Still, he brooded, he supposed it was a fair trade-off, for though he was in an agony of sexual need, their intimacy had mellowed the fury within him. Where earlier in the penthouse he’d been afraid of what he might do, her kisses had given him back a measure of control. Not much, but enough to work with.

In the past, he’d always needed to complete the sexual act to gain respite, but not with Chloe. Merely kissing her, touching her, bringing her pleasure had calmed him, had cleared his mind a bit. He made no pretense to understand the how or why of it. It had worked.

He would accept that—that Chloe would tie him in knots, but preserve some measure of his sanity. What a boon her kisses would be on Scottish soil.

Och, the woman had something he needed. His instincts had been right when they’d said “mine.”

And that started a whole new train of possessive thoughts. Thoughts he could do naught about at the moment, so he took slow deep breaths and forced his thoughts to the pressing issues at hand.

What was to come anon would require all his wits and will. Once he was in Scotland, he knew the changes would speed up again. Changes he had to find a way to stop.

And to do so, he had to face his brother.

Drustan, ’tis me, Dageus, and I’m sorry I lied, but I’m dark and I need to use the library.

Aye, that would go over well.

Drustan, I failed. I broke my oath and you should kill me.

Nay, not that, not yet.

Och, brother, help me.

Would he?

Bletherin’ hell, you should have let him die! his da had shouted when, back in the sixteenth century, Dageus had summoned the courage to confide what he’d done.

How? How could I do that? Dageus had shouted back.

In saving him you destroyed yourself! Now I’ve lost both my sons—one to the future, the other to the black arts!

No’ yet, he’d protested.

But the look in his da’s eyes . . . it had said he’d believed there was no hope. Horrified, Dageus had fled through the stones, determined to find a way to save himself.

And now he’d come full circle, back to asking his clan for aid. He hated it. He’d not asked for help, not once in his life. ’Twas not his way.

Exhaling sharply, he accepted the scotch he’d requested from the flight attendant, and downed it in a single swallow. As the heat exploded inside him, the tightness in his chest first intensified, then eased. What could he say? How to begin? With Gwen, mayhap? She could work her feminine miracles with his brother. God knew, she’d been a miracle for Drustan.

He pondered various ways to approach him, but it was more than he could stand thinking on, so he forced his attention back to the text, needing something tangible to work with.

An hour later, just before landing, he paused, hand poised above his notebook. He’d finally found something worthwhile. The only mention he’d yet discovered about the fateful war that had occurred after the Tuatha Dé Danaan had left. Naught but a brief paragraph, it spoke of thirteen outcast Druids (so that was how many were inside him!) and of some heinous punishment they’d suffered. Though it did not elaborate further, beneath it was a notation that referred to the fifth Book of Manannán, as he’d suspected.