Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1)

by Mason, Nina

  He didn’t need to ask twice, thank the stars. In a blink, she was on top of him with her lips crushing his. As she stroked his jaw, he captured her hand, holding it to his face as he deepened the kiss. He’d had her several times that night already, but it wasn’t enough. When it came to his butterfly, there was no such thing as enough.

  Releasing her hand, he ran both of his down her body, rejoicing in the silky warmth of her skin. He cupped her buttocks, holding her against him as he rocked his hips to let her feel his hardness.

  “Again?” she asked with a smile.

  “Oh, aye. Again and again, until all the seas gang dry.”

  They made love with a vengeance and when it was over, she dozed off while he continued to hold her. Moonlight streamed through the bedroom window and, except for the rattle and hum of the air-conditioner, the house was quiet.

  So were his thoughts, remarkably enough. Then, suddenly and without mercy, reality crashed through his blissful bubble like a wrecking ball. There was Armstrong to deal with and Alasdair Sinclair, and he should probably make up his mind once and for all about the election.

  There also was Vanessa to think about. The sad truth was, his butterfly valued her freedom more than she valued him. She’d made it plain from the outset that air did not need fire the way fire needed air. If only he’d had the good sense to listen.

  * * * *

  With Callum snoring beside her, Vanessa blinked up at the ceiling. How could he be so calm when she was agonizing over where to go from here? With him to Scotland or back to San Francisco? Only one thing was certain. She loved him. It might be foolhardy given the briefness of their acquaintance, but she knew him well enough to know he was the one for her.

  The Beauty to her Beast.

  Her Mr. Right.

  Her Knight of Wands.

  Her immortal partner.

  It didn’t have to be all or nothing, of course. They could continue to see each other while she lived in America. She could go back to San Francisco or look for another job here. If he won the election, she’d hardly ever see him, but she’d just have to deal with his absence as best she could. That could be a nice little life. A nice, safe little life. She’d have him and her freedom, too. So, why didn’t it seem like enough?

  That was the question gnawing at her. Would it be enough to see him now and again, knowing their bloodlust might force them to seek other partners in the interim? Could she live with that? Could he?

  With a sigh, she rolled toward him. Her beautiful, slumbering lion. She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, searching her heart. He was a better man than she’d given him credit for. As he’d said, he needed to love like the lion he was…and she must not only let him be himself, but also love him for who he was.

  Her mind retrieved something she’d read in a book once. Love was like a high for some people, and when the high wore off, they jumped to another bed to get the feeling again. They don’t want to love, they wanted to be loved. They didn’t give, they took. Like vampires, they drained their victims dry because, deep down, they were deficient in some way.

  A thought struck her then like a hammer. Callum wasn’t the one the passage described; she was. He didn’t drain her, he filled her up, adding rather than subtracting, something she’d never felt with anyone before, never even dreamed might be possible.

  Lifting a hand to his face, she stroked his jaw, her heart overflowing. He was so wonderful and she loved him so much. He opened one eye and smiled at her.

  “Tell me how you feel,” she said. “And please be honest.”

  He pushed up on an elbow and fixed her with his gentle golden gaze. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I love you, with all of heart. We may be opposites, but we complement and balance each other. Like yin and yang.”

  He’d spoken the words with a tenderness that made her ache inside. All her life, she’d distrusted those words, but hearing them now from his lips filled her with joy. She kissed him, needing to taste as well as to hear his avowal.

  Then, her old doubts reared their head. “What if, upon closer acquaintance, you change your mind?”

  He swept his knuckles along her arm. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” Fighting tears, she rolled onto her back. Her lip trembled, infuriating her as much as her inarticulateness. “But the truth is, I just don’t trust feelings to last.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Either. Both. Any. My mom and dad loved each other in the beginning, and then, all they did was fight until he couldn’t take any more and walked out. Then, my mom killed herself and left me all alone in the world. Not that she was ever there for me, even when she was alive.”

  He kissed her softly—a brush of the lips. “I’ll always be there for you, mo dearbadan-de. On that you have my solemn vow.”

  Chapter 19

  Since Callum had to get back to Scotland very soon to campaign, they’d agreed to go to Napoleon House the next morning to have a drink and check out Finn MacKnight, after which they planned to stop by the swamp to do some hunting.

  It was now close to eleven o’clock, hotter than hell, and as steamy as a Turkish bath. Callum was behind the wheel of Vanessa’s Taurus and doing a stellar job, considering he’d never driven on the left side of the car or the road before. He also didn’t know his way around New Orleans, not that she could claim more than a nodding familiarity herself. Luckily, she had her trusty Google Maps app at her disposal.

  As they drove through the French Quarter, she pointed out some of the local sites and shared a few interesting stories, including the one about Jack St. Germain. Callum seemed genuinely interested and in good spirits, so she hoped their day together would be pleasant, despite their unresolved differences.

  The Napoleon House—a three-story stucco building that had seen better days—was located at the corner of Chartres and Saint Louis, two blocks west of Jackson Square and the cathedral. The interior had the feel of an old English pub with its beamed ceilings, weathered plaster walls, mismatched tables, and massive wooden bar. The courtyard had a much more Mediterranean feel with its potted palms, ceiling fans, and white tablecloths. As inviting as the al fresco option was, they opted for a table with air-conditioning.

  A striking mulatto woman showed them to their table and took their drink order. Vanessa asked for the Pimms Cup—the bar’s signature drink—while Callum, true to form, requested their best single-malt whisky.

  “Is Finn working today?” Vanessa asked the server as she turned to go.

  “He is.” The waitress glanced toward the bar, where no one appeared to be on duty. “Are you friends of his?”

  “Not really,” Vanessa told her. “He did me a service a few nights ago and told me to pop in sometime for a cocktail and to say hello. So, here I am.”

  “Well,” the woman said, “he’s around here somewhere. When I see him, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  The restaurant wasn’t what Vanessa would call crowded, but there were several other patrons drinking, eating, and chatting away. It seemed like a nice place—a little rough around the edges, perhaps, but in a way that was more old-world than run-down. The classical music pouring out of the jukebox contributed to the sophisticated ambiance.

  As Vanessa drank it all in, she noticed a man sitting alone at a corner table. Something about him seemed familiar and, as she studied him, trying to work out where she knew him from, he met her gaze. Surprise registered on his face before he hid it behind a friendly smile.

  Face heating, she returned the smile briefly before looking away. She set her hand on Callum’s arm and gave it a squeeze. Offering her the sweetest of smiles, he set his hand atop hers.

  “Mo bhilis.”

  It sounded to her like “ma vilis” and he’d said it in the soft way one utters an endearment, making her warm as well as curious. “What did you just say?”

  “Mo bhilis,” he repeated. “It means ‘my sweet’ in Gaelic.”

 
; She liked that, liked having him here, liked that he seemed to want to work things out to their mutual satisfaction. She couldn’t see the way right now, but she was definitely willing to venture down that path, which was huge for her. She wanted to be with him, wanted to believe he was her one true love. Somewhere along the way, he’d restored her faith in love. He’d also stolen her heart, the wily lion.

  The clatter of ice drew her gaze toward the bar. There was Finn, fixing her drink. Callum’s whisky already sat on the bar in a low-ball glass.

  “There he is,” she whispered, leaning closer to Callum. “Let’s go over and say hello before he disappears again.”

  As they both got up, their chair legs scraped loudly, drawing Finn’s attention. Recognition bloomed on his face along with a smile.

  “I told you I’d come by when I could,” she said, rushing up to the bar. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Finn said with a dazzling smile.

  She took Callum’s arm and pulled him closer. “This is Callum Lyon, my”—she stopped herself, unsure how to fill in the blank—”um…the guy I told you about.”

  When Callum offered his hand, Finn stopped what he was doing to give it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Finn MacKnight.”

  “Likewise.” Callum gave the man the cool once-over. “And thank you for coming to my lady’s aid when I wasn’t available to do so myself.”

  “I was glad to be of service.” Finn returned to mixing the cocktail on the bar. As he wedged a cucumber slice among the ice cubes, he pushed the Pimms Cup toward the whisky. “These, I believe, are your drinks,” he said, looking up with a smile. “Would you like to take them back with you or shall I have Serena bring them over?”

  In the daylight, Vanessa could see more clearly how truly handsome Finn was. Chiseled features, strong jaw, wavy dark hair, piercing green eyes. The soft luminance of faery blood was evident in his swarthy complexion upon closer inspection.

  Now that he and Callum were side-by-side, she realized Finn’s blood smelled even sweeter than her lion’s, making her suspect her Good Samaritan might be one of the good folk of Elphame, which also would explain his act of kindness toward her.

  They thanked Finn once more before taking their drinks back to the table, where, voices low and heads together, they exchanged speculations while enjoying their beverages. The Pimms Cup—a blend of brandy, lemonade, and lemon-lime soda—was as delightfully refreshing as she’d hoped.

  “He’s definitely not human,” Callum confirmed, “but I’ve never smelled his like before, so I couldn’t tell you what he might be.”

  “Do you think he might be Seelie?”

  “Nay,” Callum said. “There are Seelies among Madam Pennick’s lasses and they don’t smell the way Finn does.”

  “Who’s Madam Pennick?”

  “The owner of a brothel catering to immortals on this side of the vale.”

  “Oh.” Vanessa’s startled mind connected the dots. The whores he’d brought to Barrogill in the past must have come from there.

  They ordered another round of drinks from Serena and sipped them while basking in the glow of each other’s company. As contented as she felt, two puzzles still gnawed: what Finn might be and who the man was at the corner table.

  The familiar stranger looked their way now and again. When they’d finished their last round of drinks, Serena brought the check. As the server started to walk away, Callum called her back, fished out his wallet, and offered her his Platinum American Express.

  The waitress took it and returned a few minutes later with the check. Vanessa thought nothing of until something fell out as Callum opened the faux-leather folder. As the object—a sealed cream-colored envelope—landed on the table, they both leaned in for a better look. Scrawled across the front in the fancy script of a bygone era was a greeting that caused them to exchange troubled glances.

  To the Knight and his Lady.

  As Callum picked up the envelope and worked to break the seal, Vanessa shot a glance toward the corner table, certain the familiar stranger was the sender. To her dismay, the man was no longer there.

  Returning her focus to the envelope, she waited on pins and needles as Callum withdrew the folded sheet of stationery inside. He read the note to himself before showing it to her. The communiqué—in the same old-fashioned cursive gracing the envelope—was short, direct, and unsigned: Meet me at the cathedral in fifteen minutes.

  * * * *

  One question burned in Callum’s brain as he ascended the steps of the cathedral with a firm grip on Vanessa’s hand. Who could have seen him and known what he was? If it was someone with ties to Avalon, he was done for. If Queen Morgan summoned his return, he’d be powerless to refuse. What might she do if she discovered his deception? Kill him? Castrate him? Throw him in the dungeon to suffer a thousand tortures? The prospect of any or all of those torments tied knots in his bowels.

  He could always ignore the note, he supposed. Leave the city, go into hiding, and spend the rest of eternity looking over his shoulder, but that was just another brand of enslavement. Better to confront the threat, find out who’d sent the note, what they knew, and what they wanted. Money, probably, which he’d gladly forfeit to avoid returning to Avalon.

  There were a scattered few among the pews, some sitting, others kneeling. Muttered prayers and the soft clicking of rosary beads whispered in his ears.

  He made his way up the aisle, towing Vanessa along, as he searched for the man she’d described. He saw no one who looked even close.

  “Perhaps it isn’t the man you saw,” he said.

  “Perhaps not.” She matched the low volume of his voice. “There was just something about him—an uncanny déjà vu type feeling. Plus, he kept looking at me oddly.”

  “Men often look at beautiful women oddly,” he told her. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he was up to something.”

  Seeing no one and not knowing what else to do, he let go of her hand, knelt in genuflection, and crossed himself before slipping into a pew. She soon joined him on the hard bench.

  The church’s familiar faint bouquet of frankincense, prayer candles, and wooden pews rubbed with the oils of multitudes of hands, called old memories to the surface. “When I was a lad, I thought priests were all alchemists and wizards who magically transformed bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ by reciting spells in Latin over a magical golden chalice.”

  “You were raised Catholic?”

  “Aye, though our beliefs were largely pagan.”

  She hooked her arm through his and set her head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, savoring her herbal aroma. He’d missed that smell more than he realized, just as he missed the feel of having her by his side.

  “This is the first church I’ve set foot in since—well, since my father’s funeral back in—oh, Christ, I’ve forgotten the year.”

  “You said your father was an astrologer, too,” she said, nestling against him.

  “Aye. And a physician who dabbled in alchemy. King James dabbled in alchemy, too. Did you know that?”

  “I did not,” she said with a smile.

  Sitting back against hard wood, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. As he made a study of its intricate seams and arches, a hand came down on his shoulder. Heart jolting, he craned his neck to seek the hand’s owner.

  The man matched Vanessa description to a tee. Fortyish, dark hair, pale complexion, protruding nose, and keen dark eyes. He was casually dressed in dark slacks and a button-down shirt with long sleeves. Callum stiffened, puzzled how the man’s approach could have escaped his notice.

  “Sir Leith MacQuill, I presume?” the stranger asked in a thick French accent.

  Ah—a case of mistaken identity, then. Good. He was safe.

  “Who wishes to know?”

  “Jack St. Germain,” the man said with a bow. “Your servant, my lord.”

  The name brought Vanessa’s head around
, showing Callum her astonished expression. Fortunately, she kept quiet.

  “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he told the Frenchman.

  “But—that cannot be,” St. Germain said, clearly at a loss. “You are a knight of Avalon. Of that I am certain. And Leith MacQuill, so far as I know, is the only personage of that distinction living in this realm.”

  “And yet, I promise you, I am not he.”

  St. Germain looked incredulous. “If that is so, then why did you seek out his son just now?”

  Callum blinked at him, his mind turning like a millwheel. If Leith MacQuill had a son, he knew nothing of it. “To whom do you refer?”

  “The bartender at the Napoleon House,” St. Germain clarified, his features pinched. “I find it hard to believe you are unaware of his true identity.”

  Callum made no response. His mind was too busy trying to fit the pieces together. If Finn MacKnight was Sir Leith’s son, who was his mother and what the devil was he doing in New Orleans?

  “Our reasons for seeking him out were perfectly innocent,” Vanessa told St. Germain. “We only wanted to thank him for the service he rendered me a few nights back. I had a flat tire, you see, and Finn very kindly stopped to help me change it.”

  St. Germain studied her appraisingly before returning his dark gaze to Callum. “She has been made Avalonian—by you, I can only presume.” The Frenchman straightened his back and stuck out his chin. “I’m afraid I must insist upon knowing who both of you are and why you are roaming the Hitherworld unbeknownst to the rebel forces.”

  “Rebel forces?” Callum’s voice, a little too loud, drew glances from the faithful. Dropping his volume, he added, “What rebel forces?”

  “If you fear your anonymity will be jeopardized by revealing your identity to me, I assure you that is not the case,” St. Germain assured him. “Neither myself nor anyone with whom I associate bears anything but abhorrence for Morgan Le Fay. It is her overthrow we seek to bring about, my good knight, not your re-enslavement.”