Master of Darkness (13 page)

The flavor of that ancient magic sent his mind dancing backward through centuries gone, back to the days before he’d become Erielhonan, the Mother’s Cat. The days when he’d spread his great wings to the wind between the worlds, a being of pure, swirling magic.

He and his band had not been as powerful as others who’d come to the Mageverse even earlier. In those days, the Children of the Wind had been content to simply dodge the great predators who warred on one another and hunted those of lesser magic. Predators who ripped the life force from others as the sharks of this world tear flesh from a fish. Growing ever stronger with every life claimed.

And ever more viciously hungry.

The Great Predators hunted the Children of the Wind until only a handful survived, clinging to the edge of extinction in a thin, cold cosmic desert where there was little magic to feed them.

Until, starving and desperate, Erie and his herd found the Gate. Conscious of the danger of traveling to another dimension, yet knowing death was even more certain if they remained, the band streamed through the gate.

Only to realize they had only chosen a death more fleet. The alien energies of the Mageverse threatened to rip them apart. Would probably have done so, had not the Mother sensed their cries of pain and fear.

Maeve already maintained a menagerie of sorts, a collection of magical creatures who’d become her companions. Now she offered the dying aliens homes within her pets, allowing them to merge with the creatures, gaining protection from the forces that would otherwise have destroyed them.

In merging with her animal companions, the Children had discovered a new and fascinating world. Erie had never regretted the bargain. He knew he’d have been dead centuries since had the Mother not taken pity on the Children of the Wind.

“Ah, there you are, Maeve’s Cat!” Dovregubben’s voice boomed as the troll’s dimensional gate vanished at his heels.

He was a big, barrel-chested creature, shaped more or less like a Sidhe, though much bigger, with skin the rich shade of jungle leaves and a beard that reminded Erie of moss growing on weathered stone.

The troll swaggered into the clearing on legs like oak trunks, oddly graceful for all his bulk. The grace was not an illusion; Erie had seen him in combat. The constant challenges he faced as his people’s king had made Dovregubben a skilled and wily swordsman, despite the layer of fat from his love of elvish meade.

Dovregubben grinned, the scar that ran the length of his face pulling at the shape of his mouth. Most of his left ear was ragged and missing, in contrast with the tall emerald point that was his right. Gold rings circled his thick green fingers, studded with gemstones like the armbands around his massive biceps. His leather armor was intricately worked with swirling trollish designs that curled around yet more gems, most of them enchanted with one spell or another. Spells for strength, spells for cunning, spells for endurance. Dovregubben apparently kept his people’s wizards busy.

“So, what says the Mother?” the big troll asked, folding his massive arms. “Will she craft me my sword?”

“Aye, but ’twill not come cheap,” Erie told him, and named a price that made the old troll sputter.

“Ridiculous!” Dovregubben snapped, waving away the sum, just as Maeve had predicted. “I’ll give you fifty-six gems, and not one stone more. Twenty emeralds, twenty rubies, and diamonds for the remainder. Flawless stones, by my mother’s dugs, ready to take any enchantment Maeve would cast on them. Far more valuable than a little worked steel.”

“Bah,” Erie spat, Guinness at his most lordly. “The Mother of Fairies forges the finest blades on this or any other world, and well you know it. The sword she’ll craft for you will make your rival piss his breechcloth. Any less than sixty rubies, sixty emeralds, and fifty diamonds would be an insult to her honor.”

“Would you bankrupt my kingdom?” Dovregubben demanded, rocking back on his booted heels as if staggered by Erie’s presumption. “Why, I . . .”

Evil exploded around them, the stench of it so thick and vile, Erie instinctively flattened, hissing, ears drawn back and tail lashing as four dimensional gates opened around them. Dovregubben drew his great sword in a ringing sweep as he cursed in guttural Mountain Troll and readied himself for battle.

An enormous white werewolf was the first through the gates, towering on his massive bunched legs, hands gripping a huge battle-axe. Power radiated from him, along with waves of vile intent.

Three more Dire Wolves stepped through after him. One led a floating cage that imprisoned a dragon child lying in a heap of golden scales, as if flattened by despair. Another dragged a furious unicorn on the end of a magical chain, the beast rearing and fighting every inch of the way, horn glinting as it tried to stab its captor. The last wolf guided a ten-foot energy bubble filled with darting, madly circling demi-Sidhe, none more than six inches high, though they could assume human size when they had the room. Their glowing eyes shone out at Erie, huge with pleading in pale, terrified faces.

“Ahhhh,” the white werewolf purred. “Look, boys—what luck. Two brand-new sacrifices, just waiting for the blade.”

Erie snarled and prepared to fight, even as his heart went cold.

* * *

Justice and Miranda’s
moment of privacy ended as Guinness and Maeve emerged from the shielding spell. Thankfully, the Sidhe did not bring her boar spear.

The sun had just begun to rise, spilling red and violet light across the Mageverse sky; more time had evidently passed than Miranda had realized.

“I see you finally regained your wits,” the dog told Justice. “I was beginning to think we’d have to get you fixed to keep you from humping the neighbor’s Saint Bernard.” The Chihuahua flashed his teeth in cheerful malice. “That, or Maeve would have to skewer you like a cocktail wiener.”

“Yeah, that
would
have been unfortunate,” Justice displayed all his own dentition right back. “Especially since it might not have been quite that easy.” He reached down and pulled Merlin’s Blade out of the ground with an easy jerk of his wrist. At his touch, the weapon flared as bright as an arc welder.

“Nicely menacing.” The dog bestowed a judicious nod. “Very
Scarface
Pacino, with just a splash of
Shining
Nicholson. May I suggest a bit more Anthony Hopkins? The Hannibal the Cannibal Hopkins, not the Merchant Ivory butler.” He gave Miranda a limpid puppy dog look, the effect slightly spoiled by those bulging eyes. “Would you like to play Clarice, my dear?”

“Not even for a nice Chianti.”

“Whoever you decide to channel, save it for Warlock,” Maeve said shortly. “In the meantime, I’d suggest more combat practice with your new powers. Those fireballs were pitiful.”

A particularly brilliant spark exploded in the ebony depths of Justice’s eyes. “I’ll try to do better.”

Guinness nodded like a gourmet at a wine tasting. “Just enough Anthony that time.”

“Glad to hear it.” Deadpan as a cobra, Justice lifted a brow. “I’d hate to chew the . . . scenery.”

“As long as the scenery is the only thing you chew,” Maeve shot back. “I would suggest talking to Arthur and Morgana about that training. Immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.” In contrast to those zingers at Guinness, his tone was actually respectful.

“Come, dog.” Looking at the blazing horizon, Maeve sighed in weariness. “I haven’t seen the dawn after a night this hard since the Kennedy administration.” Glancing back at Miranda and Justice, the Sidhe nodded. “Sleep well, children.”

Chorusing good-byes, Miranda and Justice watched the pair disappear into the mansion. “So, do you think Maeve and JFK . . .”

“No,” Miranda told him quickly. “And I don’t want to, either.”

“Oh, come on. All that supernatural power? I could definitely see Kennedy hitting that.” Justice swung the axe up onto his shoulder with one hand and took her elbow with the other.

“So can I, but that doesn’t mean I want to.”

“Pussy.”

“You never complained before. Anyway, I have enough psychic scars as it is.” Raising a brow, she asked, “Shall I open the gate, or do you want to give it a try?”

Justice guided her around a rosebush that probably dated back to the Declaration of Independence, judging by its sheer leafy glory. Despite the crisp fall air, it was covered in blooms the same burning orange as the sky, each rose as big as her head. “It’s a gorgeous day. Why don’t we just walk?”

“Justice, Avalon is halfway around the planet from here.”

“I didn’t mean all the way back.”

“Oh, God. Is this going to be one of
those
conversations?”

“Don’t know yet.” He cocked his head and studied her face. “Why are you still afraid of me?”

Flustered, she began, “I’m not afraid, exactly. I’m just . . .”

Justice didn’t let her get the rest of the lie out of her mouth. “The fear scent is almost as strong right now as it was when you were diving down rabbit holes to get away from my teeth. Give it up, Bugs. What’s wrong?”

“I’m neurotic. Would you like a back sheath for that axe so you don’t have to carry it? Looks heavy.”

He gave her a long cop look that told her he wasn’t swallowing the act. “Sure. As long as I can draw it in a hurry.”

Miranda relaxed and closed her eyes, picturing what she wanted to create. Drawing on the magical forces that always roiled in the Mageverse, she started conjuring. A moment later, the sheath appeared, black straps circling his chest, supporting the thick leather case for the battle-axe.

She showed him how to guide the weapon into its diagonal cradle. “You have to angle it at forty-five degrees, or it won’t slide in.” He adjusted his hold until the big weapon slid down his back into the grip of the leather case.

Miranda nodded. “Yeah, like that.”

“How do I get it out?” Justice gripped the haft protruding over his right shoulder.

“Just pull down on the grip. The case is spelled to pop open to release the blade. Then it snaps closed again so it doesn’t get in the way while you fight.”

“But can I do all that fast enough with one of Warlock’s beasts on my ass?” Justice practiced the maneuver a few times until he was satisfied he could free the axe with one easy jerk, then swing it up and around at his target.

“Nice work,” he said at last. “But if you think I’m that easy to distract, you underestimate me. I repeat: what’s wrong? And if you say nothing, I’m going to get pissed.”

Miranda’s pleased smile faded. Hesitating a moment, she stroked her fingers nervously over the athame in its belt sheath.

“Miranda . . .”

“Give me a minute!” Gathering her thoughts—and her courage—she launched into an account of what Maeve had told her about her father’s fear spell.

“When I used the athame to look down at myself, I saw links of glowing chain wrapping my body. Maeve told me it’s designed to weaken my power and make me panic whenever I confront Warlock. Or an Alpha Male, or
anybody
with a lot of power, like Maeve.” She drew in another breath. “Or you. When I first climbed out of the pipe, it wasn’t bothering me, but now. . . .”

He swore, using a couple of particularly creative phrases Miranda had to admire for their pure lyrical obscenity. They also sounded like good descriptions of Daddy. “What does the spell look like now?”

Drawing the athame, Miranda called on its magic as she looked down the length of her body. “Crap. It’s worse. I’m wearing more chains than Snoop Dogg. Why the hell is it stronger?”

“Whenever you give in to it, you probably
make
it stronger. Wonder if I could see that damn thing . . .” Justice frowned in concentration. A wave of azure rolled across his eyes, and his head jerked as if he’d been sucker punched. “Fuck. You’re lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. No wonder you keep freezing in combat. I’m amazed you can fight at all.”

“It’s not easy,” Miranda admitted. “I’ve locked up a couple of times at really bad moments. If I don’t find a way to get rid of this spell . . .”

“It’ll eventually get you killed.” He said the words with flat certainty.

“Yep. Any suggestions?”

“Do I look like I go to Hogwarts? All I know about magic is how to get furry.” He shrugged. “But I’ll give it a try.” His dark eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Magic’s not just a matter of will, Justice,” Miranda began uneasily. “If you try to break a spell like this without knowing how it’s constructed, you . . .”

She gasped as the chains abruptly tightened, flaring blue with blinding intensity. “Stop!” The loops jerked so hard, her bones creaked, her arms and legs howling a painful protest as their blood supply cut off. She barely managed to wheeze, “Justice, don’t!”

THIRTEEN

He flung up
his hands. “All right, I stopped! I’ll . . .”

But the chains went on tightening, blazing so bright her skin began to burn. Curls of greasy smoke stung her eyes with the nauseating stench of cooking skin. Every link of the chain grew white hot. Miranda writhed, a scream tearing her throat, though she couldn’t draw enough breath to give it voice. Her knees buckled.

Justice caught her, easing her down on the ground, one hand cupping her head to keep it from slamming on the ground with the power of her convulsions.

“Miranda!” His face looked as white as bone china. “Miranda, what the hell am I supposed to
do
?”

“Maeve,” she wheezed, the sound barely audible. “Get . . .”

The pain died as if God had flipped a switch. Miranda sucked in a huge breath and collapsed in gasping relief. Her burning flesh cooled, only to ache and prickle as circulation returned.

“Naughty, naughty, traitor,”
her father whispered in her brain.
“Leave my spell alone and stay out of my way if you don’t want to die.”

He could touch her mind at this distance, all the way from Mortal Earth? Across dimensions? Fury and terror knifed her heart.
“If you could do this, why haven’t you killed me already?”

“Oh, I’ll get around to it . . . eventually. At the moment, you’re just not that high on my priority list.”

“I’ll give you a priority list, you ass-sniffing son of a bitch . . .”

But he was gone. The icy presence had vanished from her consciousness, leaving her numb to the bone.

God, Warlock was powerful.

“Miranda,” Justice said in a low, careful voice. “What’s going on, honey? Talk to me.”

“Warlock. It was Warlock.” She concentrated on breathing for a moment, gathering her strength. Realizing her right hand was empty, she grabbed his wrist. “My athame! Justice, where’s my knife?”

He glanced around, then pounced on the bright blade lying in the leaves. When he pressed the hilt into her palm, Miranda curled her fingers gratefully around the cool metal. The weapon sang a note so pure and high, strength flooded her body, the last of the pain vanishing like a nightmare at dawn.

“We’ve got to quit doing this,” she gasped. “It’s kicking my butt.” Miranda tried to sit up, but would have hit the ground again without Justice’s supporting arms.

“Don’t try to stand just yet,” he cautioned. “Give yourself a little time.”

“Okay.” Cradling the athame in both hands, she sat dazed, watching magic dart across the blade in waves of Celtic sigils. “M’okay, Justice.”

“Yeah, right,” he said roughly. “Considering I nearly fried your pretty ass like a fish stick, you’re just dandy.”

The guilt in his voice roused her from her daze. “That wasn’t you. That was Warlock.” She described what her father had said. “He can kill me any time with this damned spell, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Like hell.” A muscle rolled in Justice’s square jaw, jerking under the morning stubble. “I’m not going to just let him murder you, Miranda. Not with a spell, not with a sword, not with a fucking paper cut. That is just not an option.”

She looked up. The concern in those beautiful eyes made her grapple for control of her temper. “The spell is booby-trapped, Justice. It’s designed to cook me if anybody tampers with it. If I don’t want to end up basted with an apple in my mouth, we’ve got to leave it the hell alone.”

“If the spell was that damned powerful, how would you be able to get rid of
any
of it just by resisting your fear?” He ran a soothing hand up and down her back. His tone was so reasonable, she wanted to smack him. “It’s got a weakness. We can break those chains if we just find the right approach.”

Temper body-slammed her. Miranda surged to her feet . . .

. . . And almost fell on her face. She caught herself and snarled. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one standing on the IED, waiting for some idiot to jerk the wrong wire.”

Stung, Justice rocked back on his haunches to glare up at her. “So we just give up? That’s your plan?” He rose to tower over her, taking a deliberate step forward to invade her space with raw masculinity. “I may be an idiot, but that doesn’t sound like much of a strategy to me.”

“You’re not an idiot.” Miranda shoved the athame into its sheath. The blade fluted a mournful protest. She sent it a mental apology and began to pace, raking both hands through her tangled red hair. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it. This entire situation just pisses me off. Warlock
trapped
me when I was four years old. He didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself!”

“He’s an abuser, Miranda.” Justice watched her pace, frowning. “That’s what they do. Strip away the magical fireworks, and he’s the exact same kind of bastard I dealt with as a cop.”

Stepping into her path, he reached out to cup her face, forcing her to stop and meet his eyes. “Look, guys like that prefer prey who can’t fight back. Kids. Vulnerable women. They condition you to believe you’re helpless.” Justice laughed, but it was the cynical bark of a man who’d seen too much and hadn’t been able to do a damned thing about any of it. “They know if you ever realize you’re
not
helpless, you’ll shoot them in the back of the head and bury them in the basement.”

Miranda moved away from him to lean one shoulder against the trunk of a nearby cottonwood—mostly to avoid face-planting in the grass from sheer exhaustion. Glancing down, she noticed the outline of chains on her bare arms, each link the same lobster red as a sunburn. “Well, if anybody ever deserved to rot in a crawl space, it’s Warlock. How do you suggest we put him there—preferably
without
me ending up battered and pan-fried?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Maeve said every time you refuse to give into your fear, the spell erodes. Sounds like your fear actually powers it. Which makes sense. Warlock wouldn’t want to spend all that magic keeping it running for—what?—two decades?”

“Yeah,” Miranda agreed slowly. “He’s got other things he’d rather use his power on, like creating giant snakes that eat people.” She frowned, processing the implications. “That makes giving into despair the worst thing I could do. Which is exactly what I just did. God, I’m a moron.” She threw up both hands in self-disgust.

“No, what you are is a woman who was an abused child.” Justice studied her, his normally warm gaze cool, assessing. Not the lover, but the cop. “Obviously, you’re not a child anymore.”

Miranda snorted. “Glad you noticed.”

He ignored her attempt to lighten the mood. “But are you still Warlock’s victim? Because if a victim is all you are, I can’t save you. Not that I don’t want to—I’d die for you.” Justice didn’t even blink as he said it; it wasn’t braggadocio. “But it doesn’t matter if I am the Hunter Prince of that fucking prophecy.
Nobody
can save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

Anger stung Miranda like a wasp, hot and quick, and she glared. “I’m
not
a victim.”

“Then quit thinking like one, and start thinking like the woman who ran a twenty-foot wolf right into the ground.
That
woman is nobody’s victim.”

Miranda blinked, her anger draining away. For the first time, she felt a gleam of hope, like a ray of sunlight pouring into an icy room. “The spell didn’t beat me that time, did it? I actually
won
.”

“Yeah, you did.” His eyes narrowed, as if he was examining the chain. “The thing I don’t understand is all the juice the spell is putting out. It’s not just your fear powering it, because at the moment, you’re not afraid.”

“No. I
am
starting to get pissed, though.”

“You and me both.” He moved in closer, examining her with that unnerving concentration.

Damn, he’s tall
. The thought pierced her concentration. Miranda’s gaze flicked across the width of his shoulders, unconsciously assessing the muscular strength, the sheer power that poured off him, magical and otherwise. That awareness brought fear darting into her consciousness, like a wharf rat skittering into a kitchen. She forced herself to ignore its icy patter to concentrate on the shape of those delicious pectoral muscles under his black silk shirt. The fabric looked soft as it shimmered in the rising sun.
It’d probably be torn to ribbons,
she thought
, except his magic kept it whole.

When a werewolf Shifted to human again, he ended up in the same clothes he’d worn to start with. She had no idea why. It was just how the magic worked.

Her mind drifted to the feel of his warm skin, like velvet layered over sculpted steel. Soft hair grew in a curling cloud on his chest, narrowing to that dark, inviting little trail that wended its way down the ridges of his belly . . .

“Maeve said the spell is decreasing your power, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Miranda’s attention drifted to his lower lip. It looked plump, tempting. She’d fantasized about giving it a good nibble for weeks before their first kiss.

“I’d bet my next paycheck”—he grimaced—“if I got one—that the fireball he threw at you diverted a big chunk of your magic to drive that spell.” Justice’s brooding attention was obviously so firmly on the problem, he’d completely missed the scent of her mood shifting into desire. “The more power you try to use, the stronger the spell gets, and the stronger your fear becomes.
That
would set up a really nasty feedback loop in a hurry.”

“Yeah, it would,” Miranda murmured. “But if I concentrate on something else, I can stop the loop.”
God, his shoulders are broad.

Justice nodded. “Yeah, that might work.” Pivoting, he dropped his gaze to the toes of his boots and began to pace across the leafy ground, obviously deep in thought. “It would have to take more than your lack of fear to break the spell. Otherwise it would die the minute you calmed down.”

“Maeve said I could use the athame to crack it,” Miranda said absently as the width of his shoulders led her eye to the broad supporting straps that held his axe angled across his back. His dark leather slacks were just tight enough to reveal the roll of his muscular ass and the powerful brawn of his long legs. He’d be fast, with legs like that.

“Did she say how?” Justice turned and walked back to her again, his dark gaze probing as he studied her face.

“No, not really.”
His muscled ass had felt warm and delightfully brawny beneath her hands. She’d curled both legs around that strong back, seeking the leverage to meet his driving thrusts. His cock filled her with a delicious, burning pleasure as he worked it in and out of her slick inner grip. He’d had her so turned on, she hadn’t even noticed the fear.

His eyes stared into hers, velvet dark, magic rolling across their irises in waves of hot blue sparks. His nose flared as if he drank in her scent. His lips parted, displaying white teeth. “You’re staring.”

“I was wondering when you’d notice.” Resting a hand in the center of his chest, she leaned into him, eyes shuttering as she enjoyed the warmth he radiated into the morning chill. “I was started to think I’d lost my touch.”

“Oh, I noticed.” That buccaneer’s smile flashed as his cock hardened, lengthening against her belly. “I just didn’t want you to think I’m easy.”

Miranda laughed. “Of all the words I could use to describe you, Justice, ‘easy’ ain’t one of them.”

He purred at her, the sound rumbling through that broad chest. Long fingers brushed the line of her jaw, stroking slowly. His fingertips were just slightly rough with calluses, and she shivered at their delicate rasp. “Just what words are we talking about?”

“Let’s see.” She rose on her toes and kissed him slowly, thoroughly, brushing his lips with hers, slipping her tongue between his even teeth, tasting him with dreamy arousal. “Hot.” Her hands explored his chest, discovering slabs of hard brawn and tight ridges that flexed as she touched him. “Strong.” She drew back an inch and smiled as she slid a hand down to cup his erection with bold fingers. Miranda grinned shamelessly as his eyes widened in erotic surprise. “Big.”

“Wicked,” he purred back, as he reached for her, caressing the curve of her ass, the width of her waist, then sliding a hand up to one breast. He cupped her through the cotton of her shirt until her nipple rose against his palm. “And soft,” he breathed against her lips. “You feel so soft.”

Justice’s free hand cradled her head as he kissed her as if savoring each tongue stroke, every brush of lip on lip. Miranda moaned against his mouth, her eyes drifting closed as she drank the clean rainwater tang of mint and ozone from his mouth.

His power began to rise in response to his desire, a slow spiral that rolled against her magical senses.

Bearing down. Grinding.

Fear shot through her brain. She tried to ignore it and concentrate on the delicious length of his cock pressed against her belly.

As if scenting her fear, he made a soothing sound and pulled her shirt from the waistband of her jeans. One big hand slid under it, up the bare, sensitive skin of her ribs. Miranda shivered and relaxed against him as he tugged a bra cup down. Fingers plucked and rolled her nipple until pleasure made her forget everything else. The sensual musk of testosterone flooded her nose. Justice growled, a low lupine rumble.

The fear that had faded under his delicious attentions instantly rushed into her brain, chilling her warm arousal.

“Work with me here, darlin’,” he murmured, and started nibbling his way down her jaw to the pulse that leaped with magic-stoked fear.

“That damned spell,” Miranda growled in frustration. “Every time I think I’ve beaten it, it surges back. I wish to hell I could just . . . burn it out of my skull.”

He paused. “Ah, I really don’t think . . .”

A wild idea flashed into her consciousness, one that sent an icy chill up her spine. Which, perversely, made her want to do it, if only to prove that she wouldn’t cave in to her father’s spell. “Tie me up.”

Justice lifted his head to stare in genuine alarm. “What?”

“Tie me up.” Miranda gritted her teeth as mental voices howled in protest. Now that she knew about the spell, she could hear how alien they were. Warlock’s nasty chorus, doing his bidding to weaken her.