Money accumulated over several lifetimes. Money well spent.
Of the women he’d chosen to be part of this so-called archaeological expedition, Abigail Porter seemed the best candidate on which to concentrate his time. Her actions tonight demonstrated that she would be pliable and easy to manipulate through her emotions. Though she had resisted his best attempt to place a Compulsion on her to eat the foods he knew from his background investigations she least liked, that meant little.
Two of the others had failed that step. They wouldn’t be joining his team in Scotland next week.
Unfortunately, her resistance wasn’t proof in itself. There were a few strong-willed Mortals who had the ability to resist, though they were rare.
Just a taste. Her blood can’t deceive.
No! He pounded back the useless alcohol, enjoying the burn in his throat. Signaling the bartender for another, he slammed the glass to the bar with shaking hands. What he wouldn’t give for a draught of Faerie Nectar.
No. Control returning, he denied the Bloodlust more calmly now, knowing all too well the effects of tasting blood. Indeed, through the blood it would be impossible to hide any trace of Faerie heritage from him. The sweet tang of Magic would pulse through his veins even as it flowed through hers.
Giving in to the craving would provide the knowledge he sought, but there would be a price to pay. A heavy price. Ingesting blood resulted in the loss of his invincibility. The loss of control. And as desperately as he desired the exotic caress of the Magic, he equally despised feeling the vulnerability of a mere Mortal. It was a trade he was unwilling to make. He was strong enough to fight the addiction’s siren call. He wasn’t a power-hungry monster like the masters he’d served all the years. His only desire was to go home.
Soon enough he would know for sure. If, as he suspected, Abigail was a Faerie descendant, she’d locate the Portal he sought and he’d be well on his way back home. Back to Wyddecol, the home of the Faerie, where the Magic would flow through him for the rest of his days without any negative consequences.
He was a patient man. After waiting all these centuries, what did a few more weeks matter?
Seven
SCOTLAND
JUNE
PRESENTDAY
Terror slithered up and around Abby, spreading and tightening until it covered her like a second skin. It seeped deep inside her body, oozing in a foul black sludge as it merged with her bloodstream, polluting her river of life.
Horror tingled through her, holding her captive as she fought for her next breath until, at last, she forced herself to break free. To run.
Harder and harder she drove herself, one heavy footfall after the other, pounding down onto the ground she covered. The sound hammered against her ears before echoing away, lost in the endless black emptiness through which she traveled.
The terror was close now. Gaining on her. So close she could feel its icy fingers graze her shoulder, feel its fetid breath waft across her cheek.
“No!” she screamed, pumping her arms to force herself to run faster through the disorienting black void.
Running away.
Running toward that distant patch of light. Toward her haven of safety.
Toward him.
She could see him in the distance, the mysterious Highlander who haunted her dreams. Dreams that had turned to nightmares of late.
Even the realization she dreamed did nothing to lessen the grip of the hideous terror.
Forward she pushed, her chest burning with her effort as she swallowed great gulps of air. Forward, on toward the light. On toward safety. On toward him.
The instant her foot touched the circle of light, relief flooded her body, leaving her weak, drained, as if she’d given all she had to reach this spot.
She pitched forward, falling, falling endlessly into the bright nothingness.
And then she was in his arms.
Strong arms lifted her, enfolded her, drew her against the chest made of steel.
His lips, warm and gentle, grazed over hers, stealing her breath away.