Page 2 of Knight of the Sword

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.”

As if she needed someone to help her stand when she was used to practicing lunges and twists for her fencing hobby! Before she could rise, though, he leaned down, grasped her elbow, and lifted her as though she were a bag of feathers. He released her immediately, but the warmth lingered where his hand had been. This close, his mahogany-colored hair looked soft as silk as it touched the collar of his white shirt, and she could see his dark eyes were rimmed with hazel. His wide, full mouth quirked in a half-grin and she realized she was staring. Sophie took a step back, all too aware of the massive male strength of him and his slightly woodsy scent. Oddly, it was a pleasantly intoxicating smell.

He was just what she did not need. Good-looking, rakish men who looked like they belonged on the cover of a romance novel generally should stay there. That way a woman could look and not get hurt. Robert was drop-dead gorgeous too. Look where that had gotten her. Michael McCain probably had dozens of women tweeting him hourly.

“I didn’t realize you were an acquaintance of Mr. Smith’s,” she said.

Michael nodded, still looking somewhat amused, as though he knew what she was thinking. “I’m working on a project and I needed his help on medieval weaponry.”

Sophie glanced at the wall that held an arrangement of swords: Roman spathas, Middle-eastern scimitars, French rapiers, military sabers, English long swords, and a great Scottish claymore. Alongside the weapons was a picture of St. George slaying the dragon. She had always felt sorry for the dragon.

She turned her gaze back to Michael. “Are you a reporter?”