She looked down at the empty cup. Maybe next time she would put something else into it. Something that would make Sophie break out in hives and rashes. Michael wouldn’t think the bitch so beautiful when she was itching and mottled with a rash.
Glancing through the door to make sure she wasn’t watched, Morgan quickly put her hand under the desk and removed the tiny clip from the listening device and inserted a new one. Part of their conversation had been about the sword, but she’d not been able to hear all of it, due to the blasted phone ringing.
She slipped the clip into her pocket and smiled. Baylor would be pleased. And when Baylor was pleased, she could get more modeling contracts from him, not to mention he would teach her new sexual skills as well—skills she would use on Michael. Skill that other women didn’t even know of. Pain and pleasure.
Michael would be so pleased with her ministrations.
* * * *
Even though the night was dark, the new moon not due for another evening, Michael drew the shades in his apartment, shutting out all light from the street. He placed the goblet containing his potion of anise, fly agarics, and mandrake root on the fireplace mantle and knelt to kindle the oak twigs and small branches he had gathered earlier. The need-fire wasn’t large, as the medieval ones had been, but it would be enough to summon Tanio.
The apartment lights were off. In the eerie glow of the small fire, he reached for his drink, downing it quickly. From a small jar, he dabbed his finger into sandlewood oil and drew a cross on his forehead, opening the third eye that would let him see into the Otherworld. Then he sank to the floor, cross-legged, and stared into the fire until it was all that he could see, all that he could feel around him. His hands brushed through the smoke, becoming one with the blaze.
“Tanio, come forth.”
The flames leapt as though a sudden breeze stirred them. Michael withdrew his hands and watched the fire god appear.
“I rarely answer individual summons, warlock,” Tanio said, the bright blue flame-tips of his hair sparking around him, “but you used the magic mushroom. What is so important?”
“Did you appear with the Pendragon at Sophie Cameron’s house last night?”
Tanio shrugged. “I did not ask her name. Was that the woman you were having sex with?”
“I was not having sex with her!”
One of the fire god’s eyebrows rose. “Then what was it that Pendragon and I witnessed?”
Michael blinked, trying to focus on the wavering god inside the fire. Now was not the time for the damn mushroom to kick-in. It was only supposed to heighten his senses and increase his ability to summon the god. “What the hell did you think you saw?”
“Tsk, tsk, warlock. We only saw what you were already envisioning. I must say, the kilt made Pendragon a little homesick for the old days.”
“You had no right to enter my mind,” Michael said, “and definitely no right to send those images to Sophie.” Bel’s Fires! No wonder she had turned all those interesting shades of pink while he was there this morning. She had experienced his fantasy!
“You dare to tell me what I can do?” Flames rose dangerously high, threatening to leap out of the hearth altogether. “You will do well to remember your place.”
The room grew hot. Michael felt the air constricting around him. Heat seared his lungs as he tried to breath. Tanio faded in and out, as though Michael were looking through a zoom lens. He forced himself to concentrate on a single spark above Tanio’s head, watching it grow, move toward him… and then explode like a huge firecracker over his head.
Michael threw up his hand, muttering sacred words before the sparks could singe his hair or scorch his face. With an effort, he drew the energy of that burst inside himself, letting it wrap its falling shards around his brow chakra. His vision cleared slowly.
Tanio tilted his fiery head, regarding him. “I am impressed, warlock. I’ve never had one of my spells stopped before.” He raised his hands, palms up, and withdrew the heat back into the hearth. “Perhaps you are the best vessel to find the sword and outwit Balor. I had argued with Brighid about that.”
“I didn’t call you here to play games,” Michael replied. “I want you to stay out of Sophie’s mind. She doesn’t trust men because some jerk really hurt her. The last thing she needs is to think is that I am using her for sexual fantasies.”
Tonio’s brow rose again. “Aren’t you?”
Michael felt his face grow warm and it didn’t have to do with the fire-god’s previous endeavors. “I keep my thoughts controlled. For some reason, we need her to find the sword. I won’t jeopardize that.”
“See that you don’t,” Tonio replied and then abruptly vanished, leaving nothing but warm embers banking in the hearth.
“Damn it!” Michael shouted as he stood. “You didn’t tell me if you’d stay out of Sophie’s mind!”
Laughter surrounded him and then it faded away.
Michael cursed again as he turned on the lights. How was he ever going to convince Sophie that he wasn’t going to use her like that other guy did if some mischievous god was going to lurk in his head?
* * * *
Baylor leaned back in Lucifer’s lambskin recliner and watched as his brother adjusted the spiked dog collar around Morgan’s neck. It was just tight enough that if she yanked her head, it would prick her skin, much like a vampire’s bite. Attaching the small chains from the nipple rings to the collar, Lucifer bent her forward from the waist and used the collar’s leash to tether her to the polished brass foot rail of an ultra-modern glass and ebony bar in the posh bachelor pad he was currently using. Placing padded cuffs around her wrists, he shackled them to the rail as well. The effect was that Morgan’s head was down, allowing for blood flow to add to the climatic rush, and her naked ass was thrust high into the air, like a waiting invitation.
Lucifer grinned at Balor, white teeth flashing in his tanned face as he brushed his fingers through his blond hair. His blue eyes twinkled, all traces of the demon-red they really were concealed. No one would ever guess that he’d been around for thousands of years…or that he was the Christian’s own devil. Morgan thought she was having sex with a California surfer dude.
“Sure you don’t want a turn first, bro?” Lucifer asked. “You know I tend to fatigue them.”
That was probably an understatement. He used to simply kill them through sheer exhaustion, but laws over the last centuries had taught him to be more careful. Victims turning up dead led to inquires.
“She’s all yours. I promised Morgan a little treat for the information she got for me.”
“Mmmm…and I’m so ready,” Morgan said and started to turn her head to look at them and abruptly stopped as the movement pulled the chains causing the nipple rings to pinch. “Ah!”
Lucifer leaned down, reaching around her to give them another tug. “Do you like that, beautiful?”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan purred. “Baylor has taught me that pain is pleasure.”
He grinned again. “Then I should be very thankful to my brother, shouldn’t I?” He grabbed her hips, holding them still, and rammed himself into her ass, causing her to squeal. He pulled her hair back, lifting her head, causing the collar to bite in as he began thrusting. “Feel the pain, sweetheart. Become one with it. Your climax is going to be the best one you ever had.”
“Oooh…hurts…so…much…umm, so…good….” Morgan became incoherent as he continued to take her hard.
Nearly half an hour later, she lay passed out on the floor. Lucifer cleaned himself with a warm washcloth. “No blood. You must use her often.”
Balor shrugged. “She likes it that way. Probably the best lay I’ve had in a hundred years.”
“She’s got stamina too. Most of them don’t hold out more than fifteen minutes tops,” Lucifer said. “What’s her name again?”
“Morgan.”
Lucifer paused in pulling on his jeans. “No relation to Morgana le Fey, is she?”
Balor laughed. “Hard
ly. Don’t you think we’d recognize an Immortal?”
“Hard to say.” Lucifer zipped up his pants and reached for his shirt. “Morgana saved her brother’s life on more than one occasion by creating the illusion of being invisible.”
“Arthur lived because he carried Excalibur,” Balor snapped.
“Ah, yes. The Sword of Fire. It’s why you’re here, I assume?” He poured himself a whisky and offered one to Balor. Flopping down in another lambskin chair, he flung a leg over the armrest. “So what information did this little whore bring you?”
Balor related the conversation he’d heard on the tape. “They’re about ready to start hunting,” he said. “I’ll have Landon follow them using the GPS, but with Pendragon loose, we’ll need Segurd’s help as well.”
“Yeah, I thawed his cave out when I got your message,” Lucifer said. “He wasn’t exactly happy. Hell’s a little too warm for him after being in the Artic.”
“Tanio probably wasn’t too pleased either,” Balor replied.
Lucifer shrugged. “I stopped answering to him long ago when the Christians were so kind as to give me my own name.”
“Still, he is a deity.” Balor forced himself to keep the rancor out of his voice. He’d damn Brighid to hell for exiling him, except she wouldn’t go there. “No sense in deliberately alienating one of the old gods.”
He grinned. “I can hold my own. The more people who believe I am evil, the more power I absorb.”
Balor laughed too. “You are evil. You got kicked out of Avalon right after I did.”
Lucifer sobered. “We owe that bitch, Brighid. I get dibs on raping her for eternity.”
“And you’re welcome to her,” Balor replied, “right after we seize total control of the world and throw it into complete chaos.”
“And people think hell is bad,” Lucifer said and grinned again, this time the demon-fire burning in his eyes. “Just wait until they see what we can really do.”
Chapter Eight
Sophie felt Alan Caldwell’s eyes on her as she finished giving Princess’ pups their initial shots. Mr. Smith had told her that the article Caldwell had done for Guns and Swords had gone over well and the editors wanted another story on Smith’s weapons, which was the reason Alan was at the mansion. Supposedly.
She’d never considered herself to be a detective—heck, she didn’t even watch CSI:whatever—but something about Alan seemed off. She cast a sideways glance through her lashes. Physically, he was a good-looking man with a pro-football player build, but she wasn’t attracted to him. Michael was muscular too, but with the leaner build of a baseball or tennis player. Alan’s eyes were blue and cold; his smile didn’t reach them. Michael’s eyes were dark and sexy…all sorts of emotions played through them.
Sophie grimaced and stood. Why in the world was she comparing Alan to Michael? She had tried to stopping thinking about Michael at all after that unsettling dream a couple of nights ago, but it kept niggling at her mind. Even last night, as she tossed and turned, she could feel his hands on her, kneading her breasts, stroking down her belly and then lower, to explore her folds while his mouth covered a tight nipple. She had grown wet again and practically come from only the thought. It was like she had some sort of spell on her and to make matters worse, Michael was due here any minute to discuss their itinerary. How in the world was she going to handle traveling with the man?
“You’ve got a terrible frown on your face,” Alan said as crossed the study to come stand beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She gave herself a shake. “Nothing. I was just thinking about some arrangements that needed to be made.” She nodded at Mr. Smith. “The pups are doing well.” Then, since Caldwell was still standing there expectedly, she asked, “How is your article going?”
“Well.” He gestured to the wall where the swords hung. “I’ve decided I’d include a little history lesson on each type of sword that Mr. Smith owns and the time period in which it was used.”
“That sounds interesting,” she replied off-handedly as she heard Benton answer the door and then the sound of Michael’s baritone, low, but soft and tickly on her ears. The kind of voice a man might use in the bedroom…
Dear God. She had to stop thinking about him like that!!!
“Too bad Excalibur isn’t up on the wall,” Alan said.
That drew her attention back to him and, it seemed, Michael’s too, as he entered the room. She could practically see his ears perk up.
“Most people think Excalibur is a myth,” she said carefully as Michael approached them.
“Do they?” Alan’s icy-blue eyes stared into hers. “What do you think?”
She had that unsettled feeling again, as though he were asking a completely different question. She forced a laugh that sound stilted even to her. “I—I don’t know. Maybe, if it were real, it would be fun to swing it. Test its balance. Maybe even imagine what those knights of the Round Table were like.” She felt Michael’s hand at the small of her back and nearly jumped. Even that small gesture sent tingly sensations all over her.
“Why the interest in Excalibur?” Michael asked bluntly.
Caldwell shifted his gaze to meet Michael’s. “That would be the Mother Lode, wouldn’t it? For the article.”
“The article,” Michael repeated, not taking his eyes off Caldwell and keeping his hand firmly at Sophie’s back.
She had a sudden feeling that the two men were squaring off, much like boys in a schoolyard ready to start a brawl. How to switch the subject before expensive lamps started flying off tables?
“The rapier,” she said quickly. “That would make a good story. I believe the pirate, Jean LaFitte, used the same type as the one here.”
“But my dear,” Mr. Smith interceded, unaware of the tension mounting between the two men, “that could very well be Mr. LaFitte’s sword. It was found right after the Battle of New Orleans.” He clapped his hands delightedly. “That would make a good story, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” Sophie agreed hastily, hoping the situation was diffused.
Apparently, it was, because Alan looked back at her. “I believe you said you fenced as a hobby? And the rapier was your favorite weapon?”
“I haven’t had time recently, but yes.”
“Perhaps a little match would help you relax about whatever you were worried about earlier? Maybe tomorrow?”
“Ah—I don’t know—“
“I can handle a sword too,” Michael interrupted. “Why don’t you take me on?”
Caldwell slowly turned back to him, his look calculating. “Any time. But I was asking the lady.”
Sophie gave an inward groan. So much for diffusion.
“It would hardly be a fair match,” Michael said. “You outweigh her by a good eighty pounds.”
Sophie gaped at him. He didn’t think she could hold her own? Her lighter weight gave her the advantage of being quick and flexible! And a match wasn’t mortal combat after all. She lifted her head, chin jutting out.
“You’re on,” she said to Alan. “Tomorrow.”
* * * *
For at least the hundredth time, Michael wanted to kick himself for throwing the proverbial gauntlet down to challenge Sophie. She wouldn’t be here in the gym this morning, donning a fencer’s mask, facing that linebacker, Caldwell.
Of course, she refused to look at Michael where he sat on the side bench. He recalled their earlier conversation, when he’d arrived at her house, pushed through the lingering reporters, and rung her bell.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve come to escort you to the gym,” he answered.
“I don’t need an escort. I’ve driven myself there for years.” Her eyes had narrowed. “You’re not still thinking you’ll fight in my place?”
“I’m more of a match for him than you. No disrespect intended.”
She had practically rolled her eyes. “This isn’t some kind of duel. It’s a fencing match. There are rules. I’ll
not get hurt.”
“Still. I’d like to the honorable thing and fight for you.”
She’d stared at him, as though he had taken leave of his senses. “What are you? Some throwback to medieval knights?”
Michael sighed now as he watched Sophie assume the first guard position. He had not been a knight of the Round Table, but he had met King Arthur once in Cornwall. He’d had his nephews with him—Gawain, Gaheris, Gareth—and they all impressed him with their fighting skills. Arthur had even invited Michael to come to Camelot, but then that married lady had mucked up his life and he’d had to flee to Brittany to keep his head attached.
Still, a strong sense of chivalry stayed with him. It was obviously something twenty-first century women didn’t appreciate.
Michael watched as Caldwell lunged at Sophie. She spun, light on her feet, and cut to her right. There was a clash of engagement as Caldwell parried and moved closer to press her sword. It was just what Michael had feared would happen. The big man would push the flat of his sword against hers and her upper body strength would be no match for him. If he hurt her, Michael would make him pay—
His jaw nearly dropped as Sophie passed her blade beneath Caldwell’s and disengaged. She sprang back and feinted left. Caldwell thrust straight into open space and stumbled. Michael started to laugh and stopped. Caldwell’s aura blazed a deep maroon-red as he regained his footing and moved into a fifth guard position. A chill swept over Michael. That stance was as close to medieval warfare as modern fencing got. This was no longer a game.
Caldwell lunged once more and Sophie parried, not sensing the danger. He reposted and thrust again, using a series of quick jabs as he advanced on her. Sophie retreated, blocking the now stronger blows as best she could. She had no shield.
“This isn’t a duel. It’s a fencing match. There are rules. I’ll not get hurt.”
Like hell she wouldn’t. She was almost backed against a wall. Caldwell was intent on winning. He’d draw blood in another minute.
Michael leapt from the bench with preternatural warlock speed, brandishing his right arm, envisioning Excalibur and creating the illusion that he carried a flaming sword. White-hot light flared from his other hand to Caldwell’s rapier. Caldwell howled in pain as the metal heated and flung the sword away. He bent over, clenching his hand and cursing.
The Immortals II: Michael Page 9