Hot Blooded

childhood." Then she deliberately
flicked the beam directly into his face and looked at Mrs. Lacey, who blinked at
them both in bewilderment.
    The old woman's eyes widened. Grace knew to the second when she recognized
him. Astonishment filled the faded eyes, then delight—then a heart-wrenching
shame at her surroundings. "Lord Lancelot!" Grace had to grab her arm as she
attempted a tottering curtsy. "I didn't know you were comin'!"
    "This is Mrs. Ruth Ann Lacey." Grace aimed a tight, polite smile into Lance's
startled eyes as she supported the woman's bird-frail body. "She's Galahad's
child—and your granddaughter."
    Â 
    TO his credit, Lance didn't cavil at what needed to be done. As soon as Grace
explained the old woman's circumstances—the lack of food and utilities, her poor
physical health—he pulled what looked like a cell phone out of the pocket of his
overcoat and pushed a button.
    That the device was much more than a phone became instantly obvious when an
elegant, well-lit hole opened in the middle of Mrs. Lacey's shabby living room.
    Framed within the opening, a slim woman in ice-blue silk looked up from a
massive ebony desk and the thick book open on its surface. She frowned, brows
pulling low as she pushed the dark hair back from her face. She looked no more
than thirty. "Lance, is that you? Where are you, anyway? Who is that woman?"
    He placed a big hand on Mrs. Lacey's shoulder. She gazed up at him,
trembling, dazzled, tears sliding in a slow, constant stream down her cheeks.
"I'm requesting transport for myself and one of my Line to the Elysium
Sanctuary."
    "What about my granddaughter?" the woman demanded. "Where is she?"
    Grace stepped into the phone's pickup range. "Right here, Morgana." She bared
her teeth. "And I'm still not interested in anything you have to offer." She
turned the snarl on Lancelot. "Either of you."
    And if that last sentence was a lie, she intended to make damn sure he never
found out differently.

----
Chapter 2
    Â« ^ »
    THE witch wasn't happy about expending so much magic, but she transported
Lance, his granddaughter and the Jag to Sanctuary, the elder-care center in
Brentwood, California. The High Court had established the sprawling stucco
facility for those who were refused the Gift, and it looked more like an upscale
hotel than a nursing home. Sanctuary's large nursing staff included one
undercover Maja whose healing spells ensured the residents stayed healthy and
active until their aging bodies simply gave out. Ruth Ann would finally get the
care she needed.
    Lance got her settled and filled out all the required paperwork, then
notified Galahad of his daughter's arrival, adding a steely suggestion that he
pay her a visit. His son agreed, startled that fifty years had passed since he'd
sponsored the girl at her failed debut.
    No one at the High Court had a particularly good grasp of the passage of
time.
    Knowing Morgana expected a progress report, Lance drove home to Camelot
Courts. In contrast to Sanctuary, the subdivision they all called home was
pointedly middle-class, filled with cookie-cutter ranches and split-levels as
bland and colorless as only American suburbia could be. Ordinarily, none of the
Magekind would have been caught dead in one of those houses, but a more opulent
display would have attracted mortal attention nobody wanted. Besides, no one
actually lived there anyway. They weren't really homes.
    They were doorways.
    Lance drove to his own nondescript little bungalow and parked in its enclosed
garage, over the spell-generator set in the cement floor he would use to return
to South Carolina. Too bad there were no generators in Tayanita County; he'd
have to beg the witch's help again to get back home. And owing Morgana for
anything was not a good idea.
    As it was, he needed a drink before their meeting. Going hungry to any
confrontation with the Liege of the Majae's Council was very bad strategy.
    The garage doors slid closed behind him as the house sensed his presence and
unlocked with a soft click. He stepped inside and walked through the kitchen,
ignoring the dishes that had occupied the sink for the past twenty years. Like
everything else in the house, they were props, designed to make burglarizing
mortals think the residents had just stepped out the door.
    Positioning his feet precisely over a pattern of blue tiles inset in the
floor, Lance murmured, "Lords' Club." The generator