The Sorcerers Mark

by The Sorcerer's Mark (NCP) (lit)

  She studied his form as though he were a model, a figure she was preparing to sketch or paint--a faultless model, coveted by the most skilled of artists. Hair that was so black it shimmered blue cascaded over wide shoulders, framing a structured face, twisted slightly in unease. He had seen her doubts, pained by reckless misgivings and she lowered her gaze in disgrace. The expansive chest narrowed to powerful hips, thick thighs, the flawless skin like a cover of velvet over a sea of muscle. Even his feet were sculptured to perfection, each toe formed in unison to the other. Motionless he waited until she slowly lifted her eyes again to his, each pooled with hurt she had innocently inflicted.

  “A stranger instills such doubt--one who speaks quickly, saying little except in my disfavor--and you turn to listen to his every word? You let his quiet fallacy sink into your mind and then you cast wary eyes of distrust to me. Is it your wish to add to my torment? If so, you are victorious.” It was difficult to believe he was a master of magic, that standing in front of her the way he did that he was nothing more than a man who feared vulnerability, on the verge of losing a love that took him centuries to find.

  Her heart told her to race into his arms, deny doubt, but it would be a lie, and he knew it as well as she did. He read her thoughts more clearly than she would have wished. “So much,” she said weakly. “It’s all so much.” The death of her grandmother had taken a toll. With melancholy came reflection. She needed his comfort; she also needed affirmation. “You tell me you are a man. You rarely sleep or eat. You make love to me without love. You slip into my thoughts as though my mind were nothing more than a swinging door. My existence is open to you, for you and I have no control. I am a puppet beneath your strings. These strings are heavy because I love you. This is what I share with the others and I do not feel unique.”

  His brow lifted.

  “You were a careless man. Impressionable women, enchanted as I, gave themselves to you. They believed in you, that your acts of passion were meant in earnest. They fell into your embrace with hope, as women do, as women have always done. But your passion was temporary. Once satisfied you left them. Worse still you left them when they needed you most. Misbegotten children, all had no significance, for to acknowledge honor might mean abandoning philandering ways. I know of no other manner a man could be more careless.”

  “Olivia,” he said, shocked.

  “Let me finish,” she admonished. “It was a long time ago, I understand that. I also understand that you obtained great magic--that love meant so little you sacrificed it for prolonged life. How, why, where--it alls pales in comparison to the motive. Immortality is not accessible to the common man. It refutes all laws of nature--laws which held no barrier to you. This makes you more than human. This frightens me. But what frightens me more is that the man who still resides in you remains careless. Yes, you tell me I am your own, and I cling to this as a drowning soul would to a piece of driftwood. Yet, did you say the same to the others, until your goal’s secured, until you chose to leave, to carry along the road only you could see? I am as they were. I love you, I ache for you, I carry your child.” She folded her arms across her stomach. “Am I truly different than any of those you cast your spell upon?”

  “The road I follow bears your footprints, Olivia. If they cease I will be nothing but the dust that lingers beneath your shoes.”

  His brown eyes shimmered, unblinking, locked in an unyielding stare to her. He didn’t offer repentance for past transgressions, nor did he boast what virtue he still held. Rather he waited, as a condemned man might do so for judgment’s finality.

  Olivia offered no apology. What she spoke came from deep within her heart. Her fingers danced over the gems of the necklace, a reminder that despite whatever misgivings she might carry, she was an intricate part of his destiny. Their paths were so tightly interwoven that even if she wanted to wiggle free she could not.

  He lifted both palms, fingers sprawled wide, each nail lengthening, pointed, like thin scissors. His face clouded with severity, determination, and when the nails curled he raked the tips into his chest, the skin pulling aside as though olive curtains. Muscle appeared, red and thick, then the ribcage, white bone, soft and malleable to his act. It opened, like a macabre beginning to some perverse show and Olivia gaped in horror. He didn’t even wince, feeling nothing as he kept his eyes fixated to her. And the gouge opened farther until exposing his pulsating heart. The organ quivered as blood continued to flow, as though it didn’t realize the air touched its functioning. It thumped, not missing a beat, until ooze filtered out, black and thick. A shadow formed beside him, its outline dark and distinct, its core shaded to featurelessness.

  The only sign of contorted agony was in his voice. “Olivia,” he rasped, straining to bear the oppression. “Meet Wyldelock Talan De Croft.”

  The Shadow dipped to her, a chivalrous gesture of introduction. The smile formed first. Identical to William, yet different, for the motive behind the charm was infested with lust. It leered at her and she gasped, sensing the desire it had to devour her where she sat. She darted frightened glances between the two, now indistinguishable, except William maintained a hardened wince--his chest torn wide so that the shadow had substance.

  “This is who I once was,” William said, his voice low, struggling. “He lives in me still, it is true. He reminds me often of misdeeds and urges my hand to follow his desire. I cannot change the past. He taunts me often with acts of selfishness, a constant memory I should not dismiss. Should not, for it keeps what honor that remains in my heart alive. Opposites, Olivia, you said so yourself. He measures what I was so that I can adhere to potential to be better. Such darkness lives in every man, Olivia. You alone taught me this. Your wisdom brought him into the light and now he cannot wield influence over my hand. He lives still but I control him and I use him to teach me. Neither an enemy to me or to you. Can you believe in me? Can you find it within your own heart to have faith? If not, speak, and I will depart, as empty as when we met.”

  Olivia’s hand fell to her thrashing breast. Darkness clouded her, too. Otherwise she would never have given audience to doubt. It had controlled her; she had been its servant, not yet conquering what William had conquered. And to think she tried to question his motives when she remained so ignorant and weak.

  She faced the Shadow, its features exact to William. Standing firmly before the image she looked into the eyes that denoted self-obtainment only. “Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” she stated with authority. “You mean nothing to me.” The image cocked one brow, disbelieving she could deny his narcissistic charm. “Your dominion is ruined. William Talbot lives because my love for him is true.”

  The image returned to silhouette without protest and disappeared. William stood alone, healed from the self-inflicted wound. His face glowed.

  “I have met your darker side, William. I am no longer frightened. Forgive my shallow words.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, my jewel.”

  “Then I must forgive myself,” she said.

  “Then do so with haste. Know that you are indeed unique.”

  She ran one finger down the seamless skin on his chest. Olive flesh revealed no scar, the hairs in place, the muscle beneath rising and falling to the beat of a heart, normal, steady. He was as he had been, except that his stare at her had softened, and he waited as she studied his form, his breath heavy. “Still,” she whispered, her palm against the heat of his torso. “You are more than a man.”

  “What is common has no effect on either of us. You reign with me. Only you, Olivia. Can you accept this?” He took hold of her wrist and squeezed it, wrapping his sculptured fingers around the bone. She hadn’t realized she was trembling till he did so. “Accept me?” he asked gently, his voice saturated with supplication.

  “Yes. I accept.”

  There was no dance. There were no further words of appraisal. There was no need to reiterate. She felt only him--his passion, his need, his desire. And she fell to the bed with the faultless b
ody enveloping her. Not only did he overwhelm her, he sunk into her. She was as the ocean’s surface and he the ship that lowered in part into the depth to float on the surface. Their bodies had melted together. She didn’t know where she ended or where he began, just that he was there, filling her with his reality. And the ecstasy of it was immediate. The wave of sensation rushed over her whole body and she drew a yawning breath of contentment. He exhaled into her parted lips, heat penetrating deeply down her throat, the warmth surrounding her heart, tightening, silently promising never to let go. As he flowed over her another wave washed through her, more severe than the first, and she cried out at its presence, both surprised and welcoming, while sensuous lips caught the sound, vibrating into his own long quiet moan of pleasure.

  “Only you,” he cooed, finding her ear, his breath wet. His hands encased her skull, fingers locked around thick strands of hair. He pulled while writhing into her diluted thought. “Only you have the endurance to accept what I can offer and I offer you much.”

  Although her arms felt like lead weights she inched her hands over the balls of his shoulders, velvet skin, loose locks. Between the numbing waves she ached for him to succumb to the same elation as she, and smiled as he answered the wish before the motive escaped her lips. “Yes,” he whispered. “I feel it, too.”

  Then he spoke to her, the odd guttural language that had had no meaning. Now, in this magic borderless place where he had taken her, every syllable had meaning. She understood all of it, the clarity a release within itself.

  “Our inner bodies embrace. They dance as we dance, they kiss as we kiss, they unite free from disorder. They rejoice for they no longer search the answers that solitude cannot give. I am your lover. You are my love. No wedge can tear us apart. This is the rapture we share. Nothing can take this glory from us. Let it be so.”

  He swayed over her, rhythmic flowing fulfillment. He was a gentleman thief who crept through the shadows cast by the full moon, cloaked in a robe of mystique, stealing her free will to choose a lover. Without influence she might have looked the other way, cast her affections to another, but if she had she would also suffer the small voice of failure, reminding her of the one opportunity that rose, gently coaxing, but one she didn’t acknowledge. Fate kept her sights focused--he made certain she answered his call--made certain she was his chosen. A thief, but one she accepted, allowing him to prowl through the chambers of her heart, allowing him to steal from her, promising the crime would find reward, not emptiness. A gentleman, a poet, a thief.

  “Tell me,” he whispered. “Rapture my ears with your sweet voice as you rapture my body.”

  “I love you, so much.”

  “My own.” He sighed with a gentle tremor. Resting his chin into the hollow of her neck he brushed pursed lips against her jaw. “My own.”

  They lay together without further thought; a simple luxury of the bond only lovers could share. This, they both knew, was the dreamy calm before an impending storm.

  Chapter Ten

  Stephen leaned lazily against his car, smoking a cigarette. A thick and impenetrable fog had drifted in from the sea, hanging over the treetops, dripping from the highest limbs like silver lace. The gray gloom seemed appropriate on a day when another was added to the village cemetery. Olivia held her mother’s arm as they stood, a few more moments, over Gran’s final resting place.

  It had been a modest interment, as Gran had stipulated in her handwritten will. A few locals had nervously ventured up to them, offering condolences, to which Mother in turn politely smiled thanks. Olivia remained skeptical of their sincerity, keeping her head bowed, and her eyes steadfast on the dewy grass. Still, to approach two Morgan witches was an act of bravery if not kindness, and Mother seemed warmed by the words of compassion. But now they were alone, lingering at the site together, silently issuing their own farewell, while Stephen waited a respectable distance until they were finished.

  Mother leaned, removing a long stemmed white rose from the bouquet on the mound of dirt, and turned to the adjourning grave, one that was no longer fresh, blanketed with cut grass and a few weeds. She ran her fingers over the name--Michael Philip Morgan. So tender was her touch Olivia felt Mother’s loss. Despite the sadness Olivia couldn’t help but feel relieved. Father was still in her heart even though Stephen waited a few steps away. He was a reminder that life went on, but Mother’s mournful gesture was drenched with sincerity that no man could truly take Father’s place. She kissed the rose and placed it on the stone.

  “I was blessed by his coming into my life,” Mother said, staring at the marker. “He was my one true love. He will always be just that. No one can ever replace him. I believe it’s true, Ollie, that there is a special someone meant for each of us.”

  Olivia stood quietly, absorbing the undertone.

  “Stephen lost his wife,” Mother went on, exorcising her uneasy meditation. “His one true love. I guess with each other we’re filling in the holes they have left.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Olivia said softly, in tune with the melancholy the day forced upon both of them.

  “No, I suppose not. But it’s never the same.” She pulled a few small weeds from the base of the headstone. “Strange, the twisty directions life takes us whether we take notice or not.”

  Olivia couldn’t be sure whether this was meant for her or not. “Mother? What are you trying to say?”

  “Hm? Oh, nothing really. Nothing you don’t already know. We’re women.” She grinned. “As impetuous as we sometimes are we always listen to our hearts.” Her voice cracked and she stifled a stabbing sob. “I loved Michael entirely. I gave him my heart and my soul, just as you have done with William. I recognize the glow, you see.” She smiled again while tears filled each eye. “Gran said I had that glow once, too, and less than nine months later you were born. I was younger than you are now and it seems so long ago. Oh, my,” she sighed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Nothing like a graveyard to bring the best out in someone.”

  “It’s going to rain. Let me help you up.” Olivia reached for Mother’s arm. She was anxious to change the subject. Fine to talk about loss and memories of those who had gone, but Olivia hadn’t wanted to dwell on the reason for a ‘glow,’ even though her state hadn’t been officially confirmed. Not the time and certainly not the place.

  “I’m not as inexperienced in our craft as your grandmother told you,” Mother said, pulling Olivia beside her on the ground. “I might be a bit rusty. It’s been years since I’ve even lit a candle for something other than the dinner table, but I was once adept at ... seeing what no one else had seen. Not that I always tried, it’s just sometimes I would touch an object and then see pictures, in a blinding flash. Sheriff Franks came to me once, when little Johnny Butler was lost. I knew he didn’t want to ask, but a child’s life was at stake and the searches were coming up with nothing. The minute I held that running shoe I saw the outline of the old mining camp up on Fraser’s Ridge. They found him there, even though it was one of the places they had already searched. Apparently the little fellow was so bush-crazy he had hidden from the very people who were trying to rescue him. The whole village was jubilant and the sheriff got a commendation. He thanked me on the sly and then that was it. Funny,” she said after a pause. “Johnny Butler was, allegedly, one of the young men who torched the store.”

  “We should go, Mother,” Olivia said. “It’s getting damp. We can talk about this at the house instead of here.”

  “No. I want to say this to you now because it’s just us.” She took Olivia’s hand, taking care to not touch the ring. “Your Gran never told me about this ring, what it was, where it had come from, her intentions for it. I found it quite by accident one day when I was tidying her room. It was so pretty and so unlike something that she would have hidden in a drawer, well, without thinking I picked it up.”

  “What did you see?” Olivia was fascinated as well as anxious.

  “I don’t know how to describe it without soundin
g mad. It was all such a jumble and at first I couldn’t make heads or tails.”

  “Tell me. Maybe I can sort it out.”

  “Oh,” Mother shivered, rubbing her palm to her forehead. “I shouldn’t have started. It’s all so horrid.”

  “Mother! You did start and I’m wearing this ring. I need to know as much as possible about what I’m dealing with here. Now what did you see?”

  “Blood, Ollie. I saw blood. A river of it. And not one drop came from the sorcerer.”

  “I don’t understand. This is supposed to be one of the thirteen drops of blood.” She touched her necklace. “Nine, the ring ten and the other three he had given to....” Olivia didn’t dare speak the name. The fog had folded so quickly over the outer gravestones that it seemed to be listening.

  “There were voices, horrible cries that deafened me. All women. All those who had been with the sorcerer. Every one, Ollie, every one had been murdered, their throats slashed. It was sickening.”

  “A nightmare,” Olivia offered. It had to belong to William because when Gran gave it to her he was saved from the struggle in the turret, and when he saw it, when they danced, he recognized it as his own. “No, it has to be a mistake.”

  Mother shook her head. “He murdered them all. I saw the same face that had haunted my dreams since childhood. In rage he found every woman that the sorcerer had been with and.... Bloodlust. He’s possessed with hunting down anyone associated with William. I think the ring was a ruse. I think he planted it knowing the fear that would be passed down through the generations, and I think he has his sights on you next.”

  “I can’t believe the ring is a fake. William would have known. He would have told me.”

  “Evil can mask so much, Ollie, especially an evil as profound as ... his. I know what I saw then. And I know you’re pregnant now. So what else can I deduce from all this except he’ll come after you next? Honey, this creature is very powerful. He thrives on hatred and he enjoys his craft. And I am so afraid for you that I’m sick.”