As the Draghar would live again in the Scotsman’s body, once they’d taken full possession of him.
Trevor was awed that the man had managed thus far to fend off the transformation. As powerful as the Draghar were, Dageus MacKeltar must be uncommonly powerful in his own right.
But Trevor had no doubt the Prophecy would come to pass as had been promised. No man could contain such power and fail to use it. Day by day, it would seep into him until he no longer knew he was being transformed. They simply needed to provoke him, to goad and corner him. The use of dark magic for dark purposes would plunge him into an abyss from which there was no escape.
Then, the Draghar would walk the earth again. Then, all the power, all the knowledge the Tuatha Dé Danaan had stolen from them millennia ago would be restored. The Draghar would teach them the Voice of Power that brought death with a mere word, and the secret ways to move through time. When their numbers were many and strong, they would hunt the Tuatha Dé Danaan and take what should have been theirs long ago. That which the Tuatha Dé Danaan had ever denied the Draghar: the secret of immortality. Eternal life, no chancy rebirth necessary.
They would be gods.
Trevor studied the woman intently. Tiny little bit, she was, and he wondered how Giles had ended up going over that terrace. Had it been by choice? Had Dageus MacKeltar thrown him off? Surely the small female hadn’t done it. She didn’t amount to much. Barely topped five feet.
The Scot towered over her. The Draghar had been given a mighty vessel, his form strong, that of a warrior. Men would respond well to his innate authority. Even as Trevor thought that, he noted how the crowds parted for him, instinctively moving out of his way, and he strode as if he knew they would. No hesitation in the man, none whatsoever. Even from his safe distance, he could feel the power rolling off him.
When the Scot glanced down at the woman, Trevor’s eyes narrowed.
Possessiveness in his gaze. Protectiveness in the way he shielded her body from passersby, his intent gaze constantly scrutinizing his surroundings. Simon would not be pleased.
Before Trevor had found his calling in the Order, he’d run the con, quite successfully, and the cardinal rule of such business applied here: isolate the mark; the quarry falls faster alone.
He paced them, at a cautious distance.
They paused outside a bank and Trevor glided closer, dropped a few coins and bent to scoop them up. Listening, to see if he could overhear any conversation.
And finally he heard what he needed; they were planning to fly out to Scotland some time this evening.
He melted back into a small cluster of pedestrians and slipped out a cell phone. It would be a simple matter to have one of his computer-savvy brethren find out from which airport and when, and book him on the flight as well.
Speaking swiftly, he filled Simon in.
And Simon’s instructions were precisely what he expected.
Hours later, Trevor slid into a seat a dozen rows behind them. He would have preferred to sit nearer, but the flight wasn’t full, and he worried that the Scot might spot him.
He’d shadowed them all afternoon and not once gotten the chance to strike. Blades were his sect’s weapon of choice, each spilling of blood a ritual in and of itself, yet he’d had to abandon his weapons before boarding. His tie would have served well to strangle her, if he’d only been able to get a moment with her alone.
He wished he knew what had transpired in the penthouse. Something had put Dageus MacKeltar on the alert for another attack. If caught, Giles was supposed to make it look like a robbery, or the work of a sociopath, whichever best fit the moment. Yet it was apparent that the Scot was anticipating another attempt. He’d not once left the woman’s side. When twice she’d gone to the rest room in the airport, he’d trailed her there, waited in the doorway, and escorted her back. When too many people for his comfort had sat near them in the waiting area, he’d coaxed her off for a walk.
The bloody man was a walking shield.
Trevor massaged the back of his neck, sighing.
He would regroup in Scotland, acquire weapons, and eventually the man’s guard would drop. If only for a few moments. A few moments were all he would need.
• 10 •
The flight from JFK to London was only half full, the lights dimmed for the comfort of night travelers, the seats comfy (they had a whole row to themselves and had pushed all the armrests up), and Chloe fell asleep shortly after takeoff.
Now, stirring drowsily, she kept her eyes shut, mulling over the events of the day. It had whizzed by with incredible speed, from the attack, to the packing, to going to her place for her passport, to getting a box at the bank for her artifacts (her artifacts!), to a hasty late lunch/early dinner, and finally the trip to the airport.