by Joy Nash
His backpack and guitar were strapped into panniers. Straddling the soft leather seat, he was just about to gun the motor when his cell rang.
“Bloody, bloody hell,” he muttered. He snapped the phone open. “I’m busy, Mum.”
A sound of pure disbelief puffed through the earpiece. “Too busy for your own mother? I don’t think so, Mackie.”
He gritted his teeth. Damn, he hated when she called him that.
“I hope you’re on your way here,” she added.
“I’m not,” he informed her tersely. “Something’s come up. I’ll call you back later.”
“But—”
“Bye, Mum.” He shut the phone and shoved it back on his belt clip. A few seconds later, he was speeding toward Folkestone.
He left the Norton in the tunnel car park,veiled himself with a simple look-away spell,and hopped on the back of one of the passenger shuttles. The southbound span was solid,but he found what he was looking for midway through the return trip on the northbound side. A breach in the tunnel lining. It looked new. No water seeped through the crack—only the stench of rotted garbage and dung.
Damn those human engineers. They’d constructed their long-coveted underground link between Britain and France with no thought of the magical consequences. They’d dug too close to Uffern. Now the Unseelies,caged for seven centuries,had escaped. Mac didn’t believe for a minute that they’d done it on their own. Unseelies were brutal,but stupid. No,someone had helped them out. But who?
He sealed the rift. Too little, too late. How many of the things had escaped? A dozen or so, he could handle. Hundreds—or, gods forbid—a thousand, well, that was another matter entirely. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If there were thousands of the creatures, what the bloody hell was he going to do?
Christine woke with the bulky arm of a softly snoring Immortal Warrior draped over her naked body. For a moment, she lay still, clinging to the memories of the night before. Kalen’s lovemaking had been…well, she didn’t have a word for it. Incredible, multiplied by awesome, multiplied by so very, very good.
But now it was the morning after, and doubts and self-recriminations were scurrying across her afterglow like dark, furtive spiders.
What in heaven’s name had she done? Jumping into bed with Kalen had not been a good idea. For one thing, it wasn’t why she’d come to Scotland. Her mission was to gain Kalen’s aid in the battle against Tain, and she’d done exactly nothing to move the Immortal’s inclinations in that direction. For another, she hadn’t just had sex with Kalen, she’d let him have everything. There wasn’t a part of her body or her soul she hadn’t let him touch. How was she ever going to face him once he woke up?
She needed some distance—now. But with his muscular arm pinning her to the mattress, that was easier said than done. Cautiously, she raised her head and looked around the room. The candles in the iron stand were all gutted. The light filtering through the windows told her dawn was long gone. Kalen’s body took up an amazing percentage of the huge bed. She lay very close to one edge—another few inches and she would drop over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. Her frayed emotions were even closer to a different kind of edge.
She took inventory of her body. Her thighs and back were sore. Kalen’s night beard had left abrasions on her shoulder; a love bite stung the upper curve of her breast. No doubt she had bruises on her hipbones, where he’d gripped her so tightly as he poured himself inside her. Her soul was similarly bruised. She felt raw, pulled open, exposed. Uncertain. But at the same time, a sense of vitality lifted her. She recognized a spark of Kalen’s Immortal essence, bolstering her human soul.
He shifted in his sleep,rolling more fully onto his stomach. She froze,holding her breath as his arm slid down her torso, his forearm brushing her sex. She stifled a groan as a jolt of desire flashed through her. Despite her conviction she’d done the wrong thing,despite the soreness in her muscles and the bruises on her skin,she wanted him again. Now.
This was not good.
She had to get out—away from his touch, preferably away from the sight of his large, unclothed body. She had to think clearly, figure out what step to take next.
She eased out from under his arm, slipping over the edge of the bed and onto the thick rug, wincing at the twinge her contortions brought to her muscles. She froze in a half crouch, heart pounding when he stirred and muttered. For an instant she thought she’d been found out. Then he flopped over onto his back and settled back into a soundless sleep.
She straightened and stood still for a moment, looking down at him. Even when he was unconscious, his power was evident. Not one soft line alleviated his harsh features. Dark stubble peppered his jaw, accentuating its uncompromising forward jut. His brows were heavy and slanted in a slight frown, as if he were dreaming of something unpleasant. Even his long, thick eyelashes, dusky black against his olive complexion, lent him no innocence. How could they? He was nearly three thousand years old. Any innocence he’d once had was long gone. He’d seen more bloodshed—had caused more bloodshed—than Christine could begin to comprehend.
There were no scars to tell the tale, however. His tawny skin was perfect, as smooth and unmarked as a young man’s. No doubt another effect of his Immortal magic.
He was so powerful, so vital. Possessed so much magic. Surely, surely, when Kalen truly realized the grave danger the human race was facing, he would consent to use that power for the good of humanity.
A shiver passed through her. She rubbed her arms. Kalen’s bedroom was chilly. The fire had gone out, and other than his large body, there didn’t seem to be another source of heat. No radiators, no vents, no electric space heaters. Nothing.
She searched the floor for her pants, but found them ripped beyond repair. Ditto for her panties. And her sweater and shirt were lying in a valley near Inverness. Damn. She’d have to pilfer something of Kalen’s.
Softly, keeping one eye on his sleeping form, she padded across the carpet to the ornate wardrobe. She barely recognized her reflection in the mirrored door. Her skin was flushed, practically glowing. Her lips were swollen and there was that hickey on her beast. Her hair was a wild, sexy mess. The thought of Kalen’s reverent expression as he’d played with it sent heat rushing to her face. With a grimace, she untangled it enough to form a tight braid. Her fastener was long gone, but she managed to wrap a thinner strand of hair around the end of the braid to keep it from unraveling.
She opened the wardrobe. Inside hung an incongruous mix of modern and old-fashioned men’s clothing. There were flowing white shirts, some with lace on the cuffs. A dozen modern kilts and a number of old-style tartan plaids, the kind a man just wrapped around his body and belted. In between those hung a number of twenty-first-century business suits, along with shirts and ties. There were belts, old and new. Shoes—modern hand-tooled leather, and quaint, older ones sporting shiny buckles.
Unfortunately, there were no T-shirts or sweatpants. Or even jeans or golf shirts. She decided on one of the old-fashioned shirts, done up at the neck with laces instead of buttons. It hung to her knees. The sleeves were ridiculously long, but she managed to roll them to an appropriate length. She grabbed a tartan sash and looped it twice around her waist before tying it in a tight knot.
Decently covered at last,she tiptoed across the room, pausing only once to gaze at Kalen’s slumbering form. With a tight feeling in her chest,she let herself out the door.
The passageway wasn’t as dark as it had been the night before—windows at either end let in a fair amount of light. She went to the closest one and found it provided a view over a wide courtyard. The battlements and the mist above the sea formed an eerie backdrop. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, but she could see rain clouds aligned in the distance, as if they’d come up against some invisible barrier. Kalen’s wards were impressive, to say the least.
Turning,she started the long trek down the corridor, pausing to ease open some of the closed doors she’d seen the night before.
They were unused bedchambers,the furniture draped with white sheets. Did Kalen live alone? It didn’t seem likely. A home this large had to have an army of servants.
She found a small room she supposed was a bathroom, though it didn’t look like any bathroom she’d ever seen. The toilet was carved from stone. A small alcove contained a waist-high table with a pitcher of water and a bowl for washing. A neat stack of linen towels lay to one side. To her surprise, the water in the pitcher was warm. Magic? Or had someone refreshed it recently?
It wasn’t exactly the hot shower she craved, but she made do. When she was done, she poured clean water into the bowl and traced a rune on the wet surface. Kenaz. Vision. She had to contact Amber.
After seven tries, she gave up in frustration. The water remained lifeless, showing not even the faintest image. There some kind of magical interference or counterspell at work. Kalen’s doing, she was sure.
With a sigh, she continued down the corridor to the stairway she’d climbed with Kalen the night before. The straight stair descended to the great hall, but another stair, a narrow and twisted spiral, continued on to an upper level. Up or down? She’d already been down, so she might as well try up. The treads were cool and smooth under her bare feet.
The spiral ended in a single large room with a high, peaked ceiling. It had to be the upper level of the tower she’d seen from the battlement the night before. Clerestory windows, faceted with dozens of diamond glass panes, admitted a clear, strong light.
There were no shrouds here, no sign of disuse. This was another gallery room, adorned with statues, paintings, and rare manuscripts. Each piece was professionally displayed, as it would have been in the finest museum. Christine advanced slowly, unable to quite believe her eyes. Unlike the artwork in Kalen’s bedroom, the pieces in this tower room were united by a single theme.
Each one depicted an act of love in exquisite,graphic detail.
Kalen woke alone. And for the first time in almost three thousand years, he wasn’t happy about it.
He shoved himself to a sitting position, cursing under his breath. Christine’s unique scent, a combination of sea mist and moss roses, lingered in the air, on the bedding, on his skin. The woman herself, however, was nowhere to be found.
For a brief moment, something very much like grief assaulted him. He felt as though he’d lost something precious. But that was absurd. Christine wasn’t gone—there was no way for her to leave the island without his knowledge and permission. If he wanted to see her again—have her again—he only needed to track her down.
And he did want her again. Soon. His phallus rose at the thought. The lovemaking they’d shared the night before had been exceptional. In fact, he couldn’t remember sex ever being so fulfilling. The experience had been wholly unique. And for a man who’d lived three millennia, novelty didn’t come along every day.
Never in his life had any female—human or magical—satisfied him so completely. Afterward, he’d fallen into the deepest sleep he’d had in a long, long time. Despite his high-handed maneuver in ordering her into his bed, in the end she’d not only surrendered, but surrendered sweetly and completely. She’d laid herself open, denying him nothing, giving him everything she was.
He’d tasted her essence. Her unique magic that sprang from the power of the earth’s waters. He’d discovered her power was intimately linked to her sexuality—no doubt it was this handicap that had thrown her into his arms during her vision. She couldn’t separate the deeper aspects of magic and her sexual response. Her magic was sex magic, like Leanna’s was.
The thought brought him up short. He considered Christine’s magic with new interest. On the surface, her magic wasn’t Leanna’s brand of sex magic. Leanna’s power lay in shock and intensity, like an explosion of fireworks. Christine’s power was deep and abiding, silent as the inner currents of the sea. Leanna acted upon her lovers, sending sparks of artistic inspiration onto the tinder of their yearning souls. In contrast, Christine had drawn him into her complete embrace. Made him yearn to be the giver in their exchange.
He saw her again in his mind’s eye, lying naked atop the rumpled silk coverlet, clothed with nothing but her hair. Abruptly, he sat up, kicking the same coverlet free of his legs. He rose, scooping his kilt from the carpet and belting it at his waist. He spied Christine’s jeans lying in a heap. Absently, he wadded them into a ball and tossed them into the fireplace, lifting his hand to cause a smoldering coal to ignite the denim. He watched with satisfaction as the flames fed on the offensive garment. After a moment’s thought, he found her ruined panties and added them to the blaze.
He doubted she was wandering his castle nude, however. The door to his wardrobe was ajar; she must have found something inside to wear. The thought of her small form swallowed up in his clothes brought a smile to his lips. He shaved quickly, scraping his night beard from this chin and neck with a straight razor. Pulling a clean shirt from the wardrobe, he donned it, belting it with his kilt.
As he tied the shirt’s laces, his gaze lingered on the slight indentation on the bed left by Christine’s small body. Moving to the mattress, he ran his hand down the length of it. Her essence lingered on the bedding like an expensive perfume. Kalen drew it into his lungs.
A strange sense of restlessness came over him. The feeling was similar to the artistic impulses that came to him after bedding Leanna. Christine’s magic, he realized. His heartbeat accelerated. Excitement gripped him. His fingers itched for pencil and paper. He didn’t keep drawing supplies in his bedroom—he did not, after all, entertain Leanna here. But the obsession that gripped him wouldn’t permit him to make the long trek to the library. Striding to his writing desk, he snatched a sheet of vellum from a folio. Spreading it flat on the blotter, he uncapped the inkwell and took up a pen.
The urge to create, to form something of beauty from nothing more than pure imagination, worked its way through his veins until every cell in his body demanded he act. Still, for a moment, he hesitated. For the past ten years he’d had Leanna’s magic to bolster him. He’d been convinced he needed her.
The artistic impulse wouldn’t let him turn away. He might fail, as he invariably did after bedding Leanna, but he had to try. Hardly daring to hope, he held his breath as the tip of the pen touched the pristine vellum. His first line flowed.
It was a curving,sensuous stroke,wholly beautiful. But he’d created beautiful lines often enough in the past. Alone, it meant nothing. But merged with other,equally inspired lines,it could become so much more. His spark of inspiration flared. He reached for it,fully expecting it to flit away before he could capture it. It was always so hard to grasp Leanna’s inspiration—her power was intense,but fleeting. Only the most talented—or most desperate—of artists could claim it.
Christine’s magic, however, did not retreat. Like her, it wrapped him in soft, welcoming arms. The deeper he dove inside it, the more securely it flowed around him.
A drawing emerged under his hand. A woman’s eyes. Slender nose, pouting lips. Dark hair cascading over bare skin. She lay atop silken, tousled bedclothes, her long hair a tantalizing curtain, concealing the tips of her breasts and brushing the soft curve of her stomach.
His pen passed over the delicate line of her shoulders, the curve of her hip. By the time he was done, he was breathing heavily and the bone handle of the pen had cracked under the pressure of his grip. His heart pounded, his stomach twisted. He stared at the scrap of vellum, the lines he’d rendered, committing the image to memory. Then he closed his eyes and steadied himself with a deep breath.
He couldn’t be certain that when the magical inspiration passed, the reality of what he’d drawn would match his artistic revelation. When he created, he existed within a dream. Invariably, when he woke, he discovered his creation was a pale echo of his vision. He didn’t dare hope this time would be different.
Drawing a deep breath, he opened his eyes. For a long moment, he did nothing but stare at what he had wrought.
Then his
throat grew tight. His hand started to shake. He blinked, trying to clear the wash of moisture stinging his eyes. His drawing was simple, yes. Just a few lines rendered in black ink. And yet…it was…perfect.
The subject was Christine. Her reclining figure exuded sensuality,but at the same time,aching innocence. Her eyes held that hint of self-consciousness he found so enticing. The expression on her face was one of wonder,and of giving. The corners of her lips were turned up ever so slightly,as if she were contemplating some secret Kalen would never know.
He stood, his head bent for a long moment, unable to wrench his eyes from his creation. Finally he turned, cursed, and paced a few feet away. Raked a trembling hand through his hair. Turned abruptly, striding back to the desk to stare once more.
Kalen prided himself on his ability to recognize fine art. His extensive collection included not only known masters, but works by obscure geniuses who’d not had the good fortune to attract wealthy patrons. He respected true talent, abhorred mediocrity. He subjected his own work to the same unforgiving scrutiny. He was well aware that his work was passable, perhaps even good, but that wasn’t enough. He longed to create a masterpiece worthy to hang between Buonarroti and da Vinci.
And now he had.
By all the gods in Annwyn. Christine had caused this. He had no doubt of it. In one night, she’d given him what ten years with Leanna had not.
He started for the door.
He had to find her.
The ancient Roman urn was almost tall as Christine, but it had survived the centuries with surprisingly few cracks. Elevated on an elegant marble pedestal, its rim hovered a good foot over her head. Which put the human figures on its surface directly at eye level.