The Phoenix Charm (3 page)

When Nightshade continued to glare at Cordelia, Michael decided that as he was blood-bonded to the vampire, he might as well make use of the connection. “You going to be helping us or not, boyo?” he asked softly.

The tension snapped when the nightstalker turned to him, his gaze softening. “Whatever you want, bard.” He gave Michael’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, then hefted two volumes off the table before claiming the seat beside Michael.

Michael purposely avoided Cordelia’s questioning gaze. He did not want to explain his relationship with Nightshade. Ms. Prim and Proper would disapprove of the fact that he’d enjoyed the illicit pleasure of a vampire’s bite.

He resumed flipping pages. He knew little about the
Welsh fairy king, but as Cordelia had observed, these immortals could be difficult. Growing up in the Irish fairy court, Michael had learned to survive the whims, wiles, and spiteful temper of the Irish fairy queen. If Gwyn were at all like the Queen of Nightmares, he did not want to meet him anytime soon.

Nightshade stared blankly at a page of pisky history. How could he read a word when Michael sat in a chair beside him? The sweet blood surging beneath his skin was pure temptation.

He craved him.

He craved the touch of his fingers, the musky fragrance of his skin, the musical Irish lilt of his voice.

Nightshade’s gaze rose inexorably to Michael’s face. The ceaseless twist of pain and anger in his gut eased when he saw the characteristic half smile curving Michael’s lips. Nightshade even managed a smile himself as he watched the gentle slide of Michael’s fingers caressing the book’s pages with the finesse of a lover’s hand.

Love—an impossible concept to fathom. This burning desire for Michael that defined Nightshade’s life, ruled his actions, his thoughts, was surely no more than an addiction: an obsession with the heady burst of energy he felt after he took Michael’s blood.

An obsession with someone he could not control.

The blood bond Nightshade had forged when he first bit Michael two years ago should have held Michael in thrall. Yet inexplicably, Michael remained in command, dictated when and where he’d submit, kept Nightshade trailing after him like a dog on a leash, forever hungry.

After adjusting his position to flex his wings, he read a few lines, reread them, closed his eyes.

The burn of a gaze made him raise his head. Cordelia stared at him through narrowed eyes. If he were not Rose and Niall’s friend, she’d throw him out of the troop. She’d always hated him.

Maybe he had earned the piskies’ animosity for being misguided enough to help imprison them, but even when he was a child, they had not accepted him as one of their own. He yearned to belong, even if just to one person.

Cordelia tried to focus on her book, she really did. But concentrating was impossible with a nightstalker in the room. The sweet scent of the almond oil he rubbed on his wings nearly made her gag. The scars on her neck tingled, and she made a conscious effort to relax her tense hands.

After a few minutes of fighting the urge to look at him, she gave in and raised her eyes. There he sat, legs slung over the arm of the chair, wings twitching like a huge bat. He glanced at Michael with a soft smile as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. In reality, he was just like his father Dragon—a predator likely to fall into a blood lust and strike when they least expected. She wanted him gone, banished. Until then, she’d never feel safe.

She dragged her eyes away and gave her attention to the book.

Once she settled, Michael looked up. “I’m sensing something odd.”

Cordelia concentrated on the plethora of psychic feelings bombarding her senses, checking for unusual energies. “I don’t think there’s anything out of the ordinary.” As if to make a liar of her, Tamsy leaped onto the desk and puffed herself up like a brush. She hissed, the sibilant sound lowering to a growl in her throat.

“Wretched cat. That’s all we need,” Nightshade complained.

“Shh.” Cordelia flapped a quieting hand. Foreboding
prickled across her skin. She blended her mind with Tamsy’s, jolted in shock at her cat’s spiky fear. Cordelia examined the corners of the room and the shadows for movement.

“Shit. I feel something too now.” Nightshade leaped to his feet, assuming a combative posture.

They all froze in place, the air vibrating with tension while everyone watched for intruders.

A spark caught the edge of Cordelia’s vision. Three points of light appeared in the center of the room, grew brighter, then morphed into shining orbs floating at head height.

“Tylwyth Teg,”
Michael whispered.

Servants of the Welsh King of the Underworld. An icicle of fear pierced Cordelia’s solar plexus. Without taking her eyes from the shining spheres, she stood and gathered Tamsy safely in her arms, ignoring the prick of claws.

The orbs burst into millions of points of light that coalesced into three Tylwyth Teg, two males and one female. With ash-blond hair, they were whip thin and renowned to be just as nasty.

Standing in the center of the room, the Welsh fairies took only an instant to gather their senses before they focused their pale blue eyes on Nightshade, obviously discounting the rest of them as a threat.

They were taller than Cordelia had imagined, the males over six feet, the female not far behind. All three wore black leather; the dark clothes intensified the impact of their pale skin and hair. They looked eerily like ghosts made flesh.

She held Tamsy tight, steadied herself. “What do you want?”

Instead of answering, the male with dark runes tattooed on his cheekbones stepped toward Nightshade and brandished fingers tipped with wicked silver spikes. “
You
are not required, nightstalker.” He nodded at the door. “Leave us…slowly.”

The stalker faced them down, wings slightly extended for
balance, the tense muscles in his chest and belly gleaming and hard as armor.

Cordelia’s breath locked in her throat. She thrust a warning look at Thorn, indicating he should stay safely behind the table.

Although Cordelia distrusted Nightshade, if a fight ensued, he could probably take all three Teg. She stepped forward. “Nobody leaves,” she said, managing to keep a surprisingly steady voice.

None of the Teg responded.

Nightshade rattled his thumbnail across his teeth in a derisive gesture. “You leave us, Teg.
You
are
not required.
”

Hostility vibrated through the air, escalating with each tripping heartbeat.

With slow, smooth movements, Michael closed his book, placed it on the floor at his side, and stood. His usual half smile on his lips, he doffed his green trilby and bowed. “Grand as it is to welcome our friends from the valleys, ’tis normal for guest s to come knocking at the front door.”

Looking bemused, all three of the intruders relaxed. The tension drained out of Cordelia’s neck and back; a subtle sense of well-being flooded through her. Storytellers often possessed a silver tongue, all the better to manipulate the emotions of their audience. She wasn’t surprised Michael displayed the gift. But she’d never before been on the receiving end of such an effective use of mood control.

The tallest male marked with the black runes recovered first. He swung around to face Michael and inclined his head. “I bring greetings from the Welsh fairy king.”

“I return them in the spirit in which they’re given,” Michael replied.

Cordelia stifled an impatient breath. Yes, we all hate each other, but gods forbid we forget the ritual greetings.

“Am I addressing the pisky king?”

Michael gave a genuinely amused if slightly incredulous chuckle. “Who is it wanting to know?”

Head high, the leader slapped a hand on his chest. “I am Arian of the Tylwyth Teg, here on the orders of our king, Gwyn ap Nudd. We three are gatekeepers to the Underworld. This is Dai, and this Olwyn.” He indicated the other male, then the female.

For long seconds nobody moved or spoke. Cordelia found her voice first and asked the question they must all be thinking. “ Why has he sent you?”

Irritation blended with frustration inside her when all three Teg ignored her and continued to stare at Michael. “Are you the pisky king?” Arian asked again.

Michael shook his head.

Arian glanced from face to face, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He flexed his fingers, the silver spikes rattling toget her like bones. “W here is the pisky king?”

Cordelia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Flying over Iceland, I should think.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m the pisky wise woman. I’ve been left in charge. Either you deal with me, or you come back in two weeks when the king gets home.”

He flicked her an impatient look as though he thought she was joking. When she remained quiet, he compressed his lips and turned back to Michael.

She straightened her shoulders, tense again now that the effect of Michael’s verbal tranquilizer had worn off.

Arian thought he could treat her with disdain, did he? “What business do you have in Cornwall?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

Once again, he ignored her question and concentrated on Michael, a frown creasing his brow. “Who are you?”

Michael gave the Teg an enigmatic look, laden with enough glamour to entrance a football team. Nightshade gave a small needy grunt. Cordelia clutched the table as tendrils of desire snaked through her. Thorn appeared unaffected, and the Teg remained unmoved.

Cordelia gritted her teeth. Losing her temper would not help anyone. “He’s the king’s brother,” she said.

Surprise flashed across Arian’s face. “Why then are you not leader in his stead?”

Michael scratched his head, tilting his hat off center, and summoned a crooked grin. “Now that’s a good question, boyo. Me brother and I have never quite seen eye to eye on subjects like responsibility and work—”

“Enough!” Arian squinted at Michael, obviously trying to decide if he were purposely making afool of him. Then he turned to Cordelia, his face set in resignation. “Gwyn ap Nudd sends greetings to the pisky king. Or in this case”—he flicked his silver-tipped fingers at her—“his…representative. A few hours past, someone opened an unauthorized gateway to the Underworld.”

The blood drained out of Cordelia’s head, leaving her ears humming.

She clutched her cat like a lifeline as an image filled her mind of dark, hideous creatures pouring out of the Underworld into Cornwall. She’d be powerless to protect the piskies—again. The breath stalled in her lungs. Then steadying strength flowed into her from Tamsy.

This was worse than she’d imagined. A million times worse.

While she struggled to breathe, Michael fixed his gaze on the three intruders and spoke. “Tell me exactly how this happened.” Gone was the playful tone. His demand cut through the silence sharp as a honed blade. The compulsion of his silver tongue dragged at her mouth to answer, making her mumble nonsense.

All three Teg started talking at once until Michael pointed at Arian. “ You speak.”

But all he told them was that Gwyn sensed the gate open and dispatched the gatekeepers to close the breach.

Suddenly the female hissed, an eerie sound that set the
hairs prickling all over Cordelia’s body. “Shield yourselves,” she whispered to her companions. “He spins silver shackles with his words.”

All three Teg glowed, their skin luminous as though they were about to change back into orbs of light , but did n’t complete the transmutation. The leader pointed at Cordelia accusingly. “You piskies must have opened the gate.”

She shook her head; her stomach knotted at the loathing in his eyes. “Would we be sitting here reading if we knew monsters from the Underworld could be skulking around outside?”

He grunted. “The pisky king is liable because this happened in his domain. Protocol demands you accompany us when we attempt to close the gate.”

“No.” Michael stepped in front of her. “I’ll be coming with you.”

Cordelia tensed as Michael tried to take over. Then she realized Michael O’Connor was protecting her. She stared at the dark T-shirt stretched across his muscular shoulders. Why would he volunteer to take her place? She’d expect Niall to do such a noble thing, but Michael? She raised a hand, hesitated, then did what she’d dreamed of doing—touched him. Warmth flowed into her hand, zinged up her arm and through her body, defying the restrictive wards painted on her skin.

He was dangerous to her equilibrium. So dangerous, she shouldn’t have anything to do with him.

“Michael.” His name fell from her lips as a reverential whisper. He turned, so close his arm brushed her dress. She placed her tingling hand back on Tamsy. “I accepted responsibility for the troop. I’ll accompany the Teg. You have other duties.”

“The babies,” he whispered , his gaze clouding.

As if thinking of the children could summon them, Michael’s nephew Finian materialized on the carpet in the middle of the room.

In a flash, Cordelia recalled Michael’s comment about the babies taking after his father and being able to walk unseen, disappearing from one place and appearing in another. What a terrible moment for Niall’s son to practice his new power.

Michael lunged toward the baby, but Olwyn was closer. She snatched Fin up beneath the arms and held him while he twisted and kicked, reaching his chubby arms out to Michael, and crying.

Michael halted, still as a statue, palms spread in a calming gesture. “Don’t you go hurting the lad. Give him to me.”

Arian stood between Michael and Olwyn and flexed his spiked fingers. “The child is of the pisky king ’s blood?”

Fear blossomed in Cordelia’s chest. Why did the gatekeeper want to know Fin’s bloodline?

Michael’s strained breaths filled the silence.

Arian jerked a single nod, obviously satisfied he was right. “The child comes too.”

“No,” Michael and Cordelia answered in unison.

The Teg leader appeared to grow in stature. Cordelia realized he’d floated a couple of inches off the ground. He pointed toward the door. “You both come with the child, or we take the child alone.”

“Only if you give him back to me now.” Compulsion laced Michael’s voice, but all three Teg glowed, protecting themselves from the effect of his silver tongue.

Fin wailed and wriggled in Olwyn’s arms. Arian glanced over his shoulder at her and nodded. She stepped forward and held out the child.

Michael clutched Fintightly to his chest, his large hand cradling the boy’s golden head against his shoulder. “All right, lad. ’Tis all right, you are.”

He looked down at Cordelia. “If there’s an open gate to the Underworld in Cornwall, it must be closed,” he whispered. “I’m thinking we should go with them. Not risk a fight. Especially now Fin’s involved.”

She nodded, thoughts and emotions tangled so she couldn’t separate the threads.

Michael headed for the door, giving the Teg his back to shield the baby as he passed them. Cordelia followed. “You stay here,” she threw over her shoulder when she heard Thorn’s footsteps behind her. He groaned in answer but the footfalls ceased. She had enough to worry about without adding Thorn’s welfare to the equation.