Be Witched (Novella): A Jolie Wilkins/Rand Balfour Novella

by H. P. Mallory

  “How?” she insisted and I could see the fear registering in her eyes. I wasn’t sure why but I was suddenly disappointed. I shook the feeling away, though, thinking I was ridiculous for even feeling it in the first place. I would never leave Jolie in the predicament that I had once been in—my lover had died and I’d nearly succumbed myself. If it hadn’t been for the magic of the fae, I never would have survived.

  “I just couldn’t restrain myself …” I said and sighed, still supporting myself against the shower wall. “The bonding pheromones were coming off you so strongly and my body was aligned with yours. I tried to resist …”

  “And did you?”

  “I think so; I don’t feel bonded now.” I turned the shower off but stayed inside the glass stall, waiting for my heartbeat to regulate again.

  “Rand, are you going to be all right?”

  I glanced at her but immediately looked back down again, feeling a stirring of emotion within me as soon as I met her eyes. Dammit all but I still wanted her, my body still wanted to claim hers, wanted to mark my territory. “Can you return to the bedroom? I’m afraid of what might happen if I look at you right now.”

  She shook her head and I could see disappointment in the sag of her shoulders. And I didn’t blame her, not one bit. If I’d been in the proper frame of mind, I, too, would have felt disappointment. As it was, though, I was still in a mad rush to defeat the increasing bonding tide that was already welling up within me again. Thankfully, Jolie did as I requested and returned to my bedroom, dropping herself back on my bed even though she left the door to the bathroom open. I took a deep breath and stood up straight, feeling my strength returning. I opened the shower door and stepped out, being careful not to look at her.

  “And what’s so bad about bonding with me?” she asked.

  “If we’re bonded and I don’t … survive this war, it could kill you.”

  “I understand that part; I mean in the future.”

  “I don’t know,” I answered and it was an honest response.

  “Why did you even ask me up here tonight?” she demanded.

  “Because I wanted to be near you and thought I could restrain myself.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. She was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this, Rand.”

  I pulled on my blue bathrobe and walked into the bedroom. I glanced at her and found I could look upon her beauty and yet not feel as if I were being struck in the head with a pitchfork. Even so, I didn’t want to risk it happening again so I reached behind me for the other dressing robe hanging behind my door and handed it to her. “Do you mind covering yourself with this dressing gown?”

  She grabbed the robe and dropped it on the floor. “I can’t do this anymore,” she announced and standing, started for the door.

  “Jolie …” I didn’t want her to leave; I didn’t want the evening to end this way. Everything had turned out miserably.

  She turned to face me and tears started in her eyes. “I’m done, Rand. Either you want to be with me or you don’t.”

  She just didn’t understand …

  Yes, I wanted to be with her! Yes, I cared about her but I wasn’t about to risk her life for my own selfishness.

  “Jolie, if something happens to me, it could kill you—do you understand what I’m saying?” I repeated again, not entirely certain she’d comprehended my point.

  “Yes!” she blared. “I’m not an idiot!”

  I shook my head and glanced down, realizing I wasn’t using the right words, I wasn’t getting across the feelings that were bottled up inside me. I’d never been good at expressing my emotions. I suppose I was just like every other man in that regard. “I’m not willing to risk your safety.”

  “I’m talking about when the war is over,” she persisted. “What then?”

  “Either of us could be imprisoned or dead …”

  “Let’s say we win. Then what?”

  I shook my head and sighed. I couldn’t answer her because I didn’t know what the future would hold, what I wanted and what she wanted. “I don’t know, Jolie. The idea scares me to death.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Bonding nearly killed me once before. I don’t know that I want to enter into it again.”

  She shook her head and I could see her tears building, causing her beautiful blue eyes to shine. I reached out to touch her because I wanted to console her, but afraid the bonding pheromones might start again, I thought better of it and dropped my hand.

  “If you aren’t willing to allow things to progress naturally to where they seem to be headed, where does that leave me?” she asked, her voice hollow.

  I ran my hands through my hair and didn’t respond right away. I knew I couldn’t give her the answer she wanted at the moment. I glanced up at her and found she was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Don’t think of it like that, Jolie,” I started, wanting nothing more than to comfort her. I hated it when she cried. And for me to be the reason for her tears … it was even more upsetting.

  “And how should I think of it?” she insisted. I couldn’t respond so she continued. “You won’t answer my question so I will—it leaves me in the same place you always leave me … with nothing!”

  “Jolie …”

  She held up her hand as if to silence me. “This isn’t fair to me, Rand. I need to get over you and I need to move on.”

  Bonding was only part of it, though. The situation between us would never be easy and I figured now was as good a time as any to inform her of just how difficult things between us could and would be. She needed to see the whole picture, to understand exactly what she would be getting into. “You should also realize it’s difficult for witches to … procreate.”

  She rejected that argument with a wave of her hand. “I already knew that. Mathilda told me. But I would have sacrificed that if it meant we could be together.”

  She was too dismissive. She hadn’t fully weighed the fact that she would never be a mother, that pledging herself to me would mean she’d never have the joy of watching her own children grow up, of having a family. And, really, Jolie was meant to become a mother. There was a softness and kindness to her that screamed it. “It would eventually destroy me if I wasn’t able to give you a baby.”

  She turned toward the door again and twisted the doorknob. “I just can’t do this anymore, Rand.”

  “Jolie,” I said and focused on the door, magicking it to stay shut. “Don’t leave.”

  “Open the door,” she demanded and turned her angry eyes on me.

  I closed the gap between us, needing her to understand where I was coming from, that this was no picnic for me either. “God, don’t you see this is just as difficult on me?”

  “Difficult on you?” she scoffed, jerking away from me. “You’re the one who won’t give in to the possibilities, not me. So, no, I don’t see that this is in any way as difficult for you.”

  “I haven’t said no to bonding … in the future,” I corrected in a small voice. She just didn’t seem to understand that I was doing this for her. That I didn’t want to ever hurt her or disappoint her. She was everything to me.

  “But you aren’t exactly welcoming the idea either.” She paused and wiped the tears from her eyes. “And that’s not good enough for me.”

  “I thought our relationship was coming along nicely, why can’t we just go back to how it was?”

  She shook her head and looked at me as if I was a fool. Granted, I wished I hadn’t said what I just had but I was reaching, reaching for anything that would mean I wouldn’t lose her.

  “Rand, we can’t have sex. What kind of relationship is that?”

  “Perhaps …”

  “There’s no point in discussing this anymore.”

  I slammed my hand against the door, not able to keep my frustration at bay. Why did it have to be all or nothing? “Unless I commit to bonding with you?”

  “Yes, well no!” she yelled. “I don�
�t know, dammit.”

  “If we attempt anything sexual, it will bond us.”

  She dropped her fingers from around the doorknob and faced me. “You need to decide if I’m worth it to you.”

  Yes, she was worth it to me but she wasn’t seeing the bigger picture—that it didn’t matter if she was worth it to me because I would never risk her life for my own happiness. “Even though the war …”

  Her hands fisted. “Screw the war; I’m talking about after the war—about our future together. You need to think about what will happen between us if we survive the war, because I won’t want to go back to how it is right now.”

  “Is that an ultimatum?” I asked, my jaw clenched. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. I didn’t like ultimatums.

  “Yes, I’m tired of waiting around for you. Yes, there’s a probability we will bond ourselves and that’s a chance I’m willing to take, but if you aren’t, I need to … get over it.” She paused and faced me, her expression full of determination. “Now, open the damned door.”

  I grabbed her hand and pulled her into me, needing and wanting to touch her, to hold her. God, couldn’t she see that this was killing me? Couldn’t she see how much I cared about her, how much I wanted to be able to give in to my carnal feelings and make love to her? I leaned down and started to move in to kiss her but she jerked away from me. Apparently realizing I’d released the doorknob, she grabbed it and threw the door open, disappearing into the hall.

  I don’t know how long it was that I stood there in my bathrobe, merely staring at the empty hallway. But once I heard voices from downstairs, I closed my bedroom door and threw myself into a chair beside the empty fireplace.

  Had I just lost her? And if I had lost her, were my reasons good enough? Yes, I couldn’t tear myself away from the thought that I knew bonding wasn’t an option—that I would never risk her life. But was there another way? Perhaps if we took a break and then tried to make love again? Perhaps it was just this evening, he order of events that had led up to the attempted bonding?

  I shook my head as I realized how absurd my thoughts were. I knew in my heart of hearts that if Jolie and I were to attempt to make love again, the same situation would ensue. And if we ever did bond and Jolie were to suffer because of it, I would never forgive myself. And those were the feelings I focused on.

  If anyone understood the dire predicament between two separated but bonded parties, it was me. I’d been the one who had nearly died when my lover had died. And even now I carried something within me that was hollow, a void. After Mathilda, the fairy, had nursed me through the darkest moments, I’d emerged alive but not whole. I was a mere shell of the man I’d once been.

  When I tried to remember something, anything about the woman with whom I’d bonded, there was a blankness there. I couldn’t recall her name, her face, her laugh or the way she smiled, how she felt in my arms. I couldn’t remember any specifics about our lives together: how we’d met, things we’d laughed and cried about, arguments we’d had, the love we’d shared.

  No, Jolie meant entirely too much to me for me to ever put her in this predicament. And, try though I did, I could not find fault with my stance on the situation. I might lose her but I would live out the remainder of my years knowing the sacrifice I made had been for the greater good.

  The sacrifice I’d made had been for the woman I loved.

  Want more Rand? If so, you don’t want to miss Witchful Thinking, the next fun and sexy novel in the Jolie Wilkins series, and H. P. Mallory’s print debut. Read on for a sneak peek.

  One

  Journal Entry

  Queen.

  I’m not even really sure what to make of the word.

  And the worst part is that it’s not a detached, unfamiliar, or unthreatening word. Nope, Queen is an up-close-and-personal sort of thing, as in I’m going to be living and breathing it. Some would say being Queen is my destiny, I don’t know about that but what I do know is that Queen is now my reality.

  I am Queen of the Underworld.

  Jolie Wilkins, Queen of vampires, werewolves, and other creatures you wouldn’t want to invite to dinner.

  Somehow the title just doesn’t fit me. It’s like trying to wear a pair of shoes that are way too big for my size eight feet. I’m not a Queen, I never wanted to be a Queen, and I definitely don’t have the makings of a Queen. I’m just me—a witch with some magical abilities, one of which is the power to reanimate the dead. But Queen? Not by a long shot.

  One of the lessons I learned when I first became involved with the Underworld (less than two years ago) is that whatever the Underworld wants, it gets. It’s like the mob—once you get in, ain’t no gettin’ out. And I’m in—up to my neck.

  So how did I become Queen? Was there a royal celebration? Were Prince William and Harry in attendance? Was Kate Middleton pissed? No, no, and no. My entry into the royalty of the Underworld was more like trial by fire—I’d been in the middle of a war; Gwynn (the bitch) had just run me through with a blade in return for destroying her lover; I’d died and then I’d been on the receiving end of reanimation, myself.

  The crowning glory of the whole battle came when Mercedes Berg, the supreme witch of all witches (also known as the prophetess), basically shell-shocked everyone with a magical burst of energy that lit up the entire sky. It was like God’s television had short-circuited. Everyone just stopped in their tracks, as if their brains had gone dormant. No one had been able to function. As if waving their white flags of surrender, everyone laid their weapons on the ground and just stared at one another dumbstruck. And that was the end of that.

  Well, for them. For me it was just the beginning.

  After Mercedes put the kibosh on our little war (a war for independence against the tyranny of the witch Bella, who wanted to be Queen), she informed me that I was now the Queen of the Underworld. And it wasn’t like I ever submitted my résumé for the position. It had come completely out of left field, and the craptastic part of the whole situation was that I couldn’t say no. Mob, remember?

  So now I’m Queen and I want nothing to do with the position.

  About now, Diary, I imagine your head is spinning. Crap, my head is spinning and I’m the one who lived through all of it. In a fit of desperation, I decided to write it all down—to document how absurd my life has become in an effort to make sense of it all.

  Actually, this is my first journal entry. I never really got into diaries because my life didn’t warrant recording. It was a quiet, mundane existence fixed in routine, but I liked it well enough. I had a best friend, Christa, who never ceased to amuse me with her frivolous talk about sex, sex, and more sex. I had my cat named Plum and I owned my own business—a tarot-card-reading shop. My skills, though limited, included reading people’s fortunes through cards as well as detecting auras to determine if someone was sick or healthy by glancing at the colors reverberating off them.

  The day Rand Balfour walked into my life, he changed it forever. Rand is a warlock and the first to inform me of my witchiness. He taught me pretty much everything I know … not to mention, I’m also head over heels in love with him. But more about Rand later.

  At this point the important things to know are: First, the Underworld is polarized in a battle of good (Rand’s side, which includes me, a handful of witches, a few hundred vampires and werewolves, and the entire legion of fairies) versus bad (the evil witch Bella and her minions, including an equal number of vampires and werewolves, none of the fairies, but all of the demons).

  They say religion is at the core of most wars. Well, that wasn’t the case with this one. This war began over me—and I’m not saying that to sound vain or to make you think I have an inflated sense of self-importance. Trust me, I’m really not that great. But once word spread throughout the Underworld that I could reanimate the dead, all the creatures went into a tizzy because no one before me had ever been able to do that. Bella, in true Bella form, wanted me on her side because like most vill
ains, Bella sought power—power over all the Underworld species. I guess I was a sharp arrow to have in her quiver.

  As with any other war, what happened was heart wrenching—vamp fighting vamp and witch fighting witch. Of course, I didn’t get to observe too much—just as I was impaled by Gwynn’s blade, I was whisked back in time to Alnwick, England, in the year 1878. There I met the prophetess, Mercedes Berg. Well, as it turned out, she’d been the party responsible for sending me back to 1878 in order to save me as well as herself. To put it bluntly, Mercedes needed a ride back to the future to avoid her own untimely death, and I played the part of bus.

  As I mentioned earlier, Mercedes ended the war by raising her hands and causing that big ol’ magical burst, looking like a conductor leading the orchestra of the skies. After Gwynn stabbed me, Mercedes brought me back to life and I learned that she was the only other person besides me who could reanimate the dead.

  And now? It’s only been about two hours since Mercedes stopped the battle. Now I find myself sitting in a cottage, alone, in a fairy village in the middle of the Cairngorms Forest in Scotland, waiting for I don’t know what. After the war ended, we took care of the injured and the dead, while also taking Bella’s remaining forces captive. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention our victory—Mercedes was on our side … thank God.

  So here I am, camped out in this room, with not a whole lot to occupy myself, just waiting for word on what our next course of action will be.

  * * *

  Present Day

  Fae Village, Cairngorms Forest, Scotland