Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

  It was then she noticed the medallion in his hand, the long, gold chain glinting with cosmic strains of amber against the soft firelight. She squared her shoulders. "Nicholas is my father, The Last Sorcerer to the King, and that," she pointed to the talisman, "belongs to him."

  "I know that, lass; I bequeathed it to him." His deep voice softened. "How did ye come to posses it?"

  "He gave it to me for protection, said it would keep me safe from harm." What he failed to tell me is that it could also transport me to another realm, a bizarre world that exists only in fairytales.

  He advanced, drawing her in like a mindless fly to a spider. A King, she thought, trying to control her battered emotions. The ruby pulsated and emitted a bizarre halo of crimson.

  The King glanced at the talisman, its powers intensifying with every step. "Did it keep ye from harm?"

  Not this again. She didn't have the strength or the inclination to repeat the story about The Scarlet Angel. "It prevented my death, but delivered me here." She lifted her chin and met his eyes. "Am I free from harm now?"

  "Aye," he said. "Ye have my word." He closed the distance between them, his voice mesmerizing. "I ask ye true lass, where is The Last Sorcerer?"

  She rolled her yes. "What's the use? You won't believe me."

  "I will know if ye lie, and if ye do, it will not go well for ye."

  Balion removed himself from the warmth of the fire and stood beside his father, the bloodlines now undeniable.

  "What are you going to do? Cut out my tongue if you don't hear what you want?"

  A smile transformed Balion's magnificent features when the King fixed her with a stern look. "Speak, lass, the truth. I will hear it from your own lips."

  "My father lives with my mother, Arabella, in–in a land far away." She gulped. "In another realm, a distant time well into the future." Without a flinch, absent a blink, the King studied her as if weighing the truth. Emboldened, she pressed on. "I found myself in a compromising situation." Still fresh in her mind, images of The Scarlet Angel and the cold, steel blade cutting into her flesh surfaced. "About to be killed, I clutched the medallion."

  "Aye," the King said with narrowed eyes of growing interest. "What became of ye then?"

  "Sirene appeared and transported me here to Locke Cress."

  Enraptured eyes fixed on the throbbing medallion, Balion seemed impervious to their conversation. Not the King, not from the moment she mentioned Sirene's name. A slight tensing of his imposing body and fleeting recognition of the woman's name gave him away. Relief came to Kira in a flood of emotion. Taking advantage of the moment, she pressed on. "On the night my father gave me the medallion, he told me about The Story Mage."

  "Ach!" the leader snarled. "The man should be boiled in fat."

  After the tiresome journey, and the now the taxing inquisition, she didn't have enough strength to respond to the comment about boiling the wizard.

  "Ye know nothing about Umargo?" the King pressed.

  She blew air through her lips. "Look, I'm not a spy. The only thing I know about the nefarious Umargo is what my parents told me."

  "What did Nicholas tell ye about the man?"

  "That he's evil, a man to stay clear of."

  His regal head listed to the left as he made eye contact with her. "And, what else, lass, speak?"

  She glanced to Balion.

  "Tell him, little one, do not be afraid," the Light-Prince said.

  "The Story Mage waits for Umargo to kill the King so he can finish his story."

  A prolonged silence lapsed before Roldan spoke. "Ye have your father's jaw, but not his eyes."

  "From my mother's side." With the words, a stab of loneliness pierced her heart.

  "Nicholas," the man asked, "he is well?"

  Her lip trembled. Please don't let me cry now, God. "The last time I saw him, he was." An image of her mother with her arms draped over her father's shoulder almost knocked her from her feet. "He would want his King to release his daughter."

  "'Tis sorry I am ye have been brought to Locke Cress. 'Tis not of my doing."

  She nodded. "That's what everyone says."

  "I have the power to see ye are not harmed, lass." Here, he looked at his son. "The Light-Prince found ye and only he can release ye."

  "But you're the King."

  "A rule from the Ancient Code forbids me to command it, girl. A captive belongs to the captor, King or no."

  "I don't want to belong to him or anyone else." A tear slid down her cheek. "I want to go home."

  "I will pray to the gods ye are returned to your kin." He closed his eyes and muted strains of an age-old chant sifted through the open windows. Moments later, it stopped, and his blue eyes found hers again. "Ainsley will see ye to your room. I regret I cannot offer ye more, but 'tis better than sleeping on the cold ground."

  She wiped the tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and squared her shoulders. "What about my father's medallion?"

  Roldan passed it to his son and turned to her again, the haggard lines of his face softening. "Ye will have to bargain with Balion to get it back."

  The prince smiled–similar to the grin he graced her with the day he laid down the terms for relinquishing the talisman. Sweet Mother of Jesus, had he told the King about his offer?

  Drawing on a reserve of courage, Kira stuck her nose in the air. "Your son may keep the medallion through all eternity, until his teeth rot, until he shrivels into an old man."

  Much to her astonishment, they laughed. The King clutched his belly and struggled to get the words out. "By the Saints, ye are your father's child." Softer, he added, "He would be proud of ye."

  The girl named Ainsley appeared and led her away from Roldan and the Prince. Long, thick hair, the color of golden honey and streaked with hues of fawn, tumbled down her back. Her angelic smile crinkled the corners of her blue eyes.

  Under the archway of the door, Kira turned and directed her question to the King. "Do you have the power to send me home? Does anyone?"

  He shook his head.

  "Come now, milady, ye must be worn out with misery," said Ainsley.

  Too distraught to care where she laid her head this night and with sinking heart, Kira followed the girl. Sparsely furnished, the room boasted a layering of fresh straw on the floor and a rickety old chair. Kira plopped onto the makeshift bed with a stormy sigh.

  "I will take leave of ye, milady, but will return with food and water."

  Kira lifted her head at the girl's words. "Don't bother with the food, I couldn't eat a bite."

  Recognition came sudden. Why hadn't she seen it the first time she looked at the girl? The gaffe unnerved her. Facial features, mannerisms, and even diction fell under Criminal Profiling 101. "Are you the Light-Prince's―"

  "Sister, milady."

  "Of course." She pushed the hair from her forehead with her wrist. "You could be his twin."

  "Ye do not care for Balion, do ye?"

  "I have little regard for those who hogtie me, pull my hair, and call me names." With pinched lips, she repeated them. "She-cat and witch."

  A chuckle left the girl's lips. "He is bluff and bluster, milady, and would not harm ye." The round, large eyes sparkled. "Ye know, at times he ruffles up like a goose, but is as soft as peach down." She laid her hand on her chest. "Here."

  "I don't think Ivan the Terrible; I mean your brother, has a heart."

  "Oh, but he does." Adoration shone in the girl's eyes. "He has been my champion since the day I came into the world."

  Guilt nibbled at Kira's conscience. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't call him names." She rolled her eyes. "There must be something decent about a man who is kind to his sister."

  "Do ye have a brother, Lady Kira?"

  "No, it's only me." She allowed her mind to wander to her parents. Her poor, poor mother. She must believe her dead. Muffled voices outside the room filtered under the door, pulling her back to the present. "How old are you?"

  "Twenty winters, milady.
"

  Something she'd wanted to know for days compelled her to ask, "How many winters is the Light-Prince?"

  "Eight and twenty," the girl said, followed by a whispered prayer skyward. "Eight winters old when our mother died."

  "Your mother died when you were born?"

  "Aye, 'tis how I came to be named. Ainsley means from the clearing. Born on the night of the great battle, the women and children were sent from the keep to hide in the forest. The midwife found a small clearing and said I arrived with my face to the sun." Her eyes misted over. "Our mother began her final journey soon after."

  Hard-earned practice stopped Kira's tears. "So, you have never known a mother's love?"

  She shook her head. "Nay, but my father has made up for it thrice times over."

  A natural affection stretched across the empty air between them. Kira's heart went out to the fragile, slender girl-child.

  Ainsley recovered her emotions, curtsied and said, "I bid you goodnight, milady."

  "Goodnight, Ainsley."

  As soon as the door closed behind the girl, Kira stretched out on the straw bed and stared at the rafters overhead. Stars twinkled between the gaping chinks. With a sigh, she realized her future looked dingier than the room she'd been delivered to, but she was too tired to think about that now. The words, Home Sweet Home, drifted through her benumbed brain. She mouthed them until her eyes fell into a droop. Finally, she surrendered and allowed the sweet land of forgetfulness to take her.

  Chapter 7

  Kira had borne up the best she could from the moment she'd set foot in Locke Cress, or to be more specific, the moment her backside landed on the hard ground in a disobedient jungle. This morning, Balion's faithful shadow came for her again, blindfold and hemp in hand and bearing the look of a man condemned to the gallows. She held her hands out and cursed.

  "For a wee bit, lass," Jarlock said. "Then I'll remove it."

  "Allow me time to say goodbye to Ainsley."

  "Aye, she waits for ye by the mounts."

  The girl felt even slighter than she looked when she embraced Kira and whispered, "I am frightened of the dark too. I think of faeries and rainbow-kissed unicorns when I am alone at night, milady. The Light-Prince has promised to remove the blindfold before the sun passes over the mountains."

  Kira touched her cheek. "May we meet again, Ainsley, and until then may God keep you safe."

  "Aye, Lady Kira, and ye."

  Something electric passed between Ainsley and Jarlock as their eyes met. No words were exchanged, yet Kira felt the soft caress of alliance whisper around them, and love, pure, clean, and softer than a breeze after a hard rain. Jeez, is there no end to the surprises in this mystical kingdom? Gwyneth and Balion were betrothed, but didn't love one another. Jarlock and Ainsley's love ran deep and strong, yet remained a well-guarded secret. The King's life was tenuous, and Umargo seemed intent on slaughtering every living soul in Locke Cress. Garrick had a hidden agenda, not to mention The Story Mage's covert itinerary. If people thought the modern world complex, Kira would give them five minutes to rethink their opinion after landing on Neptune. Here, carrots were parsnips, figs, walnuts and some men, she suspected, spotted cats.

  Before Kira had time to ponder the aberrant contradictions, Jarlock tied the blindfold around her head and lifted her into the saddle. Her imagination ran wild. Monstrous wings flapped overhead, an abhorrent snorting spewed from the bushes to her right, and tiny critters screamed as predators devoured them for breakfast.

  Kira blanked out the sounds by concentrating on pleasant memories from her childhood, and after she ran through every birthday and holiday, she thought of Ainsley. Another time and place, she could have become attached to the girl and her innocent charms. What about her own feelings for the Light-Prince? Lust entered into the equation, but not anything resembling love. God help her, it wasn't possible. For sanity's sake, she repeated the words in her mind: I must leave this place. I must go home.

  Tiresome hours later, the horses reined in, and a gentle hand untied the knot at the back of her head. About to ask Jarlock for water, she realized the hand didn't belong to the giant but rather Balion. He lifted her from the mount and set her on her feet, his long, bronze fingers lingering on her waist and sending shockwaves through her paralyzed limbs.

  "We stop long enough to water and rest the steeds." His gaze shifted to a nearby thorny bush where some unseen creature shrieked its outrage. "Take this, and use it if ye must."

  The weight of the spear felt foreign to her. Three feet in length, a pointed, copper blade had been wrapped around the end of the long, wooden shaft. Kira thrust it out in an attempt to return it. "I wouldn't know how to use it."

  In a tone that left no room for debate, he grabbed her wrist. "Come, I will show ye."

  She didn't have the energy to argue, and besides, the spear would come in handy when she made her escape. With a shrug, she followed him into a clearing.

  "Use the weapon to keep your enemy at bay." Balion gripped the base, wielding it with one hand and swinging it before him as if he held a giant scythe. Then clasping it with both hands, his powerful body withdrew and feinted in measured strokes. "The length of the spear renders their attack pointless."

  It looked so easy, yet Kira sensed it took years of discipline to master the fluid movements.

  He crooked his index finger and motioned her forward. "Ye try."

  "Why?" she asked.

  His eyes scanned the bracken on the periphery, setting her nerves on edge. "The beasties will find ye delectable fare."

  She stared at his beautiful face and wished she could lick those lips, run her tongue over every inch of his skin. Pulling her thoughts back to the matter at hand, she asked, "Like the spotted cat?"

  "Aye, and beasts ye can not imagine in your worst dreams."

  "It's quite hopeless, I assure you." She lifted her shoulders. "I flunked gym class in school."

  He looked at her in an odd manner, the way he often did when she mentioned events pertaining to her world. His eyes took on a familiar look of determination and she acquiesced with another shrug. She wondered if magnificence fell under the auspices of an inherited trait or had the Gods blessed the man? The words echoed in her ears, Eros will make you burn with love for me. If she burned any brighter around him, she'd vaporize into a comet crashing to earth.

  He pulled her against him so her back rested against his hard chest, and cupped her hands around the shaft. "Thrust out with your arm whilst stepping forward with one foot." With his nimble fingers wrapped around hers, he pushed the spear forward, affording her time to adjust to its balance and weight. "Good, lass, now as ye push it out before ye, follow it through your foot."

  She dragged in a ragged breath as his fingers rotated around hers, his every move behind her sheer torture. Sweet Mother of Jesus, how could she concentrate with his warm breath against her cheek and that muscular body moving in perfect sync with hers? He felt it too, for in the next moment he wrenched his sculpted frame from hers and came to stand in front of her.

  Trying hard to control his emotions, he pinched his lips. "Now, I am the enemy, and ye shall strike me."

  Her palms sweated and her heart raced. "I couldn't, I mean, I might puncture you."

  "That's the purpose, lass. Thrust it forward with your arm, the strength and balance coming from your body."

  His smile melted her and she couldn't afford that. She had to flee from this place, and the longer she remained, the harder it became. How had the Light-Prince managed to worm his way into her every thought, pierce the aloof armor of her heart? His world held no future for her, no matter how many times the luminous blue eyes reduced her to milkweed floss or his face dazzled her.

  Enticing her with that smooth, rich voice, he put his hands out at his sides. "Fight like your life is in danger, or must I anger ye?"

  Stalling, lest she make a fool of herself, she countered, "I don't anger easily."

  "Mayhap this will provoke ye." Before
she could blink, he knocked her feet out from under her and laughed when the spear went one way, her legs another.

  Kira reared to her feet and plucked the spear from the ground. Determined to knock the smile from his face, she thrust and lunged, albeit playfully.

  "Attack!" he said, sidestepping her feeble attempts. "I am the enemy and will run ye through without remorse."

  "But you are the prince."

  "Nay, I am the beast in the forest that will have ye for fodder. I am your sworn enemy, here to cut your throat."

  In that moment of indecision, she realized the gift he offered and her heart sang. On some level, he cared, and the barrier of his resistance had begun to crumble. He realized the futility of any future for them, yet her existence mattered to him.

  Lacking a reaction from her, his tone turned sharp. "I am the prince and I order ye to strike me!"

  She struck hard and fast, jabbing and thrusting to release the pent-up anger and frustration she'd embraced for days. He parried every stab, baiting her to thrust harder, swifter, daring her to touch him with the spear.

  His rich laughter rang in the air with every exaggerated leap and turn. The game was on, her stabbing and him evading until they reeled with laughter. Her confidence grew as well as her skill with the weapon. She brought the spear up high and waited for him to dodge the downward thrust. He darted left to avoid the hit, but rather than follow through with the expected blow, she made a wide sweep and took him down at the knees.

  Before she could gloat in her victory, he grabbed the spear and pulled her down to the ground on top of him. His eyes shone brighter than aquamarine jewels when he pulled her close. Kira felt the steady rhythm of his heart, every ridged muscle of his chest and his hard member pressing into her hip. One hand cupped her bottom, the other her head before he embarked on a slow, languid kiss.

  Reeling like a drunken sailor far into his cups, she pressed herself against him and returned his full, open-mouth kiss. His hand left her head and found her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt. Her breathing quickened when he took her sensitized nipple between his thumb and finger and teased it into a hard peak. Stunned by the heat rising from her toes, spreading outward to every part of her body, and the rush of fluids seeping between her thighs, a moan came from the back of her throat.