Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  Back inside, shivering, Nick shed coat and shoes, then climbed the stairs past what were obviously family portraits. In five paintings and a dozen photos were variations of red hair, blue eyes, straight noses, and the occasional dimple. He paused to inspect an eighteenth-century portrait of a woman at her loom, smiling at the artist’s subtle inclusion of the Craft: the loom weights were painted with hexes, and the half-finished cloth was woven with sigils for warmth. Next to the weaver was a watercolor of a stern Revolutionary War officer on a huge gray horse; in the tooling of saddle and bridle were spells of protection and speed. To the unaware, all of it would seem just pretty decoration. Nick knew better.

  He found Alec in the upstairs hallway, admiring a quilt displayed on the wall. Setting down both suitcases, he approached his partner and said, “Exquisite work.”

  Alec had leaned close to the worn, faded, still eloquent material. “Aunt Lucy has a similar one. The Double Wedding Ring pattern is traditional, but the stitching is Traditional—if you know what I mean.”

  “Mmm. And would you just look at all those pentagrams.”

  “I guarantee a good night’s sleep if the bed quilt is anything like this one.”

  “It is,” said Holly from behind them. “The Wisteria Room usually has Spring Flowers on it, but seeing as how you are what you are, I put Courthouse Steps on it instead. Integrity and strength and all that,” she added shyly. “It may be a little musty—we haven’t had it out since the Justice came to visit.”

  “Which Justice?” Alec asked.

  “Which Justice do you think?” Nick answered for her, and Alec looked startled. “Thank you, Holly. Let me have those towels, and then you can get to bed. It’s late, and I’m sure you have school tomorrow.”

  “Not with all this snow. And if you think I’d go anywhere while you’re here to Work—” She broke off with a sigh. “I just wish I could help. I can’t stitch or weave or brew, I’m not a Come-Hither or a Douser and I can’t even Call much of a fire. But at least I can listen and watch, can’t I? Please?”

  “Talk to your aunt,” Alec said firmly. But he winked, and she brightened, and called “Good night!” over her shoulder as she ran off to her room.

  Nick paused at the doorway of the Wisteria Room to peer up at the carved lintel. “There are hexes all over this house. Generations of them.”

  “But no Witching spheres,” Alec pointed out, nodding toward the windows. Shutting the door behind them, he stretched mightily and sighed. “Let’s send down a few when we get back home, okay?”

  “That violet one in Hezekiah’s shop would look perfect in this room—” He broke off and blinked as Bandit hopped onto the huge oak four-poster. “Where’dyou come from so fast?”

  “What? Oh—him,” Alec said, shucking off sweater and shirt. “He ran past me on the stairs.”

  Nick had learned in childhood that there were cats and Cats. Bandit was definitely a Cat. Giving the men an innocent stare, he patrolled the edge of the bed, sniffing now and then at a lump in the quilt. Nick watched him, amused, for now that Bandit had clued him in he, too, smelled the rosemary sachets stitched into the coverlet. Shakespeare notwithstanding, the herb was not just for remembrance, but for wisdom. Among other things. The scent took him back to his childhood, and for once the memories were pleasant ones. After a mighty sneeze, the Cat curled himself at the foot of the bed and promptly went to sleep.

  Nick wandered about, fingering wisteria-patterned damask curtains, Irish linen sheets, and the smooth curve of an oak cheval glass.

  “Chindilan?” his partner asked.

  “Very tired, yes. Your pronunciation is getting better.”

  “For a Gadje.” Alec grinned back.

  “Gadjo, masculine singular,” Nick replied idly, inspecting a framed nosegay of dried flowers. A trace of very old magic lingered behind the glass.

  “So what does your Gypsy blood tell you?”

  “Not much. I’m only a quarter Rom, after all. I barely qualify.”

  “By those standards, I’m an outright mongrel.”

  “Don’t ever let your Aunt Lucy hearyou say that!” Nick turned and smiled. “All that fine old New England heritage, straight back to Salem—she’d string you up by your thumbs.”

  “What are the other three-quarters?” Alec sat on the bed, bouncing experimentally. “You never have talked about your family much.”

  “Oh, this and that, the usual Magyar mix,” he evaded, and changed the subject. “I can’t say that I’ve ever considered the ecology of vampires before. Somehow, I don’t think that’s quite what Rachel Carson had in mind when she wrote Silent Spring.”

  “Silent Night would be more like it.”

  Both men spun tensely around when a knock sounded on the door. “Mr. Singleton? Mr. Orlov? Is Bandit in there?”

  “Yes,” Nick replied, opening the door for Holly. “He can stay if he likes.”

  The Cat trilled agreement. Holly scowled. “You,” she ordered. “Out. Now.” An affronted “mroww”; Holly propped her fists on her hips. “Bandit!”

  “We really don’t mind him—,” Nick began.

  “But you’d mind getting your nose licked raw. Bandit! Out!” The Cat landed on the hardwood floor with a thud and stalked out of the room. Holly shook her head. “He gets worse every year. Well, good night again, Mr. Singleton, Mr.—”

  “That’s Alec and Nicky to you, my dear,” Alec said with a smile. “Good night, Holly.”

  She smiled back, and was gone.

  Suitcases gave up their stash of pajamas, toothbrushes, and other necessities. After taking his turn in the bathroom down the hall, Nick slid into the left side of the huge four-poster and drew the quilt up to his chin. “Alec, do you ever wonder why we do this? I mean, I could be back in New York right now, minding the store—”

  “—selling first editions of Sayers and Poe at exorbitant prices—”

  “—and translating six different languages into comprehensible English—”

  “—and getting paid damned well for that, too.” His partner smiled down at him. “I could be a full-time lawyer instead of having Fairleigh and Bradshaw think I’m a hopeless dilettante with the partnership potential of a circus flea.” He sat on the bed and traced the angular pattern of the quilt with one finger.

  “We both know why we’re here,” Nick said wryly. “Mr. Scot gave us that look of his.”

  “Ah, yes—The Look. The one that makes you feel as if sitting in your nice cozy office is an affront to nature. We do what we do, Nick. Ours not to question why.” Drawing back the covers on his side of the bed, he slid in, reached to turn off the lamp, and snuggled down. “G’night.”

  The next morning was pleasantly spent in the kitchen, sampling Cousin Clary’s herbal teas, formulating and refining their plans, and engaging in a pleasant intellectual debate about whether or not a storm could block out enough sunlight for a wampyr to feel safe. They were also shown General Washington’s note to “Mistress Margaret Flynne for her gracious hospitality and the sweet quiet hush of her woods,” framed on the wall of the room he’d slept in.

  “That’s when we got our name,” Holly informed them. “We were Flynn’s Hope before that, but by 1785 all the letters are addressed to Woodhush Farm. How can you resist getting your house named by George Washington?”

  After lunch, Lulah’s meaningfully arched brows sent Holly grumbling off to her textbooks. Alec and Nick went upstairs for a nap, reasoning that if they were going to spend all night chasing vampires, they’d need the rest.

  Nick woke before dusk to three distinct sensations. He was alone in bed; he was more rested than he’d felt in ages; and he was being watched. Opening one eye, he saw freckles, red hair, and inquisitive blue eyes. “Hello,” he said tentatively.

  “You slept well,” she observed. “It’s a good quilt.” Then, with the devastating simplicity of children, she asked, “Why do you hold a pillow when you sleep, when you want to be holding him?”

  Eighte
en

  HOLLY STARED. “I really said that? I don’t remember.”

  “I do—vividly.” Nick hugged her closer. “I damned near had a coronary.”

  “I should’ve set myself up as a matchmaker—life would’ve been less complicated.”

  “If you say so. But that talent wasn’t the one we found out about that night.”

  “That, I remember. Vividly.”

  LULAH FED THEM AN EARLY dinner of lamb chops, potatoes, green beans, and rhubarb pie. They went upstairs to dress in their warmest clothes and arm themselves, then came back down to find the McClures at the front door. Night had fallen, the snow had stopped, and two horses were saddled and waiting outside beneath the portico.

  “Faster than the pickup, believe me,” Lulah told them. “You never know when the snow’s gonna reach up and grab you—and a truck tire can’t kick free. I’m assuming y’all can ride?” When they nodded, she made a pleased sound in the back of her throat. From a pocket of her cardigan sweater she drew two talismans on long strands of leather. “Umpty-ump Great-grandpa Goare carried this during the Revolution,” she said, handing one to Alec. “And this—” Giving the other to Nick. “—comes from Holly’s Griffith ancestors, who were horsey folk and swore by turquoise.” Nicholas examined the chunk of sky-blue stone about the size of his little fingernail, set in iron. Alec’s, he saw, was a carnelian paired with a bloodstone, similarly clasped by iron.

  “Holly, would you do me the honor?” Alec asked gallantly, and bent so the girl could slip the leather thong around his neck.

  The talisman slipped from her fingers; she made a grab for it in midair, and as she closed her hand around it exclaimed, “Ow!”

  “After two hundred years, you’d think the rough edges would’ve worn off that iron,” Lulah said. “Let me see, Holly.”

  “It’s okay—it’s already stopped bleeding.” She held up her palm, where three tiny punctures showed on the heel of her thumb.

  Alec enclosed her small fingers in his and kissed the back of her hand. “Wounded in the service.”

  “Kiss it and make it better?” she asked, shrewd eyes flashing at Nick, who winked at her. “Alec Singleton, y’all’re a flirt and no better than you should be.”

  “And you, little miss,” Lulah admonished, “are an uppity child who doesn’t get spanked near enough. Go clean up supper and maybe I’ll let you stay up to wait for them.”

  “Aunt Lulah!” she wailed. “How could I sleep?”

  Nick donned the turquoise, tucked it beneath his sweater, and shrugged into his coat. “We’re likely to be gone all night. Neither of you should—”

  “We’ll wait,” Lulah said succinctly, and that was an end to that.

  Holly walked them outside into a sparkling cold night, the stars so brilliant that they seemed to reflect on the gleaming snow. Nick inhaled sharply, his breath coming out in a cloud of white.

  The girl checked saddle girths, saying, “The chestnut is called Lazybones, but don’t let the name fool you. He’s fast when there’s need. The palomino is Featherfoot. He’s a sweetie, once you let him know who’s boss. Y’all be careful.”

  “We will.” Glancing at Alec, he added, “Lazybones is unquestionably meant for you.”

  “Cute, isn’t he?” Alec observed sourly to Holly, who laughed. He used one gloved hand to smooth the palomino’s shoulder and the other to ruffle Nick’s hair. “Growing our winter coat, are we? Two shaggy blonds: Featherfoot and Featherhead. Go on back in the house, Holly, it’s cold.”

  “Oh—that reminds me. We tied a couple of blankets to the saddles, in case it gets any colder than it is now. Happy hunting!”

  Lulah had been correct; the horses were much more practical than the Chevy. Chillier, but more practical. When Nick complained of the cold, Alec laughed.

  “This from the kid who walked five miles to school in the snow?”

  “Ten,” he shot back with a grin. “Barefoot.”

  Directions up to Old Rag, past silent white fields and shadowy woods, had been specific. But they never got that far.

  “Nick … ,” Alec ventured, reining in about ten miles uphill from Woodhush Farm.

  “What?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong … .”

  “You usually are, but go ahead.”

  “Don’t bats come out to feed at about twilight? And isn’t it full dark right now? And have you ever seen a bat that big?” He pointed with a gloved finger.

  “Shekal” The damned thing was the size of a California condor.

  “Hungarian cussing is bad enough,” Alec muttered. “When you switch to Rom, you get really foul. Come on.”

  They left the road, horses plunging through the snow, and followed the bat. It worked as hard as the horses, for there were no thermal updrafts to float on and immense wings must beat vehemently against the frigid wind. The bat came to rest at last atop the stone skeleton of what might once have been an elegant antebellum home. Glaring balefully down twenty feet at the two men on horseback, it heaved for breath, exhaling great white fetid clouds they could smell even from the ground. Alec swung down, stumbling a little in the snow, and glared up at the bat.

  “Andreiu!” he shouted. “Come down from there!”

  Great leathery wings unfurled—blacking out the starlight, casting shadows onto Alec. A piercing hiss issued from between gleaming fangs.

  “You expect me to be impressed?”

  Nick slid from his saddle, landing lightly in knee-high drifts. “I expect he expects you to go away and leave him alone.”

  “Andreiu, you’ve been a very naughty wampyr, and Mr. Scot wants to have a little chat with you. Do we do this the easy way or the hard way?”

  The bat laughed. More or less. Listening carefully, Nick decided that the wheezing, stuttering chirp was indeed laughter. It wasn’t quite so vile as nailson-chalkboard, but it was an annoyance all the same.

  “Alyosha, I’m freezing. Just get him down from there and let’s go, all right?” Delving into a pocket, he came up with two sets of silver shackles and dangled them from gloved fingers. “Hurry it up, would you?”

  “You want me to drag him down by the fangs?” To the bat: “Andreiu, we both know this is ridiculous. I work a few illusions, you struggle and get distracted, I spell you into changing back into a human, my friend here does his thing, and you’re down here wearing these seriously fashionable silver bracelets. Personally, I’d rather not tire myself. Be a good little bloodsucker and spare us both, okay?”

  Nick snorted. “I’m beginning to think you intend to talk him into submission.” He stamped his numbed feet. “If you won’t expend the energy on a Working, then why don’t you climb up and wrestle him down?”

  “Even if I could find a toehold, there’s about a ton of stone wall that could collapse any second—”

  Nick knew that sudden silence, that abrupt glitter in brown eyes. “Alyosha?”

  His partner strode forward, boots crunching confidently in the snow, one hand fumbling at his neck. With the carnelian-and-bloodstone talisman clenched in his right fist, he began to murmur, left hand gesturing swiftly.

  The old building shuddered as if the stones were trying to shrug off the wampyr’s weight. Snow cascaded in miniature avalanches that spewed clouds of white. The bat screeched, wings flailing as its perch trembled. Rock chittered alarmingly against rock—and then the whole ramshackle construction shook itself apart and toppled with a muffled rumble of stone.

  Right onto Alec.

  Who stood there quite calmly, absolutely untouched.

  Of all the things Nicholas Orlov had witnessed in his admittedly bizarre career, this sight stopped both mind and heart. Alec ought to have been buried, crushed and bleeding, beneath that onslaught of stone. Instead, he casually brushed snow off his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and stepped elegantly out of the rubble.

  Andreiu—in human form—lay half-in and half-out of a pile of rock. Alec snapped his fingers for the silver handcuffs; Nick shook hi
mself out of his daze and tossed them over. He fastened the leg restraints onto the vlkoslak’s ankles himself, fingers not quite steady. Andreiu lay there, stunned by the fall and the abruptness of transformation. The silver woke him up, raising welts on hypersensitive skin, an allergy that would weaken him enough to prevent another shape-change. As consciousness returned, Andreiu struggled to reassume his bat form—a hideous sight, with leathery black skin and fangs and sharply pointed ears fading in and out of view. A painful process, too, judging by his agonized grimaces.

  “Give it up,” Nick advised, wondering idly why it was that every wampyr seemed to be devastatingly good-looking and built like a brick battleship. “Or we’ll stake you right here and now.”

  “He’s fed tonight,” Alec reported. “And on a human. Look at his eyes.” Planting a booted foot squarely on Andreiu’s naked chest, he asked, “Who were you after? You don’t need sustenance. It’s someone special that you need to be at full strength to take. Tell me who you drank from, and who you’re after—and I wouldn’t advise lying. I have this strange little quirk for knowing a lie when I hear it.”

  Huge eyes glowed red for an instant, then faded back to dark brown as silver sapped his strength. “You!”

  “No,” Alec said with the unwavering certainty that was one of his gifts. “Not either of us. You’re out alone, without the nest to back you up. So it must be somebody you don’t want them to know about—somebody you fear.”

  “I fear no one and nothing!”

  “Another lie. Well, Mr. Scot will sort it out. Nicky, I hate to break up a matched blond set, but do you think Featherfoot would object to having a vampire slung across his back?”

  Featherfoot was not, in fact, pleased. He rolled his eyes, laid back his ears, bared his teeth, and looked as though he’d love to batter that aristocratic face with his iron-clad hooves. Nick could coerce humans, not horses; he pondered a minute, then took off the turquoise talisman and hung it from the saddle horn. “Better?” he asked the horse, stroking and calming him. Featherfoot snorted, but settled down.