Mythe & Magick

by Shiloh Walker

  He glanced once at Arys, his eyes grim, his mouth somber. A thousand unspoken words seemed to pass between them and Pepper felt Arys’ hands tighten around her waist, felt some odd pain coming from him. She snuggled more firmly against him and waited for this new being to speak.

  “This is Cray,” Arys finally said after a long silence passed.

  Cray nodded at her and crossed one arm against his chest, bowing to her, the edges of his wings falling around him like a cloak. “Lady,” he said quietly, his voice deep and low, husky. “Not who we expect to see through Gates.” He straightened and studied her with deep, piercing eyes, almost…waiting.

  She returned his stare, linking the fingers of one hand absently through the fingers that Arys had wrapped tightly around her waist. Cray’s eyes, so like storm clouds, dropped and watched the gesture, and a small smile curved his mouth. He lifted his eyes up, following over the lines of her body. She felt the skin ruffling touch of magick, though she heard nothing more than a whisper in the air. Then Arys’ body tightened and his mouth firmed out. His lips moved and his head shook in a slight negative. She could hear his voice, in the back of her head, but not his words.

  “Ummm, excuse me, but if you’re talking about me, I think I deserve to know what you’re saying,” she said as politely as she could, tapping her foot in annoyance, then narrowing her eyes as the three men turned bland looks in her direction. The oh, I’m sorry, but what do you mean look. And she wasn’t fooled.

  Cray was the first to smile. The smile spread upward from his mouth until his eyes sparkled with it. “No need to worry for you, Arys. She is completely yours. Understands you, and feels your mind touch already, she does,” the winged man murmured, shaking his head. He moved closer, the smaller feathers along the edges of his wings ruffling with his movement. He stopped just in front of her and lifted a hand, the palm nearly as large as her face.

  He was massive…Nearly seven feet tall, she imagined. His hair, raven wing black, and raining down past his shoulders, shone in the flickering light. “Not drawn to Daklin or me…nor will the vampire sway her. She is yours,” Cray said, his eyes half-closed.

  Pepper could feel him, half inside her mind, and it was a seductive touch, enticing, even though he didn’t mean for it to be, and with an outraged cry she threw him out and bolted down her own mental shields. Her psychic skills weren’t as powerful as her magicking ones, but she could bolster them with magick shields. “Stay out of my head,” she rasped as she used her own bit of power to shove him away from her, calling up wind magick and forcing him back.

  Cray’s eyes widened as he felt her bar him from her mind, something most mortal women could not do, witch or not. The punch of wind, powerful but familiar against his chest was strong enough to force him back and he went, narrowing his eyes and studying her flushed face, the gleam of unwanted arousal, the anger. His physical presence had done little, but his touching her mind, just wanting to see how she already had pledged herself to his friend…

  “An apology must be made, I believe. I trespassed. I had no right,” Cray murmured, going to one knee, his wings spreading wide around him like a cloak, his head lowered. He could smell her, smell the satyr, the mingled scent of their sex…his cock swelled beneath his wrap and Cray ached and fought the urge to swear in frustration. This woman, this slim little red-headed witch from the mortal world who Arys quite desperately needed was the first woman who didn’t try to practically strip herself naked…well, she was nearly that already. So many women through that Gate, and this one, this one, Cray wanted. And she did not want him. Did not want to want him.

  Which meant he would not be having her.

  And Arys kept staring at him with blank eyes as though he feared the pretty little witch was going to change her mind and throw herself into Cray the Fallen’s arms and they would fly away.

  How many women had come through the Gate? Dozens, easily. And quite a few had been attracted to Arys. At first. But Daklin would arrive. Or another elf. Or Cray. Rarely Ronal. From time to time one of the other Guardians would come to escort Arys’ refugees to a place of sanctuary. And the woman would leave, practically wrapping her legs around the newcomer’s waist, and not even glancing back at Arys, though often times, Cray suspected that was because Arys did everything to shove them out of the Satyr’s Wood.

  Bleeding Wing, the Satyr had seduced women away from the vampire, only to walk away when he desired the freedom of his wood. He had sunk his cock into elfin ladies and faerie princesses, yet he still let mortal after mortal walk away.

  Of course, the angel suspected this was the first mortal that truly mattered.

  Cray had wished Arys would stop calling out the other Guardians and just take the bloody females to their selected sanctuary on his own.

  He was strong enough to be away from his wood for a few weeks.

  Even months.

  His magick was earth-grounded, but Arys wasn’t exactly the average satyr.

  Yes, provisions were made because he was the first satyr ever to be a Guardian. Most Guardians escorted or provided escort for the refugees themselves. But the satyr was a free spirit, had no servant or underlings and satyrs rarely left their woods—they needed the wood they were bound to. The Council had known provisions would be made, would have to be made for Arys.

  But Arys was the only acceptable Guardian for this Gate.

  The Gate had made that clear.

  Of course, Cray suspected Arys hadn’t let on just how well he was able to do away from his wood, or for how long. He simply didn’t want to leave it.

  He was tempted to sulk. But somehow he didn’t think it was fitting that a man nearly eight centuries old be caught pouting.

  Daklin caught his gaze.

  And the elf winked.

  Cray couldn’t stop the snarl or the warning growl.

  Daklin was still rubbing his burning hand. There were no marks there. The pain had been illusory. But he imagined she could have made it real. The pretty little witch had retreated behind a silk screen to clothe herself—pity—and was now sitting curled up beside Arys eating a piece of beiori fruit, an elvish fruit he had brought with him for Arys. She was still watching them with wide, suspicious eyes. Mismatched eyes, at that.

  Cray was sprawled on the bed, brooding. Poor fellow. Daklin had seen the interest light the angel’s silvery eyes the moment they had stepped clear of the portal. It had only intensified when Pepper hadn’t shown him the normal jaw-dropping, eyes-glazing, lust-induced trance-like state so many mortal females went into.

  “Not for us, Cray,” he said silently, only for the angel.

  “I am fully aware, you pointy-eared bastard. I’ve several centuries on you, not to mention being smarter than a bloody elf even on my worst day, boy,” Cray replied.

  Daklin laughed, his head falling back, sending his blond hair falling behind the chair, almost to the floor. At nearly six-hundred-years-old, not many people referred to Daklin as boy. Cray could get by with it, because he was Cray. “Stop acting like a snow bear who got his paw caught in a hunter’s trap. It is not very polite.”

  “Fuck off.” But Cray’s wings ruffled and shook as he stood up and tossed his hair out of his face. He couldn’t stand the thought of a lovely woman, one he was attracted to, thinking he was sulking.

  Once Cray was settled at the high, backless well-padded stool Arys had made especially for him, Daklin paused to smile and say to Pepper, “My Gate opens to India, France, and Spain. Those tongues, I know quite well. English only little. And what I must bespeak is both urgent and important. The satyr can explain later. And will, I know. Your forgiveness I beg for this impropriety.”

  Pepper arched a red brow at him, the one over her blue eye as she said, “You speak so very prettily for somebody who doesn’t understand my language very well.”

  Cray grinned.

  Arys sighed as his head fell back against the padded lounge where he and Pepper cuddled together. His eyes closed and he looked to be p
raying for patience. But Daklin could see the amusement on his face, the happiness. He hoped the news he was bringing didn’t kill that.

  Daklin narrowed his eyes and just studied the sassy little witch. “Well-matched you are,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Very well, indeed.”

  Falling back into Mitaro, a blend of elvish, human, and trader’s tongue, Daklin rapidly said, “You must come to Asquiro. The Summit must be held. The Watchers will watch the Gate. It is quiet now, yes? We have problems. Watchers going missing. Gatekeepers going missing. Sorcerers and witches in training missing from their beds. Ronal had to destroy one of the lesser Gates in his territory.”

  Arys frowned, his face going grim. “How long has this been going on?”

  “We know not for certain,” Cray said, his voice softer, slower in Mitaro. He gave Daklin a grim glance. “A year at least. Possibly two. The sister of one of the missing witches came to the Council to alert us, but was turned away. She then came to me, but that was only two months ago. She did some inquiring of her own before she told anybody. Her inquiry took three months, and it shed more light. Three other witches, one male. Two female. Two sorcerers. Both male. Both known for being…tricky sorts.”

  “By the Blood,” Arys murmured, shaking his head. He closed his hands into fists, feeling the sharp bite of his nails into his palms. Sorcerers, damn the lot of them. Unlike witches, sorcerers used blood to finish their magicks and it was all too easy for them to follow a darker path. “And the Gatekeepers?”

  “Young ones, all. Three of them. A faerie, a breed-vamp, and a mortal with a knack for earth magick. All females.” Cray’s eyes darkened to the color of thunderheads and the air in the iskita grew heavy and thick, as though a storm were ready to burst. “None of their superiors have been able to reach them. None of them have been heard from in nearly three months time.”

  “And this is the first I have heard,” Arys said darkly, rising slowly. “Am I lesser than you?”

  “No.” Daklin’s eyes narrowed, the blue darkening to near sapphire in his anger, his cheeks flushing in his own rage. “Apparently the Council just now decided the rest of us needed to be informed. Cray went to them and was led to believe we were all informed. He was unable to stay, or come to me and tell me himself, because he had problems at his keep. I was having problems in the realm. Problems. They are arising all over the bloody world, it would seem.”

  “Ronal is the reason we all now know,” Cray said quietly. “The breed-vamp is one of his offspring. He sired her birth mother. And her birth mother went to visit her and went into panic when she couldn’t find her. She and her human mate went to Ronal and Ronal, being the noble bastard he is, went searching for her. There was…something he called it, something dark and deadly like nothing I have ever felt in all my years.”

  Arys felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His lashes drooped to hide his expression and he blanked his face. Cold and sudden horror filled him. Ronal was even older than Cray. He had seen his first millennium. He had outlived even the Gatekeeper who had originally lived in the wood before Arys had taken over care of the Gate. Damis had died in a freak accident nearly a century ago and the mortal sorcerer had been 959 years old. Rumor had it that he had barely looked a day over fifty.

  “He did not bother going to the Council. He activated the mirror and told every Gatekeeper he could find. That was three days ago. You must not have been…available. Then he deigned to advise the Council. The Council, of course, was a bit…upset,” Daklin said, a smile dancing around his mouth. But the Council was not very likely to reprimand a vampire, especially Ronal.

  They were bloody terrified of him.

  “That was when they decided to inform us of what all has been going on. They’ve known. All along, they have known. Something, someone is out there trying to pick us off one by one, and they have not bothered to warn us.”

  Chapter Six

  Arys explained to Pepper while he was packing up what little he would take. “My friends will watch over you. There is plenty of food to last you, for weeks even. Faryn can help you find more, should you need—”

  “Like hell,” Pepper said calmly, reaching around him, plucking a pair of pants from the meager pile and pulling them up her legs. They were too snug around her hips and butt, she thought with a grimace, but it was better than being bare-assed. “I’m not staying in a strange place, where witches and sorcerers are going missing. And Gatekeepers, which is what you are.

  “It is not safe outside my wood. The wood is far safer than the outside world. The magick beasts and creatures here are my friends and they will guard you with their lives. No harm will befall you, swear it, I will,” Arys murmured, catching her hands and bringing her close, stroking her hair.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she glared at him. “I’m not helpless.” Pulling her hands away from him, she backed up a step and then another. “I’m not staying here alone.”

  “Not alone, my friends—”

  Pepper closed her eyes, prayed for patience. Closing her hand around the cross at her throat, she took a deep breath before she opened her eyes and focused them on the man before her. “Let me put it this way. I’m not staying here. I’m coming with you. Period. End of discussion.”

  His eyes narrowed in confusion, head cocked, as he tried to figure out her wording. But he got the meaning and simply shook his head. “Non. Do not argue. I can force you to stay. The wood is mine, it will obey my orders. And Daklin is a magick worker as well as you. Shall he prove it?”

  “Let him try,” she dared.

  Arys sighed. Plowing his hand through his hair, he stared at her. “Woman, you are stubborn. This is no pleasure trip I go on. We must travel hard. From your easy world, with your automobiles? We do not travel so. If it is decided that there is a warmonger among us, then one of us, or more, will be sent to stop him. Pretty rainbows and lights—no good will they be to us.”

  Her eyes widened then narrowed, and her mouth parted in a gasp. She flicked her hand toward him as indignation and rage coursed through her. She had never, ever, in her life had her skill questioned. Pretty rainbows and lights…is that what he thought she had?

  Wind elements coursed from her to him and before Arys could even realize he might have made a small mistake, he was pinned by air against the wall of his iskita. “Pretty rainbows? Lights? Is that all?” she asked, arching a brow as the door opened. Wild, angry magick was a palpable thing and it was no surprise the elf and Cray had felt it.

  Daklin took one look at Arys and opened his mouth, lifting a long-fingered, elegant hand. She felt the swell of power as he started to speak.

  “Silence,” she hissed, pointing at him. “Join him.”

  “Fuck,” Daklin gasped as a fist of unseen power grabbed him and propelled him to the wall next to the satyr.

  “What about you?”

  Cray lifted a black brow. “I have no qualms if you care to join us, lady witch. I know a warrior witch well enough,” he said slowly, bowing his head and backing out of the room, closing the door. His eyes were dancing with amusement all the while.

  “I care not to battle a woman. Release me before I am angered enough to try,” Daklin said quietly, clenching his fists. He wasn’t certain, though, if he could. And that really angered him. There was an odd feel to her magick, one that was unlike elvish magick, unlike the witch’s magick he knew, and the little minx knew it. By the Blood, she knew it.

  “You should have minded your own business,” she said archly, flopping down on the bed. She rolled onto her side, the lace of the neckline falling down to reveal the mound of one breast, molding to the dip of her waist, the rise of her hip under the tight fitting breeches she had appropriated from Arys. “This didn’t concern you at all, Legolas.”

  “My name is Daklin, lady-witch,” he growled.

  “I know damn good and well what your name is, slick,” she replied. She then proceeded to ignore him and propped her head on her hand, her red curls falling to the bed as she st
udied her silent lover.

  “Still think I can’t take care of myself, sugar?” she drawled, batting her lashes at Arys who was staring at her with dark, unreadable eyes. “Would you like to see what else I can do besides pretty lights and rainbows?”

  When he only stared at her, she narrowed her eyes and whispered, “Fire.” Then naughtily, “Fire, fire burning bright…”as flames burst merrily to life, inches above the floor, hot, searing hot, enough to have the men sweating inside a minute.

  “Nice illusion,” Daklin said in a bored tone.

  She smiled coldly. “Touch it,” she offered, releasing the elf only. He landed abruptly, only his catlike reflexes keeping him from a fall on his very nice ass. “Illusion after all won’t harm you.”

  He arrogantly took her dare, passing his hand through and bellowing out a foreign curse as his shirt caught fire. She dampened the fire before it took hold enough to damage anything and rose to her feet, reached through the flames and jerked him through, the flames parting around her and not touching her flesh at all.

  “Illusion?” she purred as she traced her hand over the second-degree burn already forming. She stared at him through a thick veil of lashes as she ran her fingers roughly over the blisters, while he stared at her wide-eyed.

  “Fire to call so easily, no witch of Mythe has this. Nor the ability to reach through it without taking so much as a burn to her lovely flesh,” he said roughly. “Simple is it, creating illusion. Creation of true fire, simply with the word, is something else, altogether.”

  She closed her hands over the burns on his hand and squeezed tightly, closing her eyes, not releasing as he hissed and tried to jerk his hand away. “Bloody hurts, you mean little—”then his voice trailed away as heat spread from her hands to his flesh. His jaw clenched, his eyes closed, his lids drooped as sweat formed on his brow.