Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  Mac arched an imperial brow. “You and Madeline’s brother are broke?”

  Trace snorted. “We’re not just broke; we’re in debt up to our eyeballs. And if we don’t start catching more lobsters, we won’t be able to finish repairing the second boat we bought.” He pointed his checkbook at the window. “Every time another army of demons chases one of Kenzie’s displaced souls here, the storm not only stops us from going to sea but it also messes up our fishing grounds. We’re lucky if we find one lobster in our traps when we haul them now, whereas we used to find several.”

  Mac arched his other brow. “So, merely catching more lobsters is all it would take to get rid of your foul mood?”

  Trace eyed him suspiciously. “It would help.”

  Mac raised one of his hands in the air, waved his index finger in a circle, and shot Trace a smug smile. “Consider it done,” he said, turning back to the television and hitting the volume button.

  “Wait. Consider what done?” Trace asked over the sound of Big Bird talking to some scruffy-looking puppet in a trash can. “What in hell does this mean?” he growled, waving his own finger in a circle when Mac turned to him. “What did you just do?”

  Up went that imperial brow again. “I simply told all of the older lobsters to seek out your and Rick’s traps and go inside them.”

  “You told them,” Trace repeated evenly. He moved his fingers to imitate running. “And they just scurried into our traps like good little lobsters.”

  “Not the little ones, Huntsman, the older lobsters. Do you not prefer to catch the larger ones? I was under the impression that your commerce system paid by the pound.”

  Realizing that he was gaping, Trace snapped his mouth shut with a muttered curse. Did the man honestly think he was that gullible? Of all the outrageous—“Wait, do the lobsters know they’re going to end up in a pot of boiling water? Aren’t you afraid of bad karma or something, for telling them to commit … lobster suicide?”

  Mac shrugged. “They’ve had a good twenty-year run already, and every creature understands its place in the food chain. I merely asked them to fulfill their destinies.”

  Holy hell, twenty-year-old lobsters weighed at least five pounds!

  Man, he wanted to believe him.

  But Mac was a drùidh; Trace knew that much about him because he’d actually seen him do stuff. Hell, the guy even had a fancy robe and a pointy hat and everything, just like a real wizard. “So what other tricks can you do?” he asked, this time over the sound of Elmo belting out a song at the top of his little puppet lungs.

  Mac hit the mute button again. “Tricks?” he repeated softly. “You mean, like turning annoying people into toads?”

  As threats went, Trace supposed that one was as good as any. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of you fixing my bum knee, and getting my truck running again, and making a new pair of work boots magically appear. Because if you could do all that, I would get the hell out of here and stop interrupting your … quality television time,” he offered, nodding towards the TV.

  “Consider it done!” Mac snapped, turning back to the television.

  “Wait. You didn’t wave your finger in the air this time.”

  Mac hit the mute button again, and Trace actually braced himself when the man shot him a glare fierce enough to turn him into a … well, something not pleasant.

  “So, it’s true, then, what Gabriella told me?” Mac drawled. “They kicked you out of your war because you had a hard time to get … moving?”

  “I was kicked out for beating a man nearly to death when he pissed me off. If you’re going to perform fancy tricks, the least you could do is say abracadabra or make a puff of smoke or something.”

  Mac’s glare turned downright ominous. “I’m not one of your modern charlatans, and my performances are not designed to entertain. Rearranging time and space and matter is serious business.” He suddenly smiled. “But if you insist.”

  Trace gave a strangled shout when a bolt of electricity suddenly shot through his chair. He lurched to his feet without even closing the footrest and spun around just in time to see the recliner burst into flames.

  “For chrissakes, put it out! You’re going to burn down my house!”

  “I’m sorry; I thought that was your intention,” Mac said with a chuckle.

  Trace had to jump back when a deluge of water suddenly came out of nowhere and landed on the burning recliner, sending up a cloud of sizzling steam. “What, you read minds, too?” he muttered, bending down to pluck his checkbook out of the puddle of water on the floor.

  This time it was Mac who sighed. “I wish. No, I can’t read minds. But like you, I do have a knack for reading a person’s intentions.” He grinned. “After hearing Kenzie say you had threatened to burn down your house to get Fiona to leave, I assumed you were considering doing the same to get rid of me.”

  “Only unlike with Fiona,” Trace said, “I’m not worried about hurting your feelings. I don’t have a problem telling you to get lost to your face.”

  Up went that damned brow again. “Then why haven’t you?”

  “I figured since I was laid up, having you around might prove entertaining.” Trace gave a shrug. “But it turns out you’re only irritating.” He used his soggy checkbook to point toward the kitchen. “So, you can leave anytime, Oceanus. Just don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

  Mac turned to face the muted television. “If I leave now, the demons will get me.” He looked back, and Trace went perfectly still at the utter seriousness in the drùidh’s eyes. “And if they somehow manage to kill me, half the earth’s population could be wiped out in the ensuing war my father will wage to extract retribution.”

  “Who in hell did you piss off?” Trace whispered.

  Mac looked back at the television. “I honestly have no idea. I only know that they seem unconcerned about annihilating anything or anyone that gets in their way.”

  “And so you led them here? But if your father is such a bad-ass … whatever,” Trace growled, angrily waving at nothing, “then why in hell didn’t you go running home to him instead of to us?”

  Mac finally stood up and faced Trace directly. “My father and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms for several years.”

  “But six weeks ago, you came here to get Carolina for him,” Trace countered.

  “No, actually, I came after Carolina for her sake, not my father’s. I did not wish to see the brat on the wrong side of his anger.”

  “Exactly who is Titus Oceanus that everyone—including even Kenzie’s brother, apparently—gets all quiet and serious at the mere mention of his name?”

  “You’ve heard of Atlantis?” Mac asked.

  “Sure, everyone’s heard of the mythological continent.”

  Mac’s grin was somewhat provoking. “Well, Titus Oceanus is what you would call the patriarch of Atlantis. He created the entire … okay, let’s use myth for lack of a better word.” His grin turned indulgent. “I can see I had best give you the short version, as well as endeavor to use terms you can relate to. So, where was I? Oh yes, I believe I was at the beginning of modern time, when dear old Daddy built Atlantis as a hidey-hole in which to protect and cultivate his Trees of Life.”

  “Wait. Who’s he protecting these Trees of Life from?”

  “From the gods.”

  “As in Zeus and Poseidon and all the other mythical gods?” Trace drawled, folding his arms over his chest.

  Mac’s grin disappeared. “Believe what you wish, Huntsman, but the fact is, the gods were so busy trying to wrestle control of the world away from one another that they were all but destroying it. So, my father,” he continued sharply when Trace tried to ask another question, “stepped forward to champion humanity. He created Atlantis, planted groves of his Trees, and educated several hand-picked humans to become drùidhs. But when the gods discovered what he was doing, they actually worked together for once and tried to destroy him.” Mac’s grin return
ed. “And the myth of a wondrous lost continent began when Titus sank Atlantis and all of its inhabitants into the sea.”

  “Into the sea where, exactly?”

  Mac gestured dismissively. “It matters not. All that matters is that Atlantis truly exists and that as long as it does, humanity shall remain safe. But only if the Trees of Life, which are now growing all over the world, continue to thrive.”

  “Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to believe there’s a bunch of trees that … what? What makes them so special?”

  “In layman’s terms, they’re what power the world. They hold all knowledge, like a library of sorts, and keep the energies balanced. In actuality, they are humanity’s conscience. If you consider how trees are designed, you’ll see why my father chose them to hold everything together; they reach toward the heavens while their roots anchor civilization to the earth.”

  “So, if these trees are scattered all over the world now instead of safely growing in Atlantis, who or what is protecting them from … the gods?” Trace couldn’t help but ask, despite knowing that he was hearing the mother of all tall tales.

  “Each drùidh is charged with protecting his or her Tree. In fact, Cùram de Gairn, whom you know as Matt Gregor, and his wife, Winter, are protecting a new species right here in Maine, which grows on the mountain where they’re building their new home.”

  “So where’s your tree?”

  Mac smiled. “I’m not a drùidh, actually. I’ve just let everyone continue to believe I’m one because it’s less intimidating.”

  Trace went perfectly still again. “Then what are you—actually?”

  “Titus Oceanus’s son.”

  When Trace just glared at him, Mac gave an impatient sigh. “The drùidhs protect the Trees of Life, and my father and I protect the drùidhs.”

  “Lucky you,” Trace muttered. He rubbed his forehead, trying to dispel the uneasy feeling rising inside him. Christ, he hoped the bastard was lying, because if Mac was telling the truth, that he was even more powerful than the drùidhs, a quick trip to hell in a handbasket was starting to sound appealing.

  “Look, I’ve enjoyed the history lesson,” Trace said, “but that still doesn’t explain what is going on here. I’ve seen you do stuff I can’t even come close to understanding, so tell me why you don’t just magically heal yourself and then zap on home to Daddy and tell him you’re sorry for whatever caused the rift between you, and would he please kill whoever is trying to kill you? Because I gotta tell you, if you just made up that elaborate tale so I’ll let you sit on my couch and watch television, you picked the wrong hidey-hole to hide in. I don’t know shit about any of this; I’m just a highly trained weapon the military would point at a target they wanted destroyed. Kenzie and William are the demon-fighting experts, and An Téarmann is impenetrable because it’s under Matt Gregor’s protection. So tell me, why are you endangering Fiona and Gabriella after you went through all the trouble of giving them back their lives?”

  Mac stared at him for several heartbeats, then turned and quietly sat down on the couch. “I can’t go to An Téarmann because I can’t get past de Gairn’s magic any more than the demons can. And I can’t heal myself.” He looked at Trace. “Haven’t you heard the saying that a physician who operates on himself has a fool for a patient? Hell, I could turn myself into a toad.”

  “Your sister didn’t seem to have any trouble staying with Kenzie.”

  “Carolina is not Titus Oceanus’s heir; I am. But my father had the foresight to implement a fail-safe system that, in effect, makes me … allergic to the energy a drùidh emits.” Mac grinned derisively. “Which he did on the off chance that his heir turned out to be a no-good rotten bastard.” He looked back at the television, his hands balled into fists on his thighs. “And to answer your questions as to why I can’t seek my father’s protection … well, I can’t return to Atlantis unless I happen to bring along a wife, preferably one who’s already pregnant with my child.” He looked back at Trace. “The rift between my father and me is over my failure—or, according to him, my stubborn refusal—to give him a grandson.”

  Trace stepped toward the couch, his own hands balling into fists. “Are you saying that all you wanted Maddy for was as a broodmare?” he asked ever so softly.

  Mac stiffened in surprise. “No! I truly was enamored with Madeline, and I sincerely felt I could grow to love her … in time.” He relaxed back against the pillows. “I certainly knew there would never be a danger that I would grow tired of her; Madeline’s light comes from within, and when she gets riled, that light outshines the sun.” He looked down at his lap. “And as much as I envy Killkenny’s good luck to have won her heart, I probably envy his courage to love her even more.” Mac waved dismissively without looking up. “Go away, Huntsman. Your knee is healed, and your truck is running again, so go pull your traps full of lobsters.”

  It was only then that Trace realized he had been standing on two good legs for the last ten minutes, and when he looked down, he saw a pair of shiny new boots on his feet. Holy hell, the bastard really had healed him!

  The porch door opened, and Trace heard Misneach race into the kitchen. “Oh, we’re just in time,” he heard Gabriella say. “The show is starting in ten minutes. But maybe we should watch it upstairs,” she continued in a whisper. “Mac might be having a nap, and we shouldn’t disturb him. The poor man needs to rebuild his strength.”

  “You will put a stop to this, Oceanus,” Trace growled softly. “How in hell can you live with yourself, letting the girl idolize you like that?”

  Mac dropped his chin to his chest. “Because I am a needy bastard, apparently.” He looked at Trace and nodded. “I will have a talk with her. But for the record, I felt I was helping Gabriella by letting her see that not all men are brutes.”

  Trace scooped Misneach up in his arms. “No, some of us are just—”

  “Good Lord, what happened?” Fiona cried, staring at the recliner.

  “He did it,” Trace said, pointing at Mac. “He set my chair on fire—while I was in it, I might point out—and then doused it with water. So you make him clean it up.”

  Gabriella shot Trace an accusing glare as she rushed over to Mac. “You don’t worry about cleaning up anything,” she said, fluffing several of the pillows and then pushing Mac back against them. “I’ll have that ratty old chair out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Are you hungry? I could fix you a snack before our show starts.”

  Trace cleared his throat rather loudly, giving Mac a pointed look.

  Blowing out a huge sigh, Mac captured Gabriella’s hand and pulled her down beside him. “I’m fine, Gabby. And I made the mess, so I will clean it up.” He handed her the remote. “You find which channel our show is on, and I’ll go get us a snack.”

  “Oh no!” Gabriella said, jumping up. “You need to conserve your strength.”

  Mac gave a laugh and pulled her down beside him again, then stood up and handed the remote back to her. “I knew our show was coming on, and I tried to find the correct channel but couldn’t. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it for me. Besides, your tender care has already worked its magic, and if you truly wish to help me finish healing, you must start encouraging me to stretch my muscles.”

  Rolling his eyes, Trace set Misneach down and headed for the kitchen, but stopped when he saw Fiona’s surprise.

  “You’re not limping,” she said.

  “Nope, my boo-boo’s all better.” Trace pointed down at his feet. “And look, Mac gave me a new pair of work boots, and he claims my truck is running again.”

  “A minor miracle to grant,” Mac said, coming to stand with them, “if it gets him out of the house.”

  Fiona frowned. “If you could heal him with magic, why didn’t you do it sooner?”

  “And miss out on all our male bonding?” Mac drawled. He looked over Fiona’s shoulder toward the kitchen. “Do you have any corn I can pop?”

  She quickly stepped to block the doorway,
her frown turning to a threatening glare. “I just spent three days cleaning that kitchen, and I’m not about to let either one of you anywhere near it.” But then her cheeks suddenly darkened as she glanced toward Trace and quickly looked away. “I mean … I …” She stepped past them and marched toward the couch, waving over her shoulder. “Oh, go on. Have yourselves a friggin’ field day,” she muttered, flopping down on the couch beside Gabriella.

  Mac shook his head. “You’re a bad influence on that woman, Huntsman, as she’s even starting to sound like you.”

  “That’s because imitation is the best form of flattery,” Trace said, walking into the kitchen—only to stop dead in his tracks.

  “Sweet Neptune,” Mac whispered, coming up behind him. “I’m not the only one making magic around here.”

  Trace stood speechless, trying to take it all in. Not only didn’t he recognize his own kitchen but he didn’t dare touch anything in it.

  “Forget about the free milk,” Mac continued in a reverent murmur, “and claim Fiona now, before some fool shows up here wanting to buy an entire cow.”

  “I’m not looking for a wife,” Trace snapped, striding to the door.

  “And you dare accuse me of using Gabriella,” Mac muttered, following him.

  Trace slipped into his jacket but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I can’t help it if Fiona’s got something against dust bunnies.” He nodded toward the living room. “When you replace my recliner, make sure the new one is soft Italian leather.” He grinned in the face of Mac’s glare. “We’ll consider it one of those thank-you gifts smart guests bring along when they show up unannounced for an extended visit.”

  “Mac!” Gabriella called out. “Hurry up, our show is starting!”

  “Good fishing,” Mac said, giving a wave over his shoulder as he walked away. “Try not to let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, Huntsman.”

  Trace walked onto the porch, frowning at the uneasy feeling in his gut, which only worsened when he saw that a good portion of the snow had been shoveled out of the dooryard. He walked to his truck—which had also been brushed off—opened the door, and reached in to turn the key.