PREPARING FOR HIS journey to Everbay took Daimh most of the day. Once he had struck the bargain with Quintus Seneca, the tribune who now ruled over the undead, he waited to be sure the Gordon lad was abducted. While he felt sure Seneca would keep his word, he would not rely on it. He privately arranged for his passage, attended to the rituals necessary to strengthen his body wards, and kept close watch on Cailean Lusk and Bhaltair Flen as well. When Cailean advised him that the laird and his lady would arrive the next morning to make the jaunt to the island, he finished the last of his schemes.

At dawn Daimh went to peer in the window of Bhaltair Flen’s house. The old druid lay unmoving where he had fallen by his table, his half-eaten dinner congealed on his plate. Sensing no one else in the place, Daimh slipped inside.

“Brother Bhaltair.” He crouched down beside the man, taking care not to step in the puddle of spew by the old man’s mouth. “Can you hear me? Are you sick?” He prodded the old druid’s shoulder, and then grabbed a handful of his silver hair to lift up his head. “’Twould seem that you are. ’Tis never wise to drink from poisoned goblets.”

Daimh released Bhaltair’s head, smiling as it thunked on the floor boards. The old fool never thought to secure his doors, more the pity for him. Nimbly he went to the table to remove the goblet he’d stolen and coated with a very unpleasant potion before returning it. Taking it to the kitchen, he washed it thoroughly before filling it halfway with perry and placing it back by the unfinished meal.

“When you awake you’ll wish you were dead, but ’twill likely no’ kill you,” Daimh said as he surveyed the tableau. “I might have ended you, but you’re worth more to me alive. Either way, I cannae have one as powerful as you with us on Everbay, you see.”

Daimh went to the window, and saw the McDonnel laird, his lady and Ovate Lusk making their way toward Bhaltair’s door. Quickly he left the old druid’s house through the back, hurrying into the woods beyond it. By the time he reached the horse he’d hidden his heart pounded in his ears and he had to rest until he caught his breath. A hiss came from the tightly-secured pack on the horse’s rump, and it shook a few times.

“Patience, Anoup.” With some difficulty he mounted the gelding, and reached back to give the pack a fond pat. “We’ll be on our way now.”

One of the few disadvantages to embracing dark magics was Daimh’s inability to use sacred oak portals for travel. The cursed trees no longer recognized him as druid, and refused to transport him. As he rode to the coast, he ignored the discomforts the horse’s quick pace caused him. Once he transcended, his physical ailments would vanish, and the powers bestowed on him by the dark god Anubis would be unlimited. He’d never again be obliged to plod about like a mortal, or bow before the arses of the druid conclave.

Once in town Daimh left his mount at a public stable and made his way to the docks. There he found the two free traders he had paid to sail him out for his rendezvous with the black ship. Both were known cutthroats who would slice their sires for the right price.

“Coin first,” the dirtier of the pair demanded, and scowled as soon as he checked inside the purse Daimh handed him. “’Tis no’ enough.”

“’Tis half your fee,” he told him. “You’ll have the rest once we reach the ship.” Seeing the other man’s snarling expression, he added, “Come, man. You ken to whom I go. If you dinnae fear the wrath of the undead, then leave me here. You willnae regret it until after the sun sets, when they come for you.”

That threat wiped the resentment from the smugglers’ faces, replacing it with craven fear. The first pocketed the purse before jabbing his finger at a decrepit-looking fisher with a reinforced hull and nets and traps disguising its hidden cargo niches.

Daimh sat at the front of the boat to enjoy the rush of the wind as they sailed west from the docks. Land-locked as he had been for the last twenty years, he had missed the cold saltiness of the sea air. He had already decided that once he’d finished the ritual he would build his stronghold on Everbay.

Returning to his old home would bring back unfortunate memories, of course. The endless bickering with Tavish, who had been as short-sighted as he had been undeserving. Isela’s lovely face and solemn eyes, ever watching him. He knew she’d chosen his brother over him because Tavish had filled her head with lies. For years he’d pretended to accept their bonding. He’d even celebrated the birth of their brat.

He’d waylaid Isela on his last visit to the island, catching her as she walked back from gathering in the woods. He’d offered her his heart and every comfort and luxury she could wish for, if only she would admit her mistake in choosing the wrong Haral, and come away with him.

I’ve sensed how you want me, Brother, she’d said at last. But I’ve never encouraged you by look, word or deed. There is a darkness in you that soon shall grow beyond any hope of redemption. If you dinnae turn from your path, ’twill be the ruin of you.

Then turn me, my love, Daimh had begged. For I cannae go on without you.

She’d smiled sadly. You lie to yourself now, Brother. My heart belongs to my husband and our daughter. You may lust for me, but you love only power.

Such had been his disappointment that Daimh had struck her, hard enough to knock her to the ground, and then raged over her. Do you no’ ken who I am? What I will become? I can give you everything.

She had wiped the blood from her mouth on the back of her hand as she got to her feet, and new wariness had darkened her eyes. May the gods forgive you. She’d continued on to the village, never once looking back at him.

The unspoken words she left in her wake had taunted him: For never shall I.

His lovely Isela had decided the fate of the Moon Wake tribe that night. He’d thought back on her refusal when he’d found the Anubis ritual scroll. Once he’d deciphered its meaning, he’d known how he would take revenge against his tribe. He’d risked his life to strike that first bargain with the undead, but it had been worth it. It had felt so good to see the look on his brother’s face when Daimh had dispelled the barrier and marched in with his monstrous army. He’d watched the undead bathe in the blood and flesh of every weak, mewling druid on the island. Daimh had intended to violate Isela personally, but the Romans had found her dead beside his brother, with the blades they had used still buried in their hearts.

Their suicides had distracted him from looking for their brat. Indeed, once the undead left and the sun rose, the carnage left behind was such that Daimh hardly recognized any of the bodies. He’d never expected his niece of seven years to successfully elude the Ninth Legion. When the Anubis ritual had failed to change him, he had gone on a rampage, searching every inch of the island for any survivors, and finding nothing but more corpses. He had doubted the dark magic—and himself—when he should have known Isela’s facking brat was responsible.

The black ship appeared on the horizon some hours later, and anchored as the free traders’ boat approached it. Daimh slipped on gloves made on bespelled hide, retrieved his pack, and soothed Anoup’s agitation by patting the side.

“’Tis come for ye,” the filthier smuggler said and planted himself in front of Daimh, and brandished an impressive-looking dagger. “We’ll be having our due. Now.”

“Of course.” Daimh smiled cheerfully as he reached into the outer pouch of his pack.

The smuggler snatched away the large stack of coins he produced, and shoved them in the hands of his partner. “Drop the rest,” he ordered, emphasizing his intent with a jab of the blade toward Daimh’s belly. “Then get the fack off our boat.”

It always paid to hire the untrustworthy, Daimh thought as he gently placed the pack on the deck between them. They were so incessantly predictable. For a moment he considered opening the flap to show the idiot the deadly contents. But touching the coins with their bare hands had already put the curse to work. The large blade and the rest of Daimh’s payment clattered to the deck as both men howled and clawed at their blackening hands.

“Do give my best to the great god Sekhmet,” he told the smugglers as they both collapsed, writhing and frothing at the mouth. He chuckled as he retrieved his pack. “’Twill cheer her as she takes you to be slaughtered by her demon butchers.”

No stranger to boats, Daimh guided the fisher the rest of the way to come alongside the black ship, and stepped off onto the rope ladder. Two mortal crewmen helped him onto the deck, and one made as if to take his case.

“No, lad,” he told him before he made his way to the stern-faced man at the helm. “You may weigh anchor and continue on now, Captain.”

The man shouted the order as Daimh returned to the railing, and glanced down to see the two piles of black ooze that was all that remained of the smugglers. Daimh never left behind any witnesses to his dark endeavors, and anyone who found the boat would think it abandoned.

The tribune had not named the place they were to rendezvous, but some hours later Daimh recognized it as they approached the Isle of Staffa.

Daimh marveled at the new tribune’s ingenious solution to safeguarding the undead. In his memory no mortals had ever settled on the small island, which offered little in the way of soil for crop-growing. Ships also gave the place a wide berth, as Staffa’s strong resemblance to a half-sunken giant’s temple made sailors uneasy.

It made an ideal haven for the blood-drinkers, however. The enormous sea caves offered complete protection from the sun’s rays, and he felt certain that the Romans had tunneled their way even deeper into the rock beneath the surface to create their lair. The legion’s black ships sailed mostly at night, and ran without lights, rendering them virtually invisible on the seas.

Daimh felt as excited as a lad at his first ritual. When Cailean and the McDonnels found Bhaltair poisoned, they would go in search of him to assure he had not been harmed. Then they would find the note he had left in his house. Leaving word that he would meet them on the island that evening had been a particularly masterful touch. Thinking Daimh had gone straight into the arms of the legion there would spur them to make the jaunt at once. Believing his son in the hands of the undead, Cailean would depend on the laird to take charge. Once Daimh had both men on the island he would bring the legion and the boy. The lot of them could burn or drown or run. He didn’t care as long as that lass—the last member of his tribe—was there.

Never again would he need gulp poppy juice to ease his pain.

The ship slowed as the crew dropped anchor, and the captain came to join Daimh. “My master and his men will board tonight, and then we shall set sail for Everbay.”