Spellbinder (Moonshadow Book 2)

by Thea Harrison

  Calamity was as good a word as any, he supposed.

  He pointed at the gates. “Open them.”

  “I-I have orders to k-keep them closed at all costs,” the captain stammered. “Please forgive me, my lord!”

  The captain’s name was Bruin, Morgan knew. He had a wife and a child.

  Morgan told him softly, “Run. Spread the word. Tell everyone to run while they can. I will not leave a single stone standing in this place. It’s more warning than any of you gave my people, and more mercy. Eventually you might rebuild again, but on this day, I will kill anybody who opposes me. Go.”

  The captain hesitated, then his face disappeared from the peephole, and a moment later, the guards threw both gates wide open, abandoned their post, and ran.

  Morgan strode down the main street into the city. Reaching deep for the earth magic, he caused the ground to shake. Terrified people raced past him, clutching babies, children, and random household goods. Buildings began to collapse around him.

  When he reached the outside steps of the palace, more guards appeared.

  These were higher in seniority than the guards at the gate, and a few were proficient magic users. Looking doomed, they threw spells at him—fiery morningstars and other offensive spells.

  But Morgan wore his hate like a carapace, and he had forged it with magic. Their spells sizzled harmlessly against his shield. Conserving his personal energy, he used his array of weaponized jewels in return, throwing them in swift succession.

  Spells of blindness hit the palace guard, along with death curses, flesh corrosion, morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that made them fight each other, until they were soon overcome.

  Catching sight of a palace captain, Morgan cast a whip of magic around the other man’s throat and forced him to his knees. He asked, “Where is she?”

  The man’s eyes bulged as he clawed uselessly at his own throat. “My lord, I don’t know. I swear it.”

  “Oh, let him go,” Modred said from the top of the palace steps. “You were never one to take your anger out on battle fodder, anyway.”

  Morgan looked up. Modred descended the steps at a leisurely pace. He wore his ensorcelled battle armor that shone bright silver in the sun. He looked heroic, handsome, and he held his drawn sword relaxed at his side.

  Morgan’s entire focus narrowed. He had waited centuries, hoping he might get the chance for this one moment.

  Releasing his hold on the palace captain’s throat, he told the man, “I will give you the same chance I gave the others. Go tell the palace servants and guard to run while they can.”

  Coughing, the captain scrambled to his feet and raced up the stairs past Modred, who never bothered to watch him go.

  As Modred reached the bottom of the steps, Morgan turned to face him. “Where is she?”

  “Gone to a hiding place you know nothing about,” Modred replied. “She used you like a tool, but she never trusted you. She always knew better than that. She left me behind just in case.”

  “Foolish of you not to go with her.” Morgan began to circle around the other man, leisurely stalking his prey.

  “Well, what can you do.” Modred looked ironic, while he turned to keep facing Morgan. “When we heard rumors circulating that people had seen you leave the castle alive, neither of us believed it. She was, after all, the one who had stuck the knife in your heart, and I had watched her do it. The Hounds had deserted, but that was no surprise, since you weren’t around to keep them in control. So here we are. It’s been a long road getting here, hasn’t it?”

  “You killed my boy.” The raw words burned Morgan’s mouth. “My good, kind, just king.”

  “Of course I did, you fool,” Modred said. “What else did you expect? For Isabeau to truly solidify her hold on her new kingdom, she had to eradicate the humans who lived here in Avalon. As short-lived as you were, you multiplied like vermin. Besides, he wasn’t good enough to vanquish me. I was the better swordsman.”

  “You’re not better than me.” Morgan drew the sword from its scabbard.

  Modred’s gaze fixed on the blade and widened. He whispered, “Now, that’s a sight I had not expected to see again in my life.”

  “No?” He strode forward. “Come take a closer look. I promise you, it will be the last thing you see.”

  Modred sprang to meet him, raising his sword to parry Morgan’s attack, and the clash of blades rang out over the empty square. The Light Fae noble was fast and lethally efficient.

  With every blow Modred struck, and every maneuver, Morgan imagined him using the same tactics in that final battle centuries ago, the flawless footwork, the elegant pivot.

  Morgan had watched him closely ever since and had learned it all.

  When Modred effortlessly switched the sword from his right hand to the left, Morgan was ready and smoothly adapted to the change. With a quick lunge, Modred sought to drive him back, and he accommodated the attack, deflecting while he retreated.

  Two things he had learned—how to hate, and how to wait. He didn’t have to rush to completion, or extend himself needlessly.

  Instead, he let the other male work, until gradually, the sweat stood out on Modred’s forehead and he began to tire, and Morgan could see in the other man’s gaze that Modred was beginning to realize he had been playing with him all along.

  “Gods damn you.” Modred’s handsome lips pulled into a snarl. He exploded in a furious attack, raining a rapid series of blows on Morgan’s guard. “Don’t fucking dance around. Fight me!”

  Now it was Morgan’s turn to give him an ironic smile. “As you wish.”

  He drove forward, smashing with the force of a sledgehammer at Modred’s defense. His attack had nothing to do with technique, elegance, or footwork. It was pure, murderous intent.

  At long last, Modred faltered. His back foot slipped, the one bearing his weight, and when he staggered, Morgan found the slip in his guard and slid his sword through it.

  While both men wore magical protections, Modred’s ensorcelled armor could not withstand a direct blow from the sword Morgan carried.

  The tip of Morgan’s blade sliced through the metal like it was mere leather. He felt the sword grate against the bone of a rib, and then it went all the way through. Morgan stepped closer, pushing it farther in until the hilt grated against armor, and he stood face-to-face with Modred, looking into his eyes as the crisis in his body began to take over.

  “When you struck him down, did you really believe you weren’t going to be mine?” Morgan whispered, watching unblinkingly as Modred’s gaze began to darken. “Did you relax over the years? Did you think I might have given in or broken? I never did. You killed my boy. I watched you every day. I resent every breath you’ve taken, begrudge you every meal you’ve eaten, every smile, every laugh. I wish I could kill you twice.”

  A ghost of a laugh left Modred’s pale lips, along with a gush of crimson blood. He gasped, “Once will be quite sufficient.”

  Modred’s knees buckled, and as he went down, Morgan pulled the sword out, making the rest of it go quicker. When Modred’s eyelids closed for the last time, Morgan laid his hand over the dead man’s face. It was the only area of his body unprotected by the armor.

  Whispering a firespell, he released it quickly and stood over Modred’s body until it had burned to ash.

  Finally it was done. Breathing evenly and flexing his shoulders back, Morgan sheathed the sword as he dug deeper and reached harder for more Earth magic.

  He had never let his Power flow in such an ungoverned flood before. It poured out of him, as relentless as a tidal wave.

  He didn’t rein it in again until the summer palace had broken apart completely and the very last of the ruins had slid into the foaming, turbulent sea.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jamael took Sid to Scarborough in North Yorkshire, of all places.

  When she found out the name of the English town, she had to cough out a laugh. Life could sure have
a dark sense of humor at times.

  With remarkable efficiency, Jamael consulted the local tourist office and found a furnished farmhouse to rent located outside town, an easy walk from the coastline.

  With four bedrooms, the house was rather too large for one person, and the massive kitchen hadn’t been updated since the 1960s. It also wasn’t much to look at. Built of stone and brick, it sat squarely on its patch of land and looked like it had weathered many years and would see many more.

  But it had fireplaces in almost every room, and from the end of the long, narrow drive, one could see the ruins of Scarborough Castle sitting high on a rocky promontory, standing sentinel over the sea.

  “I’m curious,” she asked as Jamael unlocked the door and they walked inside for the first time. “Why did you choose Scarborough of all places?”

  “The town lies at the border of the North York Moors National Park,” the Djinn told her. “You said you wanted somewhere wild and windswept. The North York Moors is one of the largest wildernesses left in the United Kingdom.” He gave her a keen glance that seemed to see everything. “You will have privacy here, and plenty of room to run.”

  The tension between her shoulder blades began to ease. “That sounds so good.”

  “I will bring you groceries, a car, and a phone,” Jamael said. “Do you need anything else?”

  I need Morgan to forgive me.

  Suddenly, she was so exhausted it took a conscious effort to remain upright. “No. What you’re doing is more than enough.”

  The Djinn was as good as his word. Within an hour, someone drove a car up to the farmhouse. Sid wasn’t familiar with European cars, but she thought it might be a Peugeot. Soon after, a wealth of groceries arrived, everything from prepared meals to pantry staples, fresh foods, and even wine.

  God, to simply relax and enjoy a glass of wine. She no longer knew what that felt like.

  The Djinn weren’t known for their kindness, yet Jamael had proved the exception. When he pressed a smartphone into her hands, she said, “I don’t know what to say except thank you. I don’t know when I’ll hold a concert again, but when I do, you will always be more than welcome.”

  “Just be well. That will be thanks enough.” Jamael smiled. “Can I do anything else for you?”

  “No. What you’ve already done is amazing.”

  He bowed. “Don’t hesitate to call me again, should you think of anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  She watched as he dissipated in a maelstrom of energy.

  When he left, she dragged linens and blankets out of a cupboard and made the bed in the largest bedroom. Then she crawled into it and slept straight for almost thirty hours. After waking, she ate one of the prepared meals, a chicken curry dinner, took a short walk, then slept another fourteen hours.

  Except for Jamael, nobody knows where I am, she thought, reveling in the peace and silence in the farmhouse.

  She didn’t turn on the television or the radio. Instead, over the next few days, she took longer and longer walks. One night she took her new violin with her. When she reached an open place where she could look out over the land meeting the sea, she remembered the black and white hall and her pact with Lord Azrael, and she played all the wild grief in her heart for an audience of one.

  On the third day, she thought she might be able to make a phone call but backed away from that almost immediately. Had Robin managed to get her message to any of them?

  Sitting at the kitchen table, she stared at the phone. Instead of calling, she punched in Vince’s phone number, which was one of the ones she had memorized, and sent him a text.

  This is Sid. I’m just outside Scarborough, and I’m okay.

  Okay being a relative term, of course.

  Almost immediately, her phone rang, and she winced from the strident noise. But everyone on Earth had endured two months of uncertainty, and it wasn’t fair to avoid talking to them just because the phone seemed strange, and her emotions felt raw enough already.

  So propping her forehead on the heel of one hand, she answered and began to let her old life back in.

  “I’m different,” she warned Vince. It was easier to talk to him. He could deal with what happened privately and not break down on her like Julie would. “It was bad, I’m not human any longer, and I’m dealing with a lot of emotions. I can’t stand it if any of you fuss at me right now. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. Easy. “It’s all going to be okay. Just tell me where you’re at. Let me be your guard dog. Nobody will get to you again without going through me first.”

  At his words, a silent, unamused chuckle shook through her. She almost told him, Vince, I could guard you now.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “Okay.”

  She told him where she was staying, and he drove up to the farmhouse within a matter of hours. Vince had set up a temporary office in London from which to direct the search for her, and Robin had, in fact, delivered her message to him.

  After they talked, she felt ready to talk to others. Two days later, Julie and Rikki came, along with Vince’s wife, Terri, and it turned out the farmhouse wasn’t too big after all. They had all been wounded by what had happened, and not just emotionally, although Sid knew they each cared about her.

  But Vince had not been home to the States since the car wreck. After recovering from his injuries, he had spent all his time spearheading the search. Sid was the biggest client at Julie’s boutique PR firm, and for two months, Rikki, her manager, had been living in limbo. They all needed to take a breath and figure out how to move on.

  At first, careful though everybody was, the air felt raw and charged with too much emotion. Sid escaped a lot, changing into her lycanthrope form to run for miles over the vast moorland of the park.

  As she said to them, her need to run away wasn’t personal. She was dealing with both PTSD and the sensory overload from the lycanthropy virus.

  Gradually, they all adjusted. Patience and steadiness were the house rules, until she could finally unbend enough to hug Julie. From there, things got better.

  Not terrific. Not even okay. Nothing soothed the gaping hole in her chest where she mourned how things had ended with Morgan. But still, better.

  Within a few days, they had sketched into place a rough game plan for how to proceed. Julie crafted statements for the press on Sid’s return and recovery without going into detail about what had actually happened.

  There were some legalities that would need to be taken care of. The British authorities wanted information about how the kidnapping occurred, but Vince would field as much of that as he could over the next week as the news broke. Then Sid’s contract with his security firm would be terminated until the next concert tour, whenever that might be, and he could finally return home for good.

  As for the rest of the current tour, it would be cancelled, not postponed, and the remaining ticketholders’ money refunded. Sid didn’t know when she would be ready to perform in public again. She needed to get used to the stimulus of being in large crowds before she crossed that bridge, and she didn’t know how long that would take.

  “It will happen someday,” Sid said to Rikki’s worried expression. “But definitely not until next year, which is apparently only four and a half months away anyway.”

  To Rikki’s credit, her response was instant and sincere. “You get to be who you are. You get to play when you want, for whom you want, and when you want. You’ve been going ninety miles an hour for several years anyway. We’ll just throttle back until you’re ready to go again. I promise you, none of this is going to be a problem, Sid.”

  After the third day, her houseguests began to leave. Terri left for the States, and Vince went back to London to finalize things before heading home. Julie was the last to let go.

  “I hate to leave you stuck here in the middle of nowhere!” she exclaimed.

  Sid smiled. “In the middle of nowhere is exactly where I want to be. I’ll be home
in a month or so. Maybe two.”

  Julie sniffed. “If you’re going to stay that long, I’m coming back again in a few weeks.”

  “That would be fine. But just you. Not any of the others.”

  Julie studied her face. “What are you going to do here all by yourself?”

  “I’m going to relish having time off. I’m going to read books I’ve been meaning to read for years, and watch TV. I might even go sightseeing.”

  And somehow I need to figure out a way to live without Morgan, because there’s no point in trying to go forward with anything else until I can do that.

  But she didn’t say it. She hadn’t told any of them what had happened in Avalon, and after a couple of gentle attempts, they had wisely given up asking, at least for the time being.

  Finally Julie left as well, and welcome silence settled back in the farmhouse.

  By the end of the second week, Sid was beginning to sleep better. She was no longer succumbing to the long bouts of exhaustion, and her appetite had evened out. She thought she might possibly try a trip into town.

  After all, she had coped with a houseful of guests. She didn’t have to stay long. Planning her first excursion carefully with the help of the new laptop Julie had brought for her, she decided she would check out a bookstore. She wanted some books to read, and there was a local Waterstones, or she could go to The Book Emporium.

  If there were too many people, or she got overwhelmed by sensory input, she could just leave. No big deal, right?

  The next day, she headed into town, driving carefully since everything was on the wrong side—the gearshift, the steering wheel, the road. By the time she had pulled into a car park, she was feeling rather proud of herself.

  Studying the map on her smartphone, she walked down the street. The bookstore should be two blocks forward, then to her right. It was a sunny, late summer day, and there were lots of people on the sidewalks, many of them looking like tourists, but the scents and the sounds were not too overwhelming, at least not yet.

  Then, up ahead, a tall figure rounded the corner at a leisurely stroll.