The Immortals I_Lucas

by Cynthia Breeding

  Lucas nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, then. Wouldn’t it make sense to start researching churches in the U.S. that might have been dedicated to Mary Magdalene? How much higher can a rose climb than to become a saint?”

  “You may have something there,” Lucas said with a hint of admiration.

  Sara nodded. “And Mr. Smith has a vast collection of stuff related to the Magdalene. He got hooked when he read Holy Blood, Holy Grail.” When Lucas raised an eyebrow questioningly, she shrugged. “My boss has eclectic tastes. This one appealed to him because, as he said, ‘Who else but the Catholic church could pull off casting a woman first as a whore and then making her a saint?’ He even has copies of various paintings done of her. Maybe if we could trace one of them to an actual church here in America or ones that have black Madonnas like they do in Europe— Oh!” She grimaced and rubbed her left temple as the sudden pain struck.

  Lucas was beside her in an instant, a steadying arm around her shoulder, the fingers of his other hand already gently stroking her forehead, easing the pressure.

  “Aye, lass. The channeling gets to be too much, I ken. Ye just relax now. There’ll be plenty of time to sort through all this once we get back to Texas.”

  She listened to the deep rumble of that beautiful brogue. She could keep this platonic. She really could. But just for one small second, she wanted to be closer to him. It would mean nothing really. Really. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  “That feels so good.”

  For a moment, she felt him hesitate and then he tightened his grip ever so slightly around her shoulders. Just enough to press her breasts softly against his chest.

  This was strictly one friend comforting another. That’s all it was. Really.

  * * * *

  Michael was waiting at the DFW baggage claim when they landed. The man was getting to be a real pest, Lucas thought as he watched him hug Sara. The entire flight home he’d warred with himself, remembering the lush fullness of her breasts as he held her and reminding himself that it was as dangerous for her as it was for him to get physically involved. The wolf could only be kept in check while Lucas controlled his own emotions. And he’d told her —by the Dagda, he wished they hadn’t been interrupted until he’d at least had time to suckle one of those tight nipples or dip his fingers into her hot, wet well and then slide them along her cleft and give her at least some hand pleasure—that he wouldn’t let that happen again. And he couldn’t.

  “I’ll take you home,” Michael said and reached for her bag.

  Lucas picked it up first. “That won’t be necessary. I can take her home.”

  For a moment, the other man studied him and Lucas got the distinct impression that those dark eyes were delving deeper into his psyche that was necessary. He brought his shields up with force and the corner of Michael’s mouth quirked up before he turned back to Sara. There was some kind of invisible power there, but Lucas couldn’t determine if it was for good or bad.

  “Brianna had a…an “occurrence” yesterday,” Michael said carefully and Lucas wondered what kind of code he was speaking in for Sara immediately alerted to it as his wolf would have done.

  “Is she all right?” Sara asked.

  Michael looked troubled. “Not sure. You know she sometimes gets spells…” He glanced at Lucas and then back to Sara. “She’ll feel faint and needs to rest. But this time, she got sick.”

  “You were there?”

  He shook his head. “Morgan was with her. She’s the one who called me. Seems like they were having tea.”

  Tea? Another code maybe? “Who’s Brianna?” Lucas watched as Sara exchanged a quick glance with Michael.

  “My best friend,” Sara answered and reached for the suitcase that Lucas was still holding. “I really need to go and see her. I’ll come by the mansion early tomorrow morning and we can start that research.”

  Reluctantly, he released the bag. She was obviously in distress. The last thing he wanted to see was Michael put an arm around her shoulders. Hell, he’d been comforting her himself just yesterday and it irked him to see another man doing it now. And he definitely did not like the look of triumph on the guy’s face as they walked away.

  Lucas glanced at his wristwatch and then pulled out his cell and dialed Gavin’s number. It would be dark in London by now. The vampire answered on the first ring.

  Briefly, he told him what had happened in Nova Scotia and asked him to start the subtle unlayering of protection that Balor always kept around him. Fangs—vampire or wolf—next to the jugular could bring amazing breaches in confidentiality. He could hear the grin in Gavin’s voice as he responded. Nothing like a good hunt and release.

  “Just one more thing,” Lucas added.

  “Sure. What?”

  “See what you can find on an American named Michael McCain. Let’s make sure he isn’t one of us.”

  * * * *

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Sara asked. Brianna’s face was still pale and her normally energetic friend was propped up in a recliner in her home.

  “I think so,” Brianna answered. “I guess the Sight was a little too strong this time.” She shivered a little.

  Sara leaned forward from the sofa. “You’re sure the warrior you saw was wearing an eye patch?”

  Brianna pulled the cardigan she was wearing closer, although the room wasn’t cold. “Yes. Dressed in black. Lightening bolts everywhere.”

  “The same image I saw in the cup,” Sara said softly and sat back. Who was the man? She recalled seeing someone like him—he looked like a pirate—at the auction. Could it be the same one? And why was he dressed as a medieval warrior?

  “Tell her the rest,” Michael urged.

  “There’s more?”

  Brianna looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Sometimes the visions are just symbolic, like the Tarot cards.”

  “And sometimes they’d not.” Sara wasn’t blessed—or cursed—with the Sight, but she knew the strong threads of truth that were woven with her own intuition. And she remembered the unusual scrying at the full moon. If this image had come to two different people, it was important. “Tell me.”

  “You were in it.” Her friend’s voice dropped almost to a whisper as if she were afraid someone was listening. “Your hair was cut short, and you were tied to a stake. There were wood faggots all around you and the man—Goddess, I can still smell the evil stench!—was crackling that lightening all around you, playing with the bolts, taunting you with setting the kindling on fire.”

  The fine hair on Sara’s arms rose as she felt the heat of sudden flames scorching her face and her arms, singeing her hair, setting her thin shift ablaze… She coughed on the thick fumes of smoke and gasped for air.

  “Snap out of it!” Michael gave her a shake, a look of alarm on his face. “Come back to us!”

  Slowly, the haze cleared and Sara found herself inside the circle of her friends’ linked arms as they sat on either side of her on the sofa. She could feel the soothing white energy permeating the air inside their protection. She shuddered.

  “It was so real…and so ancient. Like I was living in another time period.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brianna said as they broke the link and everyone sat back. “I don’t know what it means, but it affected me the same way. Thank the Goddess Morgan was here when it happened. She called Michael.”

  Sara’s head cleared a little. “Why was she here? Of all the Circle, you and I are the ones she likes least.”

  “Only because Michael is our friend and Morgan envies that,” Brianna said with a smile as she watched Michael roll his eyes. “She did seem disappointed when you weren’t here.” Brianna turned back to Sara. “She brought over a new herbal blend of tea to try. She said she’d found in a Mexican curio shop over on the West Side. It was good. It smelled a little like new-mown hay.”

  Woodrowel? It was the only herb Sara knew of that smelled like that and it had a very special effect. She grinned at Michael who looked sudd
enly wary.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Did Morgan offer you any tea when you got here?” she asked.

  “Yeah, she did. I was more concerned over Brianna though. Why?”

  Sara’s grin widened. “I’d be real careful of what I drank around Morgan, if I were you.”

  He looked exasperated. “Don’t tell me she tried to poison Brianna!”

  “No. Well, maybe just enough to make her ill,” Sara said, sobering at the thought.

  “Why would she want to do that?” Brianna asked. “She’s a part of the Circle!”

  “You said she was disappointed when Michael wasn’t here?” She looked at him. “Were you supposed to be here?”

  He nodded. “Don’t you remember us arranging the meeting before we worked the ritual at the full moon? You were going to fill us in on what was going on with the document. Then, when you said you were going out of town, I called Bri and cancelled.”

  “What does that have to do with my getting ill?” Brianna asked. “Morgan and I both drank the same tea.”

  “Did you watch Morgan prepare it?” Sara asked instead.

  “No. I stayed in the living room while she was in the kitchen. Why?”

  “So many questions. Can you get to the point?” Michael interjected.

  “Okay. Here’s what I think happened. Morgan was expecting to find you. When you weren’t here, she added a little something—maybe mandrake or foxglove—“

  “Just what the average witch carries around,” Michael said wryly.

  Sara ignored him. “We all have those stashed in our cupboards as counter-actions, if need be.” She looked at Brianna. “Right?” At her friend’s nod, she continued, “—to Bri’s cup, but not her own. Then, when Bri got ill, she called you to get you over here.”

  “I’ll admit that the woman has tried cornering me a few times,” Michael said, “but I’ve always turned her down. Why would she resort to such drastic measures to get me over here? Like I’m going to change my mind?”

  “You might have if you’d drunk the tea,” Sara said mischievously. “Woodrowel is an aphrodisiac.”

  Michael stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am and I suspect Morgan is, too,” Sara answered and then remembered

  something else. She turned to Brianna. “Woodrowel is also a hypnotic. With your natural gift of Sight, it might have triggered the vision you had. Did you feel yourself go into a trance?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Brianna answered and laid her hand over Sara’s. “I’m sorry. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Maybe. But the same black warrior throwing lightening bolts wasn’t a good omen in Sara’s book. And in Bri’s vision, the golden-haired Templar knight hadn’t even ridden to the rescue.

  Golden, tawny hair. An image of the half-naked Lucas bursting into her hotel room the night Baylor broke in flashed through her mind. Strangely, it was not the comforting embrace that turned passionate that held her attention now. The cross that he had been wearing on his broad chest did. A Templar cross with its fleur-de-lei ends. Why hadn’t she recognized it before?

  And the Templar shield that was sold at the auction had been in her vision as well. Her third-eye chakra began to spin, causing the familiar dull pain as it opened to the astral plane, but all she could detect was pale swirling mists. The time had not come to reveal what she needed to know, but somehow, she had the feeling that Lucas Ramsey was not exactly what he said he was.

  * * * *

  Baylor bit off the end of his illegal Cuban cigar and spit it out on the floor. Across the room, Caldwell poured two single-malts from the mini-bar. The man had been careful not to gloat in front of him. Baylor had to give him that.

  Damn, but he hated losing. Flying all that distance to Canada in one of those cramped express jets without food or alcohol available, let alone the First Class service that he was used to, had already put him into a rage. Slowly strangling a few rabbits, listening to their frightened squeals and fettering the red full-tailed vixen to a tree as he butchered her young kits while waiting for Ramsey and the woman to show up in Nova Scotia had barely taken the edge off.

  He knew the jaunt out to Oak Island would prove worthless. But he had fully expected to pick the bitch’s room lock and walk out with that black briefcase she carried with no problem.

  He had, after all, lured Ramsey out. Let his scent linger just close enough to the dining room that the damn Templar would do the Change and come looking for him. That part had worked and losing his scent in the ocean hadn’t been hard, but the water had been cold as a nun’s tits, even to his immortal body. And the Change back should have had the Templar in a deep sleep for hours. He had counted on that and allowed himself several hours of diverted pleasure repeatedly raping a teenager who was flouting herself and wearing too much make-up before he’d gone to the hotel.

  The damn purse hadn’t been there. He’d moved toward the bed to see if she had it under the pillow, but she must have detected him in her sleep.

  Which meant she had more power than he cared to think about.

  “What did you find out from Morgan?” he asked as he accepted the drink Caldwell handled him and motioned for the man to be seated.

  Caldwell smiled. “She’s a good screw.”

  No doubt. She’d made it abundantly clear to him in their brief meeting that she was willing to do anything—and here she had let her hand linger on the button of her blouse and given him a coy look—if he’d help her get what she wanted. If that type of woman expected to be successful in attaining that goal, they had to be good on the follow-through.

  He’d pried into her mind. Along with the usual riches and fame, there was also a man she wanted. Foolish mortals. Any time lust or love was at the top of their lists, Baylor could hold that over them. So he’d agreed to the money and fame part. She would be getting a call for a modeling contract tomorrow.

  “Maybe I’ll try her then,” he answered and was pleased to see a look of displeasure flit over Caldwell’s face. He made a mental note of it. “But I meant, have you found out anything about who this Sara Kincaid is?”

  Caldwell looked uncomfortable. “It’s a little weird.”

  “Try me.”

  “Morgan confided…” He paused to let the effect of the word sink in and Baylor gave him a small smile. “She confided that she was part of a circle of witches that went out on the full moon to worship some ancient goddess.”

  “And is Sara Kincaid a part of that group?”

  “Apparently she leads it,” Caldwell answered. “Probably a bunch of women who want to dance around naked under a full moon and get themselves all hot.” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll ask if I can attend. Having two or three of them do me at the same time might be a whole lot of fun.”

  Baylor hardly heard him. If this Kincaid bitch were a priestess—a real one from the Auld Days—it might explain why she had been so lucky in eluding him thus far.

  “Did Morgan mention which goddess, by any chance?”

  Caldwell looked at him oddly. “You don’t believe any of this stuff is real, do you? Maybe I should buy her a broom!”

  Baylor curbed his impatience with the man’s stupidity. Let him think witches flew about the night sky. He’d learned his lesson well at Camelot, seducing Arthur’s sister, Morgana. He hadn’t realized her power until she held his body paralyzed, all except for his cock, which she tortuously teased for hours, taking him to the brink, but not allowing him to come. Ironically, it had been the holier-than-thou Galahad who had accidentally interrupted her playtime, but Baylor had limped about in pain for a week before his erection would go down. He’d never made that mistake of underestimating a real witch again.

  It was better that mortals didn’t know how many kinds of super-naturals there were roaming about. Let them think werewolves and vampires were the stuff of fiction, that the elementals and the old goddesses and gods didn’t exist. Or that he had been one.

  “Which g
oddess?” he asked again.

  Caldwell frowned, thinking. “Brenda, or something like that.”

  Baylor tensed. It couldn’t be. “Do you mean Brighid?”

  “Yeah! That was it!” His face brightened. “I remember thinking about that old French actress, Bridget Bardot. Wonder if she’s still around?”

  He didn’t bother to answer. If the bitch were a true follower of Brighid, Baylor had his work cut out for him. Brighid—his own goddess granddaughter—had tossed him out of Avalon. He would have to exercise caution, something he rarely did. He also had an answer to a centuries old problem. Sara Kincaid would be his ultimate revenge.

  Chapter Eight

  When Sara arrived at the mansion the next morning, Lucas was already working at the computer in the study. Sunlight streaming in the window caught strands of tawny hair that dipped just past his collar and turned the hair to molten gold. The bronze tone of his skin made her think of a golden god again as she stepped through the doorway.

  He looked up at the sound of the door closing. “I’ve been Googling for churches of Mary Magdalene,” he said as he rubbed his neck. “There are thousands of links about her, but very few churches are actually named after her in America.”

  Sara peered over his shoulder at what he’d written on a notepad, trying not to let his clean, soap-and-leather male scent make her take leave of her own senses again. It took most of her will power not to finger the gold chain that was visible above his collar and pull the cross out. But her questions would have to wait.

  “Mary Magdalene Church of Divine Gnosis,” she read. “That sounds interesting.”

  “It’s on-line,” Lucas answered. “Hard to hide a spear in Cyberspace.”

  “What about this one?” she pointed to another entry, every nerve fiber aware of his closeness.

  “It’s an Orthodox mission church,” he replied. “They have temporary quarters in a Knights of Columbus hall in Fenton, Michigan. Again, not established enough for a spear to be hidden.”

  She looked at the rest of the short list. Nothing on the east coast that would indicate a “dawn” setting. Then she remembered something. “Let me have the keyboard,” she said.