Master of Honor (Merlin's Legacy #5) - Angela Knight

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