Master of Fire

by Angela Knight

  As for that part of him that perversely found her resistance intriguing—he’d ignore that, too, just as he did his lingering frustration. As Arthur had taught him from the time he was twelve years old: “The lady always calls the shots, boy. Otherwise it’s too damned easy for the one who’s bigger and stronger to bully her into something she doesn’t want to do. And that’s dishonorable.”

  Honor was everything. It might be old-fashioned to believe that, maybe even a little sexist, but he didn’t really care.

  A Pendragon was honorable above all.

  Guinevere settled into a seat at her favorite table out on the elegant stone patio of the Majae’s Club. Cherry blossoms scented the morning air, and a light breeze stirred the mounds of ferns that surrounded the wrought iron table. She sighed in contentment and sank back in her chair to look out across the city of Avalon. The trees were in full bloom, surrounding the magical mansions with great clouds of delicate pink and white blossoms.

  Lifting her wineglass, Gwen sipped, savoring the light Zinfandel with its raspberry notes. Delicious. She picked up her fork and prepared to tuck into her Mediterranean chicken.

  Morgana Le Fay, plate in hand, dropped into the chair across the table from her. “I see you and Arthur finally came to your senses about the boy.” She took a delicate bite of her club sandwich, her white teeth framed by violently red lips. The lipstick precisely matched the eye-popping scarlet of her tailored suit.

  Gwen narrowed her eyes over her fork and drawled, “Have a seat, Morgana.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Morgana took another bite, a contemplative expression on her coolly beautiful face. The breeze stirred a black curl against the high, creamy angle of her cheek. “The girl isn’t who I’d have picked, but you obviously know Logan’s tastes better than I.”

  Gwen set her jaw. “We did not send Giada to seduce Logan. Her job is strictly to protect him from whoever’s killing those Latents.”

  Black brows drew low over brilliant blue eyes. Morgana straightened in her seat. “Whyever not? I told you, we need that boy. I have foreseen it.” Arthur’s half sister had always put great store in her visionary gifts.

  Gwen leaned forward in her seat and used her best ferocious glare. “And I told you—Logan will decide when and if he becomes Magekind, not you. And not us. He will not be tricked, he will not be seduced. He will make the choice of his own free will.”

  “And what if his dawdling costs Magekind lives, Guinevere?” Crimson lips peeled back from her teeth as she bit off every word like something bitter. “We have a responsibility to our people! And that includes making difficult decisions, like reminding a boy of his duty.”

  “Logan is not a boy. He’s a thirty-one-year-old law enforcement officer who risks his life on a daily basis. He does his duty.”

  “And what if he gets himself killed before he gains an immortal’s ability to heal his injuries? What will those high morals be to you then, eh?” Morgana leaned forward and tapped a long red nail on the table. “I’ll tell you—ashes. Ashes in your mouth. Believe me, you won’t like the taste.”

  Morgana rose to her feet and stalked off the patio, her red stiletto heels clicking an angry rhythm.

  Gwen tossed down her fork. Suddenly she was no longer hungry.

  The child’s backpack sat in solitary splendor in the middle of the empty parking lot, not far from the bright red building that had once been a Circuit City. Tinkerbell’s painted face smiled from the backpack’s plastic surface, seeming to watch the four-foot-high machine rumbling steadily closer.

  The robot gleamed in the hot afternoon light, caterpillar treads clanking on the pavement. It stopped eighteen inches from the backpack and started maneuvering back and forth, working to position the two steel tubes mounted on its front. Finally the twin barrels were aimed squarely at the zipper on the backpack’s side. For a moment, there was no sound at all except the ping of metal heating in the sun.

  Water exploded from one of the barrels in a furious, hissing blast. The zipper burst open under the pressure, and the backpack seemed to explode, scattering bits of equipment all around: an egg timer, the guts of a big lantern battery, wires, a thin silver tube about the size of a number 2 pencil, and three red sticks of dynamite.

  Again, the parking lot went silent.

  After a moment, a man lumbered down the steps of the bomb truck parked three hundred feet away, moving carefully in the massive green suit he wore. Made of Kevlar and fire-resistant Nomex, the suit weighed almost a hundred pounds, including thick metal plates tucked into chest and groin pockets. The helmet alone weighed thirty pounds, between its bulletproof faceplate and radio unit.

  Ignoring the scattered sticks of dynamite, the bomb tech bent over to pick up the small silver tube in careful bare fingers. After securing it in a thick, hard plastic cylinder, he gathered up the tube’s dangling wires and twisted them together, then tucked them into the case. Finally, he put the cylinder into an armored box and locked its lid.

  “Done,” he announced into the radio.

  The door of the bomb truck swung open and the rest of the squad emerged to collect the scattered parts of the device. With the blasting cap detached and rendered safe in the ammo box, the rest was okay to handle.

  Giada, trailing behind Logan, frowned at the tech’s bare hands. “Why doesn’t the suit have gloves or boots?”

  Logan shrugged. “You wouldn’t have the dexterity you need to disarm a bomb if you were wearing gloves.”

  “But what if the bomb went off?”

  “They’d call me ‘Stumpy.’ ” The bomb tech pulled off his bulbous helmet and grinned, his face red and slick with rolling sweat.

  Mark T. “Mount” Davis was a hulking six-two deputy with a boyish face and a dark blond buzz cut. The nickname came from his silver name tag, which listed him as “MT Davis.” This, Giada gathered, was considered sophisticated humor by cop standards.

  Davis turned toward Samantha Taylor, who had driven the robot using the remote controls in the truck. “Good shot with the water cannon, Sam. You hit that battery dead-on.”

  She grinned in pleasure at the compliment. Barely five-four in combat boots, Taylor was a sturdy thirty-year-old with a snub nose and a wicked smile. Between her build, her bulletproof vest, and her weapons belt, she looked like a redheaded fireplug.

  Logan once told Giada that Taylor never hesitated to wade into any fight, which made her beloved of her fellow cops. He liked her because of her rock-steady calm—an invaluable quality for a bomb tech.

  Sam slanted Logan a grin. “All I’ve gotta say is that it’s lucky Logan doesn’t build bombs for real.”

  He’d designed the training device used for today’s exercise. Both the blasting cap and the sticks of dynamite had been dummies.

  Logan grinned. “I only use my powers for good.”

  “That’s not what Gladys Miller said.”

  “Bite me, Davis.”

  “You ain’t my type. Though Miller’d probably do it if you asked her nice.”

  “Miller’s got a crush on our boy,” Sam explained to Giada.

  “Gladys Miller?” Giada blinked. “The old woman in Evidence with the personality of a rabid weasel?”

  Sam laughed. “I see you’re already a member of the Miller fan club.”

  “I’m thinking of dumping a bucket of water on her to see if she’ll melt.”

  Logan grinned. “You’re just holding a grudge because she keeps trying to steal your ruby slippers.”

  “Speaking of movie references”—Giada lifted her chin in the direction of the robot—“how did y’all get your hands on the Terminator?”

  Lieutenant Tom Billings spoke up as he strode along beside them, straight-backed as the marine he’d been, elegant in a pin-striped blue shirt and tailored gray slacks. His dark, smooth head gleamed in the hot afternoon sunlight. “Bought it with a Homeland Security grant last year.” He slapped Logan on the shoulder. “Man’s got a talent for sweet-talking the feds.”


  At least I’m not the only one who fi nds him hard to resist, Giada thought.

  She helped the squad gather up the remains of the phony bomb. After watching Taylor drive the robot back up the ramp into the truck, she joined Logan in the cab.

  Back at the sheriff’s office, Giada slid out of the truck as the other members of the squad pulled in.

  Taylor got out of her car as the bomb squad’s fifth member trotted up with a well-gnawed red rubber ball.

  The big Lab sat back on her cinnamon-furred haunches and grinned a hopeful doggy grin. “Hey, there, Jenny.” Sam bent and picked up the ball, then sent the toy sailing across the parking lot. Jenny barked happily, whirled, and raced after it.

  “Jenny, where’d you go?” A skinny twelve-year-old boy raced around the corner, only to skid to a stop as Jenny trotted over. She dropped the ball and panted at him. The kid scooped up the toy and flung it across the parking lot. The dog barked, whirled, and galloped in pursuit, tongue lolling in joy.

  “Andy, dammit!” A young girl ran around the same corner. Spotting Logan, she stopped and proceeded at a more dignified pace. She was a pretty teen, no older than sixteen or so, with big brown eyes and long, dark hair she must have worked over with a curling iron for at least an hour. “Hi, Logan.” The narrow-eyed look she sent Giada was far from friendly.

  “Hi, Heather.” He gave the girl a smile before turning to Giada. “Giada, this is Heather Jones, the sheriff’s grand-daughter. The hooligan chasing Jenny over there is her brother, Andy. Heather, this is Dr. Giada Shepherd. She’s a forensic chemist from Tayanita doing some training with me this month.”

  “Nice to meet you, Heather.” Giada held out a hand.

  The girl shook it with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Hi.”

  Looks like Logan’s made another conquest, Giada thought dryly. And I’d bet money he hasn’t got a clue.

  Taking pity on the girl’s obvious desire to talk to her crush, Giada wandered over to Samantha Taylor, the dog handler. “Cute dog.”

  “Thanks.” She accepted the drool-covered ball from Jenny and gave it another sailing toss.

  Giada eyed the Lab’s blue collar as she trotted away. It read, “Accelerant and Explosive.” “What’s with the collar?”

  “Refers to the substances she’s trained to detect. I use her for arson scenes and bomb searches.”

  “She’s a K-9?” Now a little worried, Giada turned to watch Andy wrestle with the dog, giggling as Jenny licked his face.

  As if reading her mind, Taylor shook her head. “She’s not patrol-trained. I wouldn’t let her play with the kids if she were.” Patrol dogs sometimes bit people they didn’t know well, especially if they thought their police handlers were in danger.

  Giada relaxed. “Oh. Had her long?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Just a couple of months. Somebody the sheriff knows donated her. I’ve worked with dogs before, so he asked me to take her.” She lifted her voice into a shout. “Hey! Jenny, don’t roll in that! I’ll have to clean you up with a fire hose.”

  The deputy went off to collect her dog. Giada’s gaze returned to Logan, who was listening patiently as Heather related some adventure from cheerleading practice.

  Good thing he’d decided to play the gentleman after that searing kiss. Giada would have hated to spend the next month fending off his breathtaking efforts at seduction. I’m darned lucky he backed off.

  So, demanded a small voice in the back of her mind, why don’t I feel lucky?

  She told it to shut up.

  That night, Giada still felt no luckier.

  Which was why she sat on her hotel room bed, soothing her wounded ego with half a pint of Chunky Monkey. When her conscience ranted, she promised it two extra miles during her daily run in the morning. She tried not to indulge her inner fat little kid too often, but sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

  Logan had given up on seduction a little too easily. He could have at least had the decency to look regretful.

  I’m being perverse and immature. Aloud she muttered, “So I’m perverse and immature,” and fed her inner FLK another spoonful of chocolate comfort.

  Music chimed a tinkling note over her head, drawing her gaze upward just in time to see bright blue light spark. Something white fluttered through the air to plop to the bedspread in front of her knees.

  Giada put the container of ice cream on the nightstand, stuck the spoon in her mouth, and examined the object. It was a fine cream envelope with her name written on the front in a beautiful swirling script. Tossing the spoon in the container, she picked it up and turned it over. Her eyes widened. A red wax seal held it closed, embossed with the image of a hawk clutching a dove in its talons. She recognized the symbol instantly.

  Morgana Le Fay’s seal. Oh, crap. What have I done now? Heart in her throat, Giada carefully broke the wax. The paper inside was fine, heavy velum with a single line of beautiful script. “Dearest Giada—I would like to meet with you at my home at your earliest convenience.—Morgana Le Fay”

  Translation: now. Morgana was the liege of the Majae’s Council—the elected leader of the witches, just as Arthur led the vamps. You did not keep your liege waiting.

  Giada scrambled off the bed, staring down at her oversized sleep shirt in dismay—I need clothes!—then realized she could just conjure something suitable. She zapped herself into one of her CSI Barbie suits, then created a gate and stepped through, her heart in her throat.

  What does Morgana Le Fay want with me?

  FIVE

  For witches as for mortals, a huge, elaborate home was a status symbol. But in Avalon, a mansion didn’t represent how wealthy you were, but how much magic you could command. The older and more powerful the Maja, the more Mageverse energy she could manipulate and maintain in the form of a house.

  Which was why Giada lived in the Mageverse equivalent of a double-wide—a two-bedroom brick ranch that was all she could manage after four months as a witch.

  Morgana lived in the Avalon equivalent of Versailles.

  It was all Giada could do not to gape as the Maja admitted her into a château that seemed more museum than home. Black-and-white marble lay underfoot, polished to a mirror sheen, while the ceiling soared two stories overhead. Gilt-framed paintings by Renaissance masters hung on the wainscoted walls, as white marble statues posed in serene elegance on graceful pedestals. Everywhere Giada looked, gold and crystal and rich, gleaming wood dazzled the eye.

  “Thank you for coming, my dear.” Morgana’s voice was so deep and purring, it brought to mind the witch from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.

  “I’m honored to be invited.” Giada dipped an awkward curtsey.

  Morgana nodded in acknowledgment. She looked every bit as impressive as her home, dressed in a floor-length crimson gown straight out of the Middle Ages. Flowing bell sleeves swirled around her long white hands, and the bodice that cupped her cleavage was embroidered with gold and decorated with gems. The scarlet velvet made her skin look impossibly pale, particularly in contrast to the dramatic black curls that tumbled around her delicate shoulders. An emerald pendant hung around her neck on a thin gold chain, nestling between impressive breasts the color of cream.

  Why is she working so hard to impress me? The thought flashed through Giada’s mind and was instantly squelched. God forbid it show on her face.

  Apparently it didn’t, because Morgana turned and led the way across the foyer into an elegantly appointed sitting room. “Would you like some wine?”

  “Ummm.” Giada had been staring around at the sitting room, taking in the marble and gold fireplace with its flanking Greek goddesses. She bit her lip. What if she got drunk and said something stupid? Would refusing be rude? Probably. She managed a smile. “That would be lovely.”

  Morgana seated herself on a settee of a deep and verdant green, gesturing gracefully for her guest to join her. Giada obediently perched, smoothing her black skirt carefully over her legs.

  The Maja picked up
a crystal decanter from a side table. Moving with deliberate grace, she poured a dark ruby red wine into a pair of wine flutes so delicate, they looked as if they would shatter if you breathed on them hard. Giada accepted the proffered flute with more care than she’d used to lift the booby-trapped mortar.

  The Maja sipped from her own glass, studying Giada around its fragile rim. “I understand Arthur and Guinevere have chosen you for the honor of protecting their son.”

  “Yes, my liege.” And you care, why? She managed not to ask.

  Morgana smiled, revealing teeth so white, she looked more vampire than witch. “Call me Morgana, child. I know how uncomfortable you Americans are with titles.”

  “Ah. Thank you.” She sipped, expecting something a bit too dry and sour for her—her father had always said Giada had a barbarian’s tastes when it came to wine. Instead, it was heady, deliciously sweet. “Oh, this is good!”

  A dark brow lifted ever so slightly. “You sound surprised.”

  Giada froze. “No, ma’am.”

  Morgana laughed, a waterfall of pealing notes. “Relax, child. I don’t bite.” A long-nailed hand touched the emerald nestled in her cleavage. “At least, not young girls.”

  In the middle of another sip, Giada almost choked. Does that mean she bites older girls, or just boys?

  The Maja’s smile widened. “Occasionally.”

  Oh, my God. Is she reading my mind? And what the heck does she mean by that? She put the flute down on the glass coffee table with a clink. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “You’re doing it, dear. My nephew’s life is very valuable to me. To us all.” Green eyes gleamed up at her. Morgana stroked the emerald again, slowly, almost teasingly. “My visions tell me he will become a very great Magus. The Magekind needs him. Desperately.”

  Giada’s stomach promptly knotted into macramé. I think I see where this is going. And I don’t like the destination. “I’m sure he will be—when he decides to accept the Gift.”