Chapter Eight
Sophie felt Alan Caldwell’s eyes on her as she finished giving Princess’s pups their initial shots.
Mr. Smith had told her that the article Caldwell had done for Guns and Swords had gone over well and the editors wanted another story on Smith’s weapons, which was the reason Alan was at the mansion. Supposedly.
She’d never considered herself to be a detective—heck, she didn’t even watch CSI:whatever—but something about Alan seemed off.
She cast a sideways glance through her lashes.
Physically, he was a good-looking man with a pro-football player build, but she wasn’t attracted to him.
Michael was muscular too, but with the leaner build of a baseball or tennis player.
Alan’s eyes were blue and cold; his smile didn’t reach them.
Michael’s eyes were dark and sexy…all sorts of emotions played through them.
Sophie grimaced and stood. Why in the world was she comparing Alan to Michael?
She had tried to stopping thinking about Michael at all after that unsettling dream a couple of nights ago, but it kept niggling at her mind.
Even last night, as she tossed and turned, she could feel his hands and mouth on her, kneading, stroking, exploring.
She had practically come from only the thought.
It was like she had some sort of spell on her and, to make matters worse, Michael was due here any minute to discuss their itinerary.
How in the world was she going to handle traveling with the man?
“You’ve got a terrible frown on your face,” Alan said as crossed the study to stand beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She gave herself a shake. “Nothing. I was just thinking about some arrangements that need to be made.” She nodded at Mr. Smith. “The pups are doing well.” Then, since Caldwell was still standing there expectantly, she asked, “How is your article going?”
“Well.” He gestured to the wall where the swords hung. “I’ve decided I’d include a little history lesson on each type of sword that Mr. Smith owns and the time period in which it was used.”
“That sounds interesting,” she replied off-handedly as she heard Benton answer the door and then the sound of Michael’s baritone, low, but soft and tickly on her ears. The kind of voice a man might use in the bedroom…
Dear God! She had to stop thinking about him like that!
“Too bad Excalibur isn’t up on the wall,” Alan said.
That drew her attention back to him and, it seemed, Michael’s too, as he entered the room. She could practically see his ears perk up.
“Most people think Excalibur is a myth,” she said carefully as Michael approached them.
“Do they?” Alan’s icy-blue eyes stared into hers. “What do you think?”
She had that unsettled feeling again, as though he were asking a completely different question.
She forced a laugh that sounded stilted even to her.
“I—I don’t know. Maybe, if it were real, it would be fun to swing it.
Test its balance. Maybe even imagine what those knights of the Round Table were like.
” She felt Michael’s hand at the small of her back and nearly jumped.
Even that small gesture sent tingly sensations all over her.
“Why the interest in Excalibur?” Michael asked bluntly.
Caldwell shifted his gaze to meet Michael’s. “That would be the mother lode, wouldn’t it? For the article.”
“The article,” Michael repeated, not taking his eyes off Caldwell and keeping his hand firmly at Sophie’s back.
She had a sudden feeling that the two men were squaring off, much like boys in a schoolyard ready to start a brawl. How to switch the subject before expensive lamps started flying off tables?
“The rapier,” she said quickly. “That would make a good story. I believe the pirate Jean Lafitte used the same type as the one here.”
“But my dear,” Mr. Smith interceded, unaware of the tension mounting between the two men, “that could very well be Mr. Lafitte’s sword. It was found right after the Battle of New Orleans.” He clapped his hands delightedly. “That would make a good story, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” Sophie agreed hastily, hoping the situation was diffused.
Apparently, it was, because Alan looked back at her. “I believe you said you fenced as a hobby? And the rapier was your favorite weapon?”
“I haven’t had time recently, but yes.”
“Perhaps a little match would help you relax about whatever you were worried about earlier? Maybe tomorrow?”
“Ah—I don’t know—”
“I can handle a sword too,” Michael interrupted. “Why don’t you take me on?”
Caldwell slowly turned back to him, his look calculating. “Any time. But I was asking the lady.”
Sophie gave an inward groan. So much for diffusion.
“It would hardly be a fair match,” Michael said. “You outweigh her by a good eighty pounds.”
Sophie gaped at him. He didn’t think she could hold her own? Her lighter weight gave her the advantage of being quick and flexible! And a match wasn’t mortal combat, after all. She lifted her head, chin jutting out.
“You’re on,” she said to Alan. “Tomorrow.”
****
For at least the hundredth time, Michael wanted to kick himself for throwing the proverbial gauntlet down to challenge Sophie. She wouldn’t be here in the gym this morning, donning a fencer’s mask, facing that linebacker, Caldwell.
Of course, she refused to look at Michael where he sat on the side bench. He recalled their earlier conversation, when he’d arrived at her house, pushed through the lingering reporters, and rung her bell.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve come to escort you to the gym,” he answered.
“I don’t need an escort. I’ve driven myself there for years.” Her eyes had narrowed. “You’re not still thinking you’ll fight in my place?”
“I’m more of a match for him than you. No disrespect intended.”
She had practically rolled her eyes. “This isn’t some kind of duel. It’s a fencing match. There are rules. I’ll not get hurt.”
“Still, I’d like to do the honorable thing and fight for you.”
She’d stared at him, as though he had taken leave of his senses. “What are you? Some throwback to medieval knights?”
Michael sighed now as he watched Sophie assume the first guard position.
He had not been a knight of the Round Table, but he had met King Arthur once in Cornwall.
He’d had his nephews with him—Gawain, Gaheris, Gareth—and they all impressed him with their fighting skills.
Arthur had even invited Michael to come to Camelot, but then that married lady had mucked up his life and he’d had to flee to Brittany to keep his head attached.
Still, a strong sense of chivalry stayed with him. It was obviously something twenty-first century women didn’t appreciate.
Michael watched as Caldwell lunged at Sophie.
She spun, light on her feet, and cut to her right.
There was a clash of engagement as Caldwell parried and moved closer to press her sword.
It was just what Michael had feared would happen.
The big man would push the flat of his sword against hers and her upper body strength would be no match for him.
If he hurt her, Michael would make him pay—
His jaw nearly dropped as Sophie passed her blade beneath Caldwell’s and disengaged.
She sprang back and feinted left. Caldwell thrust straight into open space and stumbled.
Michael started to laugh and stopped. Caldwell’s aura blazed a deep maroon-red as he regained his footing and moved into a fifth guard position.
A chill swept over Michael. That stance was as close to medieval warfare as modern fencing got. This was no longer a game.
Caldwell lunged once more and Sophie parried, not sensing the danger. He riposted and thrust again, using a series of quick jabs as he advanced on her. Sophie retreated, blocking the now stronger blows as best she could. She had no shield.
“This isn’t a duel. It’s a fencing match. There are rules. I’ll not get hurt.”
Like hell she wouldn’t. She was almost backed against a wall. Caldwell was intent on winning. He’d draw blood in another minute.
Michael leapt from the bench with preternatural warlock speed, brandishing his right arm, envisioning Excalibur and creating the illusion that he carried a flaming Sword.
White-hot light flared from his other hand to Caldwell’s rapier.
Caldwell howled in pain as the metal heated, and he flung the sword away as he bent over, clenching his hand and cursing.
Sophie grounded her sword and raised her visor, looking bewildered. “What just happened?”
“Your friend just came at me with a fiery Sword,” Caldwell said through clenched teeth.
Sophie cut her eyes to Michael who held out his hands, palms up.
“Do you see a sword?” he asked. He prayed she had not; he’d created the illusion for Caldwell, but he hadn’t had much time to fine-hone it. Sometimes the magic flowed over.
Her brow creased and she looked back at Caldwell. “What sword?”
“The damn, bloody sword he was swinging,” he replied and then straightened, giving Michael a calculating look, as though he were remembering something. Then he turned to Sophie and shook his head. “You probably didn’t see it. It wasn’t there. The damn thing was only an illusion.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about? Are you ill?”
Caldwell snorted. “I am fine. Your friend was messing with my head.”
Her frown deepened. “How? I didn’t see him do anything.”
“Of course you didn’t. He didn’t want you to see anything.”
“You’re not making any sense. Perhaps we should call a doctor—”
“I’m fine, I told you.” Caldwell pointed to Michael. “He’s the one who’s not normal.”
Sophie’s gaze flitted to Michael and then back to Caldwell. “I don’t—”
“Your friend,” Caldwell interrupted, “is a friggin’ warlock.” He smiled coldly at her surprised expression. “Or didn’t he tell you that?”
****
Sophie sat in the passenger seat of Michael’s sport car, focusing on the traffic flow on Central Expressway as they made their way home from the fencing episode.
As usual, it was bumper-to-bumper and speeding along a good fifteen miles an hour over the posted limit, but the flowing mass of metal was somehow comforting today.
Normal people doing their normal routines, probably going to very normal jobs downtown and then back to normal lives in the ’burbs this evening.
Her life certainly wasn’t normal.
“Are you angry with me?” Michael asked as he gave her a quick glance.
Sophie felt a swell of hysteria rising in her throat. Maybe she should just ask Michael to drive over to Parkland Hospital and she’d check herself into the psycho ward. No dragons or warlocks there. Or, if there were, some nice nurse would give her a cheery little pill to make it all go away.
“Tell me you aren’t really a warlock,” she said without much hope.
He gave her another quick look. “Sorry, but I am.”
She drew a shaky breath. “What…what exactly does that mean?”
“Can we wait until I get you home to talk about this? It’s complicated.”
“I want to know now.”
Michael sighed. “I…inherited…special intuitive powers. Over the years, I’ve been trained to use them.”
Sophie looked at him. “Do you curse people?”
“No. That’s black magic. It comes back to haunt you.”
“Do you lure people away? Lock them in dungeons or trees or whatever like that witch did with Merlin?”
A corner of his mouth quirked up in a little smile. “Nope. And Nimue is—wasn’t—a witch. She’s a faerie.”
“A faerie. Of course.” Sophie turned her attention back to the cars speeding past. So normal.
Not one of those people had issues with dragons landing on their lawns, or men wearing fire-capes, or faeries flying around.
Not to mention a sexy-looking warlock… She snapped her head back suddenly to study him.
“Is this how you really look? Or is it an illusion covering up horns and a tail?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Demons have horns and tails, not warlocks.”
“And I suppose demons are running loose too?” She tried to laugh, but her voice cracked.
Michael sobered. “I can assure you they are. Adam Baylor is one. That’s why it is so important that we find Excalibur before he does. Can you imagine what a demon would do with the kind of power the Sword has?”
Sophie felt the blood drain from her face.
She turned back to stare at the cars, not seeing them.
All this talk of supernatural beings was too much.
She was a logical person. There were logical reasons for everything.
Weren’t there? She didn’t want to think about fire-breathing dragons or demons from hell, or wherever they came from.
Parkland was beginning to sound really cozy.
They rode in silence the rest of the way home while she tried to get a handle on the nonsensical information that Michael had given her. She hardly noticed when he stopped the car in front of her house. Thankfully, there were no reporters lingering about.
“I have one other question,” she said.
“Sure. What?”
“Can you get inside a person’s mind? Know what they’re thinking?”
“Sometimes. It’s easier when someone is angry or highly emotional. They let their psychic shields down.”
Highly emotional. Like in sexual climax. Sophie felt her face grow hot. Did he know about the dream? Dear Lord. Then another thought hit her and she narrowed her eyes. “Can you put thoughts into someone’s head?”
Michael hesitated.
“Can you?”
“I can create an illusion. One time, I created an illusion of being a panther to save a woman from being accosted in a park. This time, Caldwell thought he saw a flaming Sword in my hand.”
“And you can make the person actually feel it? Alan thought it burnt his hand. That’s why he threw his rapier down.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God.” Sophie fumbled for the door handle and stumbled out of the car. “You were in my head the other night. You put the dream there! How dare you!”
“Wait. I can explain.” Michael opened his door. “I’ll walk you—”
“No. You stay right here. I don’t need any more of your illusions right now. And I thought Robert was a liar! You’re worse! You made me do—made me feel—things—I never… You controlled me.”
With a sob, she turned and ran for her front door.