Sorcerer's Legacy

by Caroline Spear

  Chapter Seven

  Here we go.

  “So you made a huge fecking mess, did you, Chairman?”

  Ian detested needing help. He especially hated to petition Sarka Rowan for it. The staff called her the Dark Sister or simply the Dark One not only for her black hair and olive skin. Her soul and personality exuded an ominous edge, like a rabid wolf hiding in a cave ready to attack. Though the Syndicate members appreciated Cyrus’s service and sacrifice, none truly trusted Sarka. Her mighty powers raised concerns within the ruling body, as she refused to socialize with or participate in any committees. Naturally, the Syndicate feared the unknown.

  He swallowed against a tiny frisson of uneasiness threatening to lodge in his throat.

  Clothed in a black dress that emphasized her long, lean body, she stood from her chair and one of her eyebrows winged up. With one hand on her hip and the haughty raise of her chin, she personified the strength and grace of a prima ballerina about to take the stage as the black swan. And the danger of a coiled, hissing cobra.

  Frustration and desperation roiling inside his stomach, he dug his nails into the palm of one hand and pushed the door shut with the other. His control frayed with each passing second.

  “I need your help.” His voice trembled. She’d heard it; her smirk confirmed it. Her glee at his situation irritated him, infuriated him.

  “What is the problem?”

  There she stood, so smug in her safe little world.

  He reined back his anger. She had not caused his problem. He hadn’t caused it either.

  “I need to regain my center, my focus.”

  After a careless shrug, she glided to the desk and rested her hip against it. “I understood you’d taken care of that.”

  He clamped his eyes shut and muttered a string of multilingual curses. The crystal ball in the corner caught his attention, the gray mist within swirling around like a tempest in the storm. How much had she seen of his visit in the telling orb?

  She laughed. “That’s your problem, Chairman. You can’t control everything. You can’t control what’s happening inside you.”

  His jaw hurt from the pressure he exerted holding back his furious words, or, worse, spells. It wouldn’t do to loose his magick on Sarka. Dark, beautiful, and as powerful as he was, she’d eagerly engage in battle. He had to listen.

  “You’re like Spock.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Sarka?” His impatience boiled just beneath the surface. It won’t take much more.

  “Did you ever watch the show? The original?”

  He both envied and hated her serene composure. Gritting his teeth, he nodded.

  “Like Spock, you see emotion as a weakness. To avoid your empathic ability, you lock it down, never allow it to see the light of day. You spit at the gods when you do that, you know.”

  He shifted his feet, irritation flooding him. He hated having to stand and listen to this drivel. He needed help. Not a fucking psychoanalytic comparison to a TV character.

  “You know, Spock was half human and half Vulcan. Like Myrddin in the legend who was sired by a demon and human woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what you’re afraid of, Ian? Letting your emotions out to play will turn you evil?”

  Reality punched him in the gut. He hated she had to show him the truth.

  “Yes, I’m fucking terrified of how furious I am, how crippled I was when those bastards attacked my son. My son! I want to kill them. Every fucking one of them!” he yelled, unable to lower his voice. Like poison, it burned his throat as the words spilled forth. “They planned to use him to hurt the Syndicate. They attacked Cassidy, killed innocent women and children. They wanted Rekkus’s babies. Dana.... They would’ve killed Dana.”

  He rambled. He could no more stop his words from tumbling from his mouth than he could stop the world from spinning. His body trembled, his muscles clenched tightly to keep from falling apart. “I couldn’t put her in danger....”

  Becca’s face flashed in his mind. A fist grasped his heart and squeezed. He gasped at the pain, true and fierce. He pressed his hands to his chest, bending over with the agony.

  A cool hand guided him to a chair where he sank into its cushion. Sarka, not known for her kindness and compassion, had given it when he’d needed it.

  He took a couple of steadying breaths, the pain in his heart still throbbing. He glanced at her, now calmly pouring a cup of tea near the window. She sipped slowly then carefully placed the china cup on its saucer. She stood in front of the cupboard where it sat, her feet planted apart and her arms at her sides.

  A frisson of suspicion sped up his spine.

  “You need Becca.”

  “No!” He shot out of the chair and bellowed the word. “No.”

  The house shook from the ferocity of his denial, but Sarka stood her ground. “She’s your mate. Your intended.” Her voice rose with the increased vibration in the room.

  “No.” He threw his hands out in front of him, stunned when a gust of wind pushed Sarka back a step. She retook her ground, face hard.

  “And you’re part of her. She came to find who she was. She found you, may the gods help her.” Her words thundered above the gusts and rumbling of the floor.

  He stared at Sarka, her black hair swirling in the wind.

  All the frustration, all the fear, all the rage exploded. Lightning sparked from his fingertips, the air crackling with his power encircling him like a tornado. Books flew off shelves, ceramic crashed against walls, papers tossed about like autumn leaves.

  How could he be so powerful and so helpless? He could no longer contain the ticking time bomb.

  “Aah!” With a warrior’s cry he threw his arms up toward the ceiling, blowing a hole in the roof with a shower of sparks. The explosion rocked the building, but the walls of Sarka’s office stood as did she with her signature smirk on her seemingly unperturbed face.

  Ian collapsed to the floor, shaking and spent. He rolled to his back and saw the huge breach in the roof caused by his lack of control.

  A pounding on the door caught his attention, and he winced at the destruction he’d caused: books, broken figurines, and papers lay strewn about the floor.

  “No, Cemil. I’m fine. Really. The chairman just needed to vent a bit. I’m sure he’ll see to the repairs.”

  How can she be so fucking calm?

  The door closed with a click, and she came to stand over him, staring down at him like he was some oddity.

  “Is anyone hurt? Is there much damage?” He cringed at the thought of hurting anyone.

  “No, the destruction is restricted to this room.” She glanced about the room, clucking her tongue as if he’d thrown paper balls instead of real items. “I should have chosen a different spot for you to throw your tantrum.”

  “What?” Ian jumped to his feet.

  She smoothed an errant lock back into place. “You’re acting like a child.”

  With one hand palm out, she stopped his reply. She directed him to sit with an imperious tilt of her head toward a chair, then she took her own behind her desk. He felt like a boy in the principal’s office.

  “Ian, the fates provided you with what you need to be happy and healthy. You rejected it. It’s not what you want. It’s not what you asked for. Doesn’t that sound like a child reacting to an unwanted, but still precious, present?”

  Drained from his emotional outburst, he could not ignore her words. He could not discount the wisdom and truth of her comparison. No longer able to deny the longing in his heart and the cry of his soul for his mate. The weight of casting the spell on Becca hung about his shoulders like an iron yoke.

  Energy sent out to the world returned threefold. The fucking spell he’d cast to make her forget him and allow him to obtain the scroll certainly kicked his ass. Defeated, he lowered his head to his hands.

  “Now, before you get all emotional on me again, let me suggest a way to reverse your spell.” S
arka held out her open palm over the desk. “I need the ruby ring you took from her.”

  How does she know about the ring?

  “Just give it to me.”

  Her impatience had returned. This was the Sarka he knew and respected, full of snark and sass. He pulled the ring from his pinky finger and placed it in her hand.

  “And your ring.”

  He hesitated. “This is a ring handed down through my family. It belonged to Myrddin.”

  She simply raised an eyebrow. Obviously she expected him to comply.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Giving up the ring was hard, but he had to trust in Sarka and the fates. With the twist of her mouth, she plucked it from his outstretched palm and moved to the altar set up against a wall.

  He sank back in the cushions, praying to the gods to watch over Becca, to forgive him for distrusting their wisdom. With his eyes closed, Sarka’s chants washed over him. The acrid smoke burned his nostrils. He trusted her alchemy.

  He opened his eyes when the swish of her skirts approached. Her eyes glowed black, and she wiped sweat from her brow. From the genuine smile on her face, she enjoyed her work. She patted his shoulder and said, “Pour yourself some tea. This may take a while. To paraphrase one of my favorite movies, you can’t rush magick. You rush magick, Chairman, you get rotten magick.”

  Ian accepted her offer and, with a cup of tea, settled into a chair to observe a master at work.

  He blinked away sleep from his eyes. How long had he been out? The room was dark save a single lamp burning on Sarka’s huge desk. Damn woman, did she drug me with the tea or cast a sleeping spell?

  In the pool of light thrown from the lamp, a single silver filigree ring with a bloodstone rested on a folded piece of paper.

  Stretching his weary muscles as he rose to his feet, he sighed in resignation. What had Sarka done while he slept? Had she left him a solution or a note mocking his manhood? He deserved no better, but he prayed she’d found compassion in her heart for him.

  The ring glittered in the light and warmed his palm. His hand trembled as he picked up the note and unfolded it. The spell written in her aggressive slanted script filled the paper along with a personal message.

  Chairman, I witnessed your pathetic marriage proposal to Cassidy Sinclair. I thought you an idiot. I envied you the perfect relationship you found with Ms. Jones, but you confirmed my prior judgment of your character by your most recent actions. Take my help and advice by adhering to the spell exactly as it is written. Don’t be an asshat.

  ***

  Becca couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she was missing something. Like going to the kitchen for something and being unable to remember why.

  Pushing food around on her plate, she pretended to eat but couldn’t stomach food. Trixie sweetly sat with her. She wasn’t very good company, though Trixie hadn’t left her side all day. Since dinner attendance was required, she’d accompanied the yoga instructor to the dining room.

  She barely remembered coming to Wiccan Haus, and the only person she recalled from five days was Trixie. Cyrus Rowan, the tall, dark, and sexy sibling owner of the resort, seemed familiar and acted as if he knew her. At the edges of her mind, a scene in the library where she’d met him and he’d removed his glove to shake her hand.... The memory teased her then faded like morning fog.

  Her entire brain seemed fuzzy. There were things she could not pull up, like deleted files that still took up space on her hard drive. She fought the anxiety that something terrible had happened to her in the last several days and someone had erased her memory to keep her sane.

  God help me. Despair crowded into her belly and up her throat, burning it. What is happening to me?

  Cyrus approached, his hard face curving into a warm smile. Why does he wear gloves? She bit back the question, not wanting to offend him. She offered him a halfhearted grin.

  “Hello, Trixie, Becca. How are you?” It seemed like a loaded question, as if he knew exactly what was wrong.

  “Fine.”

  He firmed his mouth into a line. He’d clearly wanted an honest answer. Why?

  “How about a walk after dinner?”

  “Isn’t it dangerous to walk the grounds at night?” Where did that come from? She’d never walked the trails at night, nor during the day from her recollection. How would she know such information?

  Cyrus studied her face. “My dear Becca, you’ll be completely safe with me.”

  Becca glanced at Trixie. “Will you come with us?”

  She hated feeling helpless, vacant.

  “I think we’re done. Let’s go.” Trixie’s statement confirmed she’d noticed Becca rearranging her food.

  Cyrus held Becca’s chair as she slid out of it. Suspicion crept in. Where were they going?

  He followed her out, with Trixie trailing behind them. His hand settled on the small of her back, but no butterflies fluttered in her belly. Why not? Cyrus embodied tall, dark, and sexy.

  Myron flipped cards rhythmically on the front desk as they passed through the foyer. She nodded to them and winked at Cyrus. Not flirty. Conspiratorial.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a walk, darling. Down to the beach.” He paused, facing her, as if waiting for a reaction.

  She shivered. “Have there been attacks here, on this path?”

  Again, wavering images of a huge wolf frozen in midair, of a man she’d seen earlier in the day and maybe on the ferry shimmered in her mind, just out of reach. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus all her energy on grabbing the elusive memory. She fisted her hands at her sides in her effort.

  “She’s remembering.” Trixie’s whisper drew her out of her concentration.

  “Remembering what?”

  Cyrus’s hand on her back kept her moving forward. Toward what, she didn’t know.

  “Trust me, Becca. I’ll make sure you are safe.” His voice resonated honesty. Instinctively, she trusted him.

  The path turned. She gasped at the sheer beauty of the beach below her and the full moon seemingly within her reach. A fire burned, silhouetting the form of a man. From the bluff, she couldn’t make out his identity, but this scenario seemed hauntingly familiar. She’d experienced déjà vu before but knew she’d been here during the last few days.

  Cyrus assisted her down the steep path leading to the cove. Trixie’s footfalls followed them.

  “I’ve been here before,” Becca said, struggling to grab the fleeting images only to have them unravel at the edges and slip away. As they neared the man by the fire, his features became clear. His soft green eyes and those firm lips currently set in a determined line—she knew them but his name escaped her. She’d run her hands through his silver-tipped dark brown hair and from the sharp electric response of her body, he’d inspired and fulfilled fantasies she couldn’t remember.

  Cyrus and Trixie remained silent, but they knew something. This secrecy frustrated her.

  This is my life. I can’t remember the last four days and I need answers. Now.

  She ground her teeth against the urge to scream.

  Ian. His name is Ian. How could she know this?

  Cyrus stopped a few feet from Ian. The firelight revealed his taut jaw and a muscle jumping there.

  Whatever Ian was doing, Cyrus had some reservations.

  “She’s remembering. It’s all or nothing, Chairman. Don’t screw up.”

  A clear warning, but about what?

  Ian nodded. “No, you’re right, Cyrus. It’s all.”

  “She’s stronger than you think.”

  “I know.”

  “No. I mean her powers come from the same source as yours. That’s why she’s breaking the spell on her own.”

  “I’m right here, you know.”

  Staying quiet to acquire information was one thing, having them talk about her as if she weren’t there was quite another. She skewered Ian with a glare. “Y
ou. Tell me what the hell is going on or I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass.”

  Cyrus snickered beside her and she slapped at his arm. “Shut up!”

  A strange charge ran up her arm from where her fingertips had briefly touched Cyrus. A quick couple of frames flashed in her mind. Gloves, bare hand, documents. Jolting, painful visions of the past.

  She turned, reached up, and placed her palm on his whisker-roughened cheek. His eyes held such pain. Cyrus remained perfectly still, seeming to know she needed to understand what was happening. How did she know he fought with sorrow and had dealt with incredible, crippling loss?

  A surge of anger rocked her physically. She glanced at Trixie. Maybe, Cyrus was her man or desired him. Trixie’s aura of serenity made her dismiss the possibility.

  Wait. Aura? What the hell?

  She swayed again with a second wave of emotion. To keep her balance, she dropped her hand from Cyrus’s face while he reached out to steady her. The anger tightened to a burning ball in her belly.

  A sharp inhale from Ian drew her attention. His nostrils flared as he stared at Cyrus’s hand on her upper arm.

  Not anger. Jealousy. Well, fuck him. He doesn’t own me. In fact, if he has anything to do with this memory loss, I don’t ever want to see him again.

  His expression changed instantly from scowling to trepidation.

  I’m sorry.

  How can I hear his thoughts?

  Because I love you.

  Fuck you. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have done this.

  I did it because I love you.

  The truth of his words and his stormy emotions overwhelmed her. Tears slid down her cheeks.

  “All of you know what is going on. Enlighten me. Something important was being kept from her and, damn it, she needed to know.

  Trixie cleared her throat. “Becca.” Her calmness irritated. “The only way to discover the whole truth is to allow Ian to cast a spell.”

  “What? That’s it, isn’t it? He cast a spell on me to make me forget.” Becca backed away from Ian until she bumped against Cyrus’s warm chest. Immediately, Ian’s jealousy pulsed hot. “Screw you, Ian. I don’t care if you’re jealous. Or mad. Or sorry.”