Master of Swords (4 page)

Lark considered herself just as unlikely a candidate for Maja as her mother had been, but evidently the Magekind felt differently.

Not that it mattered. Tristan had gotten Granddad into Sanctuary. If that meant Lark had to embrace her inner cannon fodder in return, she was willing.

The next night, another dazzlingly handsome Magus had shown up at Lark's apartment. His name was Dominic Bonnhome, and he was a Court Seducer.

It had been uncomfortable as hell at first; she hadn't known him, after all. But Dominic did know his business, and his kind, professional skill had helped get her through the worst of her shyness. On their fourth try, his climax had triggered Merlin's Gift, the spell in her genetic code she'd inherited from Tristan.

It had been like being struck by lightning. One minute she was an ordinary mortal woman. The next, her body had jolted in the grip of the spell, and the power of the Mageverse had flooded her with its hot savagery, transforming her into an immortal witch.

Actually, “immortal” was a misnomer. Lark would never age, but she was immortal only as long as no one killed her. And these days, there were far too many people in line to do that job.

But at least John was no longer dying.

 

Lark, Tristan, and
John chatted easily for another half hour before the elderly mortal could no longer suppress his yawns.

Tristan stood. “Well, we had best return to the Mageverse.” We have a great deal to do.”

“I'm sure.” John gave him a longing smile. “You'll come back, though?”

“Of course.”

Lark kissed her grandfather good night, waited through another handshake, and led the way back to the elevator.

As it descended, Tristan suddenly spoke. “Was it worth it?”

She flashed back to her last mission, to the bodies and the blood. Not even her years growing up around the smoke and risk of a firehouse had prepared her for anything like that.

Then Lark remembered the reborn intelligence in her grandfather's eyes. “Hell, yes,” she said.

Jonesville, Tennessee

“Make a left,”
the dragon sword shouted over the roar of the wind.

Gawain leaned into the turn, steering the big Harley Davidson Electra Glide down Henry Street with absent skill. Normally you couldn't sneak up on a deaf man on an Electra Glide, since the massive bike's Twin Cam 88 engine roared like all the hounds of hell. Tonight, however, the motorcycle sped along as silently as a ghost, Kel's magic having rendered it utterly silent. Even its headlights were off. With his vampire night vision, Gawain didn't really need them anyway.

Those he was hunting might sense his approach magically, but there was no reason to give them any extra warning.

This is it,
the dragon told him in their mental link, evidently tired of shouting.
Up ahead on the right.

There was only one building on the right, a massive structure with curving walls of cream brick and stained glass. A towering spire thrust from the building's roof, topped by a cross. Gawain frowned up at it as he brought the big hog to a halt. Human legends notwithstanding, crosses didn't bother him—or, unfortunately, those he hunted—but he still didn't care for the implications.
Kel, this is a church,
he told the sword.

And it's also where the trail leads.

They're planning to sacrifice that girl in a church? Most of Geirolf's crowd builds underground temples for this kind of sick crap.

Maybe they didn't want to spend the magic on it.

Or maybe they're the kind of assholes who like to desecrate churches
. He swung off the bike and drew the four-foot blade from the diagonal scabbard across his back.

Gawain, they kidnapped a sixteen-year-old virgin to murder in an act of death magic.
Kel's voice held a faint metallic ring under its deep mental rumble.
I'd say the asshole thing is pretty much a given.

Good point.
Gawain grinned, slowly and viciously.
Guess we'll kill 'em slow, then.

His friend laughed in his mind.
Nothing like a little artistic butchery of the thoroughly deserving.

Gawain started up the sidewalk toward the double glass doors that looked as though they'd lead to the sanctuary. His black motorcycle leathers creaked faintly as he walked. He was acutely aware of the sound, every sense alert and singing with the rise of adrenaline.
I think it's time for a wardrobe change. I'm going to need something a little more substantial than cowhide.

Well, there
are
three of them and one of you.

Enough to work up a good sweat, anyway.

Kel snorted.
We really do need to work on your pitiful lack of self-confidence.

Gawain laughed softly as the faceplate of his motorcycle helmet began to glow, transforming into the Dragon Helm he'd worn into combat for centuries. At the same time, his leathers shimmered with their own magical change, becoming armor that was lighter and more flexible than fabric.

Though most Magi wore enchanted plate into combat, the armor Kel created lay over Gawain's body in thousands of tiny scales of shimmering blue. Every time he moved, silver highlights rippled across the scales like the moon dancing on water. Despite their seeming delicacy, the armor could have stopped a tank blast.

Considering what he was going up against, Gawain needed all the protection he could get. Being a Magus, he couldn't cast spells. The vamps he was hunting, however, were sorcerers who drew power from the life force of those they murdered.

Gawain had been tracking this particular trio since last week. Half an hour ago, Kel had seen a vision of the three snatching sixteen-year-old Theresa Davis from the parking lot of the local mall. Luckily, the sword had been able to follow the sorcerers' magical trail.

Gawain only hoped he'd be in time to save her.

He paused at the church entrance, gathering himself, enjoying the furious thump of his own heart, the power that surged through his body. A feral grin spread across his face.

The grin disappeared when he heard a faint sound through the glass doors—a muffled female cry of pain. Over it rang an ugly shout of male laughter.

“Doors,” Gawain snarled. Normally he'd kick them in, but the breaking glass would make hell's own racket. A shimmer of magic flung them wide, and he strode in, sword in hand.

Crossing the church foyer, he shoved open the sanctuary's double doors. The three sorcerers at the other end of the room looked up with a chorus of snarls. Gawain snarled back, taking in the scene with one blazing glare.

Dressed in elaborate crimson robes, the vampires crouched around a slim, blond girl who lay on the carpeted floor in front of the altar.

Theresa Davis.

They'd stripped her naked and bound her spread-eagle with a spell. She stared across the sanctuary at him, her tearful eyes wide and hopeless. Her mouth opened, but the spell magically garbled whatever she was trying to say into a strangled bleat.

“What are you doing here, Magus?” One of vampires laughed and flourished his knife. “Looking for a piece?”

Gawain's temples began to pound. A wordless roar of rage tore from his mouth as he charged down the aisle, armored boots thundering on the floor as he swung Kel up for his first blow.

Leers turned to startled fear. “What the fu…”

The one with the knife leaped to his feet, but he didn't have time to use it. Gawain sent his head flying with one swing of the dragon sword.

The other two dove in opposite directions, cursing. Magical armor shimmered into being around them as swords filled their hands.

The vamp on the right barely got his weapon up before Gawain hit him. Steel clashed on steel with force enough to vibrate bone. Gawain didn't care. All he wanted was the bastard's head.

Light exploded in his eyes as the vampire sorcerer shot a magical blast into his face. The Dragon Helm protected him, sending the spell splashing harmlessly away. Gawain ignored it, hammering the sword against the vampire's guard, trying to break through.

Gawain, behind…

He spun before Kel finished the warning, first parrying the third vamp's attack, then kicking him in the gut and sending him crashing into the pews.

Gawain whirled back in time to block the blade slashing at his head. Another stinging blast of magic. Kel countered it with his own mystical assault, sending the sorcerer stumbling away. Gawain saw his moment and swung his blade with all his strength. The other tried to block it, but he was too late. The sword took off his head at the jaw.

Whooom!
A spell blast sent Gawain flying. He hit the ground hard and rolled, gritting his teeth against the wave of cold as the death spell tried to take hold. Kel smothered it the instant before he slid to a stop, panting, sprawled on his back.

“Geiroooooolf!”

Looking up, he saw the last sorcerer leaping for him, howling a battle cry as he brought his sword down like an axe. Gawain flipped aside. The vampire's blade missed his head and crunched into the floor, sinking deep into the carpeted wood.

Where it stuck.

Gawain rolled to his feet as his opponent hauled desperately at his weapon. In his panic, the vampire had obviously forgotten he could simply conjure the blade loose.

Baring his teeth, Gawain swung. His enemy's decapitated body crashed to its knees beside its rolling head.

He turned to scan the church. “Anybody else?”

“Evidently not,” Kel said.

Relaxing, Gawain glanced toward the altar, expecting to see the Davis girl waiting to be rescued. “Oh, shit.”

Once her captors had died, the spell that had held her had collapsed. Theresa was gone.

But she wasn't far. Gawain's vampire hearing detected the frantic pound of her heart coming from behind the priest's wooden podium.

Remembering she was naked, he thought,
Give her something to wear, Kel, would you? She'll feel a little less vulnerable.

Magic flashed around the podium in an explosion of tiny sparks. Theresa gasped and jumped to her feet, staring down at the jeans and T-shirt that had suddenly materialized over her body. Realizing she'd given herself away, she froze, her gaze flying to Gawain.

He slid Kel back into his scabbard with a knight's automatic ease, but she didn't look comforted.

It was probably the helm. With its snarling muzzle and dragon wings spreading wide on either side of his head, it made Gawain look even more intimidating than he normally did. Quickly, he pulled it off and tucked it under one arm.

Raising his free hand in an “I'm unarmed” gesture, he started talking, keeping his tone low and soothing as he edged toward her. “It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help. You're safe.”

Theresa stared at him helplessly, looking like the child she was, her blue eyes huge, her mouth trembling. A gamine cap of honey blond hair accentuated her youth. “Please, please, just leave me alone!”

It's no good, Gawain,
Kel told him.
She's too scared. It'd be kinder to put her out.

Do it then.

Gawain sensed the spell roll out and engulf her. The child's eyes rolled back. She would have fallen, had it not been for Kel's magic holding her upright.

With a sigh, the knight crossed the sanctuary and picked her up.

“She won't remember anything,” the sword told him as he swept her into his arms. “The police will think she was knocked cold for most of it.”

Gawain frowned as he looked around the sanctuary, where his foes' bodies lay messily dead. “How are we going to explain what happened to the bad guys? A dozen witnesses saw her snatched.”

“Good point.” Kel contemplated the problem. “A violent argument between killers? Murder-suicide?”

“Kel, I
beheaded
them.”

“You'd be surprised what a little magic can fix.”

Gawain snorted. “Not really.”

“No, I suppose not.” The dragon's tiny eyes flared. Suddenly all the corpses were in one piece again, though spectacularly bullet-riddled. Their magical robes and armor had vanished, destroyed by their deaths, but Kel's magic had dressed them again in suitably modern garb. Automatic weapons lay in limp hands, and the pools of blood that surrounded them were consistent with their wounds.

Gawain nodded approvingly. “The local cops will take one look at the bodies and conclude they conveniently blew one another away.”

“Now all you've got to do is find a phone and call nine-one-one.”

Gawain settled the girl more comfortably in his arms. “Better yet, let's get her out of here and let her do it. I don't want her to wake up to this particular view.”

“Good point.”

Five minutes later, Gawain strode down the hall toward the building's exit. Behind him, he heard Theresa, awake again, pick up the office phone for a tearful call to the police.

Well,
he thought,
that's one we managed to save.

Lark threw up
a desperate block a fraction too late. Her opponent's sword smashed into her armored ribs. With a yelp of pain, she crashed to the sawdust floor and lay still, dazed.

“You were too slow on that parry,” Tristan told her, impatience in his voice. “Get up and try it again.”

Panting, Lark didn't move. Her every muscle and bone ached, and her body streamed sweat under her enchanted armor. They'd been practicing for two hours, and he'd battered her black and blue. “My grandmother taught me ladies don't fight,” she announced, mostly just to piss him off.

“Your grandmother was right.” As Lark looked up in surprise, Tristan leaned over her and flipped up his helmet visor to reveal his implacable face. “You, however, are not a lady. You're a Maja, which means not only do you fight, you sleep with vampires you barely know and kill people before they kill you. Get up.”

Lark gave him her best poisonous glare and struggled to her feet. “Does my grandfather know you're a son of a bitch?”

He lifted a blond brow. “Does your grandfather know you're lazy?”

Her sword flashed out and rapped hard against the side of his helm. He merely looked pleased. “Much better. Let's try that again.”

 

An hour later,
Lark limped through the streets of Avalon, headed for the little brownstone she'd built with her magic. All she wanted now was a hot, soothing bath and maybe a nice glass of white Zin.

For the past several months, she'd been alternating Tristan's lessons in swordplay with magical combat instruction from her Maja trainer. Between them, Diera and the knight had taught her to hold her own.

But Lark had never learned to like it. She hated fighting, hated the blood and pain and fear of it. She'd wanted to be a paramedic, dammit. She'd wanted to save lives, not take them.

Apparently, fate had other ideas….

Booooom!

Lark stopped in her tracks, frowning in the direction of the noise. It had sounded almost like a magical blast, but it was a little loud for combat practice. What…?

A distant voice howled, “We live in Geirolf! Geirolf lives in us!” Another boom followed.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Armored feet rushed up behind her. As she jerked around, Tristan pelted past. “Move your ass!” he roared. “We're under attack!”

Instantly forgetting her battered body, Lark conjured armor and sword and raced after him.

They found the central square packed with battling warriors. The light from magical blasts glinted off armor and clashing swords as the constant rolling booms rattled windows.

Impossible as it seemed, Avalon had been invaded.

But how the hell had Geirolf's sorcerers figured out how to create a dimensional gate to Mageverse Earth?

A blur of red plunged at Lark from her left. Instinctively, she whirled and threw up a shield spell barely in time to block a wave of death magic. A vampire in the scarlet armor of Geirolf's worshippers charged her, following up his magical assault with a vicious swing of his sword. She parried, bracing under the brutal impact, then blasted him back as she'd been taught. The spell sent him stumbling.

Lark followed, hacking at him with her conjured blade and raining spells against his shields. Sensing something give in his magical defenses, she poured another blast into the weakness. His shield collapsed. With a yell of relief and victory, Lark plunged her sword into his chest. He reeled, tripping and falling on his back. Lark followed him down and twisted her sword in his heart, destroying her adversary without mercy. Her gorge heaved in revulsion, but she ignored it.

Decapitation and cutting up the heart were the only sure ways to kill a vampire. They tended to heal anything less than that.

Her opponent dead, Lark glanced around for somebody else to fight. The square was packed with armored warriors—Majae, Magi, and sorcerers, all grimly intent on battle. Mercy was out of the question. The Geirolfians were incapable of it, and the Magekind didn't dare let any of them live.

Lark wanted to throw up.

Spotting another sorcerer, she went after him, ignoring her own fear. Fortunately, the sorcerers were all twenty-first century people as uncomfortable with swordsmanship as she was. Good thing, too. If they'd had anything like Tristan's skill, Lark wouldn't have had a prayer.

Trying not to think, fighting not to feel, she hacked and blasted at her foes. All that mattered was keeping them from overrunning Avalon.

Boom!

The magical explosion slammed into the side of her head, powering past her shields and sending her flying. She tumbled, her body rattling in her armor like a pea in a tin cup before skidding to a halt. Something heavy landed on her chest, knocking the breath out of her with a strangled
whoosh.

Dazed, she looked up to see a sorcerer straddling her, one fist lifted. She tried to bring up her sword, but he slapped the blade out of the way so hard, it spun from her hand.

Before she could summon a fireball to defend herself, his fingers closed over her visor and sent a spell burning into her helm.

It melted.
Just vanished right off her head like evaporating dew.

Horrified and bare-headed, she looked up at the sorcerer. He raised his own visor, revealing a beefy face, sweat-slicked red hair, and razored fangs in a grinning mouth. “Hello there, pretty.”

Shit!
Terrified, she threw up a hand and blasted a spell into his face, but it splashed off his magical shields. Then a big hand slammed across her head in a slap that made her see stars.

Everything else went gray.

When her thoughts focused again, something heavy was crushing her chest. Her throat blazed with agony. Opening her dazed eyes, Lark realized the vampire lay on top of her, his hand fisted in her hair, his fangs buried in her neck.

And it hurt.

He's feeding on me!
With a cry of disgust and horror, she lifted shaking hands and tried to call her magic for a spell. But the power answered in a thin trickle he didn't even seem to notice. Between the concussion and the blood loss, she was too weak.

He was killing her.

No! Not like this!
John had lost too many people already—his wife, his daughter. It would kill him if Lark died, too.

She tried to struggle, but her arms and legs barely moved. He'd taken too much blood. Dizzy and frantic, she tried to draw on the power of the Mageverse. Far above her head, sparks flared. For a moment, Lark thought it was her magic, answering at last.

The sorcerer jerked off her with a spray of blood. Dazed, she registered his gory mouth as he looked skyward. “The grail!” he yelled, terror in his voice. “Fuck, someone's destroying our grail!”

Overhead, light filled the sky in a silent detonation. The vampire astride her chest screamed as the blast hit him. All around her, the sorcerers shrieked. Burning magic rolled over Lark's skin, blinding her. She threw up her hands to shield her face….

The vampire's weight simply vanished.

For a moment, it was as if she'd been struck deaf and blind. There was no sound, no light, no sensation.

At last she heard someone groan. Someone else cursed. Lark blinked as the stars overhead slid into focus. Her attacker had disappeared, but the pain in her throat remained. Lifting a shaking hand, she probed the wound fearfully. Her fingers could feel nothing through the mailed gloves she still wore.

“Lark?” A familiar face loomed over her, framed by his open visor. Fear widened his eyes as he snatched her into his arms. “Merlin's beard!” Throwing back his head, Tristan bellowed, “Healer! I need a healer!”

The word seemed to spin around her, and Lark let her eyes close as darkness swept over her.

 

“Lark?” A cool,
slender hand cupped her cheek.

She opened her eyes, disoriented. She knew that voice. “Diera?”

Her mentor smiled in pleasure and relief as she crouched by her side. A delicate, petite blonde, Diera looked like a fairy princess even in full armor. “Feeling better, dear?”

Blinking, Lark realized she was lying on her back in the city square. Belatedly, she remembered the feeling of fangs sinking into her throat, the stench of death magic. She jerked and grabbed at her throat. The flesh under her fingers was reassuringly whole. It was as if she'd dreamed it.

Diera patted her shoulder comfortingly. “It's all right, love. I healed you.”

“Just in time, too.”

She twisted her head around to find Tristan crouching at her head. He reached down and ran mailed fingers through her tangled, bloody hair. “You scared me, wench.”

Lark sighed and let her eyes close, suddenly exhausted. “I scared me, too.”

 

There wasn't a
single bruise on Lark's face as she stared into her bedroom mirror the next night, and her throat showed no sign that it had ever been ripped by the vampire's fangs. Diera had healed her completely. At least physically.

The nightmares she'd endured all day were brutal evidence that the psychological damage was going to be a little tougher to overcome.

But if it hadn't been for Guinevere and the knights of the Round Table…

Even as the invasion began, Gwen, Arthur, and several of the knights had gated off, following a location spell to the second of Geirolf's grails. When Gwen destroyed it, the resulting magical blast had killed all but a handful of the invaders. Apparently, the survivors had drunk from the third grail, so the spell hadn't affected them.

They'd died anyway. The Magekind had fallen on them and wiped them out to the last fighter.

Unfortunately, Avalon had lost warriors of its own. Three Magi and a Maja had been killed in the fighting.

Thus, tonight's ritual.

Frowning into her mirror, Lark summoned the magic. It came easily this time, pouring from the Mageverse around her, transforming her cotton sleep shirt into a floor-length black gown, vaguely medieval in design. Rich velvet skirts spilled to the floor, while the gown's tightly corseted bodice was heavily worked with metallic silver thread. Eyeing its V neckline, she added a heavy necklace of silver and jet.

Lark smoothed her hands over her hair. The spell had coiled it into a complicated arrangement on top of her head, braided with silver cords in a style she'd copied from one of the other Majae.

She hated funerals even more than she hated combat.

 

She stepped from
her brownstone to find a procession of Magekind winding past the house. Like Lark, all of them were dressed in black velvet or silk, the dark fabric heavily embroidered in silver or a scattering of jet beads. Picking up her skirts, she walked across her tiny lawn to join them.

“Hey, Lark! Wait up!”

She turned to see a tall, athletic brunette hurrying toward her despite heavy velvet skirts, accompanied by Diera and a handsome bearded man.

Caroline Du Lac dragged her into a fierce hug. “Dammit, how many times do I have to tell you—ya gotta watch the teeth!” Her voice dropped. “You could have been killed…”

Touched, Lark hugged her back. “Hey, some overgrown tick is not going to keep Lark McGuin down for long.” She gave Diera a grateful smile. “Especially not while I've got friends like you two.” She stepped back and studied her friend. “How about you? Come through all right?”

Caroline snorted. “Hey, I'm married to Ginsu Galahad over there.” She jerked a thumb at her husband, who watched with an indulgent smile. “He slices, he dices, he makes evil sorcerers cry like little girls. Nobody even got close enough to muss my hair.”

“That's an outright lie, darling,” the knight drawled. “You made one or two cry yourself.”

Diera moved up beside Lark and hooked an arm around her waist. “My children, I hate to interrupt the hyperbole, but we'd better get moving. We're holding up the procession.”

 

They walked two
miles, picking up more mourners as they passed castles, villas, and mansions, until at last they reached Avalon's central square. Four flower-decked biers occupied its center.

If things had gone differently, Lark herself might be occupying one of them.

It probably wasn't a good idea to think about that.

Wiping her suddenly damp palms on her skirt, she followed the others as they trooped around the biers to form concentric circles.

The ceremony that followed had become all too familiar over the past months. First came prayers from representatives of the faiths the fallen Magekind had practiced, then the eulogies from friends and lovers.

Finally Arthur Pendragon and his sister Morgana Le Fay stepped from their places at opposite sides of the square. An elegant figure in his black tunic and hose, the former High King lifted his bearded chin and scanned the crowd. “Centuries ago, we Magekind took a vow to Merlin to use our abilities to protect humankind from its own worst impulses, even if it meant laying down our immortal lives.” Normally, he prided himself on his use of modern slang, but for solemn occasions like this, Arthur fell back into more formal cadences.

He spread his brawny arms wide. “These four kept that vow last night in battle against the worst threat we've known in all our long history. I honor their memory and their courage, but what's more, I make a vow on their biers: they will be avenged!”

Around Lark, the Magekind roared their approval as she lifted her own voice in a shout of agreement.

Arthur turned in a slow circle, scanning the crowd, letting them see his fury. “Geirolf meant to mock Merlin when he used those black grails of his to make his followers vampires. We killed him for his crimes, just as we've killed two thirds of his followers. But another third remains. As long as they exist, they can use the final grail to create more vampires. We dare not rest until we find the cup and destroy it—and with it, the last of Geirolf's spawn.” Arthur lifted his chin. “But make no mistake—we will succeed, just as we've succeeded against the forces of ignorance, rage, and bigotry for centuries. And these heroes will rest in the peace they deserve.”