The Witch's Kiss

by Tricia Schneider

  She thought she heard him groan, but the noise surrounding her made it difficult to be certain.

  “I don’t wish to find out,” he muttered. “Come along, we’ll see to your young Fernsby. Then we leave. Together.”

  “It’s not necessary for to you stay,” Marianne called as he turned to march toward David. With Sage gone, she’d have ample time to stand beside her beloved. To hear his voice. To watch him dance. To simply be near him again. If Sage left, Marianne had the freedom to spend all night in David’s presence. Her heart leapt at the possibility and then fell back down as Sage twisted and turned through the crush of people. There would be no dissuading him now. He would stay by her side. Marianne had no hope of keeping David’s company this night.

  She sighed, then followed close behind Sage, preferring to walk in his wake rather than make her own way. Being invisible, it was clearly impossible for her to avoid contact with people walking into her. Although neither she nor the person colliding with her came to any harm from the contact, she did feel an otherworldly shiver ice up the spot she touched. It proved rather annoying and slightly uncomfortable if she were honest about it.

  “What do you plan to do? Introduce yourself?” The sarcasm slipped easily from Marianne’s tongue. Then she gasped. Is that what he intended? Did he plan to reveal the truth? “No, Sage, no! Do not tell him!”

  He sent her an odd look over his shoulder, one she’d seen a time or two before when she’d done something dimwitted or surprising. With his eyebrow raised, he turned back toward his target.

  Marianne held her breath as Sage approached David. He was going to speak to him. Would Sage tell him the truth? That she was a witch, cursed to spend eternity as a phantom? Would David believe him? After all, witches had a reputation for keeping their practices to themselves, what with the burnings and hangings in recent centuries. He might be tempted to suggest Sage visit Bedlam.

  But tragic family memories lived long and most witches never spoke of magic abilities to outsiders, human or otherworldly, even though most supernatural beings could sense a fellow creature of magic.

  Instead of speaking to David Fernsby, Sage walked past him and stopped in front of a woman standing nearby.

  “Mrs. Watson,” Sage said, a charming smile lighting his face like a mask during a masquerade. “How lovely to see you again.”

  “Mr. Merriweather. What a delight!” The spark in the woman’s eyes and her matching grin were a clear indication of her pleasure at his approach. “I have not seen you since last Season. Where have you been hiding?”

  “A few matters needed my attention, nothing more,” he said, keeping the truth vague and dull. Enough to gain interest, Marianne gauged.

  She paid no more mind as he began his seduction. After all, that’s what he was about. He wanted nothing to do with her or her fiancé. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment flooded her. She stared at Sage as if seeing him for the first time. The image of his kiss with the half-demon flashed in her memory, leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

  Where David was an angel of light and love, Sage was his dark counterpart, devilishly handsome with short-cropped dark hair the color akin to mahogany. The blue of his eyes drew many compliments and words of affection. And Sage was outrageously tall while David equaled her own meager height. Marianne often thought she might need a stool if she ever wished to kiss Sage. Not that she wished to. Why would she wish to? It was just a thought, after all.

  Not desiring to witness Sage work his seductive wiles over the lovely Mrs. Watson, Marianne centered her attention on David.

  He struck a powerful figure while he danced, his back rigid, his steps confident and his smiles radiant. He chatted with his partner during their dance, making Marianne remember all the conversations they shared while dancing and in between sets.

  A waltz.

  It would be a waltz, Marianne mused. They were Fernsby’s favorites, as well as her own. It gave them every excuse to hold each other close together, to whisper words of love without the fear of being overheard by chaperones.

  Only now, David’s left hand firmly clasped Charlotte Smythe’s hand instead of hers. His right hand cradled Charlotte’s body, caressing like a lover’s touch. The sight struck pain into her chest, but she rallied knowing David could never love Charlotte Smythe. No doubt he felt compelled to ask her to dance, the poor girl. She was rather homely in appearance.

  Marianne tried to take her thoughts away from Charlotte and instead studied David.

  He looked well, as always.

  The music’s last notes echoed. The dance ended. David and Charlotte parted, bowing to each other in respect until David straightened, placing Charlotte’s hand on his elbow. Then they walked hand on arm toward the open French doors leading to the patio and garden.

  Marianne started to follow them. She took two steps when a loud gasp of fright ignited the air behind her. She spun, startled to discover Sage’s hand engulfed in flame and burning like a torch.

  ****

  Sage’s attempts to engage in flirtatious conversation normally came so naturally. He developed the talent over years of living in London, often using it to his advantage. The ton often referred to him as the Merriweather Rake since he was the most charming and charismatic of his brothers. But in this instance, his attention kept wandering to Marianne looking so forlorn at the edge of the dance floor while that young pup wooed the girl in his arms. Sage recognized the signs of seduction. As soon as the music ended, he had no doubt Fernsby planned to escort the young lady out to the garden to take in the fresh air while gazing at the moonlight. A few whispered words, a few innocent caresses, one thing leading to another, and next he’d be passionately kissing her in one of the dark alcoves of the hedge labyrinth. If they found a great deal of privacy, perhaps more than simple kissing would be involved…

  And Marianne would witness it.

  Every bit of it.

  How to stop her?

  Sage could try to say something. She wouldn’t listen. As a ghost, Marianne remained every bit as stubborn as when she had been human. He could interfere in Fernsby’s plans, perhaps intercept them, ask Miss Smythe to dance. Imagining the look on Marianne’s face while Sage danced with the same woman swayed him from the notion. It would pain her to see this woman getting so much attention from the men in her life. Besides, Fernsby would waste no time moving on to another young lady. Could Sage follow the scoundrel throughout every dance, intercepting every young lady while Marianne watched on?

  The best thing to do was get Marianne out of here, far away from Fernsby until he could decide what must be done with him. It could be Sage was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Fernsby was a gentleman of known repute, someone admired and respected. Sage glanced again at the man in question, noticing the man’s gaze fixed on Miss Smythe’s ample cleavage where it remained for the rest of the dance.

  Did Marianne not see this?

  Sage looked at her, viewing her profile. The yearning on her face, the love shining in her eyes, the sadness at her inability to be with this man proved to Sage that she was not aware of Fernsby’s faults. She saw him in the best light.

  Anger surged through Sage. How could Fernsby do this to Marianne? Did he not know how she loved him? How much she desired to be with him? It was written plainly on her features. Even if he forgot for a moment that Marianne was invisible to all, the fury still consumed him. He wished nothing more than to call young Fernsby out to teach him a lesson about love and self-sacrifice. Marianne deserved far better.

  Then Mrs. Watson screamed.

  His attention jerked back to her, not realizing how consumed he’d been in watching the scene of Marianne and her beau play out before him.

  At first he did not know why the woman screamed. She gaped at him in horror. What had he done?

  “Your hand, sir! Your hand!” A man standing next to him shouted, stepping closer to splash liquid contained in a glass over Sage’s hand.

  A stinging, burning sensation h
it. Sage looked at his hand. Red and orange flames licked his skin. He jumped, alarmed to discover his appendage indeed on fire. Quickly, he shimmied out of his evening jacket, using the black cloth to tamp down the flames.

  A dozen or more people crowded around him pleased the fire had not spread. Fortunately no one had shouted about the fire, or there might have been a stampede of ballroom occupants toward the nearest exits. Many people might have been seriously injured or killed in this crush.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he repeated, with each question shouted about his welfare.

  “Damned candles. You must have brushed your sleeve over one. We must see to your hand, sir.” The man who attempted the rescue by splashing his drink spoke. He was a gentleman near Sage’s age, with kind eyes and a ready smile. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Sage could not place him. “I can have the finest physician check you over, if you’ll just come this way. Ladies, do not fear. Mr. Merriweather will be right as rain.”

  “I’m fine,” Sage kept saying. His shocked brain could barely register anything else. He was nowhere near any candles, standing far enough from tables or sconces while he stood near the edge of the dancing. It was not possible that he brushed against any candles.

  The only way this might have happened was if he’d cast a spell. But he hadn’t. Had he?

  Was it possible? Had his power created the fire? Without using any spells?

  “Sage! Sage!”

  Marianne.

  He glanced up realizing only then that he crouched on the tiled ballroom floor. The crowd of concerned onlookers leaned over him, and his chest tightened. Suddenly, he was short of breath. His chest heaved, gasping for air.

  “Marianne.” He could barely hear the sound of his voice against the roar of the crowd as they all spoke at once.

  “Mr. Merriweather, what can we do to assist you?”

  “My dear, did you see his arm?”

  “It was his hand.”

  “On fire! He’s lucky Lord Valentine doused it in time.”

  “Mr. Merriweather, such a terrible tragedy! Do you think there will be excessive scarring?”

  “He may never regain the use of his hand.”

  “It was his arm.”

  On and on the voices rattled until his teeth set on edge, and he could feel a roar begin to rumble in his chest.

  “Come, Mr. Merriweather,” Lord Valentine urged, his hand extended. “Let’s get you someplace where we can better examine you.”

  “Marianne,” he said in response. Sage’s vocabulary hadn’t improved. He’d gone from I’m fine to calling, Marianne.

  Had he imagined Marianne’s voice calling to him moments ago? Where was she? Had she abandoned him to follow Fernsby? His thoughts centered on her, worries overshadowing the dilemma he faced with this crowd. He needed to find her before she discovered Fernsby was not the devoted fiancé she imagined.

  “Yes, we will find your Miss Marianne,” Lord Valentine said calmly. “I’m certain she is fine. Ladies, if you could please step back. The poor man needs some air. Come now, ladies, we can’t allow Mr. Merriweather to expire from your smothering attentions.”

  Loud giggles erupted, but with a little more urging, a gap in the crowd emerged.

  “Sage!” Marianne appeared in the opening, rushing toward him only to back away when someone else moved into her path. She didn’t like being touched by the corporeal. That’s why she hadn’t come to his side.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t gone after Fernsby. She stayed instead.

  She stayed.

  Lord Valentine’s strong fingers wrapped around Sage’s upper arm, giving him a lift to his feet. Sage tried to take the burden of his weight off of the other man’s shoulders, but Lord Valentine refused to budge from his stance as rescuer.

  Sage stood, cradling his injured hand in his ruined evening jacket. He yearned to wriggle his fingers, but feared what he might experience as a result. So, he held his hand very still and allowed Lord Valentine to lead him out of the ballroom. The music had silenced as even the musicians craned their necks above their instruments to glimpse the commotion. Soft murmurs erupted as he walked by the gaping crowd.

  Lord Valentine waved to someone, and a moment later music again filled the ballroom.

  Oddly, Sage was not stricken by the attention he received. The old Sage might have reveled in it, knowing by tonight he’ll receive dozens or more letters and notes from the beautiful women in attendance, all asking after his welfare and declaring their hope that if they might do anything to ease his pain or assist in his speedy recovery he need only mention it. And of course, he would.

  Yes, the old Sage would have leapt at the opportunities available to him.

  That Sage was gone, however. Now he wished only to quit the room, leave the house and return to the comfort and safety of his own home.

  With Marianne.

  He spared a glance to his left, relieved to find her following at a discreet distance so as not to come into contact with anyone. Her brow furrowed, and she bit her bottom lip. She caught sight of his gaze, and he spared a smile for her. She smiled back, relief easing the stress of her worry.

  “Would you kindly have one of the footmen call for my carriage, my lord,” Sage said once they exited the ballroom.

  “Let us see to your hand first, Mr. Merriweather. You might be in no condition for a lengthy drive home.”

  “I’m quite all right.” Sage wanted to leave, before anything else went wrong. “It appeared more startling than it truly was.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. I insist. We’ll need to bandage it until a physician can attend to it.”

  “I appreciate your concern, my lord, but I assure you all is well. I simply wish to go home. My jacket is ruined,” he said at an attempt at humor.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but I could not in good conscience allow you to leave this house without offering some sort of medical assistance. You must be in a great deal of pain. What if you lose consciousness while you’re driving?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “It won’t if you allow me to tend it.”

  “Sage, he’s not going to relent. Lord Valentine is known for being more stubborn than I am, I can assure you. And perhaps it is best if he at least bandages it. You don’t want blood staining your carriage seats, do you?”

  Sage regarded her for a moment. She still worried, despite the light-hearted tone she used. Since he didn’t wish to argue any longer, Sage nodded his consent. Lord Valentine sent servants to fetch clean cloth for bandages, then he urged him into the study where they could sit without a crowd of people overwhelming them.

  “Here.” Lord Valentine gestured to the chair beside the mahogany desk that took up most of the room. “Do you care for a glass of sherry? Perhaps something stronger?”

  “No, thank you,” Sage said as he sat. He glanced around the room, remembering why Lord Valentine looked so familiar. He was his host.

  “Very well, let’s get right to it then, shall we?”

  Lord Valentine leaned over Sage and helped him carefully unwrap the evening jacket away from his hand. When at last, his hand was free of the confines of dark cloth, Lord Valentine gasped. He lifted Sage’s hand, turning it over to inspect the skin.

  “I saw it engulfed in flames, and yet…” Lord Valentine whispered in disbelief. “There isn’t a mark, not even a scratch to prove it.”

  Sage flexed his fingers, inspecting the skin alongside Lord Valentine.

  Just as he feared.

  “It must have been a trick of the light,” Sage said, offering an alternative, something to explain the unexplainable.

  “But, look here, at the cuff of your sleeve. It is singed. There most definitely was a fire that burned your sleeve. Why did it not touch your skin?”

  “You were quick to douse it, my lord,” Sage said, trying a smile at yet another alternative.

  Lord Valentine released Sage’s hand and leaned back, resting against the
edge of his desk.

  “I’ve never seen the like.” He stared at Sage in wonder.

  Sage needed to get out of here. Too many questions needed answering. Even Marianne stood by the fire, silenced by the sight of his hand. How could he explain it? Even witches burned. History could attest to that.

  Demons, however, were a different story. And apparently that included witches cursed by demons.

  “I must go, my lord. I feel fatigued from all this.”

  “Then perhaps you should stay. I can have the servants ready another guest room.”

  “I thank you for your kind offer, but I must return to town. I have business that cannot be postponed.”

  Lord Valentine stared for a long moment, studying him as if judging whether it would be prudent to confine him against his will. He might refuse to let Sage go. No one would dare say a word against this man. He was wealthy and powerful and known for his generosity. It would be expected that Lord Valentine keep the man who caught fire in his ballroom until a physician arrived to look over his wounds. In the meantime, Sage could be interrogated over and over again, and no one would be the wiser.

  Sage calmed his racing heart, trying to keep focused instead of letting fear get the better of him.

  This must be how his ancestors felt when caught in questionable circumstances. Although there hadn’t been a public witch trial involving burnings or hangings for any number of years, Sage knew witch-hunters still searched the world to eradicate his kind. They simply did it in other ways that did not garner as much attention, since public opinion had swayed in recent years. And unlike other supernatural creatures that witches could sometimes identify on sight, witch-hunters were very human and blended in with the rest of humanity. Sometimes, the only way to know if a man was a witch-hunter was when it proved too late.

  A soft scratching at the door drew Sage’s attention from Lord Valentine. A housemaid entered carrying a handful of clean cloth. She deposited the items on the desk where her master bade and left quickly as he ordered.

  Lord Valentine lifted a piece of cloth from the pile, opening the square and then folding it again.