by Sharon Page
A strong wind whistled through the grove, seeming to underscore his demand.
Poised at yet another cusp of ecstasy, Alana shuddered, straining for the completion hovering just beyond her grasp. But Colin pulled out, leaving her bereft.
Easing his cock back into his pants, he rolled to his knees to peer through the leaves at the clearing below, a snarl twisting his lips.
Equal frustration boiled through Alana, leaving her breasts and sex swollen and aching. Need pooled heavy in her hungry core—so much need she wanted to scream. Or kill someone. One man in particular.
How dare Bryce interrupt them!
Rising to her rubbery knees, she wrapped her arms around Colin, pressing herself against his warm back. “Can we ignore him?”
“For a while perhaps.” Colin placed his hands on hers, chafing them gently. “The longer we can put off fighting him, the better for us. Problem is: he probably knows that, too. He’ll do something to force the issue.”
Below them, the earthworm stood dappled by bright moonlight gesturing at something out of sight. Something glinted on his left fist as he clenched it.
The earth shook, then twisted with a dull roar.
Alana gasped as the tree house tilted. She grabbed a branch with one hand and clung to Colin with the other. Using her wood magic, she willed the branch to support them, tapping the oak’s strength to augment her own. Leaves shook around them, slapping against bark and breeze, spiraling away when the tumult proved too much for their dry stems.
Colin reached up and found his own handholds, his feet braced on the balusters, taking his weight off her arm.
A tree screamed in silence—a phantom sound chill with evil portent. Then a loud creak filled the air.
Alana moaned at the sudden crash, the loud cracks of branches breaking like so much deadwood. Her heart shriveled as she realized what was happening.
“What is it?” Colin asked in a low tone, careful not to whisper so his voice wouldn’t carry far. The stark expression on Alana’s face made the hair on his nape stand on end, twisted his gut into snarls.
She looked so lost as she met his gaze, her cheeks ashen. “His simulacra. They’re killing the trees.”
His stomach dropped to his toes straining for purchase. He knew there was no way he’d be able to talk her out of revealing herself to save the trees.
And she’d be right. As soon as she showed herself, Alcott would stop attacking the trees—in favor of attacking her.
When another creak rented the leaves’ crisp rustle, she voiced the inevitable words: “I have to go down.”
Releasing his grip on one of the branches, he skimmed her tight jaw with his finger. “Not without me.” He glared at her to forestall any silliness on her part, such as assurances that he needn’t do anything more.
She gave him a searching look, radiating concern and worry, then nodded at him, her lips quivering with a wan smile. Her pretty breasts rose and fell as she inhaled deeply, the pearly slopes catching the moonlight.
Then the limb they clung to moved, twisting slowly until it could also support their feet. Once they were stable, they climbed down to the tree’s trunk—still high above the grove but a more secure position.
While they perched on the forking branches and Alana put her clothes to right, Colin assessed their opponent carefully, noting how the necromancer hung back, using his simulacra as a defensive screen yet never giving them his back. Though the full moon was low over the western horizon, screened by treetops, he could see enough.
Alcott was taller and thicker-set than he, outweighing him by several pounds. Despite his size, he looked ordinary, dressed in black jeans and a white dress shirt—nothing at all like the stereotypical necromancer beloved by dramas. Only his pallor hinted otherwise.
Despite appearances, Colin didn’t underestimate the other man’s capabilities. To have created and hidden his simulacra for at least five years—necromancers could make only one simulacrum in any Samhain—implied a great deal of cunning and guile, not merely native power.
In a magical battle, the other man also held most of the advantages: his simulacra and the time. Not only was it nighttime but Samhain Night. As an earth mage, Alcott might have enough power to command wandering spirits.
It didn’t help that Colin’s reserves were still fairly low, despite the charge he’d gotten from Alana’s orgasms.
There were only two points working for Colin. First was Alana, who’d proven she wouldn’t run from a fight. If they’d had more time, he might have taught her how to combine her wood magic with his fire magic. Unfortunately, recharging his reserves had had to come first. But if he hadn’t bungled the transformation of the brooch, its spell could offset that oversight.
Second was the hour: it was past midnight and less than a couple of hours until dawn. Alcott’s power was on the wane and would continue dropping. Assuming Colin could stretch out the fight, the balance of power would tip in his favor when the sun rose.
Alana tapped his shoulder, nodding her readiness, a grim set to her delicate features. She led the way down, touching the rough bark every so often, evidently using her magic to safeguard their descent.
At the edge of the clearing, Colin signaled her to wait, to give him time to locate all five simulacra. He wouldn’t put it past Alcott to try to set up an ambush.
At the far end, one of the garden’s giants lay on the ground, a dried-up trunk bereft of bark and leaves, its thick branches reduced to kindling, its roots torn from its moorings. The sight made him wince. It had to be much worse for Alana, who’d tended to many of the Pleasure Quarter’s gardens.
He quickly spotted the five abominations clustered around another tree, thankfully not one near him or Alana.
However, dozens of curious sprites ringed the clearing, their pale bodies lightening the shadows between the trees, their high-pitched chitter far too shrill for human ears, night-black eyes wide with excitement. Even they gave the simulacra wide berth.
Hopefully, they wouldn’t help Alcott.
But if he and Alana showed any weakness, the sprites might swarm them. For good or for ill.
Colin took a deep breath, mustering the slight reserves of extra energy his lover had supplied him. He could feel the power available through his fire element strengthening as sunrise approached, but the reinvigoration would take time they didn’t have. Once centered, he stepped into the moonlight, keeping a close watch on the simulacra.
“Stop it,” Alana ordered Alcott as soon as they entered the clearing. She fingered her necklace, her thumb rubbing the malachite pendant suspended between her breasts. “There’s nothing for you here. The brooch is gone.”
The necromancer bristled visibly, his lips curling in a sneer. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
That was one answer Colin hadn’t expected. He caught Alana by the elbow and drew her behind him.
“I know Sheridan’s a jeweler. Well, a decoy won’t work.”
Colin injected derision into his voice. “Use your magic. It’s the same stone.”
If he pricked Alcott’s vanity, the necromancer might lose his temper and, perhaps, some control. At the very least, it might make the other man less cautious … and maybe force a mistake? He could only hope.
In the middle of the clearing, Alcott waved an arm at his simulacra, which abandoned the tree they were killing. They closed around the necromancer like a retinue of bodyguards, albeit one that stank of swamp gas.
The bastard’s expression shut down with the familiar blank-ness of someone conducting a mental probe.
After a few heartbeats, a furious scowl spread across the necromancer’s face, contorting his broad, pallid features, his black eyes disappearing in narrow slits. “You whore!” he thundered in tones of outrage. He raised his large fists, obviously preparing to use his magic.
A holly, its spiny leaves unmistakable, sprang up from under Alcott, throwing him off his feet and slashing at the necromancer with its formidable defenses.<
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A whoop from Alana told Colin what had happened: she’d used her wood magic and discovered that Colin had succeeded in preserving the spell on her charm. He grinned at that victory, renewed optimism filling him with savage delight.
The necromancer had made a mistake in confronting them personally. By doing so, the other man had opened himself to direct assault. If he had remained hidden, he might have worn them down without risk to himself. His frustration at Alana’s escape must have driven him to handling matters personally. Did that mean his control over the simulacra was less than complete?
“Kill them!” Alcott shouted from where he sprawled on the ground, his arms flailing around his head in defense against the holly’s assault.
His creations obeyed with inhuman speed, their dark forms blurring in the moonlight, their passage raising a whistle of wind as they crossed the field.
Colin sent the merest flame at the closest simulacrum, trying to conserve his power. The extra energy he’d drawn from Alana’s pleasure wouldn’t last forever. He had to make every bit count.
Blue flames engulfed his target, the high heat wresting uncanny howls from the abomination, the soul inside it flinching from the life fire symbolized.
Innocent though that soul was, Colin refused to handicap his defense of Alana. If they failed here, the necromancer would do much worse.
The other simulacra froze in their tracks, evidently horrified by the flames. More plants shot up around them, vines and whatnot, slamming through animated earth.
The ground erupted around Alcott, clumps of soil flying through the air like shrapnel from an explosion. The blowout buried the holly under a pile of rocks.
Climbing to his feet, the necromancer gestured sharply at the simulacra in front of him, a familiar-looking black onyx ring gleaming on his left hand.
Colin stared, doubting his eyes. It wasn’t that he had seen the ring before; in fact, he didn’t think he’d ever had. But as an artisan, he recognized another craftsman’s style, and the ostentatious lines of Alcott’s piece were uncannily similar to Alana’s former brooch.
Could it be?
When Alana had said Alcott’s ring was from Adair Mac-Ardry’s hoard, he hadn’t realized that it was by the same craftsman. Which meant the ring might be a charm, one that amplified earth magic like the brooch worked with wood magic.
It made sense now. Alcott wasn’t after money—he wanted power. If the hoard contained more such charms, its magical potential was incalculable.
“Keep the simulacra off my back.” Colin could only hope Alana could handle them, could hold them off long enough for his gamble to work.
If Alana couldn’t, they were lost.
Channeling her magic through her pendant, Alana called on more holly to block the simulacra, steeling herself against the deaths that would ensue. If they didn’t stop Bryce, there would be even worse.
But what was Colin doing?
The prickly bushes grew quickly, reaching out to snag at unliving arms and bodies, screaming silently as life was drained from their branches, yet still coming on.
Colin extended his arms, his hands curved as if they bore an invisible bowl between them. Nothing seemed to happen for the longest time, except for a roiling of the air around his hands, like moonlight on water, barely visible to the eye.
Then Bryce swore, cupping a protective hand over a suddenly glowing band on his left ring finger. “Kill them!” he shouted at his creations.
She finally understood: Colin was attacking Bryce’s ring. But why? As soon as the question came to mind, the answer occurred to her: it had to be the source of the earthworm’s control of the simulacra.
But Colin was weakened, his reserves drained by reworking her brooch and the earlier fight. He couldn’t keep up his attack and fight off the simulacra at the same time. He might not even have enough energy to succeed in his assault.
Another wave of power sent more plants sprouting from the ground to block the simulacra, buying Alana time to think. She couldn’t help Colin directly, but she could boost his power.
Thrusting a hand under her skirt, she teased her clit to throbbing awareness, welcoming the heat pooling in her belly. With her other hand, she tore open her blouse to fondle her breasts, plucking and rolling her nipples the way Colin had during her lap dance earlier that night. Need seared her at the memory of his skill, the way he’d teased and tormented her with pleasure.
“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up,” Colin ordered her.
Baring her breasts to the night air, Alana pressed herself against him, stropping the tightly furled buds of her nipples against his suede-covered back, raising sparks of delight in the hard nubs.
“Bright Belanus,” Colin murmured prayerfully, his muscles flexing at their point of contact.
“Damn you both.” Shoulders bunching, Bryce glowered at them, his bushy brows knitting across his forehead, a muscle twitching by his square jaw. “You’ll die for this.”
Alana plunged her fingers into her sheath, panting as hunger spiraled through her core. Cream dripped down her thighs, hot and thick, perfuming the air with her desire.
On tiptoe, she whispered into Colin’s ear: “Defeat him, and you can have this.”
He chuckled. “What an incentive.” He raised clenched fists in front of him, his shoulders squaring, muscles bunching against her cheek. Light wreathed his hands, a pale glow barely visible in the moonlight.
His efforts seemed to have some effect—the simulacra had come to a halt, rocking in place as though caught between opposing forces.
Gesturing stiffly, the earthworm growled something Alana couldn’t make out, the ground around him breaking and shifting, clumping together in uneven, knee-high mounds. The drifts surged toward her and Colin in rising waves, threatening to knock their legs out from under them.
Colin slashed a hand toward Bryce, a line of fire leaping from his outthrust fingers.
Swearing, Bryce leaped away from the flare. His distraction allowed the ground to settle back.
But Colin’s riposte must have taken its toll in energy; the simulacra resumed their advance, gaining a few feet before once more coming to a standstill.
Colin needed more power!
Alana set on her flesh with a will, closing her eyes to block out all distraction. She rode her fingers, working her clit to nearly painful erection. Pleasure flashed through her, fleeting in sweetness, whetting her need for more.
She wanted Colin inside her, filling her with his virile length and plumbing her depths. She wanted his lips on her, exploring her willing body, marking her with prickling delight.
She gasped as an exquisite tingle of sensation played over her hypersensitive nerves, replete with excitement. Cream flowed over her fingers, trickled down her calves, fed the grass beneath her.
“Yes, that’s it,” Colin crooned. “Just a little more.”
Alana redoubled her efforts, coaxing her engorged clit to greater pleasure. She pumped her sheath, reaching for that one spot guaranteed to bring fruition to her handiwork.
“Yes!”
Wondering at Colin’s exclamation, she opened her eyes to look over his shoulder.
An orange glow surrounded Bryce’s left fist, centered on the gold ring. It pulsed rapidly—turning yellow, then white, then yellow, then back to orange—over and again in a hypnotic coruscation.
The earthworm shouted something, pain and fury mingling in his harsh bass.
The malevolence in his voice made Alana jump, her palm grinding on her mound, her fingers rasping over a nub of hard flesh. The tension in her core ratcheted upward, a sudden wave of need that had her nerves quivering with expectation, poised once more on the verge of ecstasy.
“Now,” Colin ground out, forceful determination informing that one word.
The glow around Bryce’s fist vanished, reappearing around Colin’s outstretched hands. Silence fell over the clearing, as if everyone—even the sprites and the night wind—was stunned by the shift in light.
The contrast made one sound seem louder than it was: the black onyx on Bryce’s ring shattered, the high crystalline ringing reverberating in the night.
Bryce shrieked.
The simulacra remained still for a few heartbeats. Then, slowly, as though bewildered or resisting habit, they turned to Bryce. They converged on him, ignoring his screamed commands, ponderous in their approach.
“No! I order you to obey me!” Clutching his left hand to his wide chest, Bryce flailed his other hand at the simulacra, gouging chunks of soil from his creations.
Growling with an undertone of fury, they continued their advance, moving faster and faster despite the necromancer’s attempts to hold them back. Too many for him to repel, they came at him from all sides.
In a final burst of speed, the simulacra overwhelmed Bryce, burying him beneath unliving earth. He disappeared from sight, his screamed imprecations abruptly silenced.
The ungainly mass heaved once, twice, as the deadly battle continued. Finally, it settled into quiescence.
A cool gust of night air dispelled the lingering swamp stench, leaving behind the familiar tang of verdant forest.
Alana turned away, reminded of how she had nearly lost Colin to a similar attack. Scenes flashed before her mind’s eye. The jeweler’s polite, businesslike demeanor in the previous months. The guilty fantasies she’d entertained about him. His newly discovered roguish playfulness. His fiery lovemaking.
His willingness to sacrifice himself for her escape. A man who had no ulterior motive in sharing her bed.
Her lips quirked involuntarily. Well, none except for the power her pleasure brought him. No one would fault him for that.
And she had almost lost him. Might still lose him when Samhain Night ended.
Alana took a deep breath to settle her roiling stomach, and a spicy summer scent filled her lungs, mixed with the smell of leather and male sweat. A masculine essence that reminded her of more basic things.
Her core clenched with hunger, its emptiness bordering on pain. Her sheath fluttered around her hand, forgotten in their sudden change in fortune. Hot cream trickled onto her palm as her swollen clit pulsed, her body demanding relief.