Spell of the Highlander Read Online Free PDF

against the mirror, and hefted the lamp like a baseball bat. “Stop right there!”
    He stopped so abruptly that he should have fallen flat on his face, which spoke volumes about how much lethal muscle was under that suit—oh yes, she’d be dead if he got his hands on her.
    “Take one more step and I’ll smash the mirror to smithereens.” She brandished the lamp threateningly.
    Was that the sound of a sharply indrawn breath
behind
her? Followed by a muttered curse?
    Impossible!
    She dare not turn. Dare not take her eyes off her attacker for even a moment. Dare not give in to the sob of fear that was trying to claw its way up the back of her throat.
    His gaze darted over her shoulder, his eyes flared, then his gaze latched back on her. “No, you won’t. You preserve history. You don’t destroy it. That thing is priceless. And it
is
as old as I said it was. It is conceivably the single most important relic any archaeologist has ever laid eyes on. It debunks thousands of years of your so-called ‘history.’ Think of the impact it could have on your world.”
    “Mine personally? Gee, like, uh,
none,
if I’m dead. Back off, mister, if you want it in one piece. And I think you do. I think it’s not worth a thing to you broken.” If he was going to kill her, she had nothing to lose by smashing it into a gazillion silvery little pieces; no matter that her inner historian violently protested such sacrilege. If she was going down, she was taking whatever he wanted with her. If she was going to be dead, by God, he was going to be miserable too.
    A muscle worked in his jaw. His gaze skidded between her and the mirror and back again. He tensed as if to take a step.
    “Don’t do it,” she warned. “I’m serious.” She shifted her grip on the lamp, prepared to swing it into the mirror if he so much as breathed wrong. If nothing else, maybe they’d struggle atop the shards of glass; he’d slip, cut himself, and bleed to death. One never knew.
    “Impasse,” he murmured. “Interesting. You’ve more spirit than I’d thought.”
    “If you are wishing to live, lass,” came the deep, rich purr of a brogue behind her, “best summon me out now.”
    A chill shuddered through her entire body, and the baby-fine hair at the nape of her neck stood up, quivering on end. Just like on Friday, the room felt suddenly . . . wrong. Not quite the size and shape it was supposed to be. As if a door that by all conventions of reality couldn’t possibly be there had suddenly opened, skewing the known dimensions of her world.
    “Shut the hell up,” her assailant clipped, his gaze fixed over her shoulder, “or I’ll smash you myself.”
    Dark, mocking laughter rolled behind her. It made her shiver. “You wouldn’t dare and well you ken it. ’Tis why you’ve not rushed her. Lucan sent you with precise instructions. Bring it back intact, nay? The mere possibility that the mirror might be shattered makes your blood ice. You know what he’d do to you. You’d be begging for death.”
    “Huh-uh, no way,” Jessi whispered, eyes going wide. She could feel the blood draining from her face, knew she’d gone white as snow. “Not believing this.” She took a shaky little breath. “Any of this.”
    Logic insisted there couldn’t possibly be anyone behind her. And certainly not anyone
inside a mirror,
for heaven’s sake!
    But her gut was of a different opinion.
    Her gut sensed “Man” with a capital “M” behind her, and he was throwing off all the heat of a small, fiery forge at her back. Enough that it made the sides and front of her feel abruptly cold. Made her neck ache with the effort of keeping her gaze fixed firmly on her would-be murderer, and not turning to gape at the looking glass. She could
feel
him behind her. Something. Someone. Caged power. Caged sexuality. Whatever was behind her was formidable.
    “Doona turn, woman,” he—it—whatever it was—counseled. “Keep your eyes on him and speak after