Master of Valor (Merlin's Legacy 2) Read online

  Yeah, well, legs ain’t free.

  * * *

  Good thing Duncan has no idea how tempting he looks, Masara thought. I’d be in trouble. Bare-chested, sweat-slicked, wearing only a pair of loose shorts, her apprentice tested both her self-control and her ability to concentrate. He wore his curling chestnut hair tied back in a tight tail, calling attention to the brutal perfection of his features and the sensual mobility of his mouth. His eyes were a shimmering crystalline blue that turned dark when he was aroused and icy in anger. He reminded her of a young god.

  He was certainly endowed like one. It took all Masara’s considerable willpower to keep her eyes off the erection testing the soft blue nylon of his shorts. The deliciously long, thick shaft made her imagine all kinds of sensual possibilities. She really needed to take him to bed. If he’d been anybody else, she probably would have done so months ago. He needed to get his mind off what happened to him that nightmare day in Afghanistan, and a nice hot fling would probably do the trick.

  Trouble was, he wasn’t just another apprentice. She’d trained dozens of witches and vampires over the decades, but none of them had been as driven, as focused, or as haunted as Duncan. And none of them had such vivid blue eyes that took on that chill burn when he was frustrated or angry.

  When Masara had been a child, a look like that in blue eyes meant it was time to find something else to do, as far away as possible. Even one hundred sixty-one years as a Magekind agent hadn’t been enough to reprogram the reaction. Which made serving as Duncan’s mentor a dicey proposition. She had psychic landmines of her own, and those eyes could trigger them.

  Still, he was a hard man to resist. It just wasn’t his looks or his formidable intelligence either; none of her apprentices had been homely, and they certainly weren’t stupid. No, it was the man’s stoic warrior attitude, his psychic wounds, his dogged determination to deserve the second chance he’d been given.

  A second chance he’d needed because he’d sacrificed himself to save an Afghani child from an IED. The Magekind needed people like Duncan, and it was Masara’s job to make sure he had the training to fight the Fomorians -- and survive.

  They needed every warrior they could get to fulfill the mission Merlin had given them 1500 years ago. Keeping humanity from committing mass suicide through war or environmental catastrophe took a lot of manpower.

  “After lunch,” she told him as they caught their breath, “I want you to practice against a troll.” Which meant another grueling hour maintaining an illusion spell, not to mention the physical effort of sparring with a vampire hand-to-hand. She’d be black and blue by the time they finished. Still, if it kept him alive, it was worth it.

  “Trolls, centaurs, Fomorians, Merkind, giants…” He rolled his eyes and curled an expressive lip. “Why the heck do they all want a piece of us?”

  “They don’t like sharing Mageverse Earth with humans,” Masara told him. “Or our Sidhe cousins, either. They want us all dead.”

  “An alien Axis of Evil.” He shook his head. “My life is so damned weird.”

  “Welcome to the Magekind.”

  Side-by-side, they strolled across the dojo. Walls of ash-white wood curved up from the thickly padded floor between massive beams that jutted like ribs, meeting in an arch overhead. The effect was reminiscent of the hull of a ship lying upside down. It was a cavernous space, designed for no-holds-barred combat practice, whether hand-to-hand or using blades and magic. Masara had warded its thick walls to resist the most powerful blasts she could throw. It wouldn’t do to blow a hole in the neighbor’s French Château.

  Unlike most of the homes in Avalon, Masara’s owed little to traditional European architecture. The house’s curving walls were built of laminated wood, so the whole building seemed to flow out of the earth. Cedar shingles covered its long, undulating body in an effect reminiscent of the scaled African anteater called a pangolin. Her only concessions to Avalonian taste were the oval stained-glass windows that filtered sunlight. Otherwise, a certain vampire apprentice might wake up with a very ugly sunburn. Not that he’d burst into flame -- Hollywood had gotten that wrong -- but such burns were nothing to take lightly.

  They stepped out onto the deck that encircled the house, heading for the wicker and glass table where she had a meal waiting. Duncan slid into a hanging egg-shaped bamboo chair supported by a chain from one of the ceiling beams. As he settled down on the chair’s thick cushion, he looked toward the lights of Avalon glowing through the trees. All those stained-glass windows gave the city a very different look from the white lights of Earth buildings. “It always blows my mind.”

  “What?” She picked up the bottle she’d left in the center of the table.

  “That we’re not on Earth.” Duncan gestured at the city’s exotic skyline. “That this is a whole different dimension. A year ago, I was in Bethesda…” He broke off, and an expression of loss and remembered pain flashed over his face.

  “I know what you mean.” She knew he’d spent months at Walter Reed, undergoing more surgeries than she wanted to think about.

  Wrapping her fingers around the neck of the sealed bottle, Masara sent a little pulse of magic into it. The cork popped into her hand. She poured a brilliant crimson stream into his wine glass. “It can be strange to remember how far you’ve come.” Though she usually found it best not to pursue that line of thought. Old rage at old wounds was pointless.

  “Yeah.” Duncan watched the glass fill, then flicked his gaze to her face. Something about his stare made the act of serving him a lot more intimate than it should have been. “That come from you?” The words emerged as a low, velvet rumble.

  She hesitated a moment before shrugging and inserting the cork back into the bottle. An effort of will reactivated the stasis spell that preserved the blood. “A stroke would interfere with my career plans.” Being a Maja -- a witch -- she needed to donate blood as badly as he needed to drink it.

  “Yeah, starvation would pretty much suck too.” He picked the glass up and lifted it to his nose. His striking eyes drifted closed as he inhaled, and he sipped slowly, as if savoring every swallow.

  Tearing her gaze away from the sheer eroticism of his expression, Masara sat in the chair hanging opposite his. The meal she’d prepared waited on a stasis plate that kept the food hot until her fork broke the spell. Deciding she’d better concentrate on her stomach instead of another part of her anatomy, she took a bite of her omelet. The taste of eggs, chives, and cheese melted on her tongue, and she sighed in pleasure.

  He smiled at her over the rim of his wine glass. “Good?”

  She swallowed and used her napkin to blot her lips. “It’s a good thing I’m a Maja, or I’d be the size of a barn. Too many years with my stomach empty most of the time.”

  “Yeah, hunger can be maddening.” His gaze flicked to her throat, then met hers again. And blazed.

  Masara cleared her throat and changed the subject. “I’m really pleased with your progress. Swordplay isn’t an easy thing to learn, especially for someone from your generation.” She gave him a smile. “You’re the first apprentice I’ve had who doesn’t complain about preferring guns.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Bullets don’t do much good against sorcerers, but decapitation kills everybody.” He took another tiny sip, his tempting lips parting to flash white teeth.

  “You do realize you don’t have to clutch that glass like Oliver Twist? You can have another.”

  His lashes dipped and his mouth curved in a sensual smile. “Some things deserve to be savored.”

  She swallowed. The notes of “Hotline Bling” trilled from empty air, breaking the hot mood. She gestured, and her enchanted cell appeared in her hand. “Masara.”

  “I have a mission for you and Duncan,” Belle said in her liquid, French-accented purr. Besides being Masara’s dearest friend, she and her husband Tristan ran the training program for the apprentices.

  Masara straightened in alarm. “Have the Fomorians…”

&
nbsp; Belle sighed. “No, Llyr and Arthur are still attempting peace talks with King Bres, though they’re afraid he’s just stringing them along.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “That bastard gives me Hitler flashbacks.”

  “The sociopathic glint in his eyes is familiar.”

  “Either way, Bres is a problem for another time. The current issue is that one of the Direkind has been a very bad werewolf. He attacked a mortal woman when she was out jogging this evening. Mauled her to death. One of the local Dire Wolves -- who also happens to be a sheriff’s deputy -- has requested our assistance.”

  Masara nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Not for you, anyway.” Belle paused, then asked, “Do you think your boy is ready for his first mission?”

  “He’s not a boy. And yes, I have full confidence in him.”

  “Good.” There was such satisfaction in Belle’s voice, Masara wondered why her friend was so pleased she’d leapt to Duncan’s defense. “I’m texting you the number. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. ’Night, Belle.” A moment later a text alert chimed, and Masara looked down to find the contact information for someone named Brian Walker. She stroked her thumb over the contact and waited while the phone connected. Magic was a wonderful thing. It could even make cell service possible between two different universes, one of them with no magic at all.

  A deep male voice answered in a crisp, professional tone softened by a rich southern accent. “Sergeant Brian Walker, Tyger County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Sergeant, Masara Okeye,” she said, keeping her voice low. The Dire Wolf would have no problem hearing her. “I’m a Maja. Are you somewhere you can speak freely?”

  He blew out an audible breath in relief. “Damn, I’m glad to hear from you. We’ve got a situation on our hands. And yes, I’m alone.”

  “My superior tells me you believe one of your people murdered a mortal.”

  “Seems that way. A lady named Crystal Martin went jogging this afternoon. She still wasn’t back when her husband got home from work, so he started walking her usual route, calling her cell while he searched.” His coolly professional tone went gruff with sympathy. “Poor bastard finally heard it ringing out in the woods beside the road. It was still in what was left of her pocket. The coroner’s investigator thinks she was mauled by a black bear, based on the bites and claw wounds.” His tone turned grim. “But that’s only because he’s never seen a werewolf attack.”

  “You get a lot of those?”

  “God, no. This is the first rogue kill I’ve ever seen, and I hope it’s the last. Fortunately, the pathologist and her staff are off the clock for the night. Unfortunately, the autopsy’s scheduled for bright and early tomorrow morning, when she’ll probably collect all kinds of evidence we don’t want her to find.”

  “And you want me to make sure none of it points to werewolves.”

  “Yeah. After that, we’ll have to swing by the sheriff’s office evidence room and do the same with whatever our guys collected.”

  “Sounds simple enough.” She winced as the words left her mouth, hoping she hadn’t just tempted the God of Nasty Complications. In her experience, that never took much.

  “I can meet you in the hospital parking lot.”

  “Make it the corridor outside the morgue. Just give me a call when there are no mortals around, and I’ll open a dimensional gate.” She hung up and looked at Duncan. “Be grateful you don’t eat.” Grimacing, Masara eyed her lunch. “I suspect I’m going to regret that I do.”

  * * *

  Witches, vampires and werewolves, Duncan thought as he walked into the quarters Masara had assigned him. Every time I think my life has reached peak weird…

  The room was furnished with a massive king-size bed covered with a bedspread in a geometric blue-and-white pattern. Built-in shelves held books and his growing weapons collection. But the thing that always drew Duncan’s gaze was the huge stained-glass window depicting a male lion, gold eyes gleaming as he lay in thick savanna grass.

  Masara had told him once she’d had no interest in Africa until she’d spent months spying on the Italians during the East African campaign of World War II. She’d spent most of 1941 working in Abyssinia, Eritrea, British and French Somaliland, and Kenya. She’d fallen in love with the wild landscape, the people, and their cultures. Duncan suspected her taste in décor was something of a “Fuck you” to the people who’d enslaved her.

  A glance at the bedside clock told him he had five hours until sunrise. He’d better double-time it.

  Ten minutes later he was ready, dressed in black slacks, a blue knit shirt, and a pair of Timberlands that reminded him of his combat boots.

  Masara waited for him in the hall in an outfit that made his brows climb. A pair of black leather pants sheathed those long, delicious legs, tucked into flat-heeled riding boots. Her leather jacket was unzipped just enough to reveal a triangle of ribbed tank top. She’d gathered her dreadlocks into a bun on top of her head, spilling into a tail secured with gleaming gold bands.

  Metallic green eye shadow and sweeping eyeliner enhanced her dark eyes, while burgundy lipstick slicked her full mouth. The whole effect was more “twenty-something about to go clubbing” than “immortal witch almost two centuries old.” Until you met her gaze and saw the combat-hardened warrior looking back.

  She eyed him up and down, and he had the uncomfortable impression she wasn’t nearly as pleased with his appearance as he was with hers. “There are a couple of things to keep in mind when you’re fighting werewolves.”

  “We’re going to be fighting?”

  There went that eyebrow. “Do you object?”

  “I thought we were disposing of inconvenient evidence. Sounded pretty routine.”

  “Routine missions have a nasty tendency to erupt in blood and screaming.”

  The boom hit his eardrums like a hammer as the world whirled around him… He shook off the memory. “I’ve noticed.”

  Too much must have shown on his face, because her dark eyes warmed, and she reached out and touched him. Just a brush of cool fingertips on his forearm, but it made his whole nervous system reverberate like a gong. As if sensing the power of his reaction, she drew back, and her lovely face went cool and professional again. “Merlin created the Direkind specifically to wipe us out if we violated our oath to protect humanity, so magic has no effect on them. They’re even stronger than you are -- they can bench-press a Ford pickup. And since they can heal any injury this side of decapitation, they’re a nightmare to fight.”

  Duncan gave her his best cocky smirk. “So are we. Anyway, I can turn into a wolf too.” It was the only real magic vampires could do, used primarily to heal injuries or track scents. He’d learned the technique during the six months of training he’d undergone before becoming Masara’s apprentice.

  “Not like this. A Dire Wolf is bipedal -- seven feet of fur and a whole lot of teeth and claws. Which is why I suspect you’re a little underdressed.” Slender fingers sketched an elaborate shape in the air. Duncan felt magic roll over his skin in a foaming wave as the scent of ozone flooded the air.

  When he glanced down, his slacks and shirt had become a leather jacket and leather pants. Driving gloves covered his hands, and riding boots sheathed his shins to the knee. Basically, it was the male version of what she was wearing. Which was sexy on her, but probably made him look like somebody on a gay porn site. “If we’re expecting a fight, shouldn’t we be wearing body armor?”

  “That is body armor. If a werewolf tries to bite you in that, he’ll break his fangs. Plate armor would be even better, but since we don’t want to look like we got lost on the way to Comic-Con, it’ll have to do.”

  Duncan wasn’t sure looking like a leather Dom was an improvement. The cop’s going to love this. But all he said was, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Touch your belt buckle with your right hand.”

  When Duncan obeyed, a longsword filled his palm. “Whoa!” He fumbled, barely m
anaging to catch the three-foot weapon before it dropped out of his fingers. He gave it a testing swing. The blade was perfectly balanced, seeming to float in his hand like an extension of his arm.

  When he started to test the edge, Masara caught his wrist. “Not unless you want your thumb sliced open. When you want to get rid of it, touch your belt buckle again.”

  Duncan obeyed, and sure enough, the sword disappeared. “Nice.”

  “Don’t summon the sword unless you’re under attack. The Direkind look intimidating, but for the most part they’re the good guys. You don’t want to trigger another Werewolf War by accidentally killing an innocent.”

  “Yeah, I definitely have no desire to do that.” I’ve got enough on my conscience as it is.

  She gave him a long, considering look. “Are you ready?”

  Once again, Duncan flashed the cocky, asshole smile that had been a lie since that day in Afghanistan. “Oorah.” Those dark, dark eyes locked on his with such intensity, he had to fight the urge to look away. I’m not going to fuck up, damn it. Not this time.

  At last she nodded. “Let’s go.” Masara swept one of those elegant little Maja hand gestures. A glowing pinprick of light appeared in midair and began to expand to form a human-sized hole in the air. Beyond that, wavering like a desert mirage, lay the kind of brightly lit hospital hall he’d become far too familiar with at Walter Reed. She gave him a tight nod.

  Here we go. His first mission since… He cut the thought off in a hurry. Move your ass, Marine.

  Duncan cupped his hand over the magical belt buckle, not quite touching it, and stepped through. A cool, foaming tingle spread over his skin, the signature of Masara’s magic. Then he was on the other side.

  The world lost its vivid intensity, going flat and dull. It reminded him of the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy woke up back in Kansas to find the world black and white again after the Technicolor glory she’d discovered over the rainbow.

  It took an effort of will not to stagger. What the hell is this?