Knight of the Sword (Immortal Knights #2)

Chapter One

Present Day, Dallas, Texas

“Come on, baby. I could make you come in ten seconds.” The male voice on the other end of the phone sounded smug. “Or maybe less.”

Sophie Cameron clenched a fist and willed herself not to slam the phone down on her ex-husband. She would not give him the satisfaction of riling her. Lord, the divorce had been final for over a year.

“Remember how I used to—”

“That’s enough, Robert. I don’t care to have phone sex with you.”

“I could come over. It would be more fun that way.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

He actually sounded hurt and confused. Sophie made a sound of disgust. Robert was a good actor, a trait he used as a courtroom lawyer to his advantage.

He’d totally had her believing he was faithful—looking her straight in the eyes and telling her he loved her—only his version of love included dalliances with whoever else caught his fancy.

“Did you and Amber have another spat?” she asked. That’s when he usually called.

There was silence on the other end. Then he said, “We broke it off.”

“Seems to me that happens about once a month.”

“Ah, baby. Don’t be so hard on me. This time’s for real.

I came home last night and another guy was in our bed.

You were right, baby, about everything. Amber was just using me.

Liked the fact that I’m a big-shot attorney.

” He sighed audibly and his tone softened.

“I could have you hot for me in five minutes. Sex was always great for us.”

“I suspect sex is great for you no matter who is in your bed,” Sophie replied. “The answer is no.”

“Ah, baby, you’re just angry with me. I can’t blame you. Just let me come over there and I’ll prove I can make you feel—”

Sophie clicked the Off button silently in the middle of his spiel. What he had done to her was far worse than physically being unfaithful. She had lost her ability to trust any man. They all thought with their smaller head than the one that was attached to their shoulders. Who needed them anyway?

Besides which, she had her work. Sophie picked up her truck keys and headed out the door for the animal clinic. At least there she had unconditional love. Four-legged animals didn’t betray you.

****

Nimue wasn’t exactly the most reliable faerie in the realm.

Michael McCain ran a hand through his unruly dark hair and looked around the hotel room again, his warlock senses on high alert.

Little tendrils of magic still laced the air…

thin silvery threads that were his friend Sara’s, and stronger golden ones that were no doubt the shifter, Lucas Ramsey’s.

Michael sniffed the air. A slight trace of sulfur also lingered.

No doubt, Adam Baylor had been here too, but Michael felt no life essence.

The immortal bastard had escaped.

If Nimue were to be believed, Lucas and Sara had successfully recovered the Spear of Light, one of four sacred relics the Lady had given the human world centuries ago to protect it from infinite evil, and they were in hiding somewhere.

Nimue had hardly made sense last night when she arrived, chattering about that damn fool Merlin, who couldn’t unbind his own spells.

She had thrust a piece of paper into Michael’s hands, told him he had to go to Lewiston, Maine immediately, and then she had vanished before he could question her further.

Typical faerie.

He took the paper from his jeans and unfolded it to read a poem of sorts that didn’t make much sense.

The sky’s afire

With one knight’s sire

He who sees the firedrake

The Sword will take

Come, come to the lake

Michael refolded the paper and sighed. Now he wished he had listened a little more carefully to what Sara had said about the manuscript her boss, the anonymous and filthy rich John Smith, had sent her to Sotheby’s to purchase.

It had been found in an archeological dig in Scotland, written in medieval Gaelic, and originally believed to hold the secret to finding the Holy Grail.

Sara’s very eccentric boss was obsessed with medieval myths and particularly Arthurian legends.

But what came to light, after it was translated by a scholarly friend of Sara’s who had been murdered for the copy, was even more startling.

The manuscript contained secret codes the Templars had used to hide their identities after the French persecution.

References were made to treasures hidden at Rosslyn Chapel and then, later, of the need to separate and hide the sacred relics far away from the corruption that the Inquisition brought to Scotland.

Another odd poem had been encrypted within the lines.

Apparently what Nimue had given him was the second verse. Just before she vanished, she had winked flirtatiously and told him he—and some mystery woman—had been chosen to find the Sword.

Faeries. Fickle lot, all of them.

Michael closed the door to the motel room and walked a few blocks to the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul.

He stood for a moment across the street from the church, admiring the beautiful rose window, a replica of the medieval one in Chartres, France.

He remembered when the original French cathedral had been built—he’d had to leave England quite suddenly to escape false accusations—well, sort of false—made by a jealous husband.

The wife had tried to seduce him, not the other way around.

The church, quite ironically, had offered sanctuary to him, a warlock.

Or maybe not so ironic, since he hadn’t always been a warlock.

Michael grinned at the memory. The wife had been tempting, but he hadn’t lacked for want of willing women and preferred keeping his head attached to his shoulders.

Michael walked toward the churchyard behind the cathedral, following the faint trail of magic. Lucas and Sara had definitely been here.

He stopped suddenly when he saw the ancient oak.

Seared in jagged halves by lightning, its major branches had fallen to the right and left, somehow managing to brace against the ground so the whole thing looked like an open heart.

A circle of black, scorched earth surrounded it.

The white magic still emanating from the hollow interior was strong.

This must have been where they found the spear.

Edging closer, Michael noticed something glinting gold beneath scattered twigs and leaves.

Leaning down, he unearthed a gold Templar cross on a linked chain.

He recognized it immediately as the one Lucas had worn—the one Lucas had given him to wear as protection when they hunted Balor.

He hoped Lucas could keep Sara safe, wherever they were. Balor had spies everywhere.

Slipping it over his head, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. It seemed that he, Michael, Heaven’s immortal avenger, had been called to duty once more.

And, whether he liked the crazy Dallas millionaire or not, Smith had information he would need. He’d catch the next flight back.

****

It was well past Sophie’s normal veterinarian hours—if there were such a thing as normal hours at a no-kill shelter and clinic where animals were always being dropped off—but Mr. Smith had sounded frantic when he’d called.

Not that it was unusual. John Smith was highly excitable and emotional about almost anything that caught his fancy.

However, his little terrier, Princess, had gotten herself impregnated with the neighbor’s all-too-friendly lab and was in labor.

With the differences in size, Sophie wanted to be there to make sure the terrier didn’t die in the birthing process. If necessary, she could do a C-section.

Sophie turned her pickup into the long circular driveway of the Smith mansion.

She had tried to convince him to let her do a simple D&C once she’d made the diagnosis that the terrier was carrying pups, but Mr. Smith had looked horrified and said his dog was not having an abortion, she had the right to be a mother, and so on.

God only knew what these puppies would look like, but Sophie couldn’t fault the man for having a tender heart. It counterbalanced his quirkiness.

Benton, the very proper English butler Mr. Smith somehow had lured to come to the States, showed her the way to the parlor.

Princess was lying on a bed of furs—probably real—in front of a fireplace that gave off a warm glow.

Mr. Smith sat in a nearby chair watching his pet.

Sophie quickly pulled her long, strawberry-blonde hair into a makeshift ponytail as she crossed the room and knelt by the terrier, offering her hand for a sniff before feeling the little dog’s abdomen.

“So far, so good,” she said. “There’s movement. Hopefully, the pups are turning.”

“Haven’t we met?” a smooth baritone voice asked from across the room.

Sophie started at the sound, sitting back on her heels, and turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and eyes emerge from the shadows.

“You!” she said.

Michael gave her a mock bow. “Dr. Cameron. Aren’t you a little far from Palo Pinto County?”

Mr. Smith looked from one of them to the other, his eyes bright with interest. “Do you know each other? How delightful!”

Delightful was not the word Sophie would use.

Several weeks ago, Michael McCain had showed up at the country clinic insisting that a wolf had been wounded and needed immediate care.

When they had arrived at the little ranchero in the canyon, only a man and woman had been there.

No wolf. Unless Sophie wanted to count the one she was currently looking at.

On the ride back that night, Michael had given her a lazy, easy smile while his eyes had practically burned through her clothes.

“I volunteer one weekend a month at the clinic out there,” Sophie said. “They don’t have a regular vet, so four of us take turns.”

“That’s very generous of you,” he said and held out his hand. “Let me help you up.”