Wicked Paradise (10 page)

“Only one thing will heal that problem.” He crossed his arms over his chest, the bulge growing beneath his skimpy leather garment.

Ignoring him, Morgan plucked out a worn suede pouch. The pungent aroma of ground kava wrinkled her nose. Stifling a sneeze, she pulled the drawstring secure then held out the bag to him. “Sprinkle the herb in boiling water and steep it for a few minutes. It will help...er...restrain your enthusiasm.”

Cynicism settled across the tight lines of his lips. “What if I don’t want my
enthusiasm restrained
?” He squared his shoulders, held his hand over his crotch, barely touching, proving a point.

Morgan’s mouth went powder dry. She swallowed to build up fluid to slake her cotton stuffed throat. “It’s your choice,” she managed to choke out as she tossed the herbs to him.

Catching the tiny pouch, Ryan chuckled. “You’re an herbalist? Could be useful here.”

Returning to the cave’s interior, he grabbed another lumpy sack heaped against the wall across from Morgan. Back against the wall, he settled down, a respectable distance between their physical bodies. However, their magic frolicked together in the air in shimmers, a visual enhancement the crystals in the cave created. Dust motes sparkled in all the colors of a rainbow, giving rise to a small joy in Morgan’s precarious new life.

“My fresh kill was gone. This is all we have to eat.”

Warily, she watched him pull dried strips of meat from a coarse leather sack and offer one to her. Her stomach had been growling at her since she’d awoken, and she eagerly accepted the meal. Traveler’s fare wasn’t normally fit for a High Druid Sorceress, but a necessity she often enjoyed on a dying Avalon. “I have foodstuff in my bag.”

“Save it.” Ryan heartily bit into a jerked-meat strip. “We may need it later.”

Morgan took a bite of the jerky. Surprised, she chewed slowly, enjoying the spicy, wild taste on her tongue. “It’s good. What is it?”

“Some sort of deer. Things on this island aren’t the same as home.”

“Where is home?”

“New L.A.”

Morgan frowned in an attempt to ferret the definition out of her cluttered mind.

“Los Angeles, California.” As though she held the long-lost Excalibur, Ryan stared at her. “You don’t know where that is, do you?” In a blur, he lunged across the small space between them and clutched her shoulders, pressing her against the rock wall. “Who the hell are you?” His face hardened like a war leader charged with enemy interrogations. Or like her father when he failed to find his beloved magic book containing several lifetimes of spells.

Her powers rose, not that she felt threatened by him other than his deplorable manhandling. “Unhand me,” she scolded. “I will not be subjected to your abuse. I see your father did not teach you the art of gallantry.” A sharp protrusion jabbed her shoulder blade, and she pushed forward, forcing Ryan to ease his pressure.

Disdain flashed across an odd hatred in his eyes. “Then give me something to bite, other than your neck.” He let her go and sat back on his heels. “You’re a High Druid Sorceress from England, Ireland, wherever. Big deal. You’re no different than the sorcerers—” he clamped his mouth shut.

The spicy dried meat sank to a solid ball in Morgan’s belly. Did he mean that Druid magic or sorcerers still prospered in his age? Was Gwilym wrong about the annihilation of humans in the future? Had she misunderstood him? Why else would Father subject her to this miserable existence? For the sake of binding her magic to a bigheaded assassin? Dying on Avalon sounded more tolerable.

“We’re not going anywhere until you spill your guts.” Ryan scooted to the opposite cave wall and resumed chomping on his jerky.

Spill her guts? The ball in her stomach expanded, and she frowned at the deer meat in distaste. Did Ryan intend to kill her? Impossible. It had to be more future jargon.

Would he believe anything she told him? A decisive frisson shimmied down her spine. She’d reveal more as their mutual trust developed, if she lived long enough. Or if she didn’t stick her dagger into his heart first.

She slipped the jerky into a pocket of her satchel and hugged the supple leather bag to her chest, her last remaining possessions from home. A lifeline to a lost existence. “I’m from the island of Avalon, Britain, centuries before your time. I’m the highest born sorceress left on Avalon. Our bloodlines stem from the joining of the magical
Tuatha dé Danann
—children of the Goddess Danu—and the Celtic Druids. We are the magical arm of the Druids. Many call us the Ancients.”

A sneer tightened Ryan’s lips. “And I’m the long lost President of the defunct United States.” He snickered. “You can do better than that.” He stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles.

She twisted the satchel’s ties around her fingers. “I don’t know of whom or where you speak. I’m telling the truth. The Druids of my time were born with magic that rises from within,” she patted her chest, “tied to the earth, sky, fire, and sea.”

“The same as Druid sorcerers of my time. Born with origins to the Celts with innate magic, many have ties to the elements, which strengthen our internal powers.” Ryan cocked his head, eyed her critically. “You still haven’t given me concrete evidence.”

Ire weaved inside her, trickled into her voice. “I didn’t choose to travel through time and space to land on this ageless island any more than you did. It is our destiny, like it or not.”

Silent, Ryan ate his meal, glowering between bites.

Encouraged by his willingness to hold his tongue, she told him the tale of Avalon’s Shadow. He at least deserved to know about the monster they faced. “During the great Merlin’s time, a Druid sorcerer, part Fomorian, pillaged the lands, draining magic from every sorcerer he encountered. It is written in history that some Fomorians never left Ireland after the
Tuatha
conquered them. The
Tuatha
drove the Fomorians into the sea, but the remaining Fomorians were the spawn of humans, Druids, other races, and were able to hide among us.” Morgan focused on his stony face. “WindWraith commanded elemental air and fire magic, but practiced black magic, magic of the Fomorian gods of chaos and destruction. Some called him Avalon’s Shadow because he lurked within shadows everywhere. Little was known about him, few ever laid eyes upon him. Unable to kill WindWraith, Merlin feared the black sorcerer’s potency would surpass his own. He tricked WindWraith and reduced his corporeal body to a shadowy air form, leaving the beast on the edge of death. He then banished WindWraith forever to this hidden island to prevent him from gaining additional power.”

Despite Ryan’s incredulous look, he remained silent. She continued, “WindWraith’s malevolence and Merlin’s magic prevented anyone across eras from discovering this island.” She unclenched her hand from around her satchel’s strap before it fell asleep. “The island maintains a connection to Avalon. It pulls energy from Avalon to hold Merlin’s magical barriers in place, to protect it from detection or invasion, and to bind WindWraith to it until it died. My father believes the Fomorian has found a way to steal nourishment from the island and to chip away at the barrier. In turn, the island is pulling more magic from Avalon to maintain the walls and locks. Merlin didn’t anticipate WindWraith’s ability to live so long without access to human energy. Killing it will restore magic to Avalon. Destroying it will also lessen the spread of evil that has grown from my time to yours.”

Ryan flicked his hand in the air. “How will that help my people? My world has already been destroyed.”

Morgan cricked her neck, her curiosity about Ryan’s world besting her judgment. “Tell me about your world, your era.”

He opened his mouth and shut it, seeming to battle an impulse to speak with a need to hold back. “Let’s just say that Fomorians apparently survived throughout millennia and have already immersed my time in evil.” He gestured at Morgan. “This is your fairy tale, not mine.”

Morgan spit words out as if muck caked them. “WindWraith is trapped on this island until it can consume enough power to break down the protective barrier on the ocean floor. Now that I’ve seen and sensed the Fomorian,” she gulped hard, “I believe it needs to possess a corporeal body to escape. It has lost most of its solid form.” The old fantastical tales had haunted her all day. Voicing them loosened the tightness in her shoulders.

Ryan clapped his hands, smiling cruelly at her. “Bravo. Your imagination could fill a whole new library to replace what we’ve lost.”

Wrath flared into her power center. Morgan silently intoned a sending spell. She sent images into Ryan’s head of a foretelling she experienced two weeks ago. At that time, her Sight made no sense. Now she understood its nature.

The scene revealed Ryan sailing away from a gloomy, barren world, and washing ashore on this island. She also shared a moment from his childhood, a memory he had locked away in the farthest recesses of his mind. That particular image froze Ryan’s body. An instant barricade encircled his mind, forcing her intrusive transference out.

“I’m sorry.” Her lower lip trembled.

Ryan fisted a hand against his other palm, cracking his knuckles. The sound grated along Morgan’s nerves like a knife on crockery.

“Sorry for what? For breaking into my head?” he asked in a composed voice. “For knowing I didn’t care if I died in the squall? Seeing my screwed up childhood? Seeing how my father suppressed my magic when I defied him? Witnessing me reduced to begging on my knees in front of the bastard and agreeing to his terms in order to get a break from the torture of not having my power?” The dragon tattoo on his arm quivered as if preparing to launch itself at Morgan.

“I’m sorry for everything.” She sighed loudly. “I’m a seer. However, my ability sometimes includes perplexing and disturbing visions of an unknown past.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? If you saw that much, you saw what’s left of my hellhole of a world.”

His frosty glare held the demeanor of a boy whose dark secrets had fallen into enemy hands. She shoved aside her packs and claimed the space between them. Tentatively, she touched his arm, then gave him a reassuring squeeze. His muscles jumped beneath her hand, resisting the compassion she offered.

“My gifts don’t work in such a manner. I see only what the Goddess allows.” She shrugged. “There is always a purpose behind my visions. I can’t always comprehend them at first, but ultimately they serve to enlighten or aid those in need.”

He shrugged her hand off his arm. “I don’t want your sympathy.” The glare he gave her was as icy as his voice. “Duty prevails over my life.” He straightened his spine against the cave wall. “My parents were the most powerful Druid sorcerers on Earth in
my
time. They married for the specific purpose of creating dominant sorcerers. I was born and raised solely to replenish our dwindling population in a world that believed we were a bunch of tree worshipping ritual priests. Those Druids haven’t existed in over a century. Few people believed in or understood the lost magic of the Druids and our ties to the elements.” A dark, wintry expression formed lines around Ryan’s eyes and mouth. “All my father cared about was proving the world wrong, creating a dominant race. There was no fucking love in my family.” His fingers dug into his thighs, whitening the depressions in his tanned skin. “Once my father discovered how powerful I was, all he wanted was to raise me to be his successor. To do that, I had to garner the respect of our people in the only way I knew how—killing the Fomorians and their spawn hell-bent on annihilating our magic.” Ryan’s body quaked with anger. “I earned his grudging respect. The day I killed a Fomorian he couldn’t touch, I earned his fear. Duty is all I know, all that matters.” Bitterness spiked his tone.

An oppressive air descended upon them. Morgan wiped the perspiration off her brow, unsure how to respond. She knew all too well the prevalence of responsibility in a ruler’s life, evidenced by her luckless presence on the island. At least she hadn’t died on Avalon as she long expected, she thought wryly.

Ryan’s mask softened, and his shoulders hunched forward. “Did you mean Avalon, like in King Arthur?” Curiosity glinted in his eyes.

She smiled in fond remembrance of home. “Yes. My great-great-grandfather was a child when King Arthur died.”

Ryan searched her face for truth, lies, she knew not which. “Explains a lot.”

Irritation skittered down her back. “Excuse me, but I—”

He held up a forestalling hand. “I only meant that you talk and dress differently.”

“Oh.” Her lips curled up in a tiny smile.

“You’re not,” a flush worked up Ryan’s neck, “Morgan le Fay, are you?”

Morgan flicked a dismissive hand. “Heavens no. She exists in my lineage long, long ago. Many women of power in my family have been named after her.”

Another weighty silence draped over them in the small space. Morgan plucked her damp tunic away from her breasts to give the air a chance to cool her moist body. Leisurely, Ryan’s gaze traveled from her face and downward, stopping at the rounded neckline baring the top of her breasts.

Licking his lips, he asked, “What magic do you possess?” Hoarseness toned down his usual forceful voice.

A flicker of anxiousness conflicted with the gleam of lust in his eyes. A cheerful swirl fluttered in her stomach. The little devil on one shoulder wanted to prolong his obvious discomfort and show him her abilities. As she opened her mouth to stall him, a rolling swell shook the ground beneath them. A loud rumble erupted below the Earth’s surface.

Terror grappled the bit of contentment Morgan had begun to claim. “What’s happening?” she cried.

“Damn,” Ryan bit out. He hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward the cave opening. “Get out of the cave!”

Chapter 12

Rocks and clods of dirt clattered to the ground, tumbled into growing piles. Thick dust zapped the air from the cave. Morgan stumbled toward the entrance, fighting the shaking ground, feeling like a sailor on a storm-tossed pier. She halted in the opening, peered through the dust cloud at Ryan.

He rushed to gather their gear. “Get out!” he hollered over the clamor of shifting terrain.