Master of Swords (12 page)

Thing was, she was getting sick of being the helpless little female.

Lark got a carton of eggs and a stick of butter out of the refrigerator, then nudged the door closed with a hip. After retrieving a mixing bowl from a cabinet, she cracked a couple of eggs, her movements short and sharp with controlled anger.

She hated this. Hated feeling as if she couldn't hold her own against the monsters. Hated being told she wasn't strong enough, smart enough, ruthless enough.

Most of all, she hated that she really wasn't strong enough, smart enough, or ruthless enough. Just once, she'd like to set some asshole back on his heels and prove everybody wrong.

She wanted to look into Gawain's eyes and see something a little warmer than lust and a shade of condescension.

Crouching, she reached into a cabinet and pulled out the cast iron frying pan she'd brought from home. Banging it onto the stove, she turned on the heat and went to get a glass of orange juice while she waited for it to heat.

Dumb ass. Craving the respect of a man who'd fought beside Arthur and the knights of the Round Table. A guy whose idea of a really talented Maja was Morgana Le Fay. How the hell could she hope to compete with that?

The answer was obvious: she couldn't. He was never going to see her as anything other than one of his little fuck buddies. Which meant she should either embrace her inner Happy Meal or cut her losses.

Both pride and logic voted for cutting her losses. She should keep her distance—and her sanity. Surely they could manage a little cool, civilized professionalism. They didn't have to fall on one another in a frenzy of jungle sex every time the opportunity presented itself.

So what if he was tall, breathtakingly handsome, and built like God's gift to everything with estrogen? Lark didn't have to be an idiot about this.

She didn't.

Really.

A little self-control. How hard could it be?

 

Richard Edge surveyed
his new sanctuary with satisfaction. He'd reconstructed the entire thing thousands of miles from its original location, and buried it deep inside the Rocky Mountains. The Magekind might eventually find him, but it wouldn't be anytime soon. He'd made sure of it, having spent the past hours finding and slaying a nest of former cultists to gain the magic to strengthen his wards.

None too soon, either. He'd felt someone ping him earlier in the night—probably that little Maja of Gawain's, since it hadn't felt strong enough to be Kel. It wouldn't be long before they'd start making more serious attempts, though.

His shields had better damn well hold.

Edge frowned uneasily. If enough of them joined forces, they'd eventually punch through and he'd be finished.

The conclusion was obvious: he needed a little more juice than he was going to get from killing cultists. A knight, maybe, or one of the really old Majae.

And he needed that sacrifice fast.

A trap might do the trick, but it had to be the right kind. If the bait was too good, he might end up with the entire Round Table breathing down his neck. They'd slice him up like a hog at a redneck barbecue.

No, what he needed was something that appeared insignificant but showy, something the Magekind would want to put a stop to. Like that wretched Jimmy Jones, the sorcerer cum serial killer who had inadvertently attracted Gawain and his little friend to begin with.

Frowning thoughtfully, Edge walked into his lab. Or at least, that was what he called it, though there were no microscopes or Bunsen burners. Instead, the room was bare and windowless, its ceiling and walls of black slate, giving the impression being enclosed in a stone box.

An inverted pentagram was inscribed in the center of the floor surrounded by protective runes, all glowing a nice, bright red. Powering the pentagram continuously was depleting his reserves, but he had no choice. If some Maja got so much as a whiff of what he had, they'd be all over him.

As Edge walked through the design, magic crawled over his skin like thousands of invisible ants. Crouching at the star's center, he reached down. The stone parted like water for his hand. His fingers touched cool metal—and a sense of intense, alien magic. Edge withdrew the object, and the floor solidified again.

The cup was heavy, made of solid gold, its surface worked into shapes every bit as violent and profane as Edge's more interesting fantasies. Just touching it, he felt Geirolf 's magic breathing over his skin like a cold wind.

Edge smiled in the satisfaction he'd always felt, holding his very own black grail.

 

The silver figure flexed its wings, lifting its tiny dragon head in a roar of rage. It began to grow larger and larger even as the blade it was bound to shrunk in proportion to its body. Its color changed, shifting from silver to blue, from metallic to gleaming scales that rippled over powerful muscle. The blade became a long tail that lashed in fury, tipped with a cluster of spikes.

The dragon's massive head whipped upward, fanged jaws gaping as his wings spread wide and beat furiously. Kel took to the air, soaring skyward, breathing gouts of fire.

No longer a sword, but a dragon in truth, roaring for rage and vengeance.

 

Tegid's eyes snapped open, and he jolted to his clawed feet, wings beating in agitation. Disoriented, he stared around at his cave, looking for the attacker he knew was coming.

But there was no infuriated nephew out for revenge and blood. Around him lay only the familiar curving lines of his cave, bathed in the soothing green glow of his magic. Breathing deep, he scented the waters of his scrying pool, lying peaceful on the main level below his sleeping ledge.

No rage. No blood. No Kel.

Slowly, his fear began to fade. It had been a dream.

No. Realization penetrated his relief with bone-deep certainty. It had been a vision of a potential future. One he must not allow to become reality.

If Kel ever broke the spell, the comfortable life Tegid had built would come crashing down around his ears. Once free, his nephew would stop at nothing to discover who had trapped him for sixteen centuries. He'd follow the broken spell right back to Tegid and challenge his uncle on the spot.

Tegid was not that worried about dueling Kel—how much of a threat could he be, after all those centuries as a chunk of metal? Unfortunately, the political implications would be catastrophic.

Though many might have found it more comfortable to forget Kel existed, his mother hadn't allowed it. Aegid had been determined to free her son, and she'd sought tirelessly to discover who'd cast the spell that had trapped him. Her fierce maternal loyalty had won her the sympathy and respect of many dragon females. And since it was the females who elected the Dragon Lords, Tegid had been forced to give the appearance of supporting her efforts.

Ironically, his apparent inability to find the spell-caster had ended up damaging Tegid's standing. Evar had used the weakness to build up his own power base, and so had Soren.

A century ago, Tegid had realized he had to do something radical to stabilize the situation. Something had to be done about Aegid. Luckily, she'd always suspected Evar was behind Kel's imprisonment, so Tegid made use of that belief. He'd goaded her, carefully, subtly, until she'd challenged the Dragon Lord.

It had been a mad act; she'd been no match for Evar. He'd killed her just as Tegid knew he would. What's more the females of Evar's clan had been outraged—again, just as Tegid had intended—and they'd turned on him, electing a male champion who'd killed Evar in turn.

Tegid was seen as a martyr who'd lost his sister to a dragon who had used magic to trap his nephew. The resulting wave of sympathy had enabled him to assume leadership of the Dragon Lords.

Only Soren opposed him now. Soren, who was just as perverted and unnatural as Kel when it came to his fondness for the apes.

But if it was discovered it was Tegid who'd imprisoned Kel in the sword, the clans would realize he'd deliberately thrown suspicion on Evar and manipulated them all. Soren would gleefully destroy him, assuming Kel didn't kill Tegid in combat to avenge his mother and himself.

Tegid had to make sure Kel never broke that spell.

It was time to look in on the little egg-sucker, find out what he was doing, and put a stop to any aspirations of freedom.

Steadier now, he moved to one of the great stalagmites that supported the roof of his cave and climbed down its rough stone face. Reaching the main level, he moved through the cavernous central chamber all the way to the rear. There, a narrow opening led to the chamber that held the scrying pool, along with the bulk of his treasure. Glittering piles of gems and golden objects surrounded the pool, reaching to the ceiling of the chamber—booty from his raids on the Sidhe kingdoms centuries ago. Like all dragons, Tegid had a taste for the shining and beautiful.

But all his attention was on the pool now. Three dragon-lengths across, it lay deep and still, fed by an ancient spring. When he moved to its side, its calm surface reflected his scaled red muzzle like a mirror. He opened his jaws and breathed a spell over it. A glowing plume of magic rolled across the water, which instantly began to luminesce a brilliant blue.

A moment later, an image formed on the shimmering surface. Kel and Gawain, apparently arguing over a female named Lark. Shuddering in disgust, Tegid settled down to watch.

 

The grail cradled
carefully in his hands, Richard Edge knelt in the center of the pentagram. Sweat rolled down the small of his back, and he licked his lips. If the Magekind ever sensed he had it, he'd be the centerpiece of that Round Table luau he was afraid of, roasted and diced before he knew what hit him. No revenge then—hot, cold, or à la mode.

That was the reason for the pentagram. Richard usually didn't bother with the physical trappings of spell work, but he wanted to make damn sure his wards around the grail stayed up and running no matter what.

Now, kneeling on the cold, black stone, he stared at the grail, admiring the intricate shapes of men and demons fornicating and killing and dying. Steadying his breathing, Richard opened his consciousness to the cup's power and let his mind drift.

Somewhere in Washington, D.C., ten of Geirolf 's former cultists sat in a hotel room arguing over how best to locate the last grail.

Last grail? Looking deeper into the leader's thoughts, Richard saw the man had woken with a vision that both the other grails had been destroyed, taking with them two thirds of Geirolf 's followers. Gary Myers was desperate to find the grail that had created him before the Magekind destroyed it, too. He and his followers were considering going to the nearest mall and shooting twenty or so shoppers in order to power a locator spell.

You won't get through my wards even if you do, asshole,
Richard thought, and sent his mind off to find a more practical sacrifice. That group was too large for him to take out by himself.

It was a good thing Geirolf had been so paranoid he hadn't trusted even his worshipers. The spell the alien had designed to transform them all into vampires had also ensured he could use the grails to locate any sorcerer who had drunk from them. What's more, he could kill them all by the simple expedient of destroying the cups.

Knowing Geirolf, he'd probably intended to use that threat to keep them all in line.

Unfortunately for Geirolf, however, Arthur and the Magekind were a lot smarter than he'd expected.

One minute Richard had been standing with the other priests, waiting for the moment Geirolf 's death spell would destroy the Magekind. The next, the alien was dead, and everything had gone to hell in a handbasket. Thousands of Magekind warriors had streamed into Geirolf 's temple, ready to kill everything that moved.

Richard had instantly realized that the better part of valor was to find the grail he'd drunk from and get the hell out. Leading two other priests, he'd fought his way to Geirolf 's sanctuary where the three cups waited.

It wasn't hard to tell which was which; Richard felt a kind of mystic connection to his cup that was unmistakable. He'd grabbed it as the others snatched their own.

Before they could decide what to do next, Geirolf 's lieutenant, Steven Parker, had cast the spell that had distributed Geirolf 's dying life force to his followers. Even as Edge felt the sudden surge of power, Parker had used the last of it to scatter the sorcerers across Mortal Earth.

Richard found himself standing in the center of an empty city street with the grail in his hand. He'd lost no time using his share of Geirolf 's powers to create a safe house for himself and wards around his grail.

Good thing, too, because the cultists all promptly went to war over the grails. Every sorcerer and his brother wanted to use the cups to create more vampire followers.

Except Richard. As far as he was concerned, other vampires were more likely to be rivals or liabilities than loyal assets. He'd far rather kill them and absorb their share of Geirolf 's magic than worry about what they might be up to behind his back.

Now he scanned with the grail, looking for the perfect victim. He needed someone just powerful enough to make good bait, without being strong enough to turn the tables on him. Not that one, definitely not that bunch. That group was too large, and that…

Wait. There. Edge opened his consciousness to the other sorcerer's mind, probing it with care to avoid being detected by his rival.

Oh, yes. This one would do nicely.

Clayton Roth was a vile little fuck even by Edge's standards. He liked his meals young—so young he attended Disney movies to spot them. At the moment, he was standing outside the bedroom window of his latest prospect…

Perfect.

Now all Edge needed was the right Maja for a psychic tip, one not quite powerful enough to trace the vision back to him. Luckily, he knew the perfect candidate—Gawain's little friend. He'd already made contact with her, touched her magic, so he could sense her even against the background buzz of the Mageverse.