Spell of the Highlander
Page 25

He rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowed. Samhain was too swift approaching. For the first time in centuries, he felt a whisper of unease. He’d been untouchable, virtually invincible for so long that, he didn’t quite recognize the feeling.
At least he knew exactly where the mirror was. That alleviated much of his unease. Still, if it weren’t in his possession within a very short time, he would have no choice but to go after it himself.
He greatly preferred not to.
On those rare occasions he’d freed the Keltar from the Dark Glass, he’d stayed on heavily warded ground that had neutralized the Highlander’s immense power until the mirror had safely reclaimed its captive. The complex, intense warding necessary to keep Cian MacKeltar’s power suppressed required painstaking ritual and time.
Could he and his men manage to ward the university’s grounds around the mirror?
Possibly. It would be risky. Many things could go wrong. They could be seen. There could be other magic, both old and new, on the grounds that might create conflicts. People didn’t know it, but magic was all around them. Always had been, always would be. It merely concealed itself with greater sophistication now than it had in days of yore.
Dare he confront the Highlander with his full powers intact on unwarded ground?
Surely, after a thousand years, he’d surpassed Cian MacKeltar and was the greater sorcerer at last!
He turned away from the windows, wishing he felt certain of that. It had not been his superior sorcery that had put the Keltar where he was. It had been well-played deceit and treachery.
Perhaps the Keltar hadn’t been freed.
Perhaps Roman had fallen prey to another assassin. They did that sometimes, went after each other for money or glory or the challenge of it.
He’d know for certain in a day or two. Then he’d decide upon his next move.
Cian stood, hands fisted at his sides, waiting. He’d known she would return. She was no fool. She’d been wise enough to identify the mirror as her most effective weapon when Roman had threatened her; he’d not doubted she’d see the wisdom of his offer. He’d just not been certain how long it might take her, and time was everything to him now.
Twenty days.
’Twas all he needed from her.
’Twas not, by far, all he wanted from her. All he wanted from her would bring a blush to the cheeks of even the most practiced whore.
Standing a few feet beyond his prison, staring at him, her dark green eyes were huge, her lips softly parted, and those dream-come-true breasts were rising and falling with each anxious breath she drew.
He couldn’t wait to taste them. Rub back and forth, teasing her nipples with heated swirls and flicks of his tongue. Suckle her, firm and deep. Breasts like that made a man want babes at them. His babes. But not too often, or there’d not be time enough for him.
He tossed his head, beaded braids clattering metallically, drawing tight rein on his lustful thoughts.
The moment she summoned him forth, he would use Voice on her.
His skin was crawling with the need to escape the place Lucan surely knew he was by now. He’d killed the assassin in the wee hours of Tuesday morn. A full twenty-four hours had passed since then. Though he’d not walked free in the world for longer than he cared to recall, from his purloined books and papers and view in Lucan’s study, he had a fair notion of the weft and weck of the modern world. It was both horrifyingly larger and shockingly smaller than ever it had been, with billions of people (even a Keltar Druid felt a measure of awe at those kind of numbers), yet telephones that could span continents in mere moments, computers that could instantly retrieve all manner of information and connect people on opposite poles, and airplanes that could bridge continents in under a day. It was confounding. It was fascinating.
It meant they had to move. Now.
Voice, the Druid art of compulsion, was one of his greatest talents. As a stripling lad on the verge of manhood—the time of life when a Keltar’s powers became apparent and often fluctuated wildly while developing—for nigh a week he’d strolled about the castle using Voice on all and sundry without realizing it. He’d caught on only because he’d grown suspicious as to why everyone kept scrambling to please him. He’d learned to be careful, to listen to his own tones for that unique layering of voices. Only a bumbling fool, or a novice with a death wish, wielded magyck inadvertently.
When free of the mirror, on unwarded ground, there was none alive but Lucan himself who could withstand his command of Voice—and only because ’twas Cian who’d taught the bastard the art. In the practice of Druidry, mentor and pupil developed resistance to each other during the process of training.