Spellbinder (Moonshadow Book 2)

by Thea Harrison

Lifting her head, she searched his face anxiously. His handsome features had already become so familiar to her—she could see the man she had come to know in the darkness shining out in every one of his expressions and gestures.

  It all fit in seamless harmony together, like a lock and a key. How she had ever entertained the idea that he could have been Warrick was beyond her.

  “How?” she asked. “It’s harder for you to move around in daylight.”

  “I don’t know.” He stroked her short hair. “But I’ll figure it out. I’ll work on that today. The main thing you will need to do is not trigger the spell before you’re ready to play, because when it activates it will be unstoppable. You don’t want to squander it beforehand, but you also don’t want to trigger it in front of anybody in case they sense it. Once it settles into your skin, you should be all right, and you’ll know when that happens. You’ll feel it.”

  Remembering the flood of epiphany from the last time, she nodded. Her stomach tightened as she thought of what was to come.

  But she wouldn’t let him see how afraid she was of all the many things that could go wrong. She had been selfish enough earlier when he had mentioned the possibility of leaving for a while. She wouldn’t do that to him again, not when he was already doing everything he could for her.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she said, pushing conviction into her voice. “I’ve been performing since I was four years old.”

  He tilted his head. “Really?”

  “Really.” She smiled at him. “This will be just another performance.”

  A performance that her life depended on. Neither one of them said it.

  He shifted position so that he could lean his forehead on hers and stare deeply into her eyes. She had never felt so connected to another person before. She touched his mouth and ran her fingers along the lean line of his jaw.

  “I’ll try to be in telepathic range when you play,” he told her. “But I might not manage it.”

  “I understand.” Throwing her arms around his neck, she held him as tightly as she could. “Oh, Morgan, I…”

  I love you. I need you. My body aches all over, yet I still want you so badly I can hardly breathe.

  She didn’t think she could say any of it and still make her arms loosen enough to let him go. Biting her lips, she pulled back. When he looked at her inquiringly, she gave him a twisted smile and shook her head.

  She told him, “You’d better go.”

  With a muttered curse, he rolled off the bed, scooped up his clothes, and dressed in short, violent movements. As he fastened his trousers, he said, “The hunter’s spray I was wearing wore off quite some time ago. I have more in my bag, but you can’t let anybody in this room until you’ve had a chance to freshen it with some other kind of scent. Go to the chatelaine Preja and tell her you want to clean your room. Preja is a good woman. Ask her for some of the soap scented with lemon, and cedar chips for the wardrobe to keep moths out of your clothes. Both the cedar and the lemon are strong fragrances.”

  “I will, first thing,” she promised. She glanced at the bed. It was time to test what Kallah said about the fabric being spelled. “I need to wash the blanket too.”

  Slipping on his boots, Morgan dug in his bag and pulled out a bottle. After spraying himself thoroughly, especially down his legs and his boots, he tucked away the bottle, then pulled her upright to kiss her. “I would help you if I could.”

  She touched his jaw. “You’re helping me more than enough already.”

  He glanced again at the window, where the darkness was beginning to lighten, and his face set. “I need to go.”

  She fisted her hands in his shirt. “Be careful.”

  While his expression had turned grim, his eyes warmed. “And you as well.”

  He kissed her one more time, a quick, burning caress of the lips that made her body pulse. In one swift movement, he pulled away and slipped out of her door.

  The sense of his presence lingered in the room for a few moments. Then she felt the chill of the early morning on her skin and shivered.

  I hate everything and everyone, she thought savagely. If fact, I’m going to live for the opportunity to rip off somebody’s head today.

  As tired as she was, the thought of the danger to Morgan—to both of them—if she didn’t clear her room of his scent fueled her with adrenaline. She scooped up the blanket, the clothes she had worn, and the clean dress, and headed for the wash rooms.

  This time, early as it was, she wasn’t so lucky about privacy. Several of the castle servants were using the rooms, both men and women. Self-conscious and wary, she collected the soap she needed and found a tub where she could work, but while she could sense the others casting curious glances at her, they left her alone.

  As before, she washed everything else first. The clothes and the blanket were remarkably easy. After she plunged them into the water, she scrubbed them with the soap to be safe, and when she lifted them out, almost all the water ran off them, leaving them slightly damp. They would be dry before the day was over.

  Then she washed herself, dressed and brushed her teeth. When she was sure she had thoroughly cleaned everything, she gathered everything up and headed back to her room.

  As she stepped out of the wash room, she discovered Warrick standing with another man at the intersection of two hallways nearby. Another pulse of adrenaline hit, making her heart pound and her hands shake.

  Ducking her head, she headed for her room. The last thing she needed was a confrontation with Warrick. She wanted to bite somebody’s head off, but in his case, she might be biting off more than she could chew.

  But he clearly didn’t have mischief on his mind that morning. Instead, as she passed by, she heard him mutter to the other man, “I swear by the gods, I caught a hint of Morgan’s scent.”

  “But he hasn’t been seen, or scented, anywhere since we know he left Avalon,” the other man said. He carried a pile of clothes under one arm and looked as if he were headed to the wash rooms.

  Sid’s stride hitched. When she thought of how close she had come to them being able to scent Morgan on her body and clothes, her heart jumped to her throat. A few feet down the hall, she paused and bent, pretending to adjust the heel of her shoe.

  Surreptitiously, she glanced behind her, but neither man paid any attention to her. She wasn’t a threat, and she wasn’t important—she was just another servant moving about, doing her chores.

  “I’m not crazy,” Warrick snapped. “I know what I smelled.”

  “I believe you,” the other man replied with a shrug. “But Morgan has also wandered this castle for centuries. Like so many others, his scent must be imbedded in the stones. To be sure, we need to do another circuit around the castle and the town. That’s going to be the only real test of accuracy. He couldn’t have left a fresh scent in here without leaving one out there, right?”

  A shiver went down her spine as she listened. Morgan had been alive—had been a slave—for centuries? She could hardly fathom what it must be like to live for so long. What he had witnessed and experienced.

  “I don’t want to wait to gather the other Hounds together,” Warrick told the other man. “You and I should head out right away.”

  As the two men strode down the other hallway, Sid slowly straightened. Fear tightened her stomach. If they had chosen to go down the hallway that led to her room, they might have scented Morgan had been in there.

  If only there was some way she could warn Morgan… but there wasn’t. She had to trust he was smarter and wilier than the other Hounds and he could remain hidden from their searching.

  In the meantime, she needed to get the cleaning supplies from the chatelaine and thoroughly clean her room.

  By the time she had finished, her room was filled with the robust scents of cedar and lemon. To be on the safe side, she mopped down the hallway in both directions. Working quickly was as decent a workout as a three-mile jog.

  After she put away the cleaning suppl
ies, she went begging for a breakfast she could take with her to the music hall. Triddick gave her a strip of bread that had been wrapped around cheese and meat and then baked. Her empty stomach rumbled at the appetizing scent.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a smile.

  He nodded to her. “I hear your audience will be held in the great hall. I look forward to your performance.”

  Really? Why had he heard that before she had? Angling her jaw out, she felt ready to bite someone’s head off again, but it wasn’t fair to take out her bad temper on him. Pivoting on her heel, she strode to the music hall.

  Once the door closed behind her, the privacy of the long, empty room was like a soothing balm, and her angry energy faded. She had come to think of this hall as “hers,” and she would miss giving up the private sanctuary when Isabeau’s music master returned.

  Sitting at the table, she ate part of her breakfast to ease the empty ache in her middle. Then she shoved the rest to one side and buried her head in her hands.

  Her body ached all over with remembered pleasure. She thought of the things she and Morgan had done to each other throughout the heated night, and need pulsed through her again.

  This obsession with him was the height of insanity.

  But she had never been successful at controlling her obsessions…

  Tiredness hit, and she slumped. She longed to curl up on the couch to take a nap, but today, of all days, was going to be unpredictable. Kallah or someone else might come in at any time to announce she would be playing in the great hall.

  She could never afford to forget her behavior was being watched.

  That feeling of being watched—it was in her bones, a prickle at the nape of her neck…

  A sudden conviction struck. Suddenly, she was sure someone was watching her, even though she was supposedly alone.

  There was no magic to it, just good old human intuition.

  Pushing to her feet, she turned in a circle and studied the seemingly empty room. The huge, intricate tapestries did not reveal any bulge. Instead, they lay flat against the walls, just as they should.

  The bookcases stood flush against the wall, so no one could hide behind those. The stands holding the instruments were artistically crafted, but not solid pieces. Rather, they were constructions made with strips of carved wood, almost like an artist’s easel. There was the furniture arranged near the fireplace, the couches and the chairs, but as she walked slowly toward the area, the shadows behind the furniture appeared empty.

  There was no other place she could see for a body of any size to hide.

  But what if it was a body that was not of any substantial size?

  Not one of the castle dogs. They were too big.

  But a rat, for instance, could hide very well in a room such as this. Or a cat.

  He might not even be in this room, but somewhere close by. Reaching for the mental image of her kidnapper, with that thin, strange face, she said telepathically, Robin?

  She felt nothing, no sense of whether she had connected to someone or was talking to dead air.

  Then one of the dark shadows behind the couch detached from the others. It was a black cat, and it stalked toward her with smooth, sinuous grace. Between one step and the next, it transformed into a thin, upright figure.

  The figure almost looked like a human teenage boy. Almost… except for those wild, ancient eyes.

  Robin said, “Hello, Sidonie.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A sudden blast of fury hit her like a tornado.

  The maelstrom whited out all caution or common sense, and it impelled her to leap forward. She had the sensation of leaving her body.

  “You!” she snarled.

  She slapped him so hard his head jerked back. Then she slapped him again.

  And again.

  The next thing she knew, she was pummeling him with both fists and feet, while tears of rage ran down her cheeks.

  He made no move to stop her or to try to protect himself. Raining him with blows, she drove him backward until his shoulders hit the edge of a bookcase. Bracing himself against it, he stood stoically under her onslaught.

  “She broke my hands, you son of a bitch!”

  He did not look surprised. He merely nodded and tilted his chin up, turning into her punch. “She cut out my tongue, once. It took years to grow back.”

  That statement cut through her mindless rage. She hesitated a moment too long, absorbing the strangeness and barbarity of it. When she reached again for her former fury, the firestorm had already subsided into glowing coals. Not gone, not by any means, but not out of control either.

  When he made as if to straighten from his leaning stance, she shoved him again and said between her teeth, “I hate you so passionately.”

  His strange gaze met hers steadily. “I deserve every ounce of it.”

  “I can’t believe you have the audacity to look me in the eyes, let alone creep around the castle. Morgan thought not even you would be that crazy.” She glanced over her shoulder at the closed doors. “Why are you here?!”

  “I’ve come to bear witness to the consequences of my handiwork,” he told her. “Evil deeds should never go unpunished.”

  Whose evil deeds was he talking about, Isabeau’s? Or his?

  Bitterly, she told him, “You can never make amends for the pain and the fear you put me through.”

  “I’m not here to try, although I will gladly take every blow you need to hurl,” he told her gently. “Some actions are unforgiveable. And before you ask, no, I will not take you home again.”

  “You fool, I don’t want to go home,” she hissed. Surprise flared in his feral gaze. He had not expected that. “But I do want to set the record straight, and when I do, you’d better try to do something sensible to help fix things, or I swear to God, someday I will find a way to burn you to ashes.”

  “I see the passion of which you speak,” he whispered.

  Glancing at the doors again, she said rapidly, “I have no idea how much time we might have, so I’m going to cut to the chase. Morgan is bound by a geas. Everything you wanted to have happen when you kidnapped me can’t happen.”

  Those words were the first blow she had struck that caused him to look shocked. He breathed, “What are you talking about?”

  “You thought you would try to drive a wedge between two people who partnered together in crimes.” A resurgence of rage made her punch him in the chest. She said between clenched teeth, “Well, it’s not going to happen! Morgan is as much a prisoner as you were—as I am right now! He was never going to tell you about it. The geas prevents him from telling people. The only way I know is because I guessed from certain things he said. Once I knew about the compulsion, the geas loosened its hold and we were able to talk about it.”

  “Could that have been true all this time?” he muttered to himself as his gaze clouded, dark with doubt and memory. “I saw them fight like they hated each other, but lovers play at those games. She plays at those games. The pretty smiles and the deadly rages… both are carefully constructed acts. Behind all the sound and fury, she watches with unceasing care for any opportunity to mold fate to her advantage. And never forget Modred. He is the willing sword to her hand.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll never forget Modred,” she said, breathing hard. “Not after what he did to me. But right now, we’re not talking about him or Isabeau. We’re talking about you. There’s only one way for you to get what you want. And you still want it, don’t you… to break the tie that binds Morgan and Isabeau together?”

  His gaze snapped back into focus. “I want that more than my conscience or my soul.”

  Searching his gaze, strange though it was, she saw nothing but sincerity.

  “All right,” she said. “Isabeau wears a knife on a gold chain around her waist. It’s called Azrael’s Athame, or maybe Death’s Knife. Have you heard of it?”

  “No.” He frowned. “I remember that old knife in its scabbard. It shines with darkness.”
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  “Who is Azrael?”

  He raised his eyebrows, looking surprised again, apparently at her ignorance. “Azrael is Lord Death, one of the seven gods of the Elder Races. Sometimes they’re also called Primal Powers. There’s also Taliesin, the god of the Dance, who is first among the gods because dance is change, and the universe is constantly in motion. Then there’s Inanna, goddess of Love; Nadir, goddess of the depths or the Oracle; Will, god of the Gift; Camael, goddess of the Hearth; and Hyperion, the god of Law.” He paused, taking in her growing impatience, then added almost chidingly, “Unlike the gods from other religions, the seven Primal Powers are very real and active in the world.”

  “You sure about that?” she asked cynically. She was not in the mood for any detour of proselytizing.

  “Oh, I am quite sure,” Robin said in a soft voice that was, nevertheless, unshakable in its conviction. “I have heard Lord Death’s horn sounding the call for his Wild Hunt, and the baying of his hounds on a windswept night. It’s never wise to be away from shelter when Azrael rides at the death of the year. That is a sound I will never forget, although…” He frowned. “I have not heard the Wild Hunt in many years now.”

  His words caused a shiver to trickle down her back. “Well, Morgan said the knife Isabeau wears is a very old, Powerful magic item.” Driven by a sense of urgency, she talked faster. Their luck couldn’t possibly hold for too much longer. “Apparently, she struck him with it, and she not only bound him somehow with the geas, but it turned him into a kind of lycanthrope. He’s the one who creates her other lycanthropes.” Pausing, she added slowly, “He called them Hounds too. It’s not that common of a word in the United States, so it stood out to me.”

  Robin’s eyes narrowed. “Hounds created by Death’s Knife,” he murmured. “I would like to get to the bottom of the truth behind that tale.”

  “So do it,” she hissed. “The only way to break Morgan and Isabeau apart is to free him from the geas. He’s trying to do it himself, but he keeps getting pulled away from his research to save my useless ass because of you! But he can’t help to free me, because he’s been forbidden to help prisoners escape. And he’s running out of time.”