Chapter One
Olivia Flynn shivered as the chill night wind cut through her thin sweatshirt. The metal park bench she lay on held an icy burn against her side. She drew up her knees, curling more tightly in a futile effort to conserve body heat. It had to be near freezing. Goddess, I’ve got to get off this bench. But she couldn’t.
It wasn’t paralysis: she could move her arms and legs. But every time she attempted to rise, it felt as if she were chained there.
The cause was obvious. When she looked down her body with her Sidhe senses, sparks of green swirled over her skin. A compulsion spell. Someone had put a geas on her.
Why? The thought pounded through her head for the hundredth time since she’d awoken here, like this. Who did this?
It didn’t feel like Sidhe work. Olivia was no lightweight; she had more than enough power to shield against a compulsion cast by one of her people.
Grimly, she focused her will yet again, trying to unravel the binding. As if angered, it clamped so tight, it burned. She let her head fall back against the bench with a hissed curse.
Basically, she was screwed.
Shivering, Olivia peered around. She lay in a puddle of light from a nearby streetlamp, one of several along the sidewalk. Directly behind her stood Noodle Monsoon, evidently some kind of Thai restaurant, now closed and dark. On either side of that stood an antique store, What’s Old Is New Again, and a consignment shop, Southern Notions. They appeared to be the kind of mom-and-pop operations found in small towns. She’d lived in in a lot of places like this since fleeing to Mortal Earth.
Looking up and down the street, Olivia realized none of the other buildings were taller than three stories. There was no traffic whatsoever, though she could hear the occasional car rumbling through the night somewhere in the distance.
Well, Toto, it looks like we’re not in New York anymore. No more arugula dog treats for you.
The last thing she could remember was walking out of Bushido, the Manhattan martial arts studio where she took classes. Hikaru Sensei was a spry old fox of a man, surprisingly quick for a human. He was so damn good with a blade, he’d taught her a few tricks despite her two centuries of training. And then . . .
. . . she woke up here. The Goddess alone knew how she’d gone from point A to point B.
Impotent anger warmed her. All these centuries she’d sworn she’d never be helpless again. She’d worked her ass off to become a warrior, using spells to disguise herself as a man to study swordplay when it was forbidden to women. Hell, she’d even gone to war twice, partly out of idealism, but mostly so she could learn courage under fire.
All so she’d never again be helpless . . .
The worn rug he lay on was dyed red with blood. A small arm lay flopped over one of his shoulders as if the child had fallen asleep in his arms.
And a sword thrust straight up on the other side of him, point buried in the floor.
With a shudder, Olivia dragged herself from the memory. She couldn’t afford to lose herself in guilt and grief, or she’d never get off this bench.
Teeth chattering, she wrapped her arms around her body and watched her breath curl in front of her eyes in a streaming white plume. Trying to distract herself, she wondered what happened to her parka. She wore only the jeans and sweatshirt she’d had on under it. If I don’t break the compulsion soon, I’m going to freeze to death.
But she’d been beating her head against that particular concrete wall for the past half hour. Time to try something else. Again. Hadn’t worked the last time, but maybe her efforts had weakened something . . .
Closing her eyes, Olivia drew on the Mageverse—the source of all magic—straining to conjure a jacket, a blanket, hand warmers . . . hell, a candle. Anything at all.
Nothing happened. She tried again. It went right on not happening.
Olivia snarled under her breath. She was going to find whoever laid this geas on her, and gut him, her, or it.
Assuming she didn’t die of hypothermia first.
The rumble of an engine approached. She looked around as the car purred down the street toward her, slowing as if to get a look at her.
Oh, what now? No, I’m not a hooker. Go away. Though on the other hand, if he let her in that car, at least she’d be warm . . .
Olivia grimaced at her running nose, automatically tried to conjure a tissue, and swore when one didn’t appear. With no alternative, she wiped her nose on her sleeve. Maybe it would turn off the would-be john. Or maybe I’d better hope it doesn’t.
The white Porsche 911 pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of her bench. Even stopped, it looked as if it was speeding. Compensating for something, buddy? Olivia ground her teeth. With my luck, I’m going to have to fight this idiot off. Which would be an issue, since she couldn’t even get off the bench. Think positive, Liv. Maybe he’s a Good Samaritan.
More likely, he’s a serial killer, retorted her inner pessimist. Unfortunately, her inner pessimist had the better track record.
Sniffling miserably, Olivia watched as the Porsche’s driver’s door swung open.
Then she got a good look at him as he got out, and her heart sank. The man seemed to tower in the trench coat that swirled around his long legs as he started toward her. He had the muscle to go with that height, too; his shoulders were obviously broad under the coat’s fine black leather. Blond hair, cut neat and short, gleamed under the glow of the streetlight. She had the impression he was handsome, though it was hard to tell in the harsh shadows the light cast.
Then again, Ansgar had been handsome, and look what a murdering bastard he’d been.
As if his size wasn’t alarming enough, her Sidhe senses detected magic radiating from him in a blizzard of blue-white sparks. As he approached, that sense of power grew until she found herself shrinking against the back of the bench in dread. Oh, sweet Goddess, what does he want?
She ached to jump up and run, but her body refused to so much as twitch.
What was he? Not Sidhe—he had far too much power, much more than Olivia. Not Magekind either. Male Magekind were always vampires, and vamps couldn’t cast spells.
If he’d cast the geas, no wonder she couldn’t break it.
Anger came to Olivia’s rescue with another shot of heat and determination. No, dammit, she wasn’t just going to give in to whatever he had in mind. When I said “never again,” I meant it.
She threw all her will, all her magic, against the smothering blanket of the geas, fighting to punch through.
Nothing.
Shaking, longing to scream in defiance, she stared up at the man as he studied her from his considerable height. The light of the streetlamp painted the rise of his cheekbones, the swoop of his nose, the full curve of his lower lip. Shadows modeled the sculptured contours of a square jaw line, while his eyes gleamed in the shadows cast by thick brows. Oddly, there was no trace of malevolence or gloating in his expression. Instead he looked concerned. “Ma’am, are you all right?” His voice held a honeyed Southern drawl. “You need me to call 911?”
“L . . . Leave m . . . m . . . me a . . . a . . . alone.” Her teeth chattered so hard, even she could barely understand what she’d just said.
He frowned, his obvious concern growing. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just afraid you’ve got hypothermia.” Dropping to one knee, he leaned closer. She had to fight the urge to recoil from his snapping, roiling power. “My name’s Rhys Kincade. Can you tell me yours?”
She eyed him suspiciously. Why was he trying to act like an ordinary mortal when he was obviously anything but? Still, she’d learn more by talking to him. At the very least it would give her more time to think of a way to save herself. “O . . . Olivia . . . F . . . F . . . Flynn . . . Did you . . . Did you d . . . do this to me?” She supposed it was possible he hadn’t.
Though it was damned unlikely.
Rhys drew back, sensual lips tightening with a hint of offended surprise. He studied her, and whatever he saw on her face made his expression warm. “No, I’ve never seen you before. How’d you get here?” His tone was so compassionate, it pissed her off even more. He scanned the length of her body as if looking for injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
Olivia had no intention whatsoever of answering, so she was shocked when the words came out of her mouth anyway. “I d . . . don’t . . . know.” Had to be the geas. Which seemed to confirm he’d been the one to cast it.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Walking out of a d . . . d . . . dojo . . . in New York.”
“New York? You’re in South Carolina now. A town called Pinedale. How’d you get here?” Frowning, he sat back on his heels and shook his head. “We’ll figure that out after we get you warmed up.”
Sliding his coat off broad shoulders, he draped it over her, then caught her elbow and lifted her upright. The binding spell seemed to vanish at his touch. It was all Olivia could do not to gasp in relief.
Even better, the coat’s silken lining felt deliciously warm and smelled of expensive leather. Whoever he was, he had money. Despite her fearful anger, the heat was an exquisite relief. “Th. . . thank . . . you.”
“You’re welcome.” Rhys laid one big hand on her shoulder. Magic began to rise.
Instinctively, she sought to raise a shield, but again the geas blocked her magic. The binding wasn’t broken after all. Dammit.
But instead of the attack she expected, precious heat rolled from his palm on a wave of pale sparks. Instantly, Olivia’s shivering stopped and her teeth ceased chattering as the pain of returning circulation stung her hands and feet.
Rhys released her. “Is that better?”
“Yes, thank you.” She eyed him warily and shrugged into his coat, biting back a moan of pleasure as she slid her frozen arms into its warm sleeves. Her muscles felt stiff and resentful, but at least they obeyed. The geas had evidently released that much, though it was still forcing her to answer his questions.
Had he kidnapped her or not?
“Do you know what day it is?” He helped her to her feet.
What the hell kind of game he was he playing? Once again, her mouth moved without the intervention of her brain. “February 4th, 2019. It was six p.m. when I left the dojo.”
“Well, that’s the right date, though it’s eleven forty-five now. I guess it’s possible you could’ve flown here . . . Or . . .” His expression closed.
The pretense of ignorance was seriously pissing her off. “You think I’m lying?”
“Are you?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Actually,” Rhys said thoughtfully, “I think I would.”
I’m not in the mood for this. “Look, drop the act. Why did you put me under this spell?” With a flick of her fingers, she tried to conjure a magical shield.
Nothing. Again.
“Spell?” Rhys took a cautious step back, broad shoulders tensing. Goddess, he really was big. A good five inches taller than she was—and she wasn’t exactly tiny at five-eleven. His impressive build was obvious, given the thin, blue dress shirt and black slacks that hugged his powerful body. A black leather belt and well-shined black shoes rounded out the look, suggesting money and taste. He should be freezing, yet he seemed completely unaware of the cold.
He also looked absolutely flabbergasted. “You think I cast a spell on you?” His lips took on a mocking twist. “What have you been smoking?”
“You think I’m too stupid to spot a geas while you stand there radiating more magic than Gandalf? What are you, anyway? You’re not Sidhe. Dragon?” He had almost enough power to be Dragonkind, but if he was, she was screwed.
Rhys laughed. It sounded strained. “Those must be some really good drugs.”
“I am not high,” Olivia gritted. Her hands balled into outraged fists, but she couldn’t seem to swing them. It was infuriating. All that training, and she was just as helpless as she’d been last time. “Take a good look, dammit—it should be obvious I’m not a mortal drug addict. Or is my power beneath your notice?”
His eyes narrowed, and he reached out, fingers spread as if to sense her magic. She glared at him, refusing to cower.
Rhys recoiled, eyes widening with an emotion that looked like wonder. “Oh.” He said it in a soft, yearning voice. “You’re like me.”
* * *
The color had come back into the woman’s face, apparently from sheer rage. When Rhys had first spotted her on that bench, he’d been afraid she was dead. She’d looked almost as pale as her cascade of silver hair, so long it pooled on the pavement beside the bench. The hair had initially fooled him into thinking she was an old woman, but up close she appeared no older than twenty. Her oval face was girl-next-door pretty, with huge blue eyes and a wide, soft mouth.
Those lips would have been tempting, if not for the snarl.
She was tall, only a hair under six feet, and her athletic build reminded him of an Olympic volleyball player. Yet the aura of power that surrounded her was like nothing he’d ever seen. He’d rarely encountered anyone with magical talent, so he hadn’t thought to look until she’d mentioned it.
Now he could feel magic swirling around her like heat rising over sun-warmed pavement. Excitement zinged through him. He’d sought someone like her for years.
Someone else who could do magic.
The only other magician he’d met had been a murderous son of a bitch who’d badly needed killing. Rhys would have done it, too, had the asshole not run like a rabbit.
This woman could give him the answers he’d sought for so long. Too bad she was glaring at him in furious hostility. “I’m nothing like you. I’m Sidhe.”
“Sidhe?” He’d assumed fairies were just another of those frustrating magical legends he’d wasted years chasing. “The Fae actually exist?
“Different race altogether.” She eyed him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You have no idea what you are.”
“No,” Rhys admitted, and grimaced. “I always figured I must be some kind of mutant.”
“What, like the X-Men? Ha. You’re not even from this planet.”
His jaw dropped. “You think I’m an alien?”
A voice spoke from the darkness in a menacing rumble. “No, what you are is dinner.”
Rhys whipped around as a creature stepped into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp. It was huge—easily a foot taller than he was, with mountainous shoulders and enormous hands tipped in three-inch talons. Though it was biped, the beast’s legs curved like the hindquarters of a dog. Its eyes glowed like red LEDs as the gapping jaws of its lupine muzzle revealed dagger-length teeth.
A werewolf? What the fuck? Rhys shoved the woman behind him as he started drawing on his magic, preparing to blast the attacker.
“Direkind!” Olivia seized his arm and leaped back, dragging him along with astonishing strength. Light blazed around her body as if she were a torch.
When he glanced back, he saw her jeans and sweatshirt had become armor—not Kevlar, but fine, overlapping metal scale mail. She wore a helm with a transparent visor that resembled a motorcycle helmet more than a medieval knight’s. One hand held a great sword as if it weighed no more than a letter opener, and she stood balanced and confident, as if she knew how to use it.
“What the hell are you, Joan of Arc?” Rhys demanded in astonishment.
She didn’t take her eyes off the monster. “I bloody hope not.”
The werewolf grinned. “Fine by me—I love barbecue.”
And the monster charged.
Swinging the sword in a figure eight, Olivia leaped past Rhys, forcing the creature to veer aside. “At least the damn compulsion’s gone. Armor up!”
“How?” He’d never conjured anything like what she was wearing. And this was no time to experiment. He backed away, falling into a guard stance and drawing on his magic, preparing to defend himself.
“Oh, for . . . Fine. Here.” She flicked her free hand at him. Light blazed again.
When he blinked away the purple afterimages, a transparent visor had appeared in front of his face—evidently the same kind of helmet she wore. Glancing down, he saw his conjured armor matched hers. When he bent an arm, he found the mail was as light and flexible as a cotton T-shirt.
And he, too, held a sword.
“Now fight!” Olivia lunged, driving her blade into the leaping werewolf. Claws raked her armor as the creature bellowed in pain and fury, impaled through the chest.
Rearing back on one leg, she kicked the thing off her sword as if three hundred pounds of howling monster weighed nothing at all. The werewolf hit the ground, tumbled, and staggered up to reel away, whining.
Which made her a hell of a lot stronger than any ordinary human. He shook off his paralyzed astonishment, tightening his grip on his sword as he prepared to fight for his life.
Fido had friends.
Four more towering monsters materialized out of the darkness, eyes glowing, fangs flashing white in chilling chainsaw growls.
Get your head out of your ass and help her, Kincaid! He advanced to Olivia’s side, testing the blade’s balance as he moved. Though he’d studied hand-to-hand since he was ten, swordplay had never seemed like a practical skill.
WHAM! Something slammed into him like a crosstown bus, smashing him face-first to the pavement. A massive black-furred hand closed over his helmeted head and started to wrench as if to snap his neck.
Rhys twisted in his attacker’s grip—damn, Fang was strong—and back-fisted the thing’s muzzle hard enough to snap its head back. Thick arms loosened, and he scrambled up and away, glad of his armored gloves. He probably would have broken his hand otherwise.
A big red werewolf swung a clawed foot at his head in a spinning kick. He jerked aside, grabbed Red’s ankle, and twisted it so hard something popped with a sickening crunch. Rhys dumped the werewolf on his ass with one hard jerk, ignoring the monster’s howling curses.
Light exploded around Red. When it faded, a huge red timber wolf had replaced the biped monster. It snapped viciously at him, teeth clicking like castanets.
“Play dead, asshole.” Rhys swung his sword, but the werewolf leaped back and the blade hissed harmlessly past.
From the corner of one eye, he saw steel flash. Olivia spun and leaped as she fought two werewolves at once. She moved with impossible speed, the sword blurring in menacing, fluid sweeps he’d never seen this side of Star Wars.
Take care of these fucking wolves and help her!
“You don’t have a prayer.” The grating snarl sounded more like a Harley than anything produced by vocal chords. “We’re going to eat you like a Big Mac.”
Three werewolves moved to circle him, fangs gleaming in open jaws, eyes glowing orange. The red timber wolf joined them with another chainsaw snarl. Light flared, and wolf became werewolf again.
Red wasn’t even limping. Goddamn it, he must have healed when he shifted. Lupine lips stretched off his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “How ’bout you give up, and we’ll kill you quick.”
“How ’bout you get lost, and I won’t decorate my living room with a werewolf-skin rug.” Sword ready in his right hand, Rhys conjured a fireball with his left. It revolved in the air, heating his palm as it hovered. The minute he saw an opening, one of his fuzzy foes would be getting a case of heartburn the bastard would never forget.
Red sprang at him, fangs glinting. Rhys danced back as claws raked his armor with a metallic screech. He flicked the fireball right into those gaping jaws. It should have blown the monster’s head off.
Red snapped the fireball up and sneered. “That the best you can do, Harry Potter?”
“Nope.” Okay, time to bring out the big guns. Rhys spun another fireball as fast as he could, sucking in power until the globe blazed above his palm like an acetylene torch. By God, he’d sear these hairballs to greasy ash.
“Rhys!” Olivia yelled. He dared a glance over his shoulder. She ducked and spun between two opponents, sword flashing in intimidating arcs that forced the wolves to hang back. Outnumbered or not, she seemed to be holding her own. “Just hold ’em off until I get there!”
“Worry about yourself, dammit!” His four charged him. Still holding the fireball ready, Rhys leaped so inhumanly high, his bootheels brushed pointed ears. He whipped into a spinning kick that slammed his foot into the back of one wolf’s head, smashing the monster flat. As he came down, he blasted the full force of his magic right into the nearest furry face.
The wolf laughed.
Shit! Before he could spring clear, a fist hit him so hard starbursts lit his vision. He went airborne to slam into the pavement in a jarring tumble. Only his armor saved him from a nasty case of road rash. As it was, the sword flew from his hand to bounce into the street.
“Magic doesn’t work on Direwolves!” Olivia yelled. “Conjure another sword!”
Screw that. He rolled to his feet. An AR-15 appeared in his hands, and he fired on the nearest werewolf in a storm of bullets.
The brown-furred beast howled in pain, and light flared again. Fuck, he’s healing . . .
A big black were snatched the gun out of Rhys’s hands before he even had time to react. Jerking aside to avoid getting a visor full of claws, Rhys pivoted and drove his elbow into the werewolf’s throat. Cartilage crunched. The monster went down gagging, larynx crushed.
Something roared, and he wheeled to see Red swing a huge clawed hand at his face.
Light flashed off an arcing blade as it cleaved through the werewolf’s neck. Red’s head tumbled across the street in a spray of blood and gore. Rhys jumped back as the decapitated corpse landed at his feet.
“They can heal bullet wounds,” Olivia snapped, the sword bloody in her hands. “Conjure a sword, dammit. Decapitation’s the only thing that’ll work.”
“You’re wasting your time, bitch!” The brown werewolf whose throat Rhys had crushed was already back on his feet. “We’re going to kill him and fuck you to death for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I don’t think so, Fido.” Rhys conjured a sword even longer than the blade she’d given him—damn near five feet of steel.
The brown werewolf sneered at him. “You don’t even how to use that.”
“I played baseball in college.” Rhys whirled into a spinning diagonal chop that hacked right through the werewolf’s torso from shoulder to hip. The corpse fell into two pieces. “You immune to that, motherfucker?”
Then he whirled again and leaped toward the nearest of the surviving werewolves, lips peeled off his teeth in a snarl of rage. “Get away from her.”