Into the Dreaming by Karen Marie Moning
“Spoils the beauty. Besides, we Scots doona like to pen things. ’Tis no’ our nature.”
Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Elisabeth thought dryly, eyeing the man who seemed circumscribed by neither inhibition nor a perfectly healthy sense of shame. She took a sip of much-needed caffeine.
“You have no idea why Gwen asked you to come, do you, lass?”
Loath to admit it, she inclined her head, waiting to see what he might tell her.
“ ’Tis simple. Gwen has a tendency to meddle in the lives of those she cares for. I’d been feeling a bit gloomy for a time, and she fretted. But ’tis naught to fash yourself o’er.”
“You were feeling gloomy?” Fash? And what had he said moments ago … yestreen? The man used dozens of words she’d never heard before. Perhaps all Scots did, she decided. The guidebook she’d devoured last week had cautioned that the higher one went into the Highlands, the more likely one was to encounter a thicker accent, even Gaelic.
“For a brief spell. ’Tis no’ uncommon. I’d gone through some changes in my life.”
“Recent changes?” she pressed, determined to keep him talking. “Job? Marriage? Are you married?” Zanders, that isn’t the way to go about it, you dip. You know the drill—rephrase the last thing they say as a question.
“Are you asking after your own interests, lass?”
Elisabeth forced herself to smile pleasantly. He’d deflected her question with a question of his own. The man was not cooperating at all. Nimbly, she redirected. “It helps if I know something about you. I thought we’d start with the basics. Why don’t we begin with your age?”
“I’ve a score and ten or thereabouts,” he said easily. “And, nay, I’m no’ wed. But tit for tat, lass. How old are you?”
She shook her head.
“What harm is there in answering such a wee question? I’m answering yours. I’m under no obligation to do so,” he reminded pointedly. “Nor will I continue if you won’t.”
A few moments of silence ensued until she said grudgingly, “Twenty-four.” It sounded young, even to her. Any minute now he would ask how long she’d been practicing and she’d be forced to admit she was still a student. She may as well stand up and fling what remained of her credibility out the window. She’d already left the bulk of it on his doorstep.
“Are you married?” he asked.
She was so relieved that he’d not pressed the issue of her age and expertise, or lack thereof, that she answered him. “No, I’m not. But, Mr. MacKeltar, you really should let me ask the questions.”
“Dageus. Betrothed?”
“That’s an old-fashioned word,” Elisabeth murmured. She added it to the store of others she was collecting from him.
“I’m an old-fashioned man, lass. So?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Well, ’tis no’ about me, because I’ve no need of your services.”
“Gwen seemed to think you did.”
“I explained that—she frets o’er much.”
Elisabeth let the silence unfurl, wondering what he would do with it. He did nothing. He sat perfectly still and composed, staring levelly at her. So for a good two minutes, which felt like ten, they stared at each other. Until she was shocked to discover that she’d folded her arms and crossed her legs.
That he took pity on her unsettled her more than anything that had happened so far, and it hadn’t exactly been a banner morning.
“What, no more questions?” he asked, his golden eyes glittering.
“Do you have children?” she blurted, hastily unfolding her arms. Where did that come from, Zanders? She fought the urge to close her eyes and sink under the table.
“With no wife?” he said indignantly. “What manner of man do you take me for? Have you children?” he flung it right back at her.
“No,” she said, dismayed to hear herself sound as defensive as he had. She took a deep breath, and bleakly acknowledged that she shouldn’t have come back in the cottage the second time. She simply wasn’t in top form. It occurred to her that he might not have anywhere near the presence she was attributing to him. Perhaps she was simply so jet-lagged that everything seemed larger than life and insurmountable this morning.
She seized upon the excuse gratefully. If only she’d recognized it sooner, after their initial fiasco of a conversation, she would have coolly and professionally informed him that she’d come back the next day. The sooner she terminated this conversation, the better. God only knew what might come out of her mouth if she stayed. She would retreat, rest, and return the cool, focused Elisabeth Zanders who had earned, and would fight to keep, the highest GPA in the psych department at Harvard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. MacKeltar,” she apologized, abruptly pushing her cup away and rising to her feet, “but I’m afraid I’m not quite myself this morning. It’s become apparent to me that I’m far more jet-lagged than I’d realized.”
“Is that what you’ll blame it on, then, lass?” he said softly, standing as well.
His tongue flickered out, wetting his full lips in a gesture that purred invitation, and dared her to acknowledge it. His golden eyes met hers, and for an awful moment Elisabeth felt like he was seeing right into her soul. That he was fully aware of the impact he had on her, and would wait patiently until she admitted it. That the man standing before her could manipulate circles around her. That there wasn’t a single psychologist’s tactic she could use on him that he wouldn’t see right through.
A good psychologist would have said, Blame what on? and confronted him. But she didn’t, because she wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t baldly reply, The fact that I throw you off balance because you can’t stop thinking about getting me naked.
And she was thinking about it. Every time she looked at him.
“Thank you for the coffee, Mr. MacKeltar,” she said smoothly, pretending there was no palpable, mind-boggling tension charging the air between them. She was damned if she was going to request his permission to counsel him, she decided. With such a strong-willed man, it would be far wiser to proceed matter-of-factly. To act as if whether or not she was going to treat him wasn’t even in question. “Let’s set a time for tomorrow so we can get off to a fresh start,” she said firmly.
And tonight she would phone Gwen and pick her brain clean. There was no way she was approaching Dageus MacKeltar again until she knew more about him.
“You wouldn’t be thinking of troubling Gwen while she’s in the hospital, would you now?” Dageus said softly. “With Gwen’s delicate condition and the traumatic accident, I’ll no’ have you upsetting her.” Clearly Gwen had some kind of plan involving the lass, Dageus mused, or she wouldn’t have hired her, but he didn’t think Gwen would tell her about the thirteen, at least not in a casual phone conversation, or she would have already done so. Still, he would take no chances. Elisabeth Zanders was a lovely wee lass with fire and intelligence and, if he was clever, he could have her all to himself for a time. The intensity of his determination to have her, to explore what she thought and felt, to learn the feel of her body yielding naked and warm beneath his, startled him. Were he a man of single-minded clarity, such determination might have done more than startle him, it might have warned him. But he wasn’t. And it didn’t.
Elisabeth was shocked by how accurately he’d guessed her thoughts. While she floundered for a response, he stepped closer. The man really had a thing for invading personal space.
“Have dinner with me this eve, lass,” he purred, plucking her cap from her hands and gently smoothing it over her hair. “I’m a fair cook.”
She backed up hastily, just as the tips of his fingers brushed her ear. She tingled where he’d touched her. “Tomorrow.”
He studied her intently. After a moment, he seemed to decide that she wasn’t going to budge an inch on that. “Tomorrow then. Breakfast with me.”
“One o’clock,” she countered firmly, backing down the hallway toward the door.
“Or forget it
She stopped backing when her spine hit the door.
He stopped a foot from her. “The way I see it, Elisabeth Zanders, you’ve a bit of a problem, doona you?”
When she didn’t reply, he smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Aye, you do. Gwen asked you to come talk with me. I’ll wager she’s paying you for your time, is she no’?”
Elisabeth nodded tightly. His golden eyes, unblinking and predatorily patient, reminded her of a tiger’s. A shiver kissed her spine.
“I’ll wager she’s paying you well, seeing as she brought you all the way from America.”
Elisabeth gave him a frosty stare. She could see full well where he was going with it and didn’t like it one bit.
“ ’Twould seem I have something you need,” he said silkily. “One might even say I am something you need.” His smile grew, but oddly, so did the chill in his gaze.
Elisabeth gritted her teeth, refused to reply.
He waited in silence.
Finally, she gave him a faint, tight nod.
“Mayhap we should strike a bargain, lass.”
“What do you have in mind?” she asked coolly.
“Being that Gwen is dear to me, if she wishes me to see you, then see you I shall. But”—once again, he placed his palms against the door on either side of her head—“ ’twill be as a guest in my home. If you wish to practice your study of the mind on me, ’twill be on my terms. We’ll put Gwen’s mind at ease and you’ll earn your wages. You’ll no’ trouble Gwen or Drustan with any questions, nor will you share with them anything we discuss, because the moment you do, ’tis o’er betwixt us. Understand?”
Elisabeth felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. In a few sentences, he’d fenced her into a tidy little corner, using Gwen’s peace of mind and well-being during her pregnancy as his weapon. And she knew he meant every word of it.
She’d already made a mess of things by not waiting for Gwen. If he refused to see her, she’d be in a serious bind. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of a bind. She’d be in the embarrassing position of having to inform Gwen that she couldn’t even get in his door. She’d have left school midterm, for nothing. She’d have to go back to Harvard, back to the Beanpole for goodness’ sake, a failure. Oh, she’d sooner die a virgin tomorrow!
Suddenly it was perfectly clear why Gwen had offered so much money. The man didn’t want counseling, didn’t think he needed it, was too intelligent by far, and indisputably a master strategist. Simply finding out what his problem was would be a greater challenge than any she’d ever faced. She felt a strange thrill at the thought of getting inside such a man’s mind.
Could she? she wondered. The tension between them was thick enough to cut into bricks and build a wall. If she could navigate the labyrinth of his mind, she’d never again suffer doubts about her abilities to counsel. If she could conquer him, she could handle anything.
“Breakfast tomorrow then?” he repeated, leaning into her. His golden eyes held hers in a wordless challenge. “What are you afraid of, lass?” he said softly.
He used physical closeness as a weapon, she realized. He fully intended it to throw her off balance.
Thrusting her chin in the air, she met his gaze levelly. Tomorrow was another day, tomorrow she’d be completely on her toes, up to any challenge. She would accept his terms because she had no alternative, but all the while he would be treating her as his guest, she’d patiently and cleverly probe him as a psychologist.
“Fine. I’ll be here at nine,” she said smoothly, thinking that the Elisabeth Zanders he would meet tomorrow would be vastly different from the one he’d run ramshod over today. She gave him a pleasant smile, ducked from between his arms, and twisted the doorknob. Naturally the door didn’t budge because a good two-hundred-plus pounds were leaning against it. Arching a brow, she gave him an imperious look.
Smiling faintly, he dropped his hands.
She took care to close the door gently behind her.
Dageus watched her from the window until she disappeared over the crest of the hill. For the first time in a long time, the morrow’s sunrise seemed to hold promise.
Deep inside, far from defeated, the thirteen stirred restlessly, murmuring approval, and for a change, being of a like mind with the ancient ones didn’t fash him in the least. For a moment, he even enjoyed the thirteen’s camaraderie, thinking mayhap he had a thing or two in common with the Tuatha Dé Danann Druids. Though they were separated by millennia, men were men in any day and age.
’Tis for but a few days, he reminded himself. ’Til Gwen and Drustan return.
He couldn’t fathom what Gwen’s plan involving the lass was, but he was fair certain tooping wasn’t part of it. And when she found out, she’d be furious with him.
He’d deal with that when need be.
In the meantime, he planned to wedge as much life as possible into the next few days.
EXCERPT FROM
DARKFEVER
My name is MacKayla, Mac for short. I’m a sidhe-seer, a person who can see the Fae, a fact I accepted only recently and very reluctantly.
My philosophy is pretty simple: Any day nobody’s trying to kill me is a good day in my book. I haven’t had many good days lately. Not since the walls between Man and Fae came down. But then, there’s not a sidhe-seer alive who’s had a good day since then.
When MacKayla’s sister is murdered, she leaves a single clue to her death—a cryptic message on Mac’s cell phone. Journeying to Ireland in search of answers, Mac is soon faced with an even greater challenge: staying alive long enough to master a power that she had no idea she possessed—a gift that allows her to see beyond the world of Man, into the dangerous realm of the Fae.
As Mac delves deeper into the mystery of her sister’s death, her every move is shadowed by the dark, mysterious Jericho, while at the same time, the ruthless V’lane—an immortal Fae who makes sex an addiction for human women—closes in on her. As the boundary between worlds begins to crumble, Mac’s true mission becomes clear: find the elusive Sinsar Dubh before someone else claims the all-powerful Dark Book—because whoever gets to it first will have complete control, and nothing less, of both worlds.
1
A YEAR EARLIER …
JULY 9. ASHFORD, GEORGIA. NINETY-FOUR DEGREES, 97 PERCENT humidity.
It gets crazy hot in the South in the summer, but it’s worth it to have such short, mild winters. I like most all seasons and climes. I can get into an overcast drizzly autumn day—great for curling up with a good book—every bit as much as a cloudless, blue summer sky, but I’ve never cared much for snow and ice. I don’t know how northerners put up with it. Or why. But I guess it’s a good thing they do, otherwise they’d all be down here crowding us out.
Native to the sultry southern heat, I was lounging by the pool in the backyard of my parents’ house, wearing my favorite pink polka-dotted bikini that went perfectly with my new I’m-not-really-a-waitress-pink manicure and pedicure. I was sprawled in a cushion-topped chaise soaking up the sun, my long, blond hair twisted up in a spiky knot on top of my head in one of those hairdos you really hope nobody ever catches you wearing. Mom and Dad were away on vacation, celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary with a twenty-one-day island-hopping cruise through the tropics, which had begun two weeks ago in Maui and ended next weekend in Miami.
I’d been working devotedly on my tan in their absence, taking quick dips in the cool, sparkling blue, then stretching out to let the sun toast drops of water from my skin, wishing my sister Alina was around to hang out with, and maybe invite a few friends over.
My iPod was tucked into my dad’s Bose sound dock on the patio table next to me, bopping cheerily through a playlist that I’d put together specifically for poolside sunning, comprised of the top one hundred one-hit wonders from the past few decades, plus a few others that make me smile—happy mindless music to pass happy mindless time. It wa
A tall glass of chilled sweet tea was at hand, and the phone was nearby in case Mom and Dad made ground sooner than expected. They weren’t due ashore the next island until tomorrow, but twice now they’d landed sooner than scheduled. Since I’d accidentally dropped my cell phone in the pool a few days ago, I’d been toting the cordless around so I wouldn’t miss a call.
Fact was I missed my parents like crazy.
At first, when they left, I’d been elated by the prospect of time alone. I live at home and when my parents are there the house sometimes feels annoyingly like Grand Central Station, with Mom’s friends, Dad’s golf buddies, and ladies from the church popping in, punctuated by neighborhood kids stopping over with one excuse or another, conveniently clad in their swim trunks—gee, could they be angling for an invitation?
But after two weeks of much longed-for solitude, I’d begun choking on it. The rambling house seemed achingly quiet, especially in the evenings. Around supper time I’d been feeling downright lost. Hungry, too. Mom’s an amazing cook and I’d burned out fast on pizza, potato chips, and mac ’n’ cheese. I couldn’t wait for one of her fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh turnip greens, and peach pie with homemade whipped cream dinners. I’d even done the grocery shopping in anticipation, stocking up on everything she needed.
I love to eat. Fortunately, it doesn’t show. I’m healthy through the bust and bottom, but slim through the waist and thighs. I have good metabolism, though Mom says, “Ha, wait until you’re thirty. Then forty, then fifty.” Dad says, “More to love, Rainey,” and gives Mom a look that makes me concentrate really hard on something else. Anything else. I adore my parents, but there’s such a thing as TMI. Too much information.