Love Bites (11 page)

“I’m your mother!”
She jerked upright, dragging herself out of his arms. “
You don’t touch me like that!
”

Reacting instinctively to the horrified revulsion in her tone, he jerked his hands away from her. “Morgana?”

She blinked, coming awake. “Percival?” Her voice sounded thin, unsure.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He turned and flicked on the bedside lamp, knowing she needed the light to reassure her she was finally awake. “Sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

And what a nightmare.
“You don’t touch me like that?”
Oh, shit. His stomach twisted. Mordred had been a big man—inches taller than Arthur, with a bull-like build. He frowned, remembering bruises that had made the king once say he suspected Morgana had an abusive lover. But what if the man who’d beaten her had been Mordred? And what if beating her hadn’t been all he’d done? “
You don’t touch me like that!
” God, what a horrific thought. He frowned. Was that why she’d rejected him so furiously after he’d fed from her those centuries ago? Had Mordred’s treatment left her gun-shy?

“A nightmare.” Morgana huffed a sound that might have been a laugh except for its utter lack of humor. “Yeah, you could say that.” She sat forward and buried her face in shaking hands.

“It sounded like you were dreaming about Mordred,” Percival told her carefully.

She shrugged and dropped her hands and looked away. “Yesterday would have been his birthday. I tend to dream about him on his birthday.”

“He’s been dead a long time.”

“I was his mother.”

“Yeah.” He decided to take the bull by the horns. Maybe he’d just gotten the wrong impression. Hell, he hoped he had, because the alternative . . . “Did he treat you like his mother?”

She stared at him, and her face went pale. Her gaze slid away from his. “I’m going to need something to wear home. I can’t conjure anything with this collar.” Morgana slid out of bed and headed toward his bureau. “Mind if I borrow something of yours?”

“Feel free.” He watched her. “That reminds me—see a healer. Since your magic is blocked, your body won’t be able to repair the blood loss with any speed.”

She ignored him pointedly, opening and closing drawers as she searched for something to wear. Locating one of his black T-shirts, she pulled it on. It hung on her to mid-thigh, the fit putting him in mind of a sack and reminding him uncomfortably how much smaller she was compared to him.

Or Mordred.

“Don’t touch me like that!”

It’s been fifteen hundred years,
he reminded himself.
Even if he did abuse her, that’s a long time
.
Surely she’d be over it by now.
Assuming you ever got over something like that.

I need to find out exactly what happened. If he hurt her so badly she’s still having nightmares about it fifteen centuries later, that could explain a lot.

“How do you feel?” Percival asked, his voice low and rough to his own ears. “I took you pretty hard. Including your blood.”

“I’m fine.” She closed a drawer a bit harder than was strictly necessary.

Percival grappled for patience. “I’m going to ask this again. And this time I don’t want any bullshit. Are you feeling weak? Can you walk home, or do I need to call a healer now?”

She shot him a look over one shoulder. “The sun’s about to come up, Percival.”

“I know what fucking time it is.
Are you feeling dizzy?
”

“You didn’t take
that
much blood.”

“It was easily a pint and a half.”

“I’m a Maja, Percival, not a mortal. A pint and a half donation is not going to make me pass out.”

“Not normally, perhaps, but without your magic . . .”

She swung on him, anger in her eyes, her delicate jaw tight. “Look, my lord, I’m a big witch now. I can donate a couple of pints without keeling over. Especially considering it’s been more than a month since I donated.” Jerking a pair of sweats out of the drawer, she pulled them on, balancing on her high heels.

He frowned, wishing she could turn them into a pair of Nikes for the trek back to her place. The pants hung on her, their hems flopping around her feet in another silent reminder of the difference in their sizes. “Go to the damned healer, Morgana.”

“I don’t need a healer!” she spat.

“Your Oath Master just gave you an order, Servant!” he snapped back, in no mood for her stubbornness. “See a healer!” He was seriously tempted to order her to stay, even if he had to chain her to the foot of his bed to keep her there.

Something deep within him growled at the thought of letting her leave him even during the Daysleep, when he wouldn’t be conscious.
Don’t be a possessive ass
, he told himself.
It’s enough to make sure she’s back by the time I wake.
“And then you’d better be back here at sunset,” he told her in his best inflexible dom voice. “I have plans for you tomorrow night, and I do not want to wait to carry them out.”

She shot him a glittering look. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” He gave her a darkly suggestive grin, though in reality, he was at least as motivated by a desire to make sure she was all right.

Nightmare or no nightmare, son or no son, he had no intention of showing Morgana le Fay that kind of weakness.

*   *   *

A
nger and shame clawing at her, Morgana whirled and opened her mouth to retort to this latest high-handed demand.

Before she could get a word out of her mouth, Percival’s eyes slid shut, his expression smoothing with the magical sleep that descended on Magi the moment the sun rose.

The Daysleep had begun.

Morgana’s shoulders slumped as she realized she no longer had to put up an invulnerable front for him. Good thing. Given that nightmare, she wouldn’t have had the energy for it much longer.

Her stilettos teetered under her, and she decided they had to go. No way was she up to negotiating Avalon’s cobblestone streets in heels, not after giving him close to two pints. And yes, judging by the way her head seemed to be floating on her neck, it was closer to two pints than the pint and a half she’d claimed, though damned if she’d admit as much to him.

Locating a pair of flip flops in the back of Percival’s closet, she changed out of the heels, and headed for home with the shoes’ straps hooked over her fingers. Now that she could no longer conjure anything she needed with a moment’s thought, she needed to hang on to every bit of clothing she could. Especially since Percival seemed to like ripping it all off her.

As she walked, her mind drifted back to the nightmare. She shuddered. It had been fifteen centuries, yet she still remembered the bruising grip of her son’s hands the night before his duel with Arthur. Mordred hadn’t raped her, but if the king had fallen to him during the fight for Merlin’s Grail, she was very much afraid he would have done exactly what he’d threatened.

There’d been something broken in her son, ever since he’d fallen into Bennett’s hands as a five-year-old. He’d certainly seemed to blame her for it. And he’d had a point.

Bennett had hated Morgana with such virulence because she’d used Druid techniques to save a child the priest had tried—and failed—to heal. He’d been convinced her abilities owed more to Satan than to Druid magic. When she’d refused to name Mordred’s father despite Bennett’s relentless questioning—she could hardly accuse the king—the priest decided the boy must be the devil’s own son.

Remembering the week she’d been the priest’s “guest” as he’d questioned, threatened, and beaten her, Morgana’s hands drew into white-knuckled fists. She’d made sure Bennett would never hurt anyone else, but she hadn’t done it soon enough. Not for herself, and certainly not for Mordred.

Years later, Mordred had fallen to Arthur’s blade at Camlann. He’d been only nineteen.

They’re both dead,
Morgana told herself. Now if only she could forget them.

As Morgana walked along listening to the
flap flap flap
of her flip-flops hitting her heels, she watched the sun climb over Avalon’s glorious skyline. The light painted the clouds in rose, orange, and violet, and cast a golden glow over the immortal city’s palaces, castles, and little brick bungalows.

The most striking of all the homes lay just ahead of her, a sprawling French château complete with elaborate gardens and bronze statuary. Really, the thing was ridiculous, especially as a residence for one person.

But a rational use of magic wasn’t the point. The point was to establish oneself in the minds of everyone else as a witch of great power. Morgana’s château made certain everyone knew she was the city’s most powerful witch.

The irony was that in the collar, she had less power than the youngest, least powerful Maja in the city.

With a tired sigh, Morgana wound her way through the elaborate garden, opened the mansion’s great double-doors, and stepped into the imposing foyer.

“Horned God,” she murmured, looking around the two-story entryway with its gleaming black-and-white marble tile. Statues of gods and goddesses posed serenely in niches in the wainscoted walls between paintings by Renaissance masters. Shaking her head, she sighed. “I’m so bloody shallow.”

Luckily the house remained solid, despite her current lack of power. Objects given form from the energy of the Mageverse retained that solidity.

Exhaustion weighing at her feet, she headed through the foyer to the great marble floating staircase that curved to the second floor.

At least her bedroom wasn’t as bloody pretentious as the house’s first floor. A king-sized bed sprawled in the center of the room under a thick tapestry comforter Morgana had embroidered herself. If the knight the spread depicted resembled Percival, that was nobody’s business but her own. She’d always been able to use her magic to change the spread’s appearance if she needed to keep a lover from seeing it.

A big floor-length mirror occupied one corner, near an oak armoire large enough to accommodate an entire Broadway show’s costume wardrobe. A comfortable armchair sat opposite the mirror, next to a floor lamp and a bookshelf stuffed three-deep with paperbacks.

Brilliant oils lined the walls, depicting images of brawny nude gods and graceful goddesses. Fifteen centuries had given Morgana a lot of time to learn to paint, and she’d gotten reasonably good at it. She had an art studio just down the hall; the smell of oil and linseed filled the floor, the scent pleasant to Morgana’s artist’s nose.

Now, though, she needed sleep. With a weary sigh, she pulled off Percival’s ridiculously loose pants and crawled into bed.

T
eeth ripped into Morgana’s scaled hide with the savage sensation of tearing flesh and raw agony. She cried out at the stark pain; her voice sounded deep, bestial—a dragon’s roar.

It had her.
The dragon killer had her again, and he meant to eat her, the way he’d ripped into those girls.

I’m going to die!

Morgana threw herself skyward, her wings beating desperately as she tried to tear herself from the fanged grip of her draconic foe. He roared, wrapping his massive body around her, squeezing and suffocating her with his merciless grip.

She wasn’t strong enough to get away.

Desperately, she reached for the magic of the Mageverse, dragging pure power into her body. More and more and
MORE
, until her very consciousness seemed to blaze.

Twisting in the dragon’s grip, she opened her jaws and let magic boil out in a savage blast of power. Her enemy squealed in agony . . .

And began to burn.

As he convulsed, she threw herself upward, flinging herself from his grip. Wings beating as she shot upward, she threw a glance downward.

The dragon blazed, shrieking, writhing, his body twisting as her magic seared him, but she felt no pity.

All she felt was the bright euphoria she felt whenever she drank in the Mageverse’s power. She felt drunk on the sense that she could do anything. Nobody could stop her. The proof was that enemy dragon, dying a well-deserved death in the flaming grip of her power.

Victorious, Morgana soared over the battlefield, roaring in triumph as her foe burned. Swooping downward, she swept her gaze over the scene, determined to make sure the dragon had no more allies.

And that she had no more enemies.

Three men stared up at her, their expressions fierce, determined, weapons raised. Anger flashed through her. How dare they oppose her? She, who had suffered, fought, bled. Morgana opened her jaws . . .

And Percival died, screaming in pain as her fire boiled over him, Cador and Marrok blazing and howling at his side.

*   *   *

M
organa jerked awake to the sound of her own horrified shriek. She collapsed back against the pile of pillows, shaking with the sickening aftereffects of her nightmare. Sucking in a deep breath, she scrubbed her trembling hands over her sweating face.

Knowing sleep was a lost cause after her second ugly nightmare of the day—though a glance at the bedside clock revealed it was barely noon—Morgana started to roll out of bed. She stopped dead with a gasp as her sore muscles complained bitterly at the attempt to move so quickly. Definitely
not
a good idea.

Morgana worked her way out of bed until she could plant both bare feet on the floor. Limping over to the full-length mirror, she lifted the hem of Percival’s T-shirt and raised it over her shoulders. Turning around, she studied her reflection.

And blinked. Her arse looked better than she’d half-expected based on her flinching body’s aching protests. True, there were a few long bruises from the crop, but other than that, he hadn’t done much damage. Except, perhaps, for the bite on one breast where he’d fed.

Studying the crop marks, she was surprised to feel her nipples draw into tight points. The way he’d paced around her, so deliciously sexy, so dominant. So hot . . .

Her fingers lifted without her conscious intent to brush the engraved metal of her collar, heavy and cool around her throat.

Staring at her bare, peaked nipple with its fang mark, she remembered Percival’s deep, heavy thrusts as he drank. Remembered heat rolled over her, and she closed her eyes.
Percival died, screaming in pain as her fire boiled over him, Cador and Marrok blazing and howling at his side
.

Morgana’s eyes flew open as she felt that sickening dip in her stomach again. Horned God, she hoped that wasn’t a vision.
Let it only be a nightmare, Mother Goddess
.

Feeling a bit sick, Morgana dropped the hem of her T-shirt and let the soft, loose cotton slip down over her shoulders to her hips.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had a nightmare about killing Percival and his team, though the details had differed over the years. But in every one of those dreams, the three knights fought back hard. Sometimes they died in the attempt, but other times Morgana fell to them in her bitter madness.

The dream means nothing,
she told herself firmly.
Just because I fear something, that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.
Otherwise the details of the dream would be the same every time. She’d had enough genuine visions to know that much.

Shaking off the nightmare’s sticky mental aftermath, Morgana pulled open the armoire and began to search for something to wear. Unfortunately, the pickings were pretty slim: a wool dress too hot for the weather, a pair of jeans a size too big, a couple of ratty T-shirts. When you could conjure anything you wanted on a whim, you tended not to keep the clothing you made.

She was digging in the matching chest of drawers when she heard a brisk knock at the front door.

Well, it wasn’t Percival or one of his knights; the sun was still up. Which left a Maja, though Morgana wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with friends. She trotted downstairs to find out who’d dropped by. Pulling the hem of Percival’s shirt down over her bare thighs, Morgana opened the massive front door.

Guinevere Pendragon gave her a sunny smile. “Hi, Morgana.”

“Uh . . . hi.” When the former queen looked at her expectantly, she stepped back. “Come in!”
Tea. Do I have any tea I can serve?

“Thanks.” The pretty blonde strode in, slim and lovely in jeans and a striped pink polo shirt. The whole outfit just screamed “soccer mom” in a marked contrast to the regal High Queen of Britain Guinevere had once been.

The witch’s clever blue eyes swept over her, taking in the too-big T-shirt and bare feet. Her gaze lingered on the power nullification collar with its thick Celtic engraving. “How was your night?”

“Ummm . . .” Morgana considered and discarded several responses as she turned and led the way into the elaborate sitting room to the right of the foyer. The room was dominated by a marble and gold fireplace with flanking Greek goddesses. A pair of graceful settees, both in a deep, verdantly green velvet, stoodflanked by antique tables.

Morgana seated herself gingerly on one of the couches, biting her lip as her bruised backside and thighs complained. As Gwen sat down beside her, she said dryly, “Well, it’s safe to say it was a bit . . . intense.”

“Yeah, I expected as much, after my idiot husband told me about the ultimatum he gave you.” Reaching out, she started to brush her fingers over the collar, then jerked her hand back as if it had burned her. “That thing has a bite, doesn’t it? But then, it would have to, to strip
you
of your powers.”

She frowned. “How did you know about the collar? Arthur just told me to offer Percival my Oath of Service. I added the collar because he would have refused otherwise.”

Gwen grimaced. “I had a vision. Saw that collar of yours and knew what you’d done. You twit.”

Morgana studied her uneasily. To give her hands something to do, she reached for the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured each of them a glass of wine. “What did you see?” If a witch had a vision about something, the implications were usually pretty grim.

Guinevere’s gaze flickered uneasily. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. I saw . . . fire. And a dragon—I think it was the one you fought last night. And you and your team, but none of it made a hell of a lot of sense. But that collar . . .” She frowned. “I think you need to get rid of it, Morgana. I think it’s going to be a problem.”

She stiffened. “No.”

“Morgana, you . . .”

“If I got rid of the collar, Percival would consider it a violation of my Oath. Besides, he’s the only one who can take the thing off, so I’m basically stuck with it anyway.”

Guinevere’s expression went flat and cool. “I could remove it.”

Of course she could. After all, Morgana had always intended her as a failsafe if something went wrong with the collar. She sighed and admitted reluctantly, “I don’t want it off, Gwen.”

Her friend scowled. “Dammit, Morgana . . .”

Morgana’s fingers brushed over the cool metal circlet, taking reassurance from it. “I need this.”

Percival died, screaming in pain as her fire boiled over him, Cador and Marrok blazing and shrieking at his side
 . . .

As long as she wore the collar, they were safe.

Her old friend studied her face with that unnerving perception that had made her such a formidable queen. “You mean you need Percival.”

Morgana found she couldn’t quite hold Gwen’s gaze. “Him and his team, certainly.”

“Uh, huh.” Gwen gave her a long look. “So how much damage did Percival do to your backside? And don’t bother denying it, because I watched you sit down like there were pins in this overstuffed monstrosity of a settee.”

Caught, Morgana could only laugh. “Yeah, okay, he plays pretty hard.”

“There’s a shock. Take off the shirt, Morgana.”

Modesty was a waste of time after the years they’d spent together. She rose and stripped off the shirt.

Gwen inhaled sharply, reaching out to run a hand delicately down the length of her back. “He did enjoy himself, didn’t he?”

Morgana felt her cheeks heat. “I suppose.”

Her friend snorted and passed a hand along her spine again, but this time Morgana felt the bubbling heat of magic rolling from her fingertips. Instantly, the ache and pain of her bruises began to fade, vanishing completely a heartbeat later. “And he drank deep.” Her tone chilled. “Almost too deep.”

Morgana met her friend’s gaze. “Yes.”

Gwen closed her eyes, flattening her palm between her shoulders. Again, Morgana felt the rise and heat of her magic.

“So,” the former queen said, opening her eyes and giving her an incisive glance, “it’s obvious he enjoyed himself. But did you?”

“I . . .” Morgana took a deep breath and owned up, both to her friend and herself. “Yes. I did enjoy it.”

Gwen lifted a blonde brow. “But you’re not sure you should have.” “Well, let’s face it, Gwen. He flogged my arse, fucked me silly, and milked me like Bessie. And it hurt.”

Her friend gave her a slow, wicked grin. “And you loved every minute of it.”

She laughed, a trifle uncomfortably. “I did.”

“Of course you did. Percival’s hotter than hell.”

Morgana shot her a mock-scandalized glance. “Why, Guinevere Pendragon! Shame on you, lusting after one of Arthur’s knights . . .”

“And after I confess my evil thoughts, I assure you Arthur will make me pay dearly.” Gwen settled back in her seat, one corner of her lip quirking up. “And he uses a single-tail.”

“Does he?” Morgana blinked. She’d had her suspicions about her half-brother’s tastes, but Gwen had never come right out and admitted it. “You don’t sound particularly worried.”

“Probably because I’m looking forward to it. In the meantime . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “. . . let’s tend to your wardrobe issues—and your larder. I doubt there’s a loaf of bread in this entire mausoleum you call a house. Let’s start with the closet.”

Morgana could only shake her head as she rose and led the way upstairs. “You do know me entirely too well.”

“After all these centuries?” Gwen snorted. “I damned well should.”

“Guess so.” Morgana crossed her bedroom to swing the armoire door open. “And you’re right. I do feel a little uncomfortable about enjoying Percival’s . . . games. It seems wrong somehow, finding pleasure in being flogged.”

Her friend hesitated, as if considering what to say as she swept a glance into the wardrobe. “My God, this thing is so empty, it practically echoes.” She gestured, beginning to conjure pairs of jeans in a variety of shades and styles. Every one of which would no doubt fit Morgana like a coat of paint. Shooting her a sidelong glance, Gwen continued, “And you sound like one of those medieval priests, convinced that pleasure is somehow sinful.”

She snorted. “It’s been my experience that priests were only concerned about the sins of other people. Their own evidently didn’t count.”

“Not all priests are like Father Bennett, Morgana. In fact, the majority of them were every bit as devout as they appeared.” Gwen flicked her fingers, sending out a stream of magic to become blouses and tops. “But we’re getting off the subject. My point is that there’s nothing wrong with anything that you and your partner both enjoy, so long as it doesn’t inflict real damage on either of you. Or hurt anyone else, for that matter.”

“But I’m Liege of the Majae, Gwen. I’m not supposed to . . .”

“Who said?” Guinevere retorted, propping both hands on her hips. “Because if there’s a contract somewhere that says a Liege isn’t supposed to be kinky, Arthur’s in violation.”

“Arthur’s a dominant.”

“And you’re a submissive. None of which has a damn thing to do with your ability to do your respective jobs.”

“Granted, but . . . Look, Gwen, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it’s a little frightening, giving up control to Percival like that. All my life, I’ve had to be in control. And when I wasn’t . . .” She shrugged. “Bad things happened, either to me or innocent people.”