by Sandy James
“Duck!”
Rebecca obeyed the order, wondering how she could hear Megan’s voice when no sound escaped her lips.
Megan punched a revenant who looked eerily like Ellen Degeneres coming up beside Rebecca, catching the zombie in its mouth. Several teeth clattered to the floor, sounding like dice being rolled across the tile.
Somehow Rebecca knew Megan wanted her to drop to her knees behind the dead Ellen so she would trip over Rebecca when Megan gave the zombie a solid kick to the stomach—a kick Rebecca knew was coming.
As soon as the revenant landed on the ground, Artair came over to swing his sword, neatly taking off the creature’s head. He gave them both a satisfied nod and a grunt she took as him being pleased before he turned back to the last revenants left in the fight.
“Did you feel that?” Rebecca asked Megan, wondering if adrenaline made her foolishly imagine something that simply wasn’t there.
“You mean when I could tell what you’d do before you did it?”
Rebecca could only nod.
“Yep. Kind of a neat trick, huh?”
A neat trick. A trick that had also helped Rebecca find Megan, that had led her right to Condemned.
Sisters, Artair had said. They were supposed to be sisters. Would they always have this bond? Would it strengthen?
Not knowing what to say or how to react to the ever-increasing strangeness of it all, Rebecca chose to simply ignore the telepathic connection. Denial seemed appropriately numbing. She let her gaze wander the bar. A collection of headless bodies, loose craniums, assorted arms, legs and broken chairs littered the place. The bikers were regrouping, and questions would start popping out of them. She had no idea how they’d be able to explain any of this once the cops came.
Sparks worked her way back to Rebecca and Megan. “We need to get the hell outta here before the local yokels stick their noses in this.” She glanced to Artair. “Work your magic, Celt, so we can make tracks. I’d go with bad E story.”
He frowned. “Will that work with these people?”
“Hell’s Angels? Oh, yeah.”
“What will he do?” Rebecca asked.
“The Sentinel can do a sort of rewrite of everyone’s minds.” Sparks inclined her head toward the patrons. “They’ll think they took some bad ecstasy and robbed a few graves.”
Artair had already begun reciting some Gaelic words.
“If anyone even calls the cops,” Sparks added, “no one will be able to give them anything solid to go on. They’ll find out all these bodies came from the closest graveyard and will blame the bikers. If Artair does his job right, they won’t even remember us. So, Megan, you coming with us?”
“Shit, yeah! Let’s go.” She walked over to one of the few barstools that remained standing, grabbed a leather jacket and slung it over her shoulder. Leaning over the bar, she called to the bartender who was cowering on the floor. “I’m outta here, Jimbo. Been nice knowing you!”
Chapter Five
Rebecca sat cross-legged in the back of the van, trying not to crawl out of her own skin. Still having a hard time swallowing all of her new circumstances, she fought to keep her panic at bay.
She could think about being left at the altar. Or she could think about never going home again because she was now some kind of damned superhero. She could even think about constantly being chased by zombies and demons as she tried to rid the world of evil. Instead, she focused on the woman who shared her fate.
Rebecca had a fantastic view of Megan Feuer.
The new Fire sat in the passenger seat, dressed in her black leather, her vibrant hair remarkably neat, resembling the bouncy, shiny tresses women always had in shampoo commercials. Even after the bar fight, she appeared as utterly composed and beautiful as any woman Rebecca had ever seen.
A broad smile lit Megan’s face as she talked with Sparks. Rebecca couldn’t see Sparks, but she just knew the woman was calm, composed and gorgeous. And Megan was sure handling all this much better than Rebecca. Fire’s confidence washed over her. She wished she could borrow more, that she could make Megan’s poise her own.
Vines of white smoke drifted to the back of the van periodically, and Rebecca coughed, hoping Sparks would eventually get the hint. Then she realized subtlety was lost on women like Sparks and Megan. They neither wanted to blend into the crowd nor cared about pleasing other people. She wasn’t at all surprised when a cigarette was passed to Megan, who promptly lit the little cancer stick with a flame from her thumb.
Glancing at her own appearance, Rebecca couldn’t help comparing herself to Megan. She was an absolute wreck. Her once-gorgeous wedding dress was now a disgusting outfit of shredded satin, its color more a jumble of multicolored stains than pristine white. Yanking the bodice up for what seemed like the millionth time, she wondered how her boobs hadn’t managed to pop right out. She wouldn’t have opted for a strapless gown if she’d known she was going to be kidnapped from the wedding to fight an army of the undead.
I want to go home.
Her kitten would miss her. Her students would ask for Miss Massee every day until they realized Miss Massee wasn’t ever coming back. Who would take care of returning the wedding presents? What would happen to her things—her clothes, her pictures, her plants? Would her car get towed?
Raising her hand, she ran her fingers through her matted hair. The gel and heavy hairspray the stylist had used to arrange what had that morning been an elegant upswept coiffure now served to make her hair a mixture of knots and tangles that had grown so stiff she doubted she would ever get them all out. She should simply grab some clippers, make like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane and be done with it.
Artair stared at her from across the van. Casually leaning back, he bent a leg, laid one of his forearms across his knee and chuckled as she tried to right her hair.
Rebecca couldn’t help herself from gawking. Her hands slowly fell to her lap as she admired his muscular legs. He shifted slightly when the van lurched as if turning a corner a little too quickly, and his plaid slipped down his thigh. The clichéd question about what a Scot wore beneath his kilt was quickly answered.
Artair rearranged the material before she could figure out if he was a brief or boxers kind of guy. She lifted her gaze back to his face. He had a knowing grin. Feeling the hot flush spread over her face, she dropped her gaze to her lap, where she worried her hands to keep them occupied.
“We’re almost there, lass. Nae much longer.”
“I’m not a child. I’m not sitting here asking if we’re almost there yet. Besides,” she added with a shrug, “I don’t even know where there is.”
“Home.” The corners of Artair’s lips twitched as if he wanted to grin again, but he refrained. “My home. Your new home.”
“Oh, well that clears it up. Thanks a heap.” She was being rude, but her senses were in overload. Niceties couldn’t even form in her mind let alone spill out of her mouth. “I already had a home.”
A combination of troubling thoughts and lurching motion made her stomach pitch, her limbs tremble and her head ache. The rocking of the van as it continued on the trek. The memory of the rotting corpses and the overwhelming stench they’d left behind at Condemned. The fear that she would face a lifetime—probably an extraordinarily short lifetime—of similar circumstances.
Trying to hide her rapidly increasing distress, she focused on the floor, hoping a stable focal point would stop the queasiness. That tactic backfired. Her stomach threatened to rebel at any moment, and she couldn’t suppress a sickening groan as her hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“Sparks!” Artair shouted.
“What?”
“Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Now, Sparks.” He scrambled over to Rebecca, lifted her by the waist and pulled her toward the door. The van was still moving, albeit slowly, when he jerked the door open and hauled her outside. Her stomach heaved up its meager contents a moment later.
As she vomited, Artair held h
er from behind with one strong arm around her waist as he smoothed her barbed-wire hair back over her shoulder. Waves of nausea raced through her. With little in her stomach to begin with, she was reduced to spasms of dry heaves. Artair never left her as he whispered reassurances.
She tried to stand and brush his hand away from her waist. He refused to move it. Instead, he tugged a linen handkerchief from the pouch hanging from his belt, and gently wiped the sweat away from her forehead before smoothing the cloth across her mouth. “’Twill be fine, Becca.”
She didn’t believe him.
“What’s the hang-up?” Megan asked. “I thought we were heading to our new digs.”
Rebecca startled to find Sparks and Megan standing behind Artair.
“We were,” Sparks replied, fishing a couple of wrapped hard candies from her pocket. “Then Earth here decided to toss her cookies on the grass.” She glanced over at Rebecca then handed her a peppermint.
Rebecca put it in her mouth with a grateful nod.
“You get carsick a lot?”
“Only if I’m in the back seat too long. Look, I’m sorry. I’m just… I’ve had a hard… And they smelled so…” She shuddered. “I always get nauseous when I’m nervous. I’m really sorry.” Feeling foolish and wishing she had the strength and chutzpa Sparks and Megan seemed to have in no small amount, she shut up and sucked on her peppermint.
“She gets shotgun from now on,” Sparks said to Megan and Artair.
Artair scowled at her. “You shouldn’t be making fun. The lass has been through enough.”
“Good God, Artair,” Sparks grumbled. “You’re going soft on me.”
A low growl rumbled from his chest. “I shall show you soft when we reach camp and renew your training.”
Rebecca leaned heavily against him, angry at herself for letting any weakness show and angry at all of her companions for putting her through this ordeal. She wanted to go home, but the only thing waiting for her would be revenants. They’d found Megan, after all. No, if she wanted to live, she had nowhere else to go except with these people. “We can go now. I’m sorry I got sick. I just—I’m not used to any of this yet. I won’t be a bother anymore.”
“You’re nae a bother, sweeting.” Artair ran his hand down her arm, sending traitorous shivers racing through her body.
“Sweeting?” Sparks asked, eyes incredulous. “Sweeting?”
“Enough, Frida.” His hand fell away from Rebecca’s arm.
* * *
Artair had to resist the urge to back Sparks against the side of the van and scare some respect back into her. But that was an impossibility. From the time she’d been called into service, there had never been an ounce of fear in the woman. Hard as nails. A true Fire. Buried beneath that rough exterior, Sparks had the ability to love. Not her Sentinel, nor her goddess, and probably not one man for too long. But her sisters? Sparks loved them unconditionally and would have given her life to protect any of the other Amazons.
She was right—he was getting soft. Just another reason to be moving on.
“’Tis time to go home. Sparks, let the van take the wheel,” Artair ordered, his voice curt.
“Aye,” Sparks drawled. “Since I don’t know how to get there.”
Megan gaped at her. “You don’t know how to get to wherever we’re going?”
Sparks shook her head. “It’s home, but I don’t know the directions. Hell, they change all the time anyway when the camp moves.” She chuckled. “And the van knows the way.”
As they piled back in the van, Artair moved to a spot he could keep his eye on Rebecca from where she sat in the passenger’s seat. Megan sat across from him, eyeing him like a hungry predator. The newest member of the group would no doubt lose some of her cockiness through heavy training, and she needed to learn refinement and control. Yet Megan was an Amazon, no doubt about that.
Artair wasn’t sure what to think about Rebecca. He’d seen glimpses of Amazon in her. She’d broken her would-be groom’s nose with one punch. Had she not done so, Artair would have found a way to dispense some payback to the pathetic excuse of a man for embarrassing her. Not that he would have allowed the marriage to proceed, even if the groom had been willing. Rebecca didn’t belong with any man. Any man except…
He shook his head at his disturbing thoughts.
Like all Amazons, anger was the trigger for Rebecca’s powers. Fury at her former fiancé had produced an impressive earthquake on her first try since receiving her powers that morning. It had been merely a reflex, but he could build from there. Despite her palpable fear, she hadn’t run from her first revenant attack. She’d even drawn one of the filthy creatures away from her new sister, putting herself in jeopardy. Yes, there was definitely Amazon in Rebecca. But that wasn’t what concerned him. Artair could teach her to protect herself and to wield a weapon. Nay, his concern was in how to protect himself from Rebecca Massee.
Artair had been right to call on his goddess, to summon her weeks ago to tender what he jokingly called his “resignation.” Rhiannon had been angry. She’d scolded, shouted, threatened and even pleaded with him to change his mind. There had always been a strong bond between them, and she’d long wanted something more from him than his help training the Amazons. Rhiannon made no secret that she desired a more personal association.
Only a bloody fool got involved with a goddess—sexually or otherwise. An Ancient never had a real attachment to anyone, especially a human, and Rhiannon no doubt had lavished many a man with her attentions. Of all the things Artair felt for Rhiannon, of all the loyalty she inspired in him, he didn’t love her.
He’d never really loved any woman. He had eased the needs of his body with soft, willing women, but none had captured his heart. The goddess Freya sent him to her private tropical island to refresh him with her very accommodating priestesses, although he hadn’t traveled there in quite some time. When he’d been laird of his clan, he’d busied himself with training his men, not worrying about taking a wife or siring an heir because he’d always figured there would be time for that in the future. In his wildest dreams, Artair never dreamed his future would stretch nearly three hundred years.
Rhiannon had acquiesced to his wishes to return to the mortal world. When Maria had died, he’d vowed to remain to avenge her death and protect Sparks, Helen and Trishna. They would be his last generation of Amazons, and once the new Sentinel was in place, he would leave this generation to his replacement’s care. The Amazons he’d prepared and fought alongside had never failed in their quests because he’d trained them well. Yet he was weary of it all. He’d lost too many along the way.
Then a slip of a girl had suddenly thrown a kink in his well-thought-out dream. She’d made him realize just how lonely his life had been—both as laird to his clan and as Sentinel to the women. Simply seeing her, he saw his future. A home. A wife. Children. All the things he’d been denied by pledging himself to Rhiannon.
Embarrassed, he tried to push the feelings aside. They clung to him with a tenacity of a Scotsman’s grudge.
Looking over at Megan, he caught her staring at him again, an invitation plain in her eyes. Accustomed to the sensuous nature of Fires, but feeling nothing more for this new recruit than a desire to discipline her and teach her some restraint, Artair gave his head a stern shake. Her responding smile told him her plucky spirit would do her Fire ancestors proud. It also told him he’d be dodging her hands like some tavern wench ducked the roving gropes of drunken customers.
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at Artair, her features reflecting a myriad of emotions that, surprisingly, he could so easily read. Her beautiful face became a mirror of all she felt. Anticipation. Fear. A touch of excitement. And something more that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The van came to a stop.
“Artair,” Sparks called from the front. “We’re here. Wanna let us in?”
“Aye.” He got out of the van and stalked to the enormous gate.
Appearing weathe
red and beaten, the innocuous grill protected the sanctuary for the Amazons. The magicks spun here by the four goddesses who bestowed the Amazon powers was potent. The camp could be detected by neither man nor magic. Only he, the two caretakers and the goddesses knew its location. Even the warriors themselves couldn’t find it. The compound had always been a safe haven for training the women, a place where they could recover from battle or injury, and for most Amazons, this refuge became their final resting place.
Trying to block his troubled thoughts, Artair stood before the entrance, spoke the sacred words in Gaelic and, with a loud creak, the gates swung open.
With a bow and a sweeping gesture of his arm, he said, “Welcome to Avalon.”
Chapter Six
“Avalon?” Rebecca asked as she followed Artair through the gate.
“Aye. King Arthur’s haven, where he went to his final rest. ’Tis a fitting name for our home.”
Fitting indeed. The fresh smell of the trees and flowers filled her senses. She wiggled her toes in the moist grass, somehow drawing strength from the simple action.
The squeal of tires drew her attention back to the van. The rust bucket receded in the distance with only one taillight glowing bright. She squelched a comment about how poorly these supposed goddesses provided for their charges. They might have at least coughed up a vehicle made in this century.
In the moonlight, Artair grinned, looking entirely too appealing. “’Tis a sorry piece of equipment, I ken. But it doesn’t draw the attention of something finer. We’ve nae need to show off. Amazons best go through the world unnoticed.”
“And it’s got a Hemi,” Sparks added. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts. Just like a Twinkie.”
“Or an Oreo.” Megan grinned.
Rebecca couldn’t smile at their teasing, even though she felt their good humor, just as she did Megan’s pleasure with their new home.
