“Thanks. Want anything to drink?” Rhys asked, moving past her to the refrigerator. He swung it open and contemplated the contents. “I’ve got wine, I’ve got beer, I’ve got soft drinks . . .”
“Wine sounds good.” She felt a distinct need for something alcoholic to unwind the tension tightening her shoulder muscles.
“Riesling?”
“Perfect.”
Rhys got out a bottle, then reached into a cabinet for a couple of glasses. He thumbed the cork free, then poured each of them a serving. After handing her one, he picked up his own glass and, still carrying the bottle, led her through an archway into an impressive great room. Here the ceiling was a full twenty feet over a sweep of gleaming oak flooring. One entire wall was precisely fitted fieldstone in shades of cream and brown with an inset fireplace and a sixty-inch flat screen. The others were painted a pale taupe, and hung with paintings and family photos. An enormous bookcase stuffed with well-thumbed books took up the entire rear wall.
Man does like to read, she decided, examining the spines. Mostly science fiction, physics, and astronomy, though there were several on folklore, magic, and Wicca, which made her brows climb. She wondered if he knew it was all bull. “Homey,” she said instead.
“Thanks. Want a tour?”
“Later, maybe. I think we need to get a few things figured out before the next pack of werewolves show up.”
Rhys grimaced, and gestured her to the well-upholstered couch in oxblood leather. It stood flanked by two matching recliners, arranged around a massive coffee table made of a slab of polished cream granite. “Good point, unfortunately.”
He sank down on the couch, stretching out long, muscular legs. Olivia joined him, though on the other end of the couch. Sipping her wine, she almost purred in pleasure at the taste—sweet, crisp, and delightfully fruity.
“I’ve got a lot of questions.” Rhys braced his elbows on his knees, studying her. Thick muscles rolled under the thin blue fabric of his dress shirt, drawing her eyes. A flare of sensual awareness surged through her, surprisingly intense. She tried to remember the last time she’d indulged her body . . .
And couldn’t. Though sex made a fine distraction when she was in a certain mood, lately those moods had been coming further and further apart. Apparently he’d managed to capture her libido’s interest. Go back to sleep, she told it. Your timing is abysmal.
Fuck off, it replied.
“So,” she said, to distract herself. “What questions do you have?”
The expression on his handsome face hardened. “What the hell is going on? Who set us both up to get killed?”
“Yeah, those are definitely the questions. Unfortunately, my answer is I have no idea. The man who wanted to kill me has been dead more than a decade.”
Rhys lifted a golden brow over eyes of rich amber. “You got him first?”
She snorted. “He’d have wiped the floor with me. Ansgar was the king of the Sidhe for reason.”
“Your king wanted you dead? Why?”
“He didn’t take rejection well.”
Now his gaze held a distinct sizzle. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer?”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Pain stabbed her at the vicious memory of a child’s arm lying limp across a broad shoulder. Even after two centuries, the rage and guilt had not faded. She no longer thought it would.
Rhys opened his mouth, and she waited for the question she had no desire to answer. Instead he paused, giving her a long look before his expression softened into compassion. And changed the subject. “What did you mean when you said I was an alien? My parents are definitely human.”
“Not given all the magic boiling off you.”
His sensual lips tightened. “I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t say you were. But there’s something somebody’s not telling you. Humans don’t have magical abilities. They sure as hell don’t have the kind of ability you’ve got. I don’t even think you’re Sidhe.”
“My parents wouldn’t mislead me about something like that. They’ve always been as bewildered by my abilities as I am.” Rhys’s narrowed eyes searched hers. “What were you doing on that bench, Olivia?” His tone hardened. “Were you playing bait?”
The question didn’t piss her off. In fact, she’d have been more suspicious if he hadn’t asked it. “You think I’m working with the wolves? Decapitated one of my coconspirators just to sucker you?” She took another sip of the wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. “Why not just sit on the bench and watch them chew you up like kibble?”
“Are you sure it would’ve been that easy?” His tone held a note of silken menace that made the hair rise on the back of her neck.
Olivia hid the reaction. She hadn’t survived a century in the court of Ansgar Galatyn without a good poker face. “Yes, actually, I am. You wouldn’t have had a prayer if you tried to fight them with magic. They’re immune to all mystical energies but their own.”
“Why?”
“Because Merlin designed them that way.”
His eyes widened. “Merlin? As in King Arthur? That Merlin?”
She waved the question away. “If I start trying to explain that, we’ll be here all night. Suffice it to say magic doesn’t affect werewolves. Not even magic as powerful as yours. Your second blast rattled my teeth from ten feet away, but it didn’t even singe that wolf’s whiskers. They would’ve gutted you if I hadn’t warned you to use a blade.”
Amber eyes narrowed and took on a stubborn glint. “Granted, but I’d still like to know where Merlin fits in all this.”
Olivia sighed. “I assure you, Merlin’s not trying to have you killed. But someone sure as hell is. What enemies do you have?”
He opened his mouth probably to deny he had any with magical abilities. Then he froze, his eyes going hot with fury and realization. “Oh, son of a bitch!”
Olivia nodded in grim satisfaction. “Yeah, I figured. Who, where, and what happened?”
* * *
January 3, 2019
Rhys sauntered out of a Buckhead dance club in Atlanta, mildly buzzed and a little frustrated. He’d hoped to find a little female company, but every woman he’d spoken to had seemed shallow and a bit dull. It was a problem he’d noticed a lot lately.
He was about to hail a taxi when a wave of magic made the hair rise on the back of his neck.
Rhys stiffened in amazement, pivoting toward the sensation of alien power. He started in that direction, striding fast, eager to track down someone else who actually used . . .
And then he broke step, frowning. There was something subtly off about the magic. The psychic impression felt almost . . . greasy.
Determined to find out what was going on, he continued, following the trail down first one alley, then another.
But the closer he got, the more repellent the magic became, until it reminded him of the stench of roadkill rotting in the summer heat.
As he stepped between two closed shops a couple of streets over, the reek became so overwhelming he had to swallow rising acid.
Then his gaze fell on the pair of moving shadows at the other end of the alley, and he froze. The streetlamp that should be illuminating the alley was out, but he’d always had excellent night vision.
Rage shot through him in a cold wave.
A man slammed methodical blows into a smaller figure whose thin legs kicked weakly. There was something unnatural about the silence. Despite the violence of the beating, there wasn’t so much as the scrape of a foot on pavement or the thump of a fist hitting flesh. It was as if they were enclosed in a bubble of soundproof glass.
Which was exactly what was going on. Except instead of glass, they were surrounded by some kind of sound-dampening spell. Rhys started toward them as he concentrated, directing his magic against the barrier. His ears popped, and he could hear feeble gasps
and the man’s sadistic laughter.
The asshole dug his fingers into his victim’s chest. The boy—and it was a boy, judging by the wiry build, maybe twelve or fourteen tops—arched with another thin cry of agony. Magic blasted around them.
“You earned every second of this, street rat!” The man jerked the boy off the ground and shook him savagely. The child’s head lolled and flopped as if there were no bones in his neck. “How dare you touch anything of mine . . .” The bastard’s murderous intent was spotlight clear even in the dark.
Oh, hell no. Rhys broke into a run, the sound of his footfalls slapping echoes off the surrounding brick.
The man didn’t even look up, totally focused on his victim, his lips twisted. Despite his beefy build, his hair was as long as a woman’s, hip length at least, and colored with Day-Glo dye that gave it a phosphorescent green glow. The strands danced obscenely as he shook the child.
Rhys leaped, clearing the last ten feet between them to plow into Day-Glo. Green hair whipped as they hit the ground in a tooth-jarring tumble. Fisting his hands in the asshole’s shirt, Rhys rolled to his feet and slammed his captive against the nearest wall so hard, his head banged against the brick.
“Who the bloody . . . ?” Eyes the same Day-Glo green as his hair narrowed in rage. “Oh, look, it’s a suicidal moron!” He rammed his hand against the center of Rhys’s chest.
Sparks exploded as the spell hit, driving pain through Rhys’s skull like a railroad spike. Unfortunately for Day-Glo, Rhys was way too pissed to let it stop him. Spinning the thug around to give himself more room to work, he rammed his fist into the bastard’s face. Blood flew.
Day-Glo staggered, but Rhys gave him no time to recover. Drawing in magic like a diver sucking in air, he blasted it all into his foe.
The abuser fell on his ass with a shocked cry in some alien language. He stared up at Rhys, mouth falling open, eyes widening. “What? You . . .” Glowing eyes narrowed in fury. “. . . just bought your death!”
Day-Glo shot a fireball at Rhys’s face.
The pain was searing, vibrating his very teeth. Instinctively, he sent his own magic blasting back, fighting the power pouring against his skin, repelling it the way he’d have blocked a punch.
Taking a long step back, he whipped into a spinning kick that took Day-Glo in the teeth. As he followed through the move, he shot a spell into the thug’s gut.
The blow sent Day-Glo skidding to ram headfirst against the wall behind him. Rhys stalked after him, drawing in more power as his fury seethed. But when he fired again, the magic seemed to bounce off something hemispherical that surrounded Day-Glo like a science fiction special effect.
Huh. He flung another bolt of power at the bastard, watching coldly as Day-Glo reeled up and scrambled along the wall to get away. The thug’s spell absorbed his blast, but Rhys fired two more, observing the shape of the shield, the structure of the energy that made it up. Until he determined how to achieve the same effect.
So when Day-Glo threw the next fireball at his head, he conjured a shield of his own and sent the lethal magic streaming aside like rain off a windshield.
The magic’s light gleamed off the sweat running down Day-Glo’s face. “You’re not Sidhe!” he spat, wiping blood off his swollen lip, sickly green eyes narrowing. “What are you? What interest do you have in that little guttersnipe?”
“He’s an innocent. And I’m not going to let you kill him.”
“Innocent? The little bastard stole my ring!” He spread his hand, revealing the glint of gold on his forefinger.
“Yeah, that sounds like a reason to beat him to death. God, I hate bullies.” Rhys started sucking down more and more magic, digging deeper than he ever had in his life. If he wanted to save that child, he needed to put Day-Glo down hard—and fast.
He’d never tried to throw so much power before. For a moment, Rhys had the odd impression that Day-Glo was physically getting smaller. Or else Rhys himself was growing . . .
The expression in the asshole’s eyes went downright panicky. “You want the boy? Fine! You can have him!” He whirled and ran, simultaneously throwing a blast of energy at Rhys, who almost didn’t get up a shield in time. As it was, the attack rattled his teeth.
Day-Glo rounded the corner, bounding like a jackrabbit. Rhys’s first instinct was to go after him, but he needed to attend to the boy. He spun and headed to the small figure lying sprawled and unmoving among the alley trash.
But when he reached the child, he stopped short, stomach sinking. The boy’s eyes were blank and staring.
Rhys’s battle with Day-Glo had gone on too long.
Hoping he was wrong, he bent to search for a pulse. The child’s skin was still warm, but there was no trace of a throb. He put a hand on the boy’s chest, planning to attempt CPR, only to feel shattered bone give under his touch. Attempting chest compression would only drive lethal fragments through his heart and lungs.
Feeling sick, he stared helplessly down at the child. Dammit, he didn’t have the first idea how to heal injuries so savage, much less bring someone back from the dead.
Helplessness became black fury.
Leaping to his feet, Rhys charged after Day-Glo. I’m going to kill that bastard. I don’t care if I go to jail. He needs to fucking die.
But even as Rhys reached the corner, he sensed a boiling surge of magic. Light flashed as he rounded the building . . .
There was nothing there. The alley was a dead end, yet there was no sign of Day-Glo. The only thing that was left was a fading impression of magic swirling like a whirlpool.
* * *
“He probably used a dimensional gate to escape,” Olivia told Rhys, looking angry and a little sick.
He frowned at her, puzzled. “A dimensional gate?”
“Yeah. I’d be willing to bet he went back to the Mageverse.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Mageverse?”
“The Mageverse is an alternate universe parallel to this one. Magic is a physical force there, as it isn’t here. People who use magic draw on those energies to work their spells. The Mageverse has its own version of Earth and its own version of humanity—that’s the Sidhe.”
Rhys stared at her, processing what she’d just said. It did make sense. He’d often had the feeling that he drew on some great well of magic when he worked his spells. “So you’re from this other Earth, too?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded clipped, tight.
Rhys eyed her thoughtfully. “Why do I get the feeling you know Day-Glo?”
“Because he sounds a lot like somebody I . . . knew once. I’d hoped he was dead.”
He recoiled at the thought of Olivia at the mercy of that vicious bastard. “Did he hurt you?”
“Oh, yes. Except I lived through it.” Her laughter held no humor whatsoever. “More or less.”
Chapter Three
It had been more almost two centuries, but the thought of Gorin still had the power to send a shaft of cold terror through Olivia. She started to rake a hand through her hair, then realized it was shaking and curled it into a fist. “Maybe it wasn’t him. But few among the Sidhe have that hair and eye color combination. And yeah, I could see him hiring werewolves instead of taking you on himself.”
She took a deep breath. “And after the werewolves ran off, I thought I sensed his magic.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before now?”
“Because it vanished so fast, I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing.” She shrugged. “But given you have history with him too, that raises the probability that he’s our man. Though there’s still a lot about this that makes no sense. I don’t understand why he’d kidnap me and put me on that bench for you to find. Maybe I was bait for his werewolf trap, but why let me regain my powers and help you fight them off?” Olivia shook her head. “It just doesn’t add up.”
But if it was him,
whispered a deadly voice in the back of her brain, maybe I’ll finally get a chance at revenge. She gave her host a long look. Gorin had run from Rhys. She’d never heard of the Royal Assassin running from anybody or anything.
Gorin had starred in her bloodiest revenge fantasies for two centuries, but she’d always known they were nothing more than fantasy. He was simply too powerful, with almost a thousand years of combat experience and the kind of magical ability that had once made him Ansgar’s favorite killer.
If she ever tried to kill Gorin, really tried, odds were high that the only one who’d end up dead was Olivia herself. There’d been times when she longed for that death, but two hundred years had eroded her craving for self-destruction. Despite her bitter losses, life still held some pleasures. And there was no guarantee she could kill the Royal Assassin even if she destroyed herself in the process.
But Gorin had run from Rhys.
She looked at the big man, contemplating the energy that roiled around him. She wasn’t surprised the assassin had taken to his heels. Even Ansgar himself hadn’t possessed so much raw power.
But what was Rhys, if not Sidhe? There were any number of magical creatures in the Mageverse that could take human form—everything from dragons to unicorns. Yet he apparently considered himself human. Surely if he was some sort of shape-shifter, he’d know it.
Unless he was lying.
It was possible, but she just didn’t think so. The offense in his eyes when she’d suggested his parents weren’t really his parents looked utterly sincere.
Too, there was a certain old-fashioned decency to Rhys that suggested he would consider casual lies beneath him. It was a rare quality—not just in twenty-first century men, but in Ansgar’s court, where sword-wearing noblemen boasted of their honor. Honor that had been more hot air than reality.
Except for Coln.
Like her husband, honor meant something to Rhys. Enough that it drove him to risk his life to save a child from a vicious killer, or help Olivia take on a team of werewolves.
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