Master of Magic Read online

  A voice spoke from the darkness in a menacing rumble. “No, what you are is dinner.”

  Rhys whipped around as a creature stepped into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp. It was huge—easily a foot taller than he was, with mountainous shoulders and enormous hands tipped in three-inch talons. Though it was biped, the beast’s legs curved like the hindquarters of a dog. Its eyes glowed like red LEDs as the gapping jaws of its lupine muzzle revealed dagger-length teeth.

  A werewolf? What the fuck? Rhys shoved the woman behind him as he started drawing on his magic, preparing to blast the attacker.

  “Direkind!” Olivia seized his arm and leaped back, dragging him along with astonishing strength. Light blazed around her body as if she were a torch.

  When he glanced back, he saw her jeans and sweatshirt had become armor—not Kevlar, but fine, overlapping metal scale mail. She wore a helm with a transparent visor that resembled a motorcycle helmet more than a medieval knight’s. One hand held a great sword as if it weighed no more than a letter opener, and she stood balanced and confident, as if she knew how to use it.

  “What the hell are you, Joan of Arc?” Rhys demanded in astonishment.

  She didn’t take her eyes off the monster. “I bloody hope not.”

  The werewolf grinned. “Fine by me—I love barbecue.”

  And the monster charged.

  Swinging the sword in a figure eight, Olivia leaped past Rhys, forcing the creature to veer aside. “At least the damn compulsion’s gone. Armor up!”

  “How?” He’d never conjured anything like what she was wearing. And this was no time to experiment. He backed away, falling into a guard stance and drawing on his magic, preparing to defend himself.

  “Oh, for . . . Fine. Here.” She flicked her free hand at him. Light blazed again.

  When he blinked away the purple afterimages, a transparent visor had appeared in front of his face—evidently the same kind of helmet she wore. Glancing down, he saw his conjured armor matched hers. When he bent an arm, he found the mail was as light and flexible as a cotton T-shirt.

  And he, too, held a sword.

  “Now fight!” Olivia lunged, driving her blade into the leaping werewolf. Claws raked her armor as the creature bellowed in pain and fury, impaled through the chest.

  Rearing back on one leg, she kicked the thing off her sword as if three hundred pounds of howling monster weighed nothing at all. The werewolf hit the ground, tumbled, and staggered up to reel away, whining.

  Which made her a hell of a lot stronger than any ordinary human. He shook off his paralyzed astonishment, tightening his grip on his sword as he prepared to fight for his life.

  Fido had friends.

  Four more towering monsters materialized out of the darkness, eyes glowing, fangs flashing white in chilling chainsaw growls.

  Get your head out of your ass and help her, Kincaid! He advanced to Olivia’s side, testing the blade’s balance as he moved. Though he’d studied hand-to-hand since he was ten, swordplay had never seemed like a practical skill.

  WHAM! Something slammed into him like a crosstown bus, smashing him face-first to the pavement. A massive black-furred hand closed over his helmeted head and started to wrench as if to snap his neck.

  Rhys twisted in his attacker’s grip—damn, Fang was strong—and back-fisted the thing’s muzzle hard enough to snap its head back. Thick arms loosened, and he scrambled up and away, glad of his armored gloves. He probably would have broken his hand otherwise.

  A big red werewolf swung a clawed foot at his head in a spinning kick. He jerked aside, grabbed Red’s ankle, and twisted it so hard something popped with a sickening crunch. Rhys dumped the werewolf on his ass with one hard jerk, ignoring the monster’s howling curses.

  Light exploded around Red. When it faded, a huge red timber wolf had replaced the biped monster. It snapped viciously at him, teeth clicking like castanets.

  “Play dead, asshole.” Rhys swung his sword, but the werewolf leaped back and the blade hissed harmlessly past.

  From the corner of one eye, he saw steel flash. Olivia spun and leaped as she fought two werewolves at once. She moved with impossible speed, the sword blurring in menacing, fluid sweeps he’d never seen this side of Star Wars.

  Take care of these fucking wolves and help her!

  “You don’t have a prayer.” The grating snarl sounded more like a Harley than anything produced by vocal chords. “We’re going to eat you like a Big Mac.”

  Three werewolves moved to circle him, fangs gleaming in open jaws, eyes glowing orange. The red timber wolf joined them with another chainsaw snarl. Light flared, and wolf became werewolf again.

  Red wasn’t even limping. Goddamn it, he must have healed when he shifted. Lupine lips stretched off his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “How ’bout you give up, and we’ll kill you quick.”

  “How ’bout you get lost, and I won’t decorate my living room with a werewolf-skin rug.” Sword ready in his right hand, Rhys conjured a fireball with his left. It revolved in the air, heating his palm as it hovered. The minute he saw an opening, one of his fuzzy foes would be getting a case of heartburn the bastard would never forget.

  Red sprang at him, fangs glinting. Rhys danced back as claws raked his armor with a metallic screech. He flicked the fireball right into those gaping jaws. It should have blown the monster’s head off.

  Red snapped the fireball up and sneered. “That the best you can do, Harry Potter?”

  “Nope.” Okay, time to bring out the big guns. Rhys spun another fireball as fast as he could, sucking in power until the globe blazed above his palm like an acetylene torch. By God, he’d sear these hairballs to greasy ash.

  “Rhys!” Olivia yelled. He dared a glance over his shoulder. She ducked and spun between two opponents, sword flashing in intimidating arcs that forced the wolves to hang back. Outnumbered or not, she seemed to be holding her own. “Just hold ’em off until I get there!”

  “Worry about yourself, dammit!” His four charged him. Still holding the fireball ready, Rhys leaped so inhumanly high, his bootheels brushed pointed ears. He whipped into a spinning kick that slammed his foot into the back of one wolf’s head, smashing the monster flat. As he came down, he blasted the full force of his magic right into the nearest furry face.

  The wolf laughed.

  Shit! Before he could spring clear, a fist hit him so hard starbursts lit his vision. He went airborne to slam into the pavement in a jarring tumble. Only his armor saved him from a nasty case of road rash. As it was, the sword flew from his hand to bounce into the street.

  “Magic doesn’t work on Direwolves!” Olivia yelled. “Conjure another sword!”

  Screw that. He rolled to his feet. An AR-15 appeared in his hands, and he fired on the nearest werewolf in a storm of bullets.

  The brown-furred beast howled in pain, and light flared again. Fuck, he’s healing . . .

  A big black were snatched the gun out of Rhys’s hands before he even had time to react. Jerking aside to avoid getting a visor full of claws, Rhys pivoted and drove his elbow into the werewolf’s throat. Cartilage crunched. The monster went down gagging, larynx crushed.

  Something roared, and he wheeled to see Red swing a huge clawed hand at his face.

  Light flashed off an arcing blade as it cleaved through the werewolf’s neck. Red’s head tumbled across the street in a spray of blood and gore. Rhys jumped back as the decapitated corpse landed at his feet.

  “They can heal bullet wounds,” Olivia snapped, the sword bloody in her hands. “Conjure a sword, dammit. Decapitation’s the only thing that’ll work.”

  “You’re wasting your time, bitch!” The brown werewolf whose throat Rhys had crushed was already back on his feet. “We’re going to kill him and fuck you to death for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “I don’t thin
k so, Fido.” Rhys conjured a sword even longer than the blade she’d given him—damn near five feet of steel.

  The brown werewolf sneered at him. “You don’t even how to use that.”

  “I played baseball in college.” Rhys whirled into a spinning diagonal chop that hacked right through the werewolf’s torso from shoulder to hip. The corpse fell into two pieces. “You immune to that, motherfucker?”

  Then he whirled again and leaped toward the nearest of the surviving werewolves, lips peeled off his teeth in a snarl of rage. “Get away from her.”

  Chapter Two

  Olivia blinked as Rhys Kincade charged the three wolves with an inhuman roar. Maybe he was a dragon. She could believe it, given the amount of raw magic raging around him like a thunderstorm.

  One thing was for sure—he wasn’t Sidhe. Her people might be stronger than humans, but she doubted even one of them could cut a werewolf in two.

  Unfortunately, she and Rhys still faced two-to-one odds.

  In the distance, sirens begin to wail, moving rapidly closer. Nothing gets the cops’ attention like an AR-15 blazing away. Add a werewolf pack howling like hell’s own chorus, and we’ll be ass-deep in po-po in three . . . two . . .

  “Shit,” one of the weres growled. “He ain’t paying us enough to play with cops.” He lifted his voice to a roar. “Abort!”

  The remaining Direkind whirled and ran.

  “Come back, you fuckin’ cowards!” Rhys leaped after them like a crazy man. “I’ve got your Milk Bone right here!”

  Jolting forward, Olivia grabbed his arm and set her heels, somehow managing to drag him to a halt. “Calm down, Wolverine. The cops are on the way, and there are bits of werewolf all over the sidewalk. Do you want to be on YouTube? Because neither the Sidhe nor the Direkind will be happy if you out us.”

  His eyes flashed yellow at her through the faceplate of his helm. “Fine.” Rhys threw up a hand. The werewolves’ corpses disappeared in a blaze of light and flame.

  Olivia eyed the pavement they’d lain on, but he hadn’t left so much as a stray tuft of fur. Even the blood was gone, as if someone had hosed down the sidewalk.

  An explosion of sparks replaced his armor with the slacks, shirt, and shoes he’d worn before. Including the black leather trench coat; he’d apparently conjured a new one.

  Then Olivia sensed something else—a sullen roil of magic that made her belly clench. She thought she recognized that magical signature.

  Gorin?

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

  A chill flushed through her bloodstream like ice water. Oh, Goddess, was Gorin involved in this mess? He . . .

  The sense of malevolent magic vanished so fast, she frowned, wondering if she’d imagined it.

  Unfortunately, the sirens were getting closer. She didn’t have time to go looking for the bastard. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Yeah, that would probably be a good idea.” Rhys dipped into a pocket and came out with a key fob. The Porsche’s headlights flashed as he clicked it. “You might want to change. I’d hate to have to explain to the cops why you’re dressed like an extra from Game of Thrones.”

  “Not a problem.” She reached for her own magic and replaced her armor with a comfortably warm parka, jeans, and thick cable-knit sweater in navy blue. And damn, I’m glad my power’s back.

  She frowned. Had Rhys been responsible for the geas? Or could it have been Gorin? But that didn’t make sense—if he’d figured out how to strip her of her powers, the assassin would have made sure she wouldn’t have gotten them back. Certainly not in time to help Rhys fight off those werewolves—if Rhys had been the real target.

  “We’d better take off before the cops arrive.” He clicked the fob again and the car started with a roar as the sirens drew dangerously closer.

  Olivia buckled her seatbelt and settled back against the buttery upholstery. The car’s dash looked like a 777’s instrument panel, and the expensive leather of the seat cupped her ass, already heating. Evidently it was equipped with seat warmers.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to luxuriate as he backed the car out of its space. Scanning the storefronts warily, she frowned. “Think there are any security cameras in those shops that might have caught the fight?”

  The tingle of Rhys’s magic intensified to stinging. “There are a couple that might have gotten something, but the others don’t have an angle on the street.” He flicked strong, male fingers, and the car filled with the ozone scent of active magic. “There. Glitched the past half hour of video. That should take care of it.” He did a three-point turn and drove sedately in the opposite direction from the approaching sirens.

  With a sigh of relief, Olivia settled back against warm, expensive leather. “I could get used to these seats.”

  “Yeah, they’re handy.” He took the next right, then a left a block later. A patrol car flashed by, blue lights spinning, siren keening. “There’s a hotel a couple of blocks that way. I can get you a room if you don’t have any cash on you. Or we can head to my house, which is about twenty-five minutes from here. Failing that, I’m sure there’s a restaurant or bar open somewhere, whatever you’re more comfortable with. One way or another, though, we need to talk.”

  Olivia studied him, frowning. Can I trust him? Then again, do I have a choice?

  Oh, she supposed it was possible he was running some elaborate scam, but she was damned if she saw the point. If he’d wanted her dead, why bother with the werewolves? He had more than enough juice to take her out himself without a bunch of hairy assassins.

  Hell, he could have fried her while she was lying helpless on that bench, and she wouldn’t have been able to do one damned thing about it.

  He hadn’t.

  That suggested Rhys wasn’t involved in her kidnapping. But he was obviously a target. Their best bet was to put their heads together and get this figured out before it got them killed.

  Could it have been Gorin? A sword thrust straight up . . .

  She drove the instinctive terror from her thoughts. “This isn’t a discussion we need to have in public. Let’s go to your house.”

  “Works for me. But if you get uncomfortable, just let me know and we’ll figure out something else.”

  What the hell, he’d proven he could be trusted. “You know, right after the sirens started, I heard one of the werewolves say, ‘He ain’t paying us enough to play with cops.’”

  Rhys frowned. “So they weren’t just gunning for me for personal reasons?”

  “Looks that way.” She eyed the magic swirling around him. “Given the kind of power you radiate, I’d hire magically resistant werewolves to come after you, too.”

  “The question is, who did the hiring?”

  * * *

  Rhys didn’t speak during the trip to his house, though she could almost feel his mind working furiously.

  For her part, Olivia concentrated on absorbing as many impressions about the area as she could. Pineville wasn’t the smallest town she’d traveled through in the past couple of centuries. It was probably home to fifty or sixty thousand people, judging by the number of streets lined with brick ranches, two-story Victorians, and split-levels dating from the seventies. Businesses included a Super Walmart or two, chain restaurants, and assorted shops in one-story buildings and strip malls.

  Out beyond the city limits, stands of pine trees, poplars, and oaks stood bare-limbed with winter, huddled between more brick ranches and mobile homes, with groups of more expensive houses scattered between. Carefully tended yards surrounded the homes like the sweeping skirts of Southern belles. In the spring, azalea bushes and flower beds would adorn them like colorful flounces.

  The countryside grew more and more rural, woods alternating with pastures filled with dozing Holsteins and horses. There was very little traffic on
the roads, and the moon hung full and yellow, nested in puffy clouds edged in blue light.

  He turned down a two-lane road that snaked through thick woods, the Porsche’s headlights sliding over looming trees. Ten minutes went by before they turned into a paved drive. Stands of oaks, elms, maples, and pines surrounded a sprawling Craftsman-style house that looked like it belonged on a mountain somewhere. Exterior lighting revealed fieldstone foundations and cedar shake siding that made the house blend into the surrounding landscape. The windows were wide and arched, with blond wood shutters, while square wooden columns supported the porch. The curved shapes were continued in the decorative woodwork on the roof’s steeply pitched gables.

  Olivia found herself a little surprised. Given the Porsche, she would have expected something colder and more modern, probably all white stone and straight lines.

  Rhys, it seemed, had a whimsical streak.

  A garage door trundled upward, and he drove inside to park next to a gunmetal gray BMW.

  “Nice place,” she observed, as they got out. “Hope your wife won’t mind you dragging me home.”

  “Wife?” He blinked at her, puzzled. “I’m not married.”

  Tension she had no business feeling drained from her shoulders. “I figured the BMW . . .”

  “I just drive that when I want to be taken more seriously.” He grinned, flashing teeth in a boyish grin. “When I’m in the Porsche, people tend to think I’m compensating for something.”

  Olivia found herself smiling back. “So why have one?”

  “It makes my inner sixteen-year-old happy.” He unlocked the house’s door and led the way into a mudroom. With the kind of automatic courtesy she’d thought dead in this century, he helped her out of her coat and hung it before doing the same with his own.

  While he was busy, Olivia wandered through the arched doorway into the kitchen beyond. She pursed her lips in a soundless whistle of approval. “Niiiice.”

  A twelve-foot ceiling with thick oak beams soared over white cabinets, gleaming gray granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. And it was nice, but nowhere near what she’d have expected of a man who owned both a Porsche and a BMW.