The Phoenix Charm (9 page)

Thorn and Nightshade stood silently on the landing, watching.

Muffled voices and movement sounded from below. Michael hoped the Teg who’d laid the trap came up the stairs. Michael wanted to grind him into the steps.

His breath jammed as her shoulder appeared, then the bare skin of her neck, her ear. The rock peeled back smoothly, leaving no mark on her clothes or skin. When her face emerged, Thorn’s frantic gasps reached a crescendo.

Her eyes were closed, her head lolled to the side. Thorn sobbed.

“She’s alive,” Michael snapped. “Use your senses, lad.”

Tamsy licked Cordelia’s face, mewing incessantly. Michael lifted the cat’s tense furry body aside. She must have understood the need to keep clear, because she stayed out of the way, but her eyes never left Cordelia’s face.

Carefully, Michael pulled Cordelia from the rock. He collapsed to his knees, hugging her limp body against him. The magic trap had leeched away much of his energy; he struggled to find the strength to stand. Nightshade ran down the steps and grabbed him beneath the arms. “Hold her tight.” He pulled Michael upright and helped support Cordelia as they stumbled back up to the landing.

Michael flopped against the wall and slid down. Cordelia’s body settled on his lap. He hugged her close, cupped her
face to his chest. The gentle ripple of her psychic presence trickled around the edges of his mind.

Thorn squatted beside him, gripped Cordelia’s hand, and pressed it to his cheek. “I’m sorry, Dee.”

“’Twas not your fault, lad. ’Twas mine.” He had nearly lost her just walking up the steps. What on earth would they face when they went before Gwyn ap Nudd?

Cordelia drifted. A warm trickle of pleasure leaked into her depths, loosening the ties that held her beneath the impenetrable dark waters. The beat in her chest grew stronger; her mind pulsed with images of a man’s smile—Michael. With a surge of understanding, she struggled free, reached up through the murky layers to find light.

Tamsy’s presence hummed warm and fuzzy inside her, encouraging her to come back. Cordelia concentrated on her breath, in, out, the cascade of her water elemental nature cleansing her fear.

Breath caught as she recognized the feel of her limbs. Muscles ached from the battle she’d fought with the sucking stone. She flexed her fingers, found warm flesh beneath her touch. She sighed, snuggled, clutched, seeking something to hang on to so she wouldn’t lose herself again.

“Dee?” Thorn’s anxious tone made her heart contract. She longed to comfort him, but she wasn’t ready yet.

She turned into Michael’s warm embrace, inhaled the fragrance of his shirt and skin, mountain air, herbs, the tang of male, the elemental smell of earth, solid and steady.

“Cordelia, sugarplum.”

Warm breath tickled her hair. The pliant silk of lips touched her temple.

The water inside her soul stirred to life.

Her fingers tightened. Corded muscle flexed within her grip.

“She’s awake. She just won’t open her eyes.” The gruff accusation
in Nightshade’s voice sent her growing consciousness scurrying away to hide.

“Shh.” A warm hand covered her ear. Muffled voices floated around her but she ignored them, enjoyed the soothing beat of Michael’s heart against her ear.

A furry body squeezed into the space between her tummy and her thighs. Tamsy’s purr vibrated through her solar plexus, winding her up like a clockwork toy coming to life.

With a deep breath, she let her eyelids flutter up. Two large gray eyes stared back at her unblinkingly.
You found me.

Ripples of love and reassurance flowed along the link from Tamsy.

She focused on her body: feet, legs, tummy—squashed beneath cat. Hands, one sore, arms, shoulders, neck.
Bottom?

She concentrated on her rear, on the firm thighs beneath her. Michael’s thighs.
And other parts of him.
The lapping swell of her allure surged like a freak wave on a calm sea. For a moment, she feared her restrictive wards had been scraped from her skin. But the sensual energy circled inside her, unable to escape.

Michael.
His name drifted around her brain, didn’t make it to her lips. She tried again. “Michael.”

“Aye, sugarplum. You’re safe.”

Michael’s lips brushed her forehead. She wanted so much to raise her mouth to his that she pressed her face harder into his chest.

“Are we going through the damn door today or not?” The gravelly sound of Nightshade’s voice grated over raw nerves.

Cordelia opened her eyes, turned her head, met the simmering silver slits of his critical gaze. There had never been any love lost between them, but now he seemed to hate her as much as she hated him.

“Give her a moment or two to recover.” Michael’s voice rumbled through his chest beneath her ear.

Nightshade flashed his fangs, but the expected jab of fear failed to strike.

“Dee.” Thorn kneeled in front of her, blocking her view of Nightshade. He gripped her uninjured hand.

“I’m all right, sweetheart.”

Reluctantly, she eased herself from Michael’s embrace and wrapped her arms around Thorn. “I’m glad you made it up those steps safely. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

When Nightshade moved to stretch his wings, she caught sight of the small wooden door in the wall behind him and she remembered why they were there. She pushed to her feet, and turned to Michael. His blue eyes caressed her with gentle concern.

“Thank you.” She hadn’t intended to whisper, but the words caught huskily in her throat. He raised a hand to touch her hair. The intimacy should have been uncomfortable, yet she felt as though she’d been waiting for him all her life.

His fingers brushed her ear, drawing a small needy hum from her throat. His eyes locked on hers, held her captive in their blue depths. “There’s something between us, sugarplum. Something I want to investigate when we get home.” A vision flashed through her mind, sweaty bodies, tangled sheets, groans of pleasure. She blinked and her knees wobbled. Michael’s hand steadied her elbow while a smile tucked itself into the corners of his mouth.

Michael was everything she desired. That made him the most dangerous person in the world.

Michael reluctantly let his hand drop from Cordelia’s elbow as she stepped away. The front of his body tingled where she’d been snuggled against him—and a certain part of him did more than tingle.

He pushed out a breath, expelling the lingering sense of her from his mind. When they arrived home, he must settle things with Nightshade before he became involved with Cordelia.

Nightshade stamped his feet and snapped his wings against his back, indicating he was annoyed. Best to distract him before he upset Cordelia again. “Hey, boyo.” Michael slapped the nightstalker’s shoulder. “You going to knock for us?”

Michael eyed the small wooden door set in the wall. In a few moments, they’d finally confront Gwyn ap Nudd and have a chance to negotiate Fin’s release. His heart skipped a beat as Nightshade raised his fist to knock. When his hand met the door, it disappeared soundlessly through the wood.

Nightshade gave an unmanly yelp and yanked his hand back. “Shit!”

Michael suppressed a laugh. Thorn wasn’t as diplomatic. He hooted and grinned at Cordelia, whose lips remained tight, even though her eyes sparkled with mirth.

Nightshade glared at them and ruffled his wings.

“’Tis an illusion, boyo,” Michael said.

Cocking his head, the stalker gave him a narrow-eyed look. “You don’t say, bard. I’d never have guessed.”

Still grinning inside, Michael scanned the walls with his peripheral vision and spotted the real door, taller and wider than the illusion. Nightshade noticed it at the same time and knocked hard enough to rattle the hinges.

After the boom of the knock faded, silence fell. A strained tension hummed between them while they waited. The snap of a bolt from inside set Michael’s pulse tripping as the door swung inward.

He’d expected a Tylwyth Teg to answer the door. The small creature framed in the doorway couldn’t have been more different from the Welsh fairies. About two and a half feet tall, with pink hairy skin like a pig, the creature curled back its top lip, revealing jagged teeth in what could have been a grin or a snarl.

After staring dumbfounded for a few seconds, Michael recovered enough to speak. “We’d like an audience with Gwyn ap Nudd.”

The creature’s lip twitched, and he hitched up his coarse brown trousers. “Shove off.”

He made to shut the door. Both Michael and Nightshade jumped forward to jam a foot in the gap.

“’Tis an important matter,” Michael ground out, his patience dwindling.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Brian. Let them in. Visitors are rare as hen’s teeth and break the monotony.” At the sound of the cultured voice from within the room, the creature shrugged its bony shoulders and stomped out of sight.

“What is that thing?” Michael mouthed to Cordelia.

She shook her head in bemusement.

“Ugly little beggar,” Nightshade added.

Michael pressed a finger to his lips. Best not to insult the King of the Underworld’s staff members before they were even through the door.

Unable to get a psychic vibe from Gwyn ap Nudd or the small creature, Michael led the group in warily. He stumbled to a halt. The others ranged around him, gaping. A dark-haired man sat in a huge gold throne in the center of the room. He wore evening dress, black suit, black tie, a top hat, with a gold-topped cane resting across a table at his side as if he were about to jump up and start dancing like Fred Astaire. The piggy creature sat on a cushion on the floor, polishing a shoe, while the man propped his bare feet on a red brocade footstool.

The only other furniture in the room was a wide-screen television mounted on the wall opposite the throne, muted, but showing an episode of
The Dukes of Hazard.

Being raised in the Irish fairy court, Michael had learned to expect the unexpected. But even his credulity had limits. “Erm, Gwyn ap Nudd, King of the Underworld, I presume?”

Cordelia winced at his uncharacteristic lack of eloquence.

“The very same.” Gwyn picked up a remote control, and the TV screen went blank. “Can’t stand the Hazard boys, but I enjoy watching Daisy bounce around.” One corner of his mouth lifted, and the piggy creature rolled its eyes.

With an elegant flourish of his hand, Gwyn indicated his companion. “May I introduce my servant, the epitome of sweetness and light, Brian, my bottle imp.” The imp sniffed loudly without looking up.

Michael debated whether he should kneel before Gwyn. If he were visiting Queen Ciar in the Irish fairy court, she’d expect him to kneel and kiss her feet. He eyed Gwyn’s bare toes and decided he’d give that a miss. He hoped he wasn’t committing an unforgivable breach of protocol. To be on the safe side, he bowed and gave Cordelia a grateful glance when she followed suit.

“We come to ask a boon, great king,” Cordelia chimed in.

“Don’t tell me, someone’s died, and you’re sure it wasn’t their time to go?”

“No one has died, I hope.” Michael took a step closer and slapped a fist into his palm, determined to make Gwyn take him seriously. “Some humans opened a gateway to the Underworld in Cornwall. When you sent the gatekeepers to seal it, they trapped my nephew.”

Gwyn stared at him intently. Brian’s brush stilled on the shoe. He peered up at his master warily.

“Arian was among them?” Gwyn asked.

“Aye,” Michael answered cautiously, trying to gauge the king’s mood.

“Hmm.” Gwyn rose from his chair, then strode to the window. For long minutes, he said nothing, but tapped his fingers against the wall. “I wish I knew what Arian was up to.”

“But you’re the king; surely you give the orders,” Cordelia said, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Gwyn turned smoothly, tall and powerfully built beneath his civilized attire. “I’m a figurehead, rather like the Queen of England—except without the crown jewels and embarrassing relatives.”

Frustration blasted through Michael at Gwyn’s casual attitude. For the first time he understood why Niall grew angry with him when he joked about problems. He followed Gwyn to the window. “We came to ask you to release Finian.”

Gwyn shook his head. “At the moment, I’ve no power to help.”

Cordelia came up beside Michael. “Can’t you speak with Arian? For goodness’ sake, we’re talking about a child.”

Gwyn’s blue eyes flicked between them. Michael blinked, sure that for an instant Gwyn’s eyes had flashed red.

“What race are you?” Gwyn asked, glancing at Nightshade.

“Cornish piskies,” Cordelia answered.

“The nightstalker too?”

“All of us except Michael,” she added.

“Michael?” Gwyn’s probing gaze settled on him. “You look familiar.”

Michael laughed, a short sharp burst of irritation. The last thing he wanted to do now was discuss his background. “Unless you’ve visited the Irish fairy court, we’ve never met.”

“Ireland?”

“Aye, me father is the Irish fairy queen’s bodyguard.”

Gwyn’s expression froze, while his body became preter-naturally still. “You’re Troy’s son.” The statement dropped like a stone into the pool of silence.

Unease slid through Michael. Troy hadn’t mentioned he knew Gwyn.

“Do you take after Troy?”

The eagerness in Gwyn’s voice flashed Michael’s senses to high alert. But wariness did him no good. He had no idea whether answering yes or no would be more likely to persuade Gwyn to help.

Before Michael could decide what to say, Gwyn obviously came to his own conclusion. “Show me the Phoenix Dagger.”

Gwyn must be referring to Troy’s dagger. Troy had told him to show the weapon only to Master Devin. Should he deny knowledge of the dagger, and risk alienating Gwyn? His jaw tightened until his teeth hurt. He could normally talk his way out of anything, yet now that he needed his wits more than ever, they’d flown away.

With a jolt of frustration, Michael bent and yanked the knife from the webbing strapped around his lower leg. The scintillating oval stone scattered starbursts of color across the walls as he palmed the blade and presented the handle to Gwyn.

Gwyn’s eyes lingered on the knife. He reached forward,
but instead of taking the hilt, he brushed a finger lightly across the egg-sized jewel. “The Phoenix Stone,” he whispered, a hint of yearning in his voice. He glanced up at Michael, his gaze sharp, assessing. “You’ve inherited Troy’s legacy or he would not have given you the dagger.”

“How do you know?”

Gwyn laughed, a bitter parody of pleasure. “Oh, I know your father, Michael. We go back a
long
way.”

“What type of being is Troy?” Cordelia asked.

A subtle tension ran through Michael.
He’s Tuatha Dé Danaan
rolled to the tip of his tongue, but deep inside doubt wormed around, undermining his certainty.

Gwyn’s gaze flicked from the Phoenix Stone to Cordelia. Then he looked at Michael. “You know that Troy manifests the Phoenix Charm?”

Michael held Gwyn’s gaze silently, not wanting to reveal that he’d never heard of the term “Phoenix Charm.”

“So why did he give us the blade?” Cordelia pressed. “Is the jewel magic? Will it help us rescue Finian from the Underworld?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Gwyn gazed longingly at the stone.

“Do you have the power to use this dagger or the stone to help us?” Michael demanded, sure he was missing something important.

A smile settled on Gwyn’s lips, but didn’t touch the rest of his face. “Go before the Ennead, the council of nine. Ask to exchange yourself for the child. Let Arian see the dagger, but be crafty. Don’t let him know you want him to use it.”

“Use it for what?” Michael asked.

“Troy really didn’t tell you?” Gwyn shook his head when Michael continued to stare at him. “How typical of his overarching arrogance. He believes he has the right to play with everyone’s lives.” Gwyn pointed at the darkly gleaming
metal. “This is the ceremonial blade that was used to kill Troy the first time he died.”

Cordelia’s sharp intake of breath emphasized his final word.

Disbelief held Michael rigid. He shook his head in denial as little snippets of conversation he’d heard between Troy and the Irish fairy queen finally made sense.

“Troy cannot die. He can be killed, but his spirit always returns to his body, his powers multiplied,” Gwyn said. “That is the Phoenix Charm.”

“Nah.” Michael turned away, shaking his head violently, denying Gwyn’s claim.

You’re like me, Michael. You’re like me.

The memory of Troy’s softly spoken words thundered in Michael’s head. “I’m not like him.”

“Troy obviously believes you’ve inherited his gift. If you can call such a curse a gift.”

“ ’Tis not true. I’m not—”

Michael swung around, desperate to get rid of the dagger. He thrust the hilt toward Cordelia. She stared at him wide-eyed in confusion, her gaze flicking to Gwyn then back.

“Take the cursed thing!” Michael shouted.

As soon as she gripped the handle, he turned and paced the room, holding the back of his neck. Everyone watched him. “Ruddy Badba!” He spun away, facing the bleak gray stone wall. Why had his father done this to him? The bloody Phoenix Charm should have passed to Niall. His brother would know how to handle death and resurrection.

Michael rested an arm on the wall and pressed his face against his sleeve. He fought to calm his raging mind and remember what his father had told him when he’d given him the blade.

When you understand my legacy, you will have every right to hate me.

A chill seeped up his legs, numbing his muscles with fear. At the same time, his head burned, his brain creating endless scenarios of bloody pain, the dark blade piercing his flesh.

Memories of Finian floated through his mind to taunt him: the golden-haired boy safe in his mother’s arms, his tear-stained face in the car, sitting in the mud in the trench. Michael’s fist clenched. With a yell, he thumped the wall.

Surely, there must be another way to save Finian? He didn’t want to die to exchange himself for his nephew. Even if he could come back to life.

“No!” Nightshade half leaped, half flew across the room, his wings brushing the ceiling. He bounced and staggered to a halt in front of Michael. Cordelia jumped clear of his frantic flapping as Nightshade spun around to face Gwyn, guarding Michael.

“Approach on pain of death.” Nightshade crouched, arms out, muscles knotted, ready to strike.

Gwyn took a few steps back. For a moment, Cordelia thought his outline wavered like a glamour. The hair pricked on her scalp, but when she blinked, he looked solid. “Michael has nothing to fear from me, nightstalker.” He stared unblinking, blue eyes intense. “I’ve merely suggested the reason that Troy gave him the dagger.”

“How’s killing Michael going to help?” Veins stood out on Nightshade’s arms as he repeatedly clenched and released his fists.

Michael stepped out from behind Nightshade, his skin pale, his eyes unnaturally bright with shock. He squeezed his eyes tight for a second. Then he pulled in a breath and held out a trembling hand to Cordelia. She hurried forward and placed the dagger in his palm.

He was going to die. She put a hand over her mouth, her
pulse weak and fluttery. Her knees wobbled, and she started to lower herself to sit on the floor.

“Behind you.” Gwyn pointed. Cordelia turned and blinked at the armchair a few feet away. Ignoring the fact the chair had appeared out of thin air, she stumbled back and plopped onto the seat. Tamsy mewed pitifully, picking up Cordelia’s distress, and jumped on her lap.

Michael held up the dagger and turned it over, sending scintillating flashes of light around the room. Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, accentuated by the paleness of the rest of his face. “When Troy gave me this blade, that’s what he intended?” he looked up at Gwyn. “That I should die?”

“I’ll kill anyone who comes near you, Michael.” Nostrils flared, jaw rock solid, Nightshade thumped a fist against his chest.

“I need to be sure this is the only way before…” Michael’s words trailed away, his gaze fixed on Gwyn. The expression in his eyes was like that of a little boy who’d been abandoned by his daddy. Cordelia stretched her fingers, aching to slap Troy ’s perfect cold face.