Even so, the expansion of Dearg’s shield smashed the traitor face-first to the ground and flung the child through the air. The prince hit the ground five feet away with a cry of pain.
Shit, Davon thought. Pouncing on Tinkerdick, he drove his blade down at the man’s chest. The Sidhe brought up his own weapon in a frantic parry, but Davon flicked his around it, avoiding the block even as he rammed downward. His sword punched through the traitor’s cuirass, driving right through the warrior to stake him to the ground.
Gasping in agony, the Sidhe stared up the length of Davon’s blade. Shock and pain turned to outrage. “You will pay for this, vam…” His fury abruptly drained, leaving the traitor gasping. He blinked. To Davon’s amazement, his eyes filled with a bizarre kind of gratitude. “You… freed me… Tell my king… Didn’t betray… him. Bres… It was Bres…” His voice faded into a rattling wheeze as his eyes went fixed.
Dead.
“Fuck.” Davon had killed an innocent. Again. Just like Jimmy Sheridan…
I don’t have time for this. He shook the guilt off and ran for the boy, who still lay on his back.
Dearg saw him coming. Iridescent eyes widening in fear, he tried to stagger to his feet. Magic ignited above his palm, becoming an impressive fireball. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Magekind agent -- name’s Davon Fredericks. My partner and I are here to protect you until your parents arrive.”
“You… are?” He stared at Davon until whatever he saw reassured him. Both fireball and shield winked out. “I thought Erim was going to…” His lips trembled, and he bit them hard, visibly fighting to hide his fear and pain.
“You’re safe now. Are you all right?” Davon dropped to one knee by his side. Trauma doc training demanded he check Dearg out -- even as combat experience told him the middle of a battle was no place to do it. He pacified his inner M.D. by studying the boy intently.
Despite the bruises, Dearg was a good-looking child, with the pointed ears and handsome, angular features of the Sidhe. Like most Sidhe males, he wore his black hair long, though leaves and twigs were tangled in its snarled length. His doublet, hose and knee-length boots were dirty and blood-splattered. Davon hoped none of the gore was his.
But his pupils were even, and his gaze was alert, if bright with the tears he was fighting. “Any broken bones? How’s your head? You hit the ground pretty hard.”
“I’m okay.” Must have learned English from his American mother, though his accent held a Sidhe lilt that sounded faintly Irish. “I thought Erim… Why would he… he was my friend.” His breath hitched, and a single tear rolled down the prince’s bruised cheek. “When I woke up, he was standing by my bed. He hit me so… hard! I tried to block, but…” He broke off, staring toward the clearing, where Alys was beheading the troll. The huge body exploded into flame and toppled. “Who the heck is that? What’s happening? Where are we?”
“My partner.” Davon laid an armored hand on the child’s shoulder and gave him a comforting squeeze. “She’s taking care of the Fomorians while I keep you safe.”
“The Fomorians?” The kid stared at him. “Erim was going to give me to the Fomos?”
“I think Bres was controlling him.” Where the hell was their backup? Davon cast an uneasy glance at the clearing. The troll lay smoking, looking like a blackened hillside surrounded by four smaller, equally crispy corpses. Probably Fomo warriors. The centaur’s ashy remains were flaking away on the wind.
The eight survivors circled Alys warily, understandably in no hurry to get within range of Reaver. Davon badly wanted to dive in there and help before they evolved balls and overwhelmed her. Alys was damned good, and Reaver scared hell out of anyone sane, but eight-to-one odds…
“Do not leave that boy. Even if I go down, you are to protect him above all.” When Alys gave that kind of order after a vision, you damned well listened. Or wished to fuck you had because of the resulting body count.
“Look,” Davon told the boy, “Alys is doing a good job keeping the Fomos busy, but one of them may decide to come after us. Can you conjure a shield?”
Dearg wiped his nose on one loose, flowing sleeve. “Oh, yeah -- Dad said you vampire guys can’t do that kind of magic.” He gestured, and a shimmering translucent dome appeared around them both.
Davon eyed it. The magical glow was strong and even. “Nice work.”
“Better be.” The prince scrubbed impatiently at his wet eyes, smearing dirt over his bruised face. “My father’s been training me for this sort of stuff since I was five. He’d be pissed if I screwed it up.” His face turned grim. “He had ten kids before me. My uncle killed ’em all. Dad doesn’t need to lose me too.”
Alys began to laugh in that high, shrieking cackle again. Somebody must be getting ballsy.
Dearg cast her a wary glance as she charged a warrior, her sword blazing blue. The Fomorian skittered away from Reaver’s crackling point. “Your partner’s creepy.”
“Nah, that’s an act.” Mostly. “She’s making sure everybody’s too freaked out to…”
“Crap, here comes one!” Dearg pointed. Sure enough, a Fomorian slunk toward them, rose eyes cold and murderous against the blue of his skin. “Want me to drop the shield so you can…”
“No, we’re better off letting him beat on it until your parents and the Knights arrive.” Still, Davon fell into guard, sword ready to attack or parry.
But instead of charging them, the warrior bent, seized Erim’s corpse, and heaved it across one shoulder. A dimensional gate flared wide and the Fomorian vanished through it with his burden.
“Damn it!” Davon spat. “Look, can you track where that gate…”
Before he could finish the thought, magic roared in his senses. A lot of dimensional gates were opening all around them. He blew out a relieved breath. “Damn, that was a long eight minutes.” Sparks flared in the surrounding darkness, expanding into wavering doorways.
“Avaaaaalon!” Arthur roared as he plunged through the nearest gate, a brawny figure in the same kind of armor Davon wore. Excalibur in one hand, a ferocious glower on his bearded face, he paused just long enough to evaluate the situation before charging the Fomorians.
His wife Guinevere raced in his wake, blond and beautiful, a pair of conjured fireballs ready to go. Morgana le Fay was the next agent to appear, magic boiling around her like a storm, Percival, Marrok and Cador behind her. Kel, Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Tristan, Lamark, and Badoff popped out of the other gates, accompanied by their Majae partners.
The Knights of the Round Table had arrived, ready to kick Fomorian ass.
Which weren’t in any hurry to get kicked. One Fomo shouted to the others, yelling something Davon’s helmet translated as, “Retreat!”
Sparks flared, only to instantly wink out. A Maja must have cast a blocking spell.
Howling, the Fomos turned to meet the Magekind charge. Steel rang on steel, accompanied by the boom and crackle of magic. The Fomorians fought like berserkers, apparently less afraid of dying than of what their leader would do to them if they were captured. No surprise. King Bres was a sociopathic son of a bitch who showed his own people as little mercy as he did his enemies.
Davon ached to join the fight now that reinforcements were here, but he had his orders. He could only watch as Alys went after every Fomo she could, her sword a vicious blaze even the Knights eyed with caution.
Watching the Magekind take the Fomorians apart, Davon realized they didn’t need his help. He was a good swordsman for his generation, but Arthur’s immortal crew had more than fifteen centuries of combat experience.
“They’re pretty good,” Dearg said, sounding surprised. “Almost as good as my fath…” He broke off as a wild-eyed Fomorian raced toward them, sword lifted.
A roar rang through the clearing, sounding like a seriously pissed lion. Something black barreled out of the melee to leap on the Fomo, smashing him to the ground. The furred figure tore off the gorget protecting the warrior’s neck, slas
hing three three-inch claws across his throat. Blood flew and the Fomo convulsed, gagging, dying, as the Dire Wolf spun, scanning the clearing, pale eyes narrow slits of ice and rage.
A broad grin lit Dearg’s face, and he waved like the kid he was. “Hi, Mom!”
Chapter Two
Mom? Davon thought. Taking another look, he realized the werewolf was indeed female, judging by the full breasts under all that thick black fur.
But Carol Brady, she was not. Snarling lips peeled back to reveal more teeth than a crocodile. A long mane surrounded her lupine head, making her well over seven feet tall.
“Well, shit.” She straightened out of her crouch with a disappointed grunt. “They’re all dead.”
Arthur and Excalibur had just parted the last Fomorian from his head.
“Mom!” Dearg yelled again. He banished the shield around himself and Davon, then raced toward the Dire Wolf.
Magic flared, and abruptly the werewolf was a foot shorter. Now a slim, lovely woman, she wore a blue velvet gown in an elaborate Sidhe style shimmering with sapphires and silver embroidery. Her black hair was swept into an intricate updo of woven braids, revealing ears that lacked her son’s elegant points. No surprise, since she was human.
More or less.
“Dearg!” As the prince threw himself into her arms, Queen Diana Galatyn swept the boy off his feet. Her pale eyes glittered with tears as she clutched him in frantic joy. “Oh, God, Dearg! I thought I’d lost you!”
“Ouch! Ribs, Mom! They’re kind of bruised.”
With a soft cry, the queen put him down and drew back to study him, her expression more than a little wild. “What did they do to you?”
“Nothing much,” Dearg said. Probably lying, judging by his pain-tight lips. “Dad’s done worse in combat practice.”
“Yeah, right. Llyr!”
A man looked toward them from the other side of the clearing, where he stood wiping his bloody sword and talking to Arthur. King Llyr Galatyn was a tall, handsome man in the elaborately engraved armor of a Sidhe noble. Evidently Davon had missed seeing him and his queen gate in. A relieved grin flashed across his face, and he started toward them in long strides.
It looked like the kid was in safe hands, so Davon stepped aside to give them some privacy.
“Good work.”
He turned to find Alys sheathing Reaver in her back scabbard. The sword had gone dark, its blade no longer crackling; she’d ceased feeding it her magic. Sweaty and exhausted, she was smeared with soot and blood in various non-human shades. But her mail seemed to be in one piece, without any visible punctures or slices. Which was something of a miracle, considering the odds she’d been facing.
“I had the easy job.” Davon shrugged. “Dearg basically saved himself. I’d have had a hell of a time getting through Erim’s shield if the prince hadn’t forced him to drop it.”
“Don’t kid yourself.” Alys’s expression turned grim. “I saw a future where you left Dearg to protect me. One of the Fomos ran the kid through.”
Crap. He remembered the warrior who’d grabbed the Sidhe’s corpse and gated. That was probably the one who’d have killed the prince if Davon hadn’t obeyed orders.
“In that future, Llyr turned against us for failing to protect his child. Without him…” Alys swallowed and looked away. “It… would have been bad.”
He squeezed her armored shoulder, wishing he could touch skin. “You told me not to leave him. I’ve learned to listen.”
Her dark mood lightening, she gave him a smile. “Best partner I’ve ever had.”
I’d like to be more than your partner. But he didn’t say the words, silenced by a decade of romantic inertia.
Across the clearing, he heard Llyr’s furious Sidhe-accented rumble. “I cannot believe this. How did the Fomorians get to Erim? Of all my men, I’d have sworn he was the least likely to betray us.”
Davon turned to find Llyr and his wife huddling protectively around Dearg as they spoke to Morgana, Gwen, and Arthur. The boy looked much better, bruises gone, eyes no longer tight with pain. The king must have healed his injuries, though the prince still looked thoroughly miserable. Probably as upset at his bodyguard’s betrayal as Llyr was.
Reminded of his opponent’s last words, Davon walked over. “Your Majesty, I don’t think Erim acted of his own accord.”
“Indeed?” Llyr lifted one golden eyebrow, watching coolly as he and Alys approached. “What leads you to that conclusion?”
Davon described his fight with the Sidhe bodyguard. “One minute Erim was snarling threats. The next, he got a relieved expression on his face. The last thing he said was, ‘You freed me. Tell my king I didn’t betray him. It was Bres.’ One of the Fomorians grabbed the body and gated out.”
After a thoughtful silence, Arthur said, “That sounds similar to what two of my agents experienced with those werewolves last month.” To Llyr he explained, “We think Bres infected three werewolves with a contagion he used to gain control of their minds and turn them into puppets. Maybe he possessed Erim the same way.”
The queen frowned. “A contagion? What kind of contagion?”
“We’re working on that.” Morgana le Fay moved to join the group. The leader of the Majae was tall, dark-haired, and impossibly beautiful in her armor. As always, her raw power danced ghostly fingers over Davon’s skin. “Do you know if your man was bitten by anything? The first of those werewolves was infected when he was attacked by a swarm of rats.”
Llyr shook his head, his long white hair swaying around armored shoulders. “Not that I know of. Erim was on leave this past week. I believe he planned to visit his brother in my Morven territories.”
Arthur’s dark brows lifted. “Could have been attacked on the way. Maybe you should ask his brother if he actually made it there.”
Davon frowned. “If he did arrive, find out if he was ill. I discussed this with Masara Okeye -- she’s the Maja agent who handled the werewolf case. She said the man’s daughter believed he was sick for several hours before he savaged his wife, infecting her too. The two of them then attacked a third werewolf before all three went after Masara.”
“We’d better make sure none of our people go anywhere alone,” Arthur said grimly. “We can’t afford to lose anyone else to this thing.”
“Which means we need to get our hands on a blood sample as soon as possible,” Davon suggested. “We might be able to vaccinate our people if we could capture someone who’s been infected.”
“Bres probably thinks so too,” Morgana speculated. “I’ll wager that’s why he makes sure to remove the bodies.” She described the swarm of black insects that had emerged from the werewolf corpses and flown away. “There was no sign of any disease or virus present in their cells afterward. It’s almost as if the insects were the contagion.”
“That sounds like magic,” Diana protested. “We’re immune to all magic except our own.”
Morgana shrugged. “Well, something sure as hell is possessing people.”
Diana shuddered and pulled her son close. “Now, there’s a subject for my next nightmare.”
* * *
After the royal couple, Dearg, and their guards gated back to the Sidhe lands, the Majae began magically examining the enemy dead for any sign of the contagion. None were infected, so they started disposing of the bodies.
As the last corpses vanished in a storm of sparks, Alys made some slight sound, almost a moan. Davon glanced away from the magical bonfire to see ink swirl through one of her eyes. Terror flashed across her face. The hair rose on the back of his neck, but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to interrupt the vision. She blinked and the ink drained away.
“What’d you see?” he demanded. The look on her face… “Was that a vision?”
“No, I…” Alys frowned. “I’m not sure. For a minute, I thought…” Shaking her head, she gave him a tight smile. “It’s gone now.”
He frowned. Yeah, that’s not ominous at all.
* * *
>
It took the last of Alys’s strength to open a dimensional gate back to Avalon, the Magekind’s home city on Mageverse Earth. Though the fight with the Fomorians had been relatively brief, eight minutes swinging Reaver was the equivalent of running a marathon wearing lead shorts. Powering the magical blade was a bitch, even without the physical effort of fighting fourteen opponents at once. But she’d had no choice. Her visions had predicted she wouldn’t last three minutes without Reaver.
The effort of creating the magical doorway sent a dagger of pain shooting into Alys’s skull. Even as she stepped through the gate, the room spun around her. Her knees buckled.
Powerful arms wrapped around her as Davon scooped her off her feet.
“I can walk!”
“Yeah, right.” Ignoring her glower, he carried her through the house, his arms warm and strong.
Arguing with Davon in this mood was a waste of effort. She found herself relaxing into his muscular body with an exhausted sigh. When they reached the kitchen, he deposited her on one of the barstools at the central island. Alys planted both elbows on the table and let herself slump.
Most of the house did a reasonable imitation of Tudor architecture -- high ceilings, exposed beams, oak wainscoting and paneling. The kitchen was the exception. The two story high ceiling was supported by the house’s usual thick oak beams, but the walls and cabinetry were a gleaming white, while the floor was covered in rust brown ceramic tile. Where a Tudor kitchen would have had a fireplace, Alys’s featured a huge stainless steel stove that looked like a Mortal Earth appliance, though powered by magic rather than electricity. There was no refrigerator or dishwasher -- spells kept the dishes clean and the food in the cabinets fresh.
Thinking of food made her stomach growl.
Davon laughed softly. “Give me a minute, witch.” He shed his gauntlets, then dropped them on the island’s gleaming oak top. He reached for her helmet, which reacted to his touch, disengaging from the rest of the suit. Lifting the helm off her head, he put it down beside his gloves.
Alys considered protesting that she could undress herself, but when she sought her magic to send the armor swirling back to the mannequin in her room, her head produced nothing more than an angry throb. She gritted out an involuntary groan between her teeth.
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