IK3

Immortal Knights III:

The Golden Platter

By

Cynthia Breeding

© Copyright by Cynthia Breeding, June 2012

© Cover Art by Eliza Black, June 2012

ISBN 978-1-60394-699-5

Published by New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.store.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s

imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living

persons or events is merely coincidence.

Nimue shook mist off her gossamer faerie wings, pensively watching Brighid,

Goddess of Avalon. What kind of a mess had she gotten herself into to be

summoned here? Blast Merlin, anyway. Had he deliberately sent her off on

the wrong mission? The old sorcerer could carry a grudge, but she hadn’t

entombed him in that tree for more than a few centuries—

“Merlin did not make a mistake,” Brighid said softly as though she had read

Nimue’s mind, which she undoubtedly had. “It is I who brought you here.”

“May I ask why? I was supposed to be on my way to Texas from Cornwall

with a clue to find the Holy Grail—”

“The Grail’s time is not yet.” Brighid lifted her hands to part the swirling

vapors surrounding them and gestured to a white marble bench that

materialized in a beautiful, fragrant garden floating atop fluffy clouds.

“Please sit while I explain.”

A young priestess appeared and set a silver tea tray on the small table near

the bench before she bowed respectfully and disappeared.

Nimue helped herself to a buttery scone with coddled cream. Mortals, of

course, would be lost in the mists of Time for consuming faerie food, but

then, she was a faerie. “Delicious.”

“Thank you. We’ve been learning all sorts of culinary skills since the

Pendragon returned with a penchant for the human food called ice cream.”

Nimue’s hand stopped half-way to her mouth. “The dragon returned?”

“I felt it better to have him here than creating problems on Earth.”

She had heard the whole story of Pendragon’s escapades scaring the mortal

population witless when the warlock, Tristan, returned to Merlin’s cave with

the Sword of Fire, but she had thought the red dragon still in pursuit of his

old nemesis, Sigurd, the white Saxon dragon who had defeated him

hundreds of years ago.

“That is a battle for another time,” Brighid said, reading her mind again. “I

was not able to secure Sigurd since Balor controls him.” Her expression

turned grim. “Balor becomes more dangerous with each passing day.”

A ‘day’ on Avalon could be weeks or months on Earth—or vice versa. “But

we have two of the ancient relics safe now,” Nimue replied.

“True. The Spear and the Sword are ours, but with only the Platter and Grail

remaining in the human world, my exiled grandfather becomes even more

desperate to find them and use their power.”

Nimue knew the legend. Once a Celtlic deity, Balor—calling himself Adam

Baylor in today’s society—had succumbed to evil and greed and been sent

from Avalon, stripped of power save for that which lay beneath the eye-

patch he wore. In bitterness and rage, he had vowed to reap havoc in the

mortal realm by instilling hate, promoting wars and—in this century—

supporting terrorism and drug cartels. If he could get his hands on even one

of the four ancient relics the Tuatha de Danann had bestowed on humans for

protection, he would avenge himself against Avalon as well. Nimue

shuddered at the thought.

“I see I do not have to explain the seriousness of our situation,” Brighid

said.

“So the Grail is to remain hidden?”

“The Grail is the most powerful relic and we must ensure none of the others

add to that power. Once the Platter is secured, the Grail will make itself

known. It always has.”

“But what am I to do with this?” Nimue held out the slip of paper taken from

the Sword. “It contains the clue for the Grail.”

Brighid weaved a symbol in the air and smiled. “Look again.”

Unfolding the paper, Nimue felt her eyes widen. “It’s been changed.”

“Yes.”

Securing it in a silken pocket, she looked up. “So whom do I take this to?”

“To Gavin Myles . I believe he is working with Scotland Yard these days.”

Great. Gavin was a brooding vampire, not prone to listen to whimsical

beings like faeries. All she had to do was convince him that he had been

chosen to accomplish a holy mission.

A task made even more difficult because Nimue knew who he really was.

Chloe Whitney stuck a pencil through her orange, spiked hair, opened her

old-fashioned notepad, and tried to maneuver her way through the crowd. It

wasn’t every night a murder victim turned up lying on one of the streets of a

very exclusive Dallas neighborhood. She’d been on her way to meet a co-

reporter for coffee when she noticed the commotion. With luck, she could

nab the story and get it to the newspaper before the rest of the media got

there.

“No cell video,” one of the police officers said in a tone that brooked no

dissension. Some of the well-heeled neighbors reluctantly closed theirs.

Chloe almost grinned. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that high tech stuff tended not

to work around her. No one objected to someone actually writing notes on

paper.

However, her view was blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered man. A very

broad-shouldered man, she thought appreciatively, impeccably dressed in a

suit and tie that could have landed him on the cover of Esquire. His hair,

nearly blue-black under the streetlamp, curled slightly on those very nice,

immaculately clad shoulders. Her eyes traveled down to his narrow waist

and—she’d bet—some nice buns and muscular thighs.

As though he sensed her, the man turned around to gaze down at her. Chloe

caught her breath. The guy belonged on the cover of a romance novel, not

Esquire. Seriously. She ought to know—she spent enough time reading

romances, hoping one day to actually write one. This guy’s cheekbones were

incredible, his nose aquiline, mouth full and sensual, but it was his eyes that

held her mesmerized. Black as the depths of a dark lake on a winter night,

they were trained on her, penetrating as though he could read the recesses

of her mind. Dimly she was aware of that sexy mouth moving, forming

words.

“This is quite a nasty sight. I dare say, you will be horrified if you go closer.”

Chloe stood, enthralled at the clipped accent. He was English? She loved

British romances the best! He was definitely the best piece of eye-candy

she’d seen on any book cover.

“Miss?” A slight look of annoyance crossed his face as he held up a badge

that gave his name as Gavin Myles, Scotland Yard. “The local police need to

secure the area. You really must leave.”

The badge snapped her out of her reverie. Scotland Yard? Geez, he could

play the next James Bond! “I’m a reporter,” she said and held up her

notepad and her own ID. “Chloe Whitney. The media has a right to—”

“I assure you, you do not want to see this corpse, Miss Whitney.”

“Oh, please. I’ve seen blood before. Reporters cover accidents too, you

know.” She tried to move around him, but he stepped in front of her.

“Not like this one.”

“How bad can it be?” For the first time, she noticed that most of the

neighbors turned away, speaking in hushed tones rather than the loud,

raucous melee that usually accompanied gawkers. Even the police officers

looked subdued .

“Okay. So the guy was shot? Stabbed? Both? I’ve seen—”

“Neither.”

Chloe stared at him. “Neither?”

“Neither,” he said again. “He was mauled and burned.”

“Mauled? By dogs?” This was hardly the part of the city where mongrel dogs

ran loose nor were the super-rich inclined to breed pit-bulls.

“Not dogs. Something much bigger.”

Chloe frowned. “We don’t exactly have grizzlies roaming around Texas—”

She stopped, feeling slightly dizzy. Tiny lights began to sparkle in front of

her. She shook her head to clear it. She hadn’t had an episode of déjà vu in

years. She remembered there had been media reports of dragon sightings a

few weeks ago, but she’d been visiting her mother at a wilderness commune

in California that was a mecca for former hippies—of which her mother was

one—and Chloe had missed the whole thing.

“Inspector Myles,” one of the police said as he approached them. “We’d like

your opinion on something.”

He flashed her a warning look before he turned away, but Chloe didn’t heed

it. Some reporter she’d be if she didn’t get the story. Even now, TV and

cable trucks were headed this way.

She brushed past an officer who was making notes and then jolted to a

standstill.

Part of what lay on the street had been incinerated, although there were no

scorch marks on the pavement. An arm was missing and the head nearly

severed, attached only by a strip of skin. The body was shredded so badly

the clothing and intestines were a spongy pulp soaking in what seemed to be

gallons of blood.

Whatever had done this wasn’t human. Chloe swallowed hard to keep the

bile from rising and inched closer. It was then that she saw the gold ring

with a large ruby attached to the remaining hand. She knew that ring. It

belonged to Jake Baxter, the guy she had been on her way to meet.

A freight train roared through her ears as the world tilted. She felt strong

arms grasp her as bands of grey and black whirled round and round,

enveloping her in darkness.

****

warned her, but would she mind him? Clearly not. Women in this century—

or even the last one—did not appreciate the protection a man could give.

They even seemed to spurn offers of gallantry, preferring to open their own

doors and pay their own way on dates. Not that he dated. Even with

synthetic blood available these days, the pulsing of rich, warm human blood

in those lovely female throats was still a big temptation—especially in the

throes of passion—though it had been fifteen hundred years since he had

been turned.

Gavin looked down at the woman he was carrying up the driveway to the

expensive mansion of the reclusive John Smith who, at the moment, was

also his employer. She really was a petite thing—scarce more than one-and-

a-half meters, he’d wager—and felt as light as a sack of feathers. However,

no sack of feathers had gently-swelling curves in all the right places. He

wondered if the girl was impoverished, since her denim jeans were faded

and torn in places and the khaki camouflage jacket she wore looked like it

belonged on a man. Or it could be the height of fashion these days. It was

hard to know. He winced a little at the wild, orange hair. How could a

hairdresser have done such a disastrous job? Maybe the poor lady really

could not afford to have it put right.

She looked like a child, peacefully asleep right now. Thick lashes lay against

delicate cheekbones and her delectably full lips were parted slightly, her

breathing even. Gavin stared at the pulsating arteries in her throat and felt

his groin tighten and his fangs begin to elongate.

Quickly he snapped them in place. He had no time for lust and this was no

place to show his true identity. He glanced back at the police officers and the