She forced herself to hold her ground although the heat coming off him quickly became uncomfortable, not to mention the squirm-worthy weight of his stare. Her phone vibrated in her pocket—no doubt Tom, her manager, calling again. There would be repercussions for what happened last night at Tanaka. The press would hound her. Her manager would expect a doctor’s explanation for what happened. But no human doctor could fix what ailed her.
Her voice hadn’t given out. Her magic had. And what was left of her witchy common sense told her she’d been targeted with black magic.
The lone customer approached and tossed a handbook about Wiccan altars onto the counter. “Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like that American pop star Clarissa?”
She cleared her throat and replied in her best cockney accent. “Ya think so, eh? I do wish I ’ad ’er bank account.” She added a few nasal laughs for good measure.
The man withdrew a phone from his pocket and snapped a selfie with her in the background. “You don’t mind, do you?” the man asked, although it was clear he didn’t care what her answer was. “Too good of a story to pass up.”
Clarissa frowned but held her tongue. If she told him she did mind, it would only be confessing to her true identity.
A curl of dark smoke rose from Nathaniel’s pipe. He mumbled the price to the patron, tugged the man’s credit card from his hand in a way that bordered on aggression, and ran it through the reader. Nathaniel dropped the book into a bag and handed it to the customer but did not let go. Instead, he took another puff from the pipe and blew a mouthful of dark smoke in the customer’s face.
Shadowy tendrils clouded around the stranger’s head, then twisted and slid inside his ears. His eyelashes fluttered. All the light bled from his expression until it was utterly blank. Clarissa might as well have been staring at a giant walking carrot for how much control the man had over his own mind.
“You came in, bought this book, and then you left,” Nathaniel said to the man, never breaking eye contact. He yanked the phone from the man’s hand and deleted the picture. “You never saw this woman and you will never mention her to anyone.”
“I never saw the woman,” the man parroted absently.
“Now leave. Enjoy your book.”
The man scurried off and out the door.
She was saved. He did care, at least enough to protect her from idle gossip. Maybe there was hope if she pulled the right strings. “Thank you, Nate. Now please, can we talk about this? There’s so much I need to say to you. I want to apologize—”
“Only so I will help you.” He rolled his eyes.
“I want to explain.”
“You want to give me an excuse.”
“Stop! Can’t you find it in your heart to listen?” She watched him slowly raise his pipe to his lips. Without her magic, if he blew a spell into her face, she’d act just as his last customer had, mind blank as she shuffled out the door, straight into certain ruin. She covered her nose and mouth with her hands and held her breath.
Lifting an eyebrow, he blew the smoke over his shoulder in a ring that quickly bent into a heart before it dissipated. That heart told her everything she needed to know. It was a sign of the magical entanglement he’d offered her and she’d refused. She hadn’t expected any of it to remain with him.
“Still?” she asked.
“I told you it was forever.” His voice was ominously soft, and her skin tingled at the memory of that tone under sweeter circumstances.
“But if you feel a connection to me even now, why aren’t you helping me? You must know how desperate I am.”
“And you must know that you left what was between us in ashes.” His lips bent into a scowl, and his pupils became black holes of rage. “I have asked you nicely, Clarissa, but now I am losing my patience. Do not make me use magic or physical force to remove you from this store. You will not enjoy either.”
She planted her palms on the counter between them, her fingers spread as if her hands could anchor her there. She’d pleaded. She’d begged. He was going to leave her with no other choice but to say the word she knew he could not refuse, not because of what he’d once shared with her but because the rule of magic would demand his cooperation.
He drew in smoke from his pipe.
“Sanctuary,” she blurted.
The smoke left his mouth in a deep purple rush. “What did you say?”
“I call on my fellow members of the secret Order of the Dragon to shelter me from my enemies. Sanctuary.”
“How dare you?” His voice hissed between his teeth. “You haven’t participated in the order in a decade.” On the counter, a set of talons sprouted from his first knuckles and pressed their razor-sharp tips into the glass countertop.
“But I am a member by blood oath, and I require sanctuary.” She lifted her chin, her spine ramrod straight. “Unless the code of the order has changed—”
“It hasn’t changed.”
Oh, how she wanted to run from his deadly visage. She’d cornered the beast, and if she wasn’t careful, he’d tear her apart liberating himself. Despite her internal fear, she forced her outward appearance to remain calm.
Rolling his neck, Nathaniel brushed the arms of his suit jacket as if they weren’t already meticulously cleaned and pressed, then leveled an indifferent stare at her. “Very well, Clarissa. You may go to Mistwood.”
She gulped. Mistwood, his Oxfordshire manor, was remote and protected by magic. It was the type of place where no one would find her, but also no one could hear her scream. She would be safe there, yes, but entirely at his mercy. She nodded.
“I offer you sanctuary in the name of the order,” he said through a wicked smile. “And I take in return what you have offered.”
“And that is?” She couldn’t keep the tremble from her voice.
He was around the counter in the blink of an eye, pressed against her back. He brought one talon to the side of her throat. Her heart pounded, and not completely out of fear. She’d never stopped wanting Nathaniel.
His hot breath brushed her cheek as he articulated his next word. “An-y-thing.”
Panting, she felt his nose brush her ear and his stubble graze the delicate skin of her cheek. Her knees almost gave out, but she forced herself to nod. What choice did she have?
He shoved her toward the exit. She snatched her sunglasses off the counter and backed out the door, a breath of relief rushing from her lungs as soon as it was closed between them.
Swallowing, she fished her phone from her purse and tapped Tom’s number while she jogged toward her car.
“Finally! Clarissa, you’d better have a good explanation for why you snuck past your security this morning. Everyone has been out of their minds looking for you. I came within an inch of getting the police involved. The Tanaka guys are livid. The press is going bananas over this. You need to come back to the hotel this instant.”
“Can’t.” She turned the corner and walked faster toward the place where her hired driver waited in an understated brown coupe, dressed in a sweatshirt and cap. No one would guess she’d choose a car like this or a driver who looked like he delivered pizzas in his off time. Hopefully it would keep the paparazzi off her trail.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Tom’s tone was irate.
“I’ve just come from the specialist.” She forced a cough and made her voice sound raspy. “Rare condition of the vocal cords. He can fix it, but I have to go to a treatment facility immediately. Total secrecy, and the treatment will take several days. I have to completely rest my voice after the procedure. No phone or visitors.”
“Who? Which doctor? Not Kline? Please tell me my future isn’t in the hands of that butcher.”
“Not Kline. I’ve got to go, Tom. I’ll be in touch when I’m cleared to speak again.”
“Bu—”
She hung up on him and turned off her phone. No one else would call. The side effect of being an orphan and a celebrity was that there was no one to check up on you. She had friends, but they
were the kind who expected her to call them. After all, she was frequently busy. If she could call anyone a best friend, she’d suppose it was Tom. He was certainly the one she spoke to the most. But he was her manager. Could someone who was paid to keep you happy technically be called a friend?
She climbed in the passenger side and turned to the driver. “Oxfordshire.”
He opened his mouth to protest at the distance and likely the time commitment. Mistwood was an hour and a half from here. He probably had other jobs lined up.
“I’ll pay you whatever you want,” she added and handed him a hundred pounds from her wallet in advance.
With a nod of his head, he turned his eyes to the road. Clarissa leaned back in her seat and prepared herself for whatever Nathaniel had in store for her.
Chapter Four
“Here. Stop. Please!” Clarissa shook the driver by the shoulder and the car jerked as he hit the brakes.
“What are ya playin’ at? Ain’t nothin’ round here as far as the eye can see.”
“I know. I’m… meeting someone.”
“All the way out here?” The spotty-faced man wrinkled his nose. “Wouldn’t ya rather I keep on to someplace…” He looked around at the wall-to-wall green out every window. “Well, someplace else?”
She popped open the door and grabbed her rolling bag from the trunk, then walked around to his window and handed him a wad of bills. “Thank you for your help. I have my phone fully charged should I need any help. Don’t you worry.” She held the device up for evidence and then backed away from the car.
He gave her a curt nod and slowly drove away.
Among the rolling, bucolic hills near Waterley’s Copse in Bicester, Clarissa stood at a crossroads facing north. How apropos that this was where she’d end up. Four directions. Four choices. And none of them led to her destination. Just as in life, she’d reached a point where no paved road would take her where she needed to go, no list of pros and cons would lead her to a decision that could solve this problem with her voice, a problem that would ruin her, would ruin all she had in the world if Nate couldn’t fix it.
With a firm grip on her bag, she moved to the center of the crossroads, closed her eyes, and spun thrice around to her right and once to her left. Once she stopped, she said in a loud, clear voice, “By the blood of the dragon, open.”
The rumbling clank of a portcullis rising vibrated against her skin, and she opened her eyes to find the crossroads gone. She stood at the base of a cobblestone drive leading to the house she hoped would be her salvation.
Mistwood Manor had been built in 1699 by an architect named Nicholas Hawksmoor who was a member of the first Order of the Dragon. To Clarissa, it would always remind her of Downton Abbey, although Mistwood, with its magical upkeep, had better weathered the ravages of time. Despite the castle-like feel of the magic that protected it, this was not a medieval fortress but a grand estate, a marvel of seventeenth-century architecture that always gave her a sense of airy lightness. She was safe here to be sure, and not because anyone would be shooting arrows from the roof but because the magic that saturated every inch of this property was the strongest she’d ever encountered as a witch. Not to mention it was usually guarded by the fiercest, most unforgiving dragon.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as memories of her old life at Mistwood came flooding back. The first time Nathaniel had brought her here, she couldn’t keep her mouth closed. By that time he’d revealed what he was to her, although she could scarcely believe it. He’d swept her off her feet, and the idea of going home with him had seemed so romantic, far better than another night in the cheapest hostel she could find. So she’d said yes and proceeded to be blown away by the history, the magic, the excitement she’d found behind the doors of the house on the hill. If only those things had been enough.
Hoofbeats pounded on the drive behind her, and the carriage that always brought guests to the manor arrived. Pulled by one of Nate’s prized sleek black Percherons, the carriage had no driver. The door opened for her of its own accord, and she climbed inside. The moment she was seated, the vehicle lurched forward and headed for the estate.
By the scene out the window, things at Mistwood hadn’t changed much since she’d left. The same brook traversed the property, bubbling over rocks worn smooth from its current. Off to her right, she could see the orchard, as green and lush as when she’d left. The walnut, apple, and fig trees bore their fruit year-round thanks to Nate’s magic, and she remembered the scent of the blossoms like the first time she’d walked its rows. She wondered if everything was the same in the orchard, but that was a question for another time. She could drive herself crazy thinking about it now.
The carriage passed a strip of packed dirt that carved through the rolling green, and she wondered if Nate still rode the trails every morning before breakfast. What was his horse’s name? Diablo. Was the stallion still alive? She supposed yes. How long did horses live?
They rounded the circular garden in front of the estate, and the carriage came to an abrupt halt. The door opened. When no help appeared, she grunted as she stepped down from her seat with the weight of her luggage trailing behind her. As she tripped forward and steadied herself on her bag, the scent of eucalyptus filled her nose.
“Tempest, I don’t expect you to help me, but you could say hello. It’s not as if we’ve never met before.” The oread was here. He was the source of the scent. But the mountain nymphs who cared for Nate and this estate, Tempest and Laurel, were notoriously shy and secretive. She’d lived here just over a year, and it had taken months for them to trust her enough to reveal themselves to her then.
“I’d prefer it this way, madam. You won’t be long in our care, and a professional distance seems appropriate.” The oread’s deep tenor had a tinny quality, and she pictured his polished marble skin, blond curls, and gossamer wings despite his invisibility. The cold shoulder didn’t surprise her. Oreads bonded to magical creatures like Nathanial with unparalleled loyalty.
She snorted. “For what it’s worth, it’s nice to, um, hear you. I’ve missed this place.”
A puff of air grazed her cheek and the heavy wooden door with its iron lion’s-head knocker swung open for her.
When Tempest’s voice came again, it was curt. “Your room is prepared. I assume you remember where it is.”
“Of course I do.” She stepped into the marble foyer, and the door closed behind her. Another draft fluttered her hair and he was gone, his herbal scent fading like a dying rose. He did not offer to carry her bag. “Okay then, I’ll just find my own way,” she called in his wake.
She popped the telescoping handle of her bag and strode toward the curving staircase, the rattle of the caster wheels echoing through the wide, empty foyer. The place looked like a museum, all cream marble and white and gold trim with a red runner that she followed like the yellow brick road up the majestic staircase.
Hoisting her bag, she climbed to the second floor, cursing her blasted stilettos the entire time, and rolled her way to the room where she’d stayed all those years ago. But when she opened the door, she wasn’t prepared for the emotions that flooded her heart.
Nothing had changed.
“Holy crap,” she whispered. It was exactly the same. Exactly. Down to the Rihanna pin she’d wedged into the side of her mirror. The place was like a shrine.
It was the first and only place that ever felt like home to her. She had no idea who her real parents were, but her adoptive parents were killed in a freak accident when she was five. She barely remembered them, but she’d been told a sinkhole had opened up and swallowed half her Florida home, taking her parents with it. Although her memory of that day consisted only of blurry, timeworn images, the social worker told her she’d been recovered while dangling her legs over the side of the hole.
After that she’d become a ward of the state and gone from foster home to foster home, and the accidents had followed. Every time a family sent her to her room, the pipes would burst a
nd flood the rest of the house. One time, when she was ten, a guardian had tried to paddle her for smoking his cigarettes. The curtains caught fire and soon the entire house was engulfed in flame. When she was sixteen, a wealthy host family had served her escargot. The snails had animated and climbed off her plate, sending Barb, her foster mom, into hysterics. She actually liked that family, although they seemed indifferent when she moved out a year and a half later.
College wasn’t in her future, but she’d always had a talent for music, so she’d earned enough money singing on street corners and in the subway terminal to get by until the summer of her twentieth year when she’d saved enough to come to London. She’d longed to visit Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and follow their musical journey. She’d run out of cash in days and was singing for her supper in the tubes of London when Nathaniel found her.
She remembered it like it was yesterday. The song by Norah Jones that was her go-to when she was desperate for tips. Clarissa’s version of “Come Away with Me” always held a certain power, but that day the sound had become a palpable thing in the underground. The crowd exiting the trains had stopped to listen. That’s when he’d strolled up to her. She noticed him right away. Everyone noticed him. All that dark energy moving toward her, framed by white subway tiles. She was never the same.
“He refuses to let me change anything.” A silvery voice rang behind her. She whirled to find the delicate, pale features of Laurel, Tempest’s mate and the other oread who cared for the house. Her gossamer wings swayed gently behind her. “The master hasn’t been the same since you left.”
“Laurel, it’s so good to see you!” She opened her arms to hug the nymph, but her arms met cool air. The oread had disappeared. She sighed. So truly she had no allies here.
“You must excuse me, Clarissa.” Laurel’s voice came as if from a distance. “The room may be the same, but nothing else is. You’re a ghost here now. We’ve grieved you, you understand. And I’m told your visit won’t be a long one.”
“He told you that?” She frowned. Although it was true she didn’t plan to stay any longer than it took for him to fix her, it was a bad sign that Nathaniel was counting the days until her departure. She had two weeks at most. If her voice hadn’t recovered by then, she might as well return to America and look into business school because her career as a pop star would effectively be over.
The Dragon of Cecil Court (The Treasure of Paragon Book 5) Page 3