Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  “Six. His name is Henry.”

  “I’m going to go over and stand beside Mac to stop him from falling flat on his face when his father tells him, okay? You just follow my lead when you hear the signal.”

  “What’s the signal?”

  He gave her beautiful mouth a quick kiss. “You’ll know when you—”

  “It’s quite nice that Mr. Huntsman is so concerned for Miss Gregor’s welfare,” Titus said with all the authority of a king nearing the end of his patience. “And I realize that twenty-first-century men have little regard for tradition, but have you lost all sense of propriety, too, Maximilian?”

  “Excuse me?” Mac said, his spine stiffening to the point that Trace decided he’d better get over there now.

  He gave Fiona a wink and strode over to Mac. “Brace yourself, my friend,” he whispered out the side of his mouth. “We’re moving on to plan B.”

  Mac shot Trace a threatening glare just before he smiled tightly at his father. “By propriety, I assume you mean his display of affection?” Trace nearly kicked Mac when the ass bowed to the old man again. “I assure you, sir, it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to kiss his girlfriend in front of others.”

  Up went that brow, only it was far more imperial than his son’s. “You’re saying it’s acceptable for one man to kiss another man’s betrothed right in front of him?”

  Trace counted four, maybe five heartbeats before Mac caught on, only he didn’t catch his friend when he staggered, because he felt like he’d just taken a punch to the gut himself. What in hell was he talking about? Fiona wasn’t anyone’s betrothed.

  “In front of … what in hell are you saying?” Mac shouted. He pointed at Fiona. “She’s not my betrothed.” He swung his outstretched arm toward Trace, smacking him in the chest. “Fiona belongs to him.”

  “Atta boy,” Trace growled. “You dig those family jewels out of your pants and shake them at him. You outgrew taking his bullshit a couple thousand years ago.”

  “Maximilian!” Titus snapped, causing Mac to pivot to him. “This is no example to be setting for your son,” he said, gesturing toward Fiona.

  This time Trace was ready when Mac staggered backward. “Don’t go all girly on me now, Mac, especially in front of Henry.”

  Mac couldn’t stop staring at the young boy clinging to Fiona as if she were the only solid thing in the room. “Henry?” Mac whispered. “He’s my … the child’s my son?” Mac looked at Titus. “But how? When?” He looked back at the boy, then at his father again. “Who’s his mother?”

  Apparently realizing that he’d gone about the introductions all wrong, Titus blew out a heavy sigh. “Cordelia Penhope,” he said, darting a worried glance at the boy.

  But Fiona had moved to the far corner of the room and was sitting on the floor, occupying the kid by playing with Misneach.

  “Well,” Trace whispered, letting go of his friend once he was certain that Mac’s legs would hold him. “At least now you know why she suddenly sent you away.”

  Titus stepped closer to Mac. “It’s Cordelia’s brothers who have been trying to kill you,” his father quietly told him, “in order to keep control of Henry.” He reached out and set a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Cordelia became ill and died three months ago, Maximilian. It took her servant over two months to escape and make his way to Atlantis to tell us that Cordelia’s dying wish was for you to claim your son.”

  “Delia’s dead?” Mac whispered.

  “You never knew she was having your child, son?”

  Mac shook his head as he lifted his gaze to his father, but Trace suspected he was only seeing his dead lover’s image. “I didn’t know. I was going to ask Delia to marry me, but …” Mac shook his head as if trying to clear it. “She suddenly came to me one day and said that for as much as she’d enjoyed our time together, I was starting to bore her. And when I went back to my apartments, her brothers were there, and they told me that if I ever came near their sister again, they’d kill …”

  He fell silent and turned away to face the doors.

  “I find it hard to imagine you feared a threat on your life,” Titus said. “Nor can I believe they’d make such a threat to begin with, especially to your face.”

  “Their threat wasn’t against me,” Mac said softly, still turned away. He canted his head back to stare up at the ceiling, his hands balling into fists. “That means it was all a pretense. Delia suspected I was going to ask for her hand in marriage.” He spun toward his father. “I never lied to her about who I was. And being my lover was okay, obviously, whereas being my wife was …” He darted a glance toward Fiona, then to Trace, then back to his father. “Apparently, Delia felt that having a theurgist for a husband, as well as Titus Oceanus as her father-in-law, would be more trouble than it was worth.”

  “Or too dangerous,” Trace said quietly. “If she realized she was pregnant and feared her brothers would use your child for their own gain.”

  “Where are they now?” Mac asked, his hands balling into fists again.

  Titus gestured dismissively. “One of them has gone home with what’s left of his manhood dangling between his bloody legs, and the other two are fertilizing a new sea grass I’m developing off the East African coast.”

  “So the storm’s over?” Trace asked.

  Titus nodded. “Except for the low-pressure system cloaking this ship. Come, Maximilian,” he said, grasping his arm. “It’s time you met your son.”

  Mac gently but firmly pulled away. “How did you get him?”

  His father’s eyes hardened. “The bastards actually brought Henry with them, either believing I would do nothing as long as they held my grandson or hoping he might have enough power to protect them. Come,” he said, reaching out again.

  Mac stepped away. “What did you mean about Fiona being my betrothed?”

  Titus gave Trace a sidelong glance, then looked at Mac. “You have a son now, Maximilian; it’s time you settled down. Miss Gregor obviously loves children,” he said, gesturing toward the corner of the room. He smiled tightly. “And she seems to have not only the resilience it will take to be your wife but also the courage. So, I’ve decided it’s in everyone’s best interest for the two of you to wed.”

  “You’ve decided,” Mac repeated deadpan. And damn if he didn’t find the gonads to actually arch his brow. “Did you think to ask Fiona if she agreed with your decision?”

  “Or me?” Trace added, deciding to get plan B moving. “Because I have first dibs on her.” He waved toward Mac. “Hell, your boy here might love her like a sister, but I’m the one she stripped naked for.”

  Titus’s complexion darkened. “Excuse me?”

  Trace nodded, raising his voice enough to carry across the room. “The thing is, Fiona has totally embraced the twenty-first century, and being anyone’s wife doesn’t really hold any appeal for her,” he said, casually reaching into his pocket when he saw Fiona stand up with Misneach tucked under one arm, her free hand firmly gripping Henry’s as she slowly started toward them.

  “But Mac knows nothing about raising a child,” Titus growled, obviously getting hot under the collar—although he did try to soften his glare when he looked at his son. “Miss Gregor would make you a good match. There’s no denying she’s beautiful, and I’m certain she’ll settle in nicely once you get her with child.”

  “Hell, do you know anything about her?” Trace asked as she quietly approached. “Fiona likes the idea of openly living with a guy as his girlfriend, and I know she’s looking forward to having a kid out of wedlock just because she can.” He shot Titus a grin. “She’s really a bad girl at heart, and she’s found a time and a place where she can finally be herself.” Trace arched a brow himself at the old goat. “Isn’t that what free will is all about, what you and your son are working your tails off to protect?”

  “But he has no other prospects!” Titus snapped, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. His face now a deep, dark red, he glared at his son. �
��You will marry Miss Gregor or lose your powers for an entire century!”

  Damn; now they needed a plan C.

  “Wait. What about all the magic stuff he’s already done?” Trace asked before Mac could say anything, drawing the elder wizard’s thunderous glare. “Like the lobsters fulfilling their destinies and my fancy television and nice leather recliners; would those tricks still be up and running?”

  “Huntsman,” Mac hissed tightly, “that’s enough!”

  Titus’s eyes bulged with anger, and he raised his hand. Not knowing what the old goat had up his sleeve, Trace depressed the button in his pocket.

  He hadn’t expected to actually hear anything, but he did count to three before the floor shifted slightly beneath them, gently at first, and then in shuddering waves that increased enough to make things in the room rattle.

  Titus stilled with his finger pointing at the ceiling, his gaze snapping to the door just as a deep-bellied moan came from below.

  The floor they were standing on tilted ever so slightly.

  Trace grabbed Mac’s arm. “You take your son,” he said, shoving him toward Fiona. “Oh, for chrissakes, just pick him up! We’ll introduce you later,” he growled as he plucked Misneach out of her arm, took hold of her hand, and started dragging her to the door. He had to stop long enough to shove Mac ahead of him, giving the wide-eyed Henry a wink as the kid bobbed on his daddy’s shoulder when Mac flung open one of the doors and ran into the hall.

  Trace was less than a step behind him. “Head to the airlock where we came in, only find a way that’s not anywhere near that bathroom,” he called ahead to Mac. He pulled Fiona up beside him and shoved Misneach back into her arms. “You follow Mac.”

  She grabbed his sleeve when he turned back. “We need to stay together.”

  “I’m right behind you, sweetheart, I promise.” He gave her a quick kiss, then pushed her after Mac. “Just don’t leave without me,” he called out as he ran back into the room to find Titus still standing in the same spot—only instead of his hand being in the air, it was now holding what looked like an ancient cell phone up to his ear.

  The elderly wizard, his face nearly purple with rage, suddenly stopped talking to whoever was on the line. “Is sinking my ship not enough for you, Huntsman,” he growled, “such that you feel it necessary to return and finish me off?”

  “One year,” Trace said quietly. “You leave Mac alone for one full year, and I promise you’ll finally get the son you’ve always wanted.”

  “What in the name of Zeus do you think one year will accomplish, when he’s had thirty-five hundred of raising nothing but havoc?” He waved toward the hallway. “He just ran out of here with a son he didn’t even know he’d fathered, as irresponsible as ever, creating yet another mess I’ll have to clean up.” He stepped closer. “Only this time, there is more than a petty war at stake. Mac doesn’t know the first thing about children, and you expect me to leave my grandson in his hands for an entire year?”

  “I know a lady who can help him with Henry.”

  “You’ve already made it quite clear that Fiona is spoken for.”

  “No, another lady. She’s the widow of a friend of mine, and she lives right here in Maine, up in the mountains. She runs a program for parents and their kids. One year, Titus, and you have my word you won’t regret it.”

  The ship gave a loud, shuddering groan and settled into a steeper list.

  The mirror image of Mac’s eyes, though far older and deeply wise, swirled with the emotions of a heart torn between its duty to mankind and the singular love of one soul for another. “Three hundred and sixty-four days,” Titus said quietly, “and if you fail, Huntsman, I will own your soul.”

  “Deal,” Trace said with a nod. He grinned. “And if you want to give me your e-mail address, I can keep you and your wife updated and even send pictures.”

  The old goat actually spun around and walked to a desk, and wrote something down on a piece of paper. He came back and handed it to Trace. “Toss a weighted jug with the photos overboard at those coordinates, and we will get them.”

  Well, hell, the king of the drùidhs was actually a big sap. Trace gave a wave with the paper and turned and headed out of the room.

  “Huntsman,” Titus said, causing him to stop at the door. “How did you know you could blow a hole in my ship and I couldn’t retaliate?”

  “The lifeboats.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw the first one in the boarding room, then a couple more stowed next to other airlocks on our way up here. I admit, I was baffled about why the most powerful wizard in the world needed lifeboats on his ship, but then, when you said the storm was over except for the low pressure cloaking you, it finally made sense. You might have a hell of a lot of power but it is limited, and I figure it’s going to take most of your energy to save your ship—which Mac obviously knows, because he didn’t feel the need to stay behind to cover our escape.”

  “But you planted your explosive charge before you had all of your information.”

  Trace shrugged. “I like keeping my options open.”

  Up went that brow again, into his hairline. “Including your options with women?”

  “I’m still working on that one.”

  “You give me back my son and grandson in a year, strong and healthy and happy, and I will see that you succeed.”

  “No offense, but no thanks. I believe Fiona has a pretty good handle on matters of the heart, so I’ll just wait and see what sort of magic she conjures up for me.” He grinned. “Like you taught your son, life is meant to be embraced, and some challenges are more rewarding if we don’t take shortcuts.”

  Trace started to turn away but hesitated. “He’s a good man, Titus; he just needs you to trust him. You’ve given Mac the tools to fulfill his destiny, so maybe it’s time you stepped out of the way and let him.” He grinned again. “According to my uncle Marvin, your job description changes the moment your children have children, because that’s when you stop being a parent and just become grand to a whole new generation of brats.”

  The ship gave another shudder, and the brick-sized cell phone on the desk started ringing. “Huntsman,” Titus said, ignoring the phone when Trace started to leave, “your military was foolish to kick you out of their war.”

  “No, I believe they were very, very smart. Because the thing about a lethal weapon is, there’s always the danger of it exploding in your face.” He gave Mac’s father a quick salute. “I’ll see you in a year.”

  “You must come visit us in Atlantis and meet Mac’s mother,” the wizard said just as the ship gave a truly ominous groan, a series of loud explosions sounding over the shouts of men and a blaring alarm. Again ignoring the small disaster happening around him, Titus Oceanus smiled—rather tightly if not somewhat nastily. “I know Carolina would love to see you again, as she has yet to stop talking about you.”

  Trace ran as if the hounds of hell were after him, the old theurgist’s booming laughter chasing him down the hall.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I can’t believe you had the nerve to blow up my father’s ship,” Mac said over the commercial coming out of the television’s state-of-the-art surround-sound speakers.

  Trace hit the mute button and looked across the granite-topped table sitting between them. “For the tenth time, I only blew a small hole in it, just big enough to keep everyone busy while we made our escape.”

  “But it forced him to release the storm in order to put his energy toward saving his ship—which is now limping home with only marginal camouflage.”

  Trace took a sip of his beer, remembering the sight of that massive submarine—which had been double the size of a goddamned aircraft carrier—listing precariously to starboard as it headed back to wherever the hell Atlantis was. He snorted. “Don’t think I didn’t see that smile on your face when you looked out the lifeboat window and saw him surface. Come on, Oceanus, admit it. Doesn’t it feel good to stick it to the old m
an once in a while?”

  “At the cost of my power.” Mac sighed and looked down to rub his thumb over the label on his bottle of beer. “And without my powers, I’ll be forced to live the next hundred years in real time.” He glared across the table. “No more jumping centuries or popping in and out of countries, and no more impressive tricks to capture a woman’s interest.”

  Trace stopped with his beer halfway to his mouth. “That’s your pickup line? Magic? What, do you pull a bouquet of flowers out of your sleeve or something? No, wait, don’t tell me,” he said, straightening the back of his recliner. “I bet you walk up to a woman in a bar, pull a cute little rabbit out of your hat, and ask if she happens to have any lettuce back at her place.”

  Mac turned to look at the muted television.

  “Are you completely powerless now?” Trace asked quietly.

  The defunct wizard looked over at him again, and Trace caught the hint of a grin. “Do you honestly believe I’ve spent the last several thousand years thumbing my nose at my father without thinking to bank some of my powers for a day such as this? You’re not the only one who likes to have a plan B.”

  Trace sat up even straighter. “You mean, you can still do stuff?”

  Mac shook his head, even as his grin broadened. “I can’t waste my reserves on trivial matters, but I have enough energy set aside for three, maybe four epic … tricks.”

  Trace relaxed back with a sigh. “Four tricks in a hundred years is sort of like the kid who’s granted three wishes by the genie.” He waved a finger in the air. “How will you know if something’s important enough to make a withdrawal from your bank?”

  Mac took a long swig of beer, then shrugged as he swallowed. “I’ll decide when the time comes. What took you so long to catch up with us on the ship?”

  “I was humbly asking your father for a one-year cease-fire between you two.”

  Mac stilled. “And?”

  “And he said that in three hundred and sixty-four days, if you don’t show up on his doorstep with Henry, the both of you healthy and happy, he’s going to own my soul.”