Beyond the Highland Myst(737)
And by the time his brainy physicist sister-in-law was done, Dageus had no doubt she’d have found some way to postulate an obscure yet peculiarly synchronistic link between Dageus and Cian himself, and Drustan would heap the blame for this new visitor soundly at Dageus’s feet.
Which was beyond far-fetched. There was no way he was taking the blame for the sudden appearance of their controversial ninth-century ancestor. He’d only been reading up on him, not trying to summon him.
He rubbed his jaw, frowning, wishing he could be entirely certain of that last fact.
The problem was, months ago in London, when Aoibheal, Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, had personally appeared and wielded her immense power to strip away the souls of the thirteen evil Druids possessing him, freeing him from their dark control, she’d left their memories inside him, and he wasn’t always certain of precisely what he was capable or not.
Initially, when the Queen had removed the thirteen souls of the Draghar from him, he’d believed himself entirely free. After suffering the din of thirteen rapacious, twisted, demanding entities inside him, the silence inside his skull had made him think them completely eradicated.
It had been some time before he’d realized that, although their consciousnesses were gone, every last memory of thirteen entire lives had been left in him, buried deep in his subconscious. He’d not wanted to believe that he still contained the terrible and forbidden lore the Draghar had so long ago amassed and, at first, when inexplicable knowledge had begun popping into his head, he’d denied it.
But he no longer could. Each day he discovered something new about himself. And on occasion, of late, he’d caught himself muttering bits of a spell beneath his breath that he’d never read or practiced, and he knew he’d somehow plucked it from the endless vaults of the Draghar within him, as if his subconscious was sorting through the banks of memories, filing them away according to some mysterious design.
Had he inadvertently used a spell?
He sighed.
If he had, this was his fault and he had to fix it.
If he hadn’t, he still had to do something. He couldn’t just let the oversized heathen stalk and stomp about their Highlands, using Voice on all and sundry, stealing goods from simple merchants honestly endeavoring to support their clansmen.
As if you’ve ne’er stolen anything, his conscience jabbed.
“Aye, but I always gave it back, eventually.” And he had. He didn’t think Cian MacKeltar had any intention of making eventual amends. He didn’t look like an eventual-amends kind of man.
Sighing, he tucked the box containing Chloe’s hiking boots beneath his arm and walked out the door after his ninth-century ancestor.
As he stepped into the sunny Highland morn, he looked left, then right. He spied neither hide nor hair of Cian MacKeltar.
Back at the castle, his four-and-a-half-months-pregnant wife awaited him. Pregnancy suited his lovely Chloe like a Highlander’s wet dream; she was even more amorous of late, and she was quite the sensual vixen under the usual circumstances. He was of no mind to be separated from her for long. They’d planned a hike in the hills today and a leisurely picnic. It was warm enough to toop outside on a plaid beneath an endless blue sky, and he’d been greatly anticipating hours and hours of hedonistic love play. Her breasts were getting fuller, her hips widening, and her skin glowed with the inner radiance of impending motherhood. He was impatient to taste and touch and explore every last changing inch of her. He was of no mind to alter his plans to accommodate this recent unexpected development. Highly unexpected development, at that.
Drustan, remember our ancestor, Cian, who I was talking about recently? Well, uh, he’s here.
He shook his head, muttering a string of curses.
He thought for a moment, absently watching the still-fully-compelled salesman—that was a serious wallop his ancestor’s Voice packed—load the stolen goods into Cian’s SUV, wondering how he might spend the most time with Chloe yet still manage this new wrinkle.
His eyes narrowed. Camping gear. His kinsman was purloining camping gear. Was he squatting somewhere on Keltar land? The gall! How long had he been there?
He angled around the store employee and peered deeper into the SUV.
He blinked. Then he blinked again, very slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a moment before opening them.
It was still there.
It couldn’t be! By Amergin—’twasn’t possible!
Was it?
“Move,” he growled at the salesman, employing Voice without even thinking about it.
The salesman stepped obediently aside.
Dageus reached into the SUV, pushed aside the blanket half-concealing the object, and another string of curses spilled from his lips.