Kill them. Kill them all.

He halted with a sudden slap of clarity. Déjà vu. The same cold rage. The same black night. The same icy-blue vision. The same storm-tossed trees and scent of pine. Kill them all.

His extra-sensitive, glowing eyes stung with the biting wind. What a fool he was. Did he have no more control over his rage than he’d had centuries ago? What if Casimir had fifty minions with him? A hundred? Was he so damned bloodthirsty that he would walk into a trap?

He slipped into the woods, leaned back against a tree trunk, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. Control yerself. His heartbeat slowed. The rage dimmed.

He opened his eyes, and his sight was back to normal. He retrieved his cell phone from his sporran. No signal. Bugger. He didn’t want to leave the area unguarded while he teleported to Romatech. He headed back toward the lodge. Still no signal. He couldn’t risk sending Angus a telepathic message since any Malcontents nearby would be able to hear it.

His gaze fell on the gleaming granite heads in the distance. Mount Rushmore. He could probably get a signal there. And he’d have a bird’s-eye view of the entire area. If anyone ventured from the caves, he’d spot them.

The world went black for a second, then he was there, his feet making contact with solid rock. Before he could gain his bearings, a hard wind slammed into his back and shoved him forward. Damn. He’d landed too close to the edge of Washington’s forehead. He skidded to a stop as a few loose rocks skittered over the precipice.

With his feet more firmly planted, he gazed down the mountain. Pinging noises echoed in the wind as the rocks bounced their way to the bottom. He’d come close to plummeting, but it probably wouldn’t have killed him. He would have simply teleported to a safe place before hitting the ground.