by Nadine Mutas
Sniffing, she wiped at her eyes. Her chest burned from the pressure of suppressed sobs. “You won me over, you stole my heart, you changed everything. I love you. More than my own life, which is why I changed my mind. I’ll rather die than take your life.”
“And yet,” Calâr chimed in, his voice insidiously smooth, “she never told you the truth until now. She would have kept all this from you, would have gone to her death, leaving you to mourn her, without ever warning you that you were going to lose her. A fine lover you have there.” He clucked his tongue again. “Betraying you until the very end.”
The pain piercing Basil’s heart spread through his chest, through his veins, like corrosive acid, until everything, everything hurt. His arms trembled as he held the bow and arrow still trained on Calâr, though he looked at Isa. “Why? Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Basil…” Tears trailed down her cheeks, her face contorted. “I didn't want to spoil what we had. I know I'm going to die. I can’t change it. You can’t change it. And I…I just wanted to enjoy you, wanted to enjoy what little time I have left…”
“And you kept this from me.”
Her chin quivered, her eyes liquid silver. “And what was I supposed to say? How should I have told you about the curse, and your mother, your father, about—” A sob visibly destroyed her. “I was ashamed. I was afraid of how you’d look at me, that I’d lose your love if you learned how I betrayed you—”
“You should have told me you’re going to die!”
She jerked as if he’d slapped her.
“What the fuck do I care about the things you had to do to survive—I fucking care about you not dying. I had a right to know I’d lose you!”
“I know,” she choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry…”
A stealthy movement in the corner of his eye. Basil whipped back toward Calâr, who’d drawn a dagger out of nowhere, his face set in harsh lines. Basil raised his bow again—which he hadn’t been aware he was lowering—and pointed the arrow at the duplicitous male fae once more.
“You,” Basil growled. “Do not even dare to breathe. I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Calâr narrowed his eyes but stayed where he was, both hands half-raised, his right one holding the dagger in a non-aggressive way. Basil ground his teeth, his blood on fire with too many poisonous emotions he didn’t even have a name for.
Isa’s strangled cry startled him. His attention shot to her, and his stomach dropped. She was doubled over, jerking. No. Another seizure?
Symptoms of her death curse progressing…
His heart froze, along with the blood in his veins. His chest knotted, locked in his breath.
Isa convulsed and collapsed on the ground. Without thinking, on instinct, Basil lowered his weapon and rushed forward. The same instant, Calâr jumped to the side in a lightning-quick move, grabbed Isa off the ground and hauled her up in front of him, the blade of his gleaming sharp dagger held under her chin.
“Stop right there, or I'll cut her throat.”
Basil stumbled to a stop, his heart racing.
“She’s convulsing heavily, and shaking hard, and I’m doing my best to keep her still, but if you take one more step toward me, my hand might just slip.”
Reflexively, Basil raised his bow again.
“Uh-uh.” Calâr increased the pressure of the blade until it nicked her skin, and a rivulet of blood trickled down her throat. “Lay down your weapons. Now.”
Gritting his teeth, Basil lowered his bow, relaxed the arrow, and laid both on the ground.
“All of your weapons.”
With a curse, he complied. One dagger after another clattered on the growing pile in front of him, until he was done, and held up his hands, palms outward.
Calâr sneered. “Good. Do what I say, and I won’t harm her. If you come along and trigger your true name revelation, I will hand her over to you, unspoiled.”
Basil fisted his hands. His muscles tensed with the instinct, with the urgent need to lunge at Calâr and free Isa from his grasp. But he knew, he fucking knew he wouldn’t be quick enough. Calâr would slit her throat before Basil ever reached him.
A keening cry floated down from the breeze, followed by the flap of wings. Basil looked up, as did Calâr, and the next second a bird of prey shot out of the stretch of sky between the trees lining the forest path.
Kîna.
Claws outstretched, the hawk launched herself at Calâr. He ducked his head and lost his grip on Isa, who slumped to the ground.
Now.
Basil grabbed a dagger from the pile and ran toward the other fae. Calâr had shaken off Kîna, but she came back at him immediately in a quick flight maneuver, distracting Calâr while Basil charged him.
With a roar, a mighty wind rose up out of nowhere. The squall hit Basil full-on, shoved him back with the force of an oncoming truck until he slammed down on the ground. The violent gust also hit the hawk, whipped at her in the middle of her attack, and hurled her away. The raptor crashed into the bushes several yards into the forest.
No. Not Isa’s beloved bird. Rage boiling in his gut, Basil glared at Calâr. That fucking air-manipulating bastard.
Breathing hard, Calâr hauled Isa up again, set his dagger once more at her throat. “Now,” he snarled, “we walk the last bit to Nornûn.”
A thought flitted through Basil’s head, unwelcome and devastating in its implications. He didn’t even want to entertain it.
But it must have shown on his face, for Calâr quietly said, “You don’t know if she’s really going to die. There may be a cure yet, one she hasn’t found. If you comply with my demands, I’ll hand her over, and there will be time for both of you to search for a cure. Aren’t the witches in your family especially talented? I’m sure they will find a way to break her curse, and then both of you will be able to live happily ever after. But if you don’t do as I say, I will cut her throat, and she will die, right here, right now. Don’t gamble your chance at a future with her for the uncertainty that she might die anyway.”
Shit. No matter how he turned it, Basil was well and truly fucked. Give in to Calâr’s demands, and he’d enslave Basil and use his powers to begin a reign of terror in Faerie, or refuse to obey in the belief that Isa was doomed to die anyway, and watch him kill Isa right in front of him.
But the bastard was right—Basil wasn’t completely convinced her curse could only be broken by killing him. Maybe there was another way. If he only had more time with her…
Dammit, he would not risk Calâr killing Isa on the off chance that she was right and her impending death was inevitable. He really didn’t have a choice.
With a grim nod at Calâr, he resumed his trek toward the oracle.
Chapter 23
Merle was once again in the old Victorian library when the doorbell rang. With a sigh, she pushed her chair back from the desk piled with dusty books—none of which held any clue as to how to stave off paying back to the Powers That Be—and trudged over to the front door.
The dark power seeping through the cracks in the wood and stone clued her in as to who was standing on the other side even before she opened the door. Her stomach dropped, nausea swamped her—a different kind than the one caused by the tiny spark in her belly. This one went down to her soul.
When she unlocked the door and Arawn strolled in as if he owned the place, unperturbed by the wards set around the property, Merle’s knees almost gave out. No. He couldn’t be here. Not now. She wasn’t ready yet, hadn’t found a way to minimize the consequences of her magic use.
Hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, he scanned the foyer with eyes the color of shadowed moss. A finely tailored dress shirt of dark ruby red stretched over his broad shoulders, hugged his strong frame. He was built to put berserkers to shame. His skin glowed a dark bronze, his face all harsh angles and hard planes, the black of his hair swallowing the light. Standing there in her family’s foyer, he not only dwarfed her, he claimed the very air that t
ouched him, his sinister power creeping into all the nooks and crannies of her home.
Her home.
He dared come here, into her refuge, her house, sauntering in as if he had a right. That rotten, evil, impertinent son of a—
“Where is your demon, fire witch?” The deep bass of his voice boomed in the foyer, even though he had spoken in what were his quieter tones.
“Gone to run an errand,” she gritted out.
She had a sudden craving for pistachio ice cream, and her darling of a demon jumped to get it for her as soon as she mentioned it.
“Good,” the Demon Lord said, facing her. “I find his yapping presence rather annoying when you and I do business. Now”—he produced a rolled-up bundle from the gods-knew-where—“for today’s order, I require you to put a spell on this.” With a flick of his hand, the bundle unrolled.
“A rug? You want me to bespell a rug?”
He tilted his head, gave her a look that clearly said he wouldn’t deign to answer such a redundant question.
She inwardly rolled her eyes. “What kind of charm would you like?”
“A truth spell, forcing whoever stands—or kneels—on the rug to be incapable of lying.”
Merle sealed her mouth shut and breathed through her nose to keep her temper. It was going to be a damn powerful charm, difficult to weave, and requiring a huge amount of magic. Magic she couldn’t afford to draw upon.
“And make it undetectable,” Arawn added.
She barely held back her sound of frustration. Like a fucking cherry on top. Concealing a spell was often even harder than the charm itself, which was why it mostly wasn’t done. She might as well slit her skin now and bleed out for the Powers That Be.
She snatched the rug from the Demon Lord’s hand. “Anything else?”
The hint of a terrifying smile ghosted over his face. “Where has the Murray witch gone?”
She froze. He’d noticed. Her heart raced. Cold sweat broke out on her skin.
Well, of course he’d learn that little tidbit, wouldn’t he? Considering he had the mansion staked out to watch Maeve. And then there was Alek, Lily’s mate…Arawn’s enforcer.
Merle narrowed her eyes. “I thought you already knew? Or don’t you wring every last drop of information about what’s going on with us out of Alek?”
Arawn tsked. “Aleksandr only reveals what he wants to reveal, and I do not pressure him for more.”
She raised her brows. “I find that hard to believe.”
That ghostly smile again. “I do not bend a knife until it breaks. A fractured blade is of no use to me.”
She frowned, blinked. Devious, perplexing bastard.
“Where has Hazel Murray gone?” Arawn asked again, the shadows in his eyes deepening. “And why would she leave when Juneau Laroche watches you and yours like a hawk, waiting for the opportune moment to strike?”
Damn it, but he honestly shouldn’t be able to rattle her any more with anything he said. She should already be used to him having his fingers in every pie and his spies in every corner. And yet, here she stood, trying not to breathe noticeably faster so she could hide just how much his knowledge shook her.
She swallowed past her anxiety. “Didn’t you once say you don’t involve yourself in the affairs of witches?”
His smile this time dripped with condescension. “Obviously, my interests have changed.”
A shiver ran down her back. And not the good kind of shiver.
“Tell me where she went.”
“I am so not—”
“Tell me.”
“Seriously, if you think—”
“Tell. Me.”
“SHE’S GONE INTO FAERIE TO FIND BASIL, OKAY?” Uncharacteristic rage lashed out of her in a wave of sparks—visible, real sparks that settled on the rug and glowed bright before she extinguished them with a flick of her hand, her heart pounding. She hadn’t lost it like this around Arawn since he’d come to claim Maeve right after her rescue.
The Demon Lord’s attention pinpointed on her with laser-like focus. With narrowed eyes, he stalked forward, prowled around her, leaned in and sniffed at her. Growling, he drew back.
“How long?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, a couple days?” She gestured with her free hand. “A week? I have no idea how long it’ll take her to find him.”
“Not that,” Arawn snarled. “How long have you been with child?”
If lightning had struck her right then and there, it would have been less of a shock. She virtually felt all blood leaving her face, her head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.
“You should know better than to think you can lie to me.”
Her mind scrambled back into order. “This is none of your business.”
Arawn paced a few feet away, turned back and advanced on her until they were almost nose to nose. Or nose to chest, considering their height difference. “Why have you not informed me of this?”
She jerked back her head. “Excuse you?”
“You should have told me, fire witch.”
“Why? What’s it to you?”
“It changes things,” he said gruffly and turned away.
“Wait—what?”
He strode toward the door, was already outside on the porch when her brain caught up and she ran after him.
“What about the rug? Do you still want me to bespell it?”
He halted, glanced at her over his shoulder. “No. I have no need of your services for a while.”
“Do you want the rug back?” she asked stupidly.
“Keep it.”
Again, her thoughts took a few seconds to come up to speed. “Wait…wait. You’re not canceling our deal, are you?” Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Dread curdled her stomach.
Arawn tilted his head. “Consider it…paused. I will not call on you to use your magic until after your babe is born. Then we will resume our cooperation.”
And with that, he left as he so often did—he changed into the shape of a huge black eagle and surged skyward.
Merle stood on the porch, clutching the damned rug, her mind a huge blank. It continued to be a bottomless void for several heartbeats, while her body was numb.
Then it hit her. Slammed into her like a tidal wave into a small vessel, flooded her until she drowned, drowned, drowned in joy so pure, so overwhelming, it spilled forth as tears.
Rhun found her on her knees on the porch, weeping into the rug.
Chapter 24
Basil entered the sacred realm of the oracle, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room. Moss covered the circular walls as it did the stairs outside leading up to the entrance. Tree roots had broken through the stone here and there, and were growing up and down the walls, forming a hauntingly beautiful yet natural pattern. In the middle of the gym-sized room loomed a dais built of multiple slabs of slate. On top of it towered the larger-than-life statue of a man with a stag’s head, complete with antlers. The imposing stone figure radiated the same mood as the intimidating portraits and statues Basil had seen in the only Catholic church he ever set foot in, back when he was a child.
He stopped at the feet of the dais and cast a look over his shoulder. “What now?”
Calâr dragged Isa with him into the temple. Her convulsions had finally subsided, leaving her limp and unconscious in that damned fae’s arms. Anger boiled in Basil’s very cells, and he gritted his teeth. He had no right to touch her.
Still holding the dagger to Isa’s throat, Calâr said, “Your blood is needed to wake the oracle. Cut your palms on the sharp edge of the stone there, ascend the dais, and lay both hands at the statue’s feet. Close your eyes and loudly say, Yar nîm cata’or.”
“What’s that mean?”
“My true name reveal.”
“And then?”
Calâr lifted the dagger off Isa’s throat and waved with it. “And then…the Nornûn will show your true name to you, and you should s
ee it in your mind.”
And because of that fucking mirror spell he’d done earlier, Calâr would see his true name as well.
His thoughts raced and spun again with the desperate need to find a way out of this. Endanger the whole of Faerie for a chance to save Isa, or watch her die… Nausea swamped him at the vision of her lifeless body sinking to the ground. Never.
Taking a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders and laid his hands on the serrated edge of the slate in front of him. He braced himself for the pain and slashed his palms open on the sharp slab. Son of a bitch. He steeled himself against the vicious sting shooting from his hands along all nerve endings in his body.
He’d just set one foot on the stair-like dais when Isa’s gasp caused him to freeze mid-step. He whirled around.
Her eyes fluttered open, and the glorious, luminous gray of her gaze locked onto him. “Basil…” She jerked in Calâr’s grasp. “Please, please don’t do this. I’m not worth it. My life is forfeit already. Don’t let him use me to manipulate you into—” Her sentence ended in a scream that curdled his blood.
He turned on Calâr. “Stop it! Don’t hurt her. I’m doing what you want, okay? Just stop it.”
Calâr frowned. “I’m not doing anything. She’s just—”
Isa’s convulsions were worse than any Basil had seen so far. Spittle frothed at her mouth, and she was shaking so hard Calâr had to lower the dagger so he wouldn’t accidentally slit her throat. The stone walls of the oracle rumbled, as if stirred in the deep. Her skin turned ashen, her chest rattled.
Instinctual premonition arrested his breath, spread tingling dizziness throughout his limbs. No. It couldn’t be…
Calâr lost his grip on Isa, and she crumpled to the ground. Her back bowed, and with a strangled gurgle that broke everything good inside Basil, she exhaled and then collapsed. Her chest ceased moving. Her head tilted to the side, her eyes open yet motionless, her face a mask of stillness. The rumbling of the stones stopped. Silence filled the temple.
His soul fractured. No. No, no, no. She couldn’t be—there had to be more time.