Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1)

by Mason, Nina

Some of the pieces clicked into place. Finn MacKnight had to be Queen Morgan’s prophesied usurper, which explained why his blood smelled as it did. His mother must, therefore, be one of Morgan’s female subjects, but which one?

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Callum demanded, trying to probe the Frenchman’s mind without success.

  “I am in earnest,” St. Germain assured him, looking and sounding sincere. “I work for Cathbad, the high priest of Brocaliande.”

  Brocaliande was the forest of the druids, which lay across the channel from Avalon. Callum had never been there, but the enmity between Cathbad and Morgan was legendary. Belphoebe had told him the rift existed because Morgan had put out the eyes of a druid envoy centuries ago during the Thitherworld Wars.

  “My aim is to see the drones set free, Morgan toppled, and Finn MacKnight installed as king,” St. Germain added.

  Callum wanted to believe him, but still had questions. “Who is Finn’s mother?”

  “The one called Belphoebe.”

  Callum, believing Belphoebe long dead, was stunned. “How can that be?”

  “Her murder was a ruse,” St. Germain explained, “to fool Queen Morgan into allowing the drone of the prophecy to be born.”

  A rush of hope swept through Callum. “Belphoebe yet lives?”

  “She does,” St. Germain confirmed, “in Brocaliande under the protection of the druids.”

  “And Finn?” Vanessa interjected. “What’s his story?”

  “He was sent to me as an infant to protect him from discovery,” the Frenchman told her. “He does not know his true identity, or his destiny. He believes me to be his uncle and only surviving relative—his human uncle, so far as he’s aware.”

  “But you’re not,” Callum observed, “though neither are you of the Fae.”

  St. Germain’s lips compressed as he shifted his gaze from Vanessa to Callum. “To answer your unspoken inquiry, my good knight, I am Sangpagnese—the breed commonly referred to as vampires in this realm.”

  Belphoebe had told Callum about Sangpagne, the vampire empire beneath the Hitherworld countries of France and Belgium. The capital city had been erected by the captured combatants of the losing factions after the Thitherworld Wars. They’d been forced to work until they dropped from exhaustion, after which they were impaled on poles so the ravens could strip the flesh from their bones. The bones were left to dry in the sun before being ground into powder and used for mortar. Vampires, thus, were despised by the other factions of the Thitherworld, though occasionally hired as mercenaries.

  “With all due respect, Monsieur St. Germain,” Callum said, still struggling to take in all he’d heard, “why did Cathbad and Belphoebe entrust Finn’s welfare to you?”

  “Because it’s the last thing anyone would expect,” the count returned. “And, I suspect, because I can see to his needs.”

  “How?” Vanessa asked, eyes narrowed by skepticism. “How do you feed blood to someone who believes himself human?”

  “Bear in mind that I’ve raised him since he was an infant,” St. Germain said. “I mix the blood with other things—juice, soup, wine, or what have you—and pass it off as a health tonic made from an old family recipe.”

  “What about his need for sex and his failure to age?”

  “The overactive libido you suffer from,” the vampire said, addressing himself to Callum, “is what might be called a manufacturing flaw. Natural-born drones have a sex drive on a par with an adolescent human.” Turning to Vanessa, he added, “As to his failure to age, I simply rewire his mind every so often to prevent it from becoming an issue.”

  “I see,” Callum quipped. “And when will he be told the truth and prepared for his destiny?”

  “The prophecy tells of a celestial sign that will presage the rise of the rebel forces. Until then, he’ll remain none the wiser.”

  “Any idea when that will be?” Callum asked, intrigued.

  “No,” said the vampire. “I only know it will be during the Piscean Age.”

  The Age of Pisces was the current age, which began in A.D. One and would end in the year Twenty-One Fifty.

  “So, it will be soon?”

  “Oui, my good knight. Very soon.”

  Callum, feeling the impassioned rush of a call to arms, let the feeling course through his bloodstream. Could he work for the rebels while serving in Parliament? He didn’t see why not. “And how might I go about joining the rebellion?”

  “Is it your desire to do so?”

  “It is,” Callum told him with conviction.

  St. Germain regarded him circumspectly. “You could start by telling me your name and how you came to be living on this side of the vale.”

  “My name is Callum Lyon…and my story is too long to go into right now.”

  “Another time then, my lord,” the count said with a bow. “And I will make your interest known to the rebel leaders tout de suite. If they are interested, someone will contact you in due course.”

  At that, like a breeze extinguishing a candle, Jack St. Germain was gone.

  * * * *

  On the drive back to the house, Callum knew he could put off saying his piece no longer, but still couldn’t think quite how to broach the subject. Vanessa must have sensed his unease, because she asked, “What’s bothering you, Callum? Are you mad at me?”

  He licked his lips and gathered his nerve. “I’m not happy about what you’ve done…but that’s not what’s troubling me most at the moment.”

  “Then, what is?”

  He glanced her way. “I love you, mo dearbadan-de, and will for the rest of eternity…but I also know my feelings don’t matter if you have no faith in my love.”

  She touched his arm. “But I do have faith in your love, Callum.”

  A seed of hope took root in his heart. “Enough to do a handfasting.”

  “A handfasting? What’s that?”

  “An old Scottish custom wherein we exchange vows,” he explained, “but can go our separate ways in a year if things between us don’t work out.”

  She scoffed, cutting him. “Leave it to the Scots to invent a form of marriage with an exit clause.”

  “The clause is for you, not for me,” he said. “So you don’t feel too pinned down.”

  “What if I don’t want an exit clause?”

  His seedling hope put down roots. “What about your freedom?”

  “I never thought I’d feel this way, but I’ve found something better.”

  “Is that a yes, then?”

  “Ask me properly.”

  He had a pretty good idea what she meant and wasn’t keen on the idea. Not because he didn’t want to propose, but because he didn’t want to propose to her in a moving car. On the other hand, he was a double Leo, and double Leos could make any situation ruthlessly romantic with a little effort and creativity.

  He pulled the car onto the shoulder, shut off the engine, and turned to her. Getting down on one knee wasn’t an option, so he held out his hands instead. When she them, he gazed deeply into her eyes for several moments before he said, “Will you be my wife, Vanessa? To have and to hold and to cherish from this day forward?”

  Her lips pursed. “On a board with a label?”

  “In a castle, as my equal partner and immortal beloved.”

  “What about my profession?”

  He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll tell you what. When I’m not off campaigning, saving the planet, or fighting for the freedom of my fellow drones, you can help with my research and books. How does that sound?”

  “That depends,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Will we be equal co-authors?”

  “We’ll be equals in all things, mo dearbadan-de. On that, you have my solemn vow.”

  She smiled, finally satisfied. “In that case, my answer is yes.”

  Eager to seal their promise, he pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers, pouring into the kiss all the feelings he’d held in check since he’d escaped Avalon. He
couldn’t remember ever feeling this exultant or fulfilled, even before he’d been taken by the faeries. Aye, there was strife ahead—making a successful bid for Parliament, working to empower Scotland and protect the environment, and freeing the drones from Queen Morgan’s enslavement, among other battles, but there also was the hope of real happiness. For the first time in his long and disappointing life, he felt as if the stars were finally working in his favor.

  Callum broke free of the kiss, but kept hold of her shoulders. “How soon do you want to get married? If you want to do it right away, we could stop in Gretna Green on our way back to Barrogill. How does that sound to you?”

  “Perfect.” She gave him a heart-warming smile.

  “You won’t regret not having a big, fancy wedding?”

  “Hardly, since I have no one to invite.”

  Callum twinged with annoyance when his mobile buzzed in his pocket. Assuming it was Duncan again with news too urgent to wait, he let go of Vanessa and answered without checking the caller ID.

  “Callum, it’s Tom. Tom Earlston.”

  The call was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Tom was his book editor in Edinburgh and his next manuscript wasn’t due for weeks. Luckily, the book was complete barring any last-minute flashes of inspiration.

  “It’s good to hear from you, Tom. What can I do for you?”

  “Jack St. Germain said you’re interested in joining the cause.”

  Surprise jolted Callum’s heart. “You’re…with the rebels?”

  “Aye,” Tom replied in his usual cheery manner. “But let’s say no more on the phone, eh? Meet me tomorrow night at the U.B. Nine o’clock, if it’s convenient.”

  Callum knew the place. The U.B. was an old pub he’d visited many times on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. “But, I’m not in—”

  Before he could say “Scotland,” the line went dead. He considered calling Tom back, but opted not to. He was planning to return to Scotland anyway, assuming Duncan had handled the situation with Sinclair. He put his phone away, rubbed his chin, and filled Vanessa in on the exchange.

  “They don’t waste any time, do they?” she said.

  “Perhaps they can’t afford to.”

  “Are you going to meet him?” Her worried expression worried him.

  “Aye, and take you to Gretna Green the next morning, which means you’ll need to be ready to go first thing in the morning. Do you think you can manage it?”

  “Of course,” she said with a smile. “I have supernatural powers, remember?”

  Chapter 20

  Butterflies fluttered in Vanessa’s belly as she watched the lights of New Orleans fade into the distance. Her short stint as a paranormal investigator had been an experience she wouldn’t soon forget, though not quite what she’d envisaged when she left San Francisco.

  It was early morning, but still dark out. In the seat beside her, Callum dozed. Her heart expanded as she watched him sleeping. Now that she’d owned her feelings for him, they’d bloomed inside her like a field of wildflowers, pushing out the weeds of doubt. Finally, because of him, she believed in the staying power of deep emotion.

  Her Knight of Wands had indeed changed her mind about love.

  She set her hand atop his and gave it a squeeze—not to wake him, but just to let him know how happy she was. Stirring, he took her hand in his. “What are you thinking about, mo dearbadan-de?”

  “The wedding.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’ve not changed your mind, I hope.”

  “No.” She met his sleepy gaze with a tender smile. “I can’t wait until we’re married.”

  “Neither can I.” He waggled his eyebrows adorably. “Nor till the honeymoon, eh?”

  Zapped by a high-wattage surge of desire, she shot a glance toward the lighted lavatory sign, which, to her delight, read “unoccupied.” Returning her gaze to his, she waggled her eyebrows, too. “Why wait when the Mile-High Clubhouse is at our disposal?”

  He glanced around the first-class cabin, which contained only a smattering of passengers. “You mean do it in the lavatory?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a bit cramped, don’t you think?”

  She laughed, undissuaded, and tucked her handbag under her arm. “Surely, you can rise to the challenge.”

  He gave her a sideways grin. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Meet me there in two minutes.” She got to her feet and squeezed past his knees. “Just be sure the stewardess isn’t watching.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I’m not sure what they’d do if they caught us and I’d rather not find out.”

  “They’ll put us in jail,” he said, whispering, too. “Under British law, having relations in the loo of an airplane is akin to doing the deed in a public place.”

  “You mean like on the side of your car?”

  “Exactly. And look how much trouble that got me into.”

  Concern pricked her heart. She’d all but forgotten Sinclair’s blackmail threat. “Hae you spoken to Duncan?”

  “Aye. We talked while you were packing.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wiped Sinclair’s memory and hacked his daughter’s cloud account to retrieve the video.”

  What he’d said, though relieving, didn’t completely compute. “How did Duncan wipe his memory? Isn’t he human?”

  “Nay, lass. Duncan’s a wolver.”

  Though she’d studied paranormal creatures, she’d never heard of the type he’d mentioned. “Are wolvers anything like werewolves?”

  “Nay, lass. They’re peaceful creatures who help the underprivileged by giving them the extra fish they’ve caught.”

  “Oh,” she said, ready to drop the subject for now. She still wanted to do him in the lavatory while the seatbelt sign was off.

  Making her way up the aisle, she opened the door, and stepped inside. Her confidence wavered as she looked around the tiny compartment. It would be challenging, but she was still willing to give it a try. Making a tight turn, she slid the lock to activate the “occupied” sign before sitting down on the toilet. Stripping off her knickers, she stuffed them in her purse and waited for his knock.

  Seconds later, a soft rap on the door brought her to her feet. Releasing the lock, she shoved open the door to find Callum on the other side looking good enough to eat. Or, better yet, fuck at high altitude. “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She stuck her head out and looked up and down the aisle, just to be sure. Nobody was paying any attention. “If anybody says anything, tell them I was airsick and you were holding back my hair…like the caring fiancé you are.”

  Fiancé.

  It surprised her how much she liked saying the word. It was still hard for her to believe how well things had worked out—and how differently from what she’d expected when she’d first gone to John o’Groats.

  With a laugh, he stepped inside, forcing her backward into the cramped compartment, and secured the door.

  She threw her arms around his neck and hung there as he unfastened his trousers. He pulled up her skirt, cupped her bare buttocks with both hands, and lifted her into the air. She made a little hop, wrapped her legs around his hips, and pressed her mouth against his. He gave her his tongue, which she sucked with a vengeance while grinding against his erection. When she could wait no longer, she lowered a hand to guide him toward her opening.

  Just as he entered her, someone knocked on the door. She and Callum exchanged worried looks before he withdrew, let her go, and hastily zipped up.

  “Are you almost done in there?” a woman called through the door.

  “My wife’s sick,” he replied, “and I’m looking after her. Could you maybe use another lavatory?”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  The moment had passed. They’d have to join the Mile High Club some other time. Still, Vanessa wasn’t too disappointed. He’d called her his wife, which was better than an orgasm.r />
  * * * *

  Worn out after a sleepless night and the long flight, Callum slept most of the way from the stopover in Newark to the runway in Edinburgh. He was still feeling a bit bleary as he and Vanessa wended their way through the arrival terminal, collected their luggage, and rented a car.

  Outside, it was cold and raining hard—a drastic and welcome change from the suffocating heat of New Orleans. Vanessa pulled a collapsible umbrella out of her handbag and opened it over the both of them, pleasantly surprising him.

  When they reached the designated vehicle, he stowed the luggage, opened her door, and ran around to the driver’s side. Slipping in behind the wheel, he fired up the engine and pointed the nondescript silver sedan toward the Royal Mile.

  He flipped on the windshield wipers and headlamps. Rain pelted the roof as he pulled out of the garage. The clock on the dash told him it was after eleven, so he would head straight for the pub. The U.B. was in Cowgate, near the South Bridge vaults, and stocked more than a hundred brands of whisky. The bar was a bit dodgy, as was the neighborhood, but two Avalonians were more than equal to any trouble that might arise. At the very least, they could shift into Simba and Nala and scare the living shit out of any hooligans who were daft enough to mess with them.

  “Why’s the pub called the U.B.? What do the initials stand for?” she asked as she watched the passing scenery.

  He flicked a gaze in her direction. “For Uisge-Beatha, which means ‘water of life’ in Gaelic. It’s what we Scots call single-malt whisky.”

  “Oh,” she said, putting her hand on his thigh, “Tell me about Tom.”

  “What’s there to tell? He’s an editor for my publishers who are based here in Auld Reekie.”

  Her head pivoted toward him. “Did you just say Auld Reekie?”

  “That’s what we used to call Edinburgh. On account of the chimney smoke. Since you’re going to be a Scottish baroness soon, you might want to brush up on our language and slang.”

  “Learn Gaelic, you mean?”

  “And Scots.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What’s the difference?”

  “Gaelic is the language of the Highlands and Islands,” he explained, “while Scots is a bastardized slang with traces of English and French spoken by the lowlanders.”