He’d told her to drive them to the next nearest airport. She didn’t know if Indianapolis really was the next nearest, but it was the only other airport she’d been able to figure out how to get to from a map.
They stopped to eat just east of Lafayette, Indiana, about forty-five minutes up I-65 from the airport.
The smell of deep-fried chicken and fries made her mouth water the moment they stepped inside Chick-fil-A. She always felt like she was doing cows a favor when she ate there; she loved those silly billboards along the highways with their EAT MOR CHIKIN cow campaign. From NEW DIET CRAZE: LOW-COW to EAT CHIKIN CUDDLE COWZ, the ads sporting black-and-white spotted cows clutching poorly penned placards promoting chicken consumption made her laugh out loud every time she drove past one.
I will procure food and we’ll dine in the car, he’d insisted. We must continue moving.
She could just imagine how he planned to “procure” food. He’d probably leave the entire restaurant standing frozen until “well after we are away from here.”
If I eat while driving, she’d disagreed, I’ll wreck. If I wreck, the mirror will probably break. Her legs were stiff, she had to pee, and she was getting grumpy. What would happen to you then?
He’d looked stricken. We’ll dine within.
She’d ordered six baskets of chicken fingers and wedges of crinkly fries, and now, perched at a brightly colored yellow-and-white table, was contently making headway into her second basket. He was halfway through his third.
“These resemble no chicken fingers I’ve ever seen, lass. And I saw a fair amount of chickens in my day. There was this wench in the stables with the most remarkable . . . well, never mind that. You must grow fowl considerably larger now. I shudder to ponder the size of their beaks.”
“They’re not really chicken fingers,” she hastened to explain, not caring for the imagery at all, as she dipped one into a tub of spicy barbecue sauce and snapped off a bite. She was going to stop there, she really was, but her treacherous lips had other ideas. “‘Most remarkable’ what?”
“‘Tis of no import, lass.” He devoured another chicken finger in two bites.
“Then why did you bring it up?” she said stiffly.
“I put it to rest, too, lass.” There went two more fingers.
“No, you didn’t. You left it hanging. Now it’s hanging out there. I hate things hanging out there. Fix it. ‘Remarkable’ what?”
He dipped a potato wedge into ketchup and made short work of it. “Chickens, lass, she had remarkable chickens. What did you think I meant?”
Jessi’s nostrils flared. She glared at him a moment, then looked away. Why did she even care? So, maybe the ninth-century bimbo had had remarkable eyes or legs or something. No way her breasts were better. At that thought, she shrugged her jean-jacket off her shoulders and sat up straighter. And so what, anyway? The bimbo had been dead for eleven centuries. The only thing remarkable about her now was that anyone even remembered her at all.
“Back to the chickens, lass, if they’re not fingers, why are they named thusly?”
“It’s just a catchphrase,” she said irritably, snapping off another bite. “Something some marketing guy came up with to make them more appealing.”
“Your century finds the notion of eating fingers of chickens appealing? What of their toes?”
She took a sip of Coke. The chicken was suddenly dry as sawdust on her tongue. “I don’t think anybody who orders them thinks, for even a minute, about fingers, or toes, any more than they think about little pink chicken nipples when they’re eating chicken breasts—”
She broke off, eyes narrowing. His head was canted down, his hair shielding his face, but she could plainly see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
The Neanderthal was yanking her chain.
And she’d fallen for every bit of it.
After a moment, she shook her head and snorted. He’d been poking fun not only at her century but himself, in a dry, subtle way. And she’d bought right into the stereotype he’d been feeding her: me-big-and-stupid-archaic-he-man. Her snort became a snicker, her snicker a laugh.
He glanced up sharply, his dark amber gaze fixing on her face. “I hoped to make you laugh,” he said softly. “I’ve not seen much in the way of happiness in your eyes since we’ve crossed paths.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” she agreed. “It’s been a bit grim.” They shared a companionable silence for a moment, across the table in Chick-fil-A.
“So was it really her chickens that were remarkable?”
Cian shook his head. “Nay, lass.”
She scowled. “What, then? Come on, you’re the one who brought her up.”
He flashed her a devilish grin. “There was no wench in the stables, Jessica. I but wondered if you’d care.”
Two could push for information, she thought mulishly a short time later as they hastened over soggy, slippery autumn leaves on their brisk walk across the parking lot toward her car. The October breeze ruffling her short dark hair held the promise of the long, cold midwestern winter to come. The chilly drizzle that had been falling steadily since they’d left Chicago had eased to a mist, but the sky was still leaden with thunderheads, threatening worse rain ahead. She fluffed her short curls back from her face and tugged her jean-jacket closer. In contrast to the cool clime, her temper was hot; she was steamed and humiliated that he’d gotten a rise out of her. She hardly knew the man, and she’d felt a vicious stab of jealousy over him. Twice. In a matter of hours. That wasn’t like her at all. And the fact that she hardly knew the man was really beginning to bother her. She’d accepted that she was going to have to entrust herself to him to survive, but, by God, she wanted to know more about the man that she was entrusting herself to.
Who and what was Cian MacKeltar? And who and what was this Lucan Trevayne person who wanted her dead just because she’d seen his blasted artifact? They were both clearly more than mere men.
As they approached the car, Jessi stopped at the driver’s-side door and scowled across the roof at him.
He arched an inquiring brow.
“I’m not going any farther until you answer a few of my questions.”
“Jessica—”
“Don’t ‘Jessica’ me,” she said peevishly. “Five minutes is all I’m asking for. Surely five minutes won’t get us killed. What are you, Cian?”
He assessed her a long moment, then shrugged one powerful shoulder. “I’m a Druid, lass.”
“‘A Druid’?” She blinked. “You mean, as in one of those white-robe-wearing, mistletoe-loving guys that thought they could communicate with the otherworld by performing human sacrifices?” In her area of specialization, she was constantly encountering references to the mysterious, much-maligned priesthood. The famous Lindow Man, a late–Iron Age body found preserved in a Cheshire bog by peat cutters in 1984, evidenced signs of ritual murder and, with mistletoe pollen in his stomach, there’d been much speculation about his possible link with Druids.
He winced. “Ouch, is that how the world thinks of us now?”
“Pretty much. Are you telling me Druids were actually magicians of some kind? Like Merlin or something?”
He glanced guardedly around the parking lot. “Jessica, there’s magic all around you. People doona ken it because those who possess it take every precaution to conceal it. Magic has always been, and will always be.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So this Lucan guy is also a Druid?”
“He was once a Druid. He became a dark sorcerer.”
A week ago, she would have laughed herself silly at anyone who’d claimed such things existed. She would have asked them about lions and tigers and bears and ruby slippers with built-in teleportation devices. Now, resting her elbows on the wet roof of her car, propping her chin on her hands, she only sighed and said, “Okay, so what’s the difference?”
“A Druid is born with magic in his blood. A dark sorcerer’s magic is acquired via rigorous study and apprenticeship to black magycks,
enhanced by rituals and spells. A Druid respects the innate nature of things and permits the universe its pattern. A dark sorcerer perverts the nature of things to his own aims, changing the universe’s pattern without thought to ramifications. A Druid seeks knowledge to heal and nurture. A sorcerer seeks dangerous alchemy to transform and control. A Druid-turned-dark-sorcerer is far more powerful than either a mere sorcerer or a mere Druid.”
“Well, if he’s a Druid-turned-dark-sorcerer and you’re just a Druid, and a Druid-turned-dark-sorcerer is so much more powerful, then just how do you plan to defeat—oh! Crimeny! Shit!”
Understanding belatedly dawning, she backpedaled away from him, butting up against the rain-slicked side of the car parked parallel to hers. “I can be so dense sometimes,” she breathed. “Because you’re one of the bad guys, too, aren’t you? You turned dark sorcerer, too, didn’t you? It’s the only way it makes sense.”
His whisky eyes narrowed. “Get in the car, Jessica,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not done yet. You still haven’t told me about that commanding thing you do. When you tell people to do things, and they just do it—what is that, anyway?”
A muscle in his jaw worked and he regarded her a long, silent moment. Then, “‘Tis the Druid art of Voice. Some call it the Voice of Power.” He saw no need to tell her that others called it the Voice of Death, if the Druid was powerful enough. And he was. Though he’d not known he could kill with his tongue until it had been too late and he’d already killed with his tongue. “‘Tis a spell of compulsion, lass. Now get in the car. The storm worsens.”
As if to support his words, the rain chose that moment to turn into a steady, soaking drizzle and a boom of thunder crashed overhead.
But Jessi wasn’t going to let an inconvenient storm interrupt her now. She had a small storm of her own brewing. This compelling thing bothered her. A lot. “Can you make people do things they don’t want to do? Like bad things that would seriously go against their will? Are they even aware of it when you’re doing it to them? Do they remember when it’s over?” she demanded.
The muscle leapt in his jaw again. “Get in the car, Jessica. I’m trying to keep you alive,” he said coolly.
“What if I refuse?” she said just as coolly. “Will you force me into the car? Compel me into it? Now that I think about it, I’m surprised you haven’t already tried to use this Voice of yours on me. Why bother being nice to anyone when you could just command anything you want? Geez, you wouldn’t even have to seduce a woman, you could just order her to—” She broke off abruptly, eyes widening.
“Get. In. The. Car. Jessica.”
“Oh, God, you did try it on me,” she exclaimed. “You tried it the second I set you free. You tried to make me kiss you and show you my breasts. Didn’t you?”
His dark, chiseled face was a fortress. If he felt any emotion at all, it was completely concealed. Gaze remote, he inclined his head, a single time.
Behind him, lightning flashed, brilliant and jagged, against the grim, steely Indiana sky.
A short, caustic laugh escaped her. “And it didn’t work, did it? For some reason, it doesn’t work on me at all, does it?”
He gave a single shake of his head. “None of my magyck does.”
Jessi stared at him, struggling to take in this new information that put such a different slant on the way she’d so naively believed things to be. She’d been walking around thinking that the good guy was keeping her safe from the bad guy.
Only to find out that there were no good guys in Jessi St. James’s world.
Just bad and badder.
She wanted to know exactly how bad. “So how far would you have taken it, Mister Poor-me-I’m-trapped-in-a-mirror-dark-sorcerer? If it had worked, if I’d ‘removed my woolen and shown you my breasts,’ how far would you have pushed?”
“How the bloody hell far do you think?”
“I’m asking you. How far?” she demanded.
“I haven’t fucked in eleven hundred and thirty-three years, Jessica,” he said flatly. “I am a man.”
“How far?” she repeated frostily.
“All the way, woman. All the frigging way. Now get in the damned car.” A flash of lightning, followed by a booming thunderclap, punctuated his final words, as if Nature herself conspired with him.
Jessi stared at him in silence, rain dripping down her face, splattering on her chest, pondering her options. Being brutally honest with herself.
She could walk away now. Try it on her own. See if she could manage to disappear for the next nineteen days.
She was being hunted by a bona fide, ninth-century sorcerer who wanted her dead.
She was being kept alive by another bona fide ninth-century sorcerer who wanted to have sex with her and was willing to use magic to score.
Her life or her “virtue.”
It bore considering that it was a virtue she’d very nearly given him of her own accord.
Granted, she’d hardly been in her right mind at the time, but still.
She got in the damned car.
13
They were flying at a cruising altitude of 36,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean when the Dark Glass reclaimed him.
At least they hadn’t been about to have sex this time, so Jessi wasn’t left with a bad case of hostile hormones, and aghast at herself for yet another appalling lapse in moral fiber.
She glanced hastily around when he vanished, and caught several other passengers doing double takes. It didn’t surprise her to discover other people were looking straight at him when he disappeared. He was just that kind of man, the kind people watched. Some because they wondered what it would be like to have sex with such a gorgeous, dangerous-looking hunk of testosterone (the category she was in), others because they were concerned about their purses, wallets, or lives (the category she was in).
None of the onlookers said a word. Assuming any of them believed it had genuinely happened, not one of them appeared in any hurry to talk about it.
She smothered a dry laugh. Been there, done that, thought I was going nuts, too, the first few times I saw him.
Tugging the worn blue airline blanket up to her chin, she pretended nothing was amiss, that she’d boarded alone, and been alone all this time. She’d been braced for him to disappear. He’d told her before they’d embarked that the Dark Glass would no doubt reclaim him long before they got to Scotland.
Scotland. Crimeny. She was on her way out of the country! Life as she’d known it—work, school, and all her tidily scheduled plans—were slipping away from her at the astonishing rate of 565 miles per hour.
She’d not believed they were going to be able to pull it off until they’d arrived at the Indianapolis airport and he’d proceeded to give her a mind-boggling display of his formidable “talents.”
He’d used his “Voice” to coerce airport employees to crate and ship the mirror to Edinburgh. Unwilling to generate any records of their passage, he’d bypassed procuring tickets, and instead “persuaded” their way through security, past armed officers. There’d not been a direct flight available to Scotland, and he’d refused to go through London, as it would take them too close to Lucan for his comfort, so he’d “Voiced” them onto a Boeing 747 bound first for Paris, showing only his palm as necessary documentation, accompanied by terse commands.
She’d watched in abject amazement. Quite simply anything the man said, people believed and obeyed. Mutely, docilely, blankly. He’d used a few “forgetting” commands as well, though he’d told her they were tricky things and he was employing mild ones only to buy them all the time possible. He’d told her that a true forgetting spell took much time and was risky, as the mind endeavored to retain the imprints it bore, and stripping away one memory frequently damaged many others. It was a damage he was clearly reluctant to be the cause of, which she found interesting for a Druid-turned-dark-sorcerer.
By the time they’d boarded, and dropped into emergency-exit seats
(two cooing female flight attendants had much-too-sweetly for her taste volunteered to rearrange things so the six-and-a-half-foot sexy Scotsman could “stretch out his legs a bit,” Grrr . . .), Jessi’d had a pretty darn good idea why his “talents” didn’t work on her.
She’d actually felt it trying to work on her.
Each time he’d laid the compulsion on thick, her head had itched inside, just above the metal plate splicing her skull together, the same way it had when she’d first freed him and he’d been attempting to compel her.
It felt as if his commands were buzzing up against her metal plate, making it vibrate beneath her skin. She couldn’t begin to comprehend the mechanics of it, she just knew it somehow shielded her from his magic.
Thank heavens! For the first time in her life, she was grateful she’d taken that horrendous, skull-splitting fall.
All the way, woman, he’d said back in the rainy parking lot of Chick-fil-A. Meaning he would have used Voice on her to have sex with her.
It had perturbed her. Deeply.
Until she’d realized he was lying.
Maybe he believed he would have pushed her all the way, but she didn’t.
She judged people by their actions, not their words. And his actions just didn’t support his words. Big bark—little bite. Even his commands to get them on board the plane had been tempered. He’d wielded the least coercion necessary to accomplish their goals.
Bottom line was: Any man who would have used magic to have sex with her against her will would simply have changed tactics when magic had failed, and raped her with his brutally superior strength.
Especially after eleven centuries of enforced celibacy.
Cian was nearly six feet six inches of pure muscle. He’d had multiple opportunities to do anything he wanted to her.
And he’d not harmed her in any way.
Tucking her legs up, she snuggled deeper into the blanket. The lights were low, it had been yet another long day, and the steady hum of the engines was lulling her to sleep.
She closed her eyes, pondering the power he had—the Druid art of Voice, he’d called it—trying to imagine what it would be like to have the ability to make anyone do anything you wanted them to do, merely by telling them to do it.