GALAHAD spent the next half hour grilling her about the vision.
So much for lazing in the afterglow.
Not that she could blame him. They had a nest of vampires to kill. Focus, Caroline.
But it was tough, and not just because the amazingly gorgeous man questioning her had just drunk her blood. She knew she must have climaxed harder at some point in her twenty-eight years, but damned if she could remember it.
And that was aside from the fact he was sixteen hundred years old and a knight of the Round Table.
What the hell was happening to her? This time last year she’d been trying to teach sentence construction to a bunch of bored high school juniors. Now she was supposed to help Sir Galahad clean out a nest of evil vampires and recover the Unholy Grail. What did she look like, Sarah Michelle Gellar?
Though she’d stack her eye candy against Buffy’s any day.
Apparently satisfied he had as much of the story as he was getting, Galahad leaned against the bar and started scribbling on a notepad she’d conjured for him. His handsome face drew into a scowl of concentration as he wrote in long, slashing strokes.
He’d drank her blood. And she’d liked it.
Caroline was still mentally reeling from that when he finally lifted his head, running a harried hand through that silken hair of his. “Obviously, we need to clean out that nest you saw. The thing is, I don’t particularly like going into combat based on intelligence from a vision.”
“Yeah, I could see how that would be less than ideal.” He looked all sexy and grim and determined. She, on the other hand, felt like a giant rag doll with all the stuffing sucked out. Focus, Caroline.
“That’s putting it mildly,” he said, turning to pace, apparently unaware of her dazzled gaze. “Visions only reveal the big picture, and in combat, it’s the details that bite you on the ass. I’m damned if I’m going to just gate into some magical underground installation without knowing how many bad guys are going to object.”
That particular mental image was enough to kill the last of her afterglow and start her stomach crocheting itself into sick knots. She rubbed it absently. “So how do you suggest we find out?”
“For one thing, we don’t do this in one big go. It’s going to take a series of strikes, just in and out. Fast.”
Caroline nodded. It made sense. Not enough to keep her from wanting to throw up, but still.
“First order of business is to find that Grail you saw and secure it for Morgana to study,” he continued. “Then we gate home to plan our next move. In the meantime, I want you to try to do a magical scan and get me a bad-guy head count. Find out where they are and what they’re doing. Think you can do that?”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Her palms were going damp. “Then what?”
“Based on that intelligence, we’ll make a series of strikes to whittle down their forces.”
Which was military speak for killing people. Oh, God. “Sounds good.” An outright lie if ever she’d told one.
In her entire life, Caroline had been in exactly two fights. The first has been when she was ten and Jenny Peterson said she was a stupid head. She didn’t remember much about the resulting catfight beyond hair pulling and being told she hit like a girl. Originality had never been Jenny’s strong suit.
She’d gotten into the second one just a couple of years ago, when she’d tried to break up a pair of brawling seniors. Somebody shot an elbow into her face and she spent the next two weeks looking like Sylvester Stallone at the end of Rocky.
Now she was supposed to battle killer magic-users who sacrificed people and drank blood from cups. This was beginning to feel like a bad reality show. Survivor: Vampire Vacation. Somebody vote her off the island. Please.
But if they didn’t do this, people were going to die.
“Your eyes are the size of bread plates.” Galahad put a hand on her shoulder that was almost fatherly. “Look, this first time out, I’ll do the heavy lifting. I don’t expect you to do much real fighting; you haven’t had the training.”
Caroline licked her dry lips. “What if we’re really outnumbered?”
He shrugged. “Toss a couple of fireballs and try not to hit me. Then gate us out of there.” Apparently reading her sick anxiety, he gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ve been at this since Rome fell, Caroline. I know what I’m doing. Now, armor up and let’s go.”
“Armor. Okay.” Tentatively, Caroline laid a hand on his breastplate, closed her eyes, and reached for the magic. It leaped for her as it always did, almost joyously, surging across her body in a tingling, foaming wave. She envisioned what she wanted, and the energy settled against her skin, grew solid and cool. When she opened her eyes again, she was wearing a gleaming suit of magical plate that was an exact duplicate of his.
God, magic was fun. The rest of this sucked, but she did like conjuring.
Galahad looked down at her chest and grinned. “You do realize those runes spell my name, right?”
Feeling a flush spread across her cheekbones, Caroline looked down at the indecipherable designs scrawled across her breasts. She couldn’t even read the symbols, much less write her own name in them. “Oh. Um…”
He laughed as he moved to put on his helm and gauntlets. “Don’t worry about it, Caroline. Just create a gate to the cup.”
GALAHAD watched Caroline square her shoulders. She’d gone pale as a ghost, yet she still seemed grimly determined to take out the nest. He had to admire that.
Besides, she looked really cute wearing that scaled-down version of his armor, name and all.
Gesturing, she drew the gate out of the air. It spiraled outward from a pinpoint spark to a glowing, man-shaped opening in the course of a blink. Not bad. The kid was green, but she had muscle.
Galahad stepped closer to see what was on the other side. The view showed a fountain cut from rough, red stone sitting in the center of a round room built of the same crimson rock. A clawed hand thrust from the center of the fountain bowl, holding something gold.
A cup.
And from it spilled…
“Is that blood?” Caroline demanded.
“Probably just looks like it. Geirolf’s lot would never let that much go to waste. You sense anybody there?”
“Not right now. Which doesn’t mean they won’t gate in behind us.”
“We’ll have to risk it.” Having dealt with more than enough raw recruits, he decided to remind her of the plan. “So we’ll make it quick. I’ll snatch Geirolf’s Grail while you get me a bad-guy head count. Then we duck back through the gate again and decide how to clean house.”
“Okay.” Caroline’s voice shook.
He threw her a smile as he lowered his visor. “You’re doing good, kid. You’ll be fine.”
As he reached over to flip hers down, too, she gave him a sick smile. “Wonder if Custer said that before the Little Big Horn?”
“No, actually, he said, ‘Indians? What Indians?’”
She snickered as the visor clicked down.
Satisfied, Galahad drew his sword and stepped into the gate. Magic rippled over his skin in a hot, tingling wave as it transported him across the dimensions to Realspace Earth. In a blink he was through, stepping out onto the smooth stone floor.
He moved aside to let Caroline through as he aimed a quick look around them, all his senses open. He didn’t smell anything but damp stone and water. The room was silent except for the sullen patter of that disgusting fountain. “You feel anything?”
Caroline’s helmeted head tilted as she went still. He could feel the magic rise around her. “We’re underground,” she said. “Somewhere in…Virginia? Out in the sticks…” She stiffened, her voice rising in horror. “Oh, God! They killed four people to work the spell! They sacrificed them right over our heads. I can feel them.”
“It’s okay, you’re all right.” Galahad touched her shoulder to bring her out of it. When her eyes met his through the slits in her visor, he told her, “These bastards can’t draw on the energies of the Mageverse the way Majae can. They have to use death energy to work their spells.”
“And what a fine source of power you’re going to be,” a strange voice said. Galahad whirled an instant too late.
BOOOOM!
The blast of magic took him full in the chest, knocking him across the room to slam hard into a stone wall. If he hadn’t been wearing enchanted armor, it would have flash-fried him. Caroline screamed his name.
He hit the ground rolling and scrambled for the sword he’d dropped when the blast hit. The hiss and crackle of magic filled the air, shots volleying back and forth over his head. He grabbed his weapon and looked up to see Caroline exchanging fireballs with a tall, graying man in gaudy pseudo-priestly robes.
“You back-shooting son of a bitch!” she snarled, summoning another shimmering ball of energy. Judging from the glow, it had enough kick to melt a hole in a tank. She lobbed it at him, but the priest blocked it with a shield spell. His return blast splashed off her armor in licking tongues of flame.
She danced aside and hurled another ball at him like a major league pitcher with the bases loaded. He blocked it and started circling, looking for an opening.
Galahad knew Caroline would eventually wear the bastard down, since Geirolf’s vamps ran out of magic when they used up the life force they’d stolen. Majae, on the other hand, drew on the raw energy of the Mageverse itself.
Unfortunately, she probably didn’t have that much time. He was willing to bet the bastard’s reinforcements were on the way.
He had to wrap this up.
Galahad leaped for the priest, bellowing a battle cry as he swung his sword with all his strength. The cultist spun, throwing up another one of those magical shields. The blade jolted in Galahad’s hands as it hit the glowing barrier hard enough to rattle his back teeth. He ignored the sensation and started hacking, trying to batter down the shield before the priest could muster stronger defenses.
A burst of heat blazed against his back. Hell, another one already. Galahad ducked, glancing around for his new foe.
“Ooops!” Caroline called, a second fireball floating in her hand. “Sorry!”
“Watch it!” he growled and returned his attention to his opponent.
But the vampire had taken advantage of his instant’s distraction to create a sword and armor. The priest now wore a suit of iridescent black mail, swinging the sword with skillful rotations of one wrist. Gierolf must have magically taught his worshipers how to use a blade; most moderns barely knew hilt from point.
Galahad wasn’t worried. No spell could match his sixteen hundred years as a swordsman.
The only question was—how long before the rest of the cultists arrived?
CAROLINE watched anxiously, looking for an opening. The two vampires were so fast, she was afraid to try another shot for fear of hitting Galahad again.
Besides, he didn’t seem to need the help. The knight moved in an oiled blur of gold, battering at his opponent with flashing strokes of his sword.
There! They’d whirled apart.
Magic rushed down her arm, tingling and stinging to coalesce in a white-hot ball. She hurled it at the priest with all the force she could muster. He screamed, the sound blending with an outraged female shriek.
“Bitch!”
A weight slammed into her back, knocking her flat on her face. Stunned, disoriented—where the hell had that come from?—Caroline felt something jerk off her helmet. She twisted around and threw up an arm just in time to block the fist coming at her head.
Britney Spears was sitting on her back.
Actually, it just looked like Britney. Blond, so young she could have been a cheerleader on the team Caroline advised. But her face was twisted like something out of a horror flick, and fangs filled her open mouth in curving spikes.
“You hurt my dad!” she hissed, fingers fisting in Caroline’s hair. “I’m going to rip out your fuckin’ throat and use the power to kill your boyfriend!” Fangs gaping, she bent toward Caroline’s exposed throat.
“Get off!” Caroline grabbed for the power, twisted around, and shoved her fist into the girl’s open mouth. Fangs raked her knuckles, but she ignored the sting and sent raw energy shooting down her arm.
The blast picked the girl up and threw her across the room like a straw in a hurricane. She didn’t even scream as she hit the stone floor with a meaty thud.
Heart pounding, Caroline scrambled to her feet. The girl didn’t move.
Swallowing, Caroline edged closer, only to recoil in horror. The kid was burned black, flesh seared to charcoal by that panicked blast. “Oh, Jesus.”
“That your first?” Galahad asked, rough sympathy in his voice.
Unable to speak, she turned. He stood looking at her, his sword dripping blood. At his feet lay the priest, his body oddly stunted. It took her a moment to realize the object lying a few feet away wasn’t the man’s helmet.
It was his head.
Caroline whirled away and almost stepped on the girl she’d killed. She clamped both hands over her mouth and closed her eyes, fighting the rise of vomit.
“Shit,” Galahad growled, his voice grim.
Mechanically, she turned her back on the body and opened her eyes. He was staring at the fountain.
Geirolf’s Grail had disappeared.