Master of Honor

worse.

Prologue

Charleston, SC, 1981

Ulf couldn’t get that last image of Grigori Kuznetsov out of his head. Bloody. Broken. Dead.

Two KGB agents had hurled the young engineer out a tenth-story window after a brutal beating. Payback for smuggling blueprints for a Soviet fighter jet to the CIA. Since Ulf had been the one to convince Grigori to pass the information to the Americans, he felt responsible -- especially given that he’d been comatose in the Daysleep when the KGB kicked in the engineer’s door. Yeah, he’d hunted down those responsible and exacted his revenge, but it was a little Goddamn late at that point.

I’m getting sick of watching innocents pay the price for my heroics. He grimaced, hearing the bitter self-pity in the thought. No wonder Arthur had told him to take a month off. "You need a break, Ulf. You’re so burned out, you’re one long ash."

So here he was. Charleston. The lovely South Carolina town had always called to him, with its art, architecture, and beautiful beaches. Maybe it could help him rediscover his commitment to humanity’s survival. Though some humans really need killing. With extreme prejudice and suitably agonized screams.

Brooding, Ulf turned down King Street, though he had no interest in quaint shops or art galleries. Hunger gnawed at him, making the roots of his fangs sting. A block ahead, he spotted a red neon sign. Scarlett’s. Probably a bar. Just the thing -- he needed to get laid. Or failing that, a good fight would blunt the edge of his frustration…

Dixon, you’re drunk. It was the tone that caught Ulf’s attention. Tense, alarmed, tightly controlled. You need to leave now.

Now, don’t be like that. If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. The reply sounded alcohol-slurred and nasty.

Eyes narrowing, Ulf glanced around, homing in on the source of the voices. They were so muffled, a mortal wouldn’t have heard anything at all.

I’m going to call the cops if you don’t get out.

Baby, all I want is a little kiss…

A scuffle, a soft, outraged cry, ugly laughter.

Get off me!

There. The shop across the street. Granger’s Books. A plate glass window displayed a poster of a shirtless man with long blond hair walking out of the ocean. Between the poster and the shelves beyond it, Ulf couldn’t see who was doing what inside. He crossed the street at a jog, ignoring the squeal of brakes and the blare of a horn. Jerking the bookstore door open, he stalked inside.

Dixon, you prick, I said no!

Ulf’s upper jaw ached. He clamped his mouth shut, knowing his fangs had emerged in his rage. He paced through the shop, spotting a man’s dark head over a set of bookshelves in the back. The drunk seemed to be wrestling with someone too short to show above the shelves. Ulf stormed down the aisle and rounded the bookshelf -- just as the woman tore herself out of the beefy young man’s arms, snatched up the carpet sweeper lying on the floor, and drove its business end into her attacker’s crotch.

The guy bent double with a howl, grabbing himself, and she slammed the sweeper into his jaw. With a muffled grunt, he toppled to hit the carpeted floor with a thud. The bastard sprawled there on his back, unmoving, eyes rolled back.

Ulf stopped, nonplussed, staring down at Dixon. The prick was barely out of his teens, with the broad, beefy musculature of a college football player and short-cropped brown hair. He wore a pink knit shirt with a tiny alligator on it, a pair of hunter green chinos, and brown leather Docksiders.

Eighties fashion could be eye watering.

When I say no, I mean no, asshole! the girl snapped, glaring. Her victim didn’t stir, beyond the blood rolling from a cut on his swelling lower lip.

Would you like me to take out the trash for you? Ulf asked, suddenly finding himself in a much better mood.

Her head snapped up. She stared warily at him a moment, hazel eyes narrow, sensual mouth in a tight line. No, but if you’ll hang around to keep an eye on this jerk while I call the cops, I’d appreciate it. She curled a lip at her would-be attacker. I’m filing charges. I hope they kick him out of school.

Ulf grinned. Good for you.

He thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants because he can throw a ball. Sorry, dickhead, no. She wheeled and stalked toward the checkout counter, grabbed the big black rotary phone sitting there, and dragged it closer.

Ulf walked over, leaned a hip on the counter and watched her dial. When the dispatcher came on, she told him what had happened in a few clipped, crisp sentences, then gave the store’s address.

Damn, she was pretty. She wore her dark hair quite short on the sides, but long enough on top to curl down over big hazel eyes. Her face was delicately boned, with an angular jaw and a long, narrow nose. That soft mouth looked so deliciously full and pink, he instantly wanted a taste.

Her loose black T-shirt was tucked into tight jeans, cinched by a wide, chunky belt. The jeans’ rolled cuffs displayed high-top black sneakers. Dozens of bracelets clicked on her narrow wrists, some leather, others metal.

Hanging up the phone, she caught him staring. Her return gaze was justifiably wary, given that he towered over her. Thanks for charging to the rescue. Her voice was low and pleasantly sexy.

You’re welcome, though you obviously didn’t need saving. I’m impressed. Ulf nodded at the bruiser, who groaned, stirring. He must outweigh you by seventy pounds.

Yeah, but he’s also drunk and stupid.

Dixon stirred and opened his eyes. Heeeyyyy, he slurred. Hey, wha’ happen’d?

He’s a football player for some college, which he evidently thinks should impress me. Told me what position, but I wasn’t paying attention. She extended a hand to Ulf. Cheryl Parker.

My head hurts, Dixon moaned.

Good. Ulf returned the shake, suppressing the urge to kiss her hand instead. Mortals didn’t do that anymore. Her palm felt small and warm in his. Paul Rogers, he said, giving the name on his false identification for this trip.

Ooow! My balls! What did you do to my balls?

You had it coming, Ulf told him, releasing her regretfully without looking away from those entrancing hazel eyes. And you’re lucky she got to you first.

Somebody call the amb’lance. I think I got a concussion. And my balls are swelling.

Ulf’s gaze fell on a paperback lying open facedown on the counter. Diverted, he lifted his brows. "The Return of the King?"

I love Tolkien. I was just thinking before I was so rudely interrupted -- she aimed a pretty sneer at Dixon --that Samwise is the real hero of the book.

Ulf had read The Lord of the Rings trilogy back in the 1950s, but he remembered it vividly. Well, he did keep Frodo in one piece. Since Ulf had the same kind of relationship with Arthur Pendragon, he’d always approved of Sam.

Exactly! Cheryl met his eyes and smiled. The bright joy of it pierced his cynical depression like a shaft of sunlight.

That was when Sir Baldulf, vampire Knight of the Round Table, started falling for the mortal girl who didn’t need saving.

Hey. Hey? Anybody got a bag of frozen peas?

Chapter One

Charlotte, NC, Present Day

Brandon Sanders was five years old. The odds were high he’d never see six.

Cheryl Parker stood at the foot of his hospital bed, watching the machines tracking his heartbeat, respiration, and blood oxygen. Eyelashes as thick and black as crow feathers stood out against his bloodless cheeks beneath the thick bandaging encircling his head. The tube of a ventilator distorted his mouth, the machine hissing as it breathed for him. She wondered whether his eyes were his mom’s soft brown or the blue-gray of his dad’s.

Jenny Sanders had said her son had played Hulk to his brother’s Iron Man all morning, running around the house, laughing and giggling. Until he’d raced out the front door into the yard, his brother hot on his heels…

Right into the path of his father’s practice tee shot. The golf ball slammed into Brandon’s temple in precisely the wrong spot, fracturing the thin bone and embedding fragments in his brain.

One frantic ambulance trip to Mecklenburg Memorial later, a neurosurgeon had removed a chunk of the boy’s skull to allow room for the swelling that would otherwise damage his brain. The doctor had tucked the square of bone beneath the skin of Brandon’s abdomen until it could be reattached once the danger was past. He’d cleaned out the skull fragments and closed, and the prayers had begun.

So far, they’d gone unanswered.

The ventricles of the child’s brain were filling with blood, a sign of encroaching brain death. More surgery was needed to repair the bleed, but it was too deep in the brain. Dr. Deepak Anand feared he couldn’t even get to the blood vessel without killing the child. Anand had spent all afternoon calling hospitals around the country, trying to find a neurosurgeon with the skill to risk operating. After one look at Brandon’s CT scans, they’d all turned him down.

The neurologist had scheduled a proof-of-life electroencephalogram for later tonight to see if Brandon was brain dead. If so, his parents would have to decide whether to take him off life support. Based on his declining vitals, nobody thought he had a prayer of passing the EEG.

Brandon had one chance, and one chance only. Cheryl.

She wasn’t a doctor, much less a neurosurgeon. Yes, she’d been a nurse for almost forty years, fifteen of them as a nursing supervisor. She’d treated thousands of sick and dying people, and she’d fought like hell for every one of them. Too often, there’d been nothing she could do. She’d been only human.

Cheryl wasn’t sure what she’d become last month, but only human no longer applied. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have to cast spells to make her twenties-looking face appear its true fifty-nine. Mirrors were still freaking her out. She’d glimpse herself and think, Who is that kid and what is she doing in my house?

So yeah, she had power. But this was brain damage that scared neurosurgeons who thought they were gods. Can I pull this off?

The answering silence in her head seemed to tick.

At last Gaia’s voice whispered through her mind like the sigh of leaves in a cold wind, inhuman and distant. If we do nothing, the Sight tells me his parents will be planning his funeral tomorrow.

Shit. She remembered the look on his father’s face. That stunned I’ve-killed-my-boy expression had made her worry Stephen Sanders would try to self-medicate with a bullet. Where would that leave his wife and eldest child?

Cheryl had never faced anything like this with her son Adam, but she could imagine how she’d feel. Paul would have been devastated…

Not Paul, she reminded herself. His name is Ulf. He lied about that like he lied about everything else. Despite the bitterness in that thought, there was longing in the next. Will he show up again tonight?

After twenty-eight years without a word, Ulf had dropped by half a dozen times in the last month. Probably making sure she hadn’t gone evil and started eating the neighbors.

Who the hell cares? she told herself impatiently. Healing this kid is what matters.

Besides, she’d violated her own code of magical ethics to create the opportunity. First she’d had to put a spell on Brandon’s parents to send them down to the cafeteria for dinner. Otherwise they wouldn’t have left for more