Chapter Two
Olivia blinked as Rhys Kincade charged the three wolves with an inhuman roar. Maybe he was a dragon. She could believe it, given the amount of raw magic raging around him like a thunderstorm.
One thing was for sure—he wasn’t Sidhe. Her people might be stronger than humans, but she doubted even one of them could cut a werewolf in two.
Unfortunately, she and Rhys still faced two-to-one odds.
In the distance, sirens begin to wail, moving rapidly closer. Nothing gets the cops’ attention like an AR-15 blazing away. Add a werewolf pack howling like hell’s own chorus, and we’ll be ass-deep in po-po in three . . . two . . .
“Shit,” one of the weres growled. “He ain’t paying us enough to play with cops.” He lifted his voice to a roar. “Abort!”
The remaining Direkind whirled and ran.
“Come back, you fuckin’ cowards!” Rhys leaped after them like a crazy man. “I’ve got your Milk Bone right here!”
Jolting forward, Olivia grabbed his arm and set her heels, somehow managing to drag him to a halt. “Calm down, Wolverine. The cops are on the way, and there are bits of werewolf all over the sidewalk. Do you want to be on YouTube? Because neither the Sidhe nor the Direkind will be happy if you out us.”
His eyes flashed yellow at her through the faceplate of his helm. “Fine.” Rhys threw up a hand. The werewolves’ corpses disappeared in a blaze of light and flame.
Olivia eyed the pavement they’d lain on, but he hadn’t left so much as a stray tuft of fur. Even the blood was gone, as if someone had hosed down the sidewalk.
An explosion of sparks replaced his armor with the slacks, shirt, and shoes he’d worn before. Including the black leather trench coat; he’d apparently conjured a new one.
Then Olivia sensed something else—a sullen roil of magic that made her belly clench. She thought she recognized that magical signature.
Gorin?
And a sword thrust straight up on the other side of him, point buried in the floor.
A chill flushed through her bloodstream like ice water. Oh, Goddess, was Gorin involved in this mess? He . . .
The sense of malevolent magic vanished so fast, she frowned, wondering if she’d imagined it.
Unfortunately, the sirens were getting closer. She didn’t have time to go looking for the bastard. “We need to get out of here.”
“Yeah, that would probably be a good idea.” Rhys dipped into a pocket and came out with a key fob. The Porsche’s headlights flashed as he clicked it. “You might want to change. I’d hate to have to explain to the cops why you’re dressed like an extra from Game of Thrones.”
“Not a problem.” She reached for her own magic and replaced her armor with a comfortably warm parka, jeans, and thick cable-knit sweater in navy blue. And damn, I’m glad my power’s back.
She frowned. Had Rhys been responsible for the geas? Or could it have been Gorin? But that didn’t make sense—if he’d figured out how to strip her of her powers, the assassin would have made sure she wouldn’t have gotten them back. Certainly not in time to help Rhys fight off those werewolves—if Rhys had been the real target.
“We’d better take off before the cops arrive.” He clicked the fob again and the car started with a roar as the sirens drew dangerously closer.
Olivia buckled her seatbelt and settled back against the buttery upholstery. The car’s dash looked like a 777’s instrument panel, and the expensive leather of the seat cupped her ass, already heating. Evidently it was equipped with seat warmers.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to luxuriate as he backed the car out of its space. Scanning the storefronts warily, she frowned. “Think there are any security cameras in those shops that might have caught the fight?”
The tingle of Rhys’s magic intensified to stinging. “There are a couple that might have gotten something, but the others don’t have an angle on the street.” He flicked strong, male fingers, and the car filled with the ozone scent of active magic. “There. Glitched the past half hour of video. That should take care of it.” He did a three-point turn and drove sedately in the opposite direction from the approaching sirens.
With a sigh of relief, Olivia settled back against warm, expensive leather. “I could get used to these seats.”
“Yeah, they’re handy.” He took the next right, then a left a block later. A patrol car flashed by, blue lights spinning, siren keening. “There’s a hotel a couple of blocks that way. I can get you a room if you don’t have any cash on you. Or we can head to my house, which is about twenty-five minutes from here. Failing that, I’m sure there’s a restaurant or bar open somewhere, whatever you’re more comfortable with. One way or another, though, we need to talk.”
Olivia studied him, frowning. Can I trust him? Then again, do I have a choice?
Oh, she supposed it was possible he was running some elaborate scam, but she was damned if she saw the point. If he’d wanted her dead, why bother with the werewolves? He had more than enough juice to take her out himself without a bunch of hairy assassins.
Hell, he could have fried her while she was lying helpless on that bench, and she wouldn’t have been able to do one damned thing about it.
He hadn’t.
That suggested Rhys wasn’t involved in her kidnapping. But he was obviously a target. Their best bet was to put their heads together and get this figured out before it got them killed.
Could it have been Gorin? A sword thrust straight up . . .
She drove the instinctive terror from her thoughts. “This isn’t a discussion we need to have in public. Let’s go to your house.”
“Works for me. But if you get uncomfortable, just let me know and we’ll figure out something else.”
What the hell, he’d proven he could be trusted. “You know, right after the sirens started, I heard one of the werewolves say, ‘He ain’t paying us enough to play with cops.’”
Rhys frowned. “So they weren’t just gunning for me for personal reasons?”
“Looks that way.” She eyed the magic swirling around him. “Given the kind of power you radiate, I’d hire magically resistant werewolves to come after you, too.”
“The question is, who did the hiring?”
* * *
Rhys didn’t speak during the trip to his house, though she could almost feel his mind working furiously.
For her part, Olivia concentrated on absorbing as many impressions about the area as she could. Pineville wasn’t the smallest town she’d traveled through in the past couple of centuries. It was probably home to fifty or sixty thousand people, judging by the number of streets lined with brick ranches, two-story Victorians, and split-levels dating from the seventies. Businesses included a Super Walmart or two, chain restaurants, and assorted shops in one-story buildings and strip malls.
Out beyond the city limits, stands of pine trees, poplars, and oaks stood bare-limbed with winter, huddled between more brick ranches and mobile homes, with groups of more expensive houses scattered between. Carefully tended yards surrounded the homes like the sweeping skirts of Southern belles. In the spring, azalea bushes and flower beds would adorn them like colorful flounces.
The countryside grew more and more rural, woods alternating with pastures filled with dozing Holsteins and horses. There was very little traffic on the roads, and the moon hung full and yellow, nested in puffy clouds edged in blue light.
He turned down a two-lane road that snaked through thick woods, the Porsche’s headlights sliding over looming trees. Ten minutes went by before they turned into a paved drive. Stands of oaks, elms, maples, and pines surrounded a sprawling Craftsman-style house that looked like it belonged on a mountain somewhere. Exterior lighting revealed fieldstone foundations and cedar shake siding that made the house blend into the surrounding landscape. The windows were wide and arched, with blond wood shutters, while square wooden columns supported the porch. The curved shapes were continued in the decorative woodwork on the roof’s steeply pitched gables.
Olivia found herself a little surprised. Given the Porsche, she would have expected something colder and more modern, probably all white stone and straight lines.
Rhys, it seemed, had a whimsical streak.
A garage door trundled upward, and he drove inside to park next to a gunmetal gray BMW.
“Nice place,” she observed, as they got out. “Hope your wife won’t mind you dragging me home.”
“Wife?” He blinked at her, puzzled. “I’m not married.”
Tension she had no business feeling drained from her shoulders. “I figured the BMW . . .”
“I just drive that when I want to be taken more seriously.” He grinned, flashing teeth in a boyish grin. “When I’m in the Porsche, people tend to think I’m compensating for something.”
Olivia found herself smiling back. “So why have one?”
“It makes my inner sixteen-year-old happy.” He unlocked the house’s door and led the way into a mudroom. With the kind of automatic courtesy she’d thought dead in this century, he helped her out of her coat and hung it before doing the same with his own.
While he was busy, Olivia wandered through the arched doorway into the kitchen beyond. She pursed her lips in a soundless whistle of approval. “Niiiice.”
A twelve-foot ceiling with thick oak beams soared over white cabinets, gleaming gray granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. And it was nice, but nowhere near what she’d have expected of a man who owned both a Porsche and a BMW.
“Thanks. Want anything to drink?” Rhys asked, moving past her to the refrigerator. He swung it open and contemplated the contents. “I’ve got wine, I’ve got beer, I’ve got soft drinks . . .”
“Wine sounds good.” She felt a distinct need for something alcoholic to unwind the tension tightening her shoulder muscles.
“Riesling?”
“Perfect.”
Rhys got out a bottle, then reached into a cabinet for a couple of glasses. He thumbed the cork free, then poured each of them a serving. After handing her one, he picked up his own glass and, still carrying the bottle, led her through an archway into an impressive great room. Here the ceiling was a full twenty feet over a sweep of gleaming oak flooring. One entire wall was precisely fitted fieldstone in shades of cream and brown with an inset fireplace and a sixty-inch flat screen. The others were painted a pale taupe, and hung with paintings and family photos. An enormous bookcase stuffed with well-thumbed books took up the entire rear wall.
Man does like to read, she decided, examining the spines. Mostly science fiction, physics, and astronomy, though there were several on folklore, magic, and Wicca, which made her brows climb. She wondered if he knew it was all bull. “Homey,” she said instead.
“Thanks. Want a tour?”
“Later, maybe. I think we need to get a few things figured out before the next pack of werewolves show up.”
Rhys grimaced, and gestured her to the well-upholstered couch in oxblood leather. It stood flanked by two matching recliners, arranged around a massive coffee table made of a slab of polished cream granite. “Good point, unfortunately.”
He sank down on the couch, stretching out long, muscular legs. Olivia joined him, though on the other end of the couch. Sipping her wine, she almost purred in pleasure at the taste—sweet, crisp, and delightfully fruity.
“I’ve got a lot of questions.” Rhys braced his elbows on his knees, studying her. Thick muscles rolled under the thin blue fabric of his dress shirt, drawing her eyes. A flare of sensual awareness surged through her, surprisingly intense. She tried to remember the last time she’d indulged her body . . .
And couldn’t. Though sex made a fine distraction when she was in a certain mood, lately those moods had been coming further and further apart. Apparently he’d managed to capture her libido’s interest. Go back to sleep, she told it. Your timing is abysmal.
Fuck off, it replied.
“So,” she said, to distract herself. “What questions do you have?”
The expression on his handsome face hardened. “What the hell is going on? Who set us both up to get killed?”
“Yeah, those are definitely the questions. Unfortunately, my answer is I have no idea. The man who wanted to kill me has been dead more than a decade.”
Rhys lifted a golden brow over eyes of rich amber. “You got him first?”
She snorted. “He’d have wiped the floor with me. Ansgar was the king of the Sidhe for reason.”
“Your king wanted you dead? Why?”
“He didn’t take rejection well.”
Now his gaze held a distinct sizzle. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer?”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Pain stabbed her at the vicious memory of a child’s arm lying limp across a broad shoulder. Even after two centuries, the rage and guilt had not faded. She no longer thought it would.
Rhys opened his mouth, and she waited for the question she had no desire to answer. Instead he paused, giving her a long look before his expression softened into compassion. And changed the subject. “What did you mean when you said I was an alien? My parents are definitely human.”
“Not given all the magic boiling off you.”
His sensual lips tightened. “I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t say you were. But there’s something somebody’s not telling you. Humans don’t have magical abilities. They sure as hell don’t have the kind of ability you’ve got. I don’t even think you’re Sidhe.”
“My parents wouldn’t mislead me about something like that. They’ve always been as bewildered by my abilities as I am.” Rhys’s narrowed eyes searched hers. “What were you doing on that bench, Olivia?” His tone hardened. “Were you playing bait?”
The question didn’t piss her off. In fact, she’d have been more suspicious if he hadn’t asked it. “You think I’m working with the wolves? Decapitated one of my coconspirators just to sucker you?” She took another sip of the wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. “Why not just sit on the bench and watch them chew you up like kibble?”
“Are you sure it would’ve been that easy?” His tone held a note of silken menace that made the hair rise on the back of her neck.
Olivia hid the reaction. She hadn’t survived a century in the court of Ansgar Galatyn without a good poker face. “Yes, actually, I am. You wouldn’t have had a prayer if you tried to fight them with magic. They’re immune to all mystical energies but their own.”
“Why?”
“Because Merlin designed them that way.”
His eyes widened. “Merlin? As in King Arthur? That Merlin?”
She waved the question away. “If I start trying to explain that, we’ll be here all night. Suffice it to say magic doesn’t affect werewolves. Not even magic as powerful as yours. Your second blast rattled my teeth from ten feet away, but it didn’t even singe that wolf’s whiskers. They would’ve gutted you if I hadn’t warned you to use a blade.”
Amber eyes narrowed and took on a stubborn glint. “Granted, but I’d still like to know where Merlin fits in all this.”
Olivia sighed. “I assure you, Merlin’s not trying to have you killed. But someone sure as hell is. What enemies do you have?”
He opened his mouth probably to deny he had any with magical abilities. Then he froze, his eyes going hot with fury and realization. “Oh, son of a bitch!”
Olivia nodded in grim satisfaction. “Yeah, I figured. Who, where, and what happened?”
* * *
January 3, 2019
Rhys sauntered out of a Buckhead dance club in Atlanta, mildly buzzed and a little frustrated. He’d hoped to find a little female company, but every woman he’d spoken to had seemed shallow and a bit dull. It was a problem he’d noticed a lot lately.
He was about to hail a taxi when a wave of magic made the hair rise on the back of his neck.
Rhys stiffened in amazement, pivoting toward the sensation of alien power. He started in that direction, striding fast, eager to track down someone else who actually used . . .
And then he broke step, frowning. There was something subtly off about the magic. The psychic impression felt almost . . . greasy.
Determined to find out what was going on, he continued, following the trail down first one alley, then another.
But the closer he got, the more repellent the magic became, until it reminded him of the stench of roadkill rotting in the summer heat.
As he stepped between two closed shops a couple of streets over, the reek became so overwhelming he had to swallow rising acid.
Then his gaze fell on the pair of moving shadows at the other end of the alley, and he froze. The streetlamp that should be illuminating the alley was out, but he’d always had excellent night vision.
Rage shot through him in a cold wave.
A man slammed methodical blows into a smaller figure whose thin legs kicked weakly. There was something unnatural about the silence. Despite the violence of the beating, there wasn’t so much as the scrape of a foot on pavement or the thump of a fist hitting flesh. It was as if they were enclosed in a bubble of soundproof glass.
Which was exactly what was going on. Except instead of glass, they were surrounded by some kind of sound-dampening spell. Rhys started toward them as he concentrated, directing his magic against the barrier. His ears popped, and he could hear feeble gasps and the man’s sadistic laughter.
The asshole dug his fingers into his victim’s chest. The boy—and it was a boy, judging by the wiry build, maybe twelve or fourteen tops—arched with another thin cry of agony. Magic blasted around them.
“You earned every second of this, street rat!” The man jerked the boy off the ground and shook him savagely. The child’s head lolled and flopped as if there were no bones in his neck. “How dare you touch anything of mine . . .” The bastard’s murderous intent was spotlight clear even in the dark.
Oh, hell no. Rhys broke into a run, the sound of his footfalls slapping echoes off the surrounding brick.
The man didn’t even look up, totally focused on his victim, his lips twisted. Despite his beefy build, his hair was as long as a woman’s, hip length at least, and colored with Day-Glo dye that gave it a phosphorescent green glow. The strands danced obscenely as he shook the child.
Rhys leaped, clearing the last ten feet between them to plow into Day-Glo. Green hair whipped as they hit the ground in a tooth-jarring tumble. Fisting his hands in the asshole’s shirt, Rhys rolled to his feet and slammed his captive against the nearest wall so hard, his head banged against the brick.
“Who the bloody . . . ?” Eyes the same Day-Glo green as his hair narrowed in rage. “Oh, look, it’s a suicidal moron!” He rammed his hand against the center of Rhys’s chest.
Sparks exploded as the spell hit, driving pain through Rhys’s skull like a railroad spike. Unfortunately for Day-Glo, Rhys was way too pissed to let it stop him. Spinning the thug around to give himself more room to work, he rammed his fist into the bastard’s face. Blood flew.
Day-Glo staggered, but Rhys gave him no time to recover. Drawing in magic like a diver sucking in air, he blasted it all into his foe.
The abuser fell on his ass with a shocked cry in some alien language. He stared up at Rhys, mouth falling open, eyes widening. “What? You . . .” Glowing eyes narrowed in fury. “. . . just bought your death!”
Day-Glo shot a fireball at Rhys’s face.
The pain was searing, vibrating his very teeth. Instinctively, he sent his own magic blasting back, fighting the power pouring against his skin, repelling it the way he’d have blocked a punch.
Taking a long step back, he whipped into a spinning kick that took Day-Glo in the teeth. As he followed through the move, he shot a spell into the thug’s gut.
The blow sent Day-Glo skidding to ram headfirst against the wall behind him. Rhys stalked after him, drawing in more power as his fury seethed. But when he fired again, the magic seemed to bounce off something hemispherical that surrounded Day-Glo like a science fiction special effect.
Huh. He flung another bolt of power at the bastard, watching coldly as Day-Glo reeled up and scrambled along the wall to get away. The thug’s spell absorbed his blast, but Rhys fired two more, observing the shape of the shield, the structure of the energy that made it up. Until he determined how to achieve the same effect.
So when Day-Glo threw the next fireball at his head, he conjured a shield of his own and sent the lethal magic streaming aside like rain off a windshield.
The magic’s light gleamed off the sweat running down Day-Glo’s face. “You’re not Sidhe!” he spat, wiping blood off his swollen lip, sickly green eyes narrowing. “What are you? What interest do you have in that little guttersnipe?”
“He’s an innocent. And I’m not going to let you kill him.”
“Innocent? The little bastard stole my ring!” He spread his hand, revealing the glint of gold on his forefinger.
“Yeah, that sounds like a reason to beat him to death. God, I hate bullies.” Rhys started sucking down more and more magic, digging deeper than he ever had in his life. If he wanted to save that child, he needed to put Day-Glo down hard—and fast.
He’d never tried to throw so much power before. For a moment, Rhys had the odd impression that Day-Glo was physically getting smaller. Or else Rhys himself was growing . . .
The expression in the asshole’s eyes went downright panicky. “You want the boy? Fine! You can have him!” He whirled and ran, simultaneously throwing a blast of energy at Rhys, who almost didn’t get up a shield in time. As it was, the attack rattled his teeth.
Day-Glo rounded the corner, bounding like a jackrabbit. Rhys’s first instinct was to go after him, but he needed to attend to the boy. He spun and headed to the small figure lying sprawled and unmoving among the alley trash.
But when he reached the child, he stopped short, stomach sinking. The boy’s eyes were blank and staring.
Rhys’s battle with Day-Glo had gone on too long.
Hoping he was wrong, he bent to search for a pulse. The child’s skin was still warm, but there was no trace of a throb. He put a hand on the boy’s chest, planning to attempt CPR, only to feel shattered bone give under his touch. Attempting chest compression would only drive lethal fragments through his heart and lungs.
Feeling sick, he stared helplessly down at the child. Dammit, he didn’t have the first idea how to heal injuries so savage, much less bring someone back from the dead.
Helplessness became black fury.
Leaping to his feet, Rhys charged after Day-Glo. I’m going to kill that bastard. I don’t care if I go to jail. He needs to fucking die.
But even as Rhys reached the corner, he sensed a boiling surge of magic. Light flashed as he rounded the building . . .
There was nothing there. The alley was a dead end, yet there was no sign of Day-Glo. The only thing that was left was a fading impression of magic swirling like a whirlpool.
* * *
“He probably used a dimensional gate to escape,” Olivia told Rhys, looking angry and a little sick.
He frowned at her, puzzled. “A dimensional gate?”
“Yeah. I’d be willing to bet he went back to the Mageverse.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Mageverse?”
“The Mageverse is an alternate universe parallel to this one. Magic is a physical force there, as it isn’t here. People who use magic draw on those energies to work their spells. The Mageverse has its own version of Earth and its own version of humanity—that’s the Sidhe.”
Rhys stared at her, processing what she’d just said. It did make sense. He’d often had the feeling that he drew on some great well of magic when he worked his spells. “So you’re from this other Earth, too?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded clipped, tight.
Rhys eyed her thoughtfully. “Why do I get the feeling you know Day-Glo?”
“Because he sounds a lot like somebody I . . . knew once. I’d hoped he was dead.”
He recoiled at the thought of Olivia at the mercy of that vicious bastard. “Did he hurt you?”
“Oh, yes. Except I lived through it.” Her laughter held no humor whatsoever. “More or less.”