Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  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 bi
nding 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—”

  “There’s no need to get pissy,” she said pissily. “I planned to say it; I just wanted to clear a few things up first—”

  “Thr—”

  “All right, I’m saying it! I’m saying it! Lialth bree che bree—”

  “Bloody hell, wench, finally!”

  * * *

  7

  “—Cian MacKeltar, drachme se-sidh!” Jessi finished breathlessly.

  Heart hammering inside her chest, she eased back nervously, her gaze riveted to the mirror.

  The silver went smoky and dark, boiling with shadows, like a doorway opening onto a storm. Then the black stain around the edges expanded, swallowing up the entire surface. Simultaneously, golden light blazed from within the engravings on the frame, painting fiery runes across her clothing, the furniture, the walls of the office. The disconcerting sensation of spatial distortion in the room increased to a nails-on-a-chalkboard degree, rasping over her nerve endings.

  Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the light dimmed and the black cleared, revealing a watery silver that rippled and danced like the surface of Lake Michigan on a windy day.

  One booted foot pushed through, then a powerful thigh, as the one-dimensional image crossed some kind of fairy-tale threshold and transformed from a mere reflection into a three-dimensional man, bit by bit.

  It was impossible. It was terrifying. It was the most thrilling thing she’d ever seen.

  Out came those kilt-clad hips, that six-pack abdomen, followed by his sculpted upper body rippling with those wicked-looking crimson-and-black tattoos.

  Last came that sinfully gorgeous dark face, his white teeth flashing in an exultant smile, his whisky eyes glittering with triumph.

  He gave a regal, full-of-himself toss of his head, beaded braids tinkling, as he fully exited the mirror.

  The sensation of spatial distortion eased and the glass went flat silver again, reflecting his tight ass and beautifully muscled back

  Jessi braced herself, trying to console herself with the thought that if she was going to die now, at least she’d gotten one final heaping helping of eye-candy. This man belonged in the RBL Romantica Braw and Bonny Beefcake Farm. Crimeny, this man probably owned the farm or, if not, had stood stud to the mothers of half the other members.

  Though he’d looked massive enough inside the glass, outside it, he seemed even larger. The man had presence, that elusive quality that made some people lodestones, drawing others, even against their will. And he knew it.

  From the looks of him, he’d always known it.

  Arrogant, cocky prick.

  But was he a murderous one? That was the important question.

  “If you’re going to kill me, I’d appre—”

  “Cease speaking, wench. You will bring that sweet ass over here and kiss me now.”

  Jessi gaped, mouth open, midword. Snapped her mouth closed. Opened it again. Her head suddenly itched just beneath the skin, above her metal plate. She rubbed at her scalp. “As if.” She meant to hiss it indignantly, but it came out more of a squeak. Sweet ass? He thought she had a sweet ass? They could form a mutual admiration society of two.

  “Remove that woolen, woman, and show me your breasts.”

  Choking on an inhalation, she sputtered for several seconds. Numerous were the men who’d tried to go there—even she knew she had exceptional breasts—but none quite so obviously and without exerting even an ounce of seductive effort. She clamped her hands over them defensively. “Oh, I so don’t think that’s going to ha—”

  “Cease speaking,” he roared. “You will not speak again unless I tell you to.”

  Jessi drew back like a cobra, scratching her scalp again. He couldn’t be serious!

  He certainly looked like he was.

  After a moment’s stunned silence, in a voice sweet enough to cause cavities in porcelain caps, she said, “You can go fuck yourself, you great big domineering Neanderthal. Wake-up call: Guess what? We’re not in the Stone Age anymore.”

  “As I pointed out earlier, a physical impossibility. And I ken full well what epoch it is. Come here, Jessica St. James. Now.”

  Jessi blinked at him. A sudden thought occurred to her; one that would explain much about this man. “How long have you been inside that mirror?” she demanded.

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “I told you to cease speaking.”

  Despite his persistent asininity, her temper was decreasing as her suspicion that she was correct was increasing. “Well, duh, clearly I’m not going to, so you may as well answer my question.”

  His eyes narrowed, that whisky gaze swept her from head to toe intently. “Eleven hundred and thirty-three years.”

  Whuh. She sucked in an astounded breath. That would place him in—no! The ninth century? No way. A living, breathing, ninth-century man, right here in front of her, somehow trapped in an ancient relic and cast forward eleven centuries?

  Chills rippled across every square inch of her skin. Even the hair on her head felt as if it were trying to rise. “Really?” She nearly squealed the word, she was so delighted. The remnants of her hot temper collapsed into a pile of ash.

  Oh, the things he might be able to tell her! Had the legendary King Cináed mac Ailpin been his contemporary? Had he lived through those mighty battles? Had he seen the unification of the Scots and Picts? Were those incredible wrists cuffs genuine ninth-century work? What were those tattoos, anyway? And those runes on the mirror—was it possible they comprised a previously undiscovered language? Holy shit! For that matter, was it really from the Stone Age? How could that be? Where had it come from? Who’d made it? What was it made of? Now that she’d conceded the reality of his existence, she had a gazillion questions about it. They all collided in her mind, getting tangled up in one another, and she ended up gaping at him in stunned silence.

  It took her several moments to realize that he was regarding her with exactly the same expression.

  As if he couldn’t quite believe she existed.

  There they stood, in Professor Keene’s office, ten feet separating them, each eyeing the other with blatant incredulity and suspicion. Now, that was just silly. What could he possibly find hard to believe about her?

  “Say my name, wench,” he thundered.

  She shook her head, stupefied by all her questions, befuddled by his request. “Cian MacKeltar. Why?”

  He looked mildly appeased. Then suspicious again. “Scratch your nose, woman.”<
br />
  “It doesn’t itch.”

  “Stand on one foot.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “You stand on one foot.”

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed, as if to himself, “it can’t be.” He gave her that intent scan from head to toe again, seemed to hold a brief but heated inner discourse with himself, then nodded toward the desk. “Go sit in that chair.”

  “I don’t feel like it. I’m perfectly happy standing right where I am, thank you.”

  “Moisten your lips?” His gaze fixed on her mouth.

  It took considerable effort not to moisten them while he was looking at them like that. It made her fixate on his own incredibly kissable mouth, made her want to not only wet her lips but pucker up and hike her “sweet ass” right over there. Maybe even show him her breasts, after all. She was appalled at the indiscriminatory nature of hormones—how awful that it was possible to actively dislike a man, have nothing in common with him, including not even existing in the same world—and still want to tear his clothes off and have hot animal sex with him.

  Stoically, she resisted. “What’s your deal?”

  “Christ,” he whispered slowly, “I’ve been in there for so long, I’ve lost it.”

  “ ‘Lost’ what? Oh, you mean your mind. Yeah, well, not going to argue with you there.”

  He stared at her a long moment in silence, frowning. Then his brow eased and his eyes cleared. “Nay, my mind is still as extraordinarily superior as it has always been. No matter. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  God, he was arrogant. She marveled at the sheer, unmitigated cockiness of the man. Had all ninth-century men been that way?

  In retrospect, it occurred to her that she should have seen it coming.

  She was, after all, a fan of history, a studier of mankind, a ponderer of ancient civilizations. She knew what life had been like a thousand years ago for women.

  Men had been Men.

  And women had been Property.

  And somehow, she still managed to be utterly unprepared when he ducked that sexy, dark head of his and charged her.