by Joy Nash
Nothing. And yet...he couldn’t believe the fault was in the staff. It was in him. He wasn’t good enough. Not yet. But was there enough time to learn what he needed to know?
Guilt and frustration crowded in on him. “The fiends are my fault. If I hadn’t been so goddamned arrogant and—”
“And what?” She pushed her chair back from the table and rose, her posture angry. “Let Dusek kidnap me? Let him rape me and use my magic?”
“No,” he said. “Never that.”
“So stop beating yourself up about what you did. Regrets aren’t going to destroy those fiends.”
“Merlin’s magic can destroy them. Or at least send them back to Hell.”
“Arthur.” Cybele crossed the room and plucked the staff from his hands. Opening a tall cupboard, she shoved the staff inside and slammed the door. “Forget the hellfiends. We need to think about Mab. She’ll be here soon with Rand and Evander and all the others.” She paused, her throat working. “With Luc.” Recovering, she pressed on. “Will she play by the rules and call your British relatives?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said.
“Tell me about them. Did you know them well?”
He sensed she was asking out of a desperate need to think about something other than Luc.
“My mother was the last of Merlin’s line,” Arthur said. “All the relatives I remember were my father’s family.” Their faces flashed through his brain, filtered through a boy’s memory. “The English kin visited Tŷ’r Cythraul rather often. Great Uncle Percival was my grandfather’s younger brother. Brax and Avalyn, my father’s full brother and sister. There were two older cousins. Ronan and Harry. Harry lived with a witch whose name I can’t remember.”
“And...the one who challenged Mab?”
He felt a stab of pain. Locked in the cellar, he hadn’t witnessed Magnus’s death. “I didn’t know him well. That branch of the family rarely left Scotland. There was Collum, a jovial sort. And his cousins, Magnus and Morgana. They were twins—”
At Cybele’s stricken expression, he cursed himself and changed course. “If any of my father’s kin were able, they would’ve sent Mab to Oblivion. None of them are powerful enough.”
Then again, none of them had possessed Merlin’s staff. He looked toward the closed cupboard. “The staff is my only chance for victory.”
“What about your mother’s touchstone? And your ancestral memories? That all helps, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” It did, just not as much as Arthur would’ve liked.
“The staff isn’t your only chance, Arthur. You have power. Your own power. Have faith in it.”
He gave a short laugh. “Faith isn’t exactly a Nephilim virtue.”
“Maybe it should be,” she countered. “I have faith in you, Arthur. Your magic’s stronger than Mab’s. It’ll be there when you need it. You’ll defeat her. I know you will.”
The profound sense of gratitude kindled by her words left him feeling curiously fragile. “Thank you.”
She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re welcome.”
He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. He wanted her touch there, close to his heart, close to everything he couldn’t find the words to say.
“Let’s make love,” he said quietly.
She looked up in surprise. “What? Now?”
“Yes. Now.” He searched her gaze. “Don’t you want to?”
A laugh bubbled up from her throat. “I always want to. You’re the one who said it wasn’t safe.”
“Nothing’s safe,” he said, his grip tightening. “Nothing’s certain. Life is short, and it’s all we have. If I’m going to die soon—”
“You’re not,” she said sharply.
“I need you, Cybele. I know it’s selfish. I know I shouldn’t ask you, but—”
She stopped his words with two fingers against his lips. “Don’t ask. Let me ask you, instead.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Make love to me, Arthur. Please?”
He knew he should resist, but in that moment, resistance just wasn’t in him. Especially not when she was kissing him, her body all but melting in his arms. Her clothes were still damp and clinging to every curve. His cock was hard, his brain was scrambled, and his heart—it was utterly lost.
He glanced toward the stair. They wouldn’t make it past the first landing. Her hands swept down his torso and found the edge of his shirt. She moved her palms back up his bare chest, nails lightly scoring his skin. He groaned and gripped her arse. She wrapped her legs around his hips.
He turned and half-stumbled, half-lurched through the front hall and into the library. How Cybele managed to get his shirt up over his head, he didn’t know. Her hands explored his bare chest. Her mouth covered his nipple. She sucked hard.
Had he thought they could make it all the way to the rug in front of the fireplace? Bollocks to that. He turned and pushed her up against the wall. His fingers tangled with the button and zipper on her jeans. He shoved the jeans down to her knees, taking her scrap of underwear with it. She kicked the lot of it the rest of the way off. His fingers explored between her legs and came away wet.
She turned to liquid fire in his arms, kissing, licking. She nipped at his skin, the tiny bites inflaming him almost past reason. Hands trembling, he yanked down his pants, hissing in relief as his cock sprang free. He circled his hips, nudging the head of his cock into the wet slit between her legs. She not only opened for him, she wrapped her fingers around him and guided him home.
He slid into tight heat and slick moisture. She gasped and sank down on him, impaling her body on his rigid flesh. Her scent, musky with her arousal, enveloped him. He grabbed her thighs, thrust once, and pinned her to the wall.
Pleasure exploded, in every part of his body. His magic responded, surging brightly in his brain. Everything flashed white. He felt himself slip. His head dipped until his forehead pressed against hers. His breathing turned harsh.
She stilled. “Arthur? Is everything ok?”
Was it? He felt as though he were suspended in mid-air, legs pumping frantically, like a cartoon character waiting for gravity to kick in. His body and mind were poised on a precipice. In the abyss was unfathomable, uncontrollable magic. Magic that didn’t care who it hurt. Or who it killed.
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—look over the edge. Instead, he concentrated on Cybele. His love. His touchstone.
The warmth of her in his arms, her smooth skin against his calloused palms. The sound of her breath, moving in and out of her lungs a little too quickly. The smell of her arousal. The faint taste of her sweat as he kissed her temple. He drew back, just far enough to look into her green eyes. And the abyss faded away.
Control. It was his, he realized, as long as Cybele was with him. She didn’t destroy the focus of his magic, she enhanced it. With her at his side, he could do anything. Even, he thought, defeat Mab.
A smile spread on his lips. “It’s fine,” he told her. “Better than fine.”
She kissed him. He moved inside her, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. The world faded away. Nothing mattered, nothing could harm them. Not as long as they were together.
His orgasm hit almost without warning, spinning him into a place of pure bliss. Cybele ground her hips and bore down on him. Her inner muscles spasmed. He found her mouth and covered it with his own, swallowing her gasp as she came.
In what seemed like a very long time after the last jolts of pleasure waned, he loosened his hold on her hips. Her feet slid to the floor. “Don’t let go,” she said. “Or I’ll melt into a puddle on the floor.”
“Can’t have that.” He turned, leaning his back against the wall and pulled her in close, her back to his front.
“See?” she turned her head where it rested on his shoulder and looked up at him. “You didn’t lose control. Your magic didn’t kill me. You were worried for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” he said, his embrace tightening. It’d been a near thing, bu
t he’d come away stronger for it. He hadn’t let Cybele fall. He was confident now that he never would. She wasn’t his weakness. She was his strength. His true guide.
She sighed and turned in his arms. “That was incredible, Arthur.”
He smiled. “Give me a couple minutes and I’ll do it one better.”
She grinned back at him. They did it three more times—on the rug before the hearth, on the wide desk, and after a trip to the kitchen to eat the sandwiches they’d abandoned earlier, in a wide, comfortable armchair.
After that last time, Cybele fell asleep in his arms. It was only as her breathing slowed and deepened that he realized they hadn’t used a single condom all night. Shit. He dropped his head against the chair’s high back. He just...he just couldn’t think about that now. He’d think of it later. If there was a later.
He stared at nothing, brooding over the upcoming duel, crafting and discarding strategies. There was really, he thought, no way to plan. Not against Mab.
He should’ve slept. He hadn’t. Sleep was too much like Oblivion.
Outside, the wind whipped up. It howled over the moors, wailing like the brokenhearted. The shrubs outside the library windows, years overdue for a trim, scratched against the glass. Cybele shivered. He rubbed her arms. The howl outside the window changed in pitch and tenor, deepening to a low, rushing roar.
Abruptly, Arthur realized the sound wasn’t wind. Or at least not a natural one. His arms tightened. “Wake up,” he whispered urgently. “Get dressed. Quickly. I think they’re here.”
“Who’s here?” She lifted her head off his shoulder, blinking groggily. As sleep receded, her eyes widened and her body tensed. “Oh.” She swallowed visibly. “So soon.”
He slid her off his lap. Her arms clung for a heartbeat then fell away. They pulled on their clothes in haste. Leaving the sanctuary of the library, he traversed the hallway and approached the front door. He paused for the space of a deep breath, gathering courage.
“Wait.”
Cybele stood at the end of the passage near the door to the kitchen.
“What?” he asked.
“You need to throw her off balance,” she said, ducking out of view. She reappeared a moment later, carrying Merlin’s staff. “This should give her something to think about.”
“For all of three seconds,” Arthur muttered, taking it from her. “Until she realizes it’s useless.”
“Maybe we can trick her into thinking it’s alive,” she said. “Come on.”
She moved past him and opened the front door. The wind was so strong it nearly snatched the oak slab from her hand. She held firm to the brass knob as he came up behind her, his eyes searching the sky. Storm clouds roiled overhead. Dark shapes, only just visible against the turbulent gray, drew ever closer.
Rand landed on the moor beyond the garden’s low stone wall. His left arm encircled Zephyr, whose eyes were wide with fear. Cybele stiffened. Arthur grabbed her hand to keep her from bolting.
“Not now. You can’t do anything for her.”
Evander and Hunter touched down next, followed by Draven, Clayton, and Blade. The three male dormants—Auster, Finley, and Grayson—traveled with them.
“Luc.” Cybele’s voice was strained. “Where’s Luc?”
“There.”
Luc stumbled as he landed, going down hard on one knee before lurching to his feet. Arthur sucked in a breath as he took in his friend’s appearance. His face was black with bruising. A mass of blistering welts and bleeding whip marks crisscrossed his torso and limbs. He stared straight ahead with blank eyes.
“Damn that bitch,” Cybele said. “Damn her to Oblivion. Kill her, Arthur. Kill her for me. For my brother.”
“For all of us,” he said. If utter hatred were magic, Merlin’s staff would be ablaze. Mab would fall dead from the sky.
The dormants moved to one side. The adepts fanned out in a line. Mab touched down last. She took up a position in front of the seven Nephil males. A red nimbus of power crackled about her. She wore full dominatrix garb, black leather and vinyl, her enormous ruby nestled in the valley between her upthrust breasts. Her bejeweled whip handle dangled at her waist. Arthur’s lower lip curled at the glint of the stolen gems.
He let anger seep through him. His demon nature rose to meet it. His wings rose and his vision went red. He planted Merlin’s staff before him. If the sight of the long-lost relic dismayed his adversary, Arthur couldn’t detect it. Her wings swept downward. Her shoulders went back.
“Arthur Camulus.” Her cold voice rang out over the moor. “You will not stand against me. Surrender now and I will grant you your life.”
“As a thrall,” Arthur shouted. “That will never happen, Mab. I’ll see myself in Oblivion first.” He adjusted his grip on the staff, wishing desperately that he could feel a spark of life in it.
“You will regret that choice.”
With an upward sweep of her hands, she launched two balls of crimson flame. Darting forward, Arthur swung the staff to meet the attack. The crystal caught one hellfire missile and sent it sizzling into the wet ground. The other shot overhead.
“Cybele, watch out!”
The blast struck the door jamb scant inches above her head. Sparks showered. She ducked behind the door. At the same time, a white cloud appeared, whirling about the crystal atop Merlin’s staff.
Arthur blinked against the sudden dazzle. His grip on the staff tightened. What was going on? The touchstone was dead...
Cybele. The magic was Cybele’s. Illusion only, but a very good one. How long the ruse would fool Mab—if it fooled her at all—was anyone’s guess.
Angling the staff high over his head, he strode forward across the stone-flagged terrace. White sparks poured from his palm. He sent the magic racing in spirals up the staff’s twisted shaft. The instant they reached the crystal, he redirected the stream at Mab. And hoped like hell she wouldn’t see through his ruse.
His hellfire struck the center of her chest. She faltered. If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he might have missed the flash of panic in her eyes. The trick had worked. Mab had seen only what Arthur and Cybele wanted her to see—the ancient power of Merlin.
The alpha recovered quickly. She deflected his next blast before it struck. His hellfire disappeared into the grass at her feet.
“Is that the best you can do with your new toy?” she taunted.
Arthur forced a large dose of arrogance into his reply. “It’s only the beginning of what I can do. Merlin’s magic is mine.”
“But, sugar, can a boy like you handle it?”
She fingered her whip handle, and then detached it from her belt. Three sizzling crimson strands of hellfire spurted out.
With a flick of her wrist, she launched the lashes at Arthur. He jerked the staff to one side. Not quickly enough. One lash snapped around the twisted wood. A second stung his forearm, burning like the fires of Hell. The third wrapped his left knee. He hissed in a breath through his teeth.
He twisted the staff, slashing it to one side, trying to free it. Mab yanked her whip back. Pain exploded in his knee. His leg flew out from under him. His arse hit the ground.
Behind him, Cybele let out a strangled cry. Mab threw her head back and laughed. Somehow Arthur managed to free himself and lurch to his feet. His knee felt like it had been pierced by a thousand burning needles. His leg barely held his weight. He leaned heavily on the staff.
The alpha yanked the final lash. The staff jerked. Arthur hung on with all his remaining strength. Cybele’s sparks regrouped. Forming a tight ball, the illusion shot toward Mab. Arthur shoved the agony in his knee to the back of his brain and sank his mind into the sky. The instant Cybele’s fake hellfire arrived at its destination a bolt of lightning hit the ground inches in front of Mab’s boots.
Fuck. He’d meant to actually hit her.
The alpha jumped back, spitting curses. Her attention dropped briefly from her magic. Arthur took the opportunity to wrench the staff free of th
e crimson lash.
Abandoning her whip, Mab launched a stream of hellfire directly from her palms. Arthur caught it with Merlin’s crystal. He sent it ricocheting back so quickly, and with so much furious anger, that Mab barely leaped out of the way in time.
“Mab.”
Her head jerked up. Her blue eyes narrowed.
His knee was on fire, his focus close to shattering. If Mab guessed how powerless he really was—how close she was to victory—he was finished.
He summoned every bit of confidence he could muster. Standing with legs spread wide, he held the staff aloft.
“I challenge you,” he shouted. “For the right to lead the Druid clan.”
She set her hands on her hips and laughed. “Do you really think you have a chance, sugar? Has the Ordeal damaged your brain that much?”
“Do you accept?”
“I won’t let you die, you know.” She gave him a cat’s smile. “Oh, no. You’ll submit to me. You’ll take my collar. You’ll live out your life as my thrall.”
He repressed a sick wave of dread. “Do you accept my challenge?”
Her smile grew wider. “If that’s what you’ve got your heart set on, sugar.” She lifted her arms.
“No. You know the law. The clan must stand as witness.”
She laughed. “I am the law, Arthur. And look around you. The clan is here.”
“Not all of it.” His gaze swept over her adepts. “My father’s family is absent.”
“They aren’t necessary. Tristan’s kin are bound to me.”
“Bound, yes. But not enthralled. Their oaths may be broken.”
“They won’t stand with you, if that’s what you’re hoping. Sniveling cowards, all of them.”
“Then let them watch the contest,” Arthur urged. “Let them witness my fall. They think I’m dead. Let them see I’m alive. Show them how thoroughly you fooled them seven years ago.”
Slowly, Mab lowered her arms. “Why, now, that’s a thought. One or two may even be angry enough to fight at your side. More fodder for my collars.” She smirked. “One can never have too many thralls.”