Spell of the Highlander by Karen Marie Moning Page B

you there, woman,
he’d said, and she’d shivered. How creepy to think someone might even now be lurking in her dark apartment, waiting to kill her. How odd to think she couldn’t go home. Maybe not for a long, long time.
    Maybe never again.
    This was it, she’d realized while driving. She’d gone too far to turn back now. She was officially on the run. Her situation wouldn’t have been so dire if Mark hadn’t caught her leaving with the artifact.
    But he had. That milk was spilt, and there was no point crying over it.
    She glanced over at Cian, barely able to see him over the top of the huge mirror that was wedged sideways between the bucket seats of her car. A good quarter of the mirror was hanging out the open hatchback, which was bungeed carefully around it, with various bits of her clothing—jackets and sweaters and T-shirts that tended to accumulate in her car as the seasons changed—wedged protectively between metal and glass.
    Head flush to the ceiling, he looked miserably uncomfortable. It had been as difficult to cram him into the tiny car as it had been to finesse in the mirror.
    They’d argued over the top of the looking glass the entire way downtown. He took backseat driving to a whole new level.
    Cease ceasing movement so abruptly! Christ, woman, must you
catapult
forward after each cessation? Are you certain you’ve strapped the mirror securely? We should stop and check it. By Danu, wench, try nudging this beast gently, not kicking it with both heels!
A silence, a slew of choked curses, then:
Horses! What the bloody hell is wrong with horses? Have they all been slain in battle?
    When she’d finally cranked up her favorite Godsmack CD in an effort to tune him out, he’d let out a roar that had rattled the windows in her car:
By all that’s holy, woman, what is that hideous noise? Cease and desist! A battlefield at full charge could be no more cacophonous!
    Huh.
She loved Godsmack. The man clearly had no taste in music.
    Scowling, she’d stuffed in Mozart’s
Requiem
—which she reserved for only her broodiest days, usually during finals week—and in moments, he’d been whistling cheerfully along. Cheerfully. Go figure.
    “You’re going to have to stay here,” she informed him. “I’ll get the room and come back for you.”
    “I doona think so,” he growled.
    “You don’t look like the rest of us.”
    “Nay,” he agreed. “I am bigger. Stronger. Better.”
    The look she gave him said she had something nasty on her tongue and couldn’t scrape it off. “That’s not what I meant. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep a low profile with you walking around dressed like that.”
    “Leave it to me, woman.”
    Before she could utter another word, he grappled with the handle, opened the door, and stepped out. Or rather uncramped and unfolded himself onto the pavement, closing the door behind him.
    For a man from the ninth century, he sure seemed to know a lot about modern-day things, she mused, though it seemed to be from having observed them, not from having interacted with them. When he’d first gotten in, he’d examined everything, twisting knobs and pushing buttons. He’d even eyed the steering wheel consideringly. Fortunately, he’d seemed to think better of it. Unfortunately, she didn’t think his restraint would last long. He liked to be the one in charge.
    “You will not look at me,”
she heard him say to the valets.
“You will see only her.”
A silence. Then,
“And you will not look at her breasts.”
    Jessi blinked and burst out laughing. The man was such a Neanderthal! Like her breasts were his or something! What did he think—that the valets would just dutifully obey him as Mark had?
    She had news for him: He wasn’t that impressive.
    “You’re not that impressive,” she said, stepping from the car and casting a dry look across the roof.
    Five valets stood around the car, looking at her, and only at her, and only at her face.
    “May we take your luggage,