Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

  "Bah, the woman is a magic charmer I suspect."

  "Aye, with the body of a goddess and a face to seize your breath."

  An intoxicating scent stirred when she moaned and rolled her head—a mixture of violets and wild honey. The woman embodied beauty, suffused the very air he breathed, but something else struggled to surface around him, a malevolent foreboding that prickled his flesh. Now of all times, why had his forest nymph come, the woman of his dreams? She couldn't be a spy or a witch, looked too innocent to be cavorting with a band of cutthroats.

  The keep loomed ahead. He'd hand the girl over to Gwyneth with instructions to take her to the public baths and clean her up. After he took the adornment from her neck.

  Everything seemed to be in order as people scurried in and out the massive gate. Villagers waved and one or two looked at the girl slumped against their prince's chest. Balion gazed down at her, the image of the spotted cat chasing her still fresh in his mind. A moment longer and the beast would have killed her, ripped her slender body to shreds. The creature's fiery eyes loomed before him and the image of his sharp, white fangs piercing her tender skin.

  Balion sent a silent prayer to the Gods and pulled her tighter against his chest.

  * * *

  Kira awoke to a pounding head and her neck ached. She had the strangest dream again about the spotted cat chasing her through the woods. Good God, perhaps Kissa hated her new home, had the capability to invade her dreams and seek retribution. The rest of the dream snaked through her befuddled mind—the warrior's hypnotic eyes, the long golden tresses, and strong hands gripping her naked bottom, holding her firm as he drove into her.

  She sat up in bed and gasped. On the brink of orgasm, her nipples hardened and heat warmed the skin between her thighs. Never had she experienced such an erotic dream where the aftermath was so pleasurable. She wondered whom to thank for sending the sex god.

  And then she took in her surroundings.

  This wasn't her bed and this wasn't her room. The walls were a lackluster gray, made of some type of stone, and a thin layer of sawdust covered the floor. The lone window held a pair of closed shutters, blocking the light. The crude desk braced against the far wall laid claim to a pile of scrolls and dusty books. In another corner, much to her delight, a pair of lovebirds in a gilt cage cooed and kissed. A rustic armoire sat next to the window with its door open, revealing a dozen or so costumes. Costumes! She rose and crossed the room, the shavings tickling her bare feet. Someone had removed her sneakers. She flipped through the long dresses and marveled at their authenticity.

  Scenes flashed through her mind at the same time she placed her finger over the achy spot on her neck―The Scarlet Angel moving in for the kill, looming over her as he pierced her skin with the tip of the blade. A woman's soothing voice crept from the cobwebs of her brain. "Come daughter of hope, savior of grief, come with me to a place of peace."

  Sirene!

  Kira recalled tumbling through an endless abyss, the fluorescent colors blinding her as she clutched her father's medallion. Her hand flew to her neck—gone like her sneakers! So why wasn't she dead? A shudder claimed her. Maybe she'd made a side-trip to purgatory. It wasn't nice enough to be heaven, and not hot enough for hell.

  She walked to the door and yanked on the handle. Locked. Bile surged up her throat. The Scarlet Angel meant to torture her before he killed her. Worry set in, and terror, gnawed at her insides until she thought she'd puke. Well, she couldn't sit and wait for something to happen. She'd raise such hell he'd have to open the door. She'd be waiting for him.

  But with what?

  Her prayers were answered moments later when she spied a rustic weapon on the wall. Resembling a bow and mounted on a long, sturdy piece of wood, the crude object would have to suffice. A quiver of arrows rested above it. The wooden chair teetered when she tried to pull it from the wall, but after several attempts, she wrenched the weapon and the arrows free. Can't be that difficult to operate. She flipped the antiquated piece over several times in her hand and then secured an arrow in the notch. Pulling back on the string, she released it and frowned when the shaft fizzled out a short foot from her. Damn, this will never do. She tried again, and again.

  An hour later and somewhat confident in her ability to shoot the contraption with a semblance of accuracy, she tucked it under her arm, picked up a metal bowl and banged on the door. Not a sound came from the other side. She banged louder and harder, three consecutive raps, pausing before pummeling the door again.

  "Let me out, you bastard! Open this door or I'll bring down the rafters! Help me! Someone help me!"

  Footsteps reached her from the other side. She dropped the bowl and ran to the far end of the room, and, holding the instrument before her, prepared to fire the moment The Scarlet Angel stepped through the door. Wouldn't he be surprised!

  The door creaked open and in walked…a tall, finely honed body. At first glance, Kira thought Lucifer had crafted some sort of sick joke. The man's muscles were tight, his shoulders broad, his hips narrow. The breath left her body in one enormous rush. Still clutching the weapon before her, she aimed it at his chest, intent on delivering an arrow into his heart. In that inconvenient moment, the dream came to her. A man with golden hair and eyes the color of blue gems stood at the edge of the forest. His voice hummed through the trees, low and mesmerizing. "Eros will make you burn with love for me."

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. "You're not The Scarlet Angel."

  His amused smirk angered her. "And I see ye are no longer ill."

  He watched her with interest, the intense eyes licking their way over her breasts and hips, settling for a moment in the cleft between her thighs. Long seconds later, his gaze returned to her face and moved to the weapon.

  "If ye intend to kill me put one leg in front for balance."

  Damn, the man reeked arrogance.

  "Now hold the crossbow level with your chest and pull back on the notch." He looked over his nose and took a step forward. "The small bronze nubbin by your thumb."

  "Don't come any closer!" She blew a lock of hair from her forehead. "I swear I'll shoot you!"

  His hands came down, palms up and he smiled, a wicked, wicked smile. She found it difficult to concentrate. He could be an actor in a play, but why didn't he just say so? He watched her with growing interest, as if reluctant to take on the weapon in her trembling hand.

  A white shirt, overlaid with a leather vest, covered his torso. The pants were also leather and clung to his muscular legs like second skin. She licked her dry lips. The scent of something wild and primal drifted across the room—his clothing or him, she didn't know which. Perfect eyebrows rose above the mosaic blue eyes. His features were chiseled, his mouth a tad too generous, but only a smidgen. His magnificent body lacked the teensiest ounce of excess fat. Images of the dream warrior flooded her muddled thoughts. God's pure vision of man. It couldn't be…wasn't possible.

  Her knees knocked, whether from his presence or the thought of killing him, she didn't know. For a moment indecision reigned, and damn if he didn't pick up on it. His confident gaze turned predatory as he advanced. With every step he took, some unnamed organ between her thighs ached and hot juices came in a flood between her legs. And only after one look at that sculpted face.

  The mesmerizing voice filled the warm space between them. "Why don't ye put that down and we'll parley? If ye are done looking at me, that is."

  She wanted to slap him, would if he came any closer. "I have no intention of putting this down." A pause before she narrowed one eye. "What's the deal? You work with The Scarlet Angel?"

  He shook his head, the long, golden hair flowing like spun gold across his massive shoulders.

  Her fingers shaking, she fumbled with the mechanism. "Tell me who you are or I'll kill you!"

  In a blur, he came at her. She drew back on the trigger and let the arrow fly. Morbid fascination gripped her when it hit him in the shoulder, and stuck. Before he leaped through th
e air to tackle her, his eyes gleamed hard and cold. They hit the floor hard, she, kicking, biting and screaming, he, doing his best to restrain her. His strong legs pinned the lower half of her body to the floor, his good hand locking her wrists over her head. The arrow protruded from his chest and oozed bright red blood. Thick, corded arms, level with her eyes, reminded her of his powerful strength. She screamed when his knee dug into the soft flesh between her thighs and pinned her to ground like a hog-tied heifer.

  He shouted so loud she flinched. "Be still!"

  She stopped her frantic struggle and stared at him. In the next moment, he reached up, broke the shaft in two and tossed it across the room. The anger left his face, replaced by confusion.

  Moments later his brows met, the blue eyes dark and lethal. "Now, who the hell are ye?" He reached into the pocket of his vest and dangled her father's medallion in her face. "And where did ye get this?"

  Before she could answer, people scurried into the room from all directions—a woman with long, dark hair, a smiling giant of a man, and another male who resembled the woman.

  "I warned ye, Balion," the giant said. "She's small, but I saw the fight in her eyes when she opened them."

  "By the Saints, the she-cat shot me!" Balion dragged her up by the hair and dangled the medallion in her face.

  "Give me that, you swine! It doesn't belong to you!" Kira turned a pleading look to the woman. "He stole it from me, took it from my neck while I―"

  The cad smiled again. "And what a lovely neck it is; one that will stretch on my gallows outside." His expression changed to one of suspicion. "The medallion doesn't belong to ye. It belongs to The Last Sorcerer of the King."

  Kira glanced toward the window and wondered if the gallows' comment was a joke. Unwilling to relinquish the talisman, she held her ground. "My father is The Last Sorcerer and it belongs to him."

  "Hah!" the man called Balion spat. "Ye lie! My father, King Roldan, gave it to Nicholas."

  The floor moved beneath her. "King–King Roldan?" Kira put her hands to her temples. "Who are you then?"

  The magnificent man looked down his nose at her. Even angry, he dazzled her. She could think of nothing but her need to touch him, taste him. I must be ill with a bug. Every time he glanced at her, her knees buckled.

  "I am the King's son," he said. "The Light-Prince of Locke Cress."

  The conversation she had with her parents several nights ago, or was it last night, came flooding back. The Story Mage, King Roldan, Sirene. I can't think about this now. This can't be happening. They're actors in a play or some evil form of humans banded together to play a practical joke.

  Speaking to her again, his voice came through a tunnel. "Confess, witch, are ye a spy?"

  Her elbow caught his ribs, eliciting a yowl and her freedom. "First you assault me," she snapped, twisting her body around to face him. "Then you accuse me of stealing the medallion, and now, I'm a spy?"

  He paused. "Don't forget I called ye a she-cat, and a witch."

  She emitted a woeful sniff. "Yes, you did."

  Their eyes met in a timeless moment. For every step Kira took back, he took one forward. She swallowed; aware she'd rather keep company with the giant than this decadent creature, a man who caused the breath to catch in her throat.

  The woman intervened. "Oh, do be civil, Balion, you are frightening our guest."

  "Guest, Gwyneth! A jackal in lamb's wool is what she is, with a tongue sharper than a hairy wasp's sting."

  Smiling, the large-framed man stretched his arm toward Balion. "Let her be now and come over to the chair so I can look at the wound." He glanced to Kira, his eyes twinkling. "Do ye promise to be civil if Balion takes his leave of ye? Ye have the word of Jarlock he'll not harm ye."

  Before she could answer, Balion looked into her eyes, that gorgeous mouth inches from hers. Her tongue felt thick and heat skimmed over every inch of her flesh.

  "Ye don't have my word, little hell-cat," he whispered. "Strike me again and I'll take a branch to your sorry hind quarters."

  Flavoring her words with indignation, she snapped, "You do, and I'll–I'll―"

  "Peace!" Jarlock stepped between them. "Balion, take leave of the lass."

  Kira liked Jarlock. At least the man possessed some order of scruples, and was a fine-looking man to boot despite his brute-strength proportions.

  Drawing back with the temper of a disgruntled badger, Balion hissed.

  Seized by the power of his magnetism, Kira almost swooned when he stepped away from her.

  The woman crossed the room and stood before her. "Sit, girl, and let's have a better look at ye." She pulled her chin up with a finger. "Passable once the mud is removed. What do ye think, Garrick?"

  The man smiled at Kira. "I think the baths will be crowded today when ye arrive with her."

  Something about Garrick caused Kira's toes to curl. His brown eyes mimicked the woman's, and yet something about the golden-flecked pupils rang familiar. She pulled her gaze away from his to address the matter at hand. "I won't take a bath in front of God and everyone!" She rose to her feet.

  Balion shouted from across the room. "This is my kingdom, and ye'll do as I command."

  He looked away with a frown when tears filled her eyes. Drawn to the scene, Kira watched as Jarlock pinned the warrior's shoulder with one hand and yanked the broken shaft free with the other. Pain flickered through Balion's eyes and a small moan escaped his lips, but other than that he didn't flinch.

  Kira refused to believe the people her father once knew had somehow entered her life. Or had she entered theirs? Despite the incredulity of her predicament, she couldn't help the pang of guilt when bright red blood oozed from Balion's wound and seeped into his vest.

  Her smile strained, she directed her conversation to him. "I am sorry. I thought you were The Scarlet Angel. I see now you're not and I had no idea how to fire the darn thing, but I had to protect myself somehow."

  The Light-Prince leaned back in the chair and sucked in a breath, yet continued to watch her with the sight of an eagle while Jarlock stitched the ragged flesh. "Who is this wicked man ye speak of, one who brutalizes women?" He looked down his nose again, his words spiteful. "The Gods cursed me when they didn't do ye in before ye shot me."

  Jarlock smiled again, made a fancy loop with the thread, knotted it off, and reached inside his vest for something. Even from across the room, the poultice permeated the air with a foul stench. The odious compress soon forgotten, Kira's gaze settled on Balion's chest. She couldn't help but notice every sculpted contour and the soft blonde curls covering it.

  Pitiful. Her life was toppling faster than a house of cards and her every thought revolved around the decadent man glaring at her as though he wanted to strangle her. She prayed it was all a mistake, hoped at any moment the people in the room would clap their hands, roar with laughter and say, “Ha-ha, we sure had you going for a minute!" But they did not.

  "The killer." She realized they were waiting for an answer. "He's killed four women in Providence and I almost became the fifth. I followed him from the plasma center and ended up in an abandoned warehouse with the maniac. I know." She smiled at her audience. "Criminal profilers should know better. There I stood, trapped, tripping over my feet as he came in for the kill." Bending at the waist, she spread her legs, her arm slicing through the air with the make-believe knife. Her tone icy, she looked at Balion. "He also tackled me, pierced my skin with the tip of his knife. Here." She pointed to it. Looking skyward, the images rushed forward as she continued. "The strangest thing happened. I heard a woman chanting…lulling me into submission." She faced the captive crowd again. "I think her name is Sirene."

  After they exchanged glances, eyes narrowed in unison and they turned to her. The air took on a stillness as if every remnant of life had been sucked from the room.

  She continued. "I'm not sure about the name because she came to me in a dream. So did the spotted cat." Her hand flew to her forehead. "At least, I thought they w
ere dreams."

  "The cat," Jarlock said, "is no dream."

  "Oh, dear God!" she gasped and her hands clutched her neck. "Is he a stunt animal then? Someone should speak to the trainer, demand he be confined. He's not the least bit domesticated."

  As if she'd grown warts, their eyes widened and they exchanged communal headshakes.

  "Let's start over," Kira said, her tone apologetic. "It's all a big misunderstanding, King whatever, and I did apologize."

  Balion rose from the chair with the loose-limbed agility of a jungle beast. "I am a prince, not a king."

  "As if that matters now." She blew air out her mouth and changed the subject before he could offer a caustic retort. "How far are we from Providence?"

  Again the blank stares.

  "Tell you what, why don't we take you to the nearest hospital, and, no offense, Jarlock, my good man, but a physician should look at his wound. A shot of penicillin, a clean bandage, and your prince will be as good as new."

  The woman's eyebrows came up. "Providence?"

  "Yeah, Providence, Rhode Island."

  Turning to Jarlock, Balion rolled his eyes. "Aye, the face of an angel, but dim-witted to be sure."

  "I heard that," Kira said.

  "Now, girl." Jarlock attempted to cajole her into calm. "Ye know where ye are, don't ye?"

  "Not exactly, but it can't be all that far from Rhode Island." Please God, don't let it be far from Providence. "Hand over my sneakers and," she gave Balion a contemptuous glare, "my medallion. I'll find my own way home. Point me in the right direction and I'll be on my way, merrier than the boat rowing gently down the stream."

  She felt sick from the look on Balion's face when he walked to the window and tossed back the shutters. Crooking his finger, he beckoned her. "Come here."

  She shook her head, had no desire to be close to that sinful body again.

  "Come lass, take a look outside, see if anything looks right with ye," Jarlock said. "Mayhap ye'll recognize a landmark or two."