Master of Desire (Merlin's Legacy 6) Page 2

  The great room was a mess of broken furniture, blood and chaos. Conal sat directly below her, chained to a chair. One of the werewolves was using claws on his bare, broad chest. Horror-widened eyes stared at the ceiling as he arched in agony, bloody face contorted, the cords of his muscled throat stark as he fought not to scream.

  Fangs, digging blazing furrows into her belly…

  Helena forced her gaze away from Conal to count his captors. Nine wolves, no guns. Not surprising, since ordinary bullets didn’t do much to the Direkind. They could heal damn near any injury just by shifting, so you had to destroy their heads or hearts to take them out. It was tough to hit targets like that with a seven-foot monster jumping down your throat. She and Tim sure hadn’t been able to manage it.

  Seven wolves stood around the room watching. An eighth held a cell phone pointed at Conal and his torturer, apparently shooting video.

  Helena peered down in disbelief. “Are they Livestreaming this? Like those Warlock’s Wrath psychos?” The splinter group of werewolf terrorists had videoed themselves murdering an actor the week before. They’d broken into Elizabeth Reeves’s house, shifted on camera and torn the poor woman apart.

  Which was a hell of a way for humanity to discover that, yes, Virginia, there really were werewolves. Especially since most Direkind were decent people just trying to live their lives. They did not need Wrathers making them all look like monsters from a horror flick.

  “Idiots,” Liam murmured. “Let’s sacrifice the whole lot to Darwin.”

  Conal screamed again, and Helena’s lips pulled off her fangs. “Let’s.” Magic burst in her hand as he transformed into the mutant shotgun again. Normally, shooting a werewolf with any kind of gun wouldn’t do much more than piss them off. Liam was another matter. True, his usual magical bullets would do no more damage than lead, but a death deity always had options.

  Helena trained the shotgun on her target. As Liam dropped his stealth spell, she fired. The blast slapped her sensitive ears as the gun jolted between her hands. The projectile slammed into the top of the torturer’s skull and detonated, obliterating his head in a rain of crimson. Direkind might be immune to magic, but nobody was immune to explosives.

  As the startled shouts began, Helena coolly turned the gun on the idiot with the cell phone, who gaped up at her in shock. BOOM! Another shower of blood and bone fragments. Roaring, one of the seven remaining werewolves charged across the room toward Conal. Helena vaulted over the railing to land between the two and blasted him right between his open jaws. BOOM!

  Blood pattered as the corpse hit the ground and skidded.

  “Bitch!” Something slammed into her side so hard, Liam flew right out of her hands. She hit the floor with a gray werewolf astride her, snarling and snapping. From the corner of one eye, she watched the shotgun slide across the floor. Got to get that gun! Liam was helpless otherwise -- and she wasn’t much better.

  Claws flashed toward her face. She blocked, and punched the werewolf in the muzzle. He lunged for her face, but she slammed a knee into his gut, grabbed his hairy gray shoulders and rolled, kicking him off her.

  “Helena!” Liam shouted, as she flipped onto her hands and knees and scrambled toward him. A furry arm wrapped around her waist, and she drove an elbow back into her captor’s head. Pain cracked up her arm with the impact, but something crunched as the wolf yipped and let go. She bolted to her feet, but a big red dire wolf landed directly in her path. Two more closed in, hulking and huge. If I don’t get Liam, I’m fucked. She was good in a fight, but taking out five male werewolves was pushing it.

  “Smell that?” Big Red made a show of sniffing the air as he stalked her. “The bitch is in her Burning Moon.” He gave her a slow, vicious smile. “This is going to be fun --”

  She lunged before he got the rest out of his mouth. He was apparently used to women more easily terrified than Helena, because his block was slow. Her claws tore into his face even as red-hot pain exploded through her other arm. Twisting, she saw a brown wolf had his fangs sunk into her forearm. His talons raked her belly. Swearing, she went for the wolf’s glaring orange eyes. He jerked away in a shower of her blood. Then all five were on her, and she was too busy punching, kicking, clawing, and biting anything that got close -- fighting like the animal she was.

  * * *

  Conal convulsed as the werewolves closed in on his would-be rescuer. His chains rattled. Any full-blooded Sidhe would have made short work of them -- the supposed Fairy allergy to cold iron was a myth -- but he just didn’t have that much power. Twisting his wrists, he groped for the link he’d been trying to burn through. Torture made it tough to cast spells.

  Blood loss, shock and pain had taken a toll on his abilities, but the sight of the female werewolf going down under her attackers sent a wave of blessed adrenaline through his body. Magic flared between his fingertips, and Conal gritted his teeth, fighting to maintain the shield that protected his skin as the link blazed hot, then finally parted. He wrenched with the last dregs of his strength. Metal rattled as the ends of the chain dropped to the floor. Panting, he struggled to unwrap the loops. Finally the last of them fell away, and he heaved out of the chair. The room spun, but he steadied himself, tried to take a step… and fell on his face. He’d forgotten the chains binding his ankles to the chair legs. The impact jarred his savaged chest and belly, sending black spots dancing in front of his eyes. The darkness closed in…

  Liam Neeson yelled in his ear, “Get up, boy, before they kill her!”

  “The… fuck?” Blearily, he managed to open his eyes and turn his head toward the sound.

  A shotgun lay on the floor about a yard away. “I said, get up!” the voice bellowed, coming from the weapon. Must be using the same speech spell as Essus. It still sounded like the Taken guy. The light finally dawned. That’s not an actor, that’s Maeve’s pet death god. Which meant his werewolf rescuer was Helena Baker. “Pick me up!” the gun demanded. “The geas only lets me use my power if someone’s touching me.”

  Which suggested Maeve didn’t trust the fucker. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but Conal didn’t care. Even as another blazing wave of pain slashed his shredded belly, he groped for the gun with a shaking hand and managed to grab Liam’s fat barrel. It felt hot under his fingers. “My ankles are still chained.”

  Magic swirled around his legs. “Not anymore.”

  His feet fell away from the chair, which now lay toppled across his butt. He kicked it away, gasping as agony ripped through him. “Can you heal me?”

  “What part of ‘death god’ don’t you get?”

  Damn it. He gathered his strength and forced himself to hands and knees. Teeth gritted, he braced his hand on the fallen chair and managed to stagger upright, dragging the gun with him. Conal remembered an unpleasant rumor. “Don’t kill me.”

  “Fine! Just save Helena!” Was that fear in the god’s voice?

  Steadying himself, Conal raised the weapon. Christ, Liam was heavy. One of the kidnappers, red as an Irish Setter, staggered back from the knot of battling werewolves, clutching a sliced throat. Conal fired, bracing himself against the shotgun’s ferocious kick. It almost knocked him on his ass, but the red werewolf’s head exploded.

  One down. He shifted his aim to the snarling, writhing dog pile, all claws, curses, and snapping teeth. Helena had black fur, but there were at least two that color…

  “Don’t fire,” Liam snarled. “You’ll hit her.”

  “Can’t you guide the damn bullet?”

  “That’s not how it works. The geas won’t let me hit anything but what you aim at. Can you use a sword?”

  His lips peeled off bloody, sticky teeth. “Hell, yes.”

  Magic lit his senses, burning his hands as the shotgun became a two-handed great sword that was even heavier. “Demon winds, you’re weak.” Liam sounded thoroughly disgusted.

  “Just spent an hour being tortured,” Conal snapped back, angry shame storming through him. Fucking Siobhan.

  “Fine! Here.” Magic burned his hands with cold fire. A heartbeat later, energy roared through his veins, blasting his spent body with a berserker’s strength. “It won’t last, so get to work.”

  “Yes!” Conal swung the big blade up and charged, glorying in the surge of power, hungry for revenge. He wished he’d had Darkbane when these fuckers gated in, but the magical weapon had been in his bedroom. It might as well have been in New York. He spun, building momentum, and chopped the sword into the nearest furry back with a triumphant bellow. The wolf screamed and twisted, one clawed hand darting toward Conal’s face. He ducked the swipe, simultaneously twisting the blade and jerking it free. The wolf yelped, high with anguish, and light blazed around him. When the glow vanished, he’d transformed into a timber wolf the size of a pony.

  He’d also healed. The wolf whirled to race away, but Conal spun the sword and decapitated him. “Who’s a pussy now, Fido fucker?”

  Another pair of yellow eyes flashed in his direction, and that wolf charged. Conal pivoted smoothly aside, swinging the sword two-handed, Derek Jeter going for a homer. The monster tried to dodge, but the blade sank into furry ribs. Howling, Conal levered the weapon up through the werewolf’s torso with all his berserker’s strength. The wolf clawed his forearms, raking furrows Conal barely felt as he twisted the blade free. The monster crumpled in a dying heap.

  “Got the heart,” Liam told him. “Good work.”

  Conal glanced down at his bloody arms, at his savaged stomach, and the analytical part of his brain wondered how the god was keeping him on his feet. Then he decided he didn’t give a damn. Helena had done something permanent to one of her last three attackers. The fucker was down on the ground, writhing, beginning to glow. About to transform and heal again. Oh, hell, no.

  Conal headed for Helena and her final two foes, swinging Liam at the downed wolf as he passed. Bone crunched, blood flew and the magical glow vanished with the monster’s death.

  “You have a nasty streak,” the god observed. “I approve.”

  “Five years with Siobhan makes you mean.” He freed the blade with an easy twist of his wrist. Blood pattered on the floor. Fido’s? Eh, could be mine.

  One of Helena’s attackers sensed him coming and leaped away. Conal’s sword stroke missed, but a whisker swirled through the air, neatly severed. Liam was sharp. I do love a good blade. Conal coiled, his hands flexing on the sword hilt. The nearest wolf turned to snarl, lips peeled back from fangs the length of daggers. Conal felt… odd, despite the singing power, almost floating. Blood loss.

  “Demon winds, you’re dying on your feet,” Liam said. “Let’s just pull an Indiana Jones.” In the next instant the sword was a shotgun again. Even as the wolf leaped for him, Conal found the trigger and fired. The blast as the wolf’s torso exploded knocked Conal off his feet. He lay stunned, vaguely embarrassed.

  “You’re done,” Liam told him. “Throw me to Helena.”

  But if I do that, I’m going to die, Conal thought muzzily. Oh, fuck it. He managed to sit up even as the world spun. “Helena!” And he threw the shotgun.

  She caught Liam out of the air, whirled, and fired, all one smooth motion. As if from a distance, Conal heard the blast as the last wolf’s head exploded.

  The world rolled sideways and went out.

  * * *

  Helena panted, every nerve in her body ablaze with pain. She hadn’t dared shift during the fight, since there were too fucking many of them. And she’d paid the price. She felt like hamburger after a trip through a meat grinder. Probably looked it, too.

  Drawing on her magic, she transformed. Human again, she bent, panting as she braced Liam’s shotgun butt on the floor like a cane. God, that’s better. But not by much. The shift had returned her clothing and healed her injuries, but it had done fuck all for the exhaustion of using so much magic on Mortal Earth.

  Lifting her head, she looked around for Conal. He lay ten feet away, covered in even more blood than when she’d dived over the balcony rail. Crap. She lifted Liam and hurried toward him. The closer she got, the worse he looked. “Is he still alive?”

  “Barely,” Liam growled. “I’m calling Maeve.”

  “What about the geas?”

  “Siobhan’s cretins are dead, so the spell isn’t in effect.” Thoughtfully, he added, “Conal acquitted himself rather well. Vicious fighter. I’d figured he’d be a pampered little halfer.”

  “Racist.” Helena dropped to her knees beside the Changeling. What she could see of his face was paper pale beneath the blood. The werewolves had mauled him like a dog pack. He had bites and raking claw wounds to his chest, belly, face, legs and arms. “How in the hell was he fighting?”

  “Berserker spell. Too bad I can’t do that on you.”

  “If you could, I wouldn’t be magic resistant, and you’d have killed me by now. Did you call Maeve? He’s covered in blood.”

  “I did, and not all of it’s his.”

  Conal’s lids lifted and he looked up at her feverishly. They stared at each other for a long, spinning moment. God, his eyes… The violet irises pulled you in, made you want to watch all those shifting shades of blue and purple. “I’m Helena Baker. Maeve sent me.”

  “I know.” A lunatic grin broke across his face. There was blood on his teeth. “Marry me,” he gasped. Then his eyes rolled up, and he passed out.

  She blinked down at him, nonplussed.

  “Well,” Liam drawled. “He does have good taste, though as proposals do go, that one could have used some work.”

  She felt the fireworks burst of an opening dimensional gate. “Conal!” Maeve cried, striding across the room, Essus clinging to one shoulder. The phoenix eagle’s wings beat in agitation. His feathers were glowing, dangerously close to bursting into flame. “Maeve, he’s dying…”

  “Not for long.” Maeve dropped to one knee and extended a hand over the Changeling’s bloody chest. Magic poured from her long fingers.

  Helena’s nose stung with the scent of ozone as the Mother of Fairies set to work healing each of the Changeling’s wounds, her swirling power making his entire body glow. “Do you think he’s been infected?” Any human bitten that many times would shortly turn furry. Merlin’s Curse was catching.

  Maeve shook her head, bells and charms tinkling in her hair. “No, he has enough Sidhe blood to block the spell.”

  “Oh, good.” It would suck for the poor bastard to survive all this, only to die from the Bite. Twenty percent of Direkind didn’t survive their first transformation -- their magic escaped their control and incinerated them. Not that the first shift was a party even for the lucky eighty percent. Helena grimaced, remembering her own.

  By the time the Mother sat back on her heels with a sigh of satisfaction, Conal was healed and whole. Even the blood was gone, leaving no sign whatsoever of the horrific torture he’d suffered, beyond those gore-splattered jeans. He was otherwise naked, elegant chiseled torso bare, with long legs, ridiculously broad shoulders and powerful arms -- the kind of body designed for combat and seduction.

  He stirred with a groan of relief as his lids fluttered and lifted. His face was as ridiculously beautiful as his body. Thick dark brows drew attention to those arresting violet eyes and the kind of sculpted, aggressively masculine features you usually saw only on busts of Roman generals. Long dark hair spilled around his head, revealing ears that swept into elegant points. Changelings so obviously Sidhe usually employed some magical tatt to keep a human disguise going even while they were asleep or unconscious. Probably that sigil on his left pectoral, judging by the magic it radiated. Being a werewolf, Helena saw him as he was. It was a damn nice view…

  Her libido picked that moment to wake up and start rumbling, her nipples tightening, heat gathering in her pussy. Oh, shut up. He’s not going to be interested in me. He’s seen my inner Big Bad Wolf.

  Healed or not, it took Conal a minute to start tracking. He blinked up at them in confusion, before he sucked in a gasp and jolted into a sitting position, looking wildly around.

  “All is well,” Maeve told him, catching a bare shoulder to gently urge him back down before he could leap away. “Those who hurt you are dead, thanks to my wolf.”

  “Actually, he got some of them himself,” Helena said. She’d seen him swinging that great sword like Arthur in a snit. “Good job with Liam, by the way.”

  When she’d first glimpsed him with the shotgun, her first thought was Oh, shit. Helena was the only one who could handle Liam without risking a self-inflicted bullet. Apparently, the death god had behaved himself -- for once. Unlike the werewolves. Grimacing, Helena glanced around at the chaos and blood splatter that reminded her too much of her own crime scene. Her stomach lurched, and she quickly returned her attention to Conal.

  He was looking around at the carnage with a shell-shocked expression and probably having a horrific flashback of his own. Impulsively, she laid a hand on his shoulder. Conal jerked, staring at her before he visibly forced himself to relax and give her a smile. “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”

  She smiled back, making it as kind as she could. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve had a hell of a day.” But at least you’re not going to turn furry. Being a monster was nobody’s idea of fun.

  Chapter Two

  “Gods and demons, Helena,” Maeve said, rising to her feet with Essus perched on her shoulder like the world’s most ferocious parrot. She surveyed the chaos with distaste. “Between you two and the werewolves, this place looks like London after the Blitz.”

  “Oops.” Helena gave Conal a crooked smile. “Sorry about that.”

  “I can’t really complain.” He managed to force his own mouth into a return curve. His nervous system still reverberated with jolts of phantom pain, like a tuning fork trapped inside Big Ben. He hoped it didn’t show. “Breathing makes up for a lot.”

  An hour ago, he’d sat at the table in the sunny breakfast nook, answering email about the Brussels media company he was negotiating to buy. Essus had occupied the padded perch at his elbow, a piece of fish gripped in his talons as they shared an early supper. Conal had felt the first gate open and looked around to discover hell had come for an afternoon call.