Master of Dragons (2 page)

He pushed her to arm's length and met her gaze with fierce determination. “And we'd lose. Nineva, this is what I dreamed last night. There are twenty Sidhe warriors on the way. If we try to run, we'll be caught. If Ansgar gets his hands on you, he'll kill you to make sure the prophecy doesn't come true. You're a threat to him he can't ignore.” A sick horror flashed across his face at whatever fate he saw for her. “I won't allow that. Go. Now.”

“Daddy, no!” Tears of guilt and panic rolled down her face. “I'm not going anywhere!”

Eirnin straightened. In that moment, she saw him as the prince he was. “You're the Last Avatar of the Goddess, Nineva Morrow, and I'm not letting you fall into Ansgar's hands.” His opalescent gaze narrowed.
“You will go.”

His spell slammed into her mind, buckling her knees. “Daddy!” she moaned.

“Go.” His face was implacable, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You must survive to free Semira. It's your destiny. Too many people have waited and dreamed of this moment. You can't die.”

Nineva turned, firmly in the grip of the spell, and got in the car. She fought to call on the goddess and make her body obey, but her hand went to the key and started the car.

As she drove off down the street, she managed to look up into the rearview mirror just in time to see her mother go into her father's arms. He buried his face in her hair.

Nineva was crying so hard she could barely see, but her body, controlled by her father's spell, drove toward the interstate.

Two hours later, she felt the psychic blast of Eirnin's grief when her mother died. An hour after that, the compulsion spell broke.

She knew what that meant. Her father's magic had died with him.

Nineva pulled over, rested her forehead against the wheel, and fought her tears until she could drive again.

She owed her parents that much.

The city of Avalon
Twelve years later

The vampire attacked
in a flurry of muscle and steel, sword swinging, lips stretched in a manic grin. Kel parried and felt the jolt of blade hitting blade all the way to his teeth. Cachamwri's Egg, the vamp was strong.

Kel drove his sword against his opponent's hard enough to send the man flying. The warrior twisted in midair to land in a crouch, his bearded face grim with determination. Roaring a battle cry, he charged.

From the corner of one eye, Kel saw a blazing ball of mystical energy fly at his head. He ducked and sent a blast of his own back at the dark-haired witch who'd thrown it, then parried her partner's swing. Even as he blocked the blow, he spotted an opening and kicked the warrior in the belly. His opponent fell in a clatter of blue armor and a startled whoof of breath. Before he could scramble away, Kel planted a booted foot in the man's chest and lifted his blade. “Yield!”

Daring a glance at the woman, he saw she was down, too, writhing on the ground.

Laughing.

“Dammit, Kel!” she wheezed between breaths as his spell tickled her without mercy. “Call it off!”

“Not until Gawain gives up.” He grinned down at his friend's face. “Say it, 'Wain.”

As he expected, the knight laughed and surrendered. “You win, you big lizard! Let her go.”

Kel took his foot off Gawain's chest and banished the spell. “Love has made you soft.”

“That's what you think,” Lark said with a wicked little grin, getting up to dust off her armored knees.

Gawain rolled to his feet and moved to sheathe his sword as he smiled at Kel. “You should try it sometime.”

“I think I'll pass.” Kel watched his friend's blade slide into its scabbard, remembering the way the leather had felt around his own length. For fifteen hundred years, he'd been trapped in a magical blade, mind-linked to Gawain, able to move only slightly in his steel cage. “I like my freedom.”

Gawain and Lark had broken the spell that had trapped him in the sword just six months before. Kel's first act had been to kill the dragon who'd imprisoned him—his own uncle, who'd also arranged his mother's murder.

Now Kel had everything he'd dreamed of during all those centuries of being a prisoner. He was respected and powerful. Arthur Pendragon himself had named him a Knight of the Round Table for the centuries he'd spent protecting Gawain and Avalon with his magic. He had all the women he wanted and a challenging, interesting task—keeping humanity from destroying itself. He had avenged himself and his mother.

His life was perfect. Really.

“Hey, don't knock love until you try it.” Gawain walked over to his wife and pulled her into a hard, devouring kiss. She kissed him back as the scent of their rising desire teased Kel's acute senses. Six months ago, that would have been his cue to go to sleep, sinking into the steel of the sword to give them privacy.

The memory made him restless. “I guess this means we're done with practice. Have fun.” Kel gave the couple an offhanded wave and strode away, trying to ignore the sting of jealousy. Any dozen women would be delighted to make love to him whenever he wanted, but none of them would give him what Lark and Gawain shared. He could still remember that moment when he'd been linked with them both—the feel of their perfect, shimmering love.

Kel knew he'd never experience that kind of joy first-hand, because he wasn't human. Wasn't even a vampire or witch, like the rest of the Magekind.

And his kind did not mate for life.

Reaching Avalon's central square, he stopped. Around him rose the shining castles, châteaus, and villas of the enchanted city, all brightly lit by Mageverse magic. The moon floated overhead, a bare silver sliver against the brilliant backwash of the starlit night. The sky was much brighter here than it was on the alternate Earth where the mortal humans lived, more crowded with stars. Whenever he traveled to that other world, the air tasted flat, lacking the familiar sizzle of enchantment. He was always delighted to come home and breathe in the sweet taste of magic again.

Tilting his head back, Kel mentally reached for the Mageverse. He let its familiar foaming warmth flood him, first his senses, then his mind. Then his body.

In the blink of an eye, he began to grow, muscle and bone expanding, strength flooding his consciousness with an intoxicating power.

When he opened his eyes again, the city around him had shrunk. An illusion, of course, born of the fact that his head was now a good fifteen feet in the air.

He spread his great wings and bounded upward, unconsciously extending his magic to lift his forty-foot length. Avalon began to drop away from his scaled belly as he flew higher and higher.

Free. He was free.

Even after six months, he never got tired of this. Flying again, after so many centuries of being tiny and trapped in that damn blade.

A dragon once more.

Kel liked assuming human form—he'd shared a human's mind for fifteen centuries, after all. In many ways, he was more human than anything else.

But still, there was something to be said for flying.

He beat his way higher, enjoying the cool wind against his face. Opening his jaws, he breathed out a great plume of magical fire, just for the pleasure of watching it glow.

He swung into a swooping turn over Avalon, admiring the city's marble towers and whimsical shapes, so different from the Dragon Cliffs he'd been raised in. Humans had a way of turning even the simplest things into art. It was one of the things he liked about them.

From the corner of one eye, he spotted something burning fiercely against the night sky.

He glanced idly around—just as it shot toward him, blazing like a comet.

Startled, he drew up, trying to make out what it was. Great wings and a long snaking neck suggested another dragon, but no dragon shone with multicolored light.

Kel…

The alien voice echoed in his mind, impossibly deep, though edged in a sibilant hiss. His spines flattened on the back of his neck with superstitious terror.

Kel's first impulse was to flee, but Knights of the Round Table did not run. Instead he held his position and threw up a magical shield as he watched the burning dragon grow closer.

One thing was painfully obvious: this was no creature of flesh and blood. “Cachamwri,” he breathed, realizing at last it could be no one else.

Aye,
the burning dragon said.

Kel's wings almost failed him in his astonishment. He fell several feet before he caught himself.

Cachamwri, the god of dragons.

I have a task for you,
Cachamwri said, as he swooped into a tight, fiery circle around Kel.

You never answered me.
Kel hadn't even intended to say the words. They simply erupted on their own, borne on a sudden lava flow of hot rage.
Centuries I prayed to you, and you never answered
. He'd begged the dragon god for his freedom, begged to learn who had trapped him. To no avail.

Cachamwri spread his wings wide and hovered, great head cocked in inquiry. Kel could feel the pounding heat of him.
Would I have allowed your imprisonment if it had not been my will?

You
wanted
me trapped? What had I
done
?

Why, nothing. Just the reverse—you're one of my favored
.

If that was the treatment one of the favored received, he'd hate to be on the god's bad side.
Then why did you allow it?

Because while you were in that sword, you learned skills and gained allies you would not have otherwise. And you'll need every one of them now.
The god cut a lazy burning circle around him.
I have a quest for you.

What kind of quest?

Something appropriate for a Knight of the Round Table.
Cachamwri smiled a dragon smile in a curve of scales and teeth.
I need you to rescue a fairy princess—and save a goddess
.

 

Mortal Earth, Charlotte, North Carolina

He came to her as he often did. Even knowing how it would end, she couldn't resist him. Not when he loomed over her on his knees, his cock long, luscious, and rock-hard, curving slightly upward into a rosy heart-shaped head. His chest formed a broad and powerful V down to narrow hips and horseman's thighs. His flesh gleamed with sweat and smelled of alien magic.

He bent over her, bracing his arms on either side of her head, muscle rippling in thick mounds. Her heart began to pound in anticipation of the pleasure.

At the same time, the part of her that knew better screamed in helpless warning.

He kissed her, his tongue thrusting possessively deep into her mouth. She moaned in delight. His broad chest brushed nipples drawn tight with desire. His long cobalt hair tumbled over her shoulders, teasing her with cool silken strands. Her sex grew wet, clenching in anticipation of his first thrust.

“I love your scent,” he murmured against her lips. “I love your taste. Magic and cinnamon.”

Still kissing her slowly, thoroughly, he braced his body on one elbow and reached between her thighs with his free hand. Long fingers stroked her outer lips tenderly, then found the creaming seam. Her hips rolled upward in yearning. He made a low, triumphant sound and thrust his fingers deep.

“You're ready for me.”

“Oh, sweet goddess, yes!”

His smile was slow and triumphant. “Good.” He angled his hips so she could feel the hot, eager thrust of his cock. “Because I'm more than ready for you.”

He guided that smooth, warm head to her snug opening, then began to press. Nineva caught her breath at the sensation of his thickness sliding inside. Groaning, she wrapped her legs around his muscular ass.

He lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “Mine. You will be mine. We're destined.”

She tensed as her every instinct howled a sudden warning. “No!”

Crimson light leaped up in his eyes. When it faded, he was gone from her body.

The dragon loomed over her, massive and terrifying. Great jaws gaped wide. Fire rolled over her, and she shrieked with the agony of her skin bursting into flame, her hair igniting into a blazing nimbus around her head. Before her horrified eyes, the blackened flesh crumbled away from her arms like ash, revealing naked bone.

When she saw the Goddess Sword, she grabbed for it, even knowing what would come next.

Thank you, child,
Semira said as she blazed.

Being blown apart was a mercy.

 

Nineva jolted upright
on the thin futon, a scream clawing its way out of her throat. For a moment it seemed she could smell burning meat, and she gagged. Leaping up, she ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time.

When the wracking heaves finally ended, she collapsed helplessly on the worn vinyl floor.

Bad sign.

The past twelve years had taught her that whenever she had the dream, her life was about to take a turn for the worse. Invariably she had to call on the Goddess Mark sometime that day.

Yet she'd been having the dream for the past week with no sign of whatever it was she was going to have to do this time. What's more, the dream had never before swung from eroticism to terror like this. The jolting transition from pleasure to agony made it even worse. She could swear she still smelled smoke.

After the first two nights of the dream, she'd been afraid to sleep, dropping off for only a couple of hours once exhaustion had made it impossible to stay awake any longer.

Oh, Goddess, please don't let this be a true vision.
Nineva laid her head on the vinyl floor and closed her gritty, tired eyes.

If her father had been right, she was the twenty-first Avatar of the Goddess, the one destined to free Semira from the sword with the help of the dragon knight. When she'd been a little girl, she'd wanted nothing more than to do just that.

Then she'd had the dream for the first time, and her parents had died. Nineva had learned to dread the thought of the prophecy coming true. It was cowardly of her, she knew, but there it was.

Luckily, it isn't going to come true anytime soon
, Nineva thought, bracing a hand on the toilet to lever herself wearily to her feet.
I haven't met the dragon, and I don't have the sword. It's probably in Ansgar's palace somewhere. It could be centuries before I have to worry.

After all, she was immortal. At least until somebody killed her.

Staggering to the sink, Nineva grabbed her toothbrush and went to work getting the taste out of her mouth.

She was due to play fairy again this afternoon. Might as well get ready for it, since sleep was out of the question.

 

The wings were
delicate expanses of gauzy iridescence that floated in the cold winter air as Nineva got them out of the back of her car. Flicking the switch on the attached plastic harness, she clipped them onto her shoulders. With a low hum, they began to slowly flap like those of a giant butterfly.

Gathering a handful of her diaphanous skirts, she moved around to the aging Honda's trunk. A touch on her key fob popped it open, revealing her prop box and the magic wand that lay on top of it. The wand's bright silver plastic felt cool as Nineva picked it up, the optical fibers at the tip bobbing gently. When she switched it on, the fibers began to glow like a spray of tiny stars, matching the plastic crown perched on her blond curls.

As always, the crown reminded Nineva of her father. A stab of pain shafted through her, but at least it was bearable, unlike the debilitating guilt and grief she'd endured in the years immediately after her parents' deaths.