The sad truth was, not even he’d really believed there was some ancient evil in the in-between.

How much we’ve forgotten and lost, he brooded. He’d scarce given thought to the legendary race that had allegedly set the Keltar on their course. Not until his son had gone and broken his oath, thus violating an alleged Compact whose existence had become far more myth than reality.

Well, he brooded darkly, now at least we know the old legends are true.

Little comfort, that.

Nay, his search had failed to unearth even an iota of useful information. Indeed, he’d begun to fear that the Keltar had been unforgivably careless in their guardianship of the old lore, that Dageus’s broken oath was merely one more failing in a long list of failings.

He suspected they’d quit believing centuries ago, pushing away the mantle of a power that exacted too high a price. For generations, the Keltar men had been growing increasingly morose, weary of protecting the secret of the stones, weary of hiding away in the hills and being regarded with fear. Weary of being so damned different.

As the dark ages gave way to lighter ones, so, too, did the Keltar seem to wish to lay down the burden of their past.

His son thought he had failed, but Silvan knew better. They’d all failed.

On the morrow they would sit down with the ancient writings and search anew. Silvan hadn’t the heart to tell his son that he’d nearly finished searching, and if there was some answer to be found in them, he was too dense to discern it.

His eyes narrowed and his thoughts turned to the wee lass his son had brought with him. When the storm had wakened him—a storm the likes of which he’d heard but a few times before—he’d rushed outside, praying ’twas Dageus returning.

It had taken some time for the fog to clear, and though he’d called out, Dageus had not replied.

When the fog had lifted, Silvan had understood why.

In Silvan’s estimation, ’twas the lass that might yet prove to be their finest hope. For so long as his son loved her—and he did, though he knew it not himself—well, evil didn’t love. Evil tried to seduce and possess and conquer, but it didn’t feel for the object of its desire. So long as love was alive in Dageus, they had a toehold, however small.

Och, he and the lass were going to become close, Silvan decided. She was going to learn about the young Dageus who’d once strolled these heathery hills, nurturing the earth and healing the wee beasties, the gentle Dageus with the wild heart. He and Nellie would see to it. Dageus’s gifts had always leaned toward the healing arts, and now he was in need of healing himself.

If the lass didn’t already love his son—he’d not had sufficient chance to probe her—he would do all in his power to win her for him.

Doona poke at them, Dageus had warned him bitterly, meaning the ancient evil within him.

But Silvan had poked. Silvan always poked. And despite the barriers his son had erected, buffering it a bit, it had poked back and Silvan was, quite simply, horrified by what was growing inside Dageus.

• 18 •

“I know I’m dreaming,” Chloe announced conversationally the next morning as she descended the stairs to the great hall. She slipped into a chair, joining Silvan, Dageus, and a woman she’d not yet met—er, dreamed about—for breakfast.

Three pairs of eyes regarded her expectantly and, heartened by the attention, she continued.

“I know I didn’t just use the equivalent of a little outhouse upstairs in a closet.” With straw for toilet paper, no less. “And I know I’m not really wearing a gown, and I’m certainly not wearing”—she peered down at her toes—“beribboned little satin slippers.” Straightening in her chair, she scooped a spoon of jam from a dish. “And I know this strawberry jam is just a figment of—eww—what is this?” Her lips puckered.

“Tomato preserves, m’dear,” the man who’d been identified to her earlier in the dream as Silvan replied mildly, with a smile he tried to hide.

Not good, Chloe thought. In a dream, the dreamer controlled how things tasted. She’d been thinking sweet strawberry jam and gotten a nasty, unsweetened vegetable. More proof, she thought dismally, as if she’d needed it. She glanced about the table for something to drink.

Dageus slid a mug of creamy milk across the table to her.

She drank deeply, peeking at him over the rim. She’d had erotic dreams about him all night. Frighteningly intense dreams in which he took her in every way it was possible for a man to take a woman. And she’d loved every minute of it, had awakened feeling all soft and kittenish, nearly purring. His black hair was pulled back from his sculpted face in a loose braid. He wore an unlaced linen shirt that revealed a sinful expanse of golden, muscled chest. Big, beautiful man. Sexy, scary man.