She smiled reassuringly. The last thing she wanted was panic.
With a nod toward the exit she said, “Come upstairs where we can talk in private.” She ignored the wicked sparkle in Michael’s eyes.
“ Your wish is my command, darlin’.”
In the two years since she’d met Michael, Cordelia could count on one hand the times they’d exchanged more than a polite greeting. Yet the way he called her darling with that deep Irish lilt to his voice was exactly the way he spoke to the women she watched him take to bed. She reached the door and ascended the first few steps, then paused and looked back at him. “I’d rather you didn’t call me…darling. I don’t feel the name’s appropriate.” And if he kept speaking to her in that tone of voice, she was likely to muddle fantasy with reality.
He grinned up at her, mischief twinkling in his eyes.
With a sigh of exasperation, mostly at her own ludicrous reaction to him, she hurried up the stairs, promising herself she was strong enough to ignore his glamour.
He grinned as he stopped in the doorway at the top and rested his shoulder against the frame. “Maybe I should call you sugarplum? You have the sweet ripe fullness of fruit ready to be—”
“Michael!”
In the silence that followed her explosive retort, all she could think was ready to be what? A small part of her wished she hadn’t interrupted him.
And she hated that she fell for his suggestive banter.
Anger bubbled up, giving her words a harsh edge. “Just call me Cordelia in a normal tone of voice like everyone else.”
He flicked up his eyebrows, unabashed.
“Enough nonsense.” Cordelia smoothed her skirt, reluctant to admit she needed his help. “While I was foretelling in the library, darkness invaded my divination mirror. I also heard someone whisper the given name of the Welsh King of the Underworld.”
The mischievous half smile that always hovered on Michael’s lips dropped away. He pushed off the door frame and straightened, his expression serious.
“When did this happen, lass?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, turned, and glanced up the stairs. “Ruddy Badba,” he cursed. “I hope the babies are safe.”
Before she could reassure him that she’d just visited the nursery and the boys were fine, he took off, running up the stairs two at a time. She stared up at the landing while he put his head in the nursery door.
Thirty seconds later, he closed the door quietly and descended more slowly, a look of relief on his face.
“The babies are still there. When we tried to put them to bed, I half expected them to disappear and reappear somewhere else.” At Cordelia’s raised eyebrows he continued. “The rascals have just discovered they can walk unseen like me father.”
Cordelia shook her head in disbelief. Rose had told her the children took after their air elemental grandfather. But it had never occurred to her the children would exhibit the rare air elemental gift of walking unseen: disappearing and reappearing in another place.
“What sort of threat do you think Gwyn ap Nudd could be?” Michael asked.
“We’ve had no dealings with him during my life, but it’s possible he holds an ancient grudge against the piskies. You know what long memories these immortals have.”
He nodded and something dark passed behind his eyes. “Aye, I know.”
When Michael and Niall had lived in the Irish fairy court, Niall had apparently had problems dealing with the self-obsessed Irish fairy queen. Perhaps life had been just as difficult for Michael.
“I want to check through the pisky troop records for references to Gwyn, but there are at least fifty volumes in the library. I need another set of eyes to help me.”
Michael took off his trilby and ran his hand through his hair, lifting the luxuriant chestnut waves off his face, then letting them tumble back. All thought deserted her as she watched the silky strands settle against his skin.
“’Tis not a problem, lass. I’ll gladly offer you me eyes. I read fast, so we’ll be through the books in no time.”
Cordelia blinked, pulled her attention back to the conversation. Michael O’Connor might be a master storyteller, but the possibility of his speed-reading seemed as unlikely as his sprouting wings. “Great. Thank you,” she uttered, feeling a touch guilty for doubting his word when he’d offered to help. “I’d rather not involve anyone else until we know if the danger is real.”
Michael nodded and popped his green hat squarely on his head. “We don’t want to go causing alarm, to be sure.”
He extended an arm graciously in the direction of the library and smiled, a hint of mischief creeping back into his expression. “Lead on, sugarplum.”
For a moment, Cordelia debated whether to argue over her name. With a sigh, she decided she must choose her battles, and this wasn’t important. She marched off toward the library, acutely aware of him striding behind her, probably ogling her bottom.
Michael enjoyed the view as he paced along the hall to the library. Cordelia Tink might be uptight, but she had a damn fine arse. Although she’d covered herself from head to foot in a nondescript gray dress, it hugged every curve—and she had plenty of curves to hug. Her waist nipped in neat and small, accentuating the sweet roundness of one of the sexiest rumps he’d ever seen.
Realizing she’d halted, he raised his eyes to find her peering at him over her shoulder with a frown.
Oops.
He did the same thing he always did when he was caught out—grinned, infusing the expression with glamour.
She rolled her eyes and pointed at the massive green leather-bound books that filled the bottom two shelves of the wall facing the fireplace. “We need to start from…here,” she said, resting a hand on a book.
Michael dragged out five volumes and hefted them onto the desk where she’d cleared a space. “A bit dusty.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and then drew in a deep breath.
Her hand shot up. “Don’t you dare.”
Confused, he let the air go.
“You’ll spread dust everywhere if you blow it.” She marched to her desk, pulled a duster from the drawer, and arched an eyebrow at him.
He stepped away, leaned an elbow on a chair back, and watched while she dusted each book, shaking the cloth out the window at regular intervals. Niall was always full of praise for Cordelia’s prophetic skills and thoughtful advice. But on the one occasion Michael had approached her because he thought having his future read would be fun, she’d nearly bitten his head off. According to her, she wasn’t a carnival sideshow for his entertainment.
Her gaze flicked up to him, then darted back to her book. She was attractive in a repressed way, as though she didn’t want anyone to notice. But whatever she wore, she couldn’t hide the fact she had a damn fine body, and incredible hair. Up close, he could distinguish pale gold strands mingled with the dark, and her braid was as thick as his wrist. He imagined her naked, her loose hair draping her shoulders like a cloak. He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. She’d be all covered up, but he’d bet her nipples would poke through.
“Michael.”
He jumped guiltily.
“Are you going to help me or not?” She held out a dusted volume.
Book in hand, he settled in one of the wing chairs before the fireplace. He’d tried not to worry about Gwyn ap Nudd, but the possibility his nephews were in danger flipped his stomach with a sick lurch. He pictured the sleepy little lads snuggled together in the cot they shared. The mantle of responsibility hung awkwardly on his shoulders, but he would do whatever was necessary to protect them. He loved the boys. Besides, Niall would string him up if he let anything happen to them.
Taking a steady breath, he focused his concentration on the key words to search for, then scanned the first page, flipped it over, scanned the next page, flipped, read, flipped, read—
“Michael! If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll find someon
e else to help.”
He blinked, adjusting his gaze. “Crikey O’Reilly, lass, I can’t go any faster.”
Confusion swept the annoyance from her face. She set down her book and swiveled in her chair to face him. “You’re reading the pages?”
“Aye.” He grinned. “I’m thinking you didn’t believe me when I said I could read fast?”
She opened her mouth—closed it again without making a sound, her gray eyes huge and soft. Beautiful eyes. Not like the normal pisky earth elemental brown or hazel. Somewhere in her lineage, she must have an ancestor who was not a Cornish pisky.
Cordelia swallowed audibly. “You’re sure you know what’s on each page?”
“Aye.” Hegave her amoment to absorb the truth.
She stared at him as though he’d suddenly grown an extra head, but in a good way, as though the extra head impressed her more than the original. The possibility that reading fast would impress females had never occurred to him. Actually, he didn’t need any help attracting women. His local fame for telling tall tales meant there were always eager human women crowding his bar on the lookout for fun. Using his fairy glamour it was oh so easy to send them home with lovely memories but no ecollection of his face or name.
Cordelia cleared her throat and turned back to her page. Michael settled again and did the same. When he finished the book, he placed it back on the shelf, and selected another from the pile. He forbore to comment that Cordelia was only on the tenth page of her first book. Ms. Starchy Pants would not appreciate the comparison.
As he prepared to start his second book, the library door cracked open. His friend Nightshade, the vampiric fairy, poked in his head. The lamplight cast a sheen on his ebony skin, and his silver eyes glinted with predatory satisfaction. Michael suppressed a sigh. Since he’d allowed the nightstalker to bite him and forge a blood bond between them two years ago, Nightshade hardly let him out of his sight. The way the vampire watched his every move was worse than being handfasted to a jealous woman.
Nightshade sauntered in, bare-chested, his wings folded tight to his back. He tilted his head and with one hand swept his long black hair off his face “I wondered what had become of you, bard. They’re asking for you in the great hall.”
Michael smacked his forehead. “I can’t believe I’ve gone and forgot about tonight’s tale. You’ll have to tell one.”
The vampiric fairy gave Michael an incredulous look.
“Erm, you’re right. ’Tis a bad idea.” Although Nightshade’s mother had been a pisky, and his nightstalker father had left before his birth, Nightshade had confided that he’d always felt like an outsider. Thirty years ago, he’d betrayed the piskies and conspired with an evil druid to trap them in between life and death. He’d later repented and helped Niall and Rose free the troop, but the piskies had never forgiven him.
“Could Thorn tell a story? He’s listened to you often enough.” As Nightshade spoke, Thorn’s cheeky grin appeared around the door.
“I’ve been down to the hall and told them you’re busy tonight and won’t be back.” Thorn’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “They assumed I meant busy with the babies.”
Thorn dogged Michael’s heels, but the lad was full of fun. He’d just turned twenty and needed some mates to have a laugh with. Michael had no idea what had happened to the young man’s parents. Cordelia seemed to be his surrogate mother.
Thorn grinned. “Hello, Dee. What you doing?” Without waiting for her to answer, he hurried to Michael’s side and stared eagerly at the book on his lap. “Can I help?”
Cordelia released a resigned sigh, nodded, and placed a hand on the pile of books. “Grab one each and make yourselves comfortable. We’re looking for any reference to Gwyn ap Nudd, Welsh King of the Underworld.”
Thorn lifted a book and took the chair across from Cordelia. Nightshade remained standing, hands on hips. “Why?”
Cordelia rubbed her temples. When her eyes met Nightshade’s, the tension in the room thrummed. “Someone nearby called his name this evening. I need to know if he has any reason to threaten the piskies.”
Nightshade remained rooted to the spot. Cordelia stared at him, her soft gray eyes now hard as flint, her lips pinched. The antipathy rolled off her in waves, far stronger than the other piskies’ dislike. Michael’s curiosity pricked to know what had happened between them to cause such hostility.
When Nightshade continued to glare at Cordelia, Michael decided that as he was blood-bonded to the vampire, he might as well make use of the connection. “You going to be helping us or not, boyo?” he asked softly.
The tension snapped when the nightstalker turned to him, his gaze softening. “Whatever you want, bard.” He gave Michael’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, then hefted two volumes off the table before claiming the seat beside Michael.
Michael purposely avoided Cordelia’s questioning gaze. He did not want to explain his relationship with Nightshade. Ms. Prim and Proper would disapprove of the fact that he’d enjoyed the illicit pleasure of a vampire’s bite.
He resumed flipping pages. He knew little about the Welsh fairy king, but as Cordelia had observed, these immortals could be difficult. Growing up in the Irish fairy court, Michael had learned to survive the whims, wiles, and spiteful temper of the Irish fairy queen. If Gwyn were at all like the Queen of Nightmares, he did not want to meet him anytime soon.
Chapter Two
Nightshade stared blankly at a page of pisky history. How could he read a word when Michael sat in a chair beside him? The sweet blood surging beneath his skin was pure temptation.
He craved him.
He craved the touch of his fingers, the musky fragrance of his skin, the musical Irish lilt of his voice.
Nightshade’s gaze rose inexorably to Michael’s face. The ceaseless twist of pain and anger in his gut eased when he saw the characteristic half smile curving Michael’s lips. Nightshade even managed a smile himself as he watched the gentle slide of Michael’s fingers caressing the book’s pages with the finesse of a lover’s hand.
Love—an impossible concept to fathom. This burning desire for Michael that defined Nightshade’s life, ruled his actions, his thoughts, was surely no more than an addiction: an obsession with the heady burst of energy he felt after he took Michael’s blood.
An obsession with someone he could not control.
The blood bond Nightshade had forged when he first bit Michael two years ago should have held Michael in thrall. Yet inexplicably, Michael remained in command, dictated when and where he’d submit, kept Nightshade trailing after him like a dog on a leash, forever hungry.
After adjusting his position to flex his wings, he read a few lines, reread them, closed his eyes.
The burn of a gaze made him raise his head. Cordelia stared at him through narrowed eyes. If he were not Rose and Niall’s friend, she’d throw him out of the troop. She’d always hated him.
Maybe he had earned the piskies’ animosity for being misguided enough to help imprison them, but even when he was a child, they had not accepted him as one of their own. He yearned to belong, even if just to one person.
Cordelia tried to focus on her book, she really did. But concentrating was impossible with a nightstalker in the room. The sweet scent of the almond oil he rubbed on his wings nearly made her gag. The scars on her neck tingled, and she made a conscious effort to relax her tense hands.
After a few minutes of fighting the urge to look at him, she gave in and raised her eyes. There he sat, legs slung over the arm of the chair, wings twitching like a huge bat. He glanced at Michael with a soft smile as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. In reality, he was just like his father Dragon—a predator likely to fall into a blood lust and strike when they least expected. She wanted him gone, banished. Until then, she’d never feel safe.
She dragged her eyes away and gave her attention to the book.
Once she settled, Michael looked up. “I’m sensing something odd.”
Cordeli
a concentrated on the plethora of psychic feelings bombarding her senses, checking for unusual energies. “I don’t think there’s anything out of the ordinary.” As if to make a liar of her, Tamsy leaped onto the desk and puffed herself up like a brush. She hissed, the sibilant sound lowering to a growl in her throat.
“Wretched cat. That’s all we need,” Nightshade complained.
“Shh.” Cordelia flapped a quieting hand. Foreboding prickled across her skin. She blended her mind with Tamsy’s, jolted in shock at her cat’s spiky fear. Cordelia examined the corners of the room and the shadows for movement.
“Shit. I feel something too now.” Nightshade leaped to his feet, assuming a combative posture.
They all froze in place, the air vibrating with tension while everyone watched for intruders.
A spark caught the edge of Cordelia’s vision. Three points of light appeared in the center of the room, grew brighter, then morphed into shining orbs floating at head height.
“Tylwyth Teg,” Michael whispered.
Servants of the Welsh King of the Underworld. An icicle of fear pierced Cordelia’s solar plexus. Without taking her eyes from the shining spheres, she stood and gathered Tamsy safely in her arms, ignoring the prick of claws.
The orbs burst into millions of points of light that coalesced into three Tylwyth Teg, two males and one female. With ash-blond hair, they were whip thin and renowned to be just as nasty.
Standing in the center of the room, the Welsh fairies took only an instant to gather their senses before they focused their pale blue eyes on Nightshade, obviously discounting the rest of them as a threat.
They were taller than Cordelia had imagined, the males over six feet, the female not far behind. All three wore black leather; the dark clothes intensified the impact of their pale skin and hair. They looked eerily like ghosts made flesh.
She held Tamsy tight, steadied herself. “What do you want?”
Instead of answering, the male with dark runes tattooed on his cheekbones stepped toward Nightshade and brandished fingers tipped with wicked silver spikes. “You are not required, nightstalker.” He nodded at the door. “Leave us…slowly.”
The Phoenix Charm Page 2