by Unknown
With great sorrow, witches once again turned away from the males of their race. They ignored the wakens’ sexual overtures and resisted the urge to mate during Beltane, giving up the one chance a year to procreate.
‘Twas indeed, the blackest of times in the land of witches and wakens.
~Pages of history from the Winslow witches.
In the Year of Samhain, 500
Sanctuary
Fascinated by the witch’s unusual behavior, Talon couldn’t stay away from Sanctuary. Two hours and twenty minutes later, he was back across the street from the magic shop. The last image of the beguiling female spying at him over the lip of the window lingered in his mind.
How very intriguing.
He’d linked his mind with hers imparting the things he wanted to do to her and with her. She’d broken the link and shot out of sight like a hunted grubit. That was a first. During Beltane, it wasn’t unusual for a witch to seek him for pleasure. Not because she found him irresistible, but because if by chance she conceived, he might choose her for his princess. It was too bad the witch inside the shop was an Impure, or he might consider the possibility of a child with her, that is, if she wasn’t infected with the virus.
When the beauty inside the shop bolted from him, he slammed off his thoughts immediately. Remaining across the street had been difficult. Walking away had been harder, but he’d known that for some reason, she was frightened of him. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the fact her soul could be taken by him.
Every nerve in his body said go to her, claim her, before another steals her away, then he realized she perceived him as a threat, instead of as a partner for a season of mating.
He’d made his availability known to her. He wasn’t committed to another, and he hadn’t mated in at least three seasons. No scent from past matings lingered on his skin. He was available and horny. So was she. The mating season was upon them, and the witch was already in the early stages of preakness. Her scent ripened the air, affirming her readiness.
He’d declared his interest in her in a subtle, non-threatening manner. No one witnessed their little dance of sexual foreplay and mind link, unless one counted the owl. Vox certainly knew when to keep his beak shut.
So why hadn’t she accepted him? Why had she hidden from him, declined the opportunity to conceive? Unless of course, she already knew she was infected with the Infertilus virus. Then that changed things and mating was just for the sexual need and fun of it.
Not that he intended to risk giving her a child. He didn’t. Although his instincts urged him to do that very thing, he would not breed an Impure. Still, her actions were very odd. She should have been receptive to his advances.
Maybe it was some kind of new game the females were playing this season to entice males and make mating more fun and interesting. Even though it was the early stages of Beltane, the natural thing for her to do was submit to his courtship. A few more days and female witches would actively seek a mate. With the majority of their females infected with the virus, no witch missed the opportunity to conceive.
Did she want him to chase her? Hunt her?
Talon rubbed his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, mulling it over. Reaching a decision, he pushed away from the lamppost. “Ready or not, here I come.” He halted in front of the shop and read the sign on the window. Unable to help it, Talon threw back his head and laughed deeply.
“What’s so funny, Prince?”
Talon grinned because the owl’s tone clearly said the magical creature was cross with him. He stroked Vox’s purple feathers as he re-read the paper sign taped on the window. A sign he would have noticed earlier if it’d been there. “Room for rent,” he read aloud. “How extraordinary, Vox. I happen to be looking for a place to stay this Beltane.”
“Humph! Leave her alone, Prince. You’ll bring the wrath of the ancients down upon your head. I could find nothing on her. Not a grain of information in the archives. It’s too dangerous messing with the unknown. You mate with her and you could breed half-wits.”
“She’s already a half-witch.”
“Half-wit, Sire. Half. Wit!”
“I heard you the first time, Vox.” Whistling tunelessly, Talon took pleasure in the moment. “Ah, but danger, like variety, is the spice of life, my little friend.”
The owl shook his head. “Oh, dear, this isn’t good, Prince. Your voice has already taken on the preakness needed for courtship and mating. You may believe you have found your mate for the season, Sire, but I beg you, reconsider. Find another.”
“I happen to enjoy a little spice every now and then,” Talon said, ignoring Vox.
“I’m certain you will go your own way, Sire.”
Grinning, Talon nodded and pushed open the door. “Haven’t I always, Vox?”
“Unfortunately.” The owl gave a long sigh. “Don’t hurt her, Prince.”
“Never. Be at peace, my friend. My only aim is to give her pleasure, and in that, gain blissful satisfaction for myself.” He shrugged. “I understand your concern, Vox. Have no worries. I will not be reckless and spill my seed inside the Impure, and I’ve never lowered myself to stealing a witch’s soul for the glory of it. I don’t intend to start with this beauty.”
“Perhaps you intend her no harm, Sire, but I have a bad feeling about this witch. And in the heat of the moment, you might lose control.”
Talon grinned. “I never lose control, Vox. I’m a careful waken. Relax, my little friend. This surely is destiny.” Yes, destiny.
And perhaps…a touch of magic.
* * * *
Saylym ignored the tinkle of the bell that warned of the arrival of a customer.
Instead, she kept a cautious eye on the thick, leather-bound book she held in her hands. Her back remained to the store entrance. Ignore. Ignore. Don’t acknowledge, and, with luck, whoever it was would get the message and leave.
Good heavens, what am I thinking? I need paying customers.
Paying customers paid the bills. They restocked her shop and allowed her to eat. Eating was a good thing. Yes, she needed paying customers. Just, not now.
She’d been struggling with the ancient tome since it came to life a few hours ago. Every time she tried to place it on the shelf it shrilled loudly, “Witch-Witch! Save me!”
“What are you so frightened of, little book?” she asked in a gentle tone. “Please talk to me. Can you tell me about Sanctuary and how I might escape?”
It turned its little button nose in the air, miffed. Swell. The book had such a cute, baby face she couldn’t bring herself to be cruel to it. It was no use. There was no coaxing another word from it. No matter how much she wheedled, its tiny mouth remained sealed with displeasure. Why? It acted as though it didn’t want her to leave Sanctuary.
It must be her imagination working overtime again. Score another point for inanimate objects. Saylym’s score? A big, fat zero.
She narrowed her eyes, determined to glean more information from the book. She simply couldn’t give up. Not yet. Why did it want her to stay? She wanted to know what the book was trying to tell her. Perhaps it had the answers to the problems plaguing her life. “Talk to me,” she pleaded, keeping her voice to a tremulous whisper. “Tell me why you’re afraid. Say something. Anything!”
“Pardon me.”
Saylym jumped. The deep, thickly accented voice behind her sounded Old World. She wrinkled her nose in embarrassment at the amusement she heard in his voice. Uh-oh. She should have known better than to think the customer would simply leave. No such luck.
Well, too late to worry about it now. So what if he’d think she was a little nutty. She wasn’t taking her eyes off the book no matter what. She might miss something. Drawing a deep breath, Saylym determinedly ignored the man.
He cleared his throat.
Go away!
“I don’t mean to crash your party, but are you really having a conversation with that book?”
“I am.” Why deny it when she’d been caug
ht red-handed? If she was going crazy, might as well act the part. “It refuses to talk back to me,” she said, not bothering to keep the annoyance from her voice. Jeez! Couldn’t he see she was busy for cripe’s sake? She had an agenda here and it didn’t include him.
“Imagine that,” he replied, his tone dry.
Jackass!
The book gave a nervous quiver. Saylym tightened her grip. What was wrong with it? It was as twitchy as a flame. She dug her fingers into its quaking sides. “I know you can speak,” she hissed quietly. “I heard you. Speak to me.”
“Waaa-ken.” The book choked out the word in a long, whispery croak, wiggling so hard, it slipped from her grasp and crashed to the floor with a bang.
“Yes,” Saylym squeaked. The book had spoken. Amazed, she kept her gaze locked on it. It had spoken in front of someone besides herself. She had a witness. She wasn’t going insane. “Did you hear that?” she gasped. “You heard that, right? Did you hear what it just said?”
The man touched her arm lightly. She got the fleeting impression of a tall body behind her, of long, dark hair drifting across her shoulders as he leaned over her. A dark-clad arm shot over her shoulder and he picked up the book.
His closeness rattled her. She hadn’t realized he was quite so near. Her stomach jittered as his scent enveloped her. He smelled of soap and something stronger, something exotic and seductive. Egyptian? Like cyprinum, a fragrance she knew was based upon the ancient scent of henna. And did she catch a whiff of the rich, stimulating, tangy spice of myrrh?
Those foreign fragrances snuggled around her like a cloud of steam from a hot geyser. Her stomach clenched in response. Her throat went dry. She felt flushed and itchy. What on earth was wrong with her?
His long fingers stroked the leather bound cover. “I heard nothing,” he whispered against her ear. “Of course, it’s entirely possible you choked the words right out of the poor thing.” Warm breath brushed against her nape as he laughed softly. “It’s terribly frightened.”
“You might be right on both counts,” she quipped. He was too close, crowding her space. Her insides quivered. Bloody hell. He hadn’t heard the book. She wanted to scream with frustration. Going back to being insane was not an idea she relished. She was also at a dead-end aisle, with no chance of retreating a few steps from his overpowering presence.
Drawing a deep breath, she reached for the book. His grip tightened around it, keeping it from her grasp. He closed his long fingers around her arm and brought her to her feet, turning her to face him. “Maybe you should give the book a break for now,” he suggested.
“What?” Her gaze flew to meet his. Her jaw dropped. The breath slammed out of her lungs in one gigantic rush. “OhmyGod, the perverted stalker,” she exclaimed. “It’s you.”
“Me?” Both brows rose. He released her arm and did what she yearned to do–took a step back.
“This-this morning.”
“This morning?” He frowned.
“The perverted stalker from this morning, you were watching my shop, scaring away my customers.” Grabbing a heavy book off the shelf, she drew it back like a slugger up to bat. “Stay away from me! Stop watching my shop!” She slanted a quick glance at the crumbling book in her hands. As a means for self-defense, the ancient book was sadly lacking as a weapon.
Cautiously, he retrieved the fragile thing from her hands and placed it back on the shelf. “I wasn’t watching your shop,” he denied. “I was watching…er…never mind what I was watching, but I’m not a stalker, perverted or otherwise.”
“Huh,” Saylym huffed, narrowing her eyes and absorbing details about the man in front of her. A mini-sized, purple owl rested on his shoulder. She blinked. Yep, purple owl–about the size of a small hawk, still there, after she blinked a second time. Big, yellow eyes practically swallowed the feathered creature’s face and stared right back at her, as if it’d found a tasty morsel and couldn’t wait to sink its sharp little beak into it. “Nice birdie,” she cooed and reached to pet it.
The owl ruffled its feathers, swelling to twice its normal size. The yellow eyes widened and the creature snapped at her fingers with its powerful beak.
“Oh!” Saylym jerked her hand back. Maybe it resented being called ‘birdie.’ She swallowed nervously, unable to speak past the lump stuck in her throat.
“This is Vox,” the man said and tickled the owl beneath its wing. “It’s quite tame.”
Uh-huh. That’s why it looked at her like she was lunch. “Tame, my ass,” she muttered. That bird was about as tame as its owner.
“Futhar.”
Saylym swung her attention from the owl to the man. “I don’t think I have any futhar in stock.”
“My Futhar.” A hint of exasperation rang in his voice.
Vexed, she stared at him like a dumb monkey. Obviously, the man thought she knew what a Futhar was. This actually made her happy. He was beginning to sound more insane than her.
Okay. She’d play along. Saylym nodded, swallowed, and breathed the word between dry lips, “Futhar. Uh, it’s been a long time since I heard the word. Refresh my memory. What… exactly…is a Futhar?”
“Ah,” he said, accepting her explanation. “A Futhar is from the Lyzine race, half-animal…or whatever species it’s descended from…and half-witch. They’re powerful, magical allies for our race.”
Saylym blinked. Well, that made everything peachy. “Right,” she replied. “I knew that.” She wet her lips, barely suppressing a shiver as the man’s eyes shimmered with strange, gold flames.
Flames?
She was seeing flames now?
Saylym shook her head, doubting her own sight. Hummmmm.
He was standing far too close. His very closeness seemed to draw the breath right out of her lungs. The heat from his body oozed into her bloodstream by slow degrees. It snuggled around her like a warm blanket, beguiling her. She found herself staring into those peculiar, glowing eyes.
His gaze slid over her face and rested for what felt like an eternity on her mouth. Desire flared in the mysterious gold flames. She stepped back, an automatic defense that kicked in as he stared at her.
There was no way she’d trust a man with sparks in his eyes, especially if he dressed in killer black and looked as if he could gobble her up in one itty-bitty bite. Talk about a wolf at the door. Sure, he was handsome as sin—in a dark, sinister way, but her mum had taught her to be wary of dark strangers and men handsome as sin.
She raked her gaze over him. Strong, chiseled features. Rock-solid jaw. Slender nose. Full, decadent mouth that made her hunger to do wicked things. Bloody hell! Mum never warned her about these things.
That mouth would be a woman’s fall from grace, like over-indulging with the finest chocolate. There was something very attractive about a man with a five-o’clock shadow, even when it was only eleven a.m.
Saylym wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. For any sane woman with a beating heart, the man was a walking dream. Honestly, she didn’t have time for a man in her life. She didn’t even know if she was staying in Sanctuary or if she was dreaming the entire thing. Maybe she’d slipped and fallen in that antiques store and hit her head. Yeah. That’d explain this craziness. She was in a coma.
There was little doubt he was the take-charge type. It was a male thing. And this male was all about being alpha. Top dog. Leader of the pack.
Well, that wouldn’t work with her. She had plans. She wanted to make it on her own. Prove her worth. It gave her satisfaction to know she was independent. Mr. Macho Man could take a hike.
He towered over her. She hadn’t realized until just this moment how tall he was, that is, until she tilted back her head in order to meet his gaze. Heavens! Those eyes—so hot, so unwavering. He did nothing to conceal the rampant desire in his blistering gaze. Nothing to conceal the need barely leashed or the hunger held in check.
His scorching gaze slid to her breasts, then returned to her mouth to stay awhile—intensely se
xual. The heat waves he broadcast slammed into her, blistering in their intensity.
Uh-huh. The man was an alpha all right. And just like a wolf, he was on the prowl. Well, he could just go and find himself another hunting ground. She wasn’t on the menu or up to being gobbled down like a slab of fresh meat.
Beneath slashing dark brows, his eyes were a startling shade of hunter green. She shifted, uncomfortable with the heat prickling her skin. He was like a magnet sucking all the energy from her body. The man was dangerous. The man was hungry. A woman risked losing her heart if she accepted the bold invitation he silently issued. Once all that brewing sensuality was unleashed, he’d be perilous to her senses.
Blatantly needy, he stood with legs spread, doing absolutely nothing to conceal the thick bulge behind the soft, tight fabric of his black leather pants.
Holy moley! Cheeks hotter than the flames of Hades, Saylym gulped, horrified to realize her gaze had dropped to said bulge and she was licking her lips like a hungry cat. Mercy! She jerked her gaze back to his face. All right. Enough was enough. She needed to remember he was a stalker. So what if he was a hot stalker with a big—
She broke off her wicked thoughts and tried to concentrate on something other than what was below his waist line. He watched her with a brazen, sexual invitation in his eyes.
Saylym stiffened and reminded herself she had a business to manage. She lowered her gaze to the low-heeled, black leather boots encasing his feet. Much better. It probably wasn’t even true about determining the size of a man’s penis by the size of his feet.
She choked. Get your mind off sex, the size of his sex, in particular!
Allowing her gaze to drift over him, she noted the wide silver bands etched with Celtic symbols adorning his thick wrists. Celtic? Curious. He certainly wasn’t Scottish. Ah, but his accent did sound European. A silver torque, studded with dark emeralds the exact shade of his eyes, encircled his throat. She lifted both brows as she eyed the arrow-shaped crystal dangling from his left ear.