Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  She did not know this forest.

  She ran blindly, sharp brambles tearing at her fur.

  She did not care how far or in which direction she traveled. It was often so when the wolf had not been free for some time. It was as if the beast longed to outrun everything human.

  This time, Gwen wanted to outrun her nightmare as well. The memory of Strabo’s intimate assault pursued her through the shadows more ruthlessly than any hunter. Had the horror come from her own mind? Or had the sorcerer cast a Dark dream? As disturbing as the first notion was, she infinitely preferred it to the second.

  But the second was much more likely. Strabo had recognized her on the road into town. Now he was telling her he knew about the wolf. And boasting to her of what she feared was all too true: that his magic was greater than hers.

  She raced deeper into the forest. Was he here, in these woods, waiting for her? He would not catch her. The wolf would not allow it. The beast was the strongest part of her.

  She called a spell of protection to mind. A spell of Deep Magic. As they had not in her dream, the Words came easily. Because of the wolf. The beast was closer to the magic of the gods than her human form could ever hope to be.

  A small falcon flew overhead, swooping low. The sudden motion disturbed her. She stumbled to a halt, disoriented. It was then that she became aware of a familiar scent in the air. She lifted her nose and sniffed.

  Marcus.

  He was part of her now; she would know his scent anywhere. The wolf had accepted him as her mate and master, sensing, perhaps, that his domination would never hurt her. She could feel his desire, pulsing with the night wind. He wanted her to come to him. Unerringly, she turned and padded toward him.

  She had no clear idea of how much time had passed since she’d left the smithy. Not long, perhaps, because the eastern sky was only just beginning to lighten. Her body hummed like a plucked string on Rhys’s harp. It was only when she was almost upon the clearing—just as her eyes found Marcus, standing with his back to her, peering intently through the trees—that she fully understood what he wanted.

  For her to shift in front of him.

  Her paws froze in midstep. Her human mind recoiled. She could not do it. She could not. He’d said watching her shift had not been a horror, but she did not believe him. She could not bear to see the revulsion in his eyes when he looked upon her.

  She backed away, slowly, praying he would not sense her presence. He did not turn, did not so much as move. Creeping slowly through the underbrush, she did not stop until she’d put a good distance and a solid outcrop of rock between them. She fell into a deep crouch on the damp, shadowed loam. She would shift here, then go to him. That, she could bear.

  She let the Words seep into her mind. After only a brief hesitation, the wolf lowered its head in acquiescence. Brilliant pain suffused her limbs, sinking deep into her bones. She did not dull it with a numbing spell. The pain reminded her that the wolf would always be a part of her. If she did not keep that thought foremost in her mind, she would never be able to turn her back on the life Marcus offered her.

  She endured the suffering as she always did—silently and without tears. Once she felt secure enough in her woman’s form, she opened her eyes. All around her, the world was flat, devoid of magic. Like the life ahead of her, lived without Marcus. She felt as though a hole had been ripped in her heart.

  Perhaps she’d not been made for happiness. Perhaps this penance was the price of her mother’s dishonor.

  Her woman’s body fully re-formed, she heaved her aching limbs into a crouch, steadying herself with one hand as a rush of lightheadedness pulsed and receded.

  Behind her, a twig snapped.

  She turned her head quickly, sucked in a breath. Marcus stood just three strides before her, her pendant dangling from his fingers. His eyes glittered with dangerous emotion. Not horror. Not disgust. Not even pity.

  Lust.

  “Get up.”

  The note of absolute command in his voice caused her stomach to clench. Heat pooled in her belly, slipped slickly between her thighs. Her nipples tightened.

  Slowly, not taking her eyes from him, she obeyed.

  “Lift your arms above your head. Clasp your elbows.”

  The motion lifted and parted her breasts, increasing her vulnerability. His eyes consumed her. She thought her skin would burst into flames from the heat of his gaze. Erotic fire flashed through her, every bit as potent as the magic that, in the wake of her shifting, she could not feel.

  He took a step toward her, her pendant slowly swinging on its chain. She could smell his heat, his lust. Her body responded, softening in preparation for her inevitable surrender. The wolf could not deny its mate. Nor did the woman want to.

  But her shame would not abate. “Ye … saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish ye had not. I wish ye had stayed away.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “I’d have sooner cut off my right arm.”

  He advanced another step. She arched her back, silently offering him her breasts. He did not touch them. Instead, he placed her chain over her head. With studious deliberation, he lifted her hair, guiding the long, tangled locks through the silver circlet. The metal, warm with the heat of his touch, nestled against her bare skin.

  His gaze drifted to the spot where she’d shifted, then slid back to her. His hands dropped to his waist, unlacing his braccas. His erection sprang free from a thatch of dark, curling hair. He wrapped his fingers around it.

  “Nay.” Before she quite knew what she intended, she’d abandoned the pose he’d ordered her to take and gone down on her knees before him. Her parted lips bathed the tip of his erection. His fingers threaded through her hair, gripping tightly at the base of her skull. She was not sure if he meant to pull her close or push her away.

  She made the decision for him. Her hands slipped beneath the waist of his braccas and shoved them down over his hips. Filling her palms with the tight globes of his buttocks, she pulled him to her.

  He tasted salty. She liked it, and liked how the glide of her lips over the broad round head of his shaft dragged a groan from his lips. She teased with her tongue, scraped with her teeth. His big body shuddered.

  She parted her lips wider and slid the full length of him into her mouth. His grip on her hair tightened painfully. His arms moved, guiding her. She gave herself over to his command, letting him set the pace as he wished, reveling in her ability to offer him this pleasure. She would even take his seed this way, if he wanted it. But the instant she felt his shaft hardening in anticipation of release, he hooked his hands under her arms and dragged her to her feet. She felt her spine press against the rough trunk of a tree.

  His hips pinned her in place. He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed. “Gods, you make me crazed. Have you cast a spell on me?”

  “Nay! Never. Do not think it.”

  “I hunger for you, Gwen, but having you does nothing to ease my appetite. It only inflames me more.” His hand found her nipple and plucked it into an exquisitely sensitive peak.

  She gasped as fire streaked to her loins. She wriggled against him, hooking one leg around his calf. Her body wept for him. She needed him where her yearning was fiercest.

  “Come inside me, Marcus.”

  “Gladly.”

  He joined them with one powerful thrust of his hips, seating himself so deeply that she saw stars. His breath warmed her face. He rained kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids. Took her mouth in a hot, wet kiss as he moved inside her body. Inside her soul.

  She gave herself over to the beauty of it, granting him mastery of her body. He drove her to the edge of her pleasure, then slowed, allowing the bliss to retreat. When next it rose, the pleasure was sharper, her need greater. But he let that ebb, too.

  “Marcus …”

  He gave no indication he’d heard her plea. Again the peak rushed at her, only to slip away when she reached for it. Her heart felt as though it were b
eing shredded with pleasure. Tears of frustration flooded her eyes.

  “Please, Marcus …”

  He anchored her hips with his hands and withdrew almost completely. She struggled, trying to follow him.

  “Marcus, please. I … I love ye so. I—”

  His head came up. “What did you say?”

  “I love ye, Marcus. I do. I—”

  “Gods, Gwen.” Something inside him seemed to snap; he surged forward so violently that Gwen’s head smacked against the tree trunk. With an oath he slipped one arm behind her head, another behind her hips, cushioning her body as he rammed himself inside her.

  Her world exploded, her body convulsing as pure pleasure took possession of every fiber of her being. She clutched Marcus’s head as he rode her into the storm and beyond. Incredibly, once the first wave receded, a second, higher wave rose.

  She clung to him. She felt his teeth on her shoulder, the small burst of pain pushing her higher. Then her climax took her, hard and fast and stunning.

  This time he came with her, her name a prayer on his lips.

  Hefin landed in a flurry of beating feathers.

  Rhys looked up from the meager campfire he’d built to chase off the dawn chill while Trevor occupied himself with a search for clean water.

  He frowned at the merlin. “About time ye showed yourself.”

  The bird lifted its wings and squawked, its head cocking first to one side, than the other. Rhys’s gaze narrowed. Hefin was rarely so agitated.

  “What have ye seen, little one?” He closed his eyes and extended his senses, aligning himself with the bird’s primitive brain. An image coalesced in his mind. A silver wolf, running in moonlight.

  Rhys jumped to his feet. Gwen.

  “Where?” He sent the thought into Hefin’s mind.

  The dream image continued. The silver wolf came to a sudden halt. Its nose came up, sniffing the air. There was a shifting of light. The shadow of a man lingered in the wood, watching.

  Marcus Aquila.

  A twig snapped. The image shattered. Rhys started, swinging toward the disturbance. Trevor stood a short distance away, waterskin in hand, his countenance filled with dismay.

  “I’ve interfered with your magic.”

  “Aye,” Rhys said shortly. He was already throwing handfuls of dirt on the fire. “But I’ve seen enough.” He described his vision to Trevor, revealing Gwen’s link to the wolf’s Deep Magic in terse sentences. A shocking confession, clumsily made, but Trevor absorbed the information silently, in his usual stoic manner.

  “Gwen is a shifter?” was all he asked.

  “Aye. And I … I am as well. My form is that of a merlin.”

  If Trevor was surprised by this further admission, he gave no indication of it. “And ye know, now, where she is? Hefin has seen her?”

  “Aye,” Rhys said. “My sister is in Isca. With … with Marcus Aquila.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marcus woke with Gwen’s naked body wrapped around him. The furnace had burned itself out. A glance at the smithy window told him dawn was long past. Last night, their explosive lovemaking had given way to a bitter poignancy that left Marcus feeling as though his heart had been scooped out of his chest. In its place was a hollow ache that worsened with each passing moment.

  Gwen had wanted to set out for Avalon before dawn—alone. Marcus had refused; she had argued. In the end, it had been sheer exhaustion more than persuasive rhetoric that had conquered her. Her shifting had left her pale and drained. She’d barely been able to stand, let alone travel.

  She lay, for now, pliant and peaceful in his arms. He let the soft, even rhythm of her breathing work its way into his soul. Her expression was untroubled; in sleep she seemed much younger than her twenty-five years. He wanted to keep her here always, sheltered by his body, safe from the worry and responsibilities that weighed upon her soul.

  She should not be so burdened. Resentment simmered in his chest. Cyric, Rhys, and the rest of the Druids valued Gwen only for her magic and her role in continuing the line of their Lady. They knew nothing of her heart, her courage, her abiding love for them. He was sure she would not hesitate to sacrifice her life for Avalon. The Druids dismissed that gift as their due.

  She deserved so much more.

  His arms tightened. She stirred, but did not awaken. She snuggled more securely into the crook of his arm, her palm spread possessively on his chest. He could feel the imprint of each finger.

  She had said that she loved him. Loved him. And yet, she was still determined to leave.

  The day was advancing; he could not hide here with Gwen much longer. But he could snatch a few more peaceful moments before they began arguing about the journey to Avalon. She did not want him to accompany her, but it didn’t matter; he would not let her go alone. Unwilling to hasten the departure, he closed his eyes. They flew open a moment later when a sharp knock sounded on the smithy door.

  “Marcus?”

  Breena. Inwardly, he groaned. Gwen, still sleeping, turned her face into his chest.

  “Marcus, are you in there? Is Gwen? Please answer.”

  The latch on the door rattled. Thank the gods he’d had the presence of mind to lock it. If he didn’t answer, maybe she’d take the hint and go away.

  She didn’t. She pounded on the door. “Marcus! Answer me!”

  Her tone had taken on a hint of desperation. Something was wrong. Gently, he disentangled himself from Gwen’s arms. She must have been even more exhausted than he realized, because she rolled onto her stomach without opening her eyes. He shoved his legs into his braccas. He reached the door just as Breena’s pounding started again.

  “I’m here, Bree,” he called. “Settle down.” He pulled the door open.

  “Marcus! What took you so long?”

  He stopped abruptly. Breena was not alone. Rhys, accompanied by a tall, blond-bearded Celt, stood behind her.

  “Rhys,” he said, letting his voice rise. He only hoped Gwen was awake enough to heed his warning. “Well met. Have you only just arrived?”

  “Aye.” Rhys’s gray eyes, unnervingly like Gwen’s, took in Marcus’s half-dressed state. His expression hardened.

  “Marcus,” Breena said, “is Gwen with you? Rhys needs to—”

  “Who is your companion, Rhys?” Marcus’s interruption earned him a glare from Breena. He ignored it; his gaze was fixed on the bearded giant hovering at Rhys’s elbow. His clothing was simple—fur vest, braccas, and boots of rough-cured animal skin. His dark blond hair, drawn back in a tight queue, nearly reached his waist. A tarnished silver torc encircled his neck. He said nothing.

  Marcus had a sudden, unwelcome premonition as to his identity.

  “This is …” Rhys paused, his gaze flicking past Marcus, then returning to his face. “A friend.”

  “Trevor,” Marcus said.

  Surprise flashed across Rhys’s face. “Aye.”

  Trevor’s expression did not change.

  How Marcus managed to keep his own expression impassive, he did not know. His fingers curled into fists; a slow burn began in his gut. Rhys and Cyric expected Gwen to marry this barbarian behemoth? And Gwen herself was—what had she said? Not unwilling. The thought made him ill.

  He resisted the urge to glance in the direction of the wooden screen. She was his. His mate. He had marked her with his teeth, taken her maidenhood, earned her love. He would not surrender her to any man, Druid or no. His instinct to shield Gwen from embarrassment warred with the wholly masculine impulse to strike down the screen and assert his claim.

  Somehow, civility reigned over passion. “Trevor,” he said. “Well met.” He took a step toward the door, intending to remove his unwanted guests from the smithy while Gwen’s good sense kept her safely hidden behind the screen.

  Unfortunately, Gwen’s good sense had fled.

  She emerged from behind the screen, her hastily donned tunic dirty and rumpled. Her feet were bare, her hair hung in wild, erotic disarray. Her lips were sw
ollen from his kisses. A bite mark from their forest encounter stood out against the pale skin of her neck.

  Breena’s gasp merged with Rhys’s muttered curse.

  A rush of pure masculine triumph swept over Marcus. There could be only one reason Gwen would appear like this before Rhys and Trevor. She was declaring herself bound to Marcus.

  “Gwen.” Rhys’s tone held a wealth of anger and disappointment.

  Marcus’s resentment intensified. He was barely aware of his body moving, until he found himself at Gwen’s side. His arm encircled her waist.

  Gwen did not look at him. Nor did she look at Trevor. Her gaze was wholly for Rhys. “Why are ye here? What of the mists?”

  “I could ask ye the same, sister.” He swallowed hard, his throat working.

  “I haven’t heard ye in my mind for days. Now ye and Strabo are both here in Isca. What does that mean for Avalon?”

  “Soon after Strabo rode out, Cyric’s affliction vanished, and he is once again holding the mists in place. Until ye return. Then he will hand the duty to ye, Gwen. He says it is time.”

  “That’s not going to—” Marcus began.

  Rhys cut him off. “Cyric commanded me to find ye. And so I have. Here, warming Marcus Aquila’s bed like a whore.”

  Breena made a choking sound. Marcus’s vision went red. Angrily, he angled his body between Gwen and her brother. “Take care what you say, Rhys. I will not tolerate any disrespect to Gwen.”

  It was as if he’d never spoken. “Rhys,” Gwen said softly, stepping around Marcus. “Ye do not understand—”

  “I understand more than I want to. Ye’ve disobeyed Cyric, and ye’ve called the wolf.”

  “Ah, and ye are the perfect grandson, are ye not? Ye are a hypocrite, Rhys! Ye’ve called Deep Magic yourself, without Cyric’s knowledge.”

  Guilt flashed across Rhys’s face. “Marcus told ye.”

  “Aye. Did ye think he would not?”

  “I called the merlin only once. To save ye.”

  Tears glistened in Gwen’s eyes. “Ye might have helped me even more if ye’d been truthful about it afterward.”