Gawain relaxed. “You need a hot bath. Hey, Kel…”
“What?” the dragon asked from his scabbard.
“Mind filling the tub for us?”
Water began to bubble in the adjoining bathroom. You’re in a good mood, the dragon observed in their link. A hell of a lot more chipper than you were last night.
Good sex does that.
Lark lifted her head from the pillow and eyed the sword. “How’d you get there? You were lying next to Gawain.”
“I sheathed him before I woke you,” Gawain explained, rolling over to stretch. “Being in bed with an enchanted sword on a bouncing mattress is a really bad idea.”
“Good point.”
The dragon grinned. “Sharp, too.”
With a groan, she picked up the pillow and slung it in the sword’s direction. “No puns that bad this early.”
“Hey!” Kel protested. He caught it with a spell and levitated it threateningly. “If it’s a pillow fight you want, wench…”
Before the dragon could hurl the pillow back, Gawain rolled out of bed and snatched her into his arms. “We have other plans, dragon.”
As he headed into the bathroom, the pillow popped him in the back of the head. “Coward.”
He kicked the door closed behind him. Lark laughed and curled a slender arm around his neck. “I could have taken him.”
“He’d have inundated you in so many feathers, you’d have thought you were in a remake of The Birds,” Gawain told her, carrying her to the huge bath, full and bubbling like a Jacuzzi thanks to the dragon’s magic. Throwing a leg over the marble lip, Gawain added, “He hates to…dammit, Kel!” He jerked his foot out of the water and glowered down into the tub’s depths. “It’s ice cold!”
Through the door, he heard the dragon’s wicked chuckle.
“Laugh it up, gecko!” Gawain called back. “I’m going to line your scabbard with sandpaper.”
Clinging to his neck with one hand, Lark made a hasty gesture with the other. He sensed the buzz of magic. “Look, it’s hot now. No violence required.”
Gawain gave her a deliberately toothy grin. “But violence is my best thing.”
“Well,” she drawled. “Not your best thing…”
Laughing, he stepped into the tub to find it the perfect temperature. He put her on her feet and settled down with her into the foaming water.
Lark groaned in pleasure as she sank to her shoulders and leaned back against the tub’s smooth wall. “Oh, man, you were right. I needed this.”
“Yeah,” Gawain agreed, settling back. “You can get clean with magic, but there’s nothing like a good soak.” Eyeing the nipples peeking over the bubbling water, he grinned. “Plus, you can’t beat the view.”
Cuddling Lark in the tub, Gawain listened as she described breaking the news to Bors and her subsequent efforts to find Edge.
“I tried a dozen spells,” she finished, “but none of them worked.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “By now, Arthur has Morgana, Guinevere, and another dozen witches looking for him. Somebody’ll turn him up.”
“I hope so. We need to find the son of a bitch.” She sat up and conjured a bottle of shampoo.
“I agree with you, but when it comes right down to it, he’s no match for the Magekind. Now that he’s on the radar, it’s not going to take us long to get rid of him.” Gawain reached for the bottle. “Let me do that.”
She handed it over, a frown on her pretty face. “I feel sorry for Bors, though. He looked so haunted.”
“This has been his worst fear for years.” Gawain poured a thick dollop of shampoo into his palm. “For one thing, he saw what Arthur went through when Modred led that rebellion against him. Arthur ended up killing his son, and it almost destroyed him. I thought he and Guinevere would never have another child…. Wet your hair and scoot over here so I can shampoo you.”
Lark obeyed and rested her shoulders against him. “Arthur and Guinevere have a child?”
“Yes, he’s thirty or so. Unlike Edge, though, the Majae’s Council has cleared him to become a Magus, but his mortal career is going well and he doesn’t want to give it up. Nobody’s pushed the point.”
Lark titled her head back as he started rubbing the shampoo into her hair. “Considering our manpower problems and the Sorcerers’ War, I’m surprised they haven’t just drafted the poor guy.”
“I don’t think Arthur wants to go there. And who can blame him? Though I suspect if somebody told Logan the situation, he might just volunteer.”
The lather felt cool as it foamed over his hands, and he stroked it through her long, dark mane, enjoying the silken feel of the strands.
“That feels good,” she told him with a sigh as she relaxed against him.
“I was just thinking the same thing. Your hair is beautiful—so thick and soft.”
She turned her head against his shoulder and opened one eye to look up at him. “Why, Gawain, that sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
“Hey, I’ve complimented you before.”
“‘I love your tits’ doesn’t exactly qualify, especially when you’re sucking on them at the time.”
“But I do.” He reached across and cupped one in soapy fingers. “They’re perfect. Just full enough, with such deliciously sensitive nipples. I also love your waist and your long legs and those big, dark eyes.” She was watching him, a wry quirk to her lips, as if she didn’t believe him. “And I especially love that mouth.” He lowered his head and kissed her, slowly, taking his time, savoring the taste of her, chasing her tongue with his.
She relaxed into him with a sigh, and he curled his soapy arms around her. He was struck again by how delicate she was, how fragile. The top of her head didn’t even come up to his shoulders.
An image flashed through his mind: looking down into her pale face after Kel had removed her helm the night before. The blood matting her hair, the horrific head injury. His arms tightened convulsively. “Why did you step between Edge and me? He could have killed you.”
“What?” She shook her head and frowned as if confused by the sudden shift of topic. “Whoa. Psychic whiplash. Where did that come from?”
He closed his eyes and rested his face against hers. “You scared me last night. You took a very big risk, and it almost killed you.”
Eyes narrowed, Lark turned to look at him. “Edge was about to take your head, Gawain. What the heck was I supposed to do?”
He drew back and pushed a lock of hair back from her face. “To start with, let me take care of myself. I’m the one with the enchanted sword, remember?”
She quirked a brow at him. “And I’m the Maja—remember? It’s my job to fight bad guys, too. And despite occasional panic attacks, I don’t turn my back on my duty.”
“I realize that, and I respect it. But Edge is even more dangerous than the other sorcerers we’ve encountered. And considering what happened to you during the attack on Avalon…” He broke off at the anger kindling in her eyes. It belatedly dawned on him that he was treading on dangerous ground.
“Yes, I got hurt. Yes, I almost died. And yes, I’ve been struggling with the consequences of that. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand around twiddling my thumbs while my partner gets killed.” She rose from the tub in a cascade of water, all wet, gleaming curves and snapping eyes. “And I am your partner. It’s my duty to protect you, too, and I’m going to do my duty whether you like it or not.”
With a splash and a thump of bare feet, she stepped out of the tub and stalked from the bathroom, wrapped in a cloak of icy dignity he could almost see.
Hastily, Gawain climbed out and followed her into the bedroom. “Courage and duty aren’t the point, Lark. You need to be realistic. I’m bigger than you are, I’m stronger than you are, and Kel’s magic is far more powerful than yours.”
“Oh,” Kel moaned from the headboard, “you are such a dumb ass.”
Gawain ignored him. “We could have handled Edge without
you putting your life in danger. I—”
“But thank you for making the effort on our behalf,” Kel interrupted loudly. “I really appreciate it. Life as a paperweight does not appeal to me.”
“You’re welcome, Kel,” Lark told him, staring at Gawain with narrowed eyes. “But I think you should know, I’m getting ready to turn your partner into a frog.”
“Go ahead. It’d do him good to sit on a lily pad for a couple of days and think about what an asshole he is.”
Gawain met Lark’s stare with one just as hot. “If not wanting to see Lark get killed makes me an asshole, that’s fine with me. Look, I’ve fought these guys before, and I know what I’m talking about. Edge isn’t just another sorcerer. He—”
“I thought you said he’d be easy pickings now that we know about him.”
“Against the combined weight of the Magekind, no, he doesn’t have a prayer. But against you, one-on-one…that wouldn’t end well.”
With a jerk of her hands, Lark clothed herself in jeans and a shirt. She was completely dry, even her hair falling in perfect dark waves. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Frustrated, he glowered at her. “You’re not an idiot. This is not news to you. You know the situation as well as I do.”
“And thank you for grinding my face in it!” She stalked out, slamming the door.
“When she turns you into a frog, don’t come croaking to me,” Kel said as Gawain lunged for the door.
But when he tried to open it, the knob wouldn’t turn. He whirled on his partner with a snarl. “Open it, or I’m kicking it down!”
“Not if I put a shield around it. You two need a minute to cool off, Gawain. You might want to actually think…”
“Open. The. Door.”
“…or you could just run in there and pour gasoline on the forest fire you’ve managed to start until you both say a lot of shit you don’t mean.”
Gawain spun and lifted a foot, ready to send the door crashing open….
He stopped in mid-motion. Kel, as usual, was right. He lowered his foot and turned, his shoulders slumping. “Have I ever told you you’re a high-handed pain in the ass?”
“Three to four times a week, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, you’re hearing it again.” With a sigh, Gawain moved to sit down on the bed. A drop fell off his nose, and he belatedly realized he was still naked and dripping wet.
Magic tingled over his skin as Kel read his mind. An instant later, he was warm and dry and dressed in a green knit shirt and chinos. Reaching over, he picked up the scabbard and slung it over one shoulder. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He felt the dragon’s wings brush the back of his neck as his friend settled himself. “Actually, I’m rather encouraged by all this drama.”
Gawain twisted his head to eye him. “Oh?”
“You cared enough to actually argue with her. If you hadn’t, you’d just order her not to interfere in your next fight. Then you’d give her ice-cold arrogance until she caved from sheer intimidation.”
Gawain frowned. “Am I that big an asshole?”
The dragon tilted his head, considering the question. “It’s not really being an asshole, it’s more the way a military leader deals with a subordinate. But you’ve stopped treating her like a subordinate.”
“But she is. Technically.”
“Technically. But there’s a lot more going on between you than that.”
Restless, Gawain rose and moved toward the window to stare out at the moonlit streets of Avalon. “Maybe that’s where I’m making the mistake. I don’t want her putting herself in danger for me.”
“Gawain, she’d do that whether you two were sleeping together or not. She knows her duty as well as you do. What’s more, if she were another knight, it wouldn’t even occur to you to ask her to stay out of a fight. Hell, if she were Morgana, it wouldn’t occur to you.”
Gawain snorted. “That’s because Morgana would barbecue my balls like pulled pork. Besides, Morgana has a lot more power than Lark.”
“Not that much more. Lark just hasn’t learned how to bring it all to bear yet.” The dragon flicked his silver wings, his expression brooding. “But somehow I have the feeling that she’s going to have to figure it out. And soon.”
Lark stomped down the stairs toward the kitchen. She almost wished Gawain would come roaring out of his room so they could have all this out once and for all. Unfortunately, judging by what she’d heard through the door, Kel had basically locked him in to give them both time to cool off.
Which might have been wise, but wasn’t as satisfying as a good screaming fight.
She stalked into the kitchen and headed to the refrigerator. This situation definitely called for a plate of scrambled eggs. She needed protein if she was going to continue having frequent sex with Gawain.
Of course, the real question was whether it was just sex or something more. She was pretty damn sure it was becoming more from her end, but she wasn’t so sure about Gawain’s.
Considered from that angle, his humiliating little lecture was actually encouraging. He cared enough to be afraid for her. Which was nice, except she wasn’t sure it meant anything. Chivalry was programmed into the man’s DNA; of course he’d want the helpless little female to hang back out of the fight.
Thing was, she was getting sick of being the helpless little female.
Lark got a carton of eggs and a stick of butter out of the refrigerator, then nudged the door closed with a hip. After retrieving a mixing bowl from a cabinet, she cracked a couple of eggs, her movements short and sharp with controlled anger.
She hated this. Hated feeling as if she couldn’t hold her own against the monsters. Hated being told she wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, ruthless enough.
Most of all, she hated that she really wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, or ruthless enough. Just once, she’d like to set some asshole back on his heels and prove everybody wrong.
She wanted to look into Gawain’s eyes and see something a little warmer than lust and a shade of condescension.
Crouching, she reached into a cabinet and pulled out the cast iron frying pan she’d brought from home. Banging it onto the stove, she turned on the heat and went to get a glass of orange juice while she waited for it to heat.
Dumb ass. Craving the respect of a man who’d fought beside Arthur and the knights of the Round Table. A guy whose idea of a really talented Maja was Morgana Le Fay. How the hell could she hope to compete with that?
The answer was obvious: she couldn’t. He was never going to see her as anything other than one of his little fuck buddies. Which meant she should either embrace her inner Happy Meal or cut her losses.
Both pride and logic voted for cutting her losses. She should keep her distance—and her sanity. Surely they could manage a little cool, civilized professionalism. They didn’t have to fall on one another in a frenzy of jungle sex every time the opportunity presented itself.
So what if he was tall, breathtakingly handsome, and built like God’s gift to everything with estrogen? Lark didn’t have to be an idiot about this.
She didn’t.
Really.
A little self-control. How hard could it be?
Richard Edge surveyed his new sanctuary with satisfaction. He’d reconstructed the entire thing thousands of miles from its original location, and buried it deep inside the Rocky Mountains. The Magekind might eventually find him, but it wouldn’t be anytime soon. He’d made sure of it, having spent the past hours finding and slaying a nest of former cultists to gain the magic to strengthen his wards.
None too soon, either. He’d felt someone ping him earlier in the night—probably that little Maja of Gawain’s, since it hadn’t felt strong enough to be Kel. It wouldn’t be long before they’d start making more serious attempts, though.
His shields had better damn well hold.
Edge frowned uneasily. If enough of them joined forces, they’d eventually punch through and h
e’d be finished.
The conclusion was obvious: he needed a little more juice than he was going to get from killing cultists. A knight, maybe, or one of the really old Majae.
And he needed that sacrifice fast.
A trap might do the trick, but it had to be the right kind. If the bait was too good, he might end up with the entire Round Table breathing down his neck. They’d slice him up like a hog at a redneck barbecue.
No, what he needed was something that appeared insignificant but showy, something the Magekind would want to put a stop to. Like that wretched Jimmy Jones, the sorcerer cum serial killer who had inadvertently attracted Gawain and his little friend to begin with.
Frowning thoughtfully, Edge walked into his lab. Or at least, that was what he called it, though there were no microscopes or Bunsen burners. Instead, the room was bare and windowless, its ceiling and walls of black slate, giving the impression being enclosed in a stone box.
An inverted pentagram was inscribed in the center of the floor surrounded by protective runes, all glowing a nice, bright red. Powering the pentagram continuously was depleting his reserves, but he had no choice. If some Maja got so much as a whiff of what he had, they’d be all over him.
As Edge walked through the design, magic crawled over his skin like thousands of invisible ants. Crouching at the star’s center, he reached down. The stone parted like water for his hand. His fingers touched cool metal—and a sense of intense, alien magic. Edge withdrew the object, and the floor solidified again.
The cup was heavy, made of solid gold, its surface worked into shapes every bit as violent and profane as Edge’s more interesting fantasies. Just touching it, he felt Geirolf ’s magic breathing over his skin like a cold wind.
Edge smiled in the satisfaction he’d always felt, holding his very own black grail.
The silver figure flexed its wings, lifting its tiny dragon head in a roar of rage. It began to grow larger and larger even as the blade it was bound to shrunk in proportion to its body. Its color changed, shifting from silver to blue, from metallic to gleaming scales that rippled over powerful muscle. The blade became a long tail that lashed in fury, tipped with a cluster of spikes.
Master of Swords Page 14