Master of Dragons (3 page)

The only reason she hadn't yielded to the siren calls of drugs or booze—or some faster means of suicide—was the nagging thought that self-destruction would make their sacrifice pointless. She was the Last Avatar, the means of Semira's survival and the symbol of hope to the Morven Sidhe. She didn't have the luxury of self-destruction.

Though dreams like the one she'd had last night could make the idea more than a little tempting.

No. She had a duty, both to Semira and to her parents. She'd been a stupid, softhearted kid with just enough power to get herself in trouble, and she'd saved a dog. The people she loved had paid for that mistake. Nothing she could do would ever change that. She could only make sure the life she lived made their sacrifice worthwhile. That meant following her father's example: making a living and keeping her head down.

And one day, freeing Semira from that sword, no matter what it cost her. Even if it meant burning alive.

Dragging her thoughts away from the dream, Nineva tucked the wand under her arm and hefted out her box of props. A soft meow emerged from its depths. Snowball, her neighbor's Persian kitten, did not care for his temporary quarters.

“Shhh,” she whispered, and tapped the top of the box with a fingertip. Snowball obediently settled down.

Satisfied he wouldn't give himself away, Nineva carried the box toward the spacious three-story brick home that presided over an expanse of lawn gone winter brown.

Absently, she glanced upward. The sky was that perfect crystalline shade the locals called Carolina blue, a product of cloudless January afternoons when the air had a bracing bite. Despite her bare arms and thin skirts, Nineva was perfectly comfortable. Thanks to her bloodlines, she didn't need a coat to keep warm.

It was one of the few benefits of being a descendent of the goddess.

The front door swung open before she even reached it, revealing a harried-looking young woman in blue jeans and a leaf green cable-knit sweater. “Boy, I'm glad you're here,” Joyce Clark called over the babble of childish voices coming from inside. She pushed back a lock of shoulder-length red hair and rolled her blue eyes. “The natives are getting restless.”

Nineva grinned as Joyce stepped back to let her inside. “Kind of a given, when you've got ten eight-year-olds hopped up on cake and ice cream.”

“Good point.” The woman gave her an admiring look, taking in her pointed ears, wings, and gauzy rose skirts. “Wow, great costume! Those ears look real.”

“Thank you.” Nineva always dropped her glamour when she was doing her act, letting her pointed ears show. Normally, she hid them with the spell.

Joyce's eyes dropped to the edge of the Mark peeking above the cleavage of the gown. “Wow. Is that paint?”

“Something like that. Where can I set up?”

“I thought maybe the living room. You can get situated while the kids finish off the cake.” She led the way across the granite-tiled foyer amid the shouts and laughter of overexcited eight-year-olds. They stepped into a wide, airy room dominated by a stone fireplace, an elegant cream couch, and an impressive plasma television. “This okay?”

Nineva smiled, ignoring a niggle of envy. She'd never known this kind of wealth. “‘Okay' doesn't do it justice.”

Joyce smiled back. “Thanks. We…” Before she could get the rest out of her mouth, a particularly shrill chorus of giggles had her craning her neck to see through the kitchen doorway. “No, Carly, that does not go up your nose!” She lunged toward the kitchen.

Shaking her head in amusement, Nineva parked her box on the cream area rug in front of the couch and started unpacking. Snowball took up the bottom compartment of the gilded box—a set of air holes punched in the side made it safe for any furred or feathered costars Nineva cared to use—while her props occupied the middle. She folded the top compartment down into a flat tabletop, then covered it with a length of rose fabric.

By the time the little girls trooped in at Joyce's heels, Nineva had the props for her opening bit arranged and ready. “Wow!” The expected chorus rose with gratifying fervor as the kids caught sight of her costume.

“Are you a fairy?”

Nineva turned from her box and almost lost her smile. Among the pink and healthy kids was a little girl so pale her skin bordered on gray. Her pink party dress almost swallowed her emaciated little body, and her brown eyes took up far too much of a painfully thin face. Perched on the too-bright curls of her blond wig was a gold cardboard crown, decorated with pink glitter that spelled out “Birthday Girl.”

This had to be the Brandy she'd been hired to entertain. Joyce hadn't said anything about her daughter being ill.

Knowing she'd probably regret it, Nineva let her gaze slip unfocused until she could look at the child with other senses. A dark shadow seemed to curl around Brandy's small body, draining the normal blue radiance of life into an unhealthy gray. The darkness drew into a thick knot concentrated in her head. She must have some kind of brain cancer.

Giving her magic free rein, Nineva sensed the tumor was inoperable. Judging by all the poisons in her body, Brandy had been undergoing chemotherapy and radiation treatments for weeks now, but she was succumbing to the treatments faster than the cancer was.

She had, at most, a couple of months to live.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

Pasting a smile on her face, Nineva dipped a curtsy and waved her battery-operated wand. “I am Nineva, Princess of the Fairies.”

“I'm Brandy.” The child nodded eagerly, her eyes almost painfully wide. In their depths shone a flicker of desperate hope.

Sweet Semira, she thinks I'm real
. Without letting her smile falter, Nineva turned to the rest of the children, who had arranged themselves breathlessly on the couch. “And who are you?”

As the children babbled out all their names at once, Nineva's mind worked furiously. Curing Brandy would take an act of major magic that could attract Ansgar's attention. As she'd learned years ago, shielding that kind of magic use was difficult at best. It tended to blow right through her best efforts.

She'd done other healings since the Irish setter that had cost her parents' lives, but only dying humans—and nothing this complicated. It was one thing to fix a damaged heart, but between the cancer and the chemo, Brandy's entire body was compromised. There was no guarantee Nineva could heal that much damage. What if the attempt accomplished nothing except to get her killed?

Would she be wasting her parents' sacrifice?

To give herself time to think, Nineva swung into her act. She'd long since learned to restrict herself to the kind of small tricks any mortal magician might work at a child's birthday party. Anything else could draw her cousin's homicidal interest.

For the next forty-five minutes, Nineva did card tricks, pulled coins out of little ears and noses, linked apparently solid rings together, and made a ball float in midair beneath a scarf. By the end of her act, the awestruck little girls imagined her a genuine fairy princess with fantastic powers. Brandy's watching mother probably thought she was skilled with sleight of hand and stage props.

The little girls had it right, a bit of irony Nineva didn't enjoy the way she usually did.

She couldn't take her eyes off Brandy. Every time brown eyes widened or thin, pale cheeks flushed with excitement, a little needle of pain worked its way deeper in her heart.
Some fairy princess I am. Mom would be so ashamed.

Mom is dead,
the ruthless voice of pragmatism retorted.
And I will be, too, if Ansgar senses me work that spell. Which might not even save Brandy anyway
.

Could she really cure a brain tumor? Nineva had stopped a heart attack two years ago when a middle-aged salesman keeled over at the bar where she'd worked. She'd healed him so quickly, he'd thought the attack was only a particularly nasty case of indigestion. In reality, Nineva had likely given him another forty years of life.

Unfortunately, the burst of power had blown out her shields yet again. She'd had to race home, pack all her stuff, and slip out of town that same night.

But it had been worth it. She may have cost her parents their lives, but if she could save others, that had to balance the scales.

So would saving this little girl.
If
Nineva could do it.

Ah, hell. Who was she kidding? She had to try, King Ansgar and his killer Sidhe warriors be damned. Even if they caught her, at least Brandy Clark would be alive. And if she failed and got caught anyway…

Well, Ansgar would regret tangling with her. Nineva wouldn't go down without a fight.

She swung into what was usually the act's climax, pulling Snowball out of a ribbon-bedecked hat with much wand-waving and magical gestures. While all the little girls clapped, Nineva sank to her knees in front of Brandy. “Would you like to pet Snowball?”

The child nodded so hard, her crown tipped forward. She pushed it back with one hand and accepted the little animal with the other.

As Brandy petted the purring kitten, Nineva pulled her into her lap, closed her eyes and cupped the thin little face in one hand. And opened herself to the magic.

She shielded hastily as the Mark began to blaze. A buzzing wave of energy flooded her consciousness with such intensity, she felt dazzled, breathless. It was like flying. No, like being a shooting star, all light and exhilaration. God, it had been so long since she'd dared use her full power…

Dragging her attention back to business, Nineva sent magic pouring through her fingertip and into Brandy's small head, right into the knot of lethal darkness. Slowly, carefully, she attempted to pick the knot apart. It only tightened protectively.

Nineva drew in more magic and breathed it over the little girl, concentrating fiercely on the malevolent spot.
Heal,
she thought, focusing her will like a laser.
Heal. Heal, heal, heal, HEAL.

The tumor abruptly yielded. Mutated cells began to return to normal, slowly at first, then faster as the cancer melted away like a snowball in the sun.

Her tired eyes stung. Ruthlessly blinking back the tears, Nineva sent more magic surging through the little girl's body to repair the damage from chemotherapy and radiation. The Mark blazed until her entire right breast throbbed. She set her teeth and strengthened her shields as she worked, wondering all the while if it would be enough to save the child. Nineva was burning a hell of a lot of power, and she suspected it was leaking through the shield.

“Wow, look at the lady's tattoo!” a little girl whispered.

At last, drained and euphoric, she opened her eyes.

Brandy was staring up at her with wonder. “My head doesn't hurt anymore.”

Nineva pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Good.” She lifted the child from her lap and climbed to her feet. Her knees shook under her, and her skirt was as wrinkled as a gunnysack. She'd have to spring for a dry cleaner.

In her current dizzy state of exhaustion and exhilaration, she didn't particularly care.

Brandy's mother was staring at her, puzzlement on her pretty face. Even the other children watched with solemn eyes. Joyce stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Are you okay? You seemed to zone out for a minute there. And what
is
that thing on your chest? How'd you make it glow like that?”

Nineva flashed her a smile and spun her standard line. “It's a special paint. Increased blood flow makes it luminesce. Part of the act.” She'd grown very skilled at lying.

“You're really good.” Joyce's eyes drifted to her daughter's face, suddenly grown animated as she showed the kitten to her friends. The gray pallor was already beginning to lift. “Brandy does look better.” She bit her lip. “I was afraid this party would be too much, but…”

It was easy to guess the rest of the sentence:
It might be the last birthday she'll ever have.

Nineva concealed a secret smile. Brandy would now have many more birthdays to look forward to. Her doctors would be puzzled at her spontaneous remission, and her parents would be overjoyed.

I did it.
Happiness sang through her as she went to work packing up her magic box with shaking hands.

Now, if only she could manage to stay out of Ansgar's hands…

The Mark pulsed
on her skin, a deeper, harder throb than before. A throb of warning.

Nineva froze as her elation began to give way to dawning terror.

Ansgar. Ansgar was coming. Somehow he'd sensed her spell.

She had to get out of here before her cousin could get a solid fix. She definitely didn't want a death squad showing up at Brandy's party. All these little girls would make inviting targets.

Nineva cautiously extended her magical senses and sensed…nothing.

When she'd healed the heart attack victim, she'd detected the king's hungry attention almost at once, which was why she'd fled. This time, though, there was none of that sense of evil. Apparently the Sidhe king was asleep at the switch.

God, she hoped so. After two solid years of work, Nineva was finally beginning to get good bookings as a magician again, and the tips were generous at Carlos's Cantina, where she worked as a bartender. If she had to run, she'd lose all that. She'd have to start over at square one, struggling to get by on her savings until the money began coming in again.

Should she run anyway, just to be safe?

It was a question she'd become familiar with over the years. One of the ugly ironies of her life was that, despite Eirnin's and Sarah's sacrifices, Ansgar seemed to somehow know they'd had a child.

Eirnin had told her once he feared the king had sensed her birth. She'd slid from her mother's womb with the Mark glowing on her tiny chest, magic blooming around her like a star. Her father had tried to shield her, but he'd always suspected he'd been too late.

And he must have been. Why else would Ansgar have searched for them all so doggedly? Living on Mortal Earth, Eirnin was no threat to Ansgar's throne, but the prophecy said Nineva would overthrow the usurper. Ansgar couldn't afford to ignore the threat she represented.

The thought of what her cousin would do if he got his hands on her had forced Nineva to live her entire life in hiding. If she allowed herself to be captured, not only would she pay the price, but the goddess would remain trapped in the sword.

Frowning in worry, she watched Joyce Clark write a check for her performance. The frown lifted as she thought of what a bargain the woman was getting.

Seventy-five dollars for her child's life.

It was worth it,
Nineva told herself fiercely.
No matter what happens next.

After collecting Snowball and tucking the kitten back in her magic box, she kissed Brandy on the cheek and said her good-byes to the other little girls. As she carried the box to her car, she reached out again with her magical awareness. And caught her breath.

Something was looking back.

 

Nineva shot a
worried look at the Honda's fuel gauge. The needle was far too close to E. She didn't want to stop, but if she ran out of gas, she really would be screwed.

In theory, of course, she could simply gate wherever she wanted to go. Her father had taught her the technique years ago, but he'd also told her the resulting energy flare would draw Ansgar's attention like a bonfire on a dark night. As a result, she'd never actually conjured a dimensional gate, and the idea of stepping through one gave her the willies.

No, she'd stick to old-fashioned horsepower. The Honda might be a ten-year-old rust bucket, but it wouldn't land her in the middle of a lava field, either. Or, worse, in the homicidal hands of Cousin Ansgar.

Of the two, Nineva would prefer the lava.

She spotted a convenience store and whipped in to park beside one of the pumps. Scooping her purse off the seat, she rooted around for her debit card, then got out to fill up.

After using the card, she plugged the nozzle into the Honda's tank. As gas began whooshing into it, she felt eyes on her. She whipped her head around.

To meet the dark, surprised gaze of a middle-aged black man filling his own tank on the other side of the pump. He was staring at her gauzy skirts, bare arms, and upswept hair. “Aren't you cold?” he asked in a deep, pleasant drawl. “It's got to be in the low forties.”

She gave him a controlled smile. “I'm hot-natured.”

A younger man might have made a suggestive reply. He only smiled back. “Yeah, my wife wants to sleep with the windows open in the dead of February. She 'bout freezes my backside off. Hot flashes.” He pulled the nozzle out and set it back in its cradle. “Have a nice evening.”

“You, too.” Nineva felt her liar's smile turn into an honest grin as he drove off. Absently, she glanced across the parking lot to the stand of trees beyond. And froze.

A man stood watching her from among the pines. He was tall, well over six feet—six-four or six-five, maybe. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he was dressed in black jeans and a navy blue sweater. He wore a black leather duster and heavy boots that made her think of motorcycles.

Extending her senses cautiously, she detected no overt sense of magic about him, no buzzing tingle of enchantment. That meant nothing, though. She'd learned to shield her own magic from the time she was old enough to walk.

She frowned, staring at him. There was something familiar about that square, tough face with its broad cheekbones and strong chin. His blue gaze was intense, sensual. He looked at her the way a man looks at a woman he wants.

And means to have.

Oh, sweet Semira
. As the realization struck, cold flooded over her skin like a wave of icy seawater.
It's the man from my dream.

She'd seen him so many times over the past week, wearing just that hot, hungry stare. She'd only taken this long to recognize him because he'd changed the color of his shoulder-length hair: plain human brown rather than the exotic cobalt of her dreams. His eyes were different, too—cool blue instead of the glowing, magical crimson she'd come to fear.

But there could be no mistake. She knew that face.

What the hell was he? Sidhe? Enemy? Future lover? Both? The dream certainly implied that he was somehow intimately connected to her destruction.

He was probably Sidhe, and not one of the nice ones. Hell, for all she knew, he was Ansgar himself.

For a moment, Nineva considered yanking the nozzle from the tank, jumping in the Honda, and peeling rubber for home. Instead she forced herself to give him a flirtatious smile, as if she hadn't realized he was anything but human. Then she carefully glanced away, her expression casual despite her pounding heart. Her sweaty hand felt slippery on the nozzle as she tightened her grip on the trigger.
Fill, dammit.
The gas streaming into the tank sounded barely faster than a trickle.

Panic clawed at her. She had to get away from him. Had to think. Decide what to do.

Though she was no longer looking at him, she could still feel him, see him in her mind. His image seemed branded on her retinas.

Nineva stole another look at him from the corner of one eye. She had to admit he was handsome, if not inhumanly beautiful the way her father had been. His face was a bit too angular and uncompromising for that, with those deep-set eyes narrowed under thick brows. His mouth was wide and unsmiling, his jaw a square, aggressive jut. He looked like he meant business.

Years of nightmares screamed that his business was her death.

He started toward her.

Nineva's pounding heart leaped into a full gallop. She met his eyes directly in a cool, challenging stare and dropped her shields a bit. Drawing on the Mark, she let it glow over the neckline of her gown, hoping to bluff him with the threat of her power.

His direct gaze didn't drop, though a flash of sensual interest heated his eyes as they dipped down to her low-cut bodice. One corner of his mouth kicked up in a half-smile, as though he approved of what he saw.

Dangerous. He was so dangerous.

Was
he Ansgar? Probably not. Her cousin wasn't the kind to do his own killing. Assassins were more his speed.

Suddenly the hiss of flowing gas turned into the bubbling of a filled tank. Nineva released the trigger and threw the nozzle back onto its cradle, then swung hastily into the car. Fortunately, she'd already swiped her debit card. She started the Honda and sped out of the parking lot, ignoring an SUV's angry horn blast as she barreled into traffic.

She had to get home, return Snowball to her neighbor, and grab that all-important duffel full of cash. If only she'd packed it that afternoon…Unfortunately, the violence of her nightmare had shaken her so badly, she hadn't even remembered the duffel until she was halfway to the party.

She only hoped that mistake didn't cost her her life.

 

Kel shook his
head as he watched the fairy princess speed from the parking lot like a bank robber fleeing the scene. “Paranoid much?” he muttered under his breath.

Then again, you weren't paranoid if they really were out to get you. Particularly if “they” were the army of evil Sidhe warriors Cachamwri had described.

Poor kid. He seriously doubted she'd be able to fight off a Boy Scout troop. And what was with the costume, anyway? She looked like she should be telling Dorothy there was no place like home.

Still, she was a surprisingly lush little thing for a Sidhe, with sweetly full breasts that made him contemplate what it would be like to peel her out of that ridiculous dress.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem she was in the mood.

He sighed and strode around the side of the building until he was out of sight of any curious passersby. Shuttering his eyes, he drew on the familiar warm buzz of the Mageverse and wove it into a glamour.

And promptly vanished into thin air—at least as far as the humans were concerned.

Comfortably invisible, he gestured, drawing a shimmering pinpoint in the air. A flick of his fingers expanded it into a rippling doorway that glowed with a milky iridescence. He stepped through the dimensional gate into a dimly lit room. Curious, Kel gazed around.

Well, Nineva Morrow certainly didn't live like a fairy princess. More like someone who expected to have to race from gas stations. The efficiency apartment was clean enough, but the furniture consisted of a relatively new futon, a couple of plastic milk crates full of shabby paperbacks, and a tiny color TV set sitting on a cheap pressed-wood coffee table. The carpet was worn and marked with old stains that probably predated her tenancy. There were no pictures on the walls—no family photos or posters. The whole effect was bleak.

Interesting. Even if she was broke, the princess could have conjured a few things to make her life more comfortable. Unless she was afraid using any magic at all would make it possible for the Sidhe to track her.

She certainly went out of her way to shield herself. If it hadn't been for Cachamwri telling him where to find her, Kel knew he'd still be looking. And Draconian magic was generally stronger than the Sidhe's. Maybe there was more to the princess than met the eye.

Luckily, nobody's magic was stronger than Cachamwri's. You couldn't hide from the Dragon God.

Kel spotted a hardback book on the coffee table and picked it up. His brows rose. “
101 Tricks for Professional Magicians
?”

 

Nineva took the
stairs to her apartment two at a time. She'd dropped Snowball off at her neighbor's even as her stomach knotted at the delay.

Her duffel lay in the closet upstairs. She had to have it before she could leave. Once again, she cursed the string of car break-ins that had forced her to keep the bag in her apartment. She wished she dared conjure it into her hands, but using any kind of magic at all would be like sending up a flare for her pursuers.
Here I am! Come kill me!

Nineva gritted her teeth, one fist bunched in her pink tulle skirt as she stalked across the landing toward her front door. She needed to change, too. She couldn't run around looking like an escapee from
Swan Lake
. Reaching the door, she started to put the key in the lock.

And froze as her heart suddenly began to pound. What if the dream man was in her apartment, waiting to attack her? Licking suddenly dry lips, she placed her free hand against the door, closed her eyes, and listened with senses other than human.

Nothing. Not even the faintest hum of magic.

Which didn't mean he wasn't inside, heavily wrapped in magical shielding and ready to blast her into next week.
Then again, maybe there isn't anything to sense. Maybe I was wrong about him being the dream man. Maybe he was just some random human.

Some big, sexy, random human.

Nineva bit her lip, staring at the door, wishing she could look through it. Wishing she dared.

Or you could just stand out here dithering until Ansgar's men show up to kill you. Idiot.
Impatient with herself, she took a deep breath, shoved the key in the lock, and turned it. Lifting one hand in preparation to shield or blast, she threw open the door. It banged against the wall.

Nobody was inside.

The apartment stood empty. No towering dream man, no detachment of armored Sidhe warriors, just her own barren, depressing little apartment. Blowing out a breath in relief, she hurried across the living room and down the short hallway to the bedroom she didn't use. The duffel was in the closet, stuffed with money and a few changes of clothes. She should have just enough time to pack her lone suitcase, too.

Nineva flung the closet door open and reached for the battered dark green bag lying on the floor.

A male voice spoke from behind her. “You know, I'm not going to hurt you.”

With a strangled shriek, she whirled, both hands instinctively lifted as she conjured a pair of spell blasts. The twin globes surrounded her fingers with a hot blue glow, ready to annihilate her foe at the first wrong move.

The dream man threw his hands up in an
I'm unarmed
gesture she didn't buy for a minute. “Hey, hold up. I'm not your enemy.”