King of Avalon
Rise of the Elder Gods #2
Vivienne Savage
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Afterword
Other Books by Vivienne
About the Author
Prologue
Smoke tainted the air and filled it with the scent of rot and decay. To avoid sucking in the sour and acrid taste, King Arthur took shallow breaths while he crouched behind the cover of a dumpster. No matter where they went, with exception to the great wilderness and stretches of open space between cities, the Titans had left their mark in a brutal joint effort to stamp out humanity.
Across the ruined alley, Sir Lancelot signaled it was safe to cross with a quick hand gesture. Arthur tapped the two knights beside him and nodded with his chin. They moved together, keeping low and moving fast. Seconds after they ducked behind the wall, a giant made of stone and fire lumbered into view.
“Where’s Ares?” Arthur asked in a low mumble.
“You didn’t hear?” Lancelot replied after a short pause. The tense silence spoke volumes.
Arthur knew the words soon to follow before Lancelot uttered a word.
“I thought you already knew, or I’d have mentioned it earlier. Pazuzu took him down two days ago. I’m sorry.”
The news came like an arrow to the heart. After the death of Arthur’s parents, Ares had been the one to take him under his wing—quite literally. Yet another part of his family was stolen by the Titans. Anger churned in his gut.
“Get us to Merlin.”
What had once been London was nothing more than blasted buildings, cratered earth, and dried-up riverbeds. The human populace, those who had survived at least, had long ago fled for the country in a desperate bid to outrun the titans’ wrath. Arthur and his knights were the only ones foolish enough to risk the dangerous grounds. With nearly every dragon extinct and the shifters eradicated, no one else took on their enemies.
Some days he wondered why he bothered fighting at all in a losing battle. However, those moments never lasted long, the memory of his mother’s voice always pulling him from his deepest despair. Stars above, how he missed her.
Lancelot led them through a twisting maze that eventually ended at a small opening beneath what used to be someone’s home. One by one, the knights slithered through on their bellies, pulling their way forward through the dark. A single candle greeted them on the other side—the meager light cast flickering shadows across what had once been a cellar. Lancelot waved them forward through a narrow doorway. Steps led them down and finally into the light.
Arthur breathed deep, grateful for a break from smoke and ash. Here the air smelled of wet dirt and cold stone. He only allowed himself a brief moment before focusing his attention on his motley crew, and the map table they had all gathered around. Red pins, marks for dragon deaths, had been pushed into every country. Blue pins representing the various wizard and witch covens almost matched the dragons in number.
“The Livingston coven is gone,” Merlin said, his voice weary. The old sorcerer indeed looked his age now, withered and frail. “The Westbrooks are scattered and beyond reach.”
Every ally they had, they were losing, whether in Britain or across the sea in America. For every inch of ground they gained, they lost a mile, and he was so tired.
“What now, then? If we’re the last, what options do we have?”
“Warren Westbrook had enough time to deliver this to me before our line of contact failed.” Merlin held up a thin tome, its weathered cover bound in faded leather. He opened it with care, turning vellum pages covered in swirls of ink and unfamiliar scripts. Some of the glyphs shimmered in iridescent hues, and while Arthur didn’t understand them, those held a strange familiarity.
“What is it?” Lancelot asked.
“A powerful spell from the days when the fae still cooperated with human mages. The days before, they retreated to the Vale and no longer cared for meddling in mortal affairs. Magic such as this has been lost over the centuries. I have only the components for the single spell.”
Arthur didn’t dare to hope. “Will it destroy a Titan?”
Merlin looked up and met Arthur’s gaze. “No, it will not. However, it will allow you one more chance to do what we failed to do before. As a boy, you weren’t ready to lead this rebellion. As a man, you came into power too late to stop them. This is a way to rectify that.”
“Wouldn’t that mean—”
The thunderous quaking of the ground nearly shook the old wizard off balance, but Arthur caught him by the elbow and steadied him. Merlin had never been a frail fellow, but the long years of serving as the resistance’s advisor had aged him more than centuries of spellcraft.
“Yes. It does. And we must hurry.”
Before Lancelot and Arthur’s eyes, he set aside his staff and moved toward the open floor.
“I can only do this once. You must not fail, Arthur.”
The act of drawing the circle alone appeared to exhaust Merlin. He held the chalk between spindly fingers with swollen knuckles, and his face wrinkled with consternation. Neither interrupted him. Arthur still hadn’t accepted what their old friend and mentor expected of him.
It’s impossible.
With a groan, Merlin struggled to rise to his feet. Lancelot moved to help him, but he waved the knight away and retook his staff. One tap of its end against a rune on the floor sent a spark that ignited the entire circle. It glowed with eldritch power.
The world shook again. A desperate quake shuddered through the hidden chamber, and then a three-yard long fissure split across the ceiling.
“They’ve found us,” Merlin said, urging Arthur into the circle.
“You can’t be serious. I couldn’t defeat them now. How can I do it in the past? Why would anyone even believe me?”
“Make them believe you, Arthur. Be the king I know you can be. My other self will understand.”
Before the surprising news even had a chance to sink in, dirt and crumbling stone rained over their heads and shoulders. Arthur dodged a larger stone and drew his blade as the enormous hand of Gaia reached through, bringing the rancid smell of rotting vegetation and earth. He prepared to lunge with Ascalon to intercept her reach for Lancelot.
“You mustn’t leave the circle!” Merlin cried.
“But—”
“This is larger than us, Arthur.” With those words, Merlin raised both arms over his head; staff clutched in hand radiating golden light, then he thrust both forward. The force simultaneously struck and passed through Arthur. It shimmered through him and seized the magical circle in a triumphant display of sparks and arcing electrical bolts.
Every inch of Arthur’s body exploded with pain. The sword clattered to the ground at his feet, and the next seconds occurred in slow motion. Leaves and brittle branches fell from Gaia’s earthen hand, victim to the furious strokes of Lancelot’s blade. Vines and roots broke through the stone beneath the knight’s feet and snared his legs.
They needed him. They could never fend her off alone.
Merl
in fell to one knee at that moment, and all that supported him was the staff in his hand. The other palm pressed to his heart. Pain filled his ancient eyes, and what little power remained in his body fled as he sank to the floor.
“Merlin!”
Arthur’s world turned to white as he heard the crunch of bone and Lancelot’s dying scream.
One
Present Day
With both hands resting on the mezzanine rail overlooking the Violet Hour’s lower level, Nimue breathed in the magical essence wafting through the air. She pulled in the pleasant burn and savored every second. It carried the sweet scent of the violet flowers for which her establishment was known. For six years, the Violet Hour had been her baby, the first time she’d built something from the ground up since humankind established the modern world.
Had one of her sisters asked her a thousand years ago where the future would lead her, Nimue would have never guessed she’d be the sole proprietress of Manhattan’s classiest paranormal lounge. She rather liked the ambiance, magical beings, and cascade of money and favors that spilled in each night as patrons vied for her attention and for a rare blessing.
“Nimue, I need to take off early.”
Nimue sighed. Briefly, she tore her gaze from clusters of the supernatural elite to the young waitress standing beside her. “Do you ever plan to work a full shift, Saoirse?”
“I can’t help it,” Saoirse protested. “I can’t find a sitter worth their bloody salt to tolerate this boy’s shenanigans. Miranda quit.”
“Mm.”
“Says he set her shoes on fire during a tantrum. You know how it is.”
Nimue arched one brow. She would not know. Despite her age as a thousand-year-old fae, she’d yet to have a child of her own. Unheard of among fae who eagerly brokered deals for power and privileges to breed. The right sire just hadn’t come along yet worthy of fathering her firstborn. She’d once longed for that man to be a king. Too bad that king hadn’t desired the same.
The fae put on a phony smile. Something in her forced expression must have tipped Saoirse off because the witch winced and ducked her gaze.
“Or not, I guess. Sorry. Sorry.”
As much as it vexed her, Nimue found herself unable to ignore a child in need of his mother. “Go tend to your child.”
“Thank you. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I swear. I’ll open and close.”
“You had better. And what is your actual plan?”
“Beg and plead Declan’s way onto the admissions list of a proper nursery equipped to handle magical children. I have no choice. The lounge sure isn’t equipped to handle kids.”
She’ll need a raise if she’s going to afford daycare in this city—an enormous raise. Especially to pay tuition for a magical child.
“I suppose so,” Nimue agreed breezily, gesturing with both hands toward the curving staircase behind her. “Go on now. He’s waiting, and so is that poor sitter.”
“Thanks, Nimue.” Saoirse kissed her on the cheek then darted away. She was out the door moments later.
With Saoirse gone, they’d be short one set of hands. Unperturbed by working in her own establishment, Nimue headed downstairs and eased behind the bar, where she spent the next five hours whipping up drinks and elixirs for their rich and powerful clientele. At the Violet Hour, vampires and shapeshifters set aside their feuds, witches dined beside baby wizards, and dragons set aside their egos. The moment they all stepped through her door, they were bound to neutrality. Anyone who’d dare tarnish the sanctity of her establishment would face her wrath.
After her brawny shapeshifter bouncer finished tenderizing them, nobody could silence a pair of squabbling drunks like a seven-foot-tall Russian werebear.
It was unfortunate Alina wasn’t near the bar to beat the leeches away from Nimue, however. In this instance, a literal leech. Malcolm had been a regular for the past two years, and each night he came in, he tried the same ploy, not seeming to mind that he struck out each and every time.
“C’mon, Nimue,” Malcolm coaxed. “How about you give me a sip of what I really want?” The vampire lord resting one elbow on her bar flashed a fanged grin. She rolled her eyes and slid a scarlet martini across the counter. Malcolm was all talk, all bluster. She knew better than to take anything he said seriously.
“I’m not into blood play.”
“I can make it worth your while for a taste. Think of the promises you could weasel out of me. You can’t say you wouldn’t enjoy keeping a favor from me in your back pocket. Think it over.”
He had her there, but Nimue made it a point to avoid mixing business with pleasure. Secrets, favors, and all those things fae loved to coax out of lesser beings had no place when it came to her beloved lounge. The Violet Hour was, for all intents and purposes, a territory safe from faerie tricks and mischief. None of her kind dared to test the limits of her hospitality by preying on other guests.
“Mmm…” Nimue tapped one elegant, midnight-painted nail against her lower lip. “I think…”
“Yes?” He leaned forward, a handsome man in a designer business suit who fit in with ease among the wolves of Wall Street. He watched her closely, aware that she couldn’t voice a lie.
“I think I’d chew you up and eat you alive and leave a fragmented shell in your place. I’m not on the menu, Malcolm.”
He didn’t even blink. “Damn. It was worth asking.” He walked off with his drink and didn’t look back.
Nimue wasn’t so arrogant as to ever believe it would be more than a game for some lounge members. Most could only guess at her identity, and those who knew, like Malcolm, were wise enough not to share that information. The rest—the majority—assumed she was a witch, and she did nothing to dissuade them of the notion.
Most human beings had no idea at all that the fae existed. Some knew and chose to worship them at altars and in private, beneath the moon, and at their hearths, but the absolute exposure of the supernatural had never officially included the fae. Not officially. Humans knew of dragons, werewolves, and other beasties crawling in the shadows, but the fae chose not to announce their presence. They preferred secrecy.
Nimue, among others, considered herself a visitor within their world. Their realm was not her home. She was merely a passing caretaker there to guide those who would listen and, upon occasion, to carry out her queen’s decrees and work as her agent among the mortals. Mab did not ask much of her.
Running a supernatural lounge required unusual hours of Nimue, which meant she slung drinks and carried delicious morsels and sugary confections to her customs until the hours just before sunrise. The best bars purchased extended liquor licenses to serve the creatures of the night and nocturnal beasts. Or they pulled the strings of a few beings in prominent places of power and acquired what they wanted overnight.
After a five a.m. last call vacated the premises of its final stragglers, Nimue locked up and committed to the mundane acts typically assigned to her staff.
“I really need to hire a few more servers,” she mused while dragging the oversized trash bag outside rather than waste magic for a trivial chore. And while she couldn’t precisely state why, she enjoyed the occasional delve into mundanity. Pleased with herself, Nimue raised the dumpster lid and heaved the bag inside.
Magic sizzled across her senses, jerking the fae’s attention from her easy task. She stared at the empty space where energy swelled and heated the otherwise empty alley, abandoned by anyone who may have occupied the stretch of narrow space she shared with her neighbors.
“Is someone there?”
Spellcraft of a variety she hadn’t experienced in a long while charged the air with mystical power. Magic had a rhythm and a tune of its own, and the magic that fizzed and sparkled around her shimmered with a familiar timbre she’d known before.
Merlin.
The old wizard hadn’t paid a visit to communicate with her in years. She figured he was too busy exploring the new world and discovering what modern life had to offer.<
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Or maybe the most straightforward answer was the way to the truth, and the old man secluded himself in his fancy penthouse in Manhattan’s Upper East Side to enjoy some of the finer things in life denied to him during his magical, cursed slumber years ago.
“What the hell are you playing at, old man,” Nimue muttered. She stepped back to distance herself from the site of the magical event as stardust glimmered and waves of energy snapped through the air, raising the fine hairs on her bare arms. The magic had its own flavor—the sour taste of desperation woven through its every fiber, reminiscent of bile.
Nimue resisted a delicate shiver. A wiser person would leave, but the mystical charge piqued her fae curiosity. Before her eyes, the magic condensed inward and became a blinding orb of such brilliance she shielded her eyes from its radiance. She raised a shield just in time; otherwise, the explosion would have taken her off her feet.
It dazzled her and left stars in her eyes, robbing her temporarily of sight. Blinking rapidly, she squinted through the discomfort to focus on the figure at the epicenter of the magical spell.
He smelled of ash and death. Sweat and blood drying on soot-stained skin. Green eyes she’d recognize anywhere gazed back at her in an unfamiliar face.
Arthur.
She’d never forget the first time she ever met the legendary king. He’d been a young man then, with no idea of the destiny before him. Seeing him now brought her back to that evening in the forest glade, the light golden and the breeze sweet, blood soaking the leaf-strewn ground where he knelt beside a felled boar larger than any other in the wood.
He’d shown more respect for that animal than any other human hunter she’d met.
King of Avalon: a Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance (Rise of the Elder Gods Book 2) Page 1