9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC

by Unknown

  Sanctuary

  Saylym opened her eyes and discovered Talon leaning over her. Concern etched his dark face. He was close enough she could see the individual striations of the paler shade of gold in the green of his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you with my…er…nudity,” he said softly, “but I do sleep in the raw. When you screamed, I didn’t think about it. I just reacted and raced to your rescue.”

  “My knight in shining armor,” she teased. “You didn’t frighten me because you were naked.” She grinned. “Though it is quite a spectacular dangler you have.”

  His lips twitched. “Spectacular?”

  “As opposed to microscopic and minute?”

  Talon laughed softly. “You’re something else, Saylym Winslow. Just about the time I think I have you figured out, you throw me another curve.” He eased down on the bed beside her, his eyes searching hers curiously. “So if my spectacular, really awesome, gigantic…er…dangler didn’t cause you to pass out, what did?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  He leaned closer, his mouth a breath from hers. “I won’t. I promise.”

  “You’ll call me a ball of fluff.”

  “I won’t,” he swore. “Besides, I’m sort of partial to all that blonde fluff and the woman it’s attached to.”

  She felt the heat rolling off his body. His warmth surrounded her, closed her within a wall of the rich, exotic scent of cyprinum and myrrh. The combined scents mingled with his own unique muskiness creating a sensual fragrance all his own.

  It was hypnotic, raw, and intensely sexual. And male.

  Her senses skittered, bombarded by everything that was him. Her blood thickened, saturated with a rare, mystical opiate that was uniquely male, uniquely him. Her skin grew hot and seemed to come alive.

  Saylym swallowed as his head dipped closer. He made her feel as if she was balanced on the edge of a knife blade, one false move and it’d all be over. Why did it always feel as though he was drawing the very breath from her soul when he hovered close to her? “Please? You’re too close.”

  * * * *

  Talon sighed and gave her space. Damn it! He wanted to crowd her. He wanted to be inside her, crawl so deep inside her body and soul until he owned her and then he would never let her go. The stronger Beltane became the more on edge he felt. The more on edge he felt, the more he lost control. He was a walking time bomb and one spark was all it would take to set him off. He dared not make love to Saylym again. Not now, though his body yearned to do that very thing. Saylym was the spark. If he took her again, next time there would be no stopping.

  That damned soul-stealing chant wasn’t helping matters any. It was still just as potent, working full force and driving him crazy. He had to think of something else to distract him.

  “You are lovely,” he said, touching her face.

  He knew immediately that wasn’t going to distract him.

  Stroking her eyebrows with a gentle touch, he lightly traced her lips, and slid a fingertip down her smooth throat. Nope. No distraction there.

  He couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her. “I want you, Saylym Winslow, with every thread of my heart. Everything that is me is starving to be inside you. I ache. I hurt with the need to be buried deep in your heat. And once I’m there,” he said hoarsely, “when at last, I’m seated to the hilt, I want to stay until we are both sated.”

  Saylym dipped her head in acknowledgement, but her eyes were troubled. “So much is happening so fast. I want you, I do, but I need time to think.” She took his hand in hers. “You aren’t human and that scares me. You snapped your fingers and presto, you were dressed. One minute you were totally naked and the next you were fully clothed. Abracadabra. How did you do that?”

  “You told me to dress, so I did.” He traced his lips down her throat. “But if you prefer me naked—”

  “No!” If he got naked—well, he’d have his way with her, and it seemed she wasn’t ready for that.

  His tongue glazed a path behind her ear and down her throat, pausing to nibble at her racing pulse. “Mmm. You taste sweet. Like cotton candy and sunshine.”

  “Th-that would…uh…be my perfume.”

  “That would be you, Saylym Winslow,” he whispered, and nibbled on her lobe, “your own special brand of sweetness.”

  She shivered with pleasure as he drew her against him and nuzzled, licking the mark on her throat, but Talon paused and drew back a little as the mark began to throb. Odd. He’d never heard any waken mention his claiming mark beating like something wild and alive. He leaned further back, eyeing his handiwork. Shock surged through him. With that simple stroke of his tongue, the purple smear had spread. It covered the entire side of her throat, looking as if purple flames crept up the side of her neck.

  He snapped his fingers, chanting words to shrink it. It remained unchanged.

  And blast it, it was his claiming mark. He had a feeling it was there to stay.

  Saylym’s eyes widened. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Talon replied. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  His brow furrowed. Hell, she was truly marked as belonging to a member of the royal family. For anyone else to touch her guaranteed their oblivion. She was his. And she was his forever. Talon shook his head. When she saw the size of that mark, she was going to kill him.

  “Are you listening to me?” Saylym inquired.

  Her voice drew him back from his distracted wanderings. “Yes. You said most people don’t just snap their fingers and abracadabra, they’re dressed.”

  “That’s right.” Saylym nodded.

  “That’s wrong, Saylym. Most people I know do it exactly that way. I’m a waken, sweetheart. Wakens do these things. So do female witches and you’re a witch. Just snap your fingers and you can dress or undress.”

  “I don’t think so. Sheesh, what a way to try to get a woman naked,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Damn it, Saylym, if I wanted you naked, all I’d have to do is snap my fingers.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she yelped, grabbing his fingers between her own and holding them tight. She pushed him out of her way and slid off the side of the bed. “I have to go to work.”

  She marched across the room, then stopped abruptly. “You didn’t snap your fingers,” she accused him. “That means you don’t want me naked?”

  Talon gaped. “Hell, yes!” He scanned her from head to toe and back, settling his gaze on her breasts. “You naked. Me naked. Us…naked together.” He held up two fingers in preparation of snapping them. “Shall I?”

  Shaking her head, Saylym groaned. “Behave yourself.”

  “Yes.” He grinned at her. “The answer is yes, Saylym. I want you naked. I want you beneath me and my cock buried deep inside you. More than you can ever imagine.” Their gazes collided, locked. “I love it when you blush,” he added huskily.

  She stared at his zipper, behind which his cock was surely visible as it lengthened. “Uh… your…er…language,” she stammered, her gaze locked in place.

  Talon drew a ragged breath. “Don’t look at me where you’re looking, La-Scheme. My control is stretched thin. And the timing is a little off, my lovely witch.”

  “I’m not a witch,” she said quietly, looking up. “And I’ll prove it.” She snapped her fingers. “See? Nothing. My clothes are still on. So much for magic.”

  She’d barely taken a step when the overhead sprinklers clicked on. Icy water burst over them both. She glared at him, suspicion on her face. “Did you do that?”

  Talon grinned, shaking his head. “It’s not my fault.”

  “It’s not mine, either!”

  He chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart, maybe the sprinklers came on by accident, but I doubt it. I think you did do it.” Snickering, he didn’t attempt to hide his laughter or pay heed to the deluge of water soaking him. “I hate to rain on your parade…no pun intended …but as I see it, you are a witch.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m not. I
’m really, really not.”

  “Sweetheart. Stop denying your heritage. You’re a witch. Witch-witch-witch!”

  She clenched her fists at her sides. “I’m not denying anything. I’m stating a fact. I’m not a witch.”

  “You are, darling,” he insisted. “You’re a witch, just not a very good one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Martha Carrier, Wilmott Redd, John Alden, Elizabeth Howe, and Phillip English were examined before Hathorne, Corwin, and Gedney.

  ~Salem Witch Trials

  May 31, 1692

  Sanctuary

  Where the hell was the shut-off valve for the sprinkler system?

  After nearly two hours of searching for it, Talon felt like gnashing his teeth with frustration.

  Saylym had long ago thrown up her arms in despair of his ever figuring out how to shut off the water. An expletive slipped from beneath his breath and he flashed an impatient glare in her direction. Her pacing drove him nuts. He should have known better than to encourage her to embrace the fact she was a witch.

  Damn it! He knew she avoided facing the reality. It hadn’t taken him long to puzzle out the reason she got that serene look on her face and hummed like an idiot. The woman was determined to ignore her hopeless bungling of magic.

  And this just damned well proved she hadn’t an ounce of control in her fingertips. Ho, not that that fiery blast from her fingertips when he first met her hadn’t been a great, big, whopping clue. He had just been too love-sick to let it bother him. More stupid him.

  Temper getting the better of him, Talon flung down a wrench and directed his frustration on her. “Why is it you can do the weirdest things, and yet you are never capable of undoing them?”

  “Excuse me?” Saylym stopped pacing long enough to fling an irritated glance in his direction.

  “Chants! Don’t you know the simplest little chants to correct your magic?”

  “I don’t know any chants at all. And I don’t use magic. What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know any chants? At all?” Devil’s toenails! She was her own worst enemy. And his. “How can you not know any chants? You’re a witch for the gods’ sake!”

  “I am not a witch! And if you say I’m a witch just once more, I-I’m liable to hurt you.”

  “Right, sweetie.” He snorted.

  “Don’t call me sweetie in that slurpy tone of voice,” Saylym snapped.

  “Slurpy?” He muttered beneath his breath.

  “Patience, Prince. She’s a young witch with unskilled powers. She’ll learn.”

  Talon threw a furious glare toward Vox, who had managed to find the only dry spot in the shop, a far corner where the sprinklers weren’t spraying water.

  It isn’t you getting your ass soaked, Vox. And stop invading my mind.

  My feathers are a bit damp.

  Yeah? Well, I’m a bit damp all over.

  And angry. You don’t want to hurt the little witch’s feelings.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What?” Saylym asked. “Yes, you do what?”

  Talon picked up the big wrench, then flung it back into the box he’d dug it out of to begin with. “What?”

  She made a sound that reminded him of hissing. Hissing, at him! She was going to drive him to the utter brink of madness. It was just these sorts of uncontrolled magical demonstrations that concerned the guild. She could hex the water on, but couldn’t hex it off. What the hell kind of magic was that?

  What if she did something terrible and then couldn’t undo it?

  This could very well force the ancients into canceling his right to decide if she kept her soul or not and order her immediate termination. She had to learn to harness her magic. For the gods’ sake, she had to learn chants.

  Oh, and of course, there was the teeny, tiny little fact that she managed to cross realms in the first place. That was a mind blower, since she didn’t believe that she now existed in the Ru-Noc realm. And wasn’t about to admit she’d crossed dimensions.

  Would she want to return to the illumrof world if she ever fully accepted that she had indeed crossed into another realm?

  No. He couldn’t allow her the choice. She was here. She’d crossed realms of her own free will. Whether consciously or subconsciously—it made little difference—she’d made that choice. By doing so, she no longer had a choice. She was here to stay.

  Talon brooded over the fact they were going to have to bond. If they didn’t have the bonding ceremony soon, it would be certain oblivion for Saylym. And he knew without doubt, they couldn’t fake a bonding.

  Black Drayke’s arm was long and cruel. So were the elder’s.

  Should he and Saylym attempt a fake ceremony, a fake bonding, Black Drayke would discover it. Without the guild’s orders, Black Drayke would justify taking Saylym’s spirit, simply because of the threat she posed for their race.

  The bonding had to be real. The ceremony had to be real. And there had to be witnesses. Once they were bonded, no one would dare touch her.

  How was he ever going to persuade her to bond with him? She wouldn’t cooperate, mainly because she didn’t believe she was a witch. She wouldn’t understand the urgent need for their Handfasting. Sheeahta!

  Talon slicked his wet, tangled hair back from his face. He could force her. Take her against her will. That’s what he’d been ordered to do.

  Force. The word felt dirty in his mind.

  What if he injured her? He couldn’t bear to hurt her.

  He looked around, raking his mind for another way of solving this crazy dilemma. He’d never felt such an overwhelming sense of desperation or defeat in his life. There was no game plan because this was no game. It was serious, and he would just have to improvise to save her beautiful neck—and possibly his own neck.

  Talon sighed long and hard.

  Water, at least a foot deep, covered the floor. There wasn’t anything on the shelves that wasn’t soaked, and of course, so were they. He opened his mouth to say something harsh, something he knew he probably shouldn’t say to her, but the stricken expression on her lovely face had him clamping his jaw shut.

  The cloud of desperation, the feeling of utter defeat, fell away from his shoulders like leaves tumbling from the branches of a tree at Mabon. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt her feelings.

  Why did it twist his guts into knots every time something upset her?

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was a waken in love.

  He snorted. In lust, maybe. Well, definitely in lust. But love? No way. Nuh-uh. Wasn’t happening. Not to this waken.

  As soon as he could kiss her—without causing her soul to depart—well then, he’d satisfy this wild hunger. Once the hunger was appeased, the lust would go away. End of story.

  But right now, she stood in the middle of the shop, wet as a drowned kitten, and looking like a lost waif. His heart clenched as she gave a pitiful sniff.

  That was another thing that was totally out there. She could cry.

  Witches couldn’t cry, so why could she?

  Talon watched a single tear slide down her cheek and knew he’d lost the battle before the war even began. “Don’t,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “Don’t cry, La-Scheme. Your tears rip me apart.”

  He rubbed her back as her wet head rested against his chest. She continued to weep. He swallowed hard. Gods. This was why witches shouldn’t be able to cry. It brought a tough man to his knees.

  When had she managed to crawl inside his heart and make it her own?

  He barely knew her, yet in the short time he’d been around her, he’d learned she was special. She fitted in his life, and she belonged to him.

  She was sweet and good, her heart tender and easily bruised. A softie.

  He could no more harm her than he could cut off his own arm.

  Talon brushed a kiss against the top of her head. “Kieran, sweetheart, don’t. I’ll fix everything for you. I promise.”

  She hiccupped against h
is chest, and he couldn’t keep from laughing. “Hey. You’ll cause my shirt to shrink if you keep crying all over me.” He tilted her face up to his. “I’ll figure out a way to counter your magic. I’ll fix it for you. I give you my waken’s oath.”

  “How?” Saylym turned her damp gaze upward. “I’m not about to ask you what a waken oath is. I’m quite sure I don’t want to know what it entails, probably has something to do with bat’s tongues and eye of newt.”

  “Actually it has to do with a lizard’s tongue.”

  She shuddered delicately.

  Talon laughed. “I’m kidding, sweetheart.”

  She pulled free of his arms. “You can’t even get your magic to turn off the sprinklers. I don’t believe for one second you’re a waken.”

  Talon frowned at her. “You have to start believing I’m a waken, La-Scheme. Trust me.”

  Still, she had a point. He hadn’t been able to counter her magic. Deep down, that scared him. That was oh so wrong on so many levels. A female witch’s magic was never, but never, stronger than a waken’s.

  Unless she’s descended from royal blood.

  Talon released Saylym and whirled to face Vox, his mouth agape. “Impossible.”

  “What’s impossible?” Saylym inquired.

  “There are no royal-blooded witches left.”

  Saylym blinked. “Okay. You convinced me.”

  According to whom?

  “It’s a known fact. It’s history.”

  And who wrote the history?

  “I don’t know who wrote the history.”

  Saylym gently patted Talon’s cheek. “I said I believe you. I really believe you.” She took a cautious step back from him, rolling her eyes. “I think you’re losing it, Prince Talon.”

  “Saylym, wait. I’m not talking to you.”

  “All right.” She turned back, glanced around the shop. “Who are you talking to, then?”

  “The Futhar. I’m talking to Vox.”

  “Right. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but the little guy isn’t talking back.”