get?
“Don’t answer that,” she snapped hastily, in a general upward direction. “That was a purely rhetorical question, not a show-me-proof one.” She was beginning to suffer the paranoid suspicion that the Universe was using her as the butt of a series of perverse jokes.
The whole time she’d been winding down street after street, she’d been damming a rising tidal wave of panic, assuring herself that everything was going to be just fine, that this was only a minor setback, that Cian had just been sucked back into the mirror earlier than either of them had expected, and once she got back to the SUV, she’d drive them back to their camp and they’d try again tomorrow, with greater success.
Which wasn’t to say that she hadn’t been pissed when he’d vanished. She had. She’d left her purse inside her backpack in the SUV, figuring she wouldn’t need it because Cian could Voice her whatever she wanted, and her forty-two dollars and seventeen cents certainly wasn’t going to go very far.
Then, when he’d so abruptly disappear
ed, she’d stood in the grocery with a cart full of lovely snacks, her stomach growling hungrily, and realized that she was going to have to leave all that scrumptious food, because she didn’t have even a few dollars stuffed in a pocket somewhere, and couldn’t buy so much as a measly candy bar to get her through for a while.
She’d been so hungry that she’d actually considered shoplifting. It had not been a stab of conscience that had prevented her from embarking on a larcenous spree—hunger was a brutally compelling motive—but fear of being caught, because then what would happen to Cian?
With that worry foremost in her mind, stomach protesting her every retreating step, she’d left the grocery and dashed off to find him.
Only to find this—a great big, empty parking space.
Where was he?
She slumped down onto the curb and perched on the edge of it, propping her elbows on her knees, her chin on her fists.
She couldn’t believe that Lucan could have found them so quickly.
If he had, wouldn’t she be dead? Or at least under attack right now? She glanced hastily, warily around.
No one was staring at her or moving toward her in a menacing manner.
Which left only two other possibilities that she could think of: 1) a thief had stolen their stolen auto, which—in addition to pushing the limits of the absurd—sucked because, for the life of her, she couldn’t see a way she was going to be able to track down a thief by herself, nor could she report a stolen vehicle stolen to the police, because the police were dread possibility number two; 2) the police had spotted it and impounded it and Jessi St. James was now wanted for Grand Theft Auto (thanks to half a dozen pieces of identification in her purse) in addition to being wanted for theft of the mirror and probably all the stuff Cian had Voiced from Tiedemann’s, and possibly Murder One (though she was really hoping deletion of the hotel records had gotten her out of that), as well as Just Plain Dead by one evil sorcerer.
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