To Kiss A Kringle (Southern Sanctuary Book 13)

by Jane Cousins

  “Oh, I doubt that. But still, impressive, well done. But you are a one-trick pony, aren’t you? Fireballs? Haven’t you ever tried mixing it up a little? A wall of flame? Knives made of pure fire?”

  “Why fix what isn’t broken?” Dotty lifted her hand higher, the blue flame casting strange flickering shadows across her face and making her eyes glitter, reflecting eerie blue lights.

  Patricia had plenty of time to bring up a thick wall of sound as Dotty hauled back her hand and threw the fireball at her chest. It hit the invisible shield, splaying fire across it, leaving a momentary stain across Patricia’s retinas before it blinked out of existence. Huh, if Dotty had been under Elijah’s command, the Head of the Southern Sanctuary Enforcers, then she would have learnt to exploit that. Blind her enemies. Move positions and come at them from several different positions.

  But Dotty Hulme was no Enforcer. Standing perfectly still, issuing a low growl, part frustration and part determination, another fireball instantly appeared in her hand. Twice the size of the last one, a pure fiery blue ball. Launched, it followed the same trajectory as the last ball, with the same results. Then a third, and a fourth followed.

  Patricia maintained the thick wall of sound as a shield easily. She’d learnt a long time ago the best approach to getting the most out of her magic was to maintain one shield, less draining on her power reserves that way.

  Dotty Hulme was breathing hard, her large bosom heaving at the exertion of hurling four, no, make that five, six, seven, watermelon sized fireballs at Patricia. All on the same trajectory.

  “I’m guessing you haven’t heard the quote most people attribute to Einstein concerning insanity? The one about repeating the same action over and over again and expecting a different result? Now, I’m not accusing you of being insane… no, wait, maybe I should. You thought it was okay to kill over a hundred children. Just so you could break the Karma three fold retribution rule, with the intent of wiping out a group of people who dedicate their lives and those of their descendants to protecting the people, and the sovereign soil of Britain.”

  “Merlin’s puppets.” Dotty reached up, wiping sweat from her forehead, her cheeks bright pink. “What a useless lot. Look at history. Natural disasters. Plague. Wars. Mad Kings. Bitter Queens. Devious Prime Ministers. Acts of terrorism.”

  “You sound like a child, railing against an unfair God. Archers are a small group of people. They have made sacrifice after sacrifice. Do you think they could have stopped the Great Fire of 1666? If anyone could have, it would have been one of your elemental relatives. Where were they, huh? As for all the mad and bad rulers? What were the alternatives at the time? Anarchy? Potential Civil War? Which would have meant hundreds of thousands dead.”

  “Why won’t you stop talking?” Dotty gritted out, producing yet another fireball and hurling it at Patricia only to watch it splash against the invisible shield and blink out of existence.

  “It’s a good question. I think I might be putting off the inevitable. You don’t have to die here, Dotty. You can surrender to me. You’ll spend the rest of your life incarcerated but I can promise to keep you safe, keep Verona away from you.” Patricia was pretty sure she would be able to deliver on that promise, since the look in Cullen’s eyes had clearly telegraphed that he had no intention of allowing the coven leader to live.

  Dotty’s eyes flared with triumph. Her small mouth lifting into a grin. “Squeamish, eh? Don’t have the stomach for it?” The Headmistress took two steps forward, hurling four quick fireballs futilely at Patricia.

  “Seriously? Still with the fireballs? No, I’m not squeamish. But those of us who protect the Southern Sanctuary do believe in giving our enemies options. We are not just mindless, insensitive killers. Unlike your not so good self it seems.”

  “Shut up!” Another fireball splashed against Patricia’s shield to punctuate Dotty’s words.

  “You’re right. The time for talking is over.” Patricia dropped her shield, humming under her breath, sending a thin laser beam of disruptive sound at the lion’s head off to Dotty’s side. The faux animal’s jaw dropped instantly and a blast of orange flame roared forth for three seconds.

  Dotty Hulme laughed, catching that stream of flame with her right hand. Allowing it to wind up and around her arm, rather like a living snake. It lasted for a few dramatic seconds before it flamed out. She was a fire witch after all. Still, it had been an impressive display of control. “Was that your big move, dear? I’m afraid you are a little out of your depth.”

  Patricia didn’t bother to response. Dotty was right, the time for talking was over. She had fished for useful intel, an unfortunately been unsuccessful. And she’d done the mature thing and offered Dotty Hulme the opportunity to atone for her sins. But the woman had been clear about her preferences. She’d rather die than submit. So die she would, by Patricia’s hand.

  This time Patricia issued four, too low for the human ear to hear, whip thin beams of sound one after the other in quick succession. Shearing off the jaws of four animal heads that were nearest to Dotty’s position. Streams of fire shot from the broken mouths of a lioness, a seemingly innocent looking gazelle, a warthog and a black-eyed wild dog. The fire came from four different directions. Right. Left. Low. High. And for a brief second there was sheer joy in Dotty Hulme’s eyes as she pulled the flames to her, allowing them to engulf her.

  The fire wrapped around Dotty Hulme’s body like a lover. She encouraged it, pulling on the flames hard. She would become fire, and then she would wrap her hands around this bitch’s neck and burn her from the inside out. Shoving fire down her throat.

  Let’s see her fancy shield try and block that. Dotty took a step forward, knocking her knee hard against some invisible obstacle. Ouch. She glared down through the flames but couldn’t see anything in her way. She tried to move her other leg with the same result. What the hell?

  Something was wrong. Really wrong. Not just because she couldn’t move either forward or back. But her lower legs, her thighs… they hurt… they burned. How was that possible? Dotty splayed her hands, signalling the fire wrapping around her lower body to dispel, but nothing happened. She tried again as the heat intensified and the pain flared higher. Her trousers had gone from smouldering to the flames actively eating them away and beginning to nibble at her flesh underneath. No. No!

  This couldn’t be happening.

  The flames wrapping around her upper body suddenly hugged her too tight. Like a living boa constrictor, encasing her waist, chest and upper arms. Squeezing. Hurting her. Burning her clothes, her flesh, just like her lower body. Her face was too hot and she could smell her hair, singed and visibly crumbling away. The pain was all encompassing.

  Desperately Dotty waved her hands, the only part of her body not currently engulfed by flames. She could see, through the flames licking up her chest, that her hands were waving in the air, but it was like they were disconnected from her body. No. She frantically waved them harder, reaching futilely for control of the flames. Nothing.

  She wanted to scream in frustration but instead found her mouth opening and a howl of sheer pain emerging. The last shreds of her clothing was gone, ash. Her skin blistered, bubbling. And the blood in her veins so hot, boiling. She stopped screaming but only because her throat was suddenly full of flames. Futilely she tried to move, but again was bounced back by an invisible barrier.

  Patricia watched, a little sickened, as Dotty Hulme stopped fighting, her body too overwhelmed. Her movements were still jerky but that was her body’s natural reaction as muscles burnt away and her body quickly, thankfully very quickly, collapsed in on itself. A pile of super hot remains. Patricia dropped the two sound shields she’d wrapped around the woman’s hands. Letting the super hot flames eat those as well.

  Thank Goddess for the thick, fireproof marble floor and the ridiculously high ceiling.

  Phew, and finally, within seconds, when there was nothing but a small pile of ash, Patricia dropped all the remaining shield
s she’d used to keep Dotty locked in place, cutting her off from her magic. She just hoped no one opened a nearby door or window, or they’d be chasing Dotty Hulme’s ash for days.

  Slumping to the floor, a little dizzy, Patricia took slow, deep breaths. It had been a risk. Creating five shields simultaneously like that, to enclose each of Dotty’s hands, her legs and her torso.

  She had known it would burn through all of her magic reserves. But it had been a calculated risk.

  She’d spent time watching Dotty use her power, and she always led with her hands. Produced, captured and controlled fire with her hands. So when Dotty had soaked in all that fire for a big showy hug, so predictable, it seemed the perfect time to create several different sound wave shields that would compartmentalise Dotty and cut off all access to her hands.

  Hubris. It had been Dotty’s downfall. Equating might with right. But the woman had never bothered to challenge herself or her magic. As a fire elemental, Dotty should have been able to control fire with a mere thought. But she’d become so dependent upon using her hands to produce and guide fire, she had actually believed it was her only means of control.

  Perhaps that Karma rule hadn’t been completely negated after all. The fire elemental witch was nothing but a pile of ash. Gwynne, the stone elemental had sunk like one when she hit the water. Mara, the lightning witch was contained. And Verona… hmmm, she was guessing Verona’s ghost was kicking herself right about now for not doing more thorough research regarding what an Archer was capable of.

  Verona thought she knew her enemy, she couldn’t have been more deluded. If Cullen were a Prime example, then Archers were like a still, calm pool of water. Woe betide anyone who threw a rock in to disturb the dark, black reflective surface. They would find monsters dwelled in depths they couldn’t fathom.

  Even knowing Cullen’s capabilities it was still a relief to watch him emerge silently out of the shadows. Other than the injuries he’d already incurred from the falling chandelier she couldn’t see any new damage. Thank the Goddess.

  Getting to her feet Patricia couldn’t stop the pleased smile that lifted the edges of her lips at the sight of him. He likewise was smiling, his green eyed gaze running over her from head to toe, assessing her current status of well being. His smile broadening even further as he noted that she was fine.

  Grrr, that grin was bordering on the almost smug, and all Patricia’s irritation with the man came roaring back. Him and all his plotting and strategy. He couldn’t let her plan run and and see how things turned out. No, he had to be the conductor and control those around him like they were his orchestra.

  “Dotty Hulme?” Cullen eyed the pile of black ash. He was doing his best to play it cool. The sheer relief that Trix was okay was almost overwhelming. And as per normal her very presence threatened to disrupt all his instincts, all his senses. Thank the Mists, he was beginning to like that feeling.

  “Yes. What’s left of her. Do you have a dustpan somewhere?”

  “I’m sure I can dig one up.”

  “And Verona?” Patricia absently brushed off her black velvet jeans.

  “No longer a problem.”

  “Good, so that’s it then. Except for interrogating Mara, and finding out where Elena… Conchetta, whatever name she is going by now, is. And handing that information over to Elijah like you promised.”

  Cullen took a few steps closer to Trix, this was the perfect moment to tell her how he felt. She’d reciprocate and they’d start planning the future… together. “I-”

  “You don’t need to tell me.” Patricia knew him so well now, that look, he had something momentous to say and she knew exactly what it would be. He intended to return to the UK and resume his Archer duties. She wasn’t surprised. No doubt their adventures over the last few weeks had re-ignited his passion for resuming the Archer mantle once more. She had predicted this would happen.

  Cullen wasn’t surprised at Trix’s interruption. They were on the same wave length both physically and cerebrally. Part of him was relieved she’d stopped him. Saying those three little words? It was momentous. Love? It didn’t come along often enough in a person’s life, and certainly not when you were an Archer and had so many unique… quirks.

  However, the primitive instinctive part of him hadn’t appreciated the interruption. Trix was his. He knew it. But the world needed to know it. He needed to say those words. And put a ring on it so his damned predator instincts would chill the hell out. “No, I think it needs to be said. I-”

  Honestly, the man was a broken record. He was leaving, no need to harp on it. “Cullen. Please. It goes without saying that I’ll help.”

  “Help?”

  “With your transition. Of course you’ll want to leave immediately. Don’t worry about the Annexe, I have plenty of staff who can man it. The High Council might even be willing to take the property off your hands. It is a gorgeous building.”

  “Hold on. Just where do you think I’m going?”

  “Here. Returning home, where you belong. Resuming the mantle of Archer.”

  Cullen’s magic flared, trying to work out exactly where in his pursuit of Trix he had mis-stepped. He fought not to wince as the data flowed thick and fast. Their past encounters. Their conversations. Body language. Heart and breathing rates. And well… he was coming up blank.

  Trix wasn’t on the same page as him? She was still trying to oust him from the Annexe and the Southern Sanctuary?

  Damn, he’d forgotten Great-Uncle Martin’s first rule. Women are a mystery. Never forget that. Of course he’d been four years of age when he first heard the rule. It was only now that he was beginning to believe that half blind, always drunk Martin, might have been one of his wisest relatives.

  He could only cling to the idea that Trix would never have slept with him unless she had some connection to him. Some feelings. He just needed to pinpoint those, and exploit them to his own advantage.

  He could do this. He was an Archer. He could manoeuvre Patricia Bennett into admitting she had feelings for him. With that in mind he closed the distance between them. Searching frantically for the right course, the right approach, the right words. Ah, yes. He had it all locked and loaded. Target confirmed. He had this.

  So it was a complete an utter surprise to Cullen when Patricia hauled back and slugged him with an award winning upper cut. His head snapped back, he felt himself falling and then everything went blank.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cullen eyed the fourteen rolls of bubble wrap, fifty large empty packing boxes and the family sized packet of sticky tape that currently fought for space on his veranda. The delivery had been waiting for him when he’d arrived home from Wales three days ago.

  Trix certainly hadn’t let the grass grow under her feet. She must have raced home, dialling the moving company number even as she exited the Transportal.

  Absently he rubbed his sore jaw. The bruise had faded to a sickly yellow but the spot was still tender to the touch. He knew why Trix had slugged him. That he got.

  He’d commandeered her plan. Made himself a target. Played the witches off against one another. Set up the end game so that Patricia would have no choice but to stay out of the line of literal fire. Nice and safe under her sound shield. He hadn’t been hogging the kills. Trix knew that.

  No, she’d slugged him because in her eyes he’d been an overprotective jerk, trying to sideline her.

  By the Mists. He knew she was capable. But his instincts to protect her had kicked in. He’d manoeuvred her under that shield, where she had been supposed to stay. Of course he should have factored in her determination and strength of will. He’d known it was a losing battle to try and get her to stay there.

  Despite that knowledge, watching Headmistress Hulme lumber off in pursuit of Trix had still caused his blood pressure to rise by two point four percent.

  He rubbed the bruise again, wondering if Trix was over her anger yet.

  Hopefully she’d vented her more extreme emotions be
tween the sucker punch, and the time and effort she had been forced to spend beating the door of the Transportal in Wales back into useable shape. Though he doubted the three hundred year old antique battle axe Patricia had yanked off the wall would ever be the same.

  Yeah, he got the punch. But he didn’t get all the packing equipment. He had presumed that between their adventures together, the sex… and the emotional connection they had forged, that she’d be over trying to oust him from the Southern Sanctuary.

  It was beyond frustrating. Everywhere he went in Haven Bay over the last three days the locals insisted upon bidding him farewell, despite his protests. And, in the case of way too many elderly ladies, kissing him goodbye. Whilst the members of the Krell Campaign Re-enactors had sent him a dozen very good bottles of whiskey, along with a note requesting he re-think his decision to leave.

  And no matter how many messages he left the moving company, they had yet to turn up and remove the unnecessary items. And most annoying of all, Patricia Bennett was once more ducking his calls and visits. It was like they’d never been intimate.

  She was cutting him loose and effectively kicking him out.

  He wasn’t considering leaving, not without fighting for Trix, for them. But the leaden feeling in his gut, that just wouldn’t go away. He’d tried to shy away from reality, but he’d been taught from the cradle to be brutally honest. His heart was feeling a little tender at the moment. A first for him.

  He knew, at a bone deep level, that Trix Bennett was the woman for him. But what if… what if he wasn’t the man for her?

  He wasn’t enjoying this strange, alien, quagmire of emotions plaguing him. He wasn’t used to failing when he locked on a target. How could his plan to win Patricia Bennett, mind and body, have gone so far off the rails?

  He wasn’t used to making mistakes, but somewhere along the way… somewhere.

  Perhaps these past few weeks, all the time they’d spent together, had meant nothing to her. The kisses, the heated exchanges, the sex. What if it had just been a way for her to pass the time, as she plotted and planned to get him to give up the Library Annexe and leave the Southern Sanctuary?