Into the Dreaming Page 13

  After the Tuatha Dé Danann left, the human Druids warred among themselves for power. Thirteen of their once-faithful Druids turned to dark ways and—thanks to what the Tuatha Dé Danann had taught them—nearly destroyed the earth.

  Incensed, the Tuatha Dé Danann emerged from their hidden places and stopped the Druids moments before they succeeded in damaging the earth beyond repair. They punished the Druids who’d turned evil by casting them into a place between dimensions, locking their immortal souls in an eternal prison.

  The Tuatha Dé Danann then selected a noble bloodline, the Keltar, to use the sacred knowledge to rebuild and nurture the land. Together, they negotiated The Compact: the treaty governing cohabitation of their races. The Keltar swore many oaths to the Tuatha Dé Danann, first and foremost that they would never use the power of the standing stones—which give the man who knows the sacred formulas the ability to move through space and time—for personal motives or political ends. The Tuatha Dé Danann pledged many things in return, first and foremost that they would never spill the lifeblood of a mortal. Both races have long abided by the pledges made that day.

  Over the ensuing millennia, the MacKeltar journeyed to Scotland and settled in the Highlands above what is now called Inverness. Although most of their ancient history from the time of their involvement with the Tuatha Dé Danann has melted into the mists of their distant past and been forgotten, and although the Keltar clan has not encountered a Tuathan in over two thousand years (giving rise to speculation that the ancient race no longer exists), they have never strayed from their sworn purpose.

  The MacKeltar pledged to serve the greater good of the world. On the few occasions they have opened a gate to other times within the circle of stones, it has been for the noblest of reasons: to protect the earth from great peril. An ancient legend holds that if a MacKeltar breaks his oath and uses the stones to travel through time for personal motive, the myriad souls of the darkest Druids trapped in the in-between will claim him and make him the most evil, terrifyingly powerful Druid humankind has ever known.

  In the fifteenth century, twin brothers Drustan and Dageus MacKeltar are born. As their ancestors before them, they protect the ancient lore, nurture the land, and guard the coveted secret of the standing stones. Honorable men, without corruption, Dageus and Drustan serve faithfully.

  Until one fateful night, in a moment of blinding grief, Dageus MacKeltar violates the sacred Compact.

  When his brother, Drustan, is killed, Dageus enters the circle of stones and goes back in time to prevent Drustan’s death. He succeeds, but between dimensions, he is taken by the souls of the evil Druids, who have not tasted or touched or smelled anyone or anything, nor made love nor danced nor vied for power, for nearly four thousand years.

  Hungry, determined to live again, they urge him to use his immense power for their corrupt purposes. The Druids wish him to go back in time to change the outcome of their fateful battle thousands of years’ past—and utterly re-create history as we’ve known it.

  Now Dageus MacKeltar is a man with one good conscience—and thirteen bad ones. Although he can hold his own for a while, his time is growing short.

  1

  NOVEMBER 15TH, PRESENT DAY

  DRUSTAN MACKELTAR FINISHED READING THE LETTER from his da, Silvan, and cursed bitterly.

  When he crushed the fragile parchment in his hand, the centuries-old fabric disintegrated in his fist. ’Twas no matter, he thought grimly, for the words were forever carved into his mind as if scored there by a hissing red-hot blade.

  Drustan, my son, I have missed you, it had begun so innocently, to end so badly—

  I wish you might have met your brothers and sisters, but your heart was with Gwen, and ’twas where it wisely belonged. I wish the two of you every happiness, but rue to tell you your trials are not yet o’er.

  First, the gentler news. Beloved Nell consented to be my wife. She has made every moment a joy. We left a few things for the two of you in the tower. Count over three stones on the base of the slab, second stone from the bottom. Life has been rich and full, more than I e’er dreamed. I have no regrets, but one.

  I should have watched Dageus more closely after you went into the tower. I should have seen what was happening. There you slumbered, enchanted, waiting to awaken in the twenty-first century and be reunited with Gwen, while here I sat, cozy with my Nell.

  Yet Dageus grew e’er more solitary. Blinded by my own happiness, I didn’t see what was happening until it was too late. I shall be scant with the details, but suffice it to say as time passed, he became … obsessed with you. He worried that something would happen to prevent you from surviving until you found Gwen again.

  And it did. I have no memory of it, mayhap an odd wrinkle in my mind, but he confessed to me that three years after we placed your enchanted body in the northeast tower, that wing of the castle caught fire and you were burned and died.

  Dageus broke his oath, went back in time through the stones to the day of the fire, and prevented the fire from occurring. He saved you, but in so doing, turned Dark. The old legends were true.

  If you are reading this, he succeeded in his course, for he appointed himself your dark guardian; his sole purpose to see you awaken safely at the proper time in the future. He vowed to watch over you, then disappeared. Dageus is a strong man, and I believe such a vow has kept him sane. I hope it has, for I tasted the evil within him.

  I believe, however, the moment you awaken and are reunited with your wife, there will be nothing to hold his darkness at bay. His purpose accomplished, the thin thread that binds him to the light will snap.

  Och, my son, ’tis sorry I am to be sayin’ this, but you must find him. You must save him. And if you cannot save him, you must kill him.

  Nay! Drustan longed to roar. Nay and nay—it cannot be so!

  His reunion with his beloved wife had been purchased at no less than the cost of his brother’s very soul.

  He stared blindly at the portraits Christopher had unveiled scant minutes past: portraits Dageus himself had painted back in the sixteenth century, so they might be passed down from generation to generation, a warning to all future Keltars.

  A warning to Drustan. I am dark. You must find a way to destroy me, read the Pict runes carved into the frames of the portraits.

  Damn you, Dageus, he raged silently. Damn you—you should have let me die.

  “Oh, Drustan!” Gwen’s voice broke as she rushed to his side and took his hands in hers. The remnants of the parchment dusted the floor when she twined her fingers with his. He held on to her. Tight.

  She’d been silent while he’d read the letter aloud, translating the bitter message into English. His distant descendant, Christopher, who’d given him the cursed letter from his da, had also been silent, standing near the fire with his wife, Maggie.

  Gwen’s silence he understood, because she’d been stunned and horrified. But Christopher, who spoke Gàidhlig, had known exactly what the letter said. Indeed, had known since long before Drustan had awakened in the twenty-first century, a fortnight past.

  Thus wasting an entire fortnight that Drustan might have put to good use, searching for Dageus.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Drustan thundered.

  Christopher blew out a pent breath. “Because you’d only just awakened and we thought—”

  “You thought wrong!”

  “—to find him for you,” the tall, muscular Scot finished. “And we have,” he added evenly. “He’s no’ exactly kept a low profile. Sixteenth-century coins in mint condition and a few Keltar blades recently appeared on the antiquities market. It was an easy matter to trace the address of the seller. He’s rented rooms under his own name. It’s my belief he wants you to find him.”

  “Where is he?” Drustan roared.

  “In Edinburgh,” Maggie replied softly. “And there’s no need to shout and get angry with my husband. It was my doing as well. We saw no sense in telling you ’til we had some idea w
here he might be found. Or even when he might be found. From the paintings and Silvan’s letter, we suspected he might come to this century, if only to make sure you awakened safely. That he remains here is promising. We located him but a few days ago. Christopher passed the day in Edinburgh yesterday, watching him from a distance. Thus far, he’s evidenced no signs of … overt …” Maggie trailed off uncomfortably.

  “Evil?” Drustan said, his voice suddenly deceptively soft. His gaze snapped back to Christopher. “You were watching my brother and didn’t tell me?” A muscle in his jaw worked as he clamped his teeth together in an effort not to shout.

  “I’m a Keltar, too, Drustan,” Christopher reminded. “We’re both responsible for him.”

  “We’ll save him, Drustan,” Gwen said softly, slipping her arms around his waist. “There are four of us MacKeltars, and we’re a formidable lot. We’ll bring him home and we’ll help him. Dageus is not evil. I refuse to believe that.”

  Drustan gazed down at the woman he loved more than life itself, relaxing, if only minutely. She always had that effect on him; made the world seem a better place, full of hope and possibility and dreams. His arms tightened around her. So, she is my gift from you, eh, brother? he thought darkly. My lovely, brilliant wife that I’d ne’er have seen again, if not for your sacrifice. Damn you, brother.

  Then another thought, accompanied by waves of suffocating guilt: Thank you, brother.

  Tears shimmered on his wife’s cheeks and Drustan nearly envied her the release of weeping.

  But there would be no tears shed by Drustan MacKeltar because tears meant grieving and grieving meant ruing the losing, and he would have naught to rue because he would not be losing his brother.

  Not even if it meant he had to do battle with the ancient Druids himself to win back Dageus’s soul.

  You must save him, Silvan’s letter had said.

  And as far as Drustan was concerned, Silvan’s letter had ended there.

  2

  NOVEMBER 27TH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY

  “A PACKAGE JUST ARRIVED FOR YOU, MS. ZANDERS,” DR. BENPOHL barked as they passed each other in the hallway. “A rather large package.” He peered irritably at her down his long thin nose. His nostrils were white around the edges; a sure sign he was in a temper. “It’s blocking my view out the window. See that you take care of it promptly. You know how I feel about clutter. It’s bad enough that we have to share an office. The least you can do is respect that it’s my space, too. You may enjoy living in the midst of chaos. I don’t.”

  “And good morning to you, too,” Elisabeth muttered, scowling at his tall, lanky frame as he marched down the hallway.

  Monday mornings were bad enough. Coffee made them better. Grumpy men made them worse. And one thing she could always count on was Dr. Richard Benpohl being grumpy. Something so simple as a smile from the man might make her think she’d lost her mind. Not that he didn’t smile, he simply never smiled at her, and he never would.

  A card-carrying member of the Old Boy’s School, Dr. Benpohl refused to believe that a mere woman, regardless of her impressive IQ, and excellent scholastic record, could possibly contribute a thing to Harvard’s Human Development and Psychology Department.

  So she and the “Beanpole,” as she called him in the privacy of her mind, spent most of their time sharing an office, glaring at each other over their work—he at his spotless desk graced by only a laptop, a brass lamp, and a nameplate; she perched amid haphazard piles of books and articles that she just knew she might get to one day—marveling that the other managed so simple a task as putting their shoes on the right feet in the morning.

  In her more honest moments, she admitted that they both suffered from a bit of prejudice, for Elisabeth had little respect for a male’s ability to delve into the human psyche. Most men she knew didn’t have the faintest clue why they behaved the way they did, and if they lacked a reason, they dredged up the timeless excuse of testosterone. I didn’t mean to sleep with her but she had breasts.

  Men!

  Wrinkling her nose, Elisabeth entered their shared office at a brisk pace. She’d give anything to meet a man capable of honest introspection. A man who had a bit of darkness in him, for she agreed with Carl Jung that only a man who knew his own shadow was capable of deep, abiding love. She wanted a man who believed in things like fidelity, commitment, and happily-ever-after. A man who meant forever when he said forever, unlike most men she knew. And, while she was at it, she thought—snorting at herself for such silly, impossible wishing—handsome, passionate, an undying romantic, and hung like a—

  She drew up short, her wistful thoughts dashed, startled by the package that had so offended the Beanpole.

  It was rather obtrusive, she admitted grudgingly. A foot taller than her, and four or five feet wide, the heavy wooden crate was indeed blocking the entire window, and most of the east wall. Sighing, she smoothed her hair, absently making sure every curly strand was snugly tucked in her plait, then busied herself at the microwave, peeking curiously at the crate as she nuked a cup of water and stirred in three heaping teaspoons of instant coffee. The hell with it, she thought, adding a fourth—oh, blessed caffeine—she had a feeling she was going to need it this morning.

  Nudging books aside so she might lean back against a corner of her desk without causing an avalanche, she was momentarily distracted by Benpohl’s most recent invasion of her privacy.

  He’d poked through the organized chaos on her desk and dug out several romance novels that she’d picked up at the used bookstore yesterday on her lunch break but had forgotten to take home last night. He’d stacked them smack in the center, and with the instincts of a shark had placed on top one with a particularly revealing cover, showcasing a mostly nude man, handcuffed, awaiting a lovely blond woman with the key. He’d stuck a Post-it on it that read: ARE WE HAVING ID PROBLEMS, MS. ZANDERS? TRASH. ABSOLUTE TRASH.

  “At least I only fantasize about it and don’t act on it,” she muttered.

  The only reason you don’t act on it, her id seethed, is because you work so much that you don’t have time for a life. Get out and play. Take a vacation. Get laid, Zanders.

  “Quit needling me. And watch your language,” she said irritably. She only had one more year until she was finished with her Ph.D. She had every intention of getting a life then. Maybe. If it didn’t conflict with her career ambitions.

  Life now! her id insisted. We could die tomorrow.

  Sighing, she refused to get sucked into the age-old argument. The id was the pleasure seeker, interested only in instant gratification. Were her id in control of things, she’d be walking around with a mattress strapped to her back.

  Snatching up the romance novel, she stuffed it in a drawer, shoved the rest beneath her desk, then perched on the cluttered edge of it and eyed the crate while sipping her coffee.

  Whatever was in the crate was going to have to wait until her classes were finished for the day, because she was already running late. As she scooped up her notes, she took a last quick glance at the package, wondering what might be in it and who it was from. Based on the shape of the crate, and its shallow depth, it looked like it might be a painting, but she certainly hadn’t purchased a painting recently, or anything for that matter. Not on the pathetic living allowance that came with her fellowship.

  Scotland, she mused, as her gaze fell on the postmark. She left the office and closed the door. The darn thing had been shipped from Scotland. Go figure …

  When Gwen entered the study, Drustan glanced up from the aged scroll he was studying.

  “Having any luck?” Gwen asked softly, knowing what the answer was going to be from the despair etched in every line of her husband’s face.

  Drustan shook his head, his silvery eyes dark. “And it doesn’t help that we’re missing some of the oldest tomes. Christopher said they were destroyed in the late seventeenth century when a MacKeltar took a wife who grew to fear her husband’s ‘pagan’ ways and tried to put an end to his d
abbling in the dark arts by setting a fire in the tower library. We can’t find the Book of Midhe, nor any of the Books of Manannán, not to mention dozens of others.” He laid the scroll aside and rose from behind the mound of books and parchments on his desk. “How fare you? Have you heard from the lass you sent the portrait to?”

  “I just shipped it last week,” Gwen replied, skirting the piles of books that were scattered across the floor, and spilling from ottomans and curio tables. She snuggled into her husband’s embrace. When his hands slipped to her heavily rounded abdomen, she smiled. Even six months into her pregnancy, Drustan still sought daily reassurance that it was true; that they would soon be welcoming twins into the world. “She should receive it any day now,” she continued, as she tipped her head back, and studied him with loving concern. His eyes were tired and red-rimmed from poring over books and parchments. It was all she could do to get him to wolf down the occasional sandwich or cup of coffee. For the past three and a half months he and Christopher had been scouring the old lore, laboring over ancient translations, up to eighteen hours a day.

  They had yet to discover a single passage about those they’d taken to calling “the thirteen.” She grazed her hands lightly over his face as if she might brush his weariness away. He turned his face into her hands and kissed her palms.

  “Are you certain bringing her here is wise, Gwen?” he asked wearily.

  “With Elisabeth’s training in psychology she may be able to think of something we can’t, Drustan. Something to help him hold the druids at bay until we find the way to cure him.” She suppressed a flash of guilt for concealing her deeper motives, but she suspected that if Drustan knew what she was up to, he’d put a stop to it. He’d argue it was too dangerous.