Instead he closed his eyes and retched.
Chapter Six
Marianne’s hands shook. Her whole body trembled as she watched Sage. She yearned to run to him, hold him in her arms, comfort him in some way. She wanted to reassure herself that he was unharmed. He certainly did not appear all right.
Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
She had convinced herself the fire in the ballroom at Winfield had been a bizarre accident involving the misfortune of a close candle. He must have brushed against one without anyone having seen it.
Now, doubts resurfaced.
Sage had promised to speak with her about what Desmonda Green had told him. About the demon. Marianne couldn’t help but wonder if this had something to do with what he wished to discuss.
Marianne watched him, waiting for some sign of what she must do. How could she help him? If only she knew, it might lessen the pain in her heart as she listened to him retch. After he finished, she heard his sobs. Quiet, soft whimpers in the night. He tried to suppress them, but they seemed to bubble up from deep within.
How long had he kept this secret?
Images flashed from moments ago, quickening the beating of her heart, the memories seared into her brain. She would never forget the terrible beauty of him as he advanced on his prey.
The fire had started gently, simmering from his skin, low soft flames caressing his neck and shoulders, rippling along his body until his entire being was swallowed in flame. The ropes burned away and the wheel caught fire. He stepped away from the remnants of the carriage with sensual movements that awed her.
Of course, as soon as she saw the flames, panic and fear consumed her. Sage was on fire! She cried out in horror and grief. Her friend! Her dearest friend! He was on fire! Her first thought was to run for water. Find a river, a lake, a stream, anything to douse him, to save him. Save him!
But there was nothing. They stood along an empty stretch of country road passing through a forested area of which she was completely unfamiliar. She had not the first clue where to find the water she so desperately needed to help her friend.
Grief struck her as she watched him burn.
And then he walked toward her. No, walking was not the correct word to describe what he had done. His head had lowered as he concentrated on the man holding her. The rage on his face something she had never witnessed on anyone, but especially never Sage.
His wrath surprised her. Marianne had seen him irritated before and annoyed, but never angered to such a passionate degree. Fury pulsed from within while flames licked his body, caressing his skin like a lover’s touch.
Once he had the highwayman in his sights, he stalked toward him. Yes, that word suited his movements. Stalked, like a predator, with his head lowered, his gaze boring into the man with loathing hate.
Marianne recognized that Sage was protecting her. If the man hadn’t been holding her as a shield, his response might have been of a different sort. But those actions sparked the fury within, igniting the flames as he hunted the highwayman, urging the man to release her and run. Running would provide a clear shot of killing him.
She knew Sage wanted to kill this man.
He shot those fireballs, aiming perfectly so she was not hit. Though, to be sure, she feared the man might jerk her into the fireball’s path at the last critical moment. He used her as a shield after all.
But, no, it seemed Sage knew how the man would react and knew just what to do. The fireballs came at him, not to hit but to frighten him. Away from her. And then he would be an easy target to kill.
That’s what she feared most…seeing the desire to kill in Sage’s face.
What would that do to him, to his soul, if he killed this man? Would it mark him? Irreparably damaging his goodness, his heart? She could not allow him to do such. Sage needed to remain in the light.
Growing up, Marianne had heard stories of how easily witches turned from light to dark. And Sage would never desire to become a dark witch. She could not allow this momentary lapse in judgment to mar his soul for the rest of his life.
She screamed his name. The sound of her voice snapped him out of whatever control the rage had overcome. He looked at her for the first time instead of the man. She watched the fury release, draining from him. The expression in his eyes pierced her heart. Surprise, grief, self-loathing. It all flashed over his face in a matter of moments. Marianne wanted to run to him then, as the flames subsided and he crumpled to the ground. She wanted to enfold him in her arms, embrace him in a protective sheath to keep him safe from all harm.
But she held herself still, afraid of how he might react to her touching him.
Touching him!
In those quick moments that seemed to last a lifetime, she’d forgotten about the odious powder the man had flung at her; the moment when another human being had touched her for the first time in close to a year. The ecstasy of the moment, the disbelief, the fear that it was merely a dream raced through her.
What had the man done to her? Was she no longer a spirit? Was that powder the cure they had been searching for? So many questions, and distantly she remembered the men had run off with the horses leaving her and Sage stranded.
Sage’s sobbing slowed to a stop. He rested his forehead on the road, breathing heavily, his dirt-stained hands clutching the dark strands of his hair.
She took a deep breath, searching for a scrap of courage necessary to move her feet. She found the bravery she needed by looking at him.
Marianne knelt beside him. Her hand hovered over his back for several moments. She hesitated to touch him, not because he frightened her but because she was uncertain if her ability to touch vanished with that man. What if the powder did not cure her? What if it was a trick?
There was one way to be certain.
She rested her hand on Sage’s back.
The warm sweat-soaked shirt covering the powerful muscles bunched beneath her fingertips. She moved her hand along his spine, feeling the ridges of bone, until she reached his neck as he slowly sat up. Her hand curved behind his neck, her fingers moving gently into his damp hair. Slowly, he turned. She looked into his eyes, finding wonder and disbelief.
Was this a dream?
Tears blurred her vision. Then suddenly her arms were around his neck, and she leaned her face into his hair, thrilled at the way the wet strands brushed against her cheek. His hands were on her back, clutching her dress, warm against her chilled skin.
They held each other for an eternity. And she felt it all. The warmth of his skin, his breath against her neck, his heart beating against her chest.
It felt so wonderful.
She cried. His hair soaked with her tears.
When they pulled apart, his cheeks were wet and his eyes bloodshot. She ran her fingers down his neck, along his shoulders and arms, touching him, enjoying the feel of him. Then her hand brushed against something wet and warm. She looked at the blood on her fingers.
“You’re wounded?”
He simply nodded. She touched the buttons on his shirt, opening them one by one until she could push the fabric aside to expose the wound on his shoulder.
“It seems to have grazed you,” she said after a quick inspection.
“And here,” he said, sliding the shirt off completely. He pointed to his midsection. She leaned down to get a better view of his side.
“Grazed there, too. Bad shots,” she said, smiling. “Lucky for you.”
He grunted. She didn’t think he agreed with the luck part. She reached for his shirt, about to help him put it back on when his hand on hers stopped her. He held it, his thumb sliding over her fingers.
“I’m very glad to have you back, Marianne,” he said quietly.
She sucked in her breath and stared at him for a long moment. It struck her suddenly that she sat upon Sage’s lap in the middle of nowhere with his shirt removed. His naked flesh gleamed in the moonlight. His broad chest stretched for miles; his nipples puckered as a gentle night b
reeze blew against them. Her gaze traveled to the corded muscles of his abdomen. Sleek, smooth skin over bumpy ridges. Her hand slid down his chest, touching his skin, caressing the tightened muscles beneath.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, then she yanked her hand away.
This was Sage! Why was she touching his body like this?
Heat flushed up her neck. Warmth grew in the deep pit of her belly. It never bothered her before that he was handsome and strong, with a body made like Adonis. But after touching him, she craved more…
Perhaps it was the spell. She seemed compelled to touch. With nearly a year without human contact, she needed to touch someone.
But this was Sage!
She scrambled off his lap, kneeling next to him instead. She cleared her throat before speaking, trying to adjust her thoughts appropriately.
“I apologize,” she said at last. “That was inappropriate.”
“I—”
“I’m not deluding myself, Sage,” she said quickly, halting his response. She couldn’t bear to hear what he had to say about her touching him so intimately. Better to avoid the subject. “This physical state may be temporary. When my spirit withdrew from my body, I saw my body afterward. I’m not certain how I can become whole again if my body is not near enough for my spirit to enter.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t work that way.”
Marianne lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “True. But I’m not counting on it. Not until I can be certain.”
“How can you be certain?”
“When I see my body is no longer where we left it, then I’ll know.”
“Magic works mysteriously, Marianne.”
“I know. I’ve also thought about this often in the past year. These are some of the questions I dealt with while Drake had my body trapped in his castle.”
“Drake.” Sage said his brother’s name like it was a foul word. He turned away, his lips twisting in a sneer.
Marianne leaned back to get a better view of Sage. Not his body, but the way he held himself. She arrived at a sensible conclusion.
“Drake was behind this, wasn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“All of it,” she said. “The highwaymen, the attack, the powder that man used, your new…fire magic.” She said the last gently, considering at the last moment whether she should include it in her list. She wasn’t certain if Drake had anything to do with that or not. It was a mere guess. Sage’s hand catching fire at Winfield Park could be a coincidence, but she suspected it was part of whatever new magic Sage possessed.
These fire spells had the feel of a darker kind of magic than what he normally practiced. It was possible Sage could be practicing new spells, but he didn’t seem the sort of witch that delved into anything classified as black magic. This magic was something Marianne knew Drake experimented with.
Sage’s silence confirmed her suspicions.
“We should go,” Marianne said. “You’ll have to get those wounds cleaned and I…” She paused with a sigh. “I just want to go home.”
“Of course,” he said, and she helped him stand.
Chapter Seven
With limited magical abilities, their only option to get home was on foot. Sage knew spells that would transport them short distances, such as from one room to another in a house, and mirror spells which could send them longer distances, but at the moment, they weren’t privy to a mirror.
They walked for hours with no inn or refuge in sight. The inn where he’d planned to stop was farther along this road, but at this pace, he feared they might not reach it until midday tomorrow. The pain of his wounds kept him at a rather slow gait.
Sage trudged wearily, noting the night grew darker as the moon traveled across the sky. Then clouds blew in from the east, masking any remaining light the moon shed. They were well and truly cast into darkness.
Marianne walked at his left where she continued her attempt to cast a light spell to no effect. Sage knew she found it highly disturbing to discover her new corporeal body possessed no magical abilities whatsoever. Before she’d been cursed, she had the natural abilities witches born with magic possess. Although like all witches, she needed to practice magic in order to become proficient. But casting a simple light spell to illuminate their path was one of the first spells even children used to light their nurseries at night when they woke to hear a strange noise.
If she couldn’t cast simple spells such as that, what of the more complicated spells she had spent years studying and practicing?
“This is absurd,” she mumbled after more than a dozen attempts.
“Perhaps you’re trying too hard,” Sage suggested. “After all, it’s been a long time since you’ve cast any spells.”
“Not this one,” Marianne stated. “I’ve cast light spells all my life. It’s like breathing.”
This might be an overstatement, but Sage understood her meaning. This spell had come naturally to her and now…nothing.
“I’m done with this nonsense,” Marianne said, with a deep sigh. “My fingers are getting sore from all the snapping. What of you? Why haven’t you tried a light spell?”
Sage grimaced. He held out his hand like it didn’t belong to him, as if it were someone else’s hand. It didn’t feel like it belonged. The magic from his fingertips was otherworldly.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to make the attempt.”
“Even a light spell?”
“I’m not certain if I can control it.” He didn’t admit that he was curious now. He hadn’t tried such a simple spell in many months. Perhaps his ability to control whatever had become of his magic had strengthened. It seemed the fire magic emerged when he lost control of his emotions, when anger and fury overwhelmed him. But now he was calm. And he had managed to douse the flames with a mere look from Marianne. It could be she gave him the strength he needed to control the magic.
“It’s a simple enough spell.” He imagined a ball of light appearing above his hand. He focused on the image, concentrated on it until he the image was solid in his mind, then he spoke a few words and snapped his fingers.
Instead of the ball of white light appearing above his hand, five tiny flames shot out of his fingertips. They flickered for a moment before coming together to form one brighter flame hovering over the palm of his hand.
Marianne jumped, startled by the fire instead of a ball of light she was accustomed to seeing.
Sage stared with dismay at the flames, watching them dance over his hand. It was as he feared. Every spell he tried, every incantation he whispered was tainted by the demon’s magic. He couldn’t even perform a light spell without the fire interfering.
“Well,” Marianne said. “It’s not the light spell we normally cast, but it’s bright enough to light our way.”
Sage’s lips lifted involuntarily upward. Leave it to Marianne to view the bright side of his dark ability.
“Look there,” she said, pointing. “I see something.”
He raised his hand in the direction she pointed, intensifying the fire so the light illuminated farther ahead. The outline of a man-made structure emerged from the inky blackness. At first he suspected it was the inn, perhaps nearer than he surmised, but as the light continued to shine from the growing flame he saw the structure was much smaller than an inn. It was a cottage, abandoned from the looks of the door hanging ajar, the overgrown foliage creeping up the walls and the hole in the thatched roof.
“Your…uh…your hand is on fire.” Marianne’s voice quavered.
Sage looked at his raised hand. Indeed, the flames curled around each finger, then down his palm and onto his wrist.
He turned his hand, wriggling his fingers as the flames danced in the darkness.
“Damn,” he muttered. He couldn’t control the flames to perform a light spell.
“Does it hurt?” Marianne asked softly.
“No,” he said. “It surprises me each time. Perhaps it’s merely instinct to react with f
ear at the sight of fire.”
“Especially fire spouting from your fingertips.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “It takes every ounce of self-control to not run screaming from myself.”
“And it doesn’t harm you in any way. There is no damage to your skin, not even your clothes,” Marianne added, as she observed the fire bursting from his skin.
“None. It’s part of the magic, I suppose.”
“How do you do it?”
He had vowed not to speak of his fire magic to anyone. He’d been too horrified to admit what had happened. But he knew he must speak to someone. To have another witch hear of what occurred, so he wouldn’t feel alone. But was he truly prepared to speak of how he obtained the magic? To Marianne? She was so young, so innocent. Could he cloud her mind with such dark images as the horrible deeds done to him at the hands of a demon?
He sickened at the thought. “Let’s seek shelter, shall we?”
Avoidance would work well for tonight. He’d think of a better way to avoid the explanation later. At the moment, he was too weary to speak.
Marianne did not move immediately. As he limped away, she remained behind. He felt her gaze on the back of his neck, but nothing she could do or say might compel him to tell her what had occurred that night in Blackmoor. In fact, the only other being who knew what had happened was the very demon that attacked him. Thanks to Marianne’s sister, Julia, the demon was no longer able to touch him. She had killed it during their escape from Drake’s castle.
“Very well,” Marianne said after a moment. Relief sagged his shoulders to hear she planned not to pursue her need for answers. Knowing her most of his life, he knew that cost her great restraint.
Sage approached the cottage, aware this abandoned building might be the current residence for any number of wild creatures. He used the light from the fireball to illuminate the cottage, pushing the door open, expecting something to skitter from the corners of the cottage.
To his surprise, nothing stirred. The cottage might be abandoned, but it was not the complete disaster that he expected. The trestle table in the center of the room bore a thick layer of dust, as did the other items found in the house, but he could live with a bit of dirt. His major concern was finding a place in which to rest his weary head for the night.
The Witch's Kiss Page 6