The Crossing (Immortals) (8 page)

Gods in Annwyn. What was he doing?

He wasn't quite sure. All he knew was that he didn't plan
on stopping any time soon. There was an exquisite buzzing
in his head, and a blessed heaviness in his groin. He hadn't
felt this turned on-this alive-in a very long while.

He plundered her mouth, invading, demanding. Sucked
on her lower lip. His senses drank in her magic; it hummed
through his veins like the most potent whisky. Heady and
rich, she was an angel with a devil's bite. Perfect balance.
Life magic and death magic bound together so seamlessly
it was impossible to tell where one left off and the other
began. It was like nothing he'd ever known, nothing he'd
ever imagined was possible.

A perfect storm of power. The woman he'd told Christine couldn't possibly exist. One who was strong enough to
intrigue and challenge. It was just too bloody bad she was using her magic for nefarious purposes. The thought angered him. His kiss turned brutal.

He expected her to push him away. She didn't. But neither did she encourage him. Her passivity stroked his anger,
and his lust. He speared his fingers through her short, soft
hair. It puffed against his jaw like a dark, silky kiss. He
clenched his fingers in the curls.

She reacted with a small sound deep in her throat. He
lifted his head and looked into her eyes. They were chocolate dark and hazed with desire. Her gaze flicked to his
mouth. Her fingers curled on the collar of his jacket and
held on tightly. She wanted him, and not just because of
the ricocheted spell, which had all but faded.

An intense rush of satisfaction heated his groin. Mac had
always enjoyed sex-he was half Sidhe, after all. But this?
This coiling dark desire was something new. Something fueled, he was sure, by the dark stain on his soul.

Anger and lust-and the devil only knew what elsetook hold. His hand snaked between the open edges of her
jacket. Her shirt was some flimsy, soft material; he could
feel the outline of her bra-no padding-beneath it. He
stroked the upper edge. Lace? Incongruous, that. She didn't
seem like the lacy type. He smiled against her mouth and
wondered what color. He liked lace.

He brushed a thumb lightly across her nipple. She
gasped and cursed in one breath. It sounded like a prayer.
He explored more of her. She wore a heavy pendant that
nestled in the valley between her breasts. It was warm from
contact with her skin.

He frowned. Too warm. Almost hot. Almost as if-

She made a small, wild sound, like a cornered animal.
He stilled. Had he frightened her that badly? Misread her
body's cues? He started to pull back. He wasn't a completely mindless brute. Then a small, hot hand slid over
his groin, cupping him through his jeans, and every last
one of his brain cells shorted out.

Frightened? Not by half. Working so swiftly his head
spun, the witch slipped open his belt and popped the single button of his jeans. She tugged at the zipper. It slid,
then caught. She made a sound of frustration, and-

A squeal of brakes, somewhere behind the car. Then...

"Ooooooh!"

"I see him!"

"Where?"

"In that car! Ohmygod! He's snogging that-"

Mac wrenched his head around. His glamour spell was
in shambles-he'd lost hold of it a while back, amid a
crashing wave of lust. At just the wrong time, apparently.
His public had caught up with him.

Ballocks. Why couldn't the paparazzi harass Prince
Harry for a change?

A half dozen or more shameless hussies tumbled pellmell out of a beat-up van. The lead bitch launched herself
across the car park. Her pack streamed after her. Behind
them came the tall photographer, wheeling a motorcycle
from the alley.

Mac's Norton.

Bloody hell! He nearly launched himself at the thieving
blighter. Until he realized that if he opened the car door,
his adoring fangirls would have him naked in under five
seconds.

His fingertips itched. A few well-placed bolts of elfshot
would be more than satisfying, but he couldn't risk hurting
anyone. Besides being extremely churlish, injuring fans
surely was not a good career move.

He turned on the witch. "Key."

She gaped at him. "What?"

"Oh, sod it." He pointed a finger at the ignition and
muttered a word. The engine roared to life, hazard lights
flashing, windshield wipers clacking furiously.

The fans were almost on the car. Mac spoke a quick repulse spell. There was a dull thud as a skinny lass hit the
driver's-side door and rebounded into the arms of her
friends. The lot bowled over like ninepins.

He jerked the shift and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The Vauxhall lurched crazily. Damn manual transmission. He maneuvered the shuddering engine past
second and third gears and careened into the roadway,
where the cheap hunk of British metal at last gained some
confidence. They flashed past his Norton. One of the fangirls was in the saddle now. The photog rode gunner, his
camera flashing like a strobe.

Mac spared his baby an anguished glance. The Norton
was doomed.

The witch braced one hand on the dashboard and half
turned to watch out the back window.

"Two girls down. They actually threw themselves headfirst onto the pavement trying to grab our bumper."

"Crazy besoms."

"The others..." She rose to her knees to get a better
look. "They've run for a white minivan... They're behind us. The motorcycle-that's yours, right? It's behind
them." She glanced at him. "They're gaining."

"Bugger it. Couldn't you lease something better than
this piece of trash?" Mac stomped on the accelerator. Out
of the corner of his eye, he saw the witch's fingers twitch.

"Don't you dare help them," he told her.

For a second, he thought she'd defy him. Then she
sighed, faced front, and flopped down in her seat.

"Wise choice, love." Mac tossed a confusion spell over
his shoulder. Brakes squealed, followed by a horrid metalgrinding sound.

"Oh my God!" The witch popped up and twisted back
around. "What did you do?"

"Took out a tire on the people mover. The lasses should
be a while changing it."

"The motorcycle's still coming."

Damn. This was it. He muttered another spell, before
he could change his mind.

The witch gasped. "Flames are shooting out of the
tailpipe!"

Mac couldn't bear to look.

"They're pulling over... jumping clear." She let out a
rush of breath. "Gods. The cycle just crashed into a tree.
It... gods! It just exploded."

Mac took the next curve far harder than necessary.

The witch grabbed the strap above the door for leverage as she turned to face front and-damn her-started to
laugh. "Old girlfriends?"

"Nope. Don't know them."

"Then why are they chasing you?"

He looked at her with some surprise. "You don't know?"

"Should I?"

Bemusement settled in. He executed right and left turns,
then picked up the main road. "You're bamming me. You
have to know who I am."

"Why? Are you famous or something?"

Or something. He shot her a look. "You really don't
know?"

She shook her head. "Don't think so."

He shrugged. "No reason not to tell you, love, other
than for the rare pleasure of anonymity. You'll figure it
out soon enough. I'm Manannan mac Lir."

He waited for a reaction.

Then waited some more.

He glanced over at her, irritated. Her brow was furrowed. Clearly, she was trying to place the name. As if his
face hadn't been plastered all over the telly and the Internet for more than a year. As if he didn't currently have
three hits on the international top ten chart.

He felt insanely insulted.

Finally-finally-her eyes widened. "Manannan mac Lit, the Celtic demigod? The one who helped the Immortals
save the world last year? And... aren't you some kind of
musician, too? Celtic techno stuff? Guitar, bagpipes, and
synthesizers?"

Ali, so she wasn't completely deaf, dumb, and blind. His
ruffled pride settled a bit. Though, perversely, another
part of him wished she'd said she had no idea who he was
at all.

"The same."

She eyed him. "But... you're Sidhe, right? How come
your ears aren't pointed?"

"I'm only half Sidhe," he said irritably. "Didn't get the
pointy-ear gene."

"Oh. Manannan, huh? That's a mouthful."

"Call me Mac. And you are?"

She looked out the side window. "Me? Nobody, really."

"Does nobody have a name?"

She hesitated, then sighed. "Artemis. Artemis Alexandria Black."

It didn't sound like a lie. "So, Artemis Alexandria Black.
Tell me. Do you often cast lust spells at strange men?"

"Only the threatening ones."

"Could be dangerous, that."

"Not really. It's a quick and easy spell, and very effective
in temporarily disabling men. Young ones especially. Once
the spell hits, about ninety percent of a guy's blood rushes
to his... well, you know where. His brain turns to mush
for a few seconds, which gives me plenty of time to craft a
more complicated defense." She made a sound of disgust.
"At least, that's how it's supposed to work."

"You made your mistake in thinking I was young," Mac
said. "In reality, I'm an old geezer of seven hundred."

"You can't hold that against me. You look like a college
kid, and you hide your magic like nothing I've ever seen. I
assumed you were a mundane."

"You should never assume, love."

"Obviously." She grimaced. "Before today, I'd've sworn
there wasn't a man alive quick enough to send that spell
back at me. Of course," she added, almost to herself, "this
is the first time I've met up with a demigod."

"Something to write about in your diary, then."

"I don't keep a diary."

He didn't answer. She didn't move. The silence quickly
became awkward, as if they'd both suddenly remembered
they weren't friends. He could almost feel her apprehension, winding into a tight, anxious coil. She had good reason to be afraid of him. Artemis Alexandria Black was
surprising, yes, and entrancing besides, but all that was not
nearly enough to distract him from the issue of the life
essence she'd stolen. From twenty-seven faerie settlements. Even if she had released what she'd taken from
Gilraen's village, what had she done with the energy she'd
gathered from the other twenty-six?

That was the question, wasn't it?

He settled back in his seat, watching her from the corner of his eye as he drove with one hand draped on the
wheel and the other resting lightly on the shift. He'd been
so intent on her magic that he hadn't noticed much else
about her. Now he saw that she wasn't what anyone would
call beautiful. In fact, she was rather plain. But that didn't
mean she was hard to look at. Not at all. Her complicated
ancestry had given her dark, almond-shaped eyes, high
cheekbones, and olive skin. Her midnight-dark hair sported
gold highlights he didn't think came from a bottle. Though
the lust spell was completely spent, his gaze lingered on her
full lips and slender neck. The memory of her breasts in
his hands-not too large, not too small-would not leave
his mind.

And her magic... it tingled like champagne blended
with some dark, forbidden spice. He wanted to explore
her power again, and explore her body at the same time. He was half hard, his belt open and zipper still half undone, right as she'd left him. Thoughts of engaging her in
a horizontal Highland fling were seriously interfering
with his contemplation of her crime.

Reluctantly, he pulled his mind out of the gutter. The
witch's crime couldn't be ignored. Mac was Guardian of
Celtic Magical Creatures, and Artemis had admitted stealing life essence from beings under his protection. The
Sidhe Council had rules about such behavior.

Rules... and penalties.

Stealing life essence was difficult and dangerous-it involved death magic, which the Sidhe abhorred. But the rewards, for those human witches and sorcerers who could
manage it, were huge. Demons were the primary users.
Often, they forced their whores to gather the energy, but
they also paid top dollar to independent black market
dealers. Most of the contraband bought and sold came
from humans, however. Not faeries. Though faeries had
much higher concentrations of life essence, they were
much harder to steal from than humans. Faeries could
scent death magic a mile away.

But Gilraen's village hadn't sensed Artemis at all.

Mac sighed. He didn't fancy the prospect of dragging
his captive before the Sidhe Council, which just happened
to be headed by Mac's own lovely mother. But what else
could he do? Hop out of her car at the next village and
forget he'd ever found her? Shirk his duty, leaving more
faerie villages vulnerable? He'd destroyed her map, but no
doubt she had other resources.

He could think of only one other option. Admittedly, it
was a temporary measure, but it was strangely tempting.
He could keep her for a while. Keep her out of trouble
and keep her focused on him.

He grinned.

"What's so funny? And where are you taking me?"

He negotiated a tight curve, narrowly missing the front
bumper of an oncoming lorry. She gasped and braced her
hand on the dash.

"That depends," he said, guiding the Vauxhall out of
the curve with one hand. "Where are you headed, Artemis
Alexandria Black?"

"Nowhere in particular."

"Then you're in luck. That's where I'm going as well." He
glanced at the fuel gauge. "We'll need petrol soon, love."

"I know," she muttered.

He glanced over his shoulder. A tangled blanket and a
pillow lay on the backseat. There was a book there as well.
Dante's Inferno, classics edition. Hmmm. A little light
bedtime reading? "You've been sleeping in your car."

"Yes."

«Why?"

"Saves money."

"Cold in the winter, though."