Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  “Would you consider this an appropriate thank you from an unannounced guest?” Mac asked from the doorway.

  “Is it cable or satellite?”

  “That would depend on which you prefer.”

  Trace shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, because either one comes with a monthly bill I can’t afford to pay.”

  “I believe I already solved your little money problem, Huntsman, to the point where you may have to buy a third boat.”

  Trace looked at him. “Yeah, about that; I’ve been thinking that it might not go over all that well with the other fishermen when Rick and I suddenly start hauling in boatloads of giant lobsters while the rest of them are going broke. It’s just not … honorable.” He took a painful breath and blew it out slowly. “So you can tell all those big, fat, juicy lobsters that they can go back to whatever they were doing before you told them to fulfill their destinies.”

  “Or I could just tell them to go into everyone’s traps,” Mac said quietly.

  Trace stared at him for several heartbeats. “Works for me,” he said, heading into the kitchen with his filter full of … something.

  “So it’s honorable to let magic earn your living for you?” Mac asked, following.

  “It seems to be earning you a good living.” Trace shoved the filter into the coffeemaker and filled the tank with water. “And besides, it’s not like we’re sitting on our duffs and the traps are hauling themselves.” He hit the on button and turned to see Mac picking up the contents of the fridge off the floor. “Tell me, if you can make anything you want happen, how come you don’t make the magic do everything for you?” Trace pointed at a bottle of mustard that had rolled under the table. “Like clean up the messes you make, cook toast without burning it, and have my truck drive itself home.”

  Mac straightened with his arms full of food. “Because when I find myself standing in front of the pearly gates, I don’t want to be explaining why I spent ten thousand years sitting around on my duff doing nothing. Life is not a spectator sport, Huntsman, and all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly,” he said with a pained grin, “must be embraced.” His grin turned sheepish. “Although I will admit to taking an occasional shortcut.”

  “Ten thousand years? How the hell old are you?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly,” Mac said, staring off at nothing. “Three and a half, maybe four thousand years old.”

  “Wait, you said the pearly gates. They really exist?”

  Mac started putting everything back into the fridge. “All myths are based in some form of reality,” he explained. “But the gates aren’t really made from pearls, you know; it’s the energy they emit that makes them appear iridescent.”

  “Then what are—” Trace snapped his mouth shut when he saw Mac suddenly stiffen and look out the window.

  “Do you hear that?” Mac whispered.

  Trace strained to listen but heard nothing.

  The wizard ran for the kitchen door, flung it open and ran onto the porch, and then sprinted toward the barn. Not even bothering to slip into his boots, Trace was only two steps behind him.

  “Take the children upstairs,” Mac told Fiona on their way by.

  Instead of going to the barn, Mac didn’t stop until he reached the end of the paddock fence, his gaze trained on the ocean. Trace stopped beside him, looked back to see Fiona and Gabriella carrying the children around the front of the house, then looked out at the ocean, trying to discover what Mac was looking at.

  “There,” Mac said, pointing to their left. “No more than a mile out. Do you see the dark shadow beneath that swelling wave?”

  Trace caught only the slightest movement but then saw what looked like the mother of all whales shoot straight up out of the water over half the length of its body. It twisted and fell on its side, creating a splash that sent spray a good twenty feet into the air, its tail slapping the water so forcefully they heard the sound not a couple of seconds after the whale slipped out of sight.

  “How in hell could you have heard that from inside?”

  “Listen. He’s telling us something,” Mac said, gesturing for him to be quiet.

  The whale was talking to them?

  Trace saw the water swelling again, only this time instead of breaching, the whale twisted on its side, waving a flipper that had to be as long as a school bus. And then Trace heard a series of deep, guttural moans of varying pitch and length, the haunting song sending chills down his spine.

  He turned when he heard vehicles driving into the dooryard and saw Kenzie’s SUV followed by his own truck—which the two men must have recognized and pulled out of the snowbank—with Killkenny behind the wheel. They spotted Trace and Mac and walked over, William’s gaze moving up and down Trace’s body.

  “Cute, Huntsman,” the Irishman said, his eyes filled with amusement. “Does your mama know ye snuck out of the house in your pajamas?”

  Kenzie, however, was stone-cold sober, his attention directed at where Mac was looking. “What’s going on?” the highlander asked softly. “What are ye watching?”

  Trace also turned to look out to sea, but the whale had slipped below the surface again. “Mac is talking to a friend of his,” he drawled.

  The four of them stood silently and watched, and Trace curled his toes against the cold seeping through the heavy wool socks he’d barely managed to slip on this morning when he’d stumbled out of bed, his head pounding so hard he hadn’t even been able to get dressed.

  “Can you contact Rick at sea, Huntsman?” Mac asked, still watching the ocean.

  “I have a marine radio in my truck.”

  “Then I suggest you call and tell him to come back to port. And also radio all of the other fishermen out on the bay, and have them come in as well.”

  “What’s going on?” Kenzie asked.

  The whale suddenly breached again, letting out a long, chattering whistle as it fell back into the water with a spectacular splash. Mac turned to them. “It appears Midnight Bay is about to find itself at the center of a fierce battle, gentlemen, and according to my father’s messenger,” he said, waving toward the ocean, “we have less than a day to prepare.”

  “Does that mean your father is coming here?” Kenzie asked.

  Mac merely nodded, rather curtly.

  “Thank God,” William said. “He’ll dispatch those bastard demons to hell.”

  “I wouldn’t be too quick to claim victory if I were you,” Mac said evenly, “because whoever has angered Titus Oceanus enough to bring him here is obviously someone very powerful, as my father hasn’t left Atlantis in more than nine thousand years.”

  “Who in hell did you piss off?” Trace whispered. “You must have some sort of idea. And if you don’t know, then guess. Who would have the balls to come after you, if it means going up against your father?”

  “I honestly wish I knew,” Mac said, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He turned to the ocean again. “I’m sorry; I never should have come here and involved all of you in my personal problem.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “And in the end, it matters not if we know the names of our enemies or the reason they want us dead, only that we face them with courage and dignity.” He nodded toward the truck. “Go make your broadcast to your fellow fishermen, and tell them they need to come in.”

  “Any suggestions as to what I should say?” Trace asked, gesturing toward the ocean. “Considering the seas are as calm as a swimming pool.”

  “Tell them Midnight Bay is about to come face-to-face with an unknown enemy and that they need to lock themselves in their cellars with their women and children.” He looked directly into Trace’s eyes. “With the storms your town has weathered recently and with the September eleventh attacks still fresh in your countrymen’s minds, they won’t take a chance that it might be a hoax.”

  “Is the battle taking place here in town or at sea?” William asked. “We need to know what to prepare for.”

  “I will do my damnedest to keep it
offshore,” Mac said tightly, turning away and heading for the house. “And you only need to prepare to defend yourselves, on the off chance I don’t succeed.”

  Trace followed a little more than a step behind him. “Oceanus.”

  When Mac turned to see what he wanted, Trace drew back and gave him a hard uppercut to the jaw, sending the wizard flying backward without so much as a grunt of surprise, knocking him out cold before he even hit the snow.

  “For the love of Christ, are ye insane?” William said, his shocked gaze lifting from Mac to Trace. “What in hell are ye doing?”

  “Or more importantly,” Kenzie said, “what are you intending to do when he wakes up?” A slight grin tugged at the corner of the highlander’s mouth. “Or are you thinking ye might enjoy living under a rock with the other toads?”

  “I had to do something before the idiot went out there alone and got himself killed.” Trace bent down to grab Mac by the wrists and pulled him into a sitting position. “So if you gentlemen don’t want to join me under that rock, then help me get him down to the tunnels before he wakes up.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Usually considered the curse of living in a small town, the speed at which the latest news spread throughout Midnight Bay was actually a blessing. Within six hours of Trace’s broadcast that the mother of all storms was brewing out in the Gulf of Maine, all of the fishermen were back in port, their boats lashed to storm moorings and their heavy morning’s catch of giant lobsters tucked safely in tanks at the co-op.

  Just as Mac had surmised, no one was taking any chances that this might be a hoax, since a series of unusually fierce and unpredicted storms had hit this section of the coast beginning last spring. Word had even spread to the surrounding communities, and after lashing down anything that might blow away, everyone was safely tucked in their homes, waiting to see what Mother Nature had in store for them this time.

  Well, everyone except John Getze. He was in Trace’s dooryard, having what appeared to be a sometimes coaxing, sometimes heated discussion with Fiona as he strapped his kids into their car seats.

  Trace was actually proud of himself for continuing to prepare for the storm, when he really wanted to go out there and tell the three-piece suit to get the hell off his property. But then, he was just as curious to find out how long it would take Fiona to see through the man’s carefully crafted disguise.

  Trace suspected that Mrs. Getze would have found herself divorced in another couple of years if she hadn’t died first, considering that John had changed girlfriends in high school nearly as often as people changed their underwear. Trace was surprised his old high school nemesis had gone into law, though, because he wouldn’t trust the guy to write a simple will without naming himself as one of the heirs.

  Hell, even Misneach didn’t like the jerk, he noticed as he glanced out the window for the tenth time in as many minutes. The pup was actually tugging on Fiona’s coat, trying to get her to come inside. Trace went to place some cans of food in the box he was packing, only to step back to the window when he saw Getze trying to coax Fiona into the passenger’s seat of his car, all while kicking Misneach away, as the pup was now tugging on his overcoat.

  Trace dropped the cans and was out the door and at the car in a heartbeat. “Fiona,” he said cordially, giving John a cursory nod as he pulled her away. “Could you come help me find some blankets for us to use down in the cellar?”

  Only when he started to lead her away, Getze grabbed hold of her other sleeve, actually placing her in a tug-of-war between them. “I was just suggesting that Miss Gregor come with me and the children,” John said, smiling tightly. “I have a condo up at Sugarloaf, and it would be safer for your tenant up in the mountains.”

  Trace nearly lost his grip on her when he noticed Fiona’s eyes sparkling with amusement. “I believe Miss Gregor prefers to stay home.”

  Christ, he was tempted to kiss that smirk off her face right in front of Getze.

  She quickly turned her smile on her employer. “Yes, thank you for the offer, John,” she said sweetly, pulling out of his grip. “But despite looking like a good wind could blow it over, I believe this old house is a safe haven.” She pulled away from Trace next, then opened the back door of the car and leaned inside. “You two have fun at Sugarloaf, okay?” she said to the children, adjusting the little girl’s hat. “And when I see you in a couple of days, we’ll make cookies together for you to take home.”

  “With frosting?” the boy asked.

  “And colored sprinkles,” Fiona promised. She kissed her finger and then touched each child’s cheek. “You be good for your papa, okay?”

  “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” John asked when she straightened.

  “She’s sure,” Trace said before she could answer, grabbing Fiona’s hand and leading her toward the house. “No need to hurry back, Getze; I’m sure this storm’s going to last several days,” he said, giving a wave over his shoulder. “You can wipe that smirk off your face now,” he softly growled the moment they were out of earshot. “I can’t believe he thought you’d run off to his condo after meeting him only two days ago.” He snorted. “The bastard still thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

  She actually laughed. “I haven’t seen that much posturing since a couple of male peacocks showed up in our camp one day when we were laying siege to a castle.”

  He stopped and turned to her. “I hope you know your safety was the last thing on his mind, because the only thing Getze has ever been concerned about is nailing anything with boobs.”

  “By nailing, I assume you mean having sex?” She actually had the nerve to arch her brow. “Maybe you should have asked John if he had any condoms he could give you, so you can be prepared when another woman undresses you.”

  Trace leaned down until his nose was nearly touching hers. “I already replaced the one you stole,” he said ever so softly, his heart kicking into overdrive when instead of leaning away, she simply smiled again. “In fact, I put three in my wallet.”

  “I can see you and John have a lot in common. Maybe one evening I can watch his children and the two of you can go to your bar in Oak Harbor and both get lucky.”

  Unable to believe she’d just called his bluff, Trace pivoted away with a growl, still refusing to let go of her hand when she tried veering toward her apartment stairs. “I need you to come show me where you hid all my stuff.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I’d rather you did.”

  He hauled her up onto his porch, but the moment he dragged her inside, she gasped as she glanced around, her glare finally coming to rest on him. “How can two people make such a mess in less than three days?” She jerked free, but instead of bolting for the door, she walked over and started closing cupboards, only to gasp again when she slipped and nearly fell on an exploded potato.

  “Mac made the mess. Or at least most of it,” he said, picking up the cans he’d dropped by the window. He straightened and pointed over her shoulder. “And the cupboards are open because I was trying to find stuff to take down to the safe room. Will you please tell me why you stacked all of the canned goods in the mudroom?”

  “Because it’s cooler in there.”

  “And the microwave—does it need to stay cool, too?”

  “No,” she said, her cheeks turning pink. “I simply didn’t see why that confounding machine should be cluttering your counter,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his chest. “It’s unnatural to cook without heat, and when I tried using it to fix your eggs the other day, they blew up.” She thrust her chin out. “I attempted to use a microwave when I lived with Matt and Winter, but the potato I was trying to cook also exploded, even though I had pushed the potato button.”

  When Trace only stood there staring at her, watching her cheeks slowly turn a deep red, she spun away and started stacking things back in the cupboards.

  And still he continued to stare, utterly speechless.

  Christ, he was an ass. He di
dn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as this woman. And he sure as hell didn’t have any business being angry at her for messing with his stuff, driving him crazy with lust, and for not knowing that lovemaking was supposed to be something two people did together.

  Even after all she’d been through, from being treated no better than a piece of property a thousand years ago to being thrust into a new and confounding world, she never stopped trying. Who in hell was he to judge her, when he doubted he’d be half as courageous in her shoes?

  Not only didn’t Fiona Gregor need anyone to save her, she had been, in her own upside-down way, trying to save him from his own miserable self.

  Trace quietly walked over and turned her around, and, ignoring her stiffening in defense, he pulled her into his arms and cupped her head to his chest with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry for being a jerk,” he whispered against her hair. “I should be shot with my own gun for running away from you the other day, and as soon as I find where you put that revolver, I’m going to show you how to load it so you can use it on me. Just promise me you’ll shoot Mac next, for messing up my kitchen that you worked so hard to make beautiful.”

  Still holding her against him, afraid that if he lifted her chin to see her face, he might lose it altogether, he used his thumb to caress her cheek gently. “And I’m pretty sure I forgot to thank you for cleaning the barn and organizing my tools, cooking me the best meals I’ve eaten in ten years, and for chasing every damned last dust bunny out of my house.”

  He felt her stiffen again and realized that pointing out her little cleaning compulsion probably wasn’t a good idea. So he finally lifted her chin so she could see the truth in his eyes. “But mostly,” he continued, “I want to thank you for having the courage to leave that safe room to dig me out of the tunnel and save my life. Can you forgive me, Fiona, and maybe find it in your heart to give me a second chance?”

  She dropped her gaze, held herself perfectly still, and said nothing.

  He let her chin go and wrapped his arms around her with another sigh. “I understand I’m asking for more than I deserve, but I … well, I’m sorry.”