Master of Magic

  Titles by Angela Knight

  Mageverse Series

  MASTER OF THE NIGHT

  MASTER OF THE MOON

  MASTER OF WOLVES

  MASTER OF SWORDS

  MASTER OF DRAGONS

  MASTER OF FIRE

  MASTER OF SMOKE

  MASTER OF SHADOWS

  MASTER OF DARKNESS

  MASTER OF MAGIC

  (novella)

  The Time Hunters Series

  JANE’S WARLORD

  WARRIOR

  GUARDIAN

  CAPTIVE DREAMS

  (with Diane Whiteside)

  MERCENARIES

  WICKED GAMES

  Southern Shields Series

  WITHOUT RESTRAINT

  Specials

  MOON DANCE

  Anthologies

  HOT BLOODED

  (with Christine Feehan, Maggie Shayne, and Emma Holly)

  BITE

  (with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, and Vickie Taylor)

  KICK ASS

  (with Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, and Jacey Ford)

  OVER THE MOON

  (with MaryJanice Davidson, Virginia Kantra, and Sunny)

  BEYOND THE DARK

  (with Emma Holly, Lora Leigh, and Diane Whiteside)

  SHIFTER

  (with Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day, and Virginia Kantra)

  HOT FOR THE HOLIDAYS

  (with Lora Leigh, Anya Bast, and Allyson James)

  BURNING UP

  (with Nalini Singh, Virginia Kantra, and Meljean Brook)

  Master of Magic

  Angela Knight

  INTERMIX

  NEW YORK

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Angela Knight

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN: 9780399587306

  First Edition: October 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Titles by Angela Knight

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Olivia Flynn shivered as the chill night wind cut through her thin sweatshirt. The metal park bench she lay on held an icy burn against her side. She drew up her knees, curling more tightly in a futile effort to conserve body heat. It had to be near freezing. Goddess, I’ve got to get off this bench. But she couldn’t.

  It wasn’t paralysis: she could move her arms and legs. But every time she attempted to rise, it felt as if she were chained there.

  The cause was obvious. When she looked down her body with her Sidhe senses, sparks of green swirled over her skin. A compulsion spell. Someone had put a geas on her.

  Why? The thought pounded through her head for the hundredth time since she’d awoken here, like this. Who did this?

  It didn’t feel like Sidhe work. Olivia was no lightweight; she had more than enough power to shield against a compulsion cast by one of her people.

  Grimly, she focused her will yet again, trying to unravel the binding. As if angered, it clamped so tight, it burned. She let her head fall back against the bench with a hissed curse.

  Basically, she was screwed.

  Shivering, Olivia peered around. She lay in a puddle of light from a nearby streetlamp, one of several along the sidewalk. Directly behind her stood Noodle Monsoon, evidently some kind of Thai restaurant, now closed and dark. On either side of that stood an antique store, What’s Old Is New Again, and a consignment shop, Southern Notions. They appeared to be the kind of mom-and-pop operations found in small towns. She’d lived in in a lot of places like this since fleeing to Mortal Earth.

  Looking up and down the street, Olivia realized none of the other buildings were taller than three stories. There was no traffic whatsoever, though she could hear the occasional car rumbling through the night somewhere in the distance.

  Well, Toto, it looks like we’re not in New York anymore. No more arugula dog treats for you.

  The last thing she could remember was walking out of Bushido, the Manhattan martial arts studio where she took classes. Hikaru Sensei was a spry old fox of a man, surprisingly quick for a human. He was so damn good with a blade, he’d taught her a few tricks despite her two centuries of training. And then . . .

  . . . she woke up here. The Goddess alone knew how she’d gone from point A to point B.

  Impotent anger warmed her. All these centuries she’d sworn she’d never be helpless again. She’d worked her ass off to become a warrior, using spells to disguise herself as a man to study swordplay when it was forbidden to women. Hell, she’d even gone to war twice, partly out of idealism, but mostly so she could learn courage under fire.

  All so she’d never again be helpless . . .

  The worn rug he lay on was dyed red with blood. A small arm lay flopped over one of his shoulders as if the child had fallen asleep in his arms.

  And a sword thrust straight up on the other side of him, point buried in the floor.

  With a shudder, Olivia dragged herself from the memory. She couldn’t afford to lose herself in guilt and grief, or she’d never get off this bench.

  Teeth chattering, she wrapped her arms around her body and watched her breath curl in front of her eyes in a streaming white plume. Trying to distract herself, she wondered what happened to her parka. She wore only the jeans and sweatshirt she’d had on under it. If I don’t break the compulsion soon, I’m going to freeze to death.

  But she’d been beating her head against that particular concrete wall for the past half hour. Time to try something else. Again. Hadn’t worked the last time, but maybe her efforts had weakened something . . .

  Closing her eyes, Olivia drew on the Mageverse—the source of all magic—straining to conjure a jacket, a blanket, hand warmers . . . hell, a candle. Anything at all.

  Nothing happened. She tried again. It went right on not happening.

  Olivia snarled under her breath. She was going to find whoever laid this geas on her, and gut him, her, or it.

  Assuming she didn’t die of hypothermia first.

  The rumble of an engine approached. She looked around as the car purred down the street toward her, slowing as if to get a look at her.


  Oh, what now? No, I’m not a hooker. Go away. Though on the other hand, if he let her in that car, at least she’d be warm . . .

  Olivia grimaced at her running nose, automatically tried to conjure a tissue, and swore when one didn’t appear. With no alternative, she wiped her nose on her sleeve. Maybe it would turn off the would-be john. Or maybe I’d better hope it doesn’t.

  The white Porsche 911 pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of her bench. Even stopped, it looked as if it was speeding. Compensating for something, buddy? Olivia ground her teeth. With my luck, I’m going to have to fight this idiot off. Which would be an issue, since she couldn’t even get off the bench. Think positive, Liv. Maybe he’s a Good Samaritan.

  More likely, he’s a serial killer, retorted her inner pessimist. Unfortunately, her inner pessimist had the better track record.

  Sniffling miserably, Olivia watched as the Porsche’s driver’s door swung open.

  Then she got a good look at him as he got out, and her heart sank. The man seemed to tower in the trench coat that swirled around his long legs as he started toward her. He had the muscle to go with that height, too; his shoulders were obviously broad under the coat’s fine black leather. Blond hair, cut neat and short, gleamed under the glow of the streetlight. She had the impression he was handsome, though it was hard to tell in the harsh shadows the light cast.

  Then again, Ansgar had been handsome, and look what a murdering bastard he’d been.

  As if his size wasn’t alarming enough, her Sidhe senses detected magic radiating from him in a blizzard of blue-white sparks. As he approached, that sense of power grew until she found herself shrinking against the back of the bench in dread. Oh, sweet Goddess, what does he want?

  She ached to jump up and run, but her body refused to so much as twitch.

  What was he? Not Sidhe—he had far too much power, much more than Olivia. Not Magekind either. Male Magekind were always vampires, and vamps couldn’t cast spells.

  If he’d cast the geas, no wonder she couldn’t break it.

  Anger came to Olivia’s rescue with another shot of heat and determination. No, dammit, she wasn’t just going to give in to whatever he had in mind. When I said “never again,” I meant it.

  She threw all her will, all her magic, against the smothering blanket of the geas, fighting to punch through.

  Nothing.

  Shaking, longing to scream in defiance, she stared up at the man as he studied her from his considerable height. The light of the streetlamp painted the rise of his cheekbones, the swoop of his nose, the full curve of his lower lip. Shadows modeled the sculptured contours of a square jaw line, while his eyes gleamed in the shadows cast by thick brows. Oddly, there was no trace of malevolence or gloating in his expression. Instead he looked concerned. “Ma’am, are you all right?” His voice held a honeyed Southern drawl. “You need me to call 911?”

  “L . . . Leave m . . . m . . . me a . . . a . . . alone.” Her teeth chattered so hard, even she could barely understand what she’d just said.

  He frowned, his obvious concern growing. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just afraid you’ve got hypothermia.” Dropping to one knee, he leaned closer. She had to fight the urge to recoil from his snapping, roiling power. “My name’s Rhys Kincade. Can you tell me yours?”

  She eyed him suspiciously. Why was he trying to act like an ordinary mortal when he was obviously anything but? Still, she’d learn more by talking to him. At the very least it would give her more time to think of a way to save herself. “O . . . Olivia . . . F . . . F . . . Flynn . . . Did you . . . Did you d . . . do this to me?” She supposed it was possible he hadn’t.

  Though it was damned unlikely.

  Rhys drew back, sensual lips tightening with a hint of offended surprise. He studied her, and whatever he saw on her face made his expression warm. “No, I’ve never seen you before. How’d you get here?” His tone was so compassionate, it pissed her off even more. He scanned the length of her body as if looking for injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

  Olivia had no intention whatsoever of answering, so she was shocked when the words came out of her mouth anyway. “I d . . . don’t . . . know.” Had to be the geas. Which seemed to confirm he’d been the one to cast it.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Walking out of a d . . . d . . . dojo . . . in New York.”

  “New York? You’re in South Carolina now. A town called Pinedale. How’d you get here?” Frowning, he sat back on his heels and shook his head. “We’ll figure that out after we get you warmed up.”

  Sliding his coat off broad shoulders, he draped it over her, then caught her elbow and lifted her upright. The binding spell seemed to vanish at his touch. It was all Olivia could do not to gasp in relief.

  Even better, the coat’s silken lining felt deliciously warm and smelled of expensive leather. Whoever he was, he had money. Despite her fearful anger, the heat was an exquisite relief. “Th. . . thank . . . you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Rhys laid one big hand on her shoulder. Magic began to rise.

  Instinctively, she sought to raise a shield, but again the geas blocked her magic. The binding wasn’t broken after all. Dammit.

  But instead of the attack she expected, precious heat rolled from his palm on a wave of pale sparks. Instantly, Olivia’s shivering stopped and her teeth ceased chattering as the pain of returning circulation stung her hands and feet.

  Rhys released her. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She eyed him warily and shrugged into his coat, biting back a moan of pleasure as she slid her frozen arms into its warm sleeves. Her muscles felt stiff and resentful, but at least they obeyed. The geas had evidently released that much, though it was still forcing her to answer his questions.

  Had he kidnapped her or not?

  “Do you know what day it is?” He helped her to her feet.

  What the hell kind of game he was he playing? Once again, her mouth moved without the intervention of her brain. “February 4th, 2019. It was six p.m. when I left the dojo.”

  “Well, that’s the right date, though it’s eleven forty-five now. I guess it’s possible you could’ve flown here . . . Or . . .” His expression closed.

  The pretense of ignorance was seriously pissing her off. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Are you?”

  “Would you believe me if I said no?”

  “Actually,” Rhys said thoughtfully, “I think I would.”

  I’m not in the mood for this. “Look, drop the act. Why did you put me under this spell?” With a flick of her fingers, she tried to conjure a magical shield.

  Nothing. Again.

  “Spell?” Rhys took a cautious step back, broad shoulders tensing. Goddess, he really was big. A good five inches taller than she was—and she wasn’t exactly tiny at five-eleven. His impressive build was obvious, given the thin, blue dress shirt and black slacks that hugged his powerful body. A black leather belt and well-shined black shoes rounded out the look, suggesting money and taste. He should be freezing, yet he seemed completely unaware of the cold.

  He also looked absolutely flabbergasted. “You think I cast a spell on you?” His lips took on a mocking twist. “What have you been smoking?”

  “You think I’m too stupid to spot a geas while you stand there radiating more magic than Gandalf? What are you, anyway? You’re not Sidhe. Dragon?” He had almost enough power to be Dragonkind, but if he was, she was screwed.

  Rhys laughed. It sounded strained. “Those must be some really good drugs.”

  “I am not high,” Olivia gritted. Her hands balled into outraged fists, but she couldn’t seem to swing them. It was infuriating. All that training, and she was just as helpless as she’d been last time. “Take a good look, dammit—it should be obvious I’m not a mortal drug addict. Or
is my power beneath your notice?”

  His eyes narrowed, and he reached out, fingers spread as if to sense her magic. She glared at him, refusing to cower.

  Rhys recoiled, eyes widening with an emotion that looked like wonder. “Oh.” He said it in a soft, yearning voice. “You’re like me.”

  * * *

  The color had come back into the woman’s face, apparently from sheer rage. When Rhys had first spotted her on that bench, he’d been afraid she was dead. She’d looked almost as pale as her cascade of silver hair, so long it pooled on the pavement beside the bench. The hair had initially fooled him into thinking she was an old woman, but up close she appeared no older than twenty. Her oval face was girl-next-door pretty, with huge blue eyes and a wide, soft mouth.

  Those lips would have been tempting, if not for the snarl.

  She was tall, only a hair under six feet, and her athletic build reminded him of an Olympic volleyball player. Yet the aura of power that surrounded her was like nothing he’d ever seen. He’d rarely encountered anyone with magical talent, so he hadn’t thought to look until she’d mentioned it.

  Now he could feel magic swirling around her like heat rising over sun-warmed pavement. Excitement zinged through him. He’d sought someone like her for years.

  Someone else who could do magic.

  The only other magician he’d met had been a murderous son of a bitch who’d badly needed killing. Rhys would have done it, too, had the asshole not run like a rabbit.

  This woman could give him the answers he’d sought for so long. Too bad she was glaring at him in furious hostility. “I’m nothing like you. I’m Sidhe.”

  “Sidhe?” He’d assumed fairies were just another of those frustrating magical legends he’d wasted years chasing. “The Fae actually exist?

  “Different race altogether.” She eyed him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You have no idea what you are.”

  “No,” Rhys admitted, and grimaced. “I always figured I must be some kind of mutant.”

  “What, like the X-Men? Ha. You’re not even from this planet.”

  His jaw dropped. “You think I’m an alien?”