Poison and Potions: a Limited Edition Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by Erin Hayes

  Completely drained of power. What would that feel like?

  What was a witch without her power?

  I swallowed convulsively, working once again to contain my nausea.

  His statement did bring my incipient tantrum back under control. “How can we stop this?” I asked, my voice quieter than before.

  Kaedon gestured for me to take the same seat I’d occupied the day before and moved to the sideboard, again pouring a drink. When he waved the bottle at me with a raised eyebrow, I shook my head. He folded himself into his seat and frowned as he chewed on his bottom lip. Finally, he spoke. “We need to destroy the elven ability to draw magic from witches.”

  I blinked at him, my eyes wide. “Is that even possible?”

  He shrugged and turned one hand outward, his long, expressive fingers trailing through the air as if leaving their own magic behind. “No idea. Not really.”

  “Not really means maybe,” I pointed out, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “Maybe,” he conceded. Coming to some internal decision, he stood and pivoted on one heel to lead me into the maze of shelves in the back of the library—shelves that held more books than I had ever seen in one place.

  Running his fingers along several spines and humming, Kaedon finally found the volume he was searching for.

  “This book,” he said. “It’s a history—but it doesn’t follow the usual formulas. It’s like no history of our people that I have ever seen before. I mean, it goes back to the crossover, to when we came into this world, as do all the other histories. And it draws on the same hints that witches and elves might be connected.”

  I’d been taught that the connections between our people were nothing more than myth, no more real than the stories about other races, such as dwarves, brownies, or pixies. Or sentient beings with no connection to magic at all.

  No. Fairy tales were not fact. Elves and witches were the only races, and Fae magic was so weak that they needed witches to activate it.

  Kaedon was still talking. “But this book one takes those claims one step further.” When he glanced from the book to me, his eyes held the same fervent light I had seen in young witches just entering their Circles, training for their life’s endeavor. Whatever other skills he might have, Lord Kaedon was an historian at heart.

  It wouldn’t take more than a single encouraging noise to get him to continue.

  “Goes back before the Crossing?” I kept my voice devoid of any inflection, afraid he might read sarcasm and choose not to share his information.

  He caught something, anyway, glancing from the book long enough to shake his head. “That’s of no import. Really, what does matter is the author’s assertion that our two races’ ability to use magic is deeply intertwined, and that destroying the magic of one group will, in fact, separate the other from its magic as well.”

  I took a horrified step back from him. “And this is what you propose to do?”

  “Perhaps.” Kaedon shrugged. “It’s not what I would prefer. But I am willing to try anything.”

  “Where to even start?” I cast my gaze around the library shelves, so full of books with the kind of learning I’d never had a chance to gain inside. If rumor among the witches had it right, the elves’ libraries contained thousands of our grimoires, much of that knowledge lost to my people during this generations-long war.

  Kaedon looked at me, tapping the cover of the book in his hands with those long fingers. He snapped the book shut, tucked it under his arm, and spun around, shaking loose some of the braids piled atop of his head so they spun outward with him.

  “We start at the beginning,” he announced.

  “Whatever that means,” I muttered, trailing along behind him.

  “The beginning” apparently meant sharing magic without Kaedon stealing it from me.

  This was much more difficult than it appeared initially. Both elves and witches were trained, after ages in a war of magic, to safeguard the power we carried within. Despite not having been battle trained, I had been drilled in defensive techniques—we had practiced over and over what to do should an elf attempt to take our magic from us, so it had eventually become rote.

  Similarly, Kaedon’s methods for using witch magic included a portion of the spell that required ripping more magic away.

  We agreed to begin with a simple candle-lighting spell, and the gleam in his eye when he suggested it did not escape my notice—he, too, was clearly remembering our encounter in the darkened hallway a few nights before.

  It should have been simple.

  All I needed to do was open a small portion of my power so he could dip in and take the equivalent of a thimbleful.

  What neither of us had realized was just how delicate the coordination needed to be.

  We’d returned to our customary seats in his study. I had worked with other witches before, combining small portions of power as part of my early training, particularly when the elder witches were determining which Circles we might be joining when we came of age. I was used to protecting my mother’s magic even as I allowed some small part of my own to seep out.

  But I was used to the questing probe of another witch, like a needle punched through the skin of a drinking bladder, allowing only the thinnest stream of water to flow out. The other witch would then guide that liquid strand into her own reservoir of magic, where it would become part of her arsenal.

  Kaedon’s efforts to take enough magic to light a candle felt as if he were trying to gain a thimbleful of water by smashing the bladder flat with a board.

  Had I not, metaphorically, ducked out of the way entirely, my magic would have blown outward, drenching everything around us. I suspected that was the equivalent of what the elves I’d seen in the vision mirror were doing. If I was right, the stakes the witches had been lashed to served to contain and concentrate the scattered magic, making it accessible for the elves.

  Even the attempt left me cold, shaking, and sick to my stomach.

  “Not like that,” I managed to get out from between my chattering teeth.

  Kaedon shook his head, a frown creasing the bridge of his nose. “That was the simplest spell I know for sharing magic.”

  “I don’t think ‘sharing magic’ means the same thing to elves and witches.” I managed to make my way over to the handy drink cart, where I poured a shot of the powerful amber elixir. I closed my eyes and reveled in the burn as it made its way down my throat.

  “Shall we try again?”

  I shook my head without opening my eyes. “Give me a few minutes.”

  I was rubbing my eyes with one trembling hand when I felt him approach me from behind. “Here,” he said, pressing a cold cloth into my fingers. “Sit for a while with this.”

  This time, my shivering had more to do with his kindness than our attempt at magic sharing.

  Fae lords are supposed to be heartless.

  I forced the thought away. I couldn’t afford to dwell on that kindness too much.

  Not if I want to retain my sanity.

  We sat silently, and I kept my eyes covered for about fifteen minutes before I finally said, “Okay. I’m ready to try again. This time, let me lead.”

  I stood and leaned on my chair to push it slightly closer to his. When I sat, I reached out and lightly touched the back of his hand with my fingertips. He twitched a little, but didn’t protest.

  “Close your eyes,” I instructed. “Imagine yourself standing in the center of a meadow.” I made my voice as soothing as possible. “In the distance, there are noises of laughter and joy. But here and now, there is only peace.”

  Gently, softly, I sketched out an image in words of the clearing I had visited earlier—the single spot on the island that I considered my own.

  When I had described it to him sufficiently, I said, “Now, see me standing next to you.” With that, I added the slightest push against my magic, using it to pull us deeper into this vision without a scryer’s mirror.

  Bending over, I plucked a white-and
-yellow daisy from the ground. I glanced at Kaedon as he watched me, and then gently, ever so carefully, I blew on the flower petals, putting the magic I wanted Kaedon to have into that breath and then letting it go to imbue the flower.

  When it held all I planned to give, I held it out to the elf lord, who cupped his hands around mine as if to make sure he did not crush something precious. And then, I let the flower, my magic, go.

  I knew the moment it transferred to him.

  Our entire shared world changed around me.

  All the warmth leached out of the air, turning my breath into cold mist billowing up in front of me. The sound of children’s laughter drained away, leaving behind a cold, crackling silence. The soft meadow pushed upward until we were standing on a cold, ice-covered peak. Behind me, I felt the mountain continuing toward the sky. I didn’t turn around to look, too afraid of the vertigo I suspected I would feel at the sudden change.

  Instead, I glanced at Kaedon’s hand, to the flower I had gifted him.

  It was still a flower, and it continued to glow with power, but it no longer held the shape of the daisy.

  Instead, it was a single white bell shape, the form of the icy snowdrop flower that heralded spring in the high reaches.

  “Now that you’ve made it yours, what will you do with it?” I asked.

  Kaedon continued to stare at the flower, a form of wonder diffusing his face.

  “I had no idea…” he whispered.

  I waited for him to complete the sentence, but when he didn’t, I chose not to ask what he had meant. I suspected I didn’t want to know.

  “Should we see if it can be transferred back again?” I asked.

  Kaedon looked up from his rapt attention on the flower and shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “Of course. Of course. Here.” He all but shoved the flower toward me. I held my hands up as I stepped back, refusing to take it.

  “It has to be transferred with intention. It’s not enough to simply hand it to me—you must also, as you give it to me, let it go.”

  Kaedon closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and held the flower out again.

  I put my hands under his, cupping it to catch the flower when he dropped it. It was so cold it almost burned my palms, but only for an instant. The return of some portion of my magic—what had not been used in the transfer itself—returned the meadow from before.

  “Could I use that in a spell? Can I do a working with it just as I usually do?” Kaedon asked. It was hard not to shudder at the thought of where the bulk of his usual magic came from.

  “I suppose that’s something we will have to try out.” I held the magic flower toward him one last time. “Now, take it and make it part of you,” I said.

  Kaedon’s puzzled frown suggested he had not considered how he might do that, but he put his hands out again anyway. The landscape changed again, but I was prepared for it. I kept my eyes on Kaedon to avoid the dizzying shifts. He stared at the flower in his hand, head tilted, a quizzical look on his face. Then his expression cleared. Without any further hesitation, he moved the flower to his mouth, licked it out of his hand, and swallowed it.

  I wasn’t entirely certain if the jolt deep in my abdomen came from the sight of him licking his hands, or the incorporation of what had been my magic into him.

  Maybe a little of both.

  “And I think that is enough for today.” I was glad my voice didn’t shake.

  “I want to see if I can use this.”

  “Do you need my presence for that?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily.” He glanced at me from beneath his furrowed brow. “But I would very much like for you to be here.”

  I had hoped to avoid spending any more time with him than necessary. It was difficult to keep my equanimity about this Fae lord. He wasn’t what I expected, and I was far too engaged in working with him.

  I had no way to win in this situation. If we failed to stop the war, I would most likely find myself, at best, set loose to wander the mountainside again. At worst, I’d be sent to one of the witch-draining chambers, strapped to a post, and emptied of my magic. Oh, as much as I wanted to believe that everything Kaedon showed me was the sum total of who he was, I couldn’t afford to trust in it. I would help him, I would do my best to end the war between our people, but I would, in the end, be left with no easy path.

  Standing first in that clearing and then on the mountain had reminded me—no matter what happened here, I would never be going home again.

  No. I needed to keep my wits about me. I would help this Fae lord, but I could never completely trust him.

  Still, I nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay for the spellcasting, too.”

  Chapter Seven

  Instead of his study, Lord Kaedon led me through the castle hallways, down several flights of stairs, across the courtyard, and up a long, winding staircase into the top room of one of the castle’s three towers.

  I was surprised to find a fairly typical spellcaster’s space. He had the usual workings on the wall to contain any mishaps—runes of protection and warding designed to allow him to contain problems. A simple pentagram had been sketched onto the floor with dark paint. I glanced more closely at it and saw that it had originally been carved into the floor. I was glad to see that, as it meant any workings were unlikely to be disturbed by a broken symbol. Similarly, there was a circle carved around the pentagram. When I examined it even closer, I realized there were several concentric circles in ever-widening rings around the pentagram. I nodded in approval. Unlike the pentagram, the circles were not painted, as each caster’s circle would have to be invoked anew.

  Along the curved walls, Kaedon had several built-in shelves holding various supplies. Herbs, potions, candles, vials of earth, and bundles of twigs to be lit for fire. Several bowls of varying sizes were carefully placed atop the shelves, as well. On the far side of the room, away from the door, was a table laden with the workings for an herbalist and a potions master. As I was neither, my glance skipped over that section of the room.

  “Does my practice space meet with the witch’s approval?” Kaedon asked, his voice teasing.

  I didn’t know how to respond to that; the thought we were becoming close enough that he felt comfortable teasing me made me worry. I did not want to like this man.

  I didn’t want him to like me, either.

  But I wasn’t sure how I was going to help those things.

  “It looks perfectly adequate, Lord Kaedon,” I said formally.

  Kaedon blinked, and his face fell just a little—enough so I noticed the happy gleam fade from his eyes.

  It should not have made me sad.

  “How should we begin?” I asked briskly.

  Kaedon brushed off whatever emotion he was feeling and came to attention. “I assume I’ll need practice working with your magic—it feels somehow… different from the magic I’ve worked with up until now.”

  “Can I ask—” I paused, uncertain of how to approach getting the information I wanted.

  “You can ask anything.”

  I forced myself to say aloud what I most wanted to know. The words tumbled out in a rush. “Where did you get the magic you’ve been using up until now?”

  Kaedon’s eyes narrowed as his jaw clenched for just an instant, and I was suddenly forcibly reminded of the fact I was alone with the Fae lord. Elves were not known for being gentle with witches who annoyed them. I found myself shrinking away from him, frightened of his potential reaction.

  When he saw my response, Kaedon turned away with a muttered curse and strode over to the shelves holding the bowls. “Like most elven magic, it’s stolen.” His words were harsh, unrelenting. “Some of it is taken in payment from other elves. I don’t ask where they get it, but I assume most of it comes from magic-garnering facilities like the one you saw.”

  “You mean torture chambers.” I didn’t bother to make it a question.

  His shoulders tensed, and I saw the flicker of movement before he actually turned. Antic
ipating some violent response, I stepped backward quickly, moving toward the door.

  “That’s what we’re trying to stop.”

  I hesitated, his words throwing me off. “The torture?”

  “Of course.” Although he didn’t take any steps toward me, he leaned forward, as if wishing to get close enough to send his words directly from his mouth into my brain to make me understand.

  “If we can take my people’s only real power away from them, stop them from stealing magic from witches, make it impossible for the elves to wage their side of the war, then the war will end.” His eyes gleamed with that same fervor I had seen earlier. Although some of it had indeed been the excitement of a natural historian, I recognized something else: Lord Kaedon verged on being a zealot when it came to this crusade. He was determined to stop this war, no matter what it did to his people, or to himself.

  Or to me, for that matter.

  I wasn’t sure what was more frightening—the fear this might turn out to be some kind of ruse, or the absolute certainty that he meant every word and would do almost anything to make it happen.

  “But that won’t be enough,” I said.

  “No. It won’t.”

  “Because if we take magic away from the elves—”

  “—the witches will move in and destroy us.” Lord Kaedon finished my sentence for me.

  “Is there no answer for it but to cut witches off from their own magic, as well?” I asked.

  “Not that I have seen, and not that I have been able to come up with in the years I have considered this.” Now, his shoulders seemed not tight, but weighted down with the weight of the responsibility to stop the war—a responsibility Kaedon had taken on himself.

  “Where do we begin?” I asked solemnly, stepping forward and resting my fingers lightly against his forearm.

  Lord Kaedon glanced up at me gratefully, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “With a single elf,” he said. “We begin by separating one elf lord from his magic. If we can do that, we can eventually take them all down.”