Spell of the Highlander

Page 101

But it was not that castle and its occupants that concerned him.
It was the other one. The one he’d not known existed.
A second castle had been constructed on a distant part of the MacKeltar estate at some time during the sixteenth century, years after he’d quit paying attention to that rocky, barbaric little corner of the Highlands. It was currently occupied by twin Keltar males.
With old names.
Dageus and Drustan.
Who the fuck were they and from beneath what fucking rock had they crawled?
It was in that castle, or so Hans had suspected, that the mirror was being kept. A man and a woman fitting Cian and Jessi St. James’s description had been seen in a store in Inverness. There Hans had encountered the confusion typical of the aftereffects of Voice, but he’d managed to obtain the information that a heretofore unknown Keltar, one of the twins, Dageus, had driven off in a vehicle with a large, ornate mirror in the back of it. The employee had recalled the mirror because “that tattooed guy” had been obsessive about it not getting broken, rearranging it three times and padding it with blankets before permitting other items to be loaded in with it.
Lucan had not anticipated this.
He’d expected Cian to head for the hills. To be in the wide open. He’d expected to be facing one MacKeltar, not three; two of them complete unknowns. In a castle that was probably warded to the fucking rafters.
He frowned over his shoulder at the crisply blackened remains of Hans. It would remain concealed by his spell for a few moments more. Then one pubgoer or another would take note of the grisly corpse on the floor, women would scream, and men would mill about, gaping, readying their stories for watercooler chats in the morning. Law enforcement would be rung. Lucan quickened his pace, pushing his way through the boisterous after-work crowd.
It was damned inconvenient for Hans to be dead right now.
There were other matters to which Lucan would have liked him to attend. He’d not killed him—oh no, not he—he’d brooked no quarrel with Hans. The power within him was occasionally wont to act with a will of its own. It was part of being such a great sorcerer. The vessel of his tattooed body was no longer sufficient to completely contain his greatness. Magic sometimes overflowed, leaked out, and someone got burned. Literally. Lucan chuckled dryly.
Surely he was the greater sorcerer by now.
Fourteen days.
His crimson eyes lit with mirth and he was taken by a sharp bark of laughter, struck by the sheer absurdity of the thought that he—Lucan Myrddin Trevayne—could die.
Impossible.
As he quit the pub and stepped into the chilly London evening, he considered his next step. A cry of shock and horror chased him through the closing tavern door into the drizzly night beyond.
He would return to his residence and take another stab at securing a connection with the St. James woman. He’d been attempting regularly to reach her again, but either she was not logging into her account, or he was missing those windows of opportunity when she was.
Women were weak links. There was always something in them begging to be exploited. He just had to find it. Exploit it.
He would punish the Keltar for this. Wasting his time. Taking him away from his true purpose. His destiny.
Only this morning an unusual man with long coppery hair and shimmering copper eyes had sought him out, claiming to have knowledge of the ciphers in which the Dark Book was written. The man had dripped a deep-seated arrogance that could only have been born of some kind of power—either his own, or close association with someone who made him feel fearless. Lucan’s first instinct had been to eliminate the man. From time to time an apprentice petitioned mentoring, or a rival sorcerer dispatched a spy. Lucan never suffered such fools to live. He didn’t trust anyone who’d managed to learn of him, penetrate the layers of his many identities, and locate him.
But then the man had told him he’d actually lived among the Fae for a time, he’d been familiar with the runes on the Hallows, and he’d spoken a tongue he’d alleged was that of the Tuatha Dé themselves. He’d also displayed an intimate knowledge of the Seelie and Unseelie courts. It had been enough to stay Lucan’s hand.
Whoever, whatever, the man was, he needed him alive until he’d stripped from him what knowledge he possessed. It took time to perform a ruthless deep-probing. And until the Dark Glass was secured, such critical matters had to be suspended. He’d been forced to allow the man to leave, telling him he’d get in touch.
Oh yes, Cian would be punished. For delaying his plans, wasting his time, and tying up his resources at such a crucial hour. The men Hans had been searching with in the Highlands, those who’d been watching the airports and others he’d been preparing to ward around the Highlander when he found him, if necessary, all were men who could have been following the latest lead on the Dark Book.