The Immortals I_Lucas

by Cynthia Breeding

  “I think it’s an excellent place to begin,” she said and looked straight at Lucas.

  “I agree,” Mr. Smith said.

  Lucas held Sara’s gaze. For a fleeting moment, his amber eyes turned predatory, but then the look disappeared. “I travel light and fast. No frills. ‘Twoud be hard for a lass to keep up.”

  She lifted her head. “I’m the queen of carry-on. I’m sure I can handle whatever pace you set. Try me.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Ye might have a care what ye ask for, lass.”

  * * * *

  “They’re talking about finding the Holy Grail and Excalibur, for Christ’s sake,” Caldwell whispered into his phone.

  Baylor could hear the tinge of excitement in his voice and he sighed. Mortals—eve con-men it seemed—got all sentimental over the grail. Like there really was something spiritual and mystic about it. The cup held power and the man who held the cup controlled that power. To yield it as he pleased. To control the world.

  By the devil’s own horns, he’d tried to lure Galahad down that path centuries ago. To see what could be had if one but wanted to use the power. Galahad had refused to be swayed, not by comely young women who bared their breasts for him, nor for gold or the promise of fame that would surpass Lancelot’s. The Hallows had slipped away from Baylor, aided by the Immortal who had helped the boy sail away.

  “Did they say where they were going to look for it?” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “Something about an island with oaks. In Nova Scotia, I think. I couldn’t hear that well through the door.”

  Baylor reached for the bourbon decanter in his hotel room and poured a healthy swig into a shot glass. He was aware of the island. Isolated and hardly inhabited, it had been a perfect hiding hole for pirates. In the late eighteenth century three boys digging for lost treasure discovered a shaft that led to a platform ten feet below the surface. The platform’s planks were rotted and they removed them only to find another shaft and another platform and then still another at ten foot intervals. Finding nothing of value, they finally gave up, but the mystery remained of why anyone would dig the shafts. In the early nineteenth century interest was revived and more digging—and more platforms—were found.

  More than two hundred years later, at a cost of millions of dollars and several lives, the shaft had still not been penetrated. Back in 2004, they’d even tried using cryogenic freezing to keep the tunnels from flooding. The last he’d heard, its owners put it on the market for $7,000,000.00.

  But no one knew when the original shaft had been dug and the Hallows had disappeared with the rest of the Templar treasure in the early 1300s. He had cursed the goddess Brighid then, for he knew she had completely shrouded those ships from his view, just as she kept Avalon hidden from him. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be waiting at Oak Island when they got there. If they discovered anything, it might be worth talking to his foreign investors about.

  “Let me know when they’re leaving,” he said. “And how are you doing on the assignment I gave you?”

  Caldwell laughed confidently. “Don’t worry there. I’m taking the chick to lunch. Maybe we’ll have a little afternoon delight.”

  “Just make sure you get the copy before you leave.” Baylor tossed back the rest of his bourbon. “And don’t forget the video.”

  * * * *

  Lucas laid down his notes on the small desk in the library and rubbed his eyes. Not that there was anything wrong with his eyesight. The words blurred in front of him because he wasn’t concentrating on them. All he could think of was Sara.

  How in the hell was he going to keep this thing platonic if they were going to be traveling together and she’d be sleeping in the next room? The thought of her slipping out of some tiny bit of sheer lingerie and stepping into the shower naked in the morning aroused him more than anything had in years. He pictured himself with her, watching the water glide over satin shoulders and flow over soft mounds of breasts, sliding down the slight swell of stomach to nestle in dark curls at the juncture of thigh. His hands would follow the water’s trail…

  He tore himself out of the fantasy. God, she wasn’t even in the room and look what she did to him. He didn’t need to look. He could feel what she did to him. The wolf growled.

  “Not now!” He wondered if he’d ever tame the beast. He thought about what Sara had said earlier about the lobo being docile. If only she knew.

  No, it would be better if he could travel by himself. Balor must surely have recognized him yesterday. He would know they were both after the same thing and would be watching. Another reason to travel alone. Lucas could lure him away and Sara would be safe if she stayed in town. And Caldwell should be leaving in a day or two. Perhaps he’d wait until the man was gone.

  Lucas looked at his watch. It was well past two o’clock. Sara should have been back from lunch with Caldwell. She had suggested grabbing hamburgers at some local mom-and-pop operation about a mile from here. How long did it take to eat a burger?

  He felt the hair start to bristle on the back of his neck even as a chill went through him. The wolf whined. Something wasn’t right.

  He hoped he could find the damn restaurant.

  * * * *

  “You’re a fascinating woman,” Caldwell said smoothly as he finished a Dos Eqius and set the bottle back on the table. “But I’m sure you get told that a lot.”

  Sara squirmed. She had long since finished her burger and gone to the restroom and now sipped sparingly on the margarita he had waiting for her when she got back. The beer was Alan’s third and she was getting a headache listening to him talk.

  He motioned the waitress over. “Another round,” he said.

  “No, really. I’ve got to get back. There’s work to do,” Sara started to get up and then sat back down quickly, feeling a bit woozy. Wow. The bartender must have put in a double shot of tequila. She’d only had half the drink and she was the one driving. Better let the effects wear off. “No more for me, thanks.”

  “As I was saying,” Alan continued, “I think it’s great you’re running your own employment agency and working for Smith. How do you do it?”

  She wasn’t sure why she had told him about the temp agency. She guessed it was because it would keep her from talking about work and the manuscript.

  “The agency pays the bills. The historical stuff is my hobby.”

  “When do you have time for a social life?”

  She giggled. Picking three losers had been enough. Who needed a social life? But why was she giggling? It wasn’t even a funny question. Some tequila.

  “Well, there’s Michael…” Now why had she said that?

  Caldwell tilted his head. “You have a boyfriend?”

  She giggled again. At her age, she wouldn’t call any man she went to bed with a boy. “Uh, he’s a friend. We…work together.” She blinked to bring Alan back into focus and felt her stomach lurch. “I don’t think I feel very well.”

  He was instantly sympathetic. “There’s a flu bug going around. Why don’t I drive you home?”

  Her head started swimming and she grabbed the edge of the table to balance herself. “I hardly ever get sick.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alan said as he reached for her purse. “May I get your car keys out?”

  She nodded dumbly. There wasn’t any way she could drive. The room was spinning. She didn’t feel sick. She felt drunk, but she didn’t know how that could be.

  Alan took her keys and placed them in his side pocket and then pressed down to make sure they were safe before he came around the table and helped Sara up from her chair. “Just put your arm over my shoulder,” he said as he led her toward the exit.

  The door nearly hit them in the face as it flew open and Lucas stomped in.

  “Sara! Are you all right?” He lifted a hand and tilted her chin.

  She peered at him owlishly. “Lucas? Wh…whath are youth doing heere?”

  He gazed at her steadily. �
��Are ye drunk, lass?”

  “I dun know.”

  Lucas shifted his look to Caldwell. “You got her drunk?” His voice was low and flat and only a fool would not have alerted to the danger.

  “No!” Caldwell said quickly and undraped her arm. She stumbled into Lucas who caught her securely by the waist.

  “Where were you going with her?”

  “She got sick, man. I was taking her to her place and then I was going to call a cab from there.”

  “Right.” Lucas dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys and handed them to Caldwell. “My rental. Take it back to Smith’s. Give me her keys.”

  “Wait a minute,” Caldwell protested. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “I’m going to make sure she’s okay,” Lucas answered. “The keys. Now.”

  Reluctantly Caldwell pulled them out of his pocket and brushed his thumb against one of them flicking off a bit of clay-colored debris. “Here. Don’t rape her.”

  Lucas’ eyes glowed pure gold and Caldwell instinctively stepped back.

  “I’ve never forced myself on a woman. Have you?”

  Caldwell’s cell phone rang. With a look of relief, he answered it. The look was quickly replaced with a frown.

  “No, sir. I wasn’t able to get what you asked.” There was a pause and Caldwell turned pale. “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” He disconnected and took a deep breath. “I’ve got to go.” Opening the door, he turned back. “Later, Highlander. We’re not through yet.”

  * * * *

  Sara curled up on her sofa, wrapped in a blanket and held her aching head, while Nim twittered nervously in the air. It wasn’t enough that she’d gotten rip-roaring drunk in the middle of the afternoon for no reason, but to have to ask Lucas to stop the car so she could be sick was the ultimate humility. She didn’t even want to face him.

  “Here, lass. Drink this.” Lucas sat down on the couch beside her and held out a steaming mug of tea. “Black cohash. Good for stomach upset.”

  Trembling, she reached out and he placed the cup in her hand and wrapped his over hers. His hands were warm and strong and Sara felt energy effusing through them, sweeping over her like a gentle breeze. Her nerves steadied and she took a sip of tea.

  “How did you know about cohash?” she asked.

  “It’s an old medieval remedy, isn’t it? Something that maybe Nimue would have used in King Arthur’s days?”

  Beside her shoulder, the faerie stilled and stared at him. Sara didn’t notice for Lucas still embraced her hands and the warm, fuzzy feeling was quickly turning into something more like flaming heat. Heat that pricked at her nipples and seared through her belly and kindled a throbbing between her legs. Maybe something in her face gave away her lecherous thoughts, for Lucas suddenly dropped his hands.

  “You’ve got quite a collection of unusual herbs,” he said.

  What to tell him? She could just about imagine his reaction if she told him she was a practicing witch. There were few people who understood white witches followed the Goddess way and didn’t go around casting spells or curses.

  “I’m into holistic healing,” she said. “I prefer natural remedies to drugs.” He lifted an eyebrow, but remained silent and Sara prayed that he hadn’t found the baneful packets. They were only used for protection and sometimes, clairvoyance, although that wasn’t really her thing. The vision in the cup two nights ago had been enough.

  “Interesting décor, too,” he said as he got up and moved across the room to study a painting over the fireplace. The setting was a lush, grassy hill dotted with grazing sheep and resting dogs. A dove sat in the single hawthorn tree that stood at the base of the hill, almost lost in the snowy flowers. A circle of standing stones crowned the summit. Inside that circle a woman stood, clad in a simple, sleeveless gown of white, a

  small golden sickle hanging from a silver belt. Her bright red hair cascaded down her back and her arms were raised in supplication.

  Lucas turned to Sara questioningly. “Brighid,” she said. “Goddess of Eire.”

  He turned back to the painting. “Aye. It looks verra like her.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He seemed to give himself a little shake and then he crossed the room to sit in a chair close to the sofa. “One of my ancestors had a likeness of her,” he said. “She is the Goddess of the Highlands, too.”

  “Is”, not “was”. Interesting. “The Christians even adopted her as St. Brigit, the midwife to the Virgin,” Sara said and watched for a reaction. “When they couldn’t eradicate pagan beliefs, they simply converted them into Christian practices, like they did with Samhain and All Saints Day or Eostre and Easter.”

  Lucas glanced again at the picture. “The important thing is that she’s remembered, don’t you think?”

  All Goddesses are One. Sara took another sip of tea. “I suppose so.”

  He looked around the room and Sara suddenly wondered if he’d recognized any the symbology spread about. None of her Three Losers had. On the side wall, encased in a silver frame were three pictures of the moon in its waxing, full, and waning cycles against a night sky. Maiden, mother, crone. Behind her and above the sofa was an intricate wooden carving of vines and roses, signifying the blending of the masculine and feminine elements of the Blood Royal. A figurine of Venus, holding the five pointed morning and evening star in her hand, stood on the coffee table. And, on the fourth wall, a painting of gypsies gathered around a night fire, the wagons behind them, while a girl with long black hair danced for them, her skirts swirling above bare feet.

  Lucas pointed at the picture and smiled. “That looks like you. St. Sara is the patron saint of the gypsies. Are you named for her?”

  She stared at him, wondering if he really did understand what he saw. The darker-skinned Sara that Mary Magdalene brought with her to the south of France had been her daughter and the Rom were indeed descendents. And they were her ancestors.

  “Actually, I was.” She noticed a fleeting look of surprise in his golden eyes and wondered what he’d think if he saw the Black Madonna that was in her bedroom. Thoughts of him actually being in her bedroom—and naked in her bed with maybe just a tiny bit of sheet covering him—caused all the butterflies to start fluttering again, not to mention an anticipatory tingle that she was beginning to identify as sheer lust when it came to thinking about the man. Better stay focused. Think about Madonna—not the current Material Girl—although the statute in her room didn’t have anything to with the Virgin Mary, but spoke of an entirely different bloodline. My bloodline. But how much can I tell him? Be safe. Keep it casual.

  “My mother always admired the gypsies. Their freedom to roam and their closeness of family.”

  “I can understand that,” Lucas said. “Do your parents live nearby?”

  “No. They were both killed in a car accident when I was eighteen.”

  Lucas got up and moved beside her on the couch. “I’m sorry to hear—” he started to say when the doorbell rang. Then, “Do you want me to get that?”

  “I’ll do it, thanks. I’m feeling better.” She went to the door and opened it. “Michael! What are you doing here?” Had he been that serious about tracking Caldwell and Lucas down?

  “I called Mr. Smith,” he said as he stepped into the living room, “but he said you’d gone home.” He stopped at the sight of Lucas sprawled on the sofa, the blanket in a heap beside him. “Am I interrupting something?”

  I wish. She felt herself blush, even though nothing had been going on other than in her mind. “No. I just got ill at lunch and Lucas drove me home.”

  Lucas came forward and extended his hand. “Lucas Ramsey. And you are?”

  “Michael McCain,” the warlock answered as they shook hands, but his dark eyes scrutinized Lucas.

  “He runs the agency for me,” Sara said quickly as the two men stared down each other. “So what brings you here? Trouble with one of the temps?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing wrong there, but I’v
e got bad news.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you’d better sit down,” Michael answered and took her arm to steer her toward the sofa and sat down with her, only to find Lucas already in place on the other side of Sara. His eyes widened a little.

  Even Sara wondered how Lucas had moved so fast. But Michael’s serious expression took precedent. “What?” she asked again.

  “It’s Professor MacDonald. He’s dead.”

  Sara gasped. The poor old man had been in rather frail health, but he had seemed okay when she left him on Friday. “How? Did he fall? Have a heart attack?”

  Michael fidgeted and looked away. Then he took a deep breath and turned back. “He was shot. Multiple times.”

  She felt the blood draining from her face as the room swirled and then Lucas was holding her head down, a steady hand on her neck.

  “Breathe deep,” he said.

  She struggled not to hyperventilate and slowly sat up. Lucas fingers lightly massaged her shoulder and, for once, she felt only comforted by his touch.

  With a slight glare at him, Michael picked up her hand. “The place was ransacked. Whoever did it was looking for something.”

  A slow dread began to build, like a piece of molten lava in her stomach. She whispered, “The papers?”

  “I think so,” Michael answered. “Nothing seemed to be missing. All his antiques were still there. His wallet was on the floor, the money still in it.”

  The lump hardened in her stomach. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t taken the papers to him, he’d still be alive. Or if I’d let him keep a copy—he was so thrilled to read the manuscript—now I’ve killed him.”

  “Ye dinna,” Lucas said, smoothing her hair back from her face. “The person who did this would have killed him anyway.”

  “You know who did this?” Sara asked as tears welled in her eyes.

  “I think I know who ordered it.”

  “Maybe someone who doesn’t want anyone else to know what the document said,” Michael replied. “Just where were you Friday night?”