9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC

by Unknown

  “Aw, my La-Scheme, look what you’ve done to yourself.”

  Those beautiful, soft, tri-colored eyes fluttered open and she looked back at him with dull confusion. The sparkle was gone and in its place, cloudiness, uncertainty and pain.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “Talon? Why did you hit me?”

  “I didn’t hit you, kieran, you fell.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across her mouth. “Gotcha,” she said faintly.

  Talon choked back laughter as he held her close. “Yes, you did.” He pressed several kisses against her mouth before finally saying, “Can you stand?”

  He helped her up, steadying her as she swayed drunkenly toward him. “Whoa, La-Scheme. Give it a minute.”

  He supported her, stroking her tangled hair with trembling fingers, pressing soft kisses against her throat. “My sowilla. My sun.”

  Saylym raised a shaky hand to her forehead. “My head hurts.”

  “I imagine so, little sowilla.” He gently moved her hand away from the cut. “Do you think you can hold on to me while I climb back up that wall?”

  Saylym gasped, her gaze flying wide as she peeped at something behind Talon.

  “Oh…my—”

  Talon whirled to see what Saylym was staring at with such wide-eyed wonder. “Gods.” he uttered, awestruck. He held the torch overhead and stared at a gigantic statue reminiscent of the overwhelming size of the sculptures of the Egyptian Pharaohs. He’d seen those larger-than-life images in books at the academy. He stared now, in wonder. “Devil’s toenails!”

  “What is it?” Saylym asked, taking a step closer.

  “Perthrone.” Talon grabbed her arm, halting her. “It’s stone, perthrone. A stone statue. Don’t go near it. There might be enthrallments.”

  Saylym stilled. “Do you know what it is?”

  “Who,” Talon hissed with disbelief. “Who it is, is the important question.”

  “Who?” Saylym blinked. “You know her? It is a her?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s a her, all right. Your queen.”

  Saylym stared at the colossal statue. The woman was forever frozen in a timeless pose cut in stone. A stone garland of flowers rested on her head. Her long hair spiraled down across naked, up-tilted breasts. She sat on a massive throne, her arms rising gracefully to the heavens.

  Dark blue sapphires were inlaid beneath the pure line of her eyebrows. Her lips curved into a fleeting smile as if she held a secret known only to her. Sparkling emeralds adorned her fingers and toenails. Blood-red rubies traced the feminine curve of her ears.

  Saylym gasped. “Are they real?”

  “Real enough, I suppose.” Talon arched a brow. “They probably have a hex on them, so don’t touch them, La-Scheme.”

  It suddenly hit Saylym what Talon had said. “My queen? I don’t have a queen, Talon. Unless you refer to the Queen of England, but Mum always said she wasn’t my true queen because I wasn’t born in England. What are you talking about?”

  Talon gave her a thoughtful look. “Where were you born? When were you born?”

  Saylym shrugged. “Is that something we have to dig into right now?”

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Right,” Saylym snapped. “I don’t know. Now, can we drop it?”

  “And you don’t know anything about your queen?”

  “I said I didn’t.”

  Talon frowned. “How can you not know where or when you were born? How can you not know your own witch history?”

  “I keep telling you I’m not a witch so how could I have a witch history?”

  Talon sighed. “Granted, many things were lost over the passing centuries, but most of that was lost to the wakens and warlocks because the witches no longer shared their history with us. Some of the older witches know the past well and have passed it to the younger ones, but, sweetheart, you know absolutely nothing about anything.”

  Saylym snorted. “That should prove to you I’m not a witch.”

  “No, it only proves your past has been kept from you. I saw a picture of your queen once in a history book. I know this is a statue of Queen Shy-Ryn. Once upon a time, as illumrof fairy tales go, she was Queen of the Witches. What I remember is she wasn’t their first queen. So there should be a second statue somewhere. Hell, honestly, I don’t know how many statues of past queens there might be hidden somewhere.” He waved the torch around. “I don’t see any others.”

  “What happened to her?” Saylym asked, staring at the statue with wonderment.

  “I’m not certain, but a lot of witches and wakens perished during the Salem uprising. Perhaps her spirit surrendered to another plane.”

  Saylym looked past Talon and gasped. “There are open doorways behind her. Come on.”

  Talon grabbed her hand, pulling her back. “Not now, Saylym. We don’t have enough equipment or supplies with us to go exploring. We’re both wet and cold. And I need to check your injuries. You have a fractured wrist. Let’s save exploring for another day.”

  She nodded, glancing back over her shoulder at the dark openings. “It looks like a beehive with numerous entrances to ancient catacombs. We have to come back and investigate. Who knows where they could lead?”

  Talon sighed as he looped the rope around his wrist and took a firm hold of Saylym, preparing to scale the wall. “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

  “The catacombs don’t look that bad.”

  “Yes, they do. They’re ancient, dangerous, and probably hexed. There will be bodies stored in open container units there awaiting the return of their spirits. We have enough problems without having this to deal with, too.” Talon thrust the torch at her. “Can you hold onto this and me at the same time? Ride piggyback?”

  Saylym nodded. “Of course. But what are container units?”

  Of course. Talon smothered a groan as he grabbed hold of the rope and instructed her to lock her arm around his neck. She would zero in on the one thing that was too complicated to explain to a non-believer.

  “It’s a long story, Saylym, and one I don’t have time to go into with you right now. I need to get you above and mend your injuries. Let’s get out of here.” He paused a second. “And promise me you won’t come back down here without me.”

  He saw that stubborn, determined tilt to her chin and knew he was wasting his breath. Hell, he’d follow her to Hades and back if that was what she wanted. But he didn’t want her down here by herself.

  Talon refused to look back at the stone statue. He had a bad feeling that things were going to get much worse, before they ever got better.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Soon after Bridget Bishop’s trial, Nathaniel Saltonstall resigned from the court. He was dissatisfied with its proceedings.

  ~Salem Witch Trials

  Early June, 1692

  Sanctuary

  Mondays sucked.

  Saylym rubbed her forehead and stifled a moan. The cut above her right eye throbbed and she discovered clenching her teeth against the steady pain gave little relief. There was no use giving in to the dull ache pounding behind her eyes. She had too much to do.

  Talon had taken the time to perform his clever magic and seal the wound. He’d mended her injured wrist, but apparently he didn’t have the power to remove all the pain, or else he hadn’t thought to do it.

  He’d left in a hurry.

  She was stiff and sore and could hardly move. Every bone and muscle ached. She had bruises on top of bruises and muscles that hurt in places she didn’t even know she had muscles.

  Even her jaws ached.

  Whoever heard of someone’s jaws aching?

  All of this tended to ruin what had started out to be a perfect Monday. Monday had gone to Hell and now she was in a really rotten pain-filled mood.

  She was furious with Talon for leaving her with this bloody, awful mess to clean up. He’d promised to fix everything, but instead, when they reached the surface, he checked her injuries, mumbled a few word
s, and quickly left her to her own devices. Poof! He vanished into thin air.

  What had been his hurry?

  He hadn’t told her where he was going or when he’d be back.

  “Some witch he is.” She kicked a soggy box out of her path and felt like screaming. “I’ll fix everything for you,” she mimicked his words.

  So why hadn’t he?

  If he was such a bloody powerful waken, why hadn’t he chanted one of his magical spells or wiggled his fingers, zapped everything with those damnable sparks, and fixed it all for her?

  She wiped down another shelf and felt herself on the verge of tears.

  Oh, but that was a major no-no.

  “Witches don’t cry,” she mocked.

  Well, she had news for Mr. Princely Waken Talon, this bloody witch bloody-well cried!

  Being cold, wet, and hungry didn’t make her feel any better, either. She caught a glimpse of her face in a mirror and saw that her mascara was running down her face. It circled her eyes. She looked like a bloody raccoon! Her hair fell around her face in a tangled mass of damp curls. Every time she took a step, her shoes squished. She felt like punching something, and if Talon was here, she just might be tempted to hit him over the head.

  The bell above the shop door tinkled. Great! She sent a glower in its direction. Couldn’t the mighty waken have locked the bloody door when he left? The last thing she needed right now was a customer slipping and falling on the wet floor.

  Saylym flung down the sopping towel she was using to mop water off the shelves. “I’m closed!”

  Forcing a smile on her face she stepped around the shelf. As soon as she saw the customer, she felt her smile freeze in place. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a more beautiful woman than the one who had just sauntered into the shop.

  And saunter was the only word she could think of to describe the way the older woman walked. She had a lazy-boned way of moving that exerted little energy. She reminded Saylym of someone. Who?

  She shook her head. Heavens. She’d met so many new people lately; no telling who it was the woman reminded her of.

  Though it looked wildly tousled, every hair on the woman’s head was in place. It was obviously supposed to look as if a man had just run his fingers through it.

  And here she looked like a drowned rat. She knew her lips were bare of lipstick, and worse, she looked like a corpse with black rings beneath her eyes.

  Dressed in a burgundy medieval gown bearing a metallic cowl and belt, the woman looked as regal as a queen.

  And about as haughty.

  Saylym barely kept herself from giving a curtsy.

  Uncomfortable with the way the woman looked over the shop and sneered, Saylym clamped down the nervous urge to fiddle with her wet hair and slowly lowered her hand. She didn’t owe this woman a thing, and she didn’t like the way she made her feel, as if she was something nasty and smelly.

  Impure?

  The word suddenly wrenched at her soul. Maybe everyone here in Sanctuary detested Impures. She’d never seen such revulsion on anyone’s face as the woman suddenly stared at her with a contemptuous look.

  “You’re an Impure,” she said, “how utterly unfortunate for you. No waken will ever desire to bond with you. I suppose a warlock may wish to mate with you but even as evil as they are, I imagine that is doubtful as well.” She glanced around the shop. “Why, my dear, whatever happened to your quaint little shop? Leaky faucet?”

  Saylym’s hackles rose at the woman’s condescending bitchiness. It was patently clear that she didn’t give a shit what had happened and had no intention of purchasing a single item. “Can I help you?” she asked coolly.

  She really, really disliked this woman.

  The woman smiled, but the ebony eyes lacked warmth.

  Saylym lifted her chin. “I’m afraid I’m not open at the moment. I’ve had an accident with the sprinklers. Perhaps you could return another day, when things aren’t so messy?”

  The woman shrugged. “I doubt it. I really don’t wish to be seen anywhere near an Impure. The smell, you know. It clings to the skin if one gets too close.”

  “Then, please, allow me to show you the way out.”

  The woman arched a silken brow. “Not quite yet, my dear. You look like a wet ragamuffin. Pitiful.” She clicked her tongue. “I’m MeLora Haven. I presume you’re Saylym Winslow?”

  “You may presume whatever the hell you like. Do I know you?”

  “Hardly. Why haven’t you used your magic to fix this mess?”

  Saylym glanced down at her clenched fists and relaxed her hands. It’d be rude to punch this woman in the nose. She lifted her chin in a stubborn gesture her mum would have recognized. “I don’t know how. And before you say it…I’m not a witch.”

  A low laugh. “Of course you’re a witch. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in Sanctuary.”

  Saylym released a long sigh and gave up. “Okay, I’m a witch. But as I’ve been told, I’m not a very good one.”

  “That’s rather obvious.”

  Don’t punch her. Just calm down, take a deep breath, and whatever you do, don’t punch her. Bad for business to hit a customer.

  “So do you know how to clean up this mess?”

  “Of course, I do.” MeLora laughed, turned and opened the door. Pausing in the doorway, she gave her a cool smile. “But it is your mess, darling. Clean it yourself.”

  Saylym swore at the sound of shattering glass.

  What had she thrown at the annoying woman?

  Oh, no! She’d hurled the expensive crystal ball she’d set on the counter only a few days ago. Damn it! Couldn’t she have grabbed something inexpensive to throw at the woman’s head? Like a knife? Scissors?

  “Bitch.”

  What in the world had the hateful woman wanted?

  * * * *

  A block away, MeLora threw back her head and laughed deep in her throat. That was her competition, that poor, incompetent, scraggly-looking creature without enough sense of magic even to dry her hair and clothes? The woman was a weakling. An Impure. Nothing to fear there, even if her last name was Winslow, her magic was too diluted to be of any use to her.

  No, Saylym Winslow hadn’t a clue as to how to harness her powers. She was no threat to her plans whatsoever.

  MeLora drew a sparkling green infinity symbol in the air. It was time to return to the king now, worry-free. Her life-long plans were safe. There was nothing to stand in her way, certainly not that weakling half-breed witch who smelled worse than a pile of horse manure.

  In a flash of light, MeLora vanished from Sanctuary. The sound of her wicked laughter echoed down the street.

  * * * *

  Saylym was unwilling to forgive Talon when he returned to the shop at closing time to escort her home.

  “I’m not going with you anywhere. You left me in the lurch,” she accused.

  “I don’t want you on the streets alone,” he said. “It’s a dangerous time of the year for beautiful witches, especially one in heat. I insist on walking you home.”

  “Bloody hell! All right! Walk me home,” she exclaimed. “But first…” She gestured at the still-sodden interior of the shop.

  Silently, Talon began to set things to rights.

  Saylym watched with a jaundiced eye, but she gripped his arm as they finally left the shop. “Speaking of beautiful witches, do you know a woman named MeLora Haven who claims to be a witch?”

  Talon gave her an exasperated sigh. “If she claims she’s a witch, darling, then she’s a witch. You have to accept the fact we’re witches.”

  “Uh-huh.” Saylym snorted. “If she’s a witch, why didn’t she help me clean my shop with magic?”

  “She refused to help you?”

  “Yes, and she wasn’t nice about it. She called me an Impure.”

  Talon laughed softly and pulled her close beside him. “You are an Impure, darling.”

  “She said no waken would want to bond with me and no warlock would want to mate with me
. She said I smelled.”

  He shook his head. “You do smell but I’m getting used to your scent. We are going to bond, Saylym.” He patted her shoulder. “Poor baby, you’ve had a rough day, but it’s fixed now. I’m sorry I left you in such a hurry.”

  Talon was less cheerful than he appeared. It had been a big waste of time rushing off to talk to his father and the guild. How odd that he’d been told to come back later today or make an appointment. The guild was becoming very strange when they demanded reports but refused to see him without an appointment.

  And who was this witch who’d been rude to Saylym?

  Saylym paused in front of her gate. “How can a place as quaint as Sanctuary be dangerous?”

  Brushing a tangled curl back from her face, Talon eyed the pink scar on her temple. It was gradually fading. By morning, it would be gone. “Still have a headache?”

  “No, you fixed it. Finally.” She was still miffed at him.

  “I had an urgent need to talk to my father. A business matter I’d forgotten. Are you going to forgive me or keep huffing at me every time you speak to me?”

  “I never huff!” She frowned. “I just don’t like it because you deserted me in my hour of need and I’m not sure about this bonding thing.” She punched him on the shoulder. “And I didn’t hear you deny that no waken would want to bond with me. That hurts. Because it means that hateful witch told the truth, so therefore, I’m assuming you don’t actually want to bond with me.”

  Talon felt himself flushing.

  “So why are you insisting we bond?” persisted Saylym. “All right, going to see your father is your business, and you did heal my injuries, and you put my store back the way it was before the sprinklers went berserk from what you call my bungling magic. I guess you don’t want to talk about our bonding, but if you expect me to take you for life, you’re going to have to be honest with me…sometime.”

  Still he was silent, and Saylym blew out a puff of air. “All right. Since you aren’t willing to talk to me, I’ll change the subject. I find it hard to believe it’s dangerous in Sanctuary.”