Bletherin’ hell, he thought darkly. There was a binding spell on them. He poked at it lightly, testing its strength with magic, not wishing to use more than was necessary. But instead of a subtle, directed probing, a sudden, uncontrolled rush of power ripped through him, far more than he’d meant to use, more than he’d ever used at a single time before. He felt the instant response of the thirteen; they began murmuring in their incomprehensible language, their voices buzzing like insects inside his skull. He was bombarded with sensations. . . .

Icy darkness. Endless stretches of bickering amongst themselves. Enforced eternal togetherness with no escape. Periods of lucidity, longer periods of madness, until finally there was nothing left but rage and hatred and an all-consuming thirst for vengeance.

His whole body shuddered. ’Twas the strongest taste of them he’d gotten yet and it was so revolting that, had his hands been free, he suspected he would have clawed at his head in a futile effort to gouge them out of his skull.

He realized two things then: the sect of the Draghar was more advanced in Druidry than he’d thought, to weave such a powerful spell into cold iron, and they’d given him something besides a mere tranquilizer. They’d given him some kind of drug that was impairing his ability to control the power within him. He was like a man who’d consumed too much whisky, who could, intending a gentle caress, lash out with a killing blow, out of sheer sloppiness.

And he had no doubt that such a blow would turn him fully dark.

He inhaled shallowly, forcing his senses outward, away from the chaotic buzzing in his mind. He tasted the air, trying to envision the shape of the room from the echo of conversation. It seemed to be low-ceilinged, and long, and there was a faint odor of moss on stone. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He was fair certain he was in the catacombs beneath the building.

What a fool he’d been, barging in, underestimating his foe! He’d acted rashly, driven by impatience and a desperate need to protect those he loved. Not once had it occurred to him that the sect of the Draghar might have people watching him, reporting his every move. Apparently they had, for they’d certainly been ready for him. What was their plan? To use this deadly drug to force his transformation?

“He’s coming around,” someone said.

He would have preferred they continue to think him unconscious, buying precious time for the effects of the drug to diminish, but evidently, though he’d remained motionless, he’d given himself away somehow. Mayhap his chest was rising and falling more deeply. He opened his eyes.