The Immortals II: Michael

by Cynthia Breeding

  She had slowly regained consciousness last night to the sensation of Michael’s fingers gently brushing her hair back and then sliding his warm hands slowly down her cheeks and neck to her shoulders. He had stroked her arms, softly crooning in some language she didn’t comprehend, although her body, it seemed, understood perfectly what he was doing, since her female parts started to tingle even as the rest of her felt like a weightless, boneless, quivering mass.

  Lord, if she reacted to him like that when she was half-unconscious, what would she do awake? And traveling with him? Based on last night’s conversation between Michael and Pendragon, it no longer seemed she had a choice about traveling.

  “We need to get started as soon as possible,” Pendragon said. “I don’t want to stay in this small form any longer than I have to.”

  “You’re going with Michael?” Sophie asked in surprise.

  “I am going with Michael and you,” he replied, revealing sharp teeth in what was supposed to be a dragon-grin, “although I think I could protect you better in my original form.” He turned bright, cobalt eyes on Michael. “I could fly ahead and scout the territory—“

  “No,” Michael interrupted. “It was a mistake to draw so much media attention to you in the first place. I’ll create an illusion that you’re a wolfhound and you’ll travel in the cargo hold.”

  “From what you’ve told me about these new flying objects, it will be cold in there,” Pendragon said and puffed smoke at Michael. “Reptilian forms prefer warmth.”

  “You aren’t exactly a lizard,” Michael answered, “and it’s only for the flight to Virginia. From there, we’ll rent a car and drive the coastline down through Florida and up the Gulf coast. You can ride in the back seat.”

  “I’d be more help scouting for you,” Pendragon said as small sparks of flame shot from his snout.

  “Careful!” Sophie managed to say. “You’ll set the house on fire!”

  He rattled his scales. “Sorry.”

  “We really don’t want to draw any more attention to ourselves,” Michael explained. “Right now, Baylor doesn’t have a copy of the second riddle and he doesn’t know where we’re going. Let’s keep it that. Besides,” he added, “you can use heightened sense of sight and smell just as well like you are.”

  Sophie sighed and stood, chewing her lip in frustration. She paused, half-way out the door and ran her tongue to the corner of her mouth. Cold sore? She was prone to get those when she felt stressed. Just what she needed.

  She spent the next two hours busy with her furry charges. Allison had agreed that she looked horrible and in need of some sleep, so she was going to leave at lunch. First, though, she had to clean out Augustin’s stall.

  She led him to the small paddock behind the stable. “Sorry I can’t take you for a ride today, boy, but you can kick up your heels out here. There’ll be oats waiting for you later.”

  The horse nickered and lowered his head, bumping gently against her shoulder and then he snorted and cantered away. Sophie smiled and turned back to the stall. She shoveled out the old straw and replaced it and made sure there was fresh hay and oats in the trough and then brushed at her cheeks, trying to clear the dust particles that were making her itch.

  Turning on the a/c in the truck, she waited in the driveway as a Lincoln Navigator drove past. She didn’t recognize it, but someone down the street was probably getting company. She glanced at her watch. It was barely past noon. She put through a text to Michael asking him to meet her at Mr. Smith’s. She wanted to look at the manuscript again. She still had questions.

  And then, she’d go home and deal with a real live dragon.

  * * * *

  “Sophie’s not here yet?” Michael asked as Smith met him in the study. “She sent me a text a half hour ago, asking that I meet her here.”

  “I know,” Mr. Smith said. “She called me about the same time. You know how traffic can be. Or someone may have walked in with a sick pet. Sophie would never turn an animal away.”

  That was true. Michael had to admit that he admired her for that. Last night, once she’d recovered from her faint, she had appeared to accept that she had a talking dragon in her home, and she had responded admirably. Pendragon had practically preened, rattling his scales, when she asked him about his lair and horde and other dragon-questions. No doubt she’d have him eating out of her hand within a few days.

  Hell, Michael wouldn’t mind eating out of her hand either. Or, for that matter, nibbling some very luscious parts of her. Her soft, full breasts had pressed against his chest as he’d caught her and he’d wanted nothing more than to roll her nipples between his fingers until they hardened to tiny peaks that he could suck into his mouth. Her rounded rump fit perfectly into his hands as he’d laid her on the sofa and his enhanced senses picked up the faint trace of her unique feminine scent. How delicious it would be if she were fully aroused! To strip off her jeans and fit himself between her thighs and savor her juices as he laved them through her slick folds and then teased that tiny little nub into pulsation—that was what he really wanted.

  And could not have. They had to find the sword.

  Mr. Smith was eyeing him with interest and Michael began to wonder if the man had some sort of sixth sense no one else had picked up on. With his fixation on the medieval world and particularly all things Arthurian, there just might be a drop of Druid’s blood in his ancestral line. Michael didn’t believe in coincidences. There was a reason the manuscript had gotten into Smith’s hands.

  “I take it that Sophie has agreed to go with you, after all?” Smith asked and smiled coyly. “You must have been very persuasive.”

  Michael’s groin tightened at the thought of how very persuasive he would like to be, but not for any reason involving the sword—unless he wanted to count getting his own sword sheathed in her tight, hot scabbard. He doubted that she’d welcome that kind of bold advance though. The jerk who’d hurt her had done a pretty thorough job. Wooing—an odd word in today’s world, but it seemed to fit—Sophie would take time and patience and tiny, little steps in building her trust. Still, he could hardly tell Smith that Sophie’s persuasion was because a dragon was now residing at her place.

  Michael smiled and shook his head. “Sophie’s an intelligent woman. I think she finally realized that there is a real danger to society if Excalibur falls into the wrong hands.”

  Smith stopped smiling. ‘I’ve never met Adam Baylor, but if he was responsible for poor Professor MacDonald’s death—“

  “He was,” Michael said, “but we’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “I tried to have him investigated,” Smith said soberly. “I hired the best spies Interpol had to offer. They raised questions. Had suspicions. Nothing conclusive.”

  “And there won’t be,” Michael said, wishing he could explain that even Merlin had not been able to ferret Balor out. Demons built layers of illusion around themselves and, in this technological age, shielded themselves with barriers of protective hardware, software, and human minions to do their dirty work.

  “No man can maintain a flawless fraud,” Mr. Smith said. “He’ll slip up eventually and my spies will be waiting.”

  No man could. Michael wished he could tell Smith that Balor was really a demon, but the fewer humans knew that immortals existed, the better. Smith thought they were battling for power over the corruption of drug cartels, terrorists, and semi-sane political leaders who strived for dominion. And all that was true, but it was the ancient, exiled god who controlled these factions as though they were puppets. According to the prophecy of Avalon, only one deity could destroy Balor and that was his own grandson, Lugh—and even Lugh would need his Spear. If Nimue were correct, the Spear was safe, waiting for its owner.

  “I hope you’re right,” Michael said. “Meanwhile, we need to keep the sword away from Balor. As soon as Sophie gets here, I’ll call the airline and make reservations for us to fly out of here. The sooner we can get started, the better.”

&
nbsp; Mr. Smith checked his watch. “I wonder where she is.”

  A strange tingle began at Michael’s nape as tiny bits of violet light started to sparkled along his side vision. “Something’s not right,” he said, just as the phone rang.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie wiped her brow and adjusted the a/c setting as she eased into the traffic on I-30. The day certainly had turned hot. She felt tiny bumps on her skin, almost like a heat rash. Turning down her visor, she checked her face in the mirror. Her cheeks looked flushed, but she didn’t feel feverish. Lifting the visor, she concentrated on the traffic. As usual, it became denser the closer she got to Dallas.

  Slipping in a golden-oldies CD, she began to hum along with the Rolling Stones Can’t Get No Satisfaction smiling at the irony of the song. She had been perfectly satisfied not to get satisfaction since her divorce. Life was simple without a man in it. Until Michael had shown up, that is.

  What was it about him anyway? Oh, sure, he was sculpted like a Greek god, with muscles in all the right places and his rakish grin, longish-hair, and dark, penetrating eyes were bedroom sexy. But Sophie hadn’t thought about bedrooms—other than for getting a sound night’s sleep—in a long time. And she certainly wasn’t taken in by cover model good looks either. Robert had those as well and she knew how that turned out.

  But…she couldn’t remember Robert ever making her skin tingle, with every nerve ending on edge, as it did when Michael merely brushed his fingers against her cheek. Even just his closeness as they sat in his car, sensing his body heat and unique male scent was enough to bead her nipples. And the fantasy dream they’d shared—she’d never had that strong a climax in her waking life ever.

  Sophie felt her face heat even more at that thought and rubbed at her eyes. They were beginning to burn. The ozone level must really be high today. She gave herself a little shake and focused on the traffic.

  Yes, life had been so simple before Michael. No dragons flying through the sky or residing in her home. No media-blitz. No mythical swords to find and no demons lurking out there to destroy the world.

  Not that she believed in omens or superstitions, but she wondered now how coincidental that meeting at been at the Palo Pinto clinic when Michael had stopped in with the strange request to rescue a wolf that couldn’t be found.

  She rubbed her eyes again as her vision began to blur. Had some sort of chemical been released into the air? Pulling out the CD, she turned on the radio. Blinking her eyes, she fiddled with the dials to find a news station.

  A horn blared beside her. Too late, she looked up, realizing she had drifted into the next lane. She jerked the wheel to her right, over-correcting and felt the truck spin out of control. Air-borne momentarily, it landed heavily on its side on the sloping shoulder of the road.

  Dazed, Sophie lay there, wondering why everything around her was still reeling. Vaguely, she heard brakes squealing to a stop and footsteps running towards her. A swarthy-faced man with a patch over one eye appeared in the window. He looked like a pirate, but the last thing her befuddled mind wondered before darkness enveloped her was why he was dressed in a suit and tie?

  * * * *

  Morgan watched as Allison put down the phone, a shocked expression on her face. “What is it?” she asked.

  “That was Parkland hospital. Sophie’s been in an accident.”

  “How badly is she hurt?”

  “Concussion. Broken leg. Pretty bad slash on her arm from broken glass.” Allison gathered her purse and car keys. “Thank God some good Samaritan stopped and put a tourniquet on it and waited until the ambulance came.”

  “Do they say what happened?”

  “Apparently she swerved lanes and over-corrected. No other car was involved. Cancel the rest of the appointments, will you? I’m going over there.”

  “Of course.” Morgan waited until she heard Allison drive away and then went into the tiny kitchen and picked up the coffee mug Sophie had used earlier. She gave it a good sniff, satisfied that no trace of her special herbs lingered.

  “Where did Allison go?” Janie asked from the doorway.

  Morgan nearly dropped the cup. She’d forgotten the girl was still here. “Sophie was in a car accident.”

  “Oh, no! How bad?”

  Morgan related what she knew and Janie shook her head. “That is so odd. Sophie is an excellent driver. She doesn’t text or even use her cell phone when she’s on the road. Why would she get distracted enough to drift into another lane?”

  “Who knows? Maybe it was just heavy traffic.” Morgan put the mug back on the shelf and busied herself cleaning the sink. Had her herbs had anything to do with it? She had meant for Sophie’s face to break out in blotches and a rash so Michael wouldn’t find her so god-damned attractive, but sometimes vision was affected. She paused, her blood chilling. Adam very much wanted the bitch alive. He’d told Morgan that. If he ever found out that Morgan might have anything to do with causing the accident—but then, why would he? There was absolutely no reason for him to find out. She forced herself to breathe in. She was safe.

  “I guess I’d better call Michael,” Janie said.

  Morgan whirled around. “Why would you call him?”

  “He’ll want to know.”

  “Why, exactly, do you think that?” Morgan asked, keeping her voice neutral. Janie blinked. “He likes her. A lot.”

  Morgan narrowed her eyes. “He’s simply trying to convince her to look for some ancient sword that the eccentric millionaire wants.”

  “How do you know that?” Janie asked.

  She could hardly explain to the girl that she had the office bugged. “She mentioned something about it the last time he was here.”

  “Well, that’s a new one,” Janie said. “A guy asking a girl on a date to find a sword.” Then she giggled. “Unless it’s the sword inside his pants. Sophie fences, you know.” She giggled harder. “He sure calls here often enough to be interested in sparring with her, if you catch my jest.”

  Morgan bit back a curse she was about to hurl at the girl. No sense in wasting dark magic on the little idiot. If Michael wanted to sheath his sword in anyone, Morgan could give him more than a quick parry! She sniffed. Sophie Cameron hadn’t been able to hold on to a handsome hunk like Robert—probably because she was cold as a glacier in bed. And she’d bet her modeling contract that Michael was a man who liked really hot women. And Morgan liked building up steam in the bedroom.

  She forced herself to smile at Janie. Sophie would be out-of-commission for awhile which would give Morgan time to work on Michael. She was just glad that Adam Baylor would never find out what she had done.

  * * * *

  “My dear boy,” Mr. Smith said as Michael paced back and forth in the hospital room, “you’ll wear out the linoleum.”

  Michael looked over at Sophie, pale-faced and comatose. He had been sending healing white light into her body ever since they’d been admitted into the private room that Smith had ordered, but she had not responded. He gently probed her mind again. Her shields were down, due to being unconscious, but all he could detect was a blank nothingness. At least, she was not reliving the accident in some nightmare-like state.

  The nurse came in to check Sophie’s vitals again. Michael could discern nothing from the woman’s face as to whether the signs were good or bad nor did her mind reveal anything other than routine professionalism.

  “How is she?” he asked as the nurse adjusted the IV-drip and turned to go.

  “She’s holding her own, Mr. McCain. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to check her signs again.”

  “Shouldn’t she be waking up?”

  ‘Some patients take longer than others with head trauma,” she answered. “The CAT-scan showed minimal swelling, so that’s good news. We just have to be patient.”

  Michael resumed pacing again as she left. As a warlock, he had honed his abilities to control himself totally. Magic tinged with emotion was dangerous, yet now he wanted nothing more than to call on
all the gods and offer any bargain for this woman to wake up and be all right. He stopped practically in mid-step and stared at Sophie again. He loved her.

  Persuading her to help him find the sword was important. Infinitely so. Balor could not be allowed its possession. Michael’s raging lust for Sophie—his need to bury himself inside her and stay there—was unsurpassed by anything he had ever felt for a woman, but it paled in comparison to this newfound understanding. That lust was built on a much stronger foundation. Love. Caring. He wanted to protect her. He wanted her to be one with him. The potency of his feelings shot through him like a lightning bolt.

  And then the irony of the situation hit him. In all his centuries of living, he had never experienced real love until now. And a warlock would be the last person someone as practical and logical as Sophie would want to marry. He was pretty sure she much preferred to have him and his red dragon go away and leave her in peace.

  That wasn’t going to happen. Not now.

  Sophie stirred and a small moan escaped her lips. With preternatural speed, Michael was at her side. He didn’t care if Smith noticed how fast he moved or not.

  “Sophie! Wake up,” he said as he took her hand, stroking his thumb across her palm. “Come back to the world of the living.”

  He felt the static connection, sensed the purple light arching between them, even as she opened her eyes.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked as she blinked her eyes, trying to focus on him.

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” she said with a grimace.

  Michael smiled. “You were run over by a truck. Sort of. Do you remember?”

  Sophie closed her eyes and for a moment, he thought he’d lost her again, but then she opened them and nodded slightly.

  “I…I was driving to Dallas. My eyes itched and then blurred. I tried to avoid hitting another car.” She glanced down at her bandaged arm. “The truck left the road. The last thing I remember is that pirate man helping me.”