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“Once we have the Druid King along with the Grimoire, the others will follow,” Nemain drawled. “And since we are without Macha now, we’ll need a third body to absorb the Magick we will claim from them.”
That caught the shade’s attention. “Me?” he asked hoarsely.
“Unless you’d like to spend another century in the nether.”
“Nay,” the shade stepped forward. “Nay, I’ll do whatever you ask. Just don’t send me back there.”
“Seduce him,” Nemain ordered, stepping to the man and running fingers through his thick hair. “Cripple him with lust and weaken him with pleasure.”
Badb cackled at the idea. “Get him to trust you. Then his heart will be open and vulnerable for us to take. Then you’ll say these words when he is at the peak of his pleasure, and all the power that is his, will be yours.” She handed the shade a parchment with an ancient curse written upon it.
“That is when we’ll strike.” Nemain pulled a tattered, charcoal robe from her own shoulders and draped it across the shade. “A damsel in distress, I think, is just the tactic to disarm the King.”
“But I am no damsel,” the shade spoke. “I am in the body of a human...man.”
Nemain waved that away. “The Druid King is the one sovereign in all of time who cares not for an heir or for his bloodline’s legacy. He has only ever loved those of his own sex.”
“’Tis common enough among mortals in their meat suits,” Badb cackled. “Though they always find some reason to deny themselves and each other pleasure.”
Badb spit into the cauldron she’d been stirring, and it hissed. “Malcolm de Moray will be sorry he ever crossed us,” she snarled.
Nemain smiled, her amber gaze gliding down the lad’s nubile body. “And sorrier still, that he ever laid eyes on you.”
Malcolm de Moray’s growl of frustration echoed off the stone wall of his laboratory. The looking glass he hurled shattered against it a scant second later.
By what ancient Magick had the Wyrd Sisters hidden the Grimoire from him? From him! The most powerful Earth Druid to be seen in a handful of centuries. The last potent Druid male of his kind. The King of the fucking Picts. And he couldn’t get a simple scrying spell to work.
His enemies were close, he knew it. The trees shuddered at their evil, and the fields swayed with whispers of sightings, but nothing tangible.
He’d be damned if he sat with his cock in hand and waited for them to strike. Nay, he’d find the vicious bitches and send them to hell where they belonged.
“Have you eaten today, Brother?” Morgana, his younger sister, flowed into his laboratory carrying a tray of food. Though breakfast or dinner, he couldn’t be certain.
“I know not,” he answered shortly, eyeing the doorway for the inevitable following of his sister’s Berserker mate. “What day is it?”
“Would it matter if I told you?” Morgana’s blue dress shimmered like crystalline water as she made her way past candles, lanterns, shelves, scrolls, and herbs to set his repast on the table in front of him.
“Nay,” he admitted, the word almost drowned out by the loud, hungry sound his stomach made at the scent of salted pork, rosemary roasted potatoes, and beets.
Morgana reached up and took his stubbled jaw in her hands, and instantly he felt a relief that only a water Druid could give another human with her touch. His aches and pains dissipated, his tense muscles relaxed, and the pricking of the headache that had begun to pound behind his eyes disappeared.
“Dear Malcolm,” she murmured softly. “When is the last time you slept?”
He blinked down into a face the feminine copy of his own. Unruly russet hair, pale skin, prominent jaw. Though hers was delicate, and his defined. Other than the obvious difference in their sexes, the only other thing that set them apart was the color of their eyes. Morgana’s were as blue as the ocean in summer, while his were a mossy green.
Elemental colors.
“Who can sleep with all these bloody Vikings invading my castle?” he groused.
Unruffled, Morgana patted his cheek. “They’re not invaders, dear, they’re allies. Guests. Two of whom are mated to your sister and cousin. So, they’re family, as well.”
Malcolm grunted. “That damned army of Niall’s is picking our larder clean and planting bastards in all the kitchen maids.”
“They’ve also pledged their swords and lives to help us defeat the Wyrd Sisters,” she reminded brightly. “Now eat your supper, and I’ll give you the gift that will make your search easier.”
That arrested his attention. “What gift?”
The same mischief had lit her eyes for just over two decades now. Malcolm loved it, and he hated it. “Eat first,” she ordered.
