Master of Dragons (4 page)

“Yeah, right,” Nineva snarled, and hurled one of the blasts at his head.

The burning ball of energy splashed harmlessly off the magical shield that surrounded him like an invisible globe. As it hit, his glamour vanished, revealing a swirl of cobalt blue hair falling around those ridiculously broad shoulders. His eyes were the deep, dark red of rubies in his harshly handsome face. She couldn't see his ears, but she knew they must be pointed.

Just the sight of him brought back the dream agony of burning skin, the smell of her own flesh crisping. Fear clawed at her.

Nineva flung another fireball at his handsome face, gritting her teeth in frustration as it splashed harmlessly off his shields. The Goddess Mark on her right breast began to burn. She conjured another pair of blasts, bouncing on her toes, looking for an opening.

“Dammit, Nineva, Cachamwri sent me!” He moved toward her, blocking each and every one of her force spells as she threw them. Wary as a cornered cat, she backed away. “He asked me to protect you.”

Nineva retreated into the hallway, drawing more and more power from the Mageverse as she went, flinging each blast the moment it filled her fingers. “Oh, give me a break,” she snapped. “Why the hell would the Dragon God be interested in me?” Though, come to think of it, the Cachamwri Sidhe worshipped the Dragon God. Their king, Llyr Galatyn, was Cachamwri's Avatar, just as she was Semira's. “Is Llyr after me, too?”

“Llyr?” The warrior was beginning to look frustrated now. “No, I'm one of Arthur's men. Cachamwri…”

“Arthur who?” She frowned. Her father had never mentioned an Arthur. Besides, that was a human name.

“King Arthur. I'm one of his knights. Look, if you'll just listen to me…”

Now he was trying to sucker her with fairy tales. The burn of the Mark built to a savage blaze. “Tell Ansgar I'm not that big an idiot.”

The Sidhe's eyes widened. “Ansgar? Ansgar's dead. Llyr killed him months ago.”

Reacting to her rage, the Mark flared up like a torch, sending energy lancing down her arms and through her fingers. She yelped at the vicious pain…

A huge blast of magic shot from her hands and slammed into the warrior's chest like a fiery cannonball. He went flying with a startled roar.

The crash shook the apartment.

Stunned, Nineva stared down the hallway. A man-shaped hole gaped in the rear bedroom wall, revealing broken two-by-fours, shattered Sheetrock, twisted siding, and empty air. She'd blown him all the way through the back wall of the apartment.

Had she killed him?

Before she could think better of it, she raced to the hole and looked down. He lay on the grass two stories below, not moving. Heart in her throat, she scanned him.

Still alive.

She heaved a sigh of relief. He'd scared the crap out of her, but she didn't want his blood on her hands, either.

Maybe because she remembered the dream taste of his mouth…

Idiot.

Somewhere a dog barked furiously. A man's voice yelled a profane question in the distance.

“Oh, hell.” Her first impulse was to run, but she knew she couldn't leave the building with a gaping hole in the back wall. What if it collapsed and hurt someone? Heart pounding, she stepped back from the hole and cast a spell. Instantly, it was solid again. Another spell dressed her in jeans and a sweater as she ran to grab her duffel. She didn't bother packing anything else.

A moment later, Nineva was clattering down the stairs. At this point, she could probably gate somewhere, but she wasn't sure she trusted her own skills. The car struck her as safer.

She wanted to be far away from here by the time that big Sidhe came to.

 

Pain throbbed in
Kel's skull with a beat he could feel in his teeth. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a blurry vision of darkening sky overhead. He blinked and managed to focus.

Cachamwri's Egg, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been blasted that hard. Maybe when he'd fought his uncle. But since he'd been in dragon form at the time, it was hardly the same.

The Sugarplum Fairy packed one hell of a wallop.

Groaning, he rolled over onto his hands and knees and gave serious thought to throwing up. He could feel the muscles in his arms and legs twitch in reaction to Nineva's magical attack. For a moment, he thought longingly of his own soft bed.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. The Dragon God had given him a job, and he damn well wasn't going to fail.

Whether Nineva liked it or not.

Gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet and almost fell on his face. Hastily bracing a hand against the building, Kel swallowed hard as he blinked the world back into focus.

Okay, Tinkerbell, the kid gloves are off. Let's see how you like dealing with me in dragon form.

Grimly, he went looking for a place to change.

 

It had been
eight months since Diana London Galatyn had last turned into a werewolf, and she was getting grumpy. To make matters worse, her back ached constantly and she hadn't even seen her own feet in three months, though she'd been told her ankles were swollen.

Meanwhile, Prince Dearg Andrew Galatyn was bouncing up and down on her bladder, suggesting a serious case of ADD. She could almost hear the psychic
Wheee!

Diana splayed her hands over her huge belly and tried to think happy thoughts at her womb.
Three weeks. Just three more weeks, Dearg, honey. Then you get to come out into the big, wide world where there's lots of room for you and your bony little elbows. And everybody will adore you as the first Sidhe prince born in a hundred and seventy years.
She smiled to herself a little grimly.
Best of all, Uncle Ansgar won't be trying to have you killed, because Uncle Ansgar is worm chow.

Ansgar, her husband's vicious brother, had hated Llyr from the moment he was born. On his deathbed, their father, King Dearg, had made Ansgar king of the Morven Sidhe, and Llyr the king of the Cachamwri.

Unfortunately, that hadn't been good enough for Ansgar, who'd wanted both kingdoms. Over the next sixteen hundred years, he engineered the assassination of Llyr's ten children and four previous wives, but all the attempts on Llyr had missed.

Diana and Llyr had finally slain Ansgar during the last assassination attempt eight months ago. Now Llyr, like his father before him, was king of both the Morven and Cachamwri Sidhe.

And Diana, werewolf and former city administrator of Verdaville, South Carolina, was trying to adjust to life as queen of the Sidhe. Becoming immortal was cool, and God knew marriage to a gorgeous fairy had its perks, but the workload was killer.

The royal couple had spent the first six months of their reign in the Morven kingdom, trying to repair the damage Ansgar had done during his rule. This morning, after a two-month visit to the kingdom of Cachamwri, Llyr had embarked on a surprise inspection of the Morven palace.

Diana and her ginormous baby belly had gone along, though at the moment, all she was really interested in was a place to sit. The scarlet court gown she wore was lovely with its gold embroidery and gems, but it weighed a ton. And God knew Prince Dearg was no lightweight. As a result, the small of her back felt like a rabid wolverine was chewing on a particularly tasty knot of muscles.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be a single chair in the armory. All the vast chamber held was an astonishing number of weird-looking swords, not to mention spears, armor, shields, and whatever the thing with all the spikes was. All of it was arranged on gleaming wooden racks or hung on the marble walls between elaborate carvings of battle scenes.

Diana's attention focused on one particular bas-relief. Were those fairies killing a
dragon
? It was certainly possible. Though this world looked like the Earth she'd been raised on, it actually occupied a parallel universe where magic was a natural law. As a result, the humans that had evolved here were magic-using Sidhe, and the local fauna included unicorns, Hellhounds, and sapient dragons. The Sidhe and the dragons had made peace centuries ago, but at one time, each had hunted the other.

Before she could waddle over for a closer look at the carving, a low growl drew her attention to her handsome husband. Well over six feet tall, the king had a long, elegantly boned face, a strong, narrow nose, and large, intelligent opalescent eyes that sparkled with magic. Hair the color of moonlight fell to his muscular backside, currently on mouthwatering display in a pair of black hose. His faintly Elizabethan black velvet doublet emphasized the impressive width of his shoulders, and tall, gleaming boots sheathed his brawny calves. Pregnant or not, just looking at him was enough to make her senses hum.

Unfortunately, one look told her he definitely wasn't in the mood for flirtation. A snarl curled the king's regal lips as those incredible eyes went cold and narrow. “Trivag,
where's my sword?
”

Lord Trivag took a step back, his mouth rounding in an O of dismay as he scanned the armory, apparently hoping the offending weapon would magically appear. A lean, distinguished man with waist-length cobalt hair shot with gray, he looked about sixty, which probably made him six thousand or so. The Sidhe aged very, very slowly. “My King, I inspected the armory myself just two days ago. It was here then.”

Llyr turned his incandescent displeasure on the three Sidhe currently assigned to guard the armory. “So, did
you
notice anyone strolling out with the Sword of Semira?”

All three guards fell belly-down on the marble floor with a clatter of malachite armor. “No, Your Majesty!”

“It was here when I inspected yesterday,” one dared in a strained voice. He was probably the leader of the detachment, judging by the long blue horsehair tail thrusting from his helm.

“Oh, for Cachamwri's sake, get up,” Llyr snapped. “I am not Ansgar. I'm not going to have you executed.” In his anger, he raked a big hand impatiently through his hip-length blond hair, revealing the sweep of a pointed ear.

As the three men scrambled to their feet with a rattle and clank, Llyr growled, “Organize a search party and find it. I don't want to tell my subjects I lost the goddess's own sword.”

Diana's eyebrows flew skyward. “You've got a sword that belongs to a goddess?”

Llyr watched the guards hurry from the room. “Apparently I
had
a sword that belongs to a goddess. And I'm damned well going to get it back.”

 

Either the dream
man was even tougher than he looked, or something new was after her.

Something evil.

A sense of menace filled the air, so thick she could barely breathe. The warrior she'd fought half an hour ago hadn't felt anything like this.

Nineva peered through the Honda's windshield, searching for the nearest exit. Once again, she strengthened the magical barrier around her car. The spell had fooled Ansgar before when he'd gotten a lock on her, but this time it wasn't working.

She had the uncomfortable feeling she'd used too much power on the Sidhe warrior. Her magic wasn't responding as it usually did.

Spotting an exit, she took it at close to fifty miles an hour, fighting to pour still more magic into the spell as she went. As the overpass sloped up and curved around, she slowed to avoid losing control. But when she turned the steering wheel to follow the curve, the Honda kept going.

Straight for the retaining wall.

Oh, God, she'd gone into a skid! She must have hit a patch of black ice…

She fought to steer into the skid and pump the brakes as she'd been taught, but the little car kept going. The wall loomed in front of the bumper. Nineva threw up a shield spell to protect herself against the boom of impact…

Which never came.

The Honda went airborne, sailing up and over the retaining wall as if launched off a ramp. But that was impossible; the grade wasn't that…

Something had her
.

Ansgar's assassins
, she realized.
They're just going to smash me and the car into the ground.

Nineva unlocked her
seat belt and lunged for the door, trying to remember the flight spell her father had taught her so many years before. She hauled up on the handle and prepared to launch herself into space…

The door didn't even budge.

Frantically, Nineva threw a look out the windshield. The car had slowed, floating toward the grass below as gently as a leaf. Sweet Goddess, the assassins were powerful.

I am so screwed.

Gritting her teeth, Nineva gathered what magic she could and sent a wall of force at the door, trying to blow it open. The spell rebounded into her face like a slap from a giant's hand. Stunned, she tried to shake off the blow, lifting her fingers to her stinging nose. She touched something wet. She was bleeding.

So much for that idea.

Silently cursing, she sank back into her seat to watch the ground approach. With a grim gesture, she transformed her jeans and shirt into armor, then conjured a sword. The length of steel felt familiar and comforting in her hand. It should; her father had started teaching her swordplay when she was barely taller than the blade she used. Despite her youth, he'd drilled her without mercy. After all, he'd told her, she would eventually be expected to fight the Dark Ones. She'd better damn well know what she was doing.

Nineva had kept up with her training after his death. Borderline broke though she always was, she'd sprung for gym memberships and martial arts classes to make sure she didn't forget how to fight.

Now it seemed all that preparation was going to pay off. The minute they let her out of the car—
if
they let her out of the car—she'd have to be ready to defend herself. She was damned if she'd just surrender to the bastards who'd destroyed her family.

The car touched down on an expanse of frost-pale grass beside the highway, rocking on its tires as its weight settled. For a moment, everything went utterly still under the white sliver of the moon. Heart pounding, she looked around, searching for the enemy.

It didn't take long to spot them. Something moved in the utter darkness under the overpass. She caught her breath, eyes straining.

Thirty men on horseback emerged from under the bridge, their armor gleaming dully in the glow of their magic. The horses' eyes shone green and ghostly, like cats'. The icy ground crunched under their massive hooves, and their tack jingled and creaked.

Nineva's jaw dropped. Sidhe warriors. Out here in front of God and the South Carolina Highway Patrol.

Or not.
She could sense the bubble of magic that surrounded them all. Probably an invisibility spell.

All four of the Honda's doors flew open with a quadruple thunk. A man's voice rumbled in command. “Princess Nineva, come out.”

It had been a long time since she'd heard the language of the Morven Sidhe, but she hadn't forgotten it. Nineva stared out across the hood and considered telling him to go to hell. Reluctantly, she decided against it.

“Do not make me send a man to drag you, Princess.” It was the tallest of the men who spoke, a big bruiser on an even bigger horse.

Nineva curled her lip at him, battling impotent rage as hatred threatened to choke her. Shaking with it, she got out of the car.

Squaring her shoulders, she raised her weapon, fell into a fighting stance, and concentrated on looking like royalty. Her enemies might kill her, but she wasn't going to shame her parents. “All right, now what?”

Warily, she studied the warriors as they rode closer, spears, axes, and swords glittering. They and their mounts wore barbaric armor, matte black and jutting with menacing spikes and horns. With a rising masculine murmur, they jostled into a half circle around her. She promptly threw up a magical shield with her free hand, tightened her grip on her sword, and prepared to fight.

Not that she had a chance in hell. The odds well and truly sucked. Nineva curled a lip at her enemies anyway. “I guess I should be flattered, if Ansgar thinks it takes this many warriors to kill me.”

“We have no interest in killing you, Princess.” The big warrior swung down from his horse and strode toward her. With a creak of leather and the ring and rattle of armor and tack, the others hastily did the same. Yeah, the big guy was the leader, all right. “We mean you no harm at all.”

Warily, Nineva studied her foe. She supposed he was handsome, in an Evil Empire kind of way—tall and Terminator-massive in that ornate black armor, a shimmer of peacock iridescence sliding over the scales whenever he moved in the glow of his magic. The visor of his stylized helm suggested a wolf's snarling muzzle. Leather cords bound animal teeth to twin locks of his long black hair. The teeth clicked and rattled whenever he turned his head. She considered telling him he looked like one of the bad guys from
Lord of the Rings.

Nah, better not.
Instead she asked, “So what do you want?”

He spread his empty hands. “Only to talk.”

Nineva conjured a fireball to float above her palm. “Then you're out of luck, because I don't want to hear anything you've got to say.”

“Don't be so hasty, Your Highness. I have a proposal you'll find very interesting indeed.” The warrior reached up and drew off his helm, then tucked it under one brawny arm.

Nineva blinked in involuntary surprise. He was far more than Sidhe handsome—he was the most intensely beautiful man she'd ever seen, with a long, elegantly boned face and thick black hair that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. His dark eyes seemed to glow with seductive promise as they met hers, and his wide mouth curled up in a smile that suggested tangled sheets and hot skin.

She shook off her involuntary reaction and glowered at him. “I said I'm not interested.”
Take that, Darth Legolas.

“Let's find out, shall we?” Without looking away from her, he gestured with a mailed hand.

One of his warriors hurried forward and clanked to his armored knees. The Sidhe bowed his head and extended both hands toward his leader, offering the sword that lay across his palms.

Even before Nineva's gaze dropped to it, the Goddess Mark began to burn and pulse, urgent and demanding. She caught her breath and stared.

The weapon shimmered as moonlight danced along its jeweled scabbard. Its hilt was shaped like a woman, sinuous and nude, her feet balanced on the crosspiece. Her long hair swirled around her body, veiling her nipples and sex in a way that suggested wild power more than modesty. Her delicate triangular face was uplifted, eyes fierce with a kind of warlike joy. Nineva instantly recognized it from a hundred dreams.

The Sword of Semira.

The leader's hand closed around the hilt. Nineva gasped; it seemed she could feel his touch on her own body. Slowly, as if performing a far more erotic act, he drew the sword from its scabbard. Its blade glowed as it emerged from the gem-encrusted sheath, so bright her eyes stung. Around her, the warriors gasped in awe.

“It responds to you,” he said, his voice deep. “It knows you. As you know it.”

Nineva's heart began to pound beneath the escalating burn of the Goddess Mark.
Oh,
she thought, staring helplessly at the sword,
I am in such deep shit.

 

Diana Galatyn rested
her hands on the shelf of her belly and watched her royal husband brood. Even Dearg Andrew was unusually still, although that might be because he was running out of room to move. God knew it felt like he'd shoved all her internal organs as far out of the way as possible.

It was a good thing she had more than human strength, or she'd never be able to get off this chaise without Llyr's help.

Used to discomfort after eight months, Diana ignored it, much more interested in the expression on her husband's face. He sat sprawled in a chair, muscular legs flung wide, his jewel-encrusted doublet accentuating the considerable width of his shoulders. Black lace cuffs frothed around his big hands, and a huge ruby glinted on his right hand. Any other man would have looked effeminate, especially considering the long, silken fall of blond hair he'd pushed behind one pointed ear. Instead, there was a sense of masculine power and iron will about him. For the past sixteen hundred years, he'd been a king, and it showed.

Diana loved him so much it hurt.

She'd also tolerated about as much of this as she intended to. “You know, you're the only man I've ever known who can pace without moving. You going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to guess?”

Opalescent eyes met hers with a flicker of guilt. “Everything is fine.”

She contemplated him coolly. “I think that may be the only time you've ever looked me straight in the eye and lied.”

He winced. “The sword…”

“There's more to this than some missing cutlery, Llyr. If you'll tell me what the hell is going on, I may be able to help. I can turn into a seven-foot Dire Wolf, remember?”

Llyr's sensual mouth tightened. “Not at the moment.”

He was right, of course. If she tried to transform now, she'd lose the baby. The anatomical change was too radical. She was trapped in human form until Dearg was born.

But that didn't mean she had to back down. “Okay, so maybe I can't get fuzzy right now. I'm still not stupid.”

“I have
never
thought you stupid.”

“Prove it.”

Llyr gave her a restless, brooding look. “There's a rebellion brewing among the Morven Sidhe.”

A sensation of cold spread over her. A rebellion…Her hand crept to rest on her belly. History had all kinds of nasty examples of what happened to royal offspring when somebody else wanted the throne. “I thought the Morvens had accepted us after we got rid of Ansgar.”

“I thought they had, too.” Llyr made a sharp gesture. “Unfortunately, certain parties also saw his death as the opportunity they've been looking for. Apparently he'd been fighting a low-level war with something called the Army of Semira—a kind of rebel underground, half-religious, half-political. Now that he's dead and I've assumed the Morven throne, the Semirans think they finally have the chance they've waited for.”

Diana lifted her head as she put two and two together. “They're the ones who stole the sword.”

“One of my Morven guards was a Semiran mole. He's disappeared, taking the sword with him. Which is a very serious problem.” Llyr's expression grew even darker. “That sword has been carried in battle by the kings and queens of the Morven Sidhe for ten thousand years, even before we became immortals. It's the Sidhe's answer to Excalibur, and it's said to grant its bearer fantastic powers. Many Morvens believe only the rightful ruler can wield it.”

“You're not exactly chopped liver yourself,” Diana pointed out. “You're Cachamwri's Champion.” He'd been born with the Dragon God's image on his right arm, signifying his status as the Heir to Heroes. When Dearg was conceived, Cachamwri had predicted their son would be the next Heir.

Llyr shook his head. “The Morven Sidhe do not consider Cachamwri their god. To them, that's Semira, whom they believe is a goddess trapped in the sword.”

Nineva winced. “So it's not just a magic blade, it's a religious object.”

“Exactly. And I've lost it.”

“Your people are going to be pissed.”

“That's putting it mildly.”

 

Nineva dragged her
eyes away from the Sword of Semira to her captor's inhumanly handsome face. Her heart was pounding, her head buzzing from the sword's proximity, and the metallic taste of panic filled her mouth. There was only one conclusion she could draw. “You're Ansgar.”

For an instant, a terrifying rage flared in the warrior's eyes, so hot she took an involuntary step back. Then it disappeared as his lips pulled into an easy smile that was somehow even more chilling. “Oh, no, Princess. Ansgar the Tyrant is dead.” He bowed with a flourish. “I am General Arralt, commander of the Army of Semira.”

Ansgar really was dead? A little bloom of hope rose, but she found it difficult to believe. “When? Who killed him?” Had the dream man been telling the truth?

There was that flash of fury again, at boiling odds with Arralt's pleasant expression. “His brother, Llyr, who took his throne these eight months past. Luckily, Llyr is a weak fool.” He caught her hand in his big armored one, his expression eager. “Princess, this is our chance. Take up the Goddess Sword and free your people from the usurper.” He dropped to one knee before her, his expression taking on a fanatic's passion as he gazed up at her. Around them, armor rattled as his men simultaneously knelt. Moonlight silvered raised faces and shone in gleaming eyes. “I pledge my army to help you regain your rightful throne.”

Her own conjured blade hanging lax in her hand, she stared down at him with a sense of unreality. Here it was: her father's dream, offered to her all tied up in a pretty bow. Her parents' deaths would no longer be in vain.

Luckily, Eirnin Morroc had taught her more than legends, magic, and swordplay. He'd also instilled a healthy dollop of cynicism that told her Arralt wanted something. She had a pretty good idea what. “And you mean to be my king.”

“I will serve you and the goddess in any way you see fit.” He lifted her hand and pressed warm lips to her knuckles.

Yeah, right. And yet…Her gaze flicked to the Goddess Sword. The Mark pulsed hungrily on her breast. The idea of being queen was ridiculous; she was a part-time bartender and children's magician. Then there was the ugly problem of dethroning Llyr Galatyn, who, according to her father, had never been the kind of bastard his brother had been.

But that sword…She wanted that sword. Despite her nightmares, despite her fears, she
had
to free the goddess from her prison. It was literally what she'd been born to do.

When other little girls had been playing with Barbies, she'd been waving plastic light sabers and imagining their battery-operated glow was Semira herself. She'd even owned a stuffed pterodactyl her mother had bought her, a stand-in for the dragon warrior the legend predicted. Nineva could still remember cuddling in her father's lap, listening to his deep voice speaking the ancient Morven words of the prophecy. Dreaming of dragons and glory.