Spell of the Highlander (6 page)

Number four was out: it reeked of casting one’s fate to the wind and, when all was said and done, if she had to be in a car wreck, she’d prefer to be the one driving when it happened—control of one’s own destiny and all that.

Number one was out. The police would laugh her right out of the station if she tried telling them she knew who’d murdered their John Doe: a tall, dark, and broody sex-god who was after his freedom, who just happened to be inside a ten-thousand-year-old-plus mirror, who might also be a ruthless criminal that had been . . . er, paranormally interred inside said mirror for the . . . er, safety of the world.

Uh-huh. Wow. Even
she
thought she was nuts with that one.

That left numbers two and three as potential solutions. The way she figured it, fleeing the country and staying out of it forever—or at least until she was reasonably certain she’d been forgotten about—would cost a whole lot more than trying to ship the thing back, even with the exorbitant price of insurance figured in, and Jessi had to believe that if she just returned the relic, whoever was after it would leave her alone.

After all, what was she going to do?
Talk
about it, for heaven’s sake?
Tell
people about the impossible artifact once it was gone? Totally discredit herself and ruin any chance she might one day have of a promising future in the field of archaeology?

As
if
.

Surely she could persuade them of that, whoever they were. Anyone with half a brain would be able to see that she’d never, in an Ice Age, talk.

She glanced around the university café; the cushioned wood booths were sparsely populated at this time of night, and no one was sitting near enough to eavesdrop. Pulling out her cell phone, she flipped it open, dialed Info, and got the number for Allied Certified Deliveries, the name she’d seen emblazoned on the side of the delivery truck.

At 8:55
P.M.
, she didn’t expect an answer, so when she got one, she sputtered for a moment before managing to convey the purpose of her call: that she’d gotten a package she wanted to return, but she’d not been given a copy of the bill of lading, so she didn’t know where to ship it back to.

Making no effort to mask her irritation, the woman on the other end informed her that the office was closed for the day, and she’d only answered because she’d been talking to her husband when their call had been dropped, and she thought it was him calling her back. “Try again tomorrow,” she said impatiently.

“Wait! Please don’t hang up,” Jessi exclaimed, panicking. “Tomorrow might be too late. I need it picked up first thing in the morning. I’ve got to return this thing
fast
.”

Silence.

“It was really expensive to ship,” Jessi shot into the silence, hoping money would keep the woman on the line and motivate her to be helpful. “Probably one of the more expensive deliveries you guys have done. It came from overseas and required special handling.”

“You going to pay to reship, or you trying to stick it to the shipper?” the woman asked suspiciously.

“I’ll pay,” Jessi said without hesitation. Though she loathed the thought of spending money on something she would end up with nothing to show for, at least she’d be alive to pay it off. She had a downright scary amount of credit on her Visa; it never ceased to amaze her how much rope banks were willing to give college students to hang themselves with.

“Got an invoice number?”

“Of course not. I just told you, I don’t have the bill of lading. Your guys forgot to give me a copy.”

“We never forget to give copies of the BOL,” the woman bristled. “You must have misplaced it.”

Jessi sighed. “Okay, fine, I misplaced it. Regardless, I don’t have it.”

“Ma’am, we do hundreds of deliveries a week. Without an invoice number, I have no way of knowing what delivery you’re talking about.”

“Well, you can look it up by last name, can’t you?”

“The computers are down for the night. They go off-line at eight. You’ll have to call back tomorrow.”

“It was an unusual delivery,” Jessi pushed. “You might remember it. It was a late-night drop. A recent one. I can describe the guys who brought it.” Swiftly, she detailed the pair.

There was another long silence.

Then, “Ma’am, those men were murdered over the weekend. Garroted, just like that professor man that’s been all over the news. Police won’t leave us alone.” A bitter note entered her voice. “They been acting like my husband’s company had something to do with it, like we got shady dealings going on or something.” A pause, then, “What did you say your name was again?”

Feeling like she’d just been kicked in the stomach, Jessi hung up.

She didn’t go straight to him.

She refused to do that.

The thought of such a swift show of defeat was too chafing.

The past few days had been a study in humility for her. Not a single thing had gone according to anything remotely resembling The Jessi St. James Plan For A Good Life, and she had the bad feeling nothing was going to for quite a while.

So she stubbornly toughed it out in the university café until half past midnight, sipping still more coffee that her frazzled nerves didn’t need, savoring what she suspected might be her last moments of near-normalcy for a long time, before caving in to the inevitable.

She had no desire to die. Crimeny, she’d hardly even gotten to live yet.

Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.
Her friend Ginger had given her a coffee mug with that quote on it a few months ago. If you spun it around, the other side said:
When did having a life become an event you had to schedule?
She’d stuffed it way in the back of her cupboard and not looked at it again, the sad truth of it shaving too close to the bone.

No, she certainly wasn’t ready to die. She wanted at least another sixty or seventy years. She hadn’t even gotten to the good parts of her life yet. Problem was, she didn’t suffer any illusions about her ability to, as he’d so succinctly put it, “see death coming.” She was a college student, an archaeology major, at that. People were not her forte. Not living ones, anyway. She was no slouch with the dead ones, like the Iceman or the Bog People, but that wouldn’t get her very far with an assassin. Sad fact was, Death could probably stalk up to her wearing a hooded black robe and toting a scythe, and she’d get all distracted wondering about the age, origin, and composition of the scythe.

Ergo, like it or not—and dear God, she didn’t—she needed him. Whatever he was. The professor was dead. The deliverymen were dead. She’d been next. Three out of four down. She felt like one of those ditzy heroines in a murder mystery, or one of those fluffy romance novels, the loose end that needed tidying up, the one the psychopath kept coming after. The helpless, girly girl. And she’d never considered herself helpless in her entire life. Girly, maybe, but not helpless.

Now, standing outside the door to Professor Keene’s office yet again, she stiffened her spine, mentally preparing to fling herself upon an impossible being’s mercy.

Either he would protect her as he claimed, or he really was some cosmically evil villain, justly imprisoned and lying through his teeth, who planned to kill her—the way things had been going for her lately—gruesomely and with much blood, right there on the spot.

If that was the case, she was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t, her demise a mere bit of squabbling over place and time, so she should probably just buck up and get it over with.

She glanced at her watch—12:42
A.M.

Good-bye life as she knew it, hello chaos. Hopefully not just good-bye life.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the office. “Okay,” she told the silvery surface with a sigh, “I think we can make a deal.”

He was there before she’d even fully formed the word “think.” She finished the rest of the sentence a bit breathlessly.

A slow, exultant smile curved his lips.

“Deal, my ballocks. Get me the bloody hell out of here, woman.”

6

“Don’t give me excuses,” Lucan snarled into the phone. “Roman is dead. I need Eve in Chicago
now
.”

He rose and stood before the tall windows of his study, staring out at the London dawn as the first faint streaks of sun burned off the fog. The sky beyond was still dim enough that he could also see his own reflection superimposed on the tinted glass. Alone, he did not bother with a spell to conceal his appearance.

His entire skull was a miasma of crimson-and-black runes, his tongue flickered black inside his tattooed mouth when he spoke, and his eyes were feral crimson.

It was Thursday morning. He had twenty days.

He turned his gaze to the darker spot on the silk wallpaper where the Dark Glass had hung for so long. Cian’s captivity had been a constant source of amusement to him—the legendary Keltar, the most powerful of all Druids ever known, ensorcelled by one Lucan Myrrdin Trevayne.

His hands fisted, his jaw clenched. That empty spot
would
be filled again, and soon. Returning his attention to the conversation, he snapped, “The St. James woman knows she’s in danger now. There’s no telling what she’ll do. I need her taken care of immediately. But first, I need that damned mirror back. Roman said it was in the professor’s office. Have her ship it to my private residence the moment she arrives. Then get rid of the girl and anyone else who’s seen it.”

Damn Roman.
The police were asking too many questions, and he suspected at least one or two officers had seen the Dark Glass, which meant retiring a few members of law enforcement, and
those
cases never closed. In the past he’d not denied Roman his preference for strangulation, so long as he went in, disposed of all problems before the police found any bodies, and got out fast, before an investigation was even opened.

But he hadn’t. He’d failed with the woman and ended up dead himself.

Which gave Lucan no small amount of pause.

How had Roman ended up on the commons with his neck broken? He could think of one man that possessed the deadly strength and skill to snap the Russian’s neck as if popping chicken bones: Cian MacKeltar.

And if that were the case, someone had let him out of the mirror. Not good, not good at all.

The only person he could fathom might have done so was the St. James woman. According to Roman, when he’d last checked in, there were four people in Chicago who’d seen the Dark Glass or, like Dr. Liam Keene, had possessed critical knowledge of it, and Jessica St. James was the final one to be dispatched. Lucan knew well the Keltar had a way with women.

His upper lip curled. So much wasted on a primitive mountain-man, a Highlander, no less. Not just looks, strength, and charisma, but wild, pure magic. The kind of power Lucan had worked dozens of lifetimes to achieve a mere fraction of, the Keltar had been born with a hundredfold.

If the St. James woman had indeed been seduced to the Keltar’s bidding, then Lucan was sending Eve to her death. He’d have his answer soon enough. If Eve went missing, he’d know he had a far more serious problem on his hands than he’d thought.

“Tell her to put her other contract on hold. I need her now.” A pause. A growl. “I don’t believe you have no way of reaching her. Find one. Get her in Chicago today or else.”

He listened a moment, holding the phone away from his ear. After a long pause he said tightly, “I don’t think you understand. I want her there now. I’d advise you to pass on my orders to her and let
her
decide.” He punched off the phone, terminating the call. He knew what she would do. She trafficked in death for a living, and feared little, but she feared Lucan. They’d had a liaison a few years past. She knew his true nature. She would obey.

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.

She would heel nicely. Women did. It wasn’t their fault nature had designed them to be so malleable. They were softer all around. He would command her to lead him to a safe place where they could go to ground. And once there—och, once there, he had centuries of unsated lust for things other than vengeance, and this woman with her ripe curves and creamy skin and tangle of short glossy hair was the answer to all of them!

What better way to spend the final twenty days of his indenture than feeding his every sexual hunger, indulging his deepest desires and most carnal fantasies with this sensual delicacy of a woman?

At that moment, the sensual delicacy of a woman notched her chin up.

Stubbornly.

There might even have been a glint of fire in her eyes.

“I’m not letting you out until you answer a few questions,” she informed him coolly.

He snorted with impatience. Of all the moments for her to get contrary! Women certainly knew how to pick them. “Wench, we have no time for this. Lucan has no doubt already dispatched another assassin who is drawing ever nearer as we speak.”

“‘Lucan’?” she pounced. “Is that who wants the mirror back?”

“Aye.”

“‘Lucan’ who?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Crossed his arms. “Why? You think you might know him?” he snapped sardonically, one dark brow arching. When her nostrils flared and her chin tipped higher, he sighed and said, “Trevayne. His name is Lucan Trevayne.”

“Who and what are you?”

“You called my name when you released me the first time,” he said impatiently. “‘Tis Cian MacKeltar. As for the what of me, I’m but a man.”

“The blond man said you were a murderer.” Her voice was poison-apple sweet. “Remember him? The one you murdered.”

“Och,” he said indignantly, “and there’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“He said you were locked away for the safety of the world.”

“Hardly. Your world, Jessica, would be far safer with me in it.”

“So why are you in a mirror?” She brightened, as if at a sudden cheerful thought. “Are you, like, a genie? Can you grant wishes?”

“If you mean a
djinn,
even the feeblest of bampots know they doona exist. Nay, I doona grant wishes.”

“Yeah, well, everyone also knows men in mirrors don’t exist. So how did you come to be in one?”

“I was tricked. How else would a man end up in a mirror?”

“How were you tricked?”

“‘Tis a long story.” When she opened her mouth to press, he said flatly, “And not one of which I care to speak. Leave be.”

Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “That blond man also said the mirror was an Unseelie piece. I looked up ‘Unseelie’ on the ’Net. It’s not a classification of artifact. It’s a classification of
fairy
”—she sneered the word. “What, I ask you, am I supposed to make of that?”

“That ’tis an exceedingly rare artifact?” he suggested lightly. “Woman, we’ve no time to discuss such matters now. I’ll answer all your questions once you’ve freed me and we’re on the move.”

The lie spilled easily from his tongue. He would silence her concerns with a simple command laced with Voice the moment she let him out. He planned to immediately toss a few other commands her way, as well. He was a man who’d been without a woman far too long, and his hunger was immense. Contemplating the erotic orders he would give her stiffened his cock and drew his testicles tight.
Bring that sweet ass over here, Jessica. Open that lovely mouth of yours and lick
this.
Turn around, woman, and let me fill my hands with those splendid breasts while I bend you over the—

“Why would someone want to trick you into a mirror?”

Jarred from the lustful stupor of his thoughts, he stepped back, drawing silver around his lower body to conceal the rising of his kilt. He doubted such blatant proof of his intentions would serve as persuasion to free him. Bloody hell, he should have used Voice to get himself some modern clothing when he’d dispatched Roman the other eve! Those tight blue jeans both men and women favored would likely hold down a shaft of even his size. “Because by binding me to it, the one who tricked me gained immortality. Each Unseelie relic offers a Dark Power of some sort. Living forever, never aging, never changing, is the Dark Glass’s gift,” he growled. By Danu, what was it going to take to get her to let him out of the blethering glass?

“Oh.” She stared at him blankly for a moment. “So let me get this straight: You’re telling me that not only are there people inside mirrors, and fairies somewhere busily crafting artifacts endowed with paranormal attributes, but there are also immortals skulking around my world?”

He nearly snarled aloud with frustration. “I very much doubt they ‘skulk,’ woman. And, to the best of my knowledge, the Fae haven’t crafted aught in millennia, not since they withdrew to their hidden realms. And doona be facetious. I’m merely answering your questions.”

“Impossible answers.”

“Does not the maxim still hold that once a thing occurs, ’tis impossible, ’tis impossible, ergo, ’tis possible?”

“I’ve never seen an immortal, and I’ve certainly never seen a fairy.”

“You split hairs. You’ve seen me. And best hope you never do see either of
them
.”

“Why—?”

“Jessica,” he said softly, menacingly, infusing her name with the promise of infinite dangers, “I am going to count to three. If you permit me to reach that number without having begun the chant to release me, I will rescind my offer. I will not so much as lift a finger when the next killer comes for you. I will sit back and watch you die a slow and heinous death. I’m beginning now. One. Two—”