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.

“Impossible.” But the proof of it was right there before his very eyes.

He’d never seen it before—verily, he never thought to see it—but the Draghar had.

The Dark Glass.

One of four unholy Unseelie Hallows.

At one point, the glass had actually been in their possession. They’d never been able to translate the spells necessary to use it, though not for lack of trying. Nor had they ever discerned its purpose.

It was a mystery to him as well, but he knew all he needed to know: His legendary ancestor of allegedly epic moral turpitude had one of the forbidden Unseelie Hallows in his possession.

And he was alive. And here in present day.

What the blethering hell was a Keltar Druid doing with the blackest of black magycks? They were Seelie guardians, not Unseelie!

The situation was far grimmer than he’d thought.

Rubbing his jaw, he pondered his options. They were few. He’d felt the power in his ancestor. He didn’t delude himself for a moment that he’d be able to subdue him with magyck, unless he called on some of the Draghar’s tricks, a thing he was highly reluctant to do.

Nor could he hope to use brute force without the possibility of innocent bystanders getting caught in the fray. Especially not if the formidable Druid simply lashed out with a spell to stop him.

Yet he needed to get the man to Castle Keltar.

Once there, mayhap together he and Drustan could bind him, question him, discover what was going on, and what to do about it.

His gaze slid back to the Dark Glass.

It exerted an unpleasant pull on him. Made him hunger to touch it. He’d heard tell that the Dark Hallows tended to have such a dangerous effect on men with power in their veins. He’d never experienced it before and hoped not to again. He felt both a constant, irresistible urge to reach for it, and also a bone-deep chill warning him away.

Eyeing it warily, the simplest solution occurred to him. One that would keep his need to touch it to a minimum.

His ancestor wasn’t the only one who could use Voice. Dageus excelled at it too. Though he doubted he could outright contradict anything his ancestor had commanded, he was fair certain he could work around it.

Placing a hand on the salesman’s shoulder, he instructed him quietly but forcefully, “You will give me the keys to that SUV. And when he returns for his vehicle you will tell him he will find it here.” Plucking a pen and one of the young salesman’s business cards from the pocket of the glassy-eyed man’s crisp white shirt, he scribbled the address of Castle Keltar. “You will give him these keys, and direct him to that vehicle.” Handing the salesman his own set of keys, he pointed down the street to the vehicle he’d recently purchased, a Hummer it was called, though in his estimation it leaned more toward a roar than a hum.