Master of Dragons

by Angela Knight

  He turned back to look at her. His nostrils flared as if catching her scent. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a knowing half-smile, and his eyes heated. “Avalon. My home.”

  Alarm jolted her from her need. “But we need to look for the sword now!”

  “And Avalon is full of powerful witches who can help us track down your magic butter knife.” He gave her a charming smile and laid a hand on her shoulder. “It seems we’re going to be partners, Nineva. You’ll have to trust me.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm as those strong fingers gave her a comforting squeeze. It was obviously intended as a friendly gesture, but her body seemed intent on interpreting it as something else. “Trust isn’t my best thing.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that about you.” He gave her a gentle push toward the gate. “Give it a shot anyway.”

  Nineva gave him a searching look over one shoulder, trying to ignore the sizzle and burn running through her blood.

  Then she stepped through the gate.

  Simmering with frustrated rage, Arralt walked through the dimensional doorway into brilliant, shimmering sunlight. He snarled at the glare. He’d almost had the little bitch. If that thrice-cursed dragon hadn’t interfered…

  As his men gated in around him, he stalked to the huge window that ran the length of the level and looked out over the ocean a hundred feet below. He’d chosen these cliffs as the perfect location for his fortress because they lay on the other side of the planet from the Cachamwri and Morven kingdoms.

  And he’d chosen well. Ansgar had never been able to find Arralt’s rebel stronghold—and his murderous father had definitely looked. Given the strength of the wards that surrounded them, the dragon’s luck would be no better.

  In stark contrast to the darkness of the mortal hemisphere they’d just left, the sun was well up here, sparkling on the deep blue waves. Looking down at the narrow strip of beach below, he spotted an incautious mermaid sunning herself on the rocks, her bare breasts lifted, her head thrown back, spilling her iridescent hair over the black stone.

  Arralt curled his lip. She’d best keep her wits about her. Hunting the Mer was one of his army’s favorite sports.

  For a moment he considered gating down to take out his frustrated rage on her. His cock hardened at the thought, but he reluctantly decided against it. He needed to report to Varza. She’d be unhappy enough as it was.

  As he turned toward the stone passage that led to his partner’s quarters, his gaze fell on a cluster of warriors. They stood with heads together, eyeing him uneasily. Knowing a budding conspiracy when he saw one, Arralt diverted to confront them. “Does someone have something to say?” His voice was low and pleasant, but several of his veterans flinched.

  One of the newer recruits, however, did not have the experience to recognize his mood. “My lord, there was a dragon.” His tone was earnest, his clear gaze troubled.

  “Aye.” Arralt leveled his coldest, flattest stare at the puppy.

  Who still didn’t have the sense to shut up. “The legends say the Avatar of the Goddess and a dragon warrior will free Semira from the sword. Shouldn’t we…”

  “What? Give that reptile the sword?” Arralt pumped contempt into his voice. “Hand our goddess over to Llyr? Because you may be sure that usurper is behind this. He had his ‘god’ send one of those lizards in an attempt to fool us.” He scanned them all with an icy gaze and watched as even the puppy cringed. “The sword of the goddess belongs in the hands of her people, and her people will free her.”

  “But the legend!” The puppy’s voice was very faint. “Semira herself predicted…”

  “According to whom? It’s been thousands of years. The legend probably began with some addled old woman and grew in the telling.” In turn, he met the eyes of each warrior, searching for the seeds of rebellion and disbelief. He needed every man he had, but he’d kill without mercy or hesitation if necessary. “Llyr knows of the legend, and he’s trying to use it against us. Or perhaps you want to be ruled by that weakling and his werewolf bitch?” The white-faced young warrior made no answer. Arralt roared, “Do you?”

  “No, my lord!” The words sounded reassuringly fervent. “You are our rightful king.”

  “You have our loyalty, my lord.” It was one of his veterans, a scarred, hard-eyed Sidhe who obviously recognized the danger of the moment. He turned toward the others. “Lift your voices for our future king!”

  As one, the men roared. “Arralt! Arralt! Arralt!”

  The puppy shouted loudest, Arralt noted with grim satisfaction.

  Good. It wouldn’t be necessary to kill the whelp. His life would be better spent in battle anyway.

  Not that Arralt wasn’t tempted. Anger still surged in his blood, and he’d like nothing better than to gut the fool where he stood. But one did not waste assets on a whim.

  He gave his men a curt nod, then turned and strode away, heading for his quarters. His thoughts slid grimly to the coming confrontation with Varza. He veered up a set of narrow stone steps, his armored boots ringing. Flecks of quartz glittered in the light of torches as he climbed.

  The fortress looked like the rough stronghold it was; he saw no reason to waste magic on amenities. They’d dug a warren of rooms and corridors in the black stone of the cliffs: barracks, a kitchen and dining hall, training areas, interrogation rooms. The furnishings were just as rough—handmade wooden chairs and tables, pallets of hay that served as beds. Conjured furniture might be more elegant, but it also tended to vanish when its creator was killed.

  Arralt’s own rooms lay deep within the cliff. Personally, he’d have preferred a better view, but Varza did not care for sunlight. Reaching the thick wooden door, he swung it wide and stepped inside. Into a haven of opulence.

  The light from a magical fire glinted off gold and gems and rich inlaid wood. His lover had a taste for beauty, and saw no reason not to indulge it.

  Through the diaphanous curtains around his bed, he saw a figure rise from the thick feather mattress. The curtains blew aside as if from a sudden breeze, revealing a woman—lush and naked, her hair a waterfall of forest green in the torchlight, her body as pale as new snow.

  Even now, he found himself enjoying Varza’s sense of theater.

  Once, her name had been Ceredith, and she’d been an open, laughing beauty who had loved him with all the passion in her uncomplicated soul. He regretted her loss, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

  The eyes that had once been sapphire blue were now yellow and hard as she studied his face. “You failed.”

  Arralt stiffened at the fury rising in her eyes. “Cachamwri knew. He sent one of his dragons. The bloody beast took her.” He drew the Sword of Semira from the scabbard he’d thrown across his shoulder and tossed it on the bed. “At least I kept her from escaping with the sword.”

  Varza’s yellow eyes narrowed in sudden interest. “This dragon—what did he look like?”

  Arralt shrugged. “Blue, of course. Cachamwri knows of that idiot legend. Even my men were ready to hand over the blade to the creature.”

  To his surprise, a slow, cold grin spread across Varza’s face. “It’s not an idiot legend, my love. But perhaps it is an opportunity we can use.”

  Arralt turned to stare at her, appalled. “You don’t mean there’s any truth to it?” If there was…

  She laughed, a seductive purr. “Fear not, my general. Even true prophecies can be twisted into a new shape, given enough skill and power.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Oh, a great many things.” The light from the fireplace painted the curves of her lush breasts with gold. Her teeth looked very white against her red lips. “But I must think on that a bit longer. In the meantime, about the kidnapping…”

  “It is not so easy getting enough men into place. Llyr has been foiling assassination plots for centuries, and he is particularly protective of his wolf bitch.”

  Her smile was darkly seductive. “Why don’t you let me tak
e care of that?”

  He grinned back. “Why, Varza—whatever do you have in mind?”

  “What I do best.” A gesture of her hands sent magic spinning over him. In an instant, his armor was gone. His lingering anger and frustration vanished as she reached out a hand and began to stroke him, lust in her unholy yellow eyes.

  Nineva gaped as she turned in the center of the huge square, taking in the surrounding châteaus and castles that shone in the night like magical torches. The cobblestone streets were empty, though she thought she could hear laughter and music in the distance. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

  “Not exactly, Dorothy.” Kel took her elbow in a surprisingly gentle grip. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the wizard.”

  She eyed his profile as he steered her across the square. “For a forty-foot dragon, you seem to know American pop culture really well.”

  He grinned, white teeth flashing. “It’s part of the job description.”

  “Of being a dragon?”

  “Of being a Knight of the Round Table.”

  She blinked at him. “Okay, I’m officially confused.”

  “We affect a lot of people that way.” He laughed, the sound rich and masculine.

  Something low in her belly tightened with sweet warmth. Seducing him definitely wouldn’t be a hardship, though she had no idea how to go about it. What was she going to say? I realize we’re two different species, but my goddess says we need to play a brisk game of leaping lizards.

  But please don’t fry me while we’re at it.

  Oh, yeah, that was going to be a fun conversation. She swallowed and groped for any topic of conversation. “Where are we? I thought you guys lived in caves.” As a child, she’d built a house for her “dragon” out of cardboard boxes.

  “We do. This isn’t the Dragon Lands—this is Avalon.”

  Nineva frowned. “Where King Arthur went when he died?” She’d loved reading about the Knights of the Round Table as a child.

  “Yeah, only he didn’t die. Arthur’s pretty tough to kill.” Kel smiled grimly. “God knows plenty have tried.”

  “He’s still alive?” That would make him an immortal. “What is he? Sidhe?” Her father hadn’t mentioned that. Come to think of it, he’d told her the stories that had fascinated her were only human myths about some Celtic warlord. But then, he’d come to Mortal Earth sixteen centuries before. A lot could have happened since then.

  Kel looked down at her, a hint of mischief in the curve of his mouth. “Nope, Arthur’s human. Or he was.”

  “So what is he now?”

  Kel tilted his head skyward, as if mulling over what to say. “Complicated.”

  Nineva snorted. “That’s a big help.”

  “Hey, it’ll be a lot more believable after you meet him.” His hand shifted to the small of her back as he guided her up the stairs of a big, Romanesque building whose white stone columns reminded her of a temple. His palm felt deliciously hot through the fabric of her T-shirt, as if his skin was warmer than a human’s.

  So much for the idea of dragons being cold-blooded.

  “So do you live here, or do you live in the Dragon Lands?”

  His profile went grim. “I haven’t lived in the Dragon Lands in fifteen hundred years.”

  Nineva blinked. “Why not?”

  Kel gave her a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Backstabbing. Betrayal. Friends looking the other way while my mother was murdered. The usual.”

  Nineva winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was several centuries ago.”

  “My parents were murdered, too.” She hadn’t intended to say it. The words simply burst from her in her surprise at finding she had something in common with this creature of myth and nightmare.

  His false smile disappeared as he opened one of the building’s massive doors. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories. What happened?”

  “I saved a dog.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I hit the neighbor’s Irish setter with my car, so I got out and healed him.” Nineva slipped past him into the building, not sure why she felt compelled to confess all this. “I knew I wasn’t supposed to use my powers, but I did it anyway. King Ansgar had been hunting me since I was born. He sensed my magic and sent his killers. My father forced me to leave while he and my mother distracted the assassins. They…” The rest of the words wouldn’t come, so she closed her dry mouth and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry.” He stepped inside and closed the door, compassion clear in his eyes as he studied her. “You must have been very young.”

  “Seventeen. Old enough to know better.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself? Seventeen is young—even by human standards. And you’re Sidhe. You’re not even a century old yet.”

  “I’m half human. Besides, do I look like a kid to you?”

  The look he gave her in return was thoroughly male—and thoroughly approving. “No, thank Cachamwri.”

  Not sure how she felt about the warmth in his gaze, Nineva turned and pretended to study their surroundings. Her brows flew upward as it all sank in. “Wow.”

  They were standing in a grand marble foyer with a ceiling that soared three stories overhead. More marble shone underfoot in alternating black and white tiles, and immense columns stood like gleaming white trees, their tops supporting the ceiling’s gilded buttresses.

  But what drew her attention was the bronze statue that occupied the center of the atrium. Nineva moved toward it and stopped to stare.

  A bearded, long-haired man in crude leather armor knelt before a slender, robed youth and a delicate girl. The contrast between the warrior’s massive strength and the couple’s slender elegance was striking. So was the awe in the man’s expression as he reached a big, scarred hand for the goblet the boy offered to him.

  Nineva moved around for a better look at the couple—and gasped. Instead of the bronze eyes she’d expected, their eye sockets were filled with swirls of magic, vast and infinite and glowing. It was hypnotic, like looking into endless space.

  “Who are they?” Her voice emerged as a strangled whisper.

  “Arthur, Merlin, and Nimue.”

  She turned to blink at him, astonished. In Arthurian legend, Nimue had been Merlin’s witch lover who had imprisoned him in a crystal cave. “I thought Merlin was supposed to be an old guy with a beard.”

  Kel snorted. “The legends got it wrong—along with about ninety-nine percent of everything else.”

  She realized the cup they held was glowing. “What’s that supposed to be—the Holy Grail?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘holy.’ It wasn’t the Cup of Christ—that’s another thing the legends got wrong.”

  Nineva dragged her attention away from the cup to study his face. “So what was it?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  She found herself grinning at his cheerful tone. “You’re a big help.”

  “I try.” He flashed her a teasing male grin. “I can tell you what it did, though.”

  He’s flirting with me. “And what was that?”

  “It altered the genetic structure of everyone who earned the right to drink from it.”

  Nineva’s jaw dropped. “In 500 A.D.?”

  He shrugged. “Merlin wasn’t exactly a sixth-century man.”

  “What the hell was he, then? Sidhe?”

  “Nope. You’re close, though. He and Nimue were aliens from somewhere in the Mageverse.”

  She recoiled. “They were Dark Ones?”

  “Different aliens. He and Nimue were members of a race called the Fae…”

  “Isn’t that another word for Sidhe?”

  “The Celts got confused.” He shrugged. “Two races of magical people. They got ’em mixed up.”

  “I sympathize.” Nineva was more than a little confused herself. “So why did Merlin and Nimue come to Earth?”

  Kel turned and studied the statue, hesitating as if searchi
ng for the right words. Finally he said, “The Fae had seen a lot of intelligent races commit mass suicide. Seems humanity doesn’t have a patent on stupidity. War, self-inflicted environmental disasters, bioengineered disease—there are lots of ways for a species to render itself extinct.”

  Nineva grimaced. “Gee, and I was hoping we were the only ones with that tendency.”

  “’Fraid not. Anyway, the Fae want to prevent those kinds of extinctions. They travel from planet to planet creating champions among every intelligent race they encounter. The champions’ job is to guide their people to adulthood.”

  “Why don’t the Fae just appear to people and say, ‘Don’t do stupid stuff ’?”

  “Apparently they tried that. Didn’t work. They decided the best thing to do is give other species the tools to survive and leave the rest up to them.”

  Nineva thought through the implications as she studied the grail statue. “So Merlin’s cup made Arthur and his people immortal. Probably enabled them to work magic, too, right?” Normal humans couldn’t use mystical forces, because the physics wouldn’t allow it. You couldn’t work spells on Mortal Earth unless you drew on the Mageverse to do it.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  She gave him a dry smile. “Why does that not surprise me? Okay, I’ll bite. How?”

  “The women can work spells, as you say. And they’re pretty damned powerful. We call ’em Majae.”

  “So what about the men?”

  He cleared his throat. “Actually, they’re vampires.”

  FIVE

  “Vampires?” Nineva stared at him in amazement. He seemed perfectly serious. “You mean, as in undead, blood-sucking demons?”

  “What part of ‘ninety-nine percent of the legends is bullshit’ didn’t you get?”

  “You didn’t say anything about vampires, for God’s sake. Why would Merlin make them vamps?”

  “Because Merlin was a vampire. His species evolved that way. It’s…”

  “‘…A little complicated.’ Yeah, I get that.” She shook her head. “If I didn’t know you were the dragon knight, I’d think you were jerking my chain.”