by Hazel Hunter
CONTENTS
Title
Book Description
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Book 5 (Excerpt)
More Books
Note from the Author
Copyright
BETRAYED
SILVER WOOD COVEN BOOK FOUR
By Hazel Hunter
BETRAYED
Silver Wood Coven Book Four
As Summer slowly recovers from being savagely attacked and left for dead, it’s not the assault that confounds her. As she, Templar Michael Charbon, and Wiccan Troy Atwater bond ever more tightly, their shared passion creates inexplicable changes in her.
Though her two lovers vow to never again leave her unprotected, her unique power draws enemies to the Silver Wood Coven that none of them could have foreseen. Besieged from within and without, fractured relationships explode while damaged ones finally heal.
As the winter solstice gathering draws closer, and the other covens converge, the stakes couldn’t be higher. But when Summer’s memories begin to return, she glimpses her terrible purpose. Not only will she need to summon her power and her courage, she must ask the ultimate of her two men.
CHAPTER ONE
SURROUNDED BY ANGRY Wiccans outraged over his presence, Michael Charbon again considered leaving Silver Wood. Although he had repeatedly risked his life over the centuries to protect the innocent among them from the vicious wrath of his Templar brotherhood, to the pagans he would forever be an enemy witch-hunter.
“You take that Templar, scum lover of yours,” Abel Atwater bellowed at his oldest son Troy, “and you get the hell off my mountain.”
“He’s not my lover,” Troy shouted back, “and it’s not your mountain.”
The coven had been in an uproar ever since Troy had brought him to their hidden stronghold in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, so that Michael could recover from a near-lethal wound. He’d almost died shielding Troy, son of the coven’s master, from a Templar assassin––not that it mattered to them. They certainly didn’t care that he’d also wanted to protect Summer, the mysterious witch he’d discovered living homeless and without her memory in Central Park. Despising and fearing him was all he could ever expect from the pagans, especially now that they knew that he and Troy had become Summer’s lovers.
Michael saw that hatred in Abel’s eyes now, and knew there would never be peace between Troy and his father unless he left Silver Wood. He put a hand on the warlock’s shoulder to draw him back, and then nearly doubled over as a sharp, fierce jolt stabbed into his side. He clutched at the newly-healed wound, expecting to feel a dagger buried to the hilt, but found nothing there.
At the same time Troy grunted, his hand pressed to the same spot on his abdomen, and staggered away from him. When the contact between them was broken the pain vanished.
“Paladin.” The man’s brilliant blue eyes darkened with fury and pain as he looked over his shoulder. “It’s Summer.”
Michael looked at where their lover had been standing only a moment before, and saw only a splatter of something wet on the ground. He swore as he ran with Troy over to the patch of blood-stained dirt.
Abel strode up behind them. “I’m not done with you, boy.”
“You are now.” Michael stepped in his path before he could reach Troy. “Walk away.”
The Coven Master lowered his head, and his breath came out of his nostrils as white as steam in the cold air, making him look like a bull ready to charge.
“You dare tell me what to do on my land, you bastard?”
“Walk away,” Michael said again, dropping his voice low so no one else heard, “or I will show you what Templar scum like me can do.”
Abel gave him an ugly smile.
“This isn’t finished.”
He turned on his heel and stalked back into the main house.
Troy knelt down and touched the dark stain before he peered at the ground beyond it.
“Fresh marks,” he said, pointing to where the soil was disturbed.
Michael followed them to the tree line, where he found another smear of blood and several long, golden brown hairs caught on bark at the base of a pine tree. He carefully pulled the hairs out of the bark and showed them to the warlock.
Frost rapidly spread out on the ground around Troy’s feet as his power spiked.
“The bastard dragged her.”
Knowing their gentle lover had been stabbed and treated like a carcass made Michael shift into the calm, cold focus he employed in battle. He studied the ground until he found more marks.
“He took her this way. Come on.”
They followed the trail into the woods, where it led them straight to the edge of a cliff overlooking the river. Troy stared over the edge while Michael crouched down and placed his hand on the soil where four faint furrows scored the surface.
“She was still alive when he threw her over.” He gestured at the marks. “She tried to dig her fingers in here.”
“We have to get down there. Too far to jump, and it’ll take half an hour to climb down.” Troy pointed down at a large flat rock in the center of the river. “Can you keep that level?”
Michael stared at it. It was one thing to channel the strange power he derived from the three of them, as when he’d created the amethyst cave. It was another thing by himself. But Beauty’s life depended on it.
Michael nodded. “I can try.”
Troy spread his hands, creating an arc of silvery-blue power, and sent it hurtling down at the river. It sank into the rushing waters and drew them up in a spout along with the stone. He raised the twisting column to the edge of the cliff.
“Now,” he shouted over the sound of the roaring currents.
Michael leapt onto the stone, crouching to press his hands to the wet, cold surface. Whether it was sheer will or the connection he still felt to Troy, the giant stone stayed level. He nodded to the warlock, who jumped onto it with him.
“Easy,” Michael warned him as the column of water began to descend back to the river. “If you knock me off, you’re taking a very cold bath.”
“Water is my friend, remember, not yours.” Troy shifted the column to curl over and drop the stone on the bank, where he leapt off and looked downstream. “Gods. Even as cold as it is, she may have drowned by now.”
“No,” Michael muttered. There was a flutter of red in the water a hundred yards away. He pointed to it. “There. She’s there.”
He started running toward her, but before he could reach her body Troy used his power to pull her from the water and deposit her limp form on the bank.
“Beauty,” Michael whispered, as he dropped to his knees next to her. He caught his breath as he saw the gashes on her face and neck, and the strange angle of her left arm and leg. From a tear in her dress he could see the knife wound in her side. But the next thing he realized was far worse. “She’s not breathing.”
Troy knelt on the other side, his mouth tight. He gently touched her throat.
“She has a pulse,” he breathed, his face a mix of relief and confusion. “It’s strong and normal.”
“Why isn’t she breathing?” Michael demanded. He lifted her chin to begin resuscitation, but as soon as he touched her he felt the strange power she possessed flooding into him, and then drawing energy from him back into Summer. “Pagan.”
“I feel it,” Troy said. “Don’t resist.” Troy’s eyes narrowed as Summer’s body began to glow with a misty green light. “Gods. It’s happening again.”
Michael flinched as her broken arm made a cracking sound and then slowly straightened. Her leg did the same as the lacerations marring her face and throat began to shrink and then disappeared. Only when her body was whole again did she gasp, and then choke out a mouthful of river water.
“Turn her on her side,” Michael said, “and keep your hands on her.”
Once she had coughed out all the water in her lungs, Summer went limp again, but the light enveloping her body continued to grow brighter, until it was almost blinding.
“What is this?” Michael asked as he watched the red fabric of her dress darken and shrink. It crisped and then fell away from her skin like so much ash. “Why is it doing this to her?”
“I don’t know!” Troy said.
He squinted and turned his head away.
Michael managed to keep watching, and through the light he saw dark green marks appear on her naked body, stretching in scrolling lines down the length of her torso. Once they had covered every inch of her skin from her collar bones to her hips the light faded, leaving only the marks on her flesh.
Troy checked her pulse, and they could both easily see the movement of her diaphragm. Despite the strange markings, they both exhaled in relief. But as they stared down at her, Michael recognized what they were seeing––writing. He exchanged a worried look with Troy.
“You know what that is?” Troy asked.
“Capetian Pagan, one of the oldest forms of French Wiccan writing,” Michael said, scowling. “I have not seen it in centuries. I don’t believe it has been used since the Templars drove the covens out of southern France.”
“Can you translate it?”
Michael cocked his head to read one line that ran along her forearm.
“True, without falsehood,” he read. “Certain when uncertain, by will I invoke–”
“Stop.” Troy spread his hand over the words. “That’s a truth spell. If you read the rest you’ll have me telling you what I really think of you.”
Michael grunted as he examined more of the lines.
“There are more like that which mention water and earth and time. They all invoke some form of protection.” His gaze shifted to a group of words set apart from all the others on her right shoulder, and then peered at them again. “Troy Atwater.”
“I know my name,” Troy told him.
“Yes, and it’s written on her skin, here,” he said, and pointed to it. “It says you are marked to be her sentinel mate, along with another name: Michele Charbonneau.”
As the warlock leaned closer, the writing of the second name blurred and formed a new name.
Troy glanced up at him. “Well? What does it say now?”
Michael dragged his hand over the back of his head. “It’s my name. Michael Charbon.”
“So someone incised our names on Summer in a form of Wiccan that hasn’t been used since the tenth century.” The warlock shook his head. “This night just keeps getting better and better.” He shot Michael a look. “That other name, it had to be your birth name.” He glanced back at the stone they’d used. “You have a Wiccan ability, and you’ve always been more like us than the Templars,” he said excitedly. “Michael, I think they took you as an infant from a Wiccan family. They used to do that a lot back then.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Michael said, shaking his head as though that would help to clear it. “It’s ancient history. We have to take care of her.” Michael touched one of the words scrawled along her side. “These are tattoos, not cuts. I’ve touched every inch of her, and even if she had managed a concealment spell I would have felt the scars, and so would have you.”
“She’s starting to shiver,” Troy said quietly. He took off his shirt and draped it over her as Michael lifted her in his arms. “We’ll take her back to the pavilion. Aileen and Erica should have a look at her–”
“No,” Michael said flatly. “Whoever attacked her is among the coven. There was no one else on the mountain but your people.”
“And that Templar spy, Baldwin, whoever he is,” Troy countered. “I should go back and see who’s missing, or if any of them saw someone near her.”
“No. We can’t trust any of them.” He cradled Beauty’s soft but shivering body closer to his chest. “For now we will take her to your house, and tend to her ourselves. When she awakens, she can tell me who attacked her, and I will attend to him.”
The warlock smiled grimly. “You’re going to have to wait your turn, Paladin.”
“You’ll both have to wait,” Summer whispered weakly.
Troy jerked his gaze down, but Michael realized the warlock was careful not to touch her. When Michael looked down, Beauty’s dark opal eyes were open. They were tired and underlined with dark circles, but they were open. Relief flooded through him.
“Beauty?”
Slowly she looked up at him.
“You’ll have to wait,” she whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t see anyone.”
• • • • •
Some hours later Summer sighed as Michael finished combing out the last of the snarls from her long hair.
“You should have quit the Templars and become a lady’s maid.”
The big man grunted as he parted her hair in three sections.
“It would be too hard to explain why I never age. Besides that, the only lady I am interested in caring for is you.”
“Then you have your hands full.”
As he braided her hair, Summer watched the flames dance in the bedroom fireplace, and wondered why she was so calm and content. She’d been like this since the men had brought her back to Troy’s house. She didn’t understand the attack or how she had survived it. Then there were the words that now covered her upper body. They didn’t hurt or itch, but felt as if someone had wrapped her in a very thin, silky lace. Yet as shocking as her ordeal had been, it seemed utterly disconnected from her own experience, as if she’d read about it, or watched it happen to someone else.
“Why do you think my people tattooed me with these spells?” she asked Michael. “Could they have somehow known I’d lose my memory? And why hide the words until now?”
“I am not certain that anyone could have done this to you,” he said, and tied the end of her braid neatly with a string before resting his hands on her shoulders. “The lines of the scars are as thin and delicate as true hand-writing.”
She ran her fingertips over the writing on her forearm. “Someone had to do it.”
“Perhaps.” He covered her hand with his. “Or it may have been the green power within you.”
They’d already told her what had happened after they’d fished her out of the water, and now she frowned.
“Michael, if anything does happen to me–”
“Shhh.” He pulled her back against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around her as he kissed the top of her head. “Pagan and I won’t allow this killer to come near you again.”
Summer nestled against him, and sighed as the bedroom door opened and Troy came in with a tray filled with sandwiches and steaming mugs of tea.
“With you as my lady’s maid, and Troy as my cook, I may never want to leave this room.”
“I don’t cook,” the warlock told her as he parked the tray on the bed beside her and Michael. “I make sandwiches. Damned fine sandwiches, if I say so myself, but until you’re feeling better, anything more involved will have to be filched from the coven or picked up in town.” He picked up one mug and offered it to her. “Yours. I want you to drink all of it.”
She took a sniff. “Well, it certainly smells pretty.”
“It is,” Troy said. “Chamomile, clove, saffron and rose petals, with a little honey to sweeten it.”
Summer recalled what Erica had told her about certain tea blends the Wiccans used.
“Herbs for calming, something else, protecting and loving.” She took a sip and sighed. “Very nice. What’s the clove for?”
“Keeps the hostiles away.” He handed Michael a mug of coffee be
fore he sat on the edge of the bed and shared the sandwiches with them. “Eat,” he said when Summer only nibbled at hers. “You want to grow up and be a big strong witch someday, don’t you?”
“I might not be big compared to you two, but I’m strong enough.” She handed the rest of her sandwich to Michael. “Or at least, I thought I was.”
“You survived being stabbed and thrown off a cliff,” the Templar reminded her. “While you’re still mortal, no less.”
“Can you remember anything more about what happened?” Troy asked.
“Only that I didn’t see who it was. The attacker came up behind me.”
Feeling restless now, Summer climbed off Michael and got up, bracing herself against his shoulder before she took a few tentative steps and then sat in the armchair in the corner.
“Still don’t have my land legs yet. What I really don’t understand is why. Why try to kill me now?”
“Since we came back from the city you’ve either been with me, Troy or one of the women,” Michael pointed out. “Perhaps today was the first opportunity he had to strike while you were alone.”
“But I wasn’t.” She turned around to face them. “You two were only twenty yards away from me, and everyone else from the main house was there, too.”
“That little thug, Lachlan, ran off,” Michael said. “Ewan and the pregnant witch weren’t there, either.”
“Aileen can barely stand up on her own,” Troy told him. “I saw Ewan inside the house earlier, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Lachlan came at you with a blade,” Michael countered. “When he could not prevail, perhaps he chose to vent his spleen on our Beauty.”
“Hey.” Summer frowned and touched her side. “Wait a second.”
“If it was Lachlan,” Troy said, his expression darkening, “then he’s mine.”
Michael gave him a chilling smile. “You’ll have to wait in line, Pagan.”