Master of Fire (28 page)

Giada sat up, alarmed. “Hey, his hands are bleeding.”

“Magi may be much stronger than humans, but they are not made of steel,” Gwen told her. The expression on her lovely face was serene. “Arthur will show him how to change and heal in a moment. In the meantime, he needs to learn the proper technique.”

Arthur walked over to the truck, crouched, positioned his hands under the vehicle’s body, and lifted. He then walked up under it, shifting his hold as he went, until he balanced the SUV over his head as easily as a man lifting a sheet of plywood.

“Damn.” Giada blinked in astonishment. “I didn’t realize they were that strong.”

“He’s showing off,” Gwen told her. “Logan’s not quite strong enough to do that yet. A Magus’s strength increases over time, as he feeds and absorbs Mageverse energies.”

Giada frowned, thinking it through. “Does that mean a Magus weakens if he’s trapped on Mortal Earth?”

Gwen nodded. “Yes, though we can usually find him fairly quickly if something like that happens.”

When his father put the truck down, Logan stepped forward, positioned his hands where Arthur had, and lifted it with a grunt of effort. The front end of the car rose as he heaved upward. Giada watched the powerful muscles of his back ripple with effort, the cords straining on the side of his neck. She drew in a breath—and yelped as his arms suddenly gave under the weight. The SUV started to fall . . .

And stopped with a groan of tortured metal, hovering in midair as he dove clear.

“Thanks, Mom!” Logan called.

“Wasn’t me.” Guinevere jerked a thumb in Giada’s direction.

Which was when Giada realized she was on her feet, magic pouring from her hands as she held the big vehicle suspended. She’d acted on pure frantic instinct. Startled, she lost her magical grip. The truck hit the ground with a thunderous crash.

Gwen sighed. “We lose more SUVs that way.” Eyeing Giada, she added, “Smoke was right—you are stronger than we thought.”

They fell silent, watching Logan attempt various feats of strength under his father’s tutelage. “Have you ever heard of a Maja and a Latent sharing dreams?” Giada asked Gwen suddenly.

The Maja gave her a sharp look. “Did you and Logan . . . ?”

“Yes. At least twice we had the same dream. Well, more or less the same. He dreamed he killed me in both of them . . .”

Gwen swore so foully in gutter Latin that Giada blinked in surprise. “Jimmy Cordino.” Her tone made the name sound like an obscenity. “I suspected that little bastard was why Logan was so reluctant to accept the Gift.”

“You were right.”

She grunted. After a thoughtful moment, she added, “It is interesting that the two of you linked in your sleep. Even if you’d already made love first, it’s . . .”

“But we hadn’t. Not then.” Giada’s cheeks heated in horror at what had just come out of her own mouth.
For God’s sake, she’s his mother.

“Oh, really?” Blue eyes widened in surprised interest. “That
is
unusual. You two could probably form a really strong Truebond.” She considered that a moment, then added hastily, “That is, if you wanted to.”

“Umm. Well. That’s good to know.” What the heck did you say to a statement like that coming from a man’s mother? Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, Giada proceeded to concentrate very hard on Logan and Arthur.

 

 

“Don’t do that,
boy.” Arthur gave him a cuff across the back of the head. “If you’re that hungry, go bite that girl of yours.”

Logan realized he was absently sucking one of the cuts on his fingers left by his attempts to lift the SUV. His own blood did not taste nearly as good as Giada’s—but it wasn’t all that bad either.

He snatched his finger out of his mouth, mildly revolted at himself.

Arthur shook his head. “You need to heal those cuts. Time to get in touch with your inner wolf.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Imagine the form you want to take. Got it?”

He frowned, remembering the dark-furred wolf he’d seen his father become. “I think so.”

“Now, reach for your magic. And let it take you.” Dark sparks swirled in Arthur’s eyes, flooded the whites of his eyes, washed over his skin in a blinding flood that swirled, changing shape. For a moment, Logan thought he smelled dark forests and moonlit nights.

Then the magic was gone, and a huge black wolf stood where his father had been. The big beast looked up at him expectantly.

Logan obediently closed his eyes and pictured a wolf . . .

And nothing happened. He frowned, puzzled. Where was the wolf? It had always looked so easy when the knights called up their beasts.

Nothing answered. His body did not flow into the change he’d seen the others make with such ease.

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Shhh,” his mother said as two sets of light footsteps approached. “Keep your eyes closed. You’re fighting it. Help him, child.”

A delicate hand touched his cheek. It seemed he heard Giada’s voice whispering in his mind, though she made no sound.
Reach out into the dark, out into the wild woods where the moon paints each leaf of every tree in silver, where the magic breathes cool shining breaths and soft feet pad over rustling leaves. Do you feel it?

“Yes,” he breathed. And he did.

There it was, the moving darkness, ancient and huge and powerful. The magic hit him like a tsunami, flashing through skin and bone and muscle, twisting and tearing. There was a moment of intense pain . . .

When the world came back, it returned in a furious sensory assault—smell, sight, touch, all so intense that they seemed to batter his brain. It took him a long, disoriented moment to realize he stood on four feet. He tried to walk and damn near fell on his . . .

Wolf teeth snapped inches from his ear. He bounded straight up like a startled cat.

That was the key, he realized.
Don’t think. Let the body follow instinct
.

His father pounced on him with a happy growl, almost but not quite sinking long white fangs into his furry flesh. Logan rolled to all four feet and began to run, moving faster than he ever had in his life, Arthur in playful pursuit.

 

 

Hours later, Logan
staggered over to take the silver goblet his mother held out to him. It was full of such blessedly cold water that for a moment he wasn’t sure whether he’d rather drink it or dump it over his head.

He ended up downing it and asking for a second cup. That was the one he poured over himself, sighing in relief as his sweating flesh instantly cooled.

“Stop drooling, child,” his mother said.

He looked around, surprised—he hadn’t been aware he’d
been
drooling—only to find Giada blushing.

Oh. He hid his grin behind the cup.

“I think the boy needs a dozen eggs, Gwen,” Arthur announced. “Giada hasn’t seen him juggle.”

Logan dragged his gaze away from his lover’s bounding pulse. “Juggle?”

He’d just spent hours transforming to wolf form and back again, then lifting one god-awful weight after another. His every muscle ached, and his legs shook like those of a horse who’d been run too hard. Now his father wanted him to demonstrate a skill he’d mastered when he was twelve?

Out of the corner of one eye, he saw something white sail toward his head. Automatically, he reached up to snag the egg out of the air, just as he’d done when he was a teenager.

And promptly found himself holding a handful of yolk.

“Gently, boy, gently.” Arthur gave him a toothy grin. “You wouldn’t want to leave bruises on Giada’s white skin, would you?”

Good point. He set his teeth and reached out to catch another egg.

Crunch.

Dammit.

By the time
they returned to Giada’s tiny ranch, it was barely an hour until dawn. Logan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so exhausted. Arthur had run him hard, and he’d pushed himself even harder. He had to be ready for the raid on Sam Taylor’s house.

“I still can’t believe Sam’s a killer,” Logan told Giada as she gestured, opening the front door with a spell. “She’s always seemed like such a good cop.”

“I know what you mean.” She took his arm to guide his steps, in the process flooding his senses with her delicious scent. His fangs twinged, and the Hunger growled through his blood. “I liked her, too. But if Smoke says she smells like Dire Wolf, she’s a Dire Wolf.”

“Yeah.” He resisted the urge to lean into her, knowing he probably smelled like a wet dog himself.

“What
is
Smoke, anyway?” She led him down the short hallway toward her bedroom. He could hear the rush of the shower already running—she’d apparently magicked it on when they’d come in.

“Who the hell knows? He and Dad have been friends for most of a thousand years or so. He’s a lot like a real cat—he comes and goes on his own schedule. He’s been known to disappear for years, only to show back up as if he’d never been gone. Never mentions what he’s been up to, either. Very mysterious.”

The bathroom was surprisingly large, considering the size of the house. It had both a sunken tub and a glassed-in shower, both in gleaming rose marble that matched the rose-specked white ceramic tile on the floor.

“I’m a big fan of bathing,” Giada told him, a touch defensively.

Logan grinned down at her. “What a coincidence. So am I.” He reached for the hem of his sweaty T-shirt, grimacing as his sore muscles complained.

Without commenting, Giada brushed his hands out of the way, grabbed the shirt, and pulled it off over his head when he lifted his arms. He toed off his running shoes and stripped out of his pants, acutely aware of her warming gaze. He just wasn’t sure he had the energy to do anything about it.

When he stepped under the shower spray, he sighed in pleasure as the hot water began to pound his aching muscles. Knots began to un-kink, and he leaned one hand wearily against the cool tile. Closing his eyes, he relaxed as the spray began a rhythmic pulsing that was no doubt magically induced.

He really needed to scrub the sticky blend of sweat and egg yolk out of his hair and off his skin. Unfortunately, he felt as if he’d been run over by an Arthur-shaped truck, and he doubted he had the strength.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, a pair of hard nipples brushed his back.

Suddenly he felt a whole hell of a lot more lively.

Logan turned around to find Giada deliciously naked and standing in the shower as she worked a foaming cake of soap in her hands. Her smile was wicked. His cock stirred and rose in pure appreciation at the heat in her eyes.

Yep. He was definitely less tired than he’d thought.

There’s nothing like a wet, naked man with a truly impressive hard-on to make a girl feel welcome
. Giada grinned, watching Logan’s dark eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiled down at her in hot appreciation.

She felt pretty damned appreciative herself. His broad, powerful chest was gemmed with beads of water, glistening runnels snaking down rippled abs toward his jutting cock. His dark hair was slicked tight to his head, and droplets shone on his high cheekbones and dripped from the cleft in his chin.

Her fingers itched to touch him. She reached out with the cake of soap and began to trace it over his chest. She almost purred in satisfaction as he let his head fall back with a groan of deep male pleasure.

Unable to resist, Giada stepped in closer, let her soapy hands roam, and watched in absorbed fascination as trails of bubbles rolled down strong ridges and hollows. Slowly, gently, she ran the tips of her nails over his skin, following fascinating masculine contours. So strong, so warm under her hands. Almost feverish. He shuddered in pleasure.

Her hand trailed lower, hesitated just above the broad jut of his cock. He went still under her fingers, as if holding his breath. Hiding a secret smile, she trailed one finger back up, circled his navel, and slanted a look up at him through lowered lashes.

He was watching her with a hungry intensity that reminded her of a tiger at a waterhole. Her nipples budded under the heat of that feral gaze.

Her hand flashed down to cup his balls. Logan jolted with a low male growl. “Playing dangerous games, there, sweetheart.”

“That’s okay.” She gave him a deliberately cocky grin. “I loves me some danger.”

He grinned back in a slow, deliberate revelation of very sharp fangs. “Good.” The hint of menace in the word sent a delighted little thrill down her spine.

She tilted her head back and rolled his balls between her fingers, gently, tenderly, then let just the tips of her nails scrape carefully along the underside of the fuzzy sac. His cock jerked upward in response like a rearing horse. She brought her other hand into play, rubbing the cake of soap slowly up and down the thick rod, watching foam slide and drip along its veined contours. “You have a beautiful cock. It’s so long. Almost as thick as my wrist.” She released his tight testicles and started running her hand along the soapy shaft. Back and forth, concentrating on the slick, delicious textures, watching droplets of water bounce against his taut flesh.