Free Claire Delacroix by The Last Highlander

labeled with flashing neon signs.
    “Liar,” she mouthed silently, knowing her delight showed.
    Blake smiled slowly, and the air in the foyer heated right on cue. “Got a problem with that?” he murmured, his eyes darkening.
    Justine strolled across the floor, knowing her husband was devouring every move. She leaned against him, making sure he could feel the curve of her breasts, and she stretched to roll her tongue in his ear.
    Blake closed his eyes and shivered.
    “With luck, we’ll be back nice and early,” Justine whispered, punctuating her words with a kiss. “Morgan will be in very capable hands.”
    Blake grinned wolfishly. “And so will you.”
    Justine could hardly wait.
     
    * * *
     
    All of Justine’s assurances that she would bring Morgaine seemed worthless to Alasdair as he waited restlessly at their assigned meeting spot. He paced in front of the glittering building, well aware of the curious glances of all who passed.
    They could not arrive quickly enough to suit him.
    This place dazzled him with its myriad lights, never mind that those lights were without visible flames. The glass that composed its wall was large and smooth beyond any glass Alasdair had ever seen before – clearly a product of magic – and he refused to look overlong upon it lest it bewitch him.
    To be sure, he had enough troubles as it was.
    A fierce tapping upon the magical glass brought Alasdair’s head up with a snap. A woman with very pale skin smiled at him from the other side. Her eyelids were shaded purple; her lips were the color of wine; her black dress clung to her virtually nonexistent curves. She waved her fingertips playfully, but Alasdair recognized dangerous temptation when he saw it.
    She could only be the succubus that the priest warned men to beware! Oho, Alasdair had heard tales aplenty of these wraiths who came to men in the night, enslaving their desire and drawing them forever into the depths of Faerie.
    Nay! She would not make his entrapment worse! Alasdair jumped back and she disappeared.
    Unbeknownst to the highlander, it was the change in the angle of the light that transformed the curtain of glass into a massive mirror.
    Alasdair saw only more magic at work.
    He could scarcely marvel at this wizardry before his own reflection dismissed all such thought from his mind. That it was the clearest rendering of his own image that he had ever seen was little consolation, for his curiosity was dismissed by dismay.
    Alasdair was filthy. There were no two ways about it.
    To be sure, the fount he knew at Mercat Cross was replaced by a clogged replica that was a sorry excuse for a source of water. None of the strangely attired inhabitants of Morgaine’s world would point him to an alternative washing place.
    And he had dared not wander farther astray, lest he not be able to find this place again. Morgaine’s kingdom was fair confusing. To be sure, it mattered little how Alasdair looked if he lost track of the only means of his return to the world he knew.
    He could not lose Morgaine, not at any cost.
    All the same, the truth was worse than he had feared. Alasdair fingered four days’ growth of beard on his chin and eyed the mark of another man’s blood on his chemise. His golden hair was wild, his kilt was askew, and his boots were muddy. A long scratch on his leg, earned during their scaling of the mount, had closed but still sported a dried dribble of his own blood.
    He had no doubt that there was whisky lingering on his breath. Aye, the bits of meat that Justine had declared to be “lunch” had scarce been enough to sustain a man. His belly complained mightily of its emptiness at that moment.
    Nay, Alasdair was in no shape to court a woman’s favor, particularly one who kept a fierce dragon as a pet.
    But what was he to do? He must remain here and wait. Alasdair muttered a colorful curse and glowered at his reflection before turning to pace anew.
    How the lads would laugh if they saw him, long reputed to