The Awakening (Immortals)

by Joy Nash

  She halted, suddenly light-headed with the sexual feelings left over from her scrying spell. She steadied herself with a palm spread on a peeling stucco wall. She had to get hold of herself. Rome wasn’t safe at night—and stupid teenagers were the least of it. Vampires, zombies, ghosts, and demons lurked in every shadow. Christine could fight, but she’d rather avoid it. Especially now that she had a better idea where Kalen might be. She couldn’t risk getting herself killed before she found him.

  Stay aware. Avoid confrontation. Get home in one piece. She couldn’t afford to screw up. She had a job to do. A journey to make. Kalen, Immortal Warrior, was in Scotland. At least, she thought he was. She’d seen a rocky island, a gray sea, a stone castle. Rain. A tartan plaid. And his lover had spoken Gaelic.

  At the thought of the red-haired Sidhe, Christine’s stomach went sour. Angrily, she pushed her jealousy aside. She couldn’t afford to have irrational feelings distract her from the task at hand. Find Kalen and tell him about Tain. Convince him to travel to Seattle, where Amber and Adrian were assembling an army of humans and magical creatures dedicated to the Light.

  The most difficult step was surely the first one: finding Kalen. Once the Immortal knew of the grave threat to the human world, there was no doubt in Christine’s mind he’d put aside any…distractions…and join the fight.

  She pushed away from the supporting wall. Erotic need still pulsed between her thighs. She strived to ignore it. As if that were possible. Drawing a steadying breath, she chanted rune mysteries. Jera, Uraz. Hope, Strength. The throbbing faded.

  She concentrated on a burgeoning plan of action. She’d be on the first morning train traveling north from Rome to Britain. She’d sketch a picture of the castle from her vision; once she reached Scotland, she’d contact a group of Coven of Light witches based in Inverness. They were witches of only average power, but surely one of them could point her toward the castle. If necessary, she could scry again, but she really hoped she wouldn’t have to.

  The strap of her backpack bit into her shoulder—her scrying bowl wasn’t light. She adjusted the pack, her eyes scanning the street. It was late—past 2:00 a.m. Everything seemed quiet enough, but she didn’t trust it to stay that way. Shaking off the last remnants of her trance, she headed toward home.

  Her path took her past the front door of deLinea. The elite art gallery fronted on a secluded piazza. She was surprised to see the building’s second-story windows flooded with light—she’d forgotten a new show was launching tonight. A month ago, Jacques Artois had been a penniless sculptor waiting tables in a Paris café, his art unknown and unappreciated. By tomorrow he’d be the hottest of commodities. All because deLinea’s elusive, idiosyncratic owner—a billionaire investor known simply as “il direttore”—had plucked the struggling artist from obscurity and set him on modern art’s highest stage. Artois would be a millionaire by morning.

  The eleganti who could afford to make Artois’s fortune were definitely in attendance tonight. Ferarris and Lamborghinis flocked like brilliant swans around the piazza’s fountain. The gallery’s arched entrance was flanked by two men in black, unsubtly armed with automatic weapons. No doubt they had a formidable arsenal of magical defenses, too. You couldn’t be too careful these days.

  Safe from the evils of the night, the gallery’s rich patrons partied. A buzz of animated conversation wafted through the open upper-story windows. Laughter, excitement, exhilaration. And, of course, the music deLinea had made famous…

  Pulsing, haunting—a mixture of instrumental, techno and natural tones. Christine sighed as the melody washed over her. It was the most magical sound on the planet…the lilting harmony of the elusive Celtic musician Manannán.

  A slender woman and her tuxedoed escort glided in front of a window, then disappeared just as quickly beyond a wisp of lace curtain. Christine closed her eyes and allowed herself a brief fantasy. Dressed in indigo silk, she stood in the center of the party, the delicate stem of a champagne glass twirling lightly in her fingers. Her own watercolors graced the elegant easels…

  She exhaled. Nice try, but she couldn’t make the image stick. It was too far from reality. One glance at her wrinkled jeans and hiking boots was enough to clue her in. Who was she kidding? She was a nobody, an American vagabond who hawked watercolors on the sidewalk and could barely afford a new paintbrush. DeLinea’s sleek mahogany doors were closed to her. She should know—she’d tried often enough to get through them. The gallery manager had firmly shut the door in her face each time. No, il direttore was not in Rome. He was at his Paris, Prague, or London gallery. Si, il direttore handpicked each new artist. No, il direttore’s schedule did not permit a meeting.

  Christine’s obsession with the gallery had become a bitter lesson in futility. There’d been a time when she’d been sure her magic and talent would take her to the top of the European art world. All she had to do was work hard and make the necessary sacrifices. But that’d been when she and Shaun had just gotten together and his music career was soaring. Life had been bright; anything had seemed possible. Now…what did dreams matter? If the death creatures had their way, art and music would die along with the rest of the good in the world.

  She turned and trudged a tired path home, keeping a sharp eye out for foes. She breathed a prayer of relief when she arrived at the peeling door of her apartment house. She even smiled when Nero and Caligula, two strays who had taken to showing up on her doorstep for regular handouts, leaped out of the shadows, purring and weaving between her legs. She reached down and scratched behind Nero’s ears. Local legend claimed the souls of the ancient Roman emperors were reborn in the stray cats of Rome. The notion appealed to her.

  “Begging for breakfast so early?” she asked the former tyrants. “Andiamo, ragazzi. I guess I have enough for one last meal. But after tomorrow, you’re on your own again.” She scraped the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

  “I’ll be gone.”

  “Well.” Leanna leaned over Kalen’s shoulder, raking a long, red nail down his arm. “It’s not…bad.”

  Kalen sent her a sardonic glance. “Good enough to sell on the street, perhaps.” Crumpling the offending sketch in his fist, he threw it into the fire. “But not what it should be. Your magic must be off.”

  Her husky laugh conveyed her amusement. “There’s nothing wrong with my magic.” Straightening, she swirled her whiskey in its beveled glass. “My human lovers can’t thank me enough for my inspiration. Why, just last night, a certain young sculptor in Inverness showed his appreciation by—”

  “Spare me,” Kalen muttered, making for the sideboard. He poured himself three fingers of single malt—she had been into his Macallan—and drained it in one draught. The obscenely expensive liquid blazed a path down his throat to his stomach, spreading like fire in his veins. He glanced at the bottle. Definitely worth the investment.

  Leanna’s glass clinked on the sideboard. Kalen was aware of a slight tension in his shoulders as she came up behind him. The hard points of her nipples rubbed against his bare back.

  “Let’s try again,” she whispered.

  “No.” One failure per evening was more than enough.

  Leanna chuckled, fitting the length of her body against his spine and buttocks. He didn’t move, not even when her hands skimmed his hips. She reached for his phallus and discovered it soft. He really wasn’t interested.

  She jerked away. “Most men would jump at the chance to have me again.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “You’re not most artists, either.” When he made no reply to that, she went on. “In my experience, the greater a man’s talent, the more he wants to fuck. Take Mozart, for example. Now, he was a prize. At sixteen he could do the deed for hours, dash off a symphony or two, and come right back for more.”

  Her fingertips grazed Kalen’s buttock, a barely-there whisper of magical sensation. “Caravaggio? The man liked to screw as much as he liked to fight…and paint.” Her hand slipped around to
his stomach in a slide of tingling stars.

  “Leanna…” he warned.

  Her tone turned dreamy with reminiscence. “Byron? Now, there was a man who was always ready. Wrote Don Juan after a particularly brilliant shagging. And the Americans…all that energy! James Dean was down and dirty, Kurt Cobain would do it anywhere, but that Jim Morrison…” She sighed. “That last time in Paris was incroyable.”

  Her fingers danced between his legs. Kalen sucked in a breath as his shaft, against his wishes, started to lengthen.

  Leanna chuckled. “Even that Joplin bitch showed me a good time back in ’69, after her concert at the Albert Hall.…”

  Kalen snared her wrist. “I told you, Leanna. No.”

  Leanna huffed her annoyance. “Showing your age, Kalen?”

  He turned, putting some distance between them as he did so. He refilled his glass. “I’ve had enough for tonight.”

  She watched his eyes. “If that were true, you’d have drawn something magnificent. Not that piddling hack of a sketch.”

  His annoyance must have shown, because she scowled and continued her harangue. “Don’t heap your failures at my door, Kalen. I’m leannan-sidhe. If my muse’s magic hasn’t taken with you, it’s not my fault. My human lovers get what they want…and they give everything in return. Heart and soul…”

  “And life.”

  “Yes.” She crossed her arms. “And life. They give their lives for the sake of their art. What do you give?”

  “I can hardly give you my life.”

  She bit her lip. “No, but…”

  “I give you my Immortal essence. It feeds your own power. That should be enough.”

  “It’s not, apparently, or you would have gotten what you want by now.” She frowned. “You’re a special case, of course. I’ve never acted the muse to an Immortal before. If it’s any consolation, I don’t like this failure any more than you do.”

  He took a sip of his whiskey, wishing she would just go.

  “You know,” she said casually, “I’ve been giving this some thought.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I think I’ve come up with a solution.”

  Something in her tone made him glance up sharply. “How so?”

  She touched him again, stroking his hip, up and down, smiling a little when his cock jerked. “You could give me a child,” she murmured.

  “You’ve got to be joking.” Leanna wasn’t anyone’s idea of the motherly type.

  She scowled. “I’m serious. I want a child, Kalen. You could give me an Immortal one.”

  “I could impregnate you, yes.” Immortals controlled their reproductive capacities—if he wanted to create a child, he could do so by simply willing a woman to conceive as he made love to her. But in nearly three millennia, he’d never seriously considered it.

  “There’s no guarantee the child would be Immortal,” he told her. “There’s a small chance it would have a Sidhe soul.”

  “No. I’ve been studying conception spells. I’ve discovered an obscure one that ensures the babe will attract the most powerful aspects of its parents. If I cast it within one of the ancient circles, the magic of the stones will enhance its power. Our child’s immortality will be certain.”

  Kalen raised his brows. “And where did you find this spell?”

  Leanna waved a dismissive hand. “What does it matter? The point is, it will work. It’s a small request, Kalen, and nothing at all to you. You wouldn’t have to even see the child after it’s born.”

  A baby. To his surprise, the notion held a deep, visceral appeal. A child of his own flesh, one he would never have to bury.

  “And giving me a child would give you what you want,” Leanna continued. “Your masterpiece.”

  He met her gaze. “How could getting you with child do that?”

  Instead of answering, she took two languid steps and retrieved her glass from the sideboard. She brought it to her lips and sipped, then looked up with a frown. “You know, Kalen, it’s damned cold in here. And bloody dark besides. When are you going to bring some proper heat and electricity into this sodding castle?”

  Kalen plucked the glass from her hand and put it aside. “No evasions, Leanna. Answer me.”

  She extended her arm along the edge of the sideboard. One sensual leg slid forward. His gaze dropped before he could stop it; when he raised his eyes, her smile was smug.

  “Art requires surrender,” she said. “An artist must give up control of his soul—a true master is driven to sacrifice himself for his art. But you, my love, have never completely surrendered. Oh, I understand you can’t—your Immortal soul won’t allow itself to be sacrificed. But if you were to give a part of your soul to form a new life…” Her lashes swept downward. “The spark of that creation would spill into your art. I’m sure of it.”

  He stared. He felt the truth of her words, but didn’t trust her sincerity. Leanna was exceedingly vain about her flat stomach and small waist. He found it extremely hard to believe she’d ruin her figure to bear a child. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Kalen. You’re cruel. Why does any woman want a child?”

  “Come now, Leanna. You’re not precisely ‘any woman.’ ”

  She laughed. “Thank the combined population of Annwyn, Valhalla, and Olympus for that.”

  “That’s not an answer. Why?” He held up his hand as her mouth opened. “The truth, Leanna. Nothing else.”

  She shut her mouth and looked away. When she spoke, her habitual bravado was absent. “I want to give it to Niniane.”

  At last he began to understand. “You seek your mother’s approval.”

  Leanna scowled. “No. Not her approval. Her acknowledgment. It’s my due. You know how difficult it is for Sidhe women to conceive, how fragile our children are. Niniane will be overjoyed with an Immortal grandchild. She’ll welcome it in Annwyn.”

  “And welcome you as well?”

  Leanna’s gray eyes glinted like chips of pale ice. “I wouldn’t live in the same realm with that bitch. No, I only want her to admit to the Sidhe Council that I’m her daughter. I don’t have to tell you what that would do for my status.”

  He nodded. Sidhe society was extremely clannish and strictly regulated by rank. Despite Leanna’s powerful magic and Sidhe soul, her position was lowly. Her father had been human, a dirt-poor eighteenth-century Highlander whom Niniane, Queen of the Sidhe, had found amusing. She’d never expected his seed to take. As soon as the babe was born, Niniane had dumped it on its human relatives and fled.

  Unacknowledged, Leanna was able to associate mainly with other half-breed and outcast Sidhe. If Niniane were to claim her as her daughter, her position would rise dramatically.

  “An Immortal baby would benefit both of us,” she said.

  He regarded her seriously. He didn’t love Leanna, and she didn’t love him. But he did feel a reluctant sort of protectiveness toward her—he couldn’t help it. His essence was that of a guardian, after all. And an Immortal child, even one with Leanna as its mother, would be a treasure. He wouldn’t leave the babe to Niniane, that was certain. He and Niniane were friends of a sort—he’d once done the Sidhe Queen a great favor. She wouldn’t object to Kalen raising her grandchild.

  “I’ll give you a baby,” he said slowly, “under one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll have no lovers, human or otherwise, while you carry my child.”

  “Except you, of course,” she said coyly.

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, Kalen, thank you!” In a rare display of exuberance, Leanna flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. Her eyes flashed with excitement. “You’ll attend tonight’s tour to the stones. We’ll make love in the circle afterward.”

  Kalen disentangled himself from her embrace. “No. Absolutely not. You know how I feel about your tours, Leanna. I won’t be part of one.”

  “But, Kalen, you have to! The sex energy unleashed during the tour ramps up the pow
er of the circle. We’ll need every bit of that magic to be sure of the outcome.”

  It was a compelling argument, but there were lines Kalen just would not cross. Engaging in public sex was one of them.

  “I’ll beget our child in private or not at all.”

  Leanna pouted. For a moment he thought she would argue, but then she shrugged. “All I ask is that you attend the tour as a spectator. After everyone’s gone, we’ll make love inside the circle. Alone.”

  He hesitated. Attending one of Leanna’s Sidhe Sex Magic tours was beneath his dignity. But he supposed he could tolerate it for one night. It was, after all, for a good cause.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

  Travel was a freaking bitch these days.

  Christine’s train ground to a stop somewhere between Frankfurt and Paris. Trouble on the line. Again. Damn. She’d just finished her last bag of potato chips.

  She was sick of this. Two nights ago, a crude spell had exploded on the tracks near Verona. The next day, a pack of rabid werewolves attacked her train in the Austrian Alps near Innsbruck. Later that same evening, a power failure left Christine stranded in Munich. And now…she sighed. She didn’t want to know. She just hoped the conductor took care of it, and soon. She could have walked to Scotland more quickly.

  An hour later, a jerk of the train on the tracks indicated the problem had been dealt with. Twenty hours later, after a canceled train in Paris and a dark ride through the Channel Tunnel that left Christine feeling faintly ill, she arrived at London’s King’s Cross Station. Where finally, she encountered something good.

  It was raining.

  Pouring, actually. Hard. She sprinted down the concourse, all the frustrations of the last two days forgotten. Bursting out the doors leading to the street, she came to a halt and let the water soak her. It’d been months since she’d been in a deluge like this.