Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “I’ll miss being alive.”

  She chuckled, and he did, too, surprisingly.

  “God, we shouldn’t be laughing about that.” She smiled up at him, and her hands ran down his stomach. “Take me to bed.”

  Liam lifted her from the floor. She felt so small in his arms, despite her immense strength. She kissed the side of his neck as he carried her to the bedroom and laid her down gently. He stretched out next to her with his hand on her hip. “Have you ever done this before?”

  She shook her head. “I never wanted anyone but you.”

  He hesitated.

  “You won’t break me,” she said.

  “I was actually more worried about myself.”

  She leaned up on her elbow and ran her hand down the side of his face. “Why?”

  “The last time I gave my body to a witch, it, well... she turned out to be an immortal beast that sold her soul to the Devil.”

  Cyan smiled and shook her head. “You always were funny.”

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  She stopped smiling and leaned forward. What began as a gentle kiss quickly escalated as Cyan shoved his shirt off his shoulders and ran her hands over his bare skin. She flung a leg over his waist and clung to him, fingers digging into the back of his neck. She was only so happy to remove her necklace and shirt to reveal a simple, black bra that Liam discarded five seconds later. Both topless, they pressed their upper bodies together. Cyan moaned at the sensation, clinging to his shoulders as her back arched and his mouth found her throat.

  He ran his hand over her flat, pale stomach, skin like silk, and touched her softly between her legs through her jeans.

  “Liam,” she panted.

  When he looked up at her, she looked back. Her braids now fell free around her slim shoulders. Her mouth was wet, cheeks flushed. She reminded him of a flower after a rainstorm, dried by morning sun. Liam didn’t allow himself to see into her mind—he would not violate her that way—yet a silent question did pass between them, an unsaid, “Is this all right?”

  Cyan answered by dragging him up to her by his hair, which made him laugh as he tumbled into her embrace, all lips and tongues and the tantalizing huffs of her breath.

  When they were about to make love, Liam lingered above her, hands on either side of her head as he knelt between her thighs. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

  She blinked several times and nodded, her fingertips dancing across his chest. He loved her like this: not the fated Loach, but a nervous young woman who loved him back. She did wince when he first pressed inside, which made him freeze.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded vehemently. “More.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes through it all. She occasionally reached up to push sweat from his forehead, to play with his hair. She wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him—his mouth, his throat, his ears—anything she could reach. He wasn’t at all prepared for the sudden deep sound that erupted from her throat or the way her body went taut beneath him, her fingers digging into his biceps. He wasn’t prepared either when her whole body glowed gold and filled the room with glittering light. He smiled against her throat as he, too, found completion. His body emitted a shade of bright blue until their colors mixed and painted the room green.

  Cyan lay with her head on his chest, their naked limbs tangled together beneath the sheets. The drying sweat on her skin made her shiver, which made Liam pull her closer.

  He stuck his nose in her hair. “Just so you know, people don’t usually glow during sex.”

  She smiled. “How disappointing for everyone else.”

  “I just don’t want it to be a let down when you—” He stopped suddenly.

  “What?” She ran her hand across his chest.

  “I was going to say ‘when you have a husband someday,’ but a big rock got stuck in my throat.”

  She lifted her head and looked at his handsome face with its strong jaw, high cheekbones, and soft lips, battered from her hungry kisses. “I’ll never have a husband.”

  He leaned up and pressed his nose against hers. “I want you to. I want you to move on after.”

  Cyan shook her head. “There’ll never be anyone but you.”

  “You are much too young to say that.”

  “No one else will ever compete.”

  “Come on, I’m not that good in bed.”

  She laughed, wrapped her arms under his shoulders, and pressed her face against the side of his neck.

  “Then again, I was your first, so for all you know… yes, I am that good.” He joined in her laughter and kissed her earlobe.

  “For so long, I didn’t think you were real. I used to call you my Dof. Did I tell you that?”

  He shook his head as she leaned up on one elbow to look at him, play with his hair.

  “It’s short for ‘Dofheicthe.’”

  “Gaelic for ‘invisible.’”

  “Since when do you know all this Gaelic?”

  “It just kind of comes to me lately.” His hand cupping her lower back made her shiver, not from cold.

  “I thought maybe you were some hallucination of Sybil’s. She’d sing about you. Someday my prince would come…”

  “Snow White?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “How did you know that?”

  “I am full of useless information.”

  “And useful.” She rubbed her inner thigh against his, which made him practically purr. “Then. I saw you in that wreck. You were real but desperately in love with someone else.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t true.”

  “It sure looked like it.”

  “You know how we thought Max put a spell on me?”

  Cyan’s eyes went wide. “Zoe.”

  “A love spell, no less. The whole time I was with her was a lie. She even killed my parents.”

  “Liam.” Out of reflex, she put her hand over his heart.

  “She said they would have killed me anyway. My mother knew what I was. And she knew about you.”

  “Me?”

  “She was a seer, like your aunt. She painted you.”

  “Which is why you felt like you knew me.”

  He nodded. “Zoe destroyed the painting and kept watch over me. She didn’t actually enter my life until she thought I was ready, I guess.”

  “Or until you got hot.” She tickled his collarbone with her fingertips. Cyan, for some reason, felt no need to talk anymore about Zoe or witches or the War. She wanted to hear Liam laugh some more. She wanted to have more sex. For one night, she wanted to just be a woman in love.

  Liam must have sensed this because he smiled. “Please. I was born hot.”

  She went to smack him on the shoulder, but he grabbed her hand and rolled her over until they were both on their sides, legs intertwined, stomachs touching. She smiled into his kiss and was reminded of the way he tasted like red wine.

  “You are very handsome,” she whispered.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

  “Language,” she chided.

  He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “You taste like orange blossom honey. Did you know that?”

  “That’s a very specific observation.”

  “It’s my favorite kind of honey. I first had it in, um…” He closed his eyes, reminiscing. “Carmel. Right on the California coast. I’d only recently arrived from Ireland. I didn’t have a job yet, was just exploring.”

  “With your endless funds.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, with my endless funds. I was at a café, and it was crooked. Everything in Carmel felt crooked.”

  “Sure you weren’t just drinking a lot of wine?”

  “Fair enough, but the café owner, she was a local. Following the prerequisite jokes about my accent—”

  “You have an adorable accent.”

  He kissed her, tongue and all. She knew it was to shut her up, so she considered interrupting him more often. He sucked on her bottom lip as he pulled away
. “She gave me this really strong chai tea, and even though I don’t usually drink tea, I said ‘thank you,’ and she put a huge dollop of liquid gold into my mug. It looked like amber, kind of like you.” He put his palm against hers, and her skin immediately shimmered. “I’ve never had a cup of tea that good, before or since. I used to eat that honey by the spoonful. Haven’t had it in years, until I tasted you.”

  “You taste like wine.”

  “I’m frankly surprised it doesn’t come out my pores.”

  “It’s funny.” She shifted closer, pressing herself against him. “I don’t even drink wine, but I can’t get enough of your mouth.” She instigated the kiss this time. She took hold of the back of his head, his short hair tickling her fingers. Despite her inexperience, she knew how to kiss Liam. She knew how to use her tongue to get him to make that deep growl in the back of his throat. She knew how to suck on his top lip until his fingertips squeezed into her flesh. And already, she knew how to roll her hips to make him gasp and whisper her name.

  She climbed on top to pleasure them both, his hands guiding her with gentle force. Cyan liked the view. He did have that runner’s body—all lean muscle, slim hips, and broad chest. She used his chest to balance herself and although she thought she should feel exposed above him like that, she didn’t because he was Liam. He was the only man she would ever love, and soon, one of them would be dead.

  Afterwards, he curled his body around her, his front to her back. She tangled their fingers together and refused to cry. She felt exhausted in a way she never had before. With his breath tickling her neck, she muttered, “Maybe this is why I’ve never much enjoyed sleeping. I never got to sleep next to you.”

  Hours later, she arose with the sunrise and carefully snuck out from beneath his embrace. She glanced back, but Liam slept on, mouth agape in a silent snore, which made her smile—and then ache inside. This was it. This was goodbye, but she wouldn’t say it. Instead, she dressed quickly. She didn’t put her boots on until she was outside, and she made her way to the Burroughs homestead where she sensed her mother waiting, no matter the early hour.

  When she stepped inside, Rue looked up at her from her teacup. She didn’t speak.

  Cyan pushed her long hair behind her ears and lifted her chin. “You’re up early.”

  “Didn’t much care for sleeping.” She wore a multi-colored robe. Her light hair was wrapped around the back of her head in a messy bun.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Getting some rest. He was up most of the night with Max, preparing. And Sybil’s practically ill after that horrid painting of Liam yesterday. She won’t leave her bedroom.”

  Cyan nodded and felt her mother’s eyes on her. She looked up to see Rue staring.

  “I doubt Drake would want to see you right now,” her mother said.

  “Because I went to Liam.”

  Rue sipped her tea.

  “Well, aren’t you going to yell at me?”

  “I would have done the same thing for your father.” She looked again at her daughter, and Cyan wondered what she saw. Did Cyan look different now, after? “Where’s your grandmother’s pendant?”

  Cyan’s hand flew to her bare throat. She’d left it on Liam’s bedside stand.

  When Liam woke, Cyan was gone, which sent him into a terrible panic. How could she… no, she couldn’t leave like that, without saying goodbye—without allowing him one last kiss? He threw the covers off and walked naked into his living room. She wasn’t there. There was no sign she’d ever been there, in fact. The house was empty, the only sound that of a strong breeze slipping through cracks in the old windows.

  “No,” he whispered and covered his face with his hands. He rushed back to his bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans before seeking his cell phone, but before he could dial her number, he froze. “No,” he said again and put the phone down.

  It was better she was gone. If she’d been there in the morning, wrapped in his arms, he might have selfishly changed his mind. He’d made his decision in the night, with Cyan snoring against his chest. If she’d looked into his face that morning, she might have seen it: the decision to kill himself before the War, before anyone else got hurt. She might have looked at him and seen blood.

  “No time like the present,” he whispered.

  He needed to do it, end it, before he spent anymore time thinking about it. Liam was no coward, but he was afraid that if he kept mulling over the idea of killing himself, the dark side of him might talk him out of it. The Dorcha would take over.

  Yeah, over my dead body.

  He looked around at the beautiful condo he’d shared with the woman who’d murdered his parents. He glanced outside at the way the leaves danced in the late autumn breeze. He vaguely wished it were raining, seemed more theatrical.

  Then, he marched to the bathroom and pulled his straight razor from its drawer. He’d shaved with it just the night before, so he knew it was sharp enough. He’d been using the damn thing since he was sixteen; they had a familiarity akin to friendship—the lonely orphan and his daily companion. He flipped it open and stared at his multi-colored eyes in the cool metal.

  He thought about writing Cyan a note, but she would never find it. She’d never set foot in his house again. They’d had last night, and that was all. Now, he planned to save her with two long cuts along the inside of his wrists. He flipped his left arm over and studied the pale skin, razor blade poised in his right hand.

  “Just like ripping off a Band-Aid,” he muttered.

  He laughed a little until he cried a little, too. He pressed the metal to his wrist and started to push but found his right hand was not cooperating. He tried again to no avail.

  “Come on.”

  He gritted his teeth and tried to force his right hand into submission, but he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror and stopped.

  Both his eyes were blue.

  “I told you it wouldn’t work.”

  He spun to see Zoe in the living room, holding a necklace.

  “You were right,” he said, razor still in-hand.

  Zoe wore a summery, yellow dress, despite the cold temperatures. Her long hair fell down free across her shoulders. She looked a lot like she had the day they’d met. “You did well, my Dorcha. You made her forget the pendant.”

  The necklace Zoe held in her hand was Cyan’s.

  “You can beat her with this.” Zoe smiled. “It will heal any wound.”

  He stepped toward her and returned her smile. “Let’s make sure.” He whipped his hand through the air and used the razor blade to slit Zoe’s throat. She gasped as he felt blood splatter across his bare chest. He watched her fall to her knees, crimson staining the soft pastel of her dress. He knelt and stared at her, watched her choke on blood, choke on death.

  “Don’t drop the pendant, Zoe,” Liam said calmly. “I don’t have time for you to die and come back to life a day later.”

  She didn’t drop the pendant, and bit-by-bit, her gasping slowed. Despite the cascade of blood, Liam watched as the deep wound in her throat pressed itself back together and healed in a grotesque line of puckered flesh. Her blood remained. It covered her, the floor, and Liam, but the wound did indeed heal.

  He sighed and took the pendant from her hand. “I guess it does work then.” He put it around his own neck just as his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Cody? This is Detective Schmidt. We met the other evening at the morgue.”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you I would keep you abreast of our investigation, and I’m sorry to say that so far, we’ve come up with nothing. It’s almost like your girlfriend’s body just disappeared.”

  Liam looked down at Zoe, gasping and covered in blood on the living room floor. “I guess stranger things have happened.”

  “I want you to understand how sincerely sorry the city of Charleston is for your loss. We will keep looking. Do you plan to have a funeral service?”

&n
bsp; “Soon.”

  “You know, while I’ve got you on the phone, I’m sure you’re aware that your boss, Max Henny, has been reported missing.”

  “I heard.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

  “I’m sure Max has his reasons.” He wiped the razor on his jeans, folded it, and tossed it on the floor in front of Zoe, who leapt away from it like a frightened cat.

  “You don’t say? Money trouble?” the detective asked.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know Max very well. I haven’t been here long.”

  A loud sigh crackled from the other side. “Well. I’m sorry, son, for all you’ve been through.”

  “Thank you, Detective. I hope you have a good day.” He hung up and returned to the bathroom. In the mirror, he realized he was a bit more covered in Zoe’s blood than he’d originally thought. Thick drops covered his face and surrounded his bright blue eyes. “Gonna shower,” he said and closed the door behind him.

  Standing beneath the scalding spray, washing blood and Cyan from his body, he thought he might get one of his headaches—any second now—and his eyes would go back to green and blue. The headache didn’t come. Liam shrugged and washed his hair and decided he’d wear his dark blue suit that day.

  She didn’t know what she was going to say when she saw him. After all, she’d just escaped the warmth of his arms a half hour earlier. She’d avoided saying goodbye, and now, she stood again on Liam’s front porch. If it weren’t for her grandmother’s necklace, she would never have returned. Cyan took a deep breath and lifted her fist to knock, but the door opened before she touched it. She took a sudden step backwards. Out of habit, her palms lifted and glowed gold, but she didn’t attack. How could she rightfully attack someone obscenely covered in blood?

  Zoe, alive, stood in the doorway and observed Cyan. She smiled, and Cyan recognized the woman from the fridge photo—the lovely lady in a pastel yellow summer dress when she should have been wearing a sweater and jeans. Well, she should have been clean of blood, but she wasn’t. Her dress was covered in dark red, as was her bare throat and the bottom of her face. Swatches of crimson painted her knees and her right hand, which held a sponge as though she’d been cleaning—cleaning what looked to be a large pool of blood on Liam’s floor.