The day was overcast, rainy and chill, a perfect day for a cozy peat fire, and in time, lulled by the combination of the woman in his arms and the comforts of home, he relaxed. He was nearly dozing when Dageus and Chloe finally finished eating and joined them.
Gwen rose from his lap and greetings and hugs were exchanged.
“Silvan and Nell said to give you their love,” Chloe told them.
Drustan grinned, noting that Chloe’s hair was still slightly damp from her shower. So was his brother’s. ’Twas no wonder they’d not come down. Keltar men had a decided penchant for making love in the shower or bath. Indoor plumbing was one of the many luxuries of the twenty-first century that he wasn’t sure how he’d lived without. A shower? Delicious. Sex in the shower? Och, life didn’t get any better.
Gwen beamed. “Didn’t you just love Silvan and Nell? I was so envious that I couldn’t go along and see them again.”
“Nell gave me a letter for you, Gwen,” Chloe said. “It’s upstairs. Do you want me to get it now?”
Gwen shook her head. “Drustan might die of impatience if I let you leave the room. We have news—”
“But first,” Drustan interjected firmly, “let’s hear yours.” He studied Dageus carefully. Though his eyes were the color of deeply burnished copper, the outer edges of his irises rimmed with black, there was a sense of peace about him that hadn’t been there before. Och, aye, Drustan thought, love could indeed work miracles. He had no idea how long they’d spent in the past, but it was long enough that they’d fallen head over heels in love. Long enough that they were united as one against the uncertain future.
While Dageus filled them in on what they’d discovered, he listened patiently. When Dageus told him of the chamber library beneath the study in Maggie and Christopher’s castle, he had to grip the arms of his chair to prevent himself from leaping up and racing off to explore it. To touch and read the legendary Compact, to rediscover their lost history.
Finally, it was his turn to tell the news.
“These members of the Druid sect of the Draghar you spoke of,” Drustan began.
“Aye?” Dageus encouraged when he paused.
“We have one of them in our dungeon.”
Dageus shot to his feet. “How did this come about? Have you questioned him? What did he tell you?” he demanded.
“Easy, brother. He told me all. The base of their Order’s operation is in London, in a place called The Belthew Building, on the lower West Side. ’Twas he and his companion that were after Chloe in Manhattan. ’Twas his companion who leaped from your terrace. He followed you here, hoping to get another chance at Chloe. They were trying to provoke you to use magic and force the transformation.”
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch!” Dageus snarled and began to move toward the door of the library.
“Sit,” Chloe said, dashing after him and tugging firmly at his sleeve. “Let’s hear the rest of it. You can kill him later.”
Bristling with unbridled fury, Dageus refused to move for a moment, then he snorted and followed her back to the sofa. You can kill him later, she’d said, almost absently. When he sank back down on the sofa beside her, she snuggled into his arms and patted him like one might soothe a rabid wolf. He shook his head, nonplussed. Sometimes, he mused, it might be nice if she were a wee bit intimidated by him.
But not his mate: She feared nothing.
“He admitted”—Drustan smiled with grim satisfaction—“under a bit of duress—”
“Good,” Dageus snapped. “I hope ’twas excruciating.”
“—that the building is constructed atop a labyrinth of catacombs, and in those crypts is where all their records are kept. So far as he knows, the building is commonly occupied by no more than three or four men, and at night, ’tis most oft but two, deep in the heart of it. The building has a security system, yet I believe ’tis naught to present a challenge to someone with your unique skills, brother,” he added dryly. “There are complex passkeys, and much to his dismay, he described to me precisely what we must do to pass them. To the best of his knowledge, they still believe you have no idea they exist, and that you do not know of the Prophecy.”
“Perfect. It should be a simple matter to break in late at night and search their records and histories. Did you ask if he knew of a way to get rid of the thirteen?”
Drustan frowned. “Aye. Of a certain, I did. ’Twas one of the first things I asked. He indicated there was a way, but he didn’t know what it was. He overheard the Master of their Order, a man called Simon Barton-Drew, express concern that you might discover it. I assure you, I probed him thoroughly, but the man has no idea what the method is.”
“Then we need to find this Simon Barton-Drew, and I doona give a damn what harm we must do to him to discover what he knows.”
Chloe and Gwen nodded their agreement.
“So, when do we leave?” Gwen asked matter-of-factly.
Dageus and Drustan both skewered her with a glare.
“We doona,” Dageus said firmly.
“Oh, yes, we do,” Chloe rebutted immediately.
Dageus scowled. “There is no way we’re taking the two of you in there—”
“Then just take us to London with you,” Gwen said, managing to sound both soothing yet obdurate. “We’ll stay in a hotel nearby, but we will not remain here while you two go traipsing off into danger. This is not negotiable.”
Drustan shook his head. “Gwen, I willna have you takin’ risks with either yourself or our bairn, lass,” he said, his burr thickened by tension.
“And you should trust that I wouldn’t either,” Gwen said levelly. “I’m not going to let anything happen to our babies. Chloe and I will stay in the hotel, Drustan. We’re not stupid. I know there’s not much a woman as pregnant as I am could do when it comes to stealthily breaking in and searching. But you can’t leave us here. If you tried to, we’d only follow you. Take us with you, settle us safely in the hotel. You can’t shut us out. We’re part of it too. It would drive us both crazy sitting here and waiting.”
The debate went on for well over half an hour. But in the end, the women prevailed and the men reluctantly agreed to take them to London the following day.
“He’s back, Father, as is the woman,” Hugh Barton-Drew informed Simon, as he spoke softly into his cell phone. “We saw them return late last night.”
“Any idea where they were?” Simon asked.
“None.”
“And there’s still been no sighting of Trevor?”
“No. But we can’t get in the castle. Even if it weren’t warded, I’m not certain it would be safe to try,” he said quietly. Hushed tones were unnecessary, as far from the castle as he and his brother were, watching through binoculars, but Dageus MacKeltar made him uneasy. This Keltar castle, unlike the other one atop the mountain, was in a vast vale, and the surrounding forest-covered hills provided excellent cover. Still, he felt exposed. His brother had complained of the same sensation.
“Report in to me every two hours. I want to be kept apprised of every move they make,” Simon said.
25
It was late at night, long after everyone was asleep, that Dageus slipped stealthily from the castle.
The day had seemed to drag on endlessly, while he’d struggled to conceal from those he loved what he was planning. To keep his gaze mild, his impatience in check. It had worn him down, comporting himself as if he were in complete agreement, betraying no telltale sign, however minute, to the brother who knew him too well, that he had no intention of going along with the plan they’d spent the rainy afternoon meticulously formulating.
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 D
rustan 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. “Unlike 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.”