Chapter Sixteen
Angus made his way back to Inverness in the Scottish Highlands by himself, via ferryboat and the train. Though he knew how to drive, he’d never thought it worthwhile to own a car. He and Arianrhod had talked about traveling together but decided it was too dangerous.The emotions cascading from them were too fresh to hide if they ran into anyone—a strong possibility since the Celts would be awaiting their return.
Deep in thought and missing her already, he trudged up the steps of a seventeenth century manor housethat had been split into apartments, heading for his on the top floor. Midway he sensed angry Celts and stopped to compose himself. That done, he prodded with a tendril of magic and frowned. Maybe the Celts weren’t exactly angry, but neither were they waiting to congratulate him on carrying out their orders.
With a small prayer to Cathbad to help him appear nothing more than a weary traveler finally home from a difficult assignment, he wound layers of illusion around himself as he tackled the last three flights of stairs. He manufactured a stunned expression before loosing a jot of magic to twist the deadbolt on his door—and widened his eyes still farther as he stepped through.
“Och! What a surprise.” Angus stopped just inside the lintel. His lodging was one large room that served as both living- and bedrooms, with a small kitchen off to one side. The bathroom was down the hall. He’d never taken time to decorate, so the walls were bare, but books and scrolls littered every surface and sat in piles on the floor. A computer and monochrome monitor sprawled across a generous table pushed into one corner. He’d never wanted them, but the technology wouldn’t go away, so he was forcing himself to learn about it.
“Finally!” Arawn, god of the dead, lounged in the room’s only comfortable chair, his long legs splayed before him. Dark hair spilled down his chest. For once it was unbound, rather than done up in the Celtic braiding pattern he favored. Buff-colored battle leathers hugged his lean form, and shrewd dark eyes homed in on Angus.
“Finally, what?” Angus shucked his small travel pack and dropped it on the floor before perching on the edge of his bed. “Am I late for something?”
“That depends.” Gwydion, master enchanter and Arianrhod’s brother, stepped out of the small kitchen cradling a mug of something that smelled like coffee between his hands. His blond hair was braided in many small rows, close against his head, and his blue eyes held a guarded edge. He wore his usual magician’s robes, cream-colored this time and sashed in red. A leather belt studded with pouches of herbs and other accoutrements hung low about his hips. When Angus glanced around for the warrior magician’s ever-present staff, he noticed the intricately carved wooden rod leaning against a wall.
The irritation he usually went to great lengths to mask rolled from him in waves. Good, maybe it would cover other things. “What the hell?” He curled one hand into a fist and pounded it against his thigh. “I did what you sent me to, and damn near got myself killed in the process—”
“Aye, but what did ye do to piss off the Morrigan?” Arawn broke in. He cocked his head to one side, still staring intently at Angus.
“Refused to fuck her.”
“We figured it was something like that.” Gwydion sent a knowing glance skittering across the room at Arawn. “Start at the beginning. How’d ye end up in the Morrigan’s clutches anyway?”
“And in Rhukon’s time to boot,” Arawn added.
Angus answered their questions with one of his own. “Is the Morrigan complaining about me?”
“Aye, ye doona know the half of it, laddie.” Arawn barked out a short laugh. “She’s demanding the Council remand you to her for an indefinite time.”
Angus grimaced, remembering the slimy feel of the Battle Crow’s energy, no matter what form she took. “Surely you told her nay.” He glanced from Arawn to Gwydion, but neither Celt said anything. “If you didn’t refuse, what did you say?”
“That we’d find you and figure out what comes next.” Arawn grinned.
“If ye mucked up this last assignment, we may let her have her head with you for a bit.” Gwydion smirked.
“The hell. That’ll never happen.” Angus shot to his feet and stalked across the room until he was nose to nose with the Celt. “Give me that.” He grabbed Gwydion’s mug, took a long drink, and swiped his hand across the back of his mouth before handing it back.
“Gotten gutsy.” Gwydion quirked a white-blond brow. “Ye may as well take the coffee. I can brew more. Sit and tell us what happened. Ye have a different feel about you.”
“Aye, ’tis more than just the dragon shifter problem,” Arawn concurred. He skewered Angus with his dark gaze, probing his mind, but Angus held him at bay easily, pleased by the small victory.
He snatched the mug back and made his way to a straight-backed chair beneath a window, his mind churning furiously. He’d have to tell them something credible. By the time he settled and crossed his legs, he’d figured it out.
“Rhukon didn’t give me the answers I needed, so I cast a trance state. Cathbad found me.” Angus pushed slender threads of magic behind his words to assess their impact.
Arawn shrugged. “’Twas bound to happen sooner or later.”
Relief surged, but Angus batted it down. He’d fed them a small piece of truth, and they weren’t going to dig deeper. At least he hoped they wouldn’t. He paid out a little more information. “Once he found me, I followed him backward in time, but didn’t remain long.”
“The more salient question is what ye’re going to do, now ye know.”Gwydion nailed him with his sharp-eyed gaze.
“Nothing.”
“’Tis hard to believe,” Arawn said. “After all your fussing about knowing your origins.”
“I’ve been forbidden from returning to my own time. It turns out I have something to do here.”
“What exactly might that be?” Gwydion inquired archly.