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Immortals: Michael Cynthia Breeding
The Immortals II:
Michael
By
Cynthia Breeding
( c ) copyright by Cynthia Breeding, September 2009
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, February 2018
ISBN 978-1-60394-
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.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.
Foreword
The Legend of Balor
An early Celtic sun-deity who evolved into a god of death, Balor wore a patch over one eye that, when lifted, could cause destruction with a look. It was prophesized that only his grandson could kill him with a spear through that eye. Consequently, he imprisoned his only daughter so she would bear no children.
But the Fates intervened.
Exiled from heaven, Balor vows to seek revenge by wrecking havoc on Earth. Assuming human form as Adam Baylor has weakened him so he seeks the four Hallows of the lost Templar treasure: a spear, sword, platter and chalice whose powers will restore him to immortal strength…and then, he will destroy the world, one nation at a time.
The Fates intervened again, sending four medieval warriors to the New World to recover the relics before Balor does. Each of them has a special skill that will be needed to defeat the demon.
And that is where this story begins.
Chapter One
Present Day
Dallas, Texas
“Come on, baby. You know you always liked it when I spread your legs and licked your juices. I could make you come in ten seconds.” The male voice on the other end of the phone sounded smug. “Or maybe less.”
Sophie Cameron clenched a fist and willed herself not to slam the phone down on her ex-husband. She would not give him the satisfaction of riling her. Lord, the divorce had been final for over a year.
“Remember how I used to pinch your nipples the way you liked? Just hard enough to make you squirm and then I’d soothe them by sucking—“
“That’s enough, Robert. I don’t care to have phone sex with you.”
“I could come over. It would be more fun that way.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why not?”
He actually sounded hurt and confused. Sophie made a sound of disgust. Robert was a good actor, a trait he used as a courtroom lawyer to his advantage. He’d totally had her believing he was faithful—looking her straight in the eyes and telling her he loved her—only his version of love included dalliances with whomever else caught his fancy.
“Did you and Amber have another spat?” she asked. That’s when he usually called.
There was silence on the other end. Then he said, “We broke it off.”
“Seems to me that happens about once a month.”
“Ah, baby. Don’t be so hard on me. This time’s for real. I came home last night and another guy was in our bed. You were right, baby, about everything. Amber was just using me. Liked the fact that I’m a big-shot attorney.” He sighed audibly and his tone softened. “I could have you hot for me in five minutes. Sex was always great for us.”
“I suspect sex is great for you no matter who is in your bed,” Sophie replied. “The answer is no.”
“Ah, baby, you’re just angry with me. I can’t blame you. Just let me come over there and I’ll prove I can make you feel—“
Sophie clicked the “off’ button silently in the middle of his spiel. What he had done to her was far worse than physically being unfaithful. She had lost her ability to trust any man. They all thought with their smaller head than the one that was attached to their shoulders. Who needed them anyway?
Besides which, she had her work. Sophie picked up her truck keys and headed out the door for the animal clinic. At least there, she had unconditional love. Four-legged animals didn’t betray you.
* * * *
Nimue wasn’t exactly the most reliable faerie in the realm.
Michael McCain ran a hand through his unruly dark hair and looked around the hotel room again, his warlock senses on high alert. Little tendrils of magic still laced the air… thin silvery threads that were his friend, Sara’s, and stronger golden ones that were no doubt the shifter, Lucas Ramsey’s. Michael sniffed the air. A slight trace of sulfur also lingered. No doubt, Adam Baylor had been here too, but Michael felt no life essence.
The immortal bastard had escaped.
If Nimue were to be believed, Lucas and Sara had successfully recovered the Spear of Light, one of four sacred relics that the Lady had given the human world centuries ago to protect it from infinite evil, and they were in hiding somewhere. Nimue had hardly made sense last night when she arrived, chattering about that damn fool, Merlin, who couldn’t unbind his own spells. She had thrust a piece of paper into Michael’s hands, told him he had to go to Lewiston, Maine immediately and then she had vanished before he could question her further.
Typical faerie.
He took the paper from his jeans and unfolded it to read a poem of sorts that didn’t make much sense.
The sky’s afire
With one knight’s sire
He who sees the firedrake
The sword will take
Come, come to the lake
Michael refolded the paper and sighed. Now he wished he had listened a little more carefully to what Sara had said about the manuscript her boss, the anonymous and filthy-rich John Smith, had sent her to Sotheby’s to purchase. It had been found in an archeological dig in Scotland, written in medieval Gaelic, and originally believed to hold the secret to finding the Holy Grail. Sara’s very eccentric boss was obsessed with medieval myths and particularly Arthurian legends.
But what came to light, after it was translated by a scholarly friend of Sara’s who had been murdered for the copy, was even more startling.
The manuscript contained secret codes the Templars had used to hide their identities after the French persecution. References were made to treasures hidden at Rosslyn Chapel and then, later, of the need to separate and hide the sacred relics far away from the corruption that the Inquisition brought to Scotland. Another odd poem had been encrypted within the lines.
Apparently what Nimue had given him was the second verse. Just before she vanished, she had winked flirtatiously and told him he—and some mystery woman—had been chosen to find the sword.
Faeries. Fickle lot, all of them.
Michael closed the door to the motel room and walked a few blocks to the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul. He stood for a moment across the street from the church, admiring the beautiful rose window that was a replica of the medieval one in Chartres, France. He remembered when the original French cathedral had been built—he’d had to leave England quite suddenly to escape false accusations—well, sort of false—made by a jealous husband. The wife had tried to seduce him, not the other way around. The church, quite ironically, had offered sanctuary to him, a warlock. Or maybe not so ironic since he hadn’t always been a warlock.
Michael grinned at the memory. The wife had been tempting, but he hadn’t lacked for want of willing women and preferred keeping his head attached to his shoulders.
Michael walked toward the churchyard behind the cathedral, following the faint trail of magic. Lucas and Sara had definitely been here.
He stopped suddenly when he saw the ancient oak. Seared in jagged halves by lightening, its major branches had fallen to the right and left, somehow managing to brace against the ground so the whole thing looked like an open heart. A circle of bla
ck, scorched earth surrounded it. The white magic still emanating from the hallow interior was strong. This must have been where they found the spear. Edging closer, Michael noticed something glinting gold beneath scattered twigs and leaves. Leaning down, he unearthed a gold Templar cross on a linked chain. He recognized it immediately as the one Lucas had worn—the one Lucas had given him to wear as protection when they hunted Balor. He hoped that Lucas could keep Sara safe, wherever they were. Balor had spies everywhere.
Slipping it over his head, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. It seemed that Michael, Heaven’s immortal avenger, had been called to duty once more.
And, whether he liked the crazy Dallas millionaire or not, Smith had information he would need. He’d catch the next flight back.
* * * *
It was well past Sophie’s normal veterinarian hours—if there were such a thing as normal hours at a no-kill shelter and clinic where animals were always being dropped off—but Mr. Smith had sounded frantic when he’d called. Not that it was unusual. John Smith was highly excitable and emotional about almost anything that caught his fancy. However, his little terrier, Princess, had gotten herself impregnated with the neighbor’s all-too-friendly lab and was in labor. With the differences in size, Sophie wanted to be there to make sure the terrier didn’t die in the birthing process. If necessary, she could do a C-section.
Sophie turned her pick-up into the long circular driveway of the Smith mansion. She had tried to convince him to let her do a simple D & C once she’d made the diagnosis that the terrier was carrying pups, but Mr. Smith had looked horrified and said his dog was not having an abortion… She had the right to be a mother. God only knew what these puppies would look like, but Sophie couldn’t fault the man for having a tender heart. It counter-balanced his quirkiness.
Benton, the very proper English butler who Mr. Smith somehow had lured to come to the States, showed her the way to the parlor. Princess was lying on a bed of furs—probably real—in front of a fireplace that gave off a warm glow. Mr. Smith sat in a nearby chair watching his pet. Sophie quickly pulled her long, strawberry-blonde hair into a makeshift ponytail as she crossed the room and knelt by the terrier, offering her hand for a sniff before feeling the little dog’s abdomen.
“So far, so good,” she said. “There’s movement. Hopefully, the pups are turning.”
“Haven’t we met?” a smooth baritone voice asked from across the room.
Sophie started at the sound, sitting back on her heels, and turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and eyes emerge from the shadows.
“You!” she said.
Michael gave her a mock bow. “Dr. Cameron. Aren’t you a little far from Palo Pinto County?”
Mr. Smith looked from one of them to the other, his eyes bright with interest. “Do you know each other? How delightful!!!”
Delightful was not the word Sophie would use. Several weeks ago, Michael McCain had showed up at the country clinic insisting that a wolf had been wounded and needed immediate care. When they had arrived at the little ranchero in the canyon, only a man and woman had been there. No wolf. Unless Sophie wanted to count the one she was currently looking at. On the ride back that night, Michael had given her a lazy, easy smile while his eyes had practically burned through her clothes.
“I volunteer one weekend a month at the clinic out there,” Sophie said. “They don’t have a regular vet so four of us take turns.”
“That’s very generous of you,” he said and held out his hand. “Let me help you up.”
As if she needed someone to help her stand when she was used to practicing lunges and twists for her fencing hobby! Before she could rise though, he leaned down, grasped her elbow and lifted her as though she were a bag of feathers. He released her immediately, but the warmth where his hand had been lingered. This close, his mahogany-colored hair looked soft as silk as it touched the collar of his white shirt and she could see his dark eyes were rimmed with hazel. His wide, full mouth quirked in a half-grin and she realized she was staring. Sophie took a step back, all too aware of the massive male strength of him and his slightly woodsy scent. Oddly, it was a pleasantly intoxicating smell.
He was just what she did not need. Good-looking, rakish men who looked like they belonged on the cover of a romance novel generally should stay there. That way a woman could look and not get hurt. Robert was drop-dead gorgeous too. Look where that had gotten her. Michael McCain probably had dozens of women tweeting him hourly.
“I didn’t realize you were an acquaintance of Mr. Smith’s,” she said.
Michael nodded, still looking somewhat amused as though he knew what she was thinking. “I’m working on a project and I needed his help on medieval weaponry.”
Sophie glanced at the wall that held an arrangement of swords: Roman spathas, Middle-eastern scimitars, French rapiers, military sabers, English long swords, and a great Scottish claymore. Alongside the weapons was a picture of St. George slaying the dragon. She always felt sorry for the dragon.
She turned her gaze back to Michael. “Are you a reporter?”
“I’m more interested in research,” he said. “I have a totally useless degree in medieval religions, which…” He pointed to the collection of swords. “…often led to wars.”
“This collection seems to be quite popular these days,” she answered and turned to Mr. Smith. “Didn’t you have a reporter in here doing an article for some magazine?”
“Ah yes. That nice Mr. Caldwell. I can hardly wait to read the article! Actually, you should meet him, Sophie. I believe he said he has a preference for the rapier to spar with too.”
“Too?” Michael raised a questioning eyebrow. “Do you fence?”
Sophie nodded. “It’s a good way to relieve stress.”
His mouth quirked up again. “I can think of much more enjoyable ways to relieve stress than to be literally on one’s toes, anticipating your rival’s next move.”
He had just described the way she felt around him, although he didn’t know it. “I find the concentration takes my mind off more serious things, like saving animals.”
As if on cue, Princess whimpered and began to pant. Sophie knelt down, soothing the dog in low tones as she pressed gently on the abdomen. The puppies were definitely squirming. “It’s time,” she said and reached for her bag, taking out supplies. Knowing Mr. Smith was squeamish about blood, she looked up. “I’ll let you know as soon as Princess has all the pups out.”
He nodded. “Michael, shall we have a brandy in the library while we wait?”
Michael shook his head and squatted down beside Sophie. “I’ll help,” he said. “I think this little one will need it.”
For a moment, Sophie studied him. Had Mr. Smith told him of the lab’s size? She doubted it. And then, she almost smiled as she took her sterile instruments out of their wrappers. She’d just see how Mr. Macho Man would do once the blood came.
* * * *
Sophie Cameron was an enigma and Michael liked nothing better—well, sex was better—than to solve a puzzle. For one thing, she wore an oversized T-shirt over loosely-fitting khaki pants almost as though she wanted to hide the luscious curves of her hips and the swell of full breasts. That intrigued him since most women with a figure like hers would flaunt everything they had. She also used minimal make-up which only enhanced her high cheekbones, straight little nose, and full, generous mouth. A touch of mascara highlighted the startling bright blue of her eyes and he wished, fervently, that he could release her hair from the confines of the pony-tail and let it fall in cascades around her face. Did the woman not know how hot she was?
Another thing that was interesting was her total non-responsiveness to him. The night he had taken her to Sara’s ranchero to see about the wolf—well, a healed Lucas Ramsey actually--she had been strictly business. Had barely returned his smile. Not that he boasted about conquests, but over the centuries, few women had turned him down. He was a warlock, after all, and charm
was a natural, inherited trait that, unfortunately, also made women with jealous husbands throw caution to the wind, like that time in Cornwall…
But that was hundreds of years ago and he had learned to avoid married women. He frowned. Sophie wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t married. Maybe that was the reason she didn’t respond to his attempt at flirting?
“What kind of work does your husband do?” he asked casually.
She kept her eyes on the terrier, but her breath hitched just a bit. “I’m currently single,” she said.
“Divorced? Widowed?”
“I’m busy right now. Hand me the KY jelly. The first pup’s breaching.”
Michael picked up the tube, thinking what other much more interesting uses it had, and gave it to her. Sophie was on her elbows and knees, affording him a very sweet view of her nicely-rounded ass, as she encouraged the terrier in a throaty voice. His wayward shaft went rock hard. Was she teasing him with that sultry tone and a pose that would make any man want to rip those pants off leaving her female flesh exposed to him? Sweat beaded on his forehead at the thought of how nice that would be. He swallowed hard to keep from saying so.
“If you’re going to be sick, go join Mr. Smith. I can handle this,” Sophie said.
So much for her being a cock-tease. She looked thoroughly disgusted with him. Not that he could blame her. Here he was, thinking like a besotted, untried lad, when she was working to save the little dog’s life.
He slipped over next to her. “Let me help,” he said.
She gave him one quick glance and nodded as she inserted forceps to gently tug the first puppy out. “Just pet Princess and keep her calm. Her squirming isn’t helping and I have my hands full.”
Michael laid a hand on the terrier’s head and sent her a silent message of tranquility along with soothing golden light. He sensed something besides the dog’s essence though. A faint blue mist mixed with the terrier’s aura. Sophie? She had an astral connection? Interesting. Princess’ panting lessened and her muscle contractions strengthened. The second puppy plopped out.
The Immortals II: Michael Page 1
