for the love of magic
Copyright © 2015, 2017 Natalie Gibson
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Published by Windswept
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2017945129
Print edition ISBN numbers:
ISBN-13: 978-1-946848-48-2
ISBN-10: 1-946848-48-4
Visit the publisher at:
www.bhcpress.com
Also available in trade softcover
Edited by Alice Martin
Cover Model: Sanja Balan
Photography: photos287
THE CARRIER TRILOGY
Hateful Burden
Wretched Blood
THE WITCHBOUND SAGA
The Dying Art of Magic
MULTI-AUTHOR COLLECTIONS
In Creeps the Night
A Winter's Romance
To my Eric,
I realize that it’s not every man’s dream, having a romance novel dedicated to them, but this one is for you. You are the only one who knows how much work went into it and therefore you can get the most honor out of having the silly thing dedicated to you. Without your encouragement this book wouldn’t be. Thank you for the hours of coffee-fueled conversations about Capacitors. My best ideas came from those times. Thank you for reading the first horrible draft, the first total rewrite, this final one, and every one in between.
Thank you for recognizing that it should read “hem” and not “helm” when spell check missed it and a thousand other words just like it. Thank you for taking lead with the kid all those Saturdays when I wanted to write instead of parent. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I fell into your lap at that exact moment twelve years ago. I love you, all of it, and the squeezins’ too.
To my grandma, who will never get to read this, but would have liked it. You gave me more than my name. Your free-spirited independence is the basis for every heroine I think up. Your admission, “I read dirty books sometimes, sweetheart,” gave me the courage to write my own.
The mangled bodies of his coven littered the grassy blood-soaked pentacle carved out of sod. After they had served their purpose, the sorcerer made offerings of their deaths and turned his eyes toward the final goal. The Daughters of Women, disgusting sex witches, were the ones that the old gods thirsted for. Their lives tasted most sweet to the palate of ancients. Their blood would weaken the veil and allow the shining gods to step through into this world. The Shinar would not be denied.
The striking harvest gold of the setting sun contrasted deeply with the purple reflected on the clouds and told him it was time to get home. It would be night soon and he would visit her. Sharing his most recent kills would bring her the pain he so longed to see. The grimoire tucked safely in his messenger bag would reveal the way.
MAEVE LOVEJOY ran across the courtyard, toward the sanctuary, hoping her love of reading under the old oak had not made her late again. Keeping the Council representative waiting was not a good idea. When Margaux, who served as the Voice of the Council of Esteemed Elders, did leave their secret location, she had many stops to make. This was not the only coven she was liaison for.
Maeve blew into the sanctuary, dodging statues and hurdling a python. She called out, “Alisha, Monty is back out of her cage again!” As soon as Maeve entered the main hall of the sanctuary, she knew she was late. The Voice of the Council’s Guardian stood at the door of Nathalia’s office. His monk-like robes covered everything but his toes, which poked out from under the hem.
Maeve easily recognized him but wondered why she had such a hard time remembering any details about him when he wasn’t standing right in front of her. She could never describe what he looked like to the other sisters, just that he was big and dazzlingly handsome.
He bowed deeply as she approached his post. He did not avert his eyes as normal, but locked his gaze on her face. Maeve startled. His eyes were…rainbow colored, filled with multicolored facets, like a jewel-cut crystal. She stood mesmerized for a moment and then recovered enough to give him a genuine grin.
He smiled back as he straightened up to his astonishing height. Over seven feet tall, he dwarfed her five feet and three inches.
“Well wishes for tonight’s ceremony,” he said breaking protocol to speak to her. His accent was thick, but not French like Margaux’s. Maeve had never heard anything like it, bizarre yet pleasant, like music made from street noise. She wondered if later she would be able to remember its unearthly quality or if that, like his image, would somehow be blurred in her memory.
He took her hand and turned it over. She fought the urge to jerk it back; his touch always gave her such a shock. He kissed her inner wrist. Her pulse jumped at the surge of power. She knew her next few spells would be stronger.
Her senses came back to her when he released her hand. He bowed again as he spoke, “Every match you make for a sister is one chance closer we are to Her. I thank you for your sacrifices.”
Ah, yes the prophecy. The Council was all about fulfilling the prophecy and everyone was convinced that she was the sister to do it. She knew what came next, though normally it came from Margaux’s mouth:
The grandson of heaven, daughter of man,
their marriage bring Her to forsaken Earth.
A mate for him that is from demise ban,
her role foretold so long before her birth.
Maeve knew her lines well and gave him what he expected, “May the next match be the one that brings Her to this world.”
She knocked on the door and heard him mutter under his breath as she entered Nathalia’s office. “Let it be so, for it is questionable how much longer I can endure without Her.”
MARGAUX, THE Voice of the Council, was blind. She had, many years ago, torn her eyes out. Or at least that was the rumor. All representatives of the Council had made some terrible sacrifice. It was not required, but the Council always rewarded great sacrifice with membership. It assured commitment to the cause.
The French woman walked slowly, enjoying the warm sun on her skin as Abbess Nathalia Lovejoy led her back to the waiting car. The reflection on her dark glasses concealed her mutilated eyes.
To Nathalia their meeting had been ordinary, with tidings from the Council and a request for an assessment of this chapter. Maeve had come and received a blessing, issued by Margaux on their behalf, and a request for her next match. The Council did not assign matches. As a Vinculum Primo, Maeve had control, but the Council did make suggestions if one of the Family was in need. This time they thought the proper branch of the Family tree had been found and the timing was right for Her birth.
The Matchmaker had seemed unnerved or distracted. Margaux also acted peculiar, as if hesitant to leave, but the cultural difference made it hard for Nathalia to interpret her behavior. This walk gave Margaux opportunity to unburden herself.
Nathalia looked over her shoulder at Margaux’s Guardian. He had stopped to talk to two little girls playing in the courtyard. He picked a few flowers from a patch of grass that had none just a moment ago. With his attention completely off them, Margaux grabbed Nathalia and pulled her close to whisper, “I dream of death, Abbess.”
Nathalia wondered how the sightless Margaux would know when his attention was averted
. She heard the little girls giggling behind her and she turned to look, her first concern always with the safety of her coven members. The Guardian now sat cross-legged on the ground, his cloak spread out behind him, exposing his bare feet. He braided the girls’ hair, both of them at the same time.
Margaux held out a rolled scrap of paper. “I believe that my vision was of your...demise. It ‘as been seen. I am sorry, Nathalia.”
Nathalia was shocked. She had been told, when she accepted her position as Abbess that a great sacrifice would be required. She did not think it would be this. She certainly hadn’t thought it would be so soon. “Is there something we can do? Can I stop this from happening?”
“The path not traveled does not exist. Choice is illusion.”
Nathalia wasn’t ready to die; she wouldn’t die. There had to be another way. Her thirtieth birthday was still several months away. Even after being Abbess for a number of years, Nathalia was still the youngest to hold the position. The Council had their reasons for choosing her.
“I thought you would appreciate knowing,” said Margaux. “I wanted to give you time to prepare. Was I wrong to warn you?”
“No, you were right to tell me.” Nathalia glanced back at the Guardian and the girls. They made him a wreath from the flowers they had picked. “Do you know how long I have before...?”
Margaux shook her head and said, “Not long.” Normally her visions were for the far future, but with Nathalia, they were different. They were more immediate, like her future was blocked until the events were set into motion.
Margaux hugged the stunned Abbess. “I thank you,” Margaux whispered. Margaux had faced a terrible challenge long ago, but the forfeit was not her life but her eyes. “Your sisters will thank you.”
Nathalia flinched when the Guardian appeared at Margaux’s elbow. Without a word he led the Voice away and helped her into the car. She rolled down the window and gave Nathalia one last bit of information. “It will involve the one you love most of this world. We will be in danger of losing her.”
The car drove down the long driveway, leaving Nathalia standing alone with the promise of her own demise. It would involve the one she loved most. That could only be one person—Maeve.
“GO AHEAD, girls, tell the Abbess what he said about your braids,” Alisha pressed.
Nathalia had been pacing in her study when Peregrinus Primo, Alisha Lovejoy, brought in her two wards. Only one was Alisha’s biological daughter, but Nathalia could never remember which one was which.
Gwyneth, braver than Lillian, spoke first. “He said they had magic in ‘em and would make us run super fast.”
Not to be overshadowed, Lillian piped up, “And they work too! We just beat Billy in a race and he’s all growed up.”
The two seven-year-olds stood there in front of the Abbess, looking very proud and confident. Nathalia smiled. These two were destined for greatness. “Well, we better take a look at these magic braids.”
Nathalia opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a small digital camera. The young ones turned so that she could get a good view of their hair. Nathalia snapped a shot and then got down on her knees and really looked at the elaborate knotted braids. She had never seen anything like these. Surely a man of so few words would not have told the girls a lie. What would be the point? She was sure she had never heard him speak before. What else had he told the girls? She asked, “Did the Guardian say anything else to you? Did he tell you his name?”
Gwyneth opened her mouth, “Aaa…” Both girls went still and pursed their lips together, their brows furrowed in concentration. They looked at each other and started laughing.
“The Abbess asked you a question and it’s not polite to keep secrets from her,” Alisha chastised them gently.
Both girls jumped and blurted out, “We can’t remember!” and started giggling again.
Gwyneth must have been Alisha’s, because she pinched her neck and looked a little ashamed by their behavior with her Abbess. Lilith, eyes locked on Alisha’s pinching fingers, said, “He told us we would forget his name if anybody asked us what it was. And that’s what happened!”
Nathalia thanked the girls for sharing with her and dismissed them all to get back to playing. Retrieving her copy of Sumerian mythology from the shelf behind her desk, Nathalia investigated a hunch. She flipped through the pages until she found the Sacred Mes poem. It described how Inanna, a clever, resourceful female, tricked a god into giving her the Mes, the keys to civilization, behavior, religion, technology and more. One of the lyrics of the Sacred Mes poem said, He gave me the loosening of hair. He gave me the binding of hair. She had never really given much thought to that particular line, yet this man, the Guardian, had mastered the magic found in binding hair. The ancient Egyptians had thought there was magic in knots too. The symbol for Isis was a tiet, a floppy knot resembling an ankh. Maybe the sisters should re-evaluate the use of braids.
Nathalia sat down at her computer and plugged the camera in to download the braid images. Searching the coven’s databases for any references to knots, she pushed thoughts of her impending demise from her mind. She wasn’t going to die; Margaux must be mistaken. There was simply too much to do, too many mysteries yet to solve, to die right now.
MAEVE’S SMALL living quarters bustled with girly activity. Nathalia wanted to talk to them before they all went out and instructed them to meet her in Maeve’s room. They left Maeve no time to mentally prepare and no space to physically get ready.
All four girls clustered around Maeve’s antique vanity, scrabbling for a good view to do the last touches of makeup. Maeve gave up and stepped back. She rarely wore more than a little eyeliner and mascara. All that foundation and powder was just going to sweat off anyway.
The group looked like a Hollywood executive had put together the recipe for girl band success. They had a sprinkle of baby seasoning, a dash of sporty spice, a pinch of wild flavor and a zest of sexy. The women of this coven were as varied in appearance as they were in magical ability.
Sara, the pink-clad girly-girl, was the only Sophomore of the group. Her blonde hair was up and her heels were tall and expensive.
Elle was hard. Her short tank showed off her six-pack abs and v-shaped pelvic muscles peeked over her camo cargo shorts’ waistband. Set atop all that muscle, her asymmetrical yellow hair should have made her look butch but it didn’t. Her look attracted men and women alike. The elbow-length opera gloves lay in contrast to the outfit, but were necessary to manage her magical talent. Elle, the group’s Iudex Primo, read minds with a touch of her hand and had to protect herself, when they went out, from a barrage of thoughts.
Jolie, their Animaverto Primo capable of seeing the future, looked wild. She used the schoolgirl outfit as juxtaposition. To Maeve, Jolie’s appearance had always seemed at odds with her shy nature. Why would a timid girl cover her body in tattoos and call so much attention to herself with hot pink hair?
Maeve shed her dressing gown, wrapped her corset around her bare torso, and hooked up the front. She finished the last hook just as Nathalia came in. The Abbess took her place behind Maeve and tightened the laces one loop at a time. She spoke to Jolie as she cinched. “I don’t even need to ask how it went last night.”
Yesterday Jolie worried about making love to a woman, but today it seemed silly. Her night with Maeve had been satisfying and rewarding. The matchmaker had to sleep with the people she intended to work her magic on. Jolie’s need for a mate outweighed her fear. Jolie pushed her concerns aside, and Maeve made her comfortable. For a few hours last night, locked away in Maeve’s room, Jolie had even hoped that her new mate would be a woman. “No, you don’t,” Jolie answered. “Maeve’s amazing.” Jolie blushed every time she looked at her short, curvy friend.
Maeve adjusted, twisted and turned, stuffed down and plumped up, until everything was placed just right within that boned boundary. Only then did she look up and notice everyone looking at her.
“Why do you always wear a c
orset when we go out, Maeve?” Sara questioned her mentor. “It can’t be comfortable for dancing.”
“It wasn’t comfortable at first, but I got used to it,” Maeve answered. “Now I don’t feel right without it.” She sat on the chair Nathalia dragged over from the vanity. Maeve continued, “There are a lot of reasons I wear my corset. First, this one was a gift to me from someone I love, and it reminds me of her support and acceptance.”
Nathalia’s voice rang like music in her head and Maeve tried not to show the nausea she felt. You’re welcome, Maeve. Love you, too. Nathalia sat behind Maeve in the armchair, a big square brush at the ready in her lap. A warmth washed over Maeve as Nathalia worked on her long chestnut tresses. The Abbess was a Vinco, a telepath capable of putting her own thoughts and feelings into another’s mind. Feelings were easier than words and everything was easier the better she knew the mind she was overcoming. It was hard for Nathalia to keep her thoughts and feelings from Maeve.
“Second,” Maeve said, taking the opportunity to teach Sara, her first protégé, “I find it a good physical reminder of the restrictions my position has placed on me. As Vinculum, our vows are different than other sisters’. This restrictive corset encases my heart and reminds me that my body, and my very life, is a tool, a source of power for all the sisterhood. Matchmakers have a great power, rare in this world, and so we must keep our hearts protected and unbound to any one person.”
Sara touched her own gossamer dress and asked, “Should I wear one too?”
Maeve shook her head no and said, “This is what I do to remind me of my commitment and vows. It’s what’s worked for me. You gotta find your own reminder—you’re your own woman. The Vinculum Primo before me wore an engagement ring. How she got anyone to see past it, I never understood. It didn’t work for me.” Maeve glanced at the giant handbag that she took everywhere. There were all kinds of useful items inside, including the ring. She never knew when it would come in handy.
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