Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

  “The curse was lifted. But I am still bound.”

  Finally, I understood what must have happened on our abortive Fourth of July outing, why he was always inventing excuses to avoid going to town, why he was drenched with sweat.

  I laid my hand over his clenched fist. “You know what this is, right? A classic panic attack. You were a prisoner so long that your body is going nuts at the prospect of leaving the property.”

  He jerked his hand free and stalked away. “I am well aware of the nature of my…dysfunction. That has not helped to effect a cure.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. This is only the second time—”

  “No, Maggie. It’s not the second time or even the twenty-second time. I tried to step into the road the first week I returned. Every night after Jack fell asleep, I walked up this lane. And every morning before dawn, I tried again—and failed again.”

  That long, lonely walk, shrouded in darkness but buoyed with the determination that this time, he would break free. And then the longer, lonelier walk back to his apartment, bowed down by yet another failure. Repeating that ritual night after night. Locking away his fear and humiliation in the daytime to present a confident facade to the world.

  “He’s actually leaving the grounds?”

  Clearly, Janet had suspected the truth—just as Alex had picked up on Rowan’s sexual frustration. They had their Fae power to guide them. I had only my human senses. And they had failed me. Why hadn’t I looked deeper?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He whirled around. “Because I was ashamed!”

  The hot flush of his humiliation roiled through me. His angry eyes met mine. Then his gaze slid away and he slumped atop the wall.

  Okay, Graham. You’re the helping professional. Start helping.

  He’d spent several lifetimes learning to lock away his emotions, consigning his fears and hopes and doubts to the unresponsive pages of his many journals. I had read some of those journals. Shared his bed. Heard his bitter confessions about the willful misuse of his power. I had felt his grief and anger, longing and despair resonating inside of me. I had even experienced the agony of being bound by iron. And still, I felt pitifully unprepared for this moment and all too aware that the words I chose—or failed to choose—might change our relationship forever.

  Touch had always unlocked his emotions. And humor. This sure as hell didn’t feel like a situation that humor could remedy, so I’d have to rely on touch.

  I wriggled between his knees and rested my hands on his shoulders. A shudder rippled through his body, but his emotions remained carefully shielded.

  “First off, I love you. And these panic attacks don’t make me love you or respect you less. We’ll deal with them. Together. But I can’t help if I don’t know what’s troubling you.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” he mumbled.

  “Worry me. Please. I don’t have your power. I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. I either miss the clues or feel like I’m putting together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. We have to be able to talk. To be honest. And to trust each other.”

  His gaze finally rose to meet mine. “You thought I was leaving you.”

  Fucking faery powers.

  “Yes. And then I stepped back and decided—”

  “Not to kill me?”

  His small smile left me wobbly with relief. But I knew my lack of trust had wounded him, even if he was carefully shielding me from his pain.

  “I’m sorry I doubted you. I wish I could say it’ll never happen again. But…”

  “It will. Whenever we’re put to the test.”

  “We’re going to face a lot of tests, Rowan. And if you always know what I’m feeling and I’m always in the dark, it’ll only make them harder. Just let me in. Tell me what you’re thinking. If you blame me for doubting you—”

  “No. I’ve had doubts, too. When I’m with you—or when I’m working—I forget about the obstacles. But at night…the Fae only require a few hours of sleep. That leaves a lot of time to think. And the night breeds…dark thoughts.”

  “But the sun is shining now.” I scowled at the lowering sky and added, “Well, it’s shining behind the clouds. And we have the whole evening ahead of us. We’ll make dinner. We’ll make love. We’ll chase away the darkness.”

  His arms went around me. I cradled his head against my breast.

  “Let’s go home,” I whispered.

  “No.”

  Gently, he freed himself from my embrace. Then he rose and turned toward the road.

  “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “I know. I have to prove it to myself.”

  He took a single step forward and stopped, the toes of his boots a mere inch from the black macadam—like the night of the Brigadoon cast party, when he had hovered just beyond the patio of the house he had vowed never to enter.

  But he had reconsidered that vow, made in the first flush of anger and hatred for the Mackenzies who had imprisoned him. If he could enter Janet’s house to comfort Helen after her heart attack, then surely, he could conquer his fear now.

  He took a deep breath. Then another. A drop of sweat oozed over his eyebrow. He blinked it away.

  A muscle jumped in his cheek as he gritted his teeth. A shudder racked his body. He wiped his palms on his jeans. Clenched and unclenched his hands.

  And then his head drooped.

  I stepped into the road and thrust out my hands.

  “You can do this.”

  Rowan backed away.

  “Take my hands. We can do this.”

  He shook his head and continued retreating.

  “Rowan! Please!”

  He bared his teeth. Then he threw back his head and bellowed his anger and frustration and defiance to the sky.

  His unleashed power blasted through me. I staggered backward, gasping. Saliva filled my mouth, as hot and delicious as the rage scalding my body.

  Like a berserker out of some ancient tale, he charged, hair streaming behind him, eyes wild and unseeing, mouth open in a roar of fury that tore an answering scream from my throat. The thunder of his footsteps shuddered through the earth, shuddered through my body.

  And suddenly, I was laughing, fury banished by exultation, blood-pounding rage transformed into a light-headed giddiness that made me reel.

  Hands grasped my arms, steadying me. Green eyes—still a little wild, still flashing with the echoes of his power—stared into mine.

  The soft huff of his breath against my face.

  The nasal blast of a horn.

  We clutched each other and stared at the vehicle bearing down on us. Then Rowan whisked me into his arms and out of the road and we fell back against the stone wall, laughing and breathless.

  The pickup truck eased onto the grassy berm. The driver leaned over to peer out the passenger window. I spied a familiar John Deere cap and beneath it, the frowning face of my board treasurer.

  “Hi, Mr. Hamilton!”

  “What the hell are you two doing? Playing chicken?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, cut it out. You’re too old for such foolishness.”

  Rowan whooped. I seized his shirtfront before he toppled backward off the wall.

  “He been drinking?”

  “No. We’re just…we had a really good day.”

  Mr. Hamilton shook his head at the unfathomable weirdness of theatre people. “Next time you have a really good day, stay out of the road.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His head withdrew into the truck, an anxious tortoise retreating into its shell. I stifled a giggle with one hand and waved good-bye with the other. Then Rowan and I exchanged grins.

  “I couldn’t walk into town now to save my life,” I admitted.

  “I’m not even sure I can make it to the barn.”

  I shoved a hank of wet hair off his forehead. “You did it.”

  “We did it. I’m sorry I lost contr
ol like that.”

  “It worked. That’s what matters.”

  He raised my hand and pressed his lips to my palm. “Have I mentioned that I love you?”

  “Not for ages. An hour, at least.”

  “I love you, Maggie Graham.”

  “I love you, Rowan Mackenzie.”

  We took a cool shower and made love. Fixed dinner and made love again. I knew I should dress and go back to the house before Daddy returned from rehearsal. Instead, I fell asleep in Rowan’s arms—and awoke in them the next morning.

  It was the first time that had ever happened. Every other time I had slept in his bed, he woke long before me and only returned to the bedroom when he sensed I was waking. Maybe he had stayed with me to avoid disturbing Daddy.

  Before I could ask, there was a soft knock.

  So much for a clean getaway.

  Rowan slipped out of bed and padded to the door.

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “Janet left something for Maggie.”

  “Leave it outside the door, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “I made coffee. And put out some crumb cake.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Rehearsal starts in an hour.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “I thought…until then…maybe I’d take a walk around the pond.”

  “Thank you, Jack. That’s very thoughtful.”

  “See you at rehearsal. You, too, Maggie!”

  “Okay!” I sang out.

  Janet’s mysterious offering turned out to be a shopping bag filled with a change of clothes, my makeup bag, a toothbrush, and a note that read, “Dear Heloise. Congratulations on breaking out of the cloister. Try not to appear too saddle sore at today’s rehearsal. Janet. P.S.—please extend my congratulations to Abelard on his escape. It’s about time.”

  I merely folded the note without reading it aloud. But Rowan said, “She sensed what I was going through, didn’t she?”

  “I think so.” I gently traced the centuries-old scar at his wrist where once he had tried to kill himself to escape the degradation and agony of the iron.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

  He stretched out beside me and I let my fingers drift across his chest, marveling yet again at its smoothness.

  “Did you stay with me all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just lying here? Awake?”

  “I slept for a few hours. The rest of the time, I just listened to you.”

  It was impossibly sweet: Rowan holding me in his arms, listening to the soft sound of my breathing.

  “You snore.”

  I bolted upright. “I do not!”

  “You snore and snuffle and mutter and thrash. You’re a very lively sleeper.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t sell tickets.”

  “It was endearing!”

  “Snoring. Endearing.”

  “Yes. It was so…unexpected. Like you.”

  He pressed me back onto the mattress and kissed me. Expecting the usual developments, I was surprised when he rolled over onto his back.

  “I’ve never fallen asleep with anyone. The Fae always sleep alone. Each in his own secret place. That way no one can find you when you’re vulnerable.”

  “Well, it’s always hard sharing a bed when you’re used to—”

  “It’s more than that. I can’t shield myself when I’m asleep. I’ve always worried that I might sense my partner’s dreams. Or that hers could bleed into mine. I think that might have happened last night.”

  I fought down my panic. Although I knew Rowan would never deliberately invade my dreams, it still felt like my last bastion of privacy had tumbled.

  “Say something. Please.”

  The upwelling of love caught me off guard. He could have used his power to sense what I was feeling. But he was deliberately shielding himself to restore the privacy I might have lost during the night.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing: we’re not sleeping in separate beds.”

  His embrace was bruising, but his lips were very gentle as they roamed over my face. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

  “The same dream I’ve been having for months. I was alone in a forest glade…”

  “Dancing with fireflies.”

  Another shiver of panic, but smaller this time and easier to subdue.

  “I’ve had the same dream,” he whispered. “All summer.”

  “All…? But how is that possible?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see the staff? Were they there?”

  “No. You were alone.”

  So it was not my dream, but his—or some strange blending of the two.

  “You sensed my presence. I thought at first you would run away, but you waved your hand, beckoning me. And when I hung back, you ran across the glade and pulled me out of the shadows and ordered me to dance.”

  “God. Even in dreams, I’m a bossy cow.”

  “You started twirling around and told me to twirl, too. I was oddly…clumsy. But you took my hands and spun around and around with me. And the fireflies surrounded us in light—beautiful golden light. And we were laughing and happy. And then…”

  “And then?”

  “The fireflies vanished. And so did you. And I was alone in the dark.”

  The desolation in his voice shocked me. I rested my left palm against his chest and raised my right to cup his cheek.

  “You’re not alone. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  Neither of us wanted to state the obvious: that one day, death would take me away from him. Maybe that’s why I kissed him so fiercely—to drive away that specter.

  When he didn’t respond, I kissed him again, more gently. I let my hands and my mouth offer the reassurance we both needed: that we would have thousands of nights together, thousands of days to work and play. We would celebrate the end of summer by walking in our woods. We would lie together, warm beneath our blankets, while snow silently drifted onto the skylights. We would see the first crocuses bravely pushing through the snow in the spring and stand on our plateau, admiring the fiery glory of autumn.

  Trust me, my hands whispered as they skimmed over his back. Cherish what we have, my body urged as I guided him inside of me. Give me your doubts and your fears; I am strong enough to bear them. Fill me with your magic; I am brave enough to accept it.

  His heart pounded against mine. His power ebbed and flowed, eternal as the tide. Golden sunlight poured through the skylights, caressing our bodies, seeping through flesh and bone and blood to dance inside us like a cloud of fireflies, the light pulsing to the rhythm of his power, the rhythm of our bodies.

  A single note, bittersweet and beautiful, vibrating with possibility, blossoming into fullness. An answering chord, resonating with my love, my longing, my hope. Melody and harmony, faery and human. Bodies and hearts and spirits entwined in a single song that swept us over the edge of the precipice and carried us safely back to earth again.

  Share my dreams and I will share yours. Offer me your heart and I will give you mine. Trust me, my love. And, together, we will defy all the powers of this world and Faerie to come between us.

  ENTR’ACTE THE JOURNAL OF ROWAN MACKENZIE

  She astounds me. Her strength, her determination, her bull-headed stubbornness that sees every impossible obstacle as an annoying hurdle.

  And her love. Not fascination, which I have encountered from many humans. Or awe, which the elders assured us was our due from such an inferior race.

  Love.

  As a child, I sniggered at the stories about humans who stumbled upon our kind and wandered mazed through the world for the rest of their days. I smiled indulgently at their depictions of our realm and dismissed as sheer invention those stories in which a human outwitted the Fae.

  We knew all their tales. Throughout the ages, the Fae have slipped through the veil to lurk outside
their homes or stand just beyond the light of their fires, watching and listening.

  Only when I returned to Faerie and was inundated by the questions of my clan did I appreciate the symbiotic relationship that has evolved between human and Fae. If they are fascinated with us, we are just as intrigued by them: their minds, so easily controlled; their senses, so easily beguiled; the gamy smell of their flesh; the hairiness of their bodies. Try as we might to hide our wonder behind a facade of disparagement and detachment, we have always marveled at the fire they carry inside, the passion with which they devour life, the fierce emotions that roil through them: fury and joy; grief and longing; hatred and love.

  Even after living among humans for centuries, I could not adequately describe those emotions to my clan. When I tried, they regarded me with confusion and thinly veiled contempt.

  What is more pathetic than a Fae in thrall to a human?

  Yet Maggie has never made me feel pathetic. Furious, incredulous, uncertain, joyful, but never pathetic. Even when I revealed the shameful truth about my panic attacks and the recurring dream in which she always, always leaves me.

  How can she love my weaknesses? Do they make me seem more human?

  I must never suggest that; Maggie would fly into a temper if I equated weakness with humanity. Besides, so many of the human qualities the Fae ridicule as weaknesses are—paradoxically—their strengths: their blind loyalty to those they love; their willingness to accept the flaws of others; their ability to forgive.

  I maintained a distant professionalism with Reinhard, yet he stores my belongings without ever knowing if I would return for them. I brushed off Alex’s overtures of friendship for decades, yet he risks the possibility of being hurt again to try and forge a genuine relationship with me. Janet can put aside a lifetime of resentment to invite me into her home. And Maggie can forgive me for leaving and open her heart and her life to me again.

  Will I ever understand them? Will I ever understand her?

  Yet I trust her with my heart and my life. I have shared my secret name. I will even risk sharing my dreams. But how can I share the truth of what really happened on opening night of The Secret Garden?

  It might be kinder if I did. It would help her understand Jack’s determination to go on seeking the elusive portal to Faerie. And prepare her for the inevitable moment when he tells her he is leaving—again.