King of Avalon: a Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance (Rise of the Elder Gods Book 2)

by Vivienne Savage

“The phone, Nim. The phone is ringing.”

  “Hm?” All at once, she disentangled and slipped from the bed to her feet. In a sensual flood of magic, the spaghetti-strap violet chemise lengthened in a mesmerizing transition that restored it to a floor-length robe. “I suppose I’ll answer it.”

  Long legs carried her away in a sassy strut that told him she knew precisely what she’d been doing throughout every minute.

  Arthur remained in bed with the sheets pooled around his waist while he tried to will away the throbbing hard-on raging beneath them.

  “Damn her.”

  He swore he heard her giggle as if she were right beside him, the tinkle of laughter and even cool breath a whisper against his ear.

  Fucking fae.

  Nimue fed and clothed him after a series of phone calls organizing their men. Divide and conquer became the name of the game, each of the knights assigned his own task to perform.

  “Shouldn’t be hard to convince the shifters to see reason,” Nate said, chuckling. “From what I know of him, MacArthur is a sensible guy. You tell him the world is about to end, he’ll believe it.”

  Arthur exhaled in relief. Nimue stood several yards away on the balcony overlooking the busy Manhattan street. He watched a milkweed seed blew into Nimue’s palms.

  “What about Tristram?”

  “He’s not happy about meeting with the vampires.”

  “He’s the best man for the job.”

  “He realizes it. That doesn’t mean he isn’t happy about facing down his ex-wife. He’ll get it down.” As far as Arthur knew, the pair had ended their marriage on relatively good terms or as good terms as one could when their wife decided to end their marriage and turn to guzzling blood.

  “Good.” Another stolen glance at Nimue revealed her whispering into both cupped hands, speaking with the delicate and fragile floating seed that most certainly was not a seed. It glimmered only when Arthur watched them out of the corner of his eye.

  His senses told him to distrust her. His heart said otherwise.

  “Merlin will consult both the witches and the wizards,” Nate continued. “That leaves—”

  “Gathering the dragons to me.”

  “Yes. Your mother—Astrid—” Nate paused, a whistle of air between teeth indicating his frustration.

  “Mom,” Arthur said gently. “It’s okay. This is new for all of us.”

  “It is. You know… all these centuries of doing this reincarnation thing, it never quite hit like this.”

  “Yeah. It didn’t. I wonder what changed it.”

  “Your mother.” Nate’s chuckle warmed Arthur, stirring memories of childhood rather than those of past lives. “She has a way of changing shit, I noticed. When she was carrying you, she insisted that we put aside the knighthood and raise you like a child. Not a king, not a little prince. Our child.”

  “Yeah…”

  “I don’t know when it happened, but one day, I stopped seeing you as my king. You were just my kid.”

  “I wouldn’t change it for all the world.”

  The weight of the silence that followed threatened to crush Arthur. He waited, clutching the phone in one white-knuckled hand with enough force he feared it would shatter in his grip.

  Twenty years, he’d waited.

  Then he received his answer. “Nor would I, kid. Take care out there, and remember what I said.”

  “About?”

  “Her.”

  “Ah.” Arthur’s next glance at Nimue caught her raising the seedling to her mouth and blowing it away in a gentle puff of air. It sailed over the rail and blew out into the city and likely to the other realm. “Trust me. I haven’t forgotten.”

  The eldest among the dragons, those who had endured the hardships of service as the Titan’s beasts of burden, expressed nothing but enthusiasm when it came to picking up the war where it left off. Some were old and weary, but the majority, like Thor and Ares, thirsted for vengeance.

  Nimue and Arthur found the opposite to be true when it came to the creatures of the paranormal. The wilder shifter packs living apart from modern society seemed more inclined to side with the Titans than Arthur, though none were so bold as to say as much. She sensed the disgust with humanity, their civilized brethren in the cities, feared the environment was careening toward irreparable damage if no one stepped in.

  Much like the fae, they saw humans as parasites. If a few dragons had to die to restore the balance in the world, then so be it.

  Nimue wasn’t surprised. The shifters were closer to the fae than they would ever know, after all. Thankfully, she didn’t think the wild wolves of the Adirondack Pack spoke for the majority and that they would encounter differing opinions if they continued their search.

  Such was confirmed when Nate called back to say he’d struck gold with Ian MacArthur and that Merlin would be en route to Nimue’s place to meet with them regarding his findings with the witches and wizards.

  They met in her office overlooking the main lounge, the wizard already seated and served a cup of tea in her absence that shimmered with Aengus’s natural talent for creating the glittery concoctions. Centuries after their first meeting, he appeared regal as ever, an old sage modernized for the current era in a sophisticated royal blue suit. On anyone else, she would have called it tacky.

  “Ah. There you are. I wondered if you’d gotten lost,” Merlin said, setting aside his cup.

  Nimue smiled. “Apologies. We, ah, overstayed our welcome in the Adirondack territory.”

  Fleeting amusement curved Merlin’s mouth. “Wolves chase you out, did they?”

  Arthur grunted. “Damn near.”

  “I think fear of fire breath and enormous teeth may have been all that kept them respectful,” Nimue explained. “It wasn’t the best of meetings. They were cordial, but they made no effort to conceal that our presence was unwelcome. Arthur chose to be honest with them and confess that in his future, the wilder packs are relatively unscathed.” When she shot him a dirty look, Arthur shrugged. “The Titans consider wolves and their brethren beneath their notice and unworthy of taming.”

  “Most unfortunate, though one should hardly be surprised that Arthur chose honesty.”

  “I suppose.”

  “At any rate, I have both good and bad news. The good news is that Galahad asked that I pass this along to you.” Merlin produced a sleek mobile phone from an interdimensional pocket then handed it to Arthur. “Colonel Ian MacArthur sent this and asked that I relay that he plans to phone you once he has made the proper arrangements.”

  Arthur stared at the device in his hands, full of wonder.

  It occurred to her that he’d probably never touched a cell phone before or even seen one in working condition. That realization saddened her, yet another example of the harsh life Arthur had endured. No matter how much she’d hated him those early years after his marriage to Guinevere, she’d have never wished so much ill on him.

  “Nim?”

  “Of course.” Without asking what he needed, she held her hand out for the phone, and he set it in her palm. “When will he call?"

  “This evening, most likely. He plans to contact the President and go from there to notify the appropriate individuals. It’s a process.”

  “I imagine it would be,” Nimue said. “Such things require a chain of command within the Winter Court as well.”

  “We don’t have time to wait.”

  “We certainly do not, but we must make time, Arthur,” Merlin said with the patience of a saint. “The other world leaders must be convinced to join their military might to ours, and they must understand that once the United States and Great Britain fall, they will be next.”

  Arthur sighed. “Understood. Now, what’s the bad news?”

  “The Decima Circle will not be joining our efforts. They’ve declined to assist.”

  “What? Why the fuck not?” Arthur snarled.

  Merlin raised both hands palm out in a gesture meant to placate, but Arthur only turned a
way from him in disgust. After all this time, his temper remained an integral part of him, which Nimue both appreciated and found annoying. The former because it genuinely meant he was still the same, and the latter because she’d hoped he’d have learned some control after centuries of rebirths.

  “Sorcerers aren’t all trained for combat, Arthur. Times are different. People are different.”

  “You think the Titans will care if they’re scholars or warriors?” Arthur’s raised voice echoed across the room. “They will be crushed underfoot with everyone else.”

  “We cannot force people to fight.”

  “Maybe we should!”

  The last word exploded from him with enough force to make both Nimue and Merlin wince. She exchanged an uneasy glance with the wizard before moving to Arthur’s side, laying a hand gently on his arm. Arthur jerked away. Unrelenting, she followed and took him by the wrist.

  “Arthur, breathe,” she coaxed. “Getting worked up won’t help anyone.”

  “They’re fools, all of them. I should go down there myself and—”

  “And what? Threaten a Circle of Magic? Did your time held by a witch teach you nothing about meddling with magic? If you threaten these wizards, Merlin won’t be able to save you. Their power together, all of them as one, is equal to his gifts. You would be a bug. An easily squished bug.”

  The look he shot her could have killed, but she smiled in the face of his displeasure. Beamed. A muscle twitched in Arthur’s cheek.

  Then the anger left him, strong shoulders sagging. “I don’t understand why they won’t help. Why you won’t help.”

  “I’m helping now, aren’t I?”

  “For now.”

  As much as the words stung, she couldn’t blame him. After all, she had refused to help at first.

  “I’m here now,” she insisted, hoping to talk some sense into his thick skull. Their cowardly wizard fled through a portal, creating only a slight disturbance in the magical fabric of her business, a true bearer of grey tidings. “Give them time. Either they’ll stay in their libraries, or they’ll come around.”

  “I thought if anyone… It was Warren who helped before. He traded knowledge and spells with Merlin to help the resistance. Without him, we—”

  “He’s not the coven leader,” Nimue cut in. “Not yet, anyway. That comes years down the line. Atticus is more…” When diplomatic words failed her, she spoke her honest thoughts. “Atticus is an old-fashioned mizer who couldn’t fight if you lit an inferno beneath his arse. He’s afraid, and he’s doing what he feels is best for his Circle, simple as that, even if it is cowardly.”

  “There have to be other covens we can turn to.”

  “None as strong or capable. Most wizards are baby sorcerers, and they’re scattered.”

  “And untrained,” Merlin added.

  “Leave the wizards to Merlin and focus on the groups most inclined to listen.”

  “The shifters, you mean.”

  “There are others. You could call on the vampires or seek out any remaining djinn. Surely your Mahasti knows where one or two others might be. I even know a phoenix I could call.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, only to catch himself and suck in a slow breath instead. Nimue could have bet a fortune that he had intended, once again, to ask her price for the help.

  “What now?” Arthur asked, defeat creeping into a voice that sounded uncharacteristically hollow.

  Her heart broke.

  All along since his arrival, she’d treated him like the Arthur of old, never once taking into consideration the hell he’d endured. The Arthur in front of her wasn’t quite the same king she’d known in the past. His current personality had been forged in battle and tempered by grief, unlike his past incarnations.

  “We can stay here if you like,” she said quieter, resting her hand on his shoulder. “For a moment longer until it’s time to meet with Ian’s people. The less you’re out there,” she waved a hand toward the window, “the less likely the fae will try something again.”

  “You want me to sit here, hiding.”

  “For now, yes.”

  “And what shall I do, Nim? Pour drinks in your bar? Play bouncer?”

  “That’s—” A horrible idea, she wanted to say but caught herself with a sudden burst of inspiration. Sensing something about the way she looked at him, panic-filled Arthur’s eyes.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, Nim, no way. I’m no bartender.”

  “Maybe not, but….” Nimue eased against him, practically shimmying her body close in a way guaranteed to earn the masculine response she wanted from him. He grunted softly when her hip skimmed him. Her fingers splayed across his back. “What better way is there to speak to the elite and powerful heads of multiple factions? My lounge is an entertainment venue for paranormal beings from LA to Boston.”

  “And?”

  Nimue walked the fingers of her other hand down his chest, tracing the rigid muscular definition. Of all his bodies and forms, his current one had to be the best. His abs flexed beneath the tips of each digit when she reached his midsection. “Pour a drink for this vampire lord. Serve that werewolf Alpha. You could make a lot of connections if you play things right.”

  “What about the fae? Aren’t I supposed to hide?”

  “As if you wanted to hide to begin with.”

  “I don’t,” he admitted, stiffening in more ways than one when her fingers trailed over the waist of his denim jeans. She wondered if the rest of him was as delightful as the picture dreamed up by her imagination. “As this is my domain, they must follow my rules. No one would dare intrude here, save for the king and queen themselves.” Briefly, Nimue’s imagination ran away from her, and she envisioned Mab among the common rabble, breathing in the stale New York air. “Luckily for you, they’re far too lazy to do that.”

  Arthur lacked experience in a bar. Aside from the brief moments he surveyed the lounge’s floor from the second-floor mezzanine, he’d never seen one in full swing. Shifters and magical beings of all varieties, even some he didn’t quite recognize as witch, vampire, fae, or shifter, occupied the space, and he wondered what other magical beings he’d never met on account of the world going to hell.

  Nimue gave him roughly two minutes to absorb what she needed, then she threw him to the wolves, both figuratively and literally, by sending him out into the floor with pitchers of dwarven ale for the werewolf pack occupying the spot beside the pool tables.

  Some of the drinks sparkled with magic, and others shone with a mirror’s luster from within, emitting their own light. He carried a dark bottle out to one table, removed the cork, and smelled blood. That shouldn’t have surprised him, given the table’s occupants were a pair of vampires with milky complexions and painted red lips.

  Once, he was a king with armies at his command and a nation under his rule.

  Now he was a waiter slinging drinks and carrying them out to tables upon glittering silver trays while wearing the chosen uniform of her staff—dark slacks and a button-down shirt with a deep violet vest.

  The attire marked another first for Arthur. Though he had memories of furs, a cape, and a crown, he’d never worn nice clothing in his current life, accustomed to whatever their crafters could weave and sew. Every underground settlement within the resistance had its share of people capable with a thread and needle as well as looms. They scavenged from the ruins of shopping malls and abandoned homes. Once, they’d found a JCPenney warehouse and felt they’d struck gold, though most had been ruined by age and dampness.

  Nimue and her witchy staff handled the unique concoctions and elixirs her clientele desired. Others, usually the assembly of shifters both in groups and sitting solo to enjoy the ambiance, requested crafted beers and wines she kept on hand. They were in the minority.

  From what Arthur could tell after the first two hours, the majority of her elite clientele came for things that created euphoria, brought on visions of past memories, or took them on brief spiritual trips. Nimue
pointed out and named each patron of note, giving Arthur a glimpse into her new and glamorous lifestyle. It was a far cry from the carefree and wild girl who danced in meadows beneath the moonlight.

  Yet she moved through her new world with ease and grace, smoothly handling her customers as she worked her way through the crowd. Arthur shouldn’t have been surprised. In every lifetime, Nimue managed to blend seamlessly into society. Not like him. Each time his soul reincarnated into the world, his life was planned out for him. Fighting dragons and other threats had become his entire focus, no matter the century.

  Looking at her intensified the deep ache in his chest.

  “You mind moving your ass a little more and getting those drinks over to table five?” Saoirse asked, the amusement in her voice lacking a scrap of vehemence.

  Arthur jerked his gaze away from where Nimue perched on the edge of a table, speaking with a pair of summer fae picking through delicate, leafy salads of rainbow leaves and fruit from the other realm. “Sorry. Was lost in thought.”

  “I could tell.” She bumped him with her hip. “The boss lady said to keep an eye on you and help you out if you seem stuck. You want my advice?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Deliver that shit to table five, then return and take these,” she said, setting a tray of three enormous champagne flutes on the bar with their own magical Milky Way in the fragrant, rose-scented wine, “over to the folk on the mezzanine. Private table.”

  “Why?”

  Her mouth curved. “You’ll see. Be nice.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  Saoirse’s lips twitched, a smile barely contained. “Uh-huh.”

  Once Arthur served his current customers, he retrieved the extravagant drinks from Saoirse and followed her advice. A trio of werebears in fine business suits appeared to be conducting a business dinner. Two were enormous men nearing seven feet tall and broad-shouldered, and their female companion had the physique of a gymnast scaled up to two meters of powerful, skull-crushing woman. Her bare arms could put several of Arthur’s knights to shame. Lancelot probably dreamed of having triceps like the ones exposed by the brunette’s black minidress.