“Tri...” She stopped herself just in time. She resolved to continue to be polite, keep her wits about her, and surreptitiously maintain the link into the node through her contact with the earth. “Trish,” she said instead of her own name. She turned her attention back to the woman just in time to catch a flicker of something that looked like suspicion on the old woman’s face, but it was gone before she could be sure. “Trish McFearson,” she finished.
“Aaah, well that’s another matter then.” The old woman resumed her sorting. “McFearson is an upstanding name. Yes, a McFearson should have a special gift.”
Trina’s heart pounded. This wasn’t right. She’d tried her best to get through that hedge and it let this woman in with barely a twitch? While the old woman went on humming, sorting, and talking to herself, Trina focused her inner sight on the woman’s aura. A frisson of fear iced her skin.
The old woman had no aura.
Everything alive had an aura. Either this woman wasn’t alive, or she was hiding it with a glamour—a strong one. Trying not to let her suspicions show, Trina began to draw power into her still bare feet.
“Mmmmm. Yes, and you have such lovely long dark hair and those green eyes…should have known you for a…McFearson, did you say? Aha! Here is your gift. Practically calling out your name, it is.” She pulled a pair of golden, enameled hair combs from her basket, rose from her seat, and thrust them at Trina. “Go on, take them. Take them.”
The antique combs were of rare Dwarven workmanship, some of the best Trina had ever seen. Delicate whorls of gold inlaid with jewel bright cloisonné, they hardly looked strong enough for her heavy hair, but somehow, she knew they wouldn’t fail.
“No, thank you.” She held up her hand, palm out, rejecting the gift.
“Don’t be rude, dearie.” The woman stepped off the porch and pushed the combs into Trina’s outstretched hand. Trina watched in horror as her fingers curled automatically around the jewelry. “They were meant for you.”
As soon as she touched them the icy-cold, smooth Dwarven gold captivated Trina and she forgot to use her magic. The power drained back into the ground as she stared at the jewelry clutched in her fist.
“Try them on!” Urged the old woman, her face and hands corded in tension. “They were once a MacElvy’s, they should be again.”
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Trina knew the old woman had said MacElvy and not McFearson. Somewhere, she heard herself screaming not to place the combs in her hair. The lure of the Dwarven gold called to her, smothering her common sense and fogging her brain. She could almost hear a far-away tune coming from the combs, calling her to place them in her hair, and drowning out the dwindling screams that no one but she could hear. And then even she couldn’t hear them. In a daze, she swept her hair up, anchoring the combs one at a time in her dark tresses.
“Yesssss.” The old woman hissed through dry cracked lips. “Yessss. They are perfect for you.” She held up a small ornate hand mirror. “Look,” she commanded, in a suddenly strong voice.
Unable to do anything else, Trina looked into the mirror, her heart pounding. A great lassitude overwhelmed her at the sight of her face. Her skin was a shocking white and her lips blood red. Her eyelids dropped to half shut and were closing fast. She struggled to open them, to tear the combs from her hair, to reach for her Gift. The last thing she saw before she fell on the porch stairs was the reflection of her large black pupils staring into the mirror.
Chapter Sixteen
Logan rode home through the forest, his pockets stuffed with satins and silks for his lovely servant. His stomach growled. Ten long hours combing through Underhill for any trace of the elusive Lady Aoife and he was ready for a meal and his bed. He rolled his neck from side to side, the cracking sounding loud in the quiet night. For once, Solanum’s mouth was shut, the puca keeping his observations to himself as the hounds raced silently ahead through the trees.
As they approached the cottage, Logan pictured Trina’s reaction to the gifts he carried and a strange sense of elation curled through him, his blood humming with anticipation. The dresses, shoes, and tasty dinner he’d taken the trouble to acquire should please the witch. And she deserved them.
Despite his revelations about his stay in prison, his relationship with the queen, and his childhood, she’d welcomed him in her bed. After he’d purged some of the darkness inside his soul that morning, the witch had received him with enthusiasm and grace. Her mysterious green eyes had driven him to new levels of performance as he’d bent her body over and pleasured her with his tongue. He envisioned long nights of pleasure ahead. He would keep her happy, safe, and smothered with gifts, and she would stay with him as long as he needed her.
A frown crossed his face. He didn’t have any experience understanding or keeping a woman. He only hoped she understood things the way he did.
Solanum tossed his head. “Get your mind back on your task, Logan.”
“I was enjoying the silence.”
The puca snorted. “You’re lucky the hounds and I are alert, or you’d be traveling somewhere else now, lost in a portal somewhere.”
“I know where we are.”
“Yeah, you do. We’re heading back to your lightskirt, so of course you know where you’re going.”
Solanum’s sarcastic accusation wasn’t wrong. Logan had thought of little besides Trina and what he intended to do with her delectable body the entire time he’d been gone.
“Face it man, you’ve a crush on her. Dumb as a stone, you are. You do know she’ll be dead and you’ll live on, and on, and on.”
“Quiet.” He tightened his knees around the puca’s barrel. “It’s nothing but a fling. One year, maybe more, but I’ll not be keeping her around long enough to be mourning her.”
“Ignorant slob. You’re already mourning her. Sooner, later, it won’t matter. She’ll go and you’ll mourn. It’s the weakness of the soul in you.”
“You’re ruining my good mood, beast.” Logan frowned at the space between Solanum’s twitching ears. He didn’t want to think of Trina gone, much less of something as unavoidable as death stealing her away.
“Someone needs to keep you on your toes.” They neared the hedge and Solanum’s ears pricked forward. “Hist, someone’s been here. There’s a stench of something not right.”
They rounded the hedge to the gaping entrance. The front hound stiffened and a low growl echoed in Logan’s head. Deep in the shadows, at the bottom of the porch stairs, lay a tumbled pile of dark hair. For a moment he stared, unsure what it was. And then it hit him in a solid blow to his gut.
Trina.
He leapt off Solanum, pushing through the hounds as they fanned out into a circle, tails down, hungry yellow eyes fixed on her lifeless form. At first, Logan thought she’d fallen down the short steps and was injured, but one look at her chalk-white face and blood-red lips and he knew. She was dead.
Solanum followed close behind. “Out of the way, ye sods!” The hounds scattered to the side.
The ache in Logan’s gut spread into his chest.
Solanum pushed his large head in Logan’s way. “See, the stupid cow’s gone and died on you already.”
“Shut up!” Logan forced his feet to move and he shoved the black head violently aside. “Get out of the way.”
He pulled his riding gloves off his shaking hands and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Any later and he wasn’t sure he would have found it at all. He focused his inner sight. Her usual verdant, healthy aura was contaminated by the sickly color of noxious pond scum.
“You’re no healer.”
“If you shut up, I might be able to do something!” He narrowed his focus and tried to locate the origin of the problem. He traced through her aura, following the lurid green that was quickly insinuating itself in her system. Finally, he found the source in her tumbled hair.
He put his leather gloves back on. Pushing her silky hair back from her face, he searched through the tangles, uncovering an i
ntricate pair of Dwarven combs. The magical, lurid green poison leaked into her through the wicked sharp points.
Logan blew out his breath and prepared to pull out the combs.
“If you remove them, boy, you might kill her. The spell could be rooting in her system. If you pull them out, there’s a good chance they’ll pull out her soul.”
He dropped his hands to his sides. “I might hasten her death, but I don’t see anything else to do.” She had paled past the point of porcelain, a tinge of green creeping under her skin. “Solanum, if you have any other ideas, speak up, she’s almost gone.”
“Nay. I don’t.” Solanum shifted to human. His lean face was unsympathetic as he spoke. “Pull them. If she dies, well, at least you won’t be lying to the queen anymore.”
Logan clenched his hand into a fist, ready to take a swing at Solanum’s vicious, irritating face.
Solanum stared back, his black eyes hollow and expressionless.
Logan’s shoulders drooped. “Fuck you,” he said, but his anger against the puca had drained away.
There was nothing else to do. Her pulse was weak and thready. If he delayed and took her somewhere, the move might kill her. His stomach tied into Gordian knots, he looked at Trina and took a steadying breath. Reaching his gloved hands into the waves of dark hair, he tugged the deadly combs loose.
He flung the combs across the clearing, and the hounds scattered. For a long, excruciating moment, there was no difference. She was bone still.
His stomach clenched.
Cursing his lack of healing knowledge, he closed his eyes tight and pleaded with the Fates, the Goddess, whoever would listen and bargain with a reprobate like him.
The hounds, Solanum, even the wind, stayed motionless, and a drop of sweat trickled its way down Logan’s spine.
Then Solanum exhaled.
Logan opened his eyes. “What is it? Do you sense anything?”
“Nay.”
“There!”
At first, it was a faint tinge of slight blush, then color rushed back into her skin. Her lips lost the bizarre red color of the spell, paling just shy of their usual, rosy beauty. He squeezed his fingers to her wrist, searched for her pulse again, and this time, was rewarded with a weak, but steady beat.
Relief rushed through him and he sagged onto a step.
Trina’s eyelashes quivered. “What happened?” she whispered. She searched his expression, her eyes hazy and disoriented.
“Shh, it’s all right.”
“I’ll take the watch.” Solanum said, shifting into a black dog the size of a large pony and stationing himself in front of the porch.
Logan nodded and swept Trina up into his arms.
A hard shiver racked her body. “I’m c-c-cold.”
“Shh, lass.” He carried her inside and over to the bed, tucking her tight under the blankets. He forced himself to be quiet and leave her be when all he wanted to know was who had dared violate his wards and what had happened to leave her so close to death. “It’s shock,” he said instead. “I’ll make tea.”
He built up the fire in the stove by hand, afraid he was so shaken that if he used his magic it would ricochet and the stove would explode. The simple acts of filling the kettle, placing it on the stove, and finding the tea and honey helped calm his anxiety. By the time the tea was ready, his trembling had slowed and the sweat on his back was dry.
“Here’s your tea, lass. The heat should help.” She held out a shaking hand. “Hang on, you’re racked with the shivers.” He placed the mug on the bedside table. “We need to get you naked.”
“Logan, no, I can’t.” Trina lifted her hand and let it drop.
“What do you think I am, lass, a monster?” Her eyes widened. He shook his head in disgust. “You need to get warm. Body heat’s the best way.”
He helped her take off her clothes then stripped off his own. “I was thinking of climbing back into bed with you this eve, but not like this,” he said, getting under the covers and pulling her into his warm body, the joke falling flat between them.
They spooned together perfectly. Her head tucked under his chin, his body coiled around her icy back. Pressed up against the curvy cheeks of her warming ass, his cock grew hard and wanting. Cursing his lack of control, he nuzzled her neck and breathed in her familiar, earthy smell, only succeeding in growing hornier.
He’d almost lost her. He wanted to stash her somewhere she’d never get hurt, never be exposed to anything that would let death close in and open him to the pain he’d felt today. His embrace tightened.
“Logan, you’re hurting me.”
He eased off, but buried his face in her hair and didn’t let go.
When her shivering slowed, he helped her sit up, wrapped the afghan from the foot of the bed tightly around her bare shoulders, and passed the tea into her not too steady hand.
“You’re still wobbly, but let’s get this down you where it will do the most good.” He eyed her, fretful as a nurse, while she took small, careful sips.
He waited until he was sure she could handle the hot liquid before rising and getting dressed. “I need to go outside and take care of something. Stay in bed, I’ll be back soon.”
Trina gave a weak nod and rested her too pale face on the pillows.
Searching the closet, he found and pulled out a small oak handkerchief box. Dumping out the handkerchiefs, he rooted through and chose a black silk one. “I meant what I said. Stay in bed.” He held her clouded gaze for a moment, waiting for her nod, before grabbing his riding gloves and going outside. He found the golden combs glittering under the stars on a bed of dead, black grass, a group of the hounds sitting sentry.
With his riding gloves on, he wrapped the combs up in the black silk handkerchief and placed the bundle inside the box, taking great care they didn’t touch any of his flesh.
“Those are a wicked piece of work.” Solanum snickered, emerging from the shadows still in the form of a black dog. “Too bad you saved her life. You almost were spared a horrendous fate. Now you’re doomed to grief.”
“Not amusing,” Logan said. “I need you to put them somewhere safe. We may need them later, but I want them far from here for now.” Logan held out the box. “She put them on once, she might do it again.”
“Are you sure?” Solanum shifted to human and took the box. He raised a slender, black brow. “You might want her to put them on. Her death now will be easier than in a hundred years.”
If he didn’t know for sure that the puca couldn’t work against him, he would wonder if he was behind this heinous act. But Solanum was bound for eternity, or until Logan’s last family member had died.
“I’m sure.” Logan turned, tripping over hounds pressing against him in their anxiety. “Damn it!” The hounds cowered. “Guard,” he snarled, and they spread out into the clearing, tails tucked between their legs.
“She’s dangerous to your well-being.” The puca’s black eyes flashed red. “You’ll be responsible for more than yourself, more than your uncles. She’s human and vulnerable. Where will you manage to keep her now?”
Logan’s anger flared, then died.
“You’re right. I’ve failed to keep her safe, and there’s nowhere to leave her.” Logan’s shoulders drooped. “I can’t lose her now. I must find Aoife and solve this riddle.”
“What of Prince Kian?”
“When she’s safe, you and I will find the prince.”
“I’ve looked between the hills and searched the solar system. The Black Queen hides him well.”
“He’s somewhere. We’ll find him. I have sworn an oath.”
Solanum nodded and walked towards the forest with the box.
Logan stared at the circle of dead grass. The puca spoke nothing but the truth. Logan had failed to find Aoife, failed to keep Trina safe, and now, she paid the price. What could he possibly do with her while he remained tethered to the queen and responsible for a missing prince?
He returned to the cottage where Trina gaz
ed into her nearly empty mug. He sat beside her, the mattress sinking under his weight, and picked up her lax free hand. He rubbed her palm absentmindedly with his thumb, examining her pale face and glassy eyes.
“Can you tell me what happened, lass?”
“I’m not sure.” She frowned. “An old woman gave me a set of combs.” Her hand went to her head. Her face flickered with some emotion, and she frowned. “Where are they?” Her anguished voice rose. “Where are my beautiful combs?”
She dropped the mug. It rolled to the floor, the last of the tea spilling out onto the wood. “I need to find my combs.” Tossing away the blankets, she struggled to get up.
“Hush lass, back into bed.” He wrapped the afghan around her and eased her back onto the bed, cradling her in his arms. “The combs almost killed you today.”
He kept his voice soft. “Where did you see the old woman?”
“They’re mine, I need them!” she wailed, darting wild looks around the room. “Where are they?”
He pulled her tense body close. “Hush now. This will wear off the longer you’re away from them.” He hoped it was the truth. He had no experience with this type of magic. He slow-rocked her and she relaxed in his arms until he was able to ease his tight hold and try again.
“Can you describe the old woman?”
“I remember. There was something wrong about her, something strange.” Her voice shrank and she clutched his arm. “Why did I take the combs from her?” A shudder ripped through her, and her eyes glossed over. Her arms flailed, her hands hitting him in the face. She kicked his shins and elbowed his ribs, but Logan tightened his hold and rode out the storm.
“Tell me what you remember,” he asked, holding her close and stroking her hair.
“She was ancient and wore a hideous, long dress. I didn’t know what to do with her, and then… she handed me the combs.” She paused, her face flickered again, and he identified the emotion as lust. “Where are they?” She spasmed, her arms flying from her sides.
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