Her hands stilled. Damn it. She could not deny that she was physically attracted to Michael. Her body hummed when she saw him. When he got into her personal space, she felt as though she were physically being pulled toward him. Like he was some big, hunky magnet that she had no ability to step back from. Definitely dangerous. Absolutely dangerous for her to even be thinking—
Sophie grabbed her dragon keychain and headed for the door. Enough of this wool-gathering. It was already dark outside and she needed to head home. Tomorrow morning, she would go to Mr. Smith’s to take Princess’ stitches out. Surely Michael would not be there if she arrived bright and early.
She had just locked the door when she heard the whirring of leathery wings. A bright light nearly blinded her. She felt the dragon’s hot breath even before she turned around.
It was sitting on the street, its spiked tail with the spear tip wrapped around its front claws, showing no sign of aggression. It blinked its cobalt eyes slowly, then tilted its head as if to study her.
It reminded her of an over-sized dog. Avatar-sized. Maybe she really was losing it. How did someone know if she were having a nervous breakdown anyhow? Still—
She took a step closer. The dragon didn’t move. She closed her eyes, then slowly re-opened them. It was still there. Hesitantly, she ventured another step. The dragon tipped its head, almost as if it were nodding. A small puff of smoke escaped from its nostrils, but no flame of fire.
“What do you want?” she asked in a voice slightly above a whisper. She probably really was losing it, standing on her lawn talking to a metal-scaled dragon as though she were trying to calm a nervous cat. But it was an animal, living and breathing. Why had it come again? Was it hurt in some way she could not see? If it needed her— “Can I help you?”
The dragon pulled back its lips, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Sophie drew back. Obviously, it didn’t need her help. But it stayed where it was and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was smiling, like some dogs do. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her throat. Next, she’d be imagining it would roll over and want its belly rubbed. Did dragons have soft underbellies?
Porch lights were snapping on down the street and she could hear doors slamming as her neighbors started shouting. One of them was running toward her with a raised shotgun.
“Go!” she said to the dragon. “Get away before they kill you!”
The dragon blinked once, then turned its massive head, releasing a stream of fire that snaked along the tarred street, before it rose gracefully in the air, its wings beating rhythmically. The shotgun fired and the dragon roared, sending another ball of flame rolling down the street. One of her neighbors shrieked and Sophie could hear the sound of sirens coming closer.
She covered her face with her hands. Not again! Just when she thought the nightmare was over…
A gently firm hand touched her shoulder. She separated her fingers and peered out.
“I’m here,” Michael said.
Instinctively, she leaned into his warm, solid body. He put a comforting arm around her and led her back toward the clinic, taking the key from her shaking fingers and getting them inside, away from the prying eyes of the gathering crowd.
“The police will be here any minute,” she said, her voice quivery. “I don’t know that I can go through this again.”
Michael turned her in his arms so she was facing him. He held her close enough that his body heat enveloped her, along with now somewhat familiar woodsy scent tinged with a hint of heather. His hands soothed her back in long, slow strokes. His voice rumbled low in a language she did not understand, but the cadence was rhythmic and slow, relaxing her. She should step back…but it felt so good. No one had made the effort to console her since her parents were killed several years ago. If she could just linger a bit—
The blare of police siren cut off abruptly and she knew she’d have to face them. With a sigh, she began to pull away, but Michael’s hands slid upward over her shoulders and cupped her head. He bent down, brushing her lips with his in a light, gentle gesture that was leisurely, yet promising. Sophie felt herself softening, melting against him, wanting him—
With a start, she broke away, her hand to her mouth, staring at him. What affected her thinking whenever she was near him? There were police pounding on the door, for God’s sake.
His mouth turned up at one corner in a smile, but his eyes smoldered a different message, which she tried to ignore as she made her weak-kneed way to the door.
The problem of a centuries-old dragon showing up on her doorstep was easier to handle than the problem of Michael. Way easier.
Chapter Four
Michael watched as Sophie clipped the stitches with a steady hand, pulling gently to remove them from the little terrier. It was quite a contrast from the emotional state she had been in last night when he arrived at her clinic.
Of course, there had been a big, red dragon breathing fire at the silly fools who thought a twenty-gauge shotgun shell would pierce his armor.
Michael hadn’t meant to kiss her either. Centuries spent as a male—to say nothing of enhanced warlock abilities—told him this woman was not likely to succumb to any intimate gestures without a solid relationship. He had meant to comfort her, ease the despair he felt in her, but the desperation he’d seen in her eyes at the arrival of the police had triggered that kiss. And, by the Goddess, her lips had been soft and warm and moist just like he imagined the wonderful juncture between her legs would be— His reverie ended as Mr. Smith entered the study, carrying a folder.
Sophie looked up. “Is that the manuscript?”
“It is indeed,” he replied and sat down at his desk. Princess bounded to him, her three puppies tumbling over each other as they wobbled after her.
Michael laughed and scooped the pups up in his hands as he took one of the two chairs opposite Mr. Smith. “Your mom needs a rest,” he said to them as Mr. Smith slid the folder toward him.
Sophie approached more slowly and sat in the other chair. “Shouldn’t something this old be kept in an environmentally-controlled compartment or something?”
“Oh, this is just a English language copy,” Mr. Smith said. “The original is in my vault. I have very good security. Go ahead. Read it.”
Michael let one of the puppies nibble on his finger while they waited for Sophie to finish. Princess watched him anxiously and he finally set the pups down and gave her a pat on her head. “There you go, Mama,” he said as she sniffed her offspring.
Sophie put the manuscript down and shook her head. “I can believe the Templars found some ancient religious relics. Anyone who is interested in history knows the original nine spent their time digging around Solomon’s Temple rather than “protecting” Christian pilgrims on Crusade. Stories of the vast Templar treasure are legendary. I can even believe that they managed to smuggle it out of France and to Scotland before that dreaded round-up on Friday the 13th. But magical? How can an inanimate object wield power?”
“I don’t blame you for being skeptical,” Michael replied. “You’ve been trained to deal with facts and proof. For the sake of argument, let’s assume the Templars did get the treasure—whatever it was—to Scotland and under the protection of the St. Clair’s, who opposed the French king and his somewhat dubious alliance with England. Studying history, it’s pretty safe to bet that it was the Templars who were the “warrior force” that gave Robert the Bruce his victory at Bannockburn. Are you okay with that?”
Sophie shrugged. “I suppose. But what does a lesson in Scottish history have to do with Celtic relics supposedly handed down by some mythical gods?”
Mr. Smith pursed his lips at that. “My dear Sophie. Your name means “wisdom”, did you know?”
She frowned at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Tsk. Tsk,” Mr. Smith replied. “A wise woman would be willing to accept new ideas and concepts, wouldn’t she?”
“Concepts, yes, but—“
�
�Just keep an open mind, my dear.”
Sophie grunted and turned back to Michael. “Go on, please.”
“I’m going to have to back-track a little for you to understand how this particular manuscript was written,” Michael said. “Excalibur is one of four sacred relics that were entrusted to a secret order of Templars referred to as Priory of Sion—“
“Are you going to go DaVinci Code on me?” Sophie asked suspiciously.
Michael shook his head. “The relics were passed down through the Merovingian bloodline and the Priory was the elite guard trained to protect them.”
“Whose bloodline?”
“The Merovingian kings of Gaul, also known as the Sorcerer Kings, were considered quite a threat to the Roman Church in the sixth century because of their knowledge and use of esoteric and occult skills.”
Sophie grimaced. “So how are French kings from fifteen hundred years ago relevant to the manuscript? It isn’t that old.”
“Patience, my dear,” Mr. Smith interjected.
“They’re relevant because they were descendents of the Fisher Kings, who traced their lineage back to Joseph of Armathea.” Michael eyed Sophie as though waiting for her to interrupt again, but she was silent, so he continued, “Pelles, the king during Arthur’s time, had a daughter named Elaine who married Lancelot—“
“And Galahad was born and eventually found the Holy Grail!” Mr. Smith clapped his hands excitedly. “Doesn’t it all just fit together?”
Sophie studied him, wondering if both of these men were slightly mad, but before she could comment, Michael went on.
“I can see the skepticism on your face, but it’s the truth. However, to move forward and answer your original question—the manuscript was probably written in the twentieth century, but in medieval Gaelic so only those who were meant to read it would.”
“There aren’t too many people who major in medieval languages, are there?” Sophie asked.
“No, but the Priory still exists.”
“Uh-huh,” Sophie said.
Michael smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe, but each of the relics would have been protected by a person with interest in that field. The spear and the sword are both battle weapons, so my guess is they would have had a military guardian. Someone like General Lee or Winston Churchill or maybe even Patton.”
“Patton?”
“Well, you know he loved history and believed in re-incarnation. He spoke of battle sites where he had fought before.”
Sophie stared at him. “You’re saying these men were members of an ancient secret order of the Templars?”
“I can’t say that. No one knows who members of the Priory are except for the Grand Masters, who are always referred to as Jean.”
“Why?”
Michael shrugged. “Perhaps to protect their real identity. Perhaps because the Templars revered Jean—John—the Baptist as their patron. At any rate, what’s important now is that the sword is the United States.”
“And you’re going to tell me how it got here?”
He grinned. “Sure. I don’t know where the treasure was secreted for over a hundred years, but speculation—from scholars—is that William St. Clair—which is how the Sinclair name was pronounced back then—began building Rosslyn Chapel in the late 1400’s as a cover to hide the treasure. Kirks—churches—were still safe from invasion at that time.” Michael paused, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “However, when King James began his persecution and burning of so-called witches a century later, nowhere was safe. Rosslyn Chapel aroused suspicion because it had too many pagan symbols carved on its walls, pillars, and altars. Would it not make sense for the St. Clair earl to remove the treasure?”
“I guess. But why bring it to America? If I recall, it was the Spanish and the French who were claiming land here.”
“True,” Michael agreed, “but the St. Clairs hailed from Viking sailing stock. One of the Henri’s set off for Nova Scotia in 1398, nearly a century before Columbus. By the mid-1400’s, St. Clair had drawn maps of North America.” Michael nodded toward the manuscript. “St. Clair would have known where to go.”
Sophie followed his glance and then looked at Mr. Smith. “You said that your research assistant found the spear? Why isn’t she looking for the sword then?”
Mr. Smith’s face drooped. “She is missing at present. I, of course, have hired private detectives to look for her.” He looked at Michael. “I’m sure that horrible man, Adam Baylor, has hired some as well.”
“I have every reason to believe that Sara and the spear are safe,” Michael answered, hoping no one would ask who his source was. Even Smith—who had a lively imagination—would have a hard time accepting a faerie had told him. And Michael didn’t even want to see the incredulous look on Sophie’s face. She would think him completely delusional.
But it was Sophie who switched directions. “Who is Adam Baylor?”
Michael couldn’t very well tell her that Baylor—or Balor—was an ancient god who had deliberately become evil and fed off of violence and enmity. “Adam Baylor poses as a very wealthy broker who is based in London,” he finally said, “but what he really does is launders money from international drug cartels and sponsors terrorist organizations across the world.”
Sophie stared at him. “Why hasn’t he been caught? Surely Interpol has the technology to—“
“Interpol has tried. So has Scotland Yard and the CIA. Baylor uses aliases and has layers of protection,” Michael answered. “The set of books he keeps are clean. No one has ever been able to directly connect him to anything.”
“Then how do you know he’s guilty?”
“Every once in a while there is a whistle-blower brave enough to come forward,” Michael said. Better not mention just how long ago some of them came from—Julius Caesar, King Arthur, MacBeth—more recently, Ghandi and Martin Luther King…
“What happened to them?” Sophie asked.
“They all ended up being assassinated,” Michael answered.
Sophie’s eyes grew round. “This Baylor person was responsible?”
Michael nodded. “He even had the poor old professor who translated this manuscript murdered, although there is no blood on his hands.”
She looked again at the manuscript. “Has he seen this?”
“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Smith cut in. “The clue to finding the spear was in here. It was how he knew to track Sara and Mr. Ramsey.”
“So he’s searching for the relics too?” she asked.
“Yes.” Michael leaned forward in his chair. “I know you may not believe me, but each of the relics holds power—energy, if you’d rather call it that—from the four elements of wind, fire, water and earth. The power is neutral. Whoever owns the relic can use that power for good or evil. Can you imagine what someone like Baylor would do with that? He could, literally, annihilate the world.”
“So you have to find this sword—this Sword of Fire—before he does?”
“Excalibur,” Mr. Smith said emphatically. “That is its name.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Please. Let’s not bring in the whole Arthurian myth again. I can—sort of—accept the theory that these relics might have a certain electron or proton predilection that produces a form of energy. But magic? That doesn’t exist in the real world.” When no one answered her, she looked from Mr. Smith to Michael. “What? You two really believe this is all magic?”
“Can you deny that the Pendragon is real?” Michael finally asked. “He’s visited you twice.” She looked crestfallen at that and Michael wished he could be kinder, but she had to understand. “With you, seeing is believing, I think. A thirty-foot dragon is hardly something you can miss and he certainly is not mythical anymore, is he?”
Mr. Smith clapped his hands in delight. “Of course! That makes sense! Our Sophie needs proof and poof!” He giggled at his play-on-words and then sobered. “My dear, you must take some things on faith.”
She sighed. “Okay. I can’t say
I’m convinced about this magical power thing, but if these relics are as old as you think they are, they’re valuable in their own right. So where are you going to start looking?”
Michael grinned. “The question is where are we going to start looking?”
She gaped at him. “We?”
His grin broadened. “Remember I told you I thought the dragon was going to help us find the sword? He wouldn’t have led me to you if you weren’t meant to be a part of this.” He reached inside his jeans pocket and pulled out a paper. “To answer your question, this is the second riddle that provides the clues.”
“Excuse me.” The butler stood in the doorway.
“Yes?” Mr. Smith said.
“That Mr. Caldwell who wrote the weapons article is here to see you, Sir.”
Mr. Smith frowned. “Have him make an appointment. I’m busy right now.”
The butler hesitated. “He said it was rather important. Something about his publisher wanting to do a book on your entire collection.”
Mr. Smith’s eyes sparkled at the thought. “Oooh. A book…” He turned to Michael. “Would you and Sophie mind if I talk to him for a minute?”
“Of course not,” Sophie said and stood.
Michael stood too. “No problem. I can explain the clue to Sophie over lunch.”
“Sorry. I’m booked solid into the late afternoon,” Sophie replied.
“Tomorrow then,” Michael said as Caldwell entered the study.
It was at that precise moment that one of the puppies nipped Princess a little too hard and she sent him sprawling. The pup rolled into Caldwell’s pathway as his foot came down. Princess yelped and leapt, but she was not close enough to save her little one.
Before Michael could toss a bolt of light to aid her, Caldwell spun to his left, pushed by some unseen force. He slammed into the doorjamb, cracking his head in the process. Dazed, he clung to wall as the puppy limped away.
The slight movement of Sophie flexing her fingers drew Michael’s eye. His warlock senses saw the bright bits of violet sparks still pulsating from her fingers. She had saved the pup from being crushed by using her powers. Was she even aware of it? His gaze sought hers, but she was already rushing over to the small ball of fur that Princess was fussing over.
The Immortals II: Michael Page 5
