Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  Mac glared at him. “At least my way you won’t die of hypothermia within twenty minutes of our capsizing.”

  “You mean we won’t die.”

  “Atlanteans can’t drown; we have ocean water in our veins.” Up went that brow again. “So now which one of us seems determined to commit suicide?”

  Trace opened his door, grabbed his backpack and slipped it over his shoulders, and, tucking his head against the blowing snow, he headed down the ramp.

  “Have you ever trusted anyone, Trace?” Mac asked when they reached the dock.

  He untied his dinghy and shoved it into the water. “I trusted the bastard I asked to keep an eye on Elena when I went out on a mission.” He held the small boat while Mac got in the front then climbed in after him, sat down with his back to Mac, and picked up the oars. “And we both know how that turned out, don’t we?”

  “Are you certain it was your friend who betrayed you, and not Elena?”

  Trace strained into the oars to row toward his boat, having to fight the gale-force wind as well as the swells. “Jon made promises to her that he had no intention of keeping.”

  “And when Elena found herself in a … lovers’ triangle, you don’t suppose she realized she could lose both chances to go to America when you returned and found out she’d seduced your friend?” Trace felt Mac lean closer. “And did you never consider that she may have confronted Jon and threatened to claim that he’d raped her if he didn’t help her get to America?”

  “That’s the story he spewed the whole time I was beating the hell out of him,” Trace said, elbowing Mac on the pretense of rowing harder. “I guess we’ll never hear Elena’s version, will we?”

  “Do you care to hear my version, Huntsman?”

  “No.”

  “Elena told Jon she was going to tell your commanding officer that both of you had seduced her with promises of taking her to America. She also intended to claim that she was pregnant and that she didn’t know which one of you was the father.”

  Trace stopped rowing and spun on his seat. “Was she?”

  “No,” Mac said, shaking his head. “But your friend believed her, and when he confronted Elena, she ran into the night.” Mac leaned toward him again. “Jon didn’t drive her toward that minefield deliberately, Trace, as you believe; he was trying to stop her when he realized the danger.” Mac straightened. “The only thing Jonathan Payne is guilty of is having bad judgment when it comes to women.”

  “Then, according to your version, I’m guilty of the same thing.”

  Mac merely lifted a brow, saying nothing.

  Trace turned and started rowing again, trying to decide if Mac wasn’t just pushing his buttons to get even for his using Matt’s magic against him. Then again, Jon could be innocent, and Elena could have duped them both. Trace snorted. It wouldn’t have been the first time a woman had used her body to get him to do something.

  “If what you’re saying is true, Jon’s serving time for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Would your military court believe an eyewitness?”

  “The base police questioned everyone who might have seen or heard anything. And by the time Jon got out of the hospital and could tell his side of what happened, public sentiment was already against him—a good deal of it fueled by Elena’s family.”

  “And by you,” Mac said evenly.

  “And me.”

  “If we don’t die today, Huntsman, I’ll produce a witness to exonerate your friend.”

  They bumped into Trace’s boat, and he grabbed the gunwale and held the dinghy steady as both vessels rose and fell with the swells. He turned on his seat to look at Mac. “You can do that?”

  “If we survive the day.” He smiled tightly. “If we don’t, I’m afraid Jon’s plight is on your soul, not mine.”

  Mac was nearly back to his old self again, although Trace wasn’t quite sure if he looked exactly the same. He’d met the man on three different occasions, and the wizard had appeared different each of those times.

  Except for his eyes, which were always a sharp, vivid green.

  “Climb in,” Trace said, nodding at the boat. He climbed aboard right behind him, letting the dinghy drift off, and immediately started the engine.

  “You forgot your extra guns in the truck,” Mac said, dropping onto a coil of rope with a groan to lean against the wheelhouse.

  “I decided I don’t need them. How are you feeling?”

  “A bit better, thank you. Why?”

  Trace waved his index finger in a circle. “Can you unhook us from the mooring so I don’t have to go up front and do it?”

  “You really don’t trust me, do you? You think I’m faking.”

  “I’ll trust you just as soon as I get Fiona back.”

  Mac waved his finger in the air. “Let’s go.”

  Trace set his hand on the throttle, hesitating just long enough to make sure they were drifting away from the mooring, but when he looked at Mac he could see that the little magic trick had cost the wizard. He slowly eased the throttle forward and guided them through the maze of moored boats, all the time eyeing the rough seas ahead.

  Oh, yeah, they were in for one hell of a ride.

  “You know, Huntsman,” Mac said, stretching his legs out as he settled back against the wheelhouse. “I believe if you are truthful with yourself, you’ll admit that your gut was telling you something wasn’t quite right with Elena. Why else would you have asked Jon to keep an eye on her while you were gone?”

  “Because I didn’t know if my mission was going to take a week or a month.” He felt heat creep up his neck. “And she told me her brother had pledged her to some warlord, and I didn’t want to come back and find he’d married her off.”

  Christ, he really was a gullible chump, wasn’t he?

  “So is that why you panicked when I suggested that you ask Fiona to marry you, because you’re incapable of trusting a woman? Even one you admire for her strength and independence?”

  Trace glared at him. “For your information, I did ask her, and she said no.”

  “You asked Fiona to do you the honor of being your wife?”

  “Well … not exactly. I asked if some guy here in the twenty-first century were to ask her to marry him, if she would. And she gave me a flat-out no.” He snorted. “Because, she said, husbands are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Mac just gaped at him. “You are such an ass.”

  “Have you even once considered that maybe Fiona really doesn’t want to get married?” Trace asked, spreading his stance when the boat rolled with the growing swells as they neared the point.

  “All women want to get married,” Mac snapped as he was thrown off the rope.

  “Apparently not badly enough to marry you. Hang on!” Trace shouted, shoving the throttle forward. The boat lurched into the open bay, sending spray crashing over the wheelhouse as the bow slammed into waves he estimated were ten to twelve feet high—which was way bigger than any he’d ever been out in before.

  “For the love of Zeus!” Mac roared, springing to his feet and pulling Trace out of the way to grab the wheel. “I’ve met farmers who were better seamen!”

  Trace took hold of the console to brace himself, turning to hide his smile.

  He’d wondered how long it would take the wizard to get in the game.

  Only he quickly sobered when he heard his boat’s foghorn go off. “What in hell are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Shut up and look for them!”

  Them? As in tails and flippers and big, warm bellies them?

  Mac started blowing the horn again in a series of long and short bursts.

  “Goddamn it, Oceanus!” Trace scrambled to grab the wheel. “I am not—”

  Something slammed into the boat, knocking him down and sending him sliding all the way back to the stern. He caught hold of the gunwale and started to stand, but the boat was slammed from the other side, nearly tossing him over the side before he finally got to his fee
t on the rolling deck just as he heard the engine die.

  “Take a deep breath, Huntsman!” Mac shouted, charging toward him.

  Trace shot to the side, but the wizard read his intention and veered toward him, snagging him in his arms, his momentum sending them both flying over the stern.

  Chapter Twenty

  Trace unzipped his jacket, pulled his shirttail out of his sopping-wet jeans, and wiped his face. “Fess up, Oceanus; you were dropped on your head as a kid, weren’t you?” He cleared his eyes enough to glare at Mac, only to find the bastard smiling.

  “Are we not here, Huntsman?”

  Yeah, they were definitely here; only problem was, Trace wasn’t sure exactly where here was. They appeared to be on some sort of ship. Or rather in a ship, as he suspected they were several hundred feet underwater. “This boat got a bathroom,” he asked, “or do Atlanteans just whiz in the ocean?”

  That made Mac’s smile disappear. “Now? You need to go now?”

  “Well, yeah.” He gestured at Mac and then at himself. “And I’d rather not meet His Holy Highness, King of the World, looking like this.” He smoothed down the front of his sopping jacket. “I can’t very well negotiate Fiona’s release looking like this.”

  “Negoti—you have nothing to trade, you idiot, because you just hand-delivered me to him.” Mac stepped closer. “And I would caution you to show only respect toward my father, or you might discover a whale’s belly is preferable to this ship’s brig.”

  Mac angrily twirled his finger in a circle, and Trace nearly came out of his skin at the feel of a thousand ants crawling inside his clothes. But when he looked down, he saw that he was still dressed, only his jeans, shirt, jacket, and even his boots were so clean they looked brand-new.

  He rolled his shoulders to make sure he was still wearing his backpack and beamed Mac a smile. “I could use you on Sunday afternoons when I’m getting ready to drive up to Bangor for supper at my mom’s.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But I still need a bathroom. And I prefer to do it myself,” he quickly tacked on when the wizard raised his hand again.

  Mac spun on his heel and headed toward a closed hatchway. Trace followed, trying not to gawk like a tourist. The massive room had to be three stories high, and he figured it was on the lowest level of the vessel, judging by the huge pool of seawater in the center through which they’d entered the ship.

  Mac led him into an airlock, sealed the door behind them, and exited through another hatch into a long hallway. “And my father prefers to be addressed as sir, especially in front of the crew.”

  Trace was about to say something but took a misstep when he saw several men dressed in what had to be the gaudiest uniforms on the planet. They all stopped what they were doing to snap to attention, only instead of saluting, every damned last one of them bowed as Mac strode past without even acknowledging them.

  Holy hell, the guy really was royalty.

  Trace lengthened his stride to catch up, and tried to keep track of every twist and turn they made down countless hallways. “About that bathroom,” he said when they started up a set of stairs. “I really need to go.”

  Mac turned and continued down the hall a short distance, then slapped open a door. “One minute. My father knows we’re here, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “For chrissakes, can you see yourself? The closer we get to your old man, the more uptight you become,” he said, walking past him into the bathroom.

  “I haven’t seen or spoken to him in nearly a century,” Mac growled. “And our parting wasn’t exactly pleasant.” He gestured stiffly. “We had a fight that sent most of Atlantis’s population scurrying to the other side of the island, nearly capsizing it.”

  “Atlantis floats?” Trace narrowed his eyes. “Why haven’t our satellites seen it?”

  “Because it’s a myth!”

  Trace softly closed the door on Mac’s angry face and stepped back into the hallway three minutes later. He walked over to Mac, who was sitting on the bottom step, his arms resting on his knees as he stared down at his hands. “Come on,” Trace said, gently lifting him to his feet. “Let’s get Fiona and get the hell out of here.”

  “Only the two of you will be getting the hell out of here,” Mac muttered, taking a left at the top of the stairs. “I can’t very well run off and leave my father to fight my battles for me.”

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t need him to fight them with you, either.”

  Mac stopped and turned. “You don’t understand; I’m his only heir, and if anything happens to me, the Trees of Life will start dying, and so will all of humanity.”

  “He’s got Carolina.”

  Mac shook his head and started up another set of stairs. “He refuses to leave the fate of mankind in the hands of a woman.”

  Trace snorted. “We’d have fewer wars if women ruled the world.”

  When Mac started up yet another set of stairs, Trace slowed enough to glance down the hallway, getting an uneasy feeling that he might have underestimated the size of the ship. As near as he could tell, it was some sort of underwater craft, like a submarine—only it appeared to be as big as a goddamned aircraft carrier.

  Then again, its massive size might actually work in his favor.

  “So I take it your father is the one who passed down your ethics about not using magic to do every little thing for him,” Trace said, figuring they must be getting close, because if Mac’s spine got any stiffer the man was going to snap in half. He snorted. “Only he’s not above using magic to steal my girlfriend to get you.”

  Mac stopped just outside a set of huge wooden doors that had a large multibranched tree carved into them. “Girlfriend?” He arched a brow. “Does Fiona know she’s been elevated from your tenant to your girlfriend?”

  Trace blew out a sigh. “No, I haven’t told her yet.” He grinned. “But don’t you think she’ll like the idea? It’s got a very twenty-first-century ring to it.”

  Mac turned to the door. “The only ring she needs is one she can wear.”

  Trace pulled his friend’s arm away. “He puts his pants on one leg at a time, Mac, just like all of us,” he said quietly. “And really, what’s the worst he can do?”

  Trace saw the first hint today of an honest smile on the wizard’s face. “When I was a kid he would take away my magic as punishment, and I’d be forced to go to Carolina when I got myself in a jam.” He shook his head. “And she would make me play dolls with her as payment.” He sobered, and Trace saw his spine stiffen again. “Your word, Huntsman, that you will not antagonize him. We will humbly ask that he give you Fiona and then safe passage back to Midnight Bay for the two of you.”

  “How about we humbly ask him to give the three of us safe passage back?”

  “Why do you insist that I go with you?” Mac gestured at nothing. “It’s past time I face my responsibilities, even if that means agreeing to let my father choose my bride. At least then maybe I can find some peace.”

  “So you’re saying everyone has free will but you?”

  “Yes!” the wizard snapped, opening the door before Trace could stop him. “Father,” he said, giving a slight bow as he entered the room. “I’m sorry for not getting here sooner, but I was … detained.”

  For Mac to have claimed that his father was legendary for his looks was one hell of an understatement, Trace decided. Titus Oceanus had to be nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders a linebacker would sell his sister for and a ruggedly handsome face that women would turn somersaults just to have smile at them.

  Which made Trace wonder what Mac really looked like when he wasn’t trying to look like someone else. He and his father had the same vivid green eyes, though, a similar set to the jaw, and that same damned imperial brow—which the old goat raised as he gave Trace the once-over.

  “Mr. Huntsman,” Titus said. “I’m glad to finally meet you, as I’ve been wondering whether you’ve been trying to save my son’s life or kill him.”

  “Yeah, me,
too,” Trace returned evenly, stepping forward. “I’ll see Fiona now. If you please,” he tacked on when he heard Mac growl behind him.

  “In good time.” The elder wizard’s gaze slid to Mac, and his eyes hardened, but not before Trace saw the hunger of unconditional love flash briefly. “Maximilian, do you have any idea what sort of unholy war you’ve started?”

  Trace stepped between them. “That’s just it. Your boy here doesn’t know who in hell’s out to get him, much less why. And since I seem to be caught smack in the middle of this unholy little war, I’d really like to know, too.” He took a step toward the giant. “Right after I see Fiona.”

  Trace saw a hint of amusement creep into those vivid green eyes as Titus raised a finger and silently waved it in a circle. A door at the back of the room suddenly opened, and Misneach came barreling through it, his claws scraping for purchase as he raced toward Trace with an excited yelp. Keeping his eye on the door, Trace crouched down to catch the pup while slipping a hand inside his jacket pocket when he saw Fiona appear. Only he quickly pulled his hand back out when he noticed the child walking beside her, the young boy’s brilliant green eyes huge with uncertainty, his hand clutching Fiona’s in a death grip.

  Trace stood and shoved Misneach at Mac, then strode over and pulled Fiona into his arms and buried his face in her hair. He wanted to say something but for the life of him couldn’t, so he settled for squeezing her until he heard her squeak. Only then did he open his eyes, and looking down over her shoulder, he saw the kid all but twisting her arm off trying to hide behind her.

  Trace straightened and cupped Fiona’s face in his hands. “We’re moving on to plan B,” he quietly told her. “So stay sharp, okay?”

  Her beautiful, safe, and very much alive eyes sparkled like sunshine up at him. “What does plan B involve?” she whispered.

  “I’m not sure yet. Where’s your gun?”

  “Mr. Oceanus took it. He said any man who gives a woman that kind of weapon should be shot with it.”

  Trace felt her arm being tugged on and grinned. “How old is he?”