He was her great-grandfather.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” Lark said finally. They were the first words she’d spoken since casting the dimensional gate that had transported them and the car to Brentwood, California. “It’ll mean a lot to him.”
He glanced at her. “It’s my pleasure.” His voice was deep, resonant. “I was always fond of John.”
“He worshipped you. I grew up listening to the adventures of Sir Tristan, vampire knight of the Round Table.”
“I did enjoy telling that boy war stories.”
Unable to resist the urge to tease, Lark grinned. “How much of it did you make up?”
He didn’t bat an eye. “About half. I’ve lived a very boring life.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet that King Arthur guy is a drag. Not to mention all those women…”
John’s mother had been one of them, having been Tristan’s mistress through the roaring twenties and well into the thirties. Lark had often wondered how her mortal great-grandmother kept the knight’s attention so long. She gathered Isolde had left Tristan permanently gun-shy.
During those years, Tristan had played a walk-on role in his son’s life, dropping in for bedtime stories or evening swordplay practice on the lawn.
Most Latents knew nothing of their Magekind ancestors, but thanks to his father, John grew up far more knowledgeable. He was also incapable of talking about it to anyone other than his immediate family, a limitation some Maja friend of Tristan’s had magically imposed.
Lark often wondered if he’d become a war hero and later a fireman out of some desire to be worthy of his father.
“How’s John doing now?” Tristan asked, downshifting for a turn.
“Much better. He’s the man who raised me again.” She smiled at him. “Thanks to you.”
Six months before
Lark walked through the door of her tiny house feeling as if she’d been beaten. All day long, she’d fought to get food and water into her grandfather, who hadn’t eaten in days. He’d met her attempts to feed him with a kind of sullen paranoia that told her more clearly than words that he had no idea who she was.
When Lark had tried to cajole one too many times, he’d lifted one big hand. He hadn’t actually swung—at least he hadn’t fallen that far—but she’d had no choice except to back off.
Though eighty, her grandfather was six inches taller than she was, and he still outweighed her, if only barely. She’d taken care of him at home since he’d been diagnosed five years ago, but his growing belligerence had finally forced her to put him in a nursing home.
Now she collapsed on the sagging living room couch in a haze of exhaustion and worry. Long moments passed as she sat staring blankly at the fire chief ’s helmet that still held a place of honor on the coffee table. It was all she could do not to cry.
John McGuin had never once raised a hand to her growing up. If he’d been in his right mind, he’d be horrified at the idea of hitting any woman, especially his granddaughter. Alzheimer’s had eaten away so much of his mind. It wouldn’t be long before it finally killed his body, too.
Lark knew she needed to make herself a sandwich, knew she needed to keep her own strength up, but she didn’t feel like eating.
Her heart ached. She missed her grandfather, and she was coming to hate the dying stranger in the nursing home. And she hated herself even more for wishing it was over.
Lark rose from the couch and headed for the stairs. In her weariness, it felt as if her running shoes had turned to cement blocks. She kept going anyway. She had to do something, anything, no matter how insane.
She climbed up to the pitch-black attic and groped for the lightbulb chain. A dull yellow glow clicked on, illuminating boxes of old records, clothing, and a pair of dusty stuffed poodles John had won her at the fair.
It took her five minutes of searching to find the battered green footlocker. When she spotted it under a box of ancient Christmas decorations, she felt, against all reason, a spurt of hope.
This was nuts. She knew it was nuts. And yet…it was the only thing left to try.
Kneeling on the dirty floor, Lark lifted the stiff, half-rusted lid and looked down into its sixty-year-old contents. Gently, she lifted out the folded Army uniform with its bloodstained cuffs, then pushed aside the Nazi flag her grandfather had captured somewhere in Normandy after D-Day. There, under a battered helmet, she found a long brown box and flipped it open. Stained white silk cradled two sharpshooter’s medals, a colorful collection of combat ribbons, a Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star.
And a small, sword-shaped charm.
Lark took the charm out and returned the box to its spot in the locker. Closing a shaking fist tight around the charm, she closed her eyes and began the chant her grandfather had made her say so many times when she was a little girl. The Gaelic words were difficult to pronounce, and she had no idea what they meant or if they’d do any good, but she said them anyway.
It was the only thing left to do.
When she was finished, she waited. The attic lay still and silent around her, filled with dust and the ghosts of childhood happiness.
Nothing happened. She hadn’t really thought it would, and yet…
“Dammit, Granddad.” Lark dropped her head on her fist and began to cry, first silent tears, then tearing sobs of grief.
Light flashed, so bright she saw it even through closed eyes. Her tears choked off as her head jerked up.
A shimmering hole had opened in the air. As Lark sat frozen in shock and dawning hope, a man stepped through it.
For some reason, she’d thought he’d be dressed in armor, not perfectly ordinary chinos and a blue knit shirt that matched his eyes. He cocked his handsome head as he looked down at her. “Hello.”
Her mouth worked, but nothing emerged from her shocked vocal chords.
The man leaned down and…sniffed. “Definitely my lineage.” He smiled as he straightened. “Are you John’s daughter? I remember giving him that charm.”
“G-Granddaughter.” She stuttered it. Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “He needs your help.”
Tristan smiled. “He has it.”
He’d been as good as his word.
“We’re here.”
Tristan’s words brought Lark out of her reverie about the past. Big hands confident on the wheel—who’d taught him to drive?—Tristan whipped into the parking lot of a sprawling stucco building. Lark escaped the car’s luxurious cockpit with a feeling of relief. Painfully conscious of her great-grandfather striding at her heels, she led the way to the facility’s gleaming front doors, past the massive stone sign engraved with the words ELYSIUM SANCTUARY.
Their footsteps rang on marble as they entered a soaring lobby that would have looked at home in a five-star hotel. The only thing that revealed the place’s real nature were the huge elevators, each long enough to admit a stretcher and ambulance team. When Lark hit the elevator call button, one promptly slid open.
As the elevator hummed its way upward, she broke the silence. “This elevator smells a lot better than the one back at Granddad’s previous nursing home. There were times I had to hold my breath all the way up and down. Thought I’d pass out before I ever hit the ground floor.”
“Yes, I visited one of my children at such a place once, years ago. That’s why I suggested we build Sanctuary to begin with.” Tristan gave her a slight smile. “The Maja healer on staff here keeps the residents in much better health.”
Lark nodded. “She certainly did wonders with Granddad.”
The elevator chimed, announcing their arrival on the tenth floor, and the doors slid open. They stepped out to the sounds of laughter and cheerful groans.
Again, Lark found herself comparing it with John’s previous nursing home. There, the sitting area had hosted only a single television that seemed to show nothing but reruns of seventies game shows. Dispirited residents sat slumped on a stained couch, watching without much interest.
Here, a brisk game
of pool was in progress, while residents at other tables played everything from poker to Scrabble. Voices were bright and lively, and there was no scent of sickness in the air.
Lark and Tristan found John McGuin presiding over a pile of poker chips while watching his opponents across his cards. There was such merry cunning in his gaze, tears stung Lark’s eyes.
When she’d first contacted Tristan, she’d doubted her grandfather would survive the week. Thanks to Sanctuary’s Maja healer, he could probably look forward to living another two decades.
John looked up and saw them. His face lit with a brilliant grin. “Lark! Tristan!” He threw down his hand and rose, aiming the grin at his opponents. “Looks like you boys get to keep your quarters after all. My family’s here!”
As his poker buddies watched with naked envy, he stepped around the table to pump his father’s hand and accept Lark’s kiss. Lark was abruptly struck by how alike the two looked—they had the same broad-shouldered build and angular features, though age had blurred the resemblance. She wondered if John felt the same sense of mental whiplash she did. Anyone looking at them would have thought he was Tristan’s grandfather rather than son.
“Want to go back to my apartment where we can talk?” he suggested.
“I’d love to,” Tristan said, genuine affection in his smile.
“So,” John said as he led the way down the hall, “how’s the war going?” He turned a proud smile on Lark and dropped his voice. “And how do you like being a Maja?”
Lark felt her smile go tight. “It’s great, Granddad. I’m learning more every day.” It’s that or die.
“As for the war, it goes much better, John,” Tristan told him. “In fact, we believe we’ve found the means to win.”
“Yeah? That’s fantastic!” He unlocked the door to his neat three-room apartment and gestured them inside.
As they entered the small living room, evidence of John’s proud career was everywhere. His old fire chief ’s helmet now rested on a bookcase, while the walls were hung with photos of his family and his firefighter buddies. An antique toy fire truck stood on the coffee table, while a framed photo of firefighters raising the flag at Ground Zero held a place of honor over the couch.
“Have a seat,” John said. “Want anything, Dad? Lark?”
“I’m fine.” Lark sank down on the comfortable old couch John had owned longer than she’d been alive.
Her grandfather turned his attention on Tristan again. “I’ve got a nice bottle of wine. Or I could make coffee.”
He sounded so damn normal, gratitude swelled in a warm ball in Lark’s chest.
Joining her, Tristan made an elegant gesture of refusal. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.” John dropped into his favorite easy chair and fixed them with an eager stare. “So tell me about the war.”
For the past six months, the Magekind had been locked in a deadly conflict with the followers of a Mageverse alien named Geirolf. They’d killed the alien, but before he died, he’d managed to change his psychotic human worshippers into vampires. And in an obvious parody of the rite Merlin had used, he’d used three so-called black grails to do it.
“There’s been a major breakthrough.” Tristan sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “We’ve learned if you destroy one of the black grails, the magical backlash kills every vampire that was created by drinking from it.”
Understanding lit John’s bright eyes. “So instead of being forced to hunt down five or six thousand evil vampires, all you’ve gotta do is find the grails.”
“Exactly.”
The old man blinked, sitting back in his chair. “That’s a hell of an improvement.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Lark told him. “Galahad and his wife already destroyed one of the grails. We just need to get rid of the other two, and we’re done.”
John studied Lark, his gaze proud. “And you’re participating in this hunt now, right?”
She nodded. “We all are.”
“Maybe you’ll be the one to find it.” He turned to Tristan and beamed. “She always was smart as a whip. I’m so proud of her.”
“As am I.” Tristan patted his gnarled hand. “You did well with her, John. She has a very strong sense of duty.”
Lark gave them both a smile that felt a little tight. “Well, you two have me pegged, don’t you?”
Tristan certainly did. Not long after getting John into Sanctuary, he’d reappeared in Lark’s living room. “We’re in a war,” he’d told her, then went on to describe the battle with Geirolf and his sorcerers. “I petitioned the Majae’s Council to grant you Merlin’s Gift, and they’ve agreed you’re a fit candidate. Will you help us?”
She’d stared at him in stunned shock.
It had never even occurred to Lark that she’d be considered as a Maja candidate. After all, the Council had refused to make her grandfather a Magus sixty years before, despite his wartime heroism. Apparently somebody had concluded it wasn’t a good idea.
They’d also refused her mother thirty years later, though that was more understandable. Glenda McGuin, a hard-partying seventies wild child, hadn’t been the most stable candidate around. Witness the way she’d ended up hitting a tree at sixty-five miles an hour, leaving her daughter to be raised by her parents, since nobody had known who Lark’s father was.
Lark considered herself just as unlikely a candidate for Maja as her mother had been, but evidently the Magekind felt differently.
Not that it mattered. Tristan had gotten Granddad into Sanctuary. If that meant Lark had to embrace her inner cannon fodder in return, she was willing.
The next night, another dazzlingly handsome Magus had shown up at Lark’s apartment. His name was Dominic Bonnhome, and he was a Court Seducer.
It had been uncomfortable as hell at first; she hadn’t known him, after all. But Dominic did know his business, and his kind, professional skill had helped get her through the worst of her shyness. On their fourth try, his climax had triggered Merlin’s Gift, the spell in her genetic code she’d inherited from Tristan.
It had been like being struck by lightning. One minute she was an ordinary mortal woman. The next, her body had jolted in the grip of the spell, and the power of the Mageverse had flooded her with its hot savagery, transforming her into an immortal witch.
Actually, “immortal” was a misnomer. Lark would never age, but she was immortal only as long as no one killed her. And these days, there were far too many people in line to do that job.
But at least John was no longer dying.
Lark, Tristan, and John chatted easily for another half hour before the elderly mortal could no longer suppress his yawns.
Tristan stood. “Well, we had best return to the Mageverse.” We have a great deal to do.”
“I’m sure.” John gave him a longing smile. “You’ll come back, though?”
“Of course.”
Lark kissed her grandfather good night, waited through another handshake, and led the way back to the elevator.
As it descended, Tristan suddenly spoke. “Was it worth it?”
She flashed back to her last mission, to the bodies and the blood. Not even her years growing up around the smoke and risk of a firehouse had prepared her for anything like that.
Then Lark remembered the reborn intelligence in her grandfather’s eyes. “Hell, yes,” she said.
Jonesville, Tennessee
“Make a left,” the dragon sword shouted over the roar of the wind.
Gawain leaned into the turn, steering the big Harley Davidson Electra Glide down Henry Street with absent skill. Normally you couldn’t sneak up on a deaf man on an Electra Glide, since the massive bike’s Twin Cam 88 engine roared like all the hounds of hell. Tonight, however, the motorcycle sped along as silently as a ghost, Kel’s magic having rendered it utterly silent. Even its headlights were off. With his vampire night vision, Gawain didn’t really need them anyway.
Those h
e was hunting might sense his approach magically, but there was no reason to give them any extra warning.
This is it, the dragon told him in their mental link, evidently tired of shouting. Up ahead on the right.
There was only one building on the right, a massive structure with curving walls of cream brick and stained glass. A towering spire thrust from the building’s roof, topped by a cross. Gawain frowned up at it as he brought the big hog to a halt. Human legends notwithstanding, crosses didn’t bother him—or, unfortunately, those he hunted—but he still didn’t care for the implications. Kel, this is a church, he told the sword.
And it’s also where the trail leads.
They’re planning to sacrifice that girl in a church? Most of Geirolf’s crowd builds underground temples for this kind of sick crap.
Maybe they didn’t want to spend the magic on it.
Or maybe they’re the kind of assholes who like to desecrate churches. He swung off the bike and drew the four-foot blade from the diagonal scabbard across his back.
Gawain, they kidnapped a sixteen-year-old virgin to murder in an act of death magic. Kel’s voice held a faint metallic ring under its deep mental rumble. I’d say the asshole thing is pretty much a given.
Good point. Gawain grinned, slowly and viciously. Guess we’ll kill ’em slow, then.
His friend laughed in his mind. Nothing like a little artistic butchery of the thoroughly deserving.
Gawain started up the sidewalk toward the double glass doors that looked as though they’d lead to the sanctuary. His black motorcycle leathers creaked faintly as he walked. He was acutely aware of the sound, every sense alert and singing with the rise of adrenaline. I think it’s time for a wardrobe change. I’m going to need something a little more substantial than cowhide.
Well, there are three of them and one of you.
Master of Swords Page 3