Wilder Mage (5 page)

Humans weren’t the top of the food chain. In the secretive underworld of wizardry, the users of magic needed a head of security. With his promotion, the title went to him, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled.

Summoned to meet with the leader of the wizards, Tiarra—a woman with incalculable abilities in magic—killed any satisfaction his promotion gave him as the new Imperator.

Summoned or compelled, he had no recourse but to obey because he was a part of the Imperium. Tiarra
was
the Imperium, and her minions followed her wishes.

Always.

He’d heard the accounts. The stories were the same, but each man told them differently. Some men recounted the meetings in slow voices, their eyes averted. Other men regaled their escapades with eager, razor-sharp smiles.

All of the tales caused his gut to tighten. How could they be true?

Unbidden, his thoughts went back to Macy, her tumbled hair spread on the pillow when he left their home that morning. A smile curled his mouth at the memory, but in the next moment, he viciously squashed it. He couldn’t allow his other life, the sane one, to hamper this first meeting with Tiarra.

God Almighty, he hoped the rumors weren’t true.

He watched the numbered lights on the elevator floors, held still, and felt the trickle of sweat go down his back.

The elevator stopped and he walked into an open lobby. A young woman in a dark, metal gray jacket and skirt glanced up from her monitor screen without a hint of cheer or emotion on her face. Flowers in a vase on her desk were flawlessly poised. From a hothouse, he supposed, arranged to add color to the room.

Not like a bouquet of violets or dandelions picked and given in love.

Dayne shook his head and wondered where that thought had come from. The office assistant stood and seemed to look him up and down, her eyes lingering on his chest and face. She waited silently.

“Dayne Mathon to see Tiarra,” he said.

“Oh, she’ll like you,” she said, and Dayne felt his stomach twist.

Her brows furrowed when he didn’t answer. She took a breath, as if to speak, then hesitated. Her face smoothed of all emotion. Except her mouth. Before she turned away, her lips formed a hard line.

She walked to the opposite door, her face once again impassive. “This way. She is in her meditation room waiting on your report.”

The adjoining room smelled of the coffee and pastries that sat on a lace-topped counter.

A large wall-sized window was on the right, looking over other office buildings, the glint of the sunlit bay in the background. The stuffed easy chairs and a large sofa sat prim and neat, all black and sterile. The assistant moved to the closed door opposite and rapped three quick knocks.

A pleasant, feminine voice answered. “Enter.”

The assistant opened the door and stood in the doorway, blocking his view.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Mr. Mathon is here.” Her voice was as lifeless as her face.

The assistant gave a short bow and motioned for Dayne to step through the entrance. Under her breath, she spoke one word to Dayne, and then she retreated, closing the door behind her. He felt his jaw tense as he turned to his new boss.

Tiarra, the highest Adept of the Imperium, was in the middle of her exercises, twisting slowly and extending one arm out away from her body while bending one knee. Her body, muscular and trim, was clad in skin-tight black material from her neck to her ankles, defining every curve and sinew. Dayne jerked his eyes away and instead looked at the equipment, the mat, treadmill, and weights of an exercise area. Like the outer room, a wall-sized window was on one side, allowing natural sunlight in. A thick black exercise mat covered half of the floor; an ivory carpet was on the other half. A small daybed was on that side, covered with a deep, royal blue spread. He swallowed and kept his eyes from straying to Tiarra, who was continuing her tai chi forms, moving from one languid position to another without pause.

Dayne kept his eyes from the daybed as well.

He cleared his throat noisily and shuffled his feet.

“Make your report, my new Imperator, and then we will determine if your status is deserved.”

Dayne felt his muscles tense and sucked in a deep, calming breath. He opened his mouth.

“Look at me while you are delivering your report, my new Imperator. I want to see your eyes.”

She sounded amused, but Dayne felt the lash of
command
in her voice and his resolve crumbled. He looked up.

She was in the middle of the warrior pose, stretching her shoulder muscles and thighs. As he stood frozen, compelled to keep his eyes on her, she bent backward, lithely touched her hands to the floor, and executed a handstand, her limbs flowing gracefully from her extension and then into a standing pose to face him.

A straight ponytail held her dark hair, scraped back from her face in slick lines. Her features were like fine, exquisite porcelain, a runway model’s body and face. But her eyes were…strange. And Dayne felt a sickness begin in his belly.

Tiarra had a trace of a smile on her face while she cocked her head, looking him up and down. A bead of sweat trailed down her neck and onto her breast. He jerked his eyes back to her face.

She laughed and said under her breath, “Oh my. A reluctant one.” Her eyes hardened. “Report.”

“The g-girl,” he stuttered and then stopped and took a breath. “The girl has stopped running for now, holed up. She has a job and seems to be settling in.”

“And your agents, they didn’t reveal themselves or give her a reason to run again?”

“They are giving her some breathing room, yes, and staying out of sight.”

Tiarra stroked her chin, seemingly lost in thought, and took slow steps closer to him, her body moving like black liquid. Dayne shivered, but otherwise held still.

“So she is feeling ‘safe’ and relaxed. That is good.”

“One more thing,” Dayne said. He sucked in a breath, forcing his quivering muscles to still.

“Yes?” she said, stepping closer. Her hands slowly traced down her ribcage, as if to smooth the already taut fabric. “There is more?”

She closed another step.

Dayne blew out another breath and tried to pull his eyes away again, but the compulsion held him. Hoarsely, he said, “A man, a young man is living there. The bar owner, I think. He has two helpers, an old couple. And a kid, a teenager.” He felt the trickle of sweat inch faster down his back, and he gulped.

Tiarra gave a short laugh. “Excellent. Maybe this will finally trap her and she will come into her potential.” She moved close enough that he could feel her breath and smell her body, a mixture of soap and sweat.

And heat.

“My,” she said, stroking his trembling arm, “you are quite fit, aren’t you?” Huskily, she laughed again as she smoothed a hand over his chest. “How tall are you, my Imperator?”

His throat closed and he was barely audible. “Six five.”

“Over there, Imperator,” she said, nodding to the daybed. Her voice hardened with
command
. “Take off your shirt.”

For a moment longer, a brief portion of a second, his mind screamed,
No
, and he resisted her. But in the Imperium, there was no argument when Tiarra issued a command. His struggle ended as quickly as it began, but the sickness in his belly remained.

His last thoughts were a mental outcry to his Macy, a silent apology. Before he bent his mouth down to Tiarra’s, his body responding to her will, the single word uttered by the secretary as she had closed the door before leaving came back to him and he understood.

“Sorry,” she had said.

Later, he clenched his teeth as Tiarra languidly said goodbye and then laughed as he pulled on his trousers without speaking. She stretched out on the daybed as he left the room before buttoning his shirt, his jacket over his arm.

The outside room, with the now stomach-churning smells of coffee and food, was empty. He buttoned his shirt, put on his jacket, then tried to smooth his hair. Taking a deep breath, he willed his terrible emotions into a calmer state; the guilt of betrayal—and the knowledge that he could have done nothing to stop her—was at war inside him. Distantly, he noticed his hands shaking and fisted them, his nails cutting into his palms.

He sucked in another breath, shuddered, and opened the door into the lobby by the elevator. The assistant was there, her face appearing sick. As soon as he stepped into the room, she looked up at him and her features changed, smoothed away into an emotionless visage.

Dayne walked quickly to the elevator without speaking, hit the button, and waited, his heart keeping time with his racing nerves.

Just as the doors opened, the assistant spoke, her voice low and careful. “If it helps you to know, she doesn’t just take men.”

The elevator doors closed behind him, leaving Dayne with his guilt and the feeling he would never be clean again.

Chapter Four

“J
ustus Aubre,” Maggie said in answer to Sable’s shy question after breakfast the next day. “And Bert Reese was the kid. He’s seventeen and a little shy with girls.” She laughed at some joke. “Your new boss isn’t exactly gifted with gab, so it’s no wonder you didn’t get his name.”

The older woman continued. “He owns the bar and the antique shop. Emmett cooks on Friday and Saturday. Bert helps sometimes, and I help with the accounts.”

Maggie’s nonstop chatter streamed over her as Sable washed the dishes from breakfast. Unlike her taciturn boss, Maggie barely allowed Sable to slip a word in edgewise into the one-sided conversation.

She asked if Sable liked her sleeping quarters and how she slept. After assured of Sable’s comfort, Maggie began talking about the weather, the job, and life in general. Then she began a history of the large Victorian house and past owner’s hideous taste in decorating the walnut-paneled dining room in pea-green wallpaper.

Maggie paused for a swallow of her coffee. “We don’t have any pets, but we do keep a couple of horses. Pasture pets, we call ’em, both in their twenties. They aren’t much good for anything, but you know how pretty horses are, so we keep ’em for their looks.”

The older woman laughed. “Emmett says that’s why I keep him around too, for his looks.”

Maggie gestured vaguely to the window, and Sable saw a brick walkway that led to a well-worn path through the trees and a pasture. “We have a shed stocked with bales of brome hay and feed them every night.”

She allowed the words to flow over her like a warm bath, comforting and soothing. Her nods, short comments, and smiles kept Maggie going. She finished the dishes and began wiping the enameled counter and table.

“Ah, well, you see what happens,” Maggie said. “I just keep right onna going if you don’t stop me, just keep yappin’ along.”

At the sink window, Sable caught sight of furtive movement outside, something fluttering the leafy branches of a lilac bush.

“Um, Maggie,” she said as gleaming azure eyes winked at her from under the bush.

Maggie was in the middle of some story about the neighbor’s influx of tent worms. She stopped when Sable turned to her.

“Do you or Emmett have allergies? Like allergic to cats?” She turned back to the window.

Maggie silently joined her, standing shoulder to shoulder as they both looked at the patient, waiting eyes.

“No,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “No, we don’t.”

“Do you…like…cats?”

Maggie grinned. “We like cats,” she said slowly. “Like dogs, too.” She harrumphed. “Draw the line with rodents, though. Don’t care for rats or white mice.”

Sable laughed, the first happy sound she could remember making in a very long time.

Maggie looked at her speculatively. “Don’t we have some scrambled eggs left? Maybe some bits of toast?”

The young woman grinned at her, unaware of her brilliant smile. “Come on. Let me introduce you to my little buddy out there. We met a couple of nights ago under an overpass.”

It was an easy adjustment for everyone, the adoption of the small, buff-colored kitten that had followed her from the overpass that night after the concert. The McIntyres fell in love immediately, and Zephyr, the azure-eyed kitten, moved in as if it was her idea, her right. The kitten regarded the house and its occupants as hers. During her initial inspection, the kitten held her tail high with a slight curve at the tip, like a walking cane, and took over operations of the household.