The Dark Highlander
Page 48

He forced his gaze away from her, and his thoughts back to the upcoming confrontation.
He hadn’t seen Drustan—awake, that was—in four years, one month and twelve days. Since the eve that Drustan had been placed in an enchanted sleep, to slumber for five centuries. They’d spent that final day together, trying to wedge a lifetime into it.
Twin brothers and best friends since they’d drawn breath, a mere three minutes apart, they’d said farewell that night. Forever. Drustan had gone to sleep in the tower, the tower that Dageus had to walk past a dozen times a day. At first, he’d bid his brother a sardonic “good morrow” each morn, but that had swift grown too painful.
Before Drustan had gone into the tower, they’d labored together over plans for a new castle that was to be Drustan and Gwen’s home in the future. After Drustan had gone to sleep, Dageus had immersed himself in overseeing the construction of it, directing hundreds of workers, making certain all was perfect, working alongside the men.
And while so involved with the building of it, he’d become aware of an ever-growing, restless emptiness inside him.
The castle had begun to consume him. Impossible for a man to labor daily for three long years and not lose a part of himself to not merely the act of creating, but the creation. The empty, waiting rooms were the promise of family and love. The promise of a future he’d never been able to envision for himself.
When Drustan had died, he’d gone and stood outside the castle for hours uncounted, staring at its dark and silent silhouette in the gloaming.
He’d imagined Gwen in the future, waiting. And Drustan never arriving. She would live alone. Nell had told him Gwen was pregnant, though Gwen herself had not yet realized it, which meant Gwen would raise their babes alone.
He imagined no candles ever flickering beyond those windows. No children ever padding up and down those stairs.
All the empty places inside him had finally been filled—not with good things, but with anguish, fury, and defiance. He’d shaken his fist at the heavens, he’d raged and cursed. He’d questioned all he’d been raised to believe.
And by the misty, crimson-streaked dawn, he’d known but one thing: The castle he’d built would be filled with his brother and his family.
Aught else was simply unacceptable. And if the legends were true, if the cost was his own chance at life, he’d deemed it worthwhile. He’d little left to lose.
“Hey, are you okay?” Chloe asked.
Dageus started, realizing he must have been stopped at the stop sign for several minutes. He shook his head, scattering the grim memories. “Aye.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Lass, I haven’t seen Drustan in some time.”
He had no idea how Drustan would react. He wondered if he would know, merely by looking at him, that he was dark. The bond of twins betwixt them was strong. Aye, I used the stones, but the legends were wrong. There was no dark force in the in-between. I’m fine. ’Tis but that this century is a marvel and I’ve been exploring a wee. I’ll come home anon. ’Twas the lie he’d been telling his brother since the day he’d made the mistake of calling him, unable to resist hearing Drustan’s voice, so he could assure himself that he was alive and well in the twenty-first century.
Dageus, you can tell me anything, Drustan had said.
There’s naught to tell. ’Twas all a myth. Lie upon lie.
Then had begun the regular calls from Drustan, asking when he’d be home. He’d stopped picking up the phone months ago.
“So this is a reunion?”
“Of sorts.” If Drustan turned him away, he’d take Chloe to the museums. He’d find another way. He was fair certain his brother wouldn’t attack him. If he’d not come home, if he’d made Drustan hunt him, that might well have happened. But he hoped Drustan would understand his return for what it was: a request for aid.
She eyed him intently. He could feel her gaze, though he kept his profile to her.
“Did you and your brother have a falling out?” she said gently.
“Of sorts.” He released the brake and resumed their journey, giving her a chilly look so she’d drop it.
A few moments later, she slipped her wee hand into his.
He tensed, startled by the gesture. He was accustomed to women reaching for many parts of him, none of them his hand.
He glanced at her, but she was staring straight ahead. Yet her hand was in his.
He closed his fingers around hers before she might snatch it away. Her wee hand was nearly swallowed by his. It meant more to him than kisses. More even than bedplay. When women sought him for sex, it was for their pleasure.