Romantic Days, Romantic Nights

by Lynn Jae Marsh

  "What the hell!" he said.

  The Circle of the Brethren was broken.

  He reached for the cell phone. It glowed red when his hand touched it and TaPai was on the line. The apprentice spoke over the mystical connection of land, sea, and air.

  "We are down here. Reports coming in ... lithosphere disturbances off the charts ... centering at Everest ... and across the 28th parallel. It's bad."

  "How soon before we can re-establish?" Jock asked.

  "We can't. We are down, permanently."

  "Understood," Jock said. He restored the cell phone to its cradle and turned his attention to the computer screen.

  "What's next?" Houston asked, his lined face taut with concern.

  Jock felt the sharp bite of leadership. As the master of his brood, he always had to have the answers. Often, he had wanted to share the burdens of ruling with his consort. It was his nature, like breathing, to crave the balance of good and evil, of white and black.

  "We try again," he said. "Without Nepal."

  "That's risky," Houston said, shaking his head.

  "We can re-route, bounce off an INTELSAT satellite, call in..."

  The computer screen went dark.

  Then the world went black.

  Chapter 4

  Lania stood over Jock's limp body. She held a heavy candlestick in one hand and a computer power cord in the other. She debated whether to strike again, but the warlock prince was slumped over the keyboard, out cold.

  Time to upgrade to DSL. With a magnificent sneer, she twirled the computer power cord in the air. The red glow of the cell phone startled her into action.

  Clothes. I need clothes.

  And car keys.

  She spoke a turnabout spell, forgetting that she could not cast in his castle realm.

  Damn. I guess that I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way.

  Lania's hands touched Jock's hunched body, marveling at the heat radiating from it. She pushed him aside-using more gentleness than he deserved for she wanted to slug him-and rifled through drawers of the computer desk.

  Nothing.

  Damn!

  She looked around, looking for a place where he could stash the keys to his car. She suspected that his castle realm was located somewhere in remote New England. Although he was a recluse and could travel from one end of the earth to another at the snap of his fingers, he still needed wheels.

  So where are the freaking car keys?

  Having searched without success, she tiptoed up the winding staircase, sparing frequent looks over her shoulder at Jock.

  You never know with warlocks. They're such a sneaky bunch. And this warlock is special. He's very strong, spell-wise and strength-wise. I was out of it-who uses pixie dust these days!-but I still remember how the muscles of his arm rippled when he raised up, how the muscles of his calf flexed taut when he stretched, how the muscles of his buttocks tightened when he...

  At the top of the stairs, she was confronted with a heavy wooden door. Grateful that it was unlocked, she pushed it open a crack and peeped around it. There were corridors on all sides, forming the classic pentagram found in the homes of many supernaturals. Choosing one, she dashed down the long, carpeted path.

  More doors.

  She crossed her fingers and opened one at random. She found herself in Jock's bedchamber. She was immediately charmed by the dark, masculine elegance. Rich tapestry graced the walls, thick Persian carpeting was underfoot, and a raised, mammoth bed fit for royalty dominated the room. She was impressed. She knew that he was rich, but this! This wealth was scandalous.

  She opened a massive wardrobe and found...

  Woman's clothing. Expensive woman's clothing. An entire selection from slinky, thong bikinis to full-length fur coats. Somehow, she couldn't believe that the clothes belonged to Jock. He was many things, but a cross-dresser wasn't one of them. To the contrary, he had more machismo than any oath-breaker had the right to possess.

  That bastard. All the time claiming to want me when he already has a lady of the manor. I wish I had hit him harder. I wish that I had chopped off his head. I wish that I had... Ooooooh. When I shake the pixie dust from this place...

  She rained a host of torments upon Jock's head, laughing at the image of him fleeing in a cloud of bats' excrement, as she quickly dressed.

  Opening the door, she came face to face with...

  Sklar.

  The hound sat there with a certain bored grace, except for her plumed tail. That she thumped with a pagan-like beat. As Lania stepped closer, she yawned, her tongue doling out pink and long.

  Unsure of the hound's intentions, Lania hugged the wall and inched down the corridor. Reaching the end, she dashed for her freedom, bolting out as if she were made to run. She veered to the right and sensing daylight, ran faster, her feet barely touching the floor. Her legs pumped as pistons, and she concentrated solely on putting one foot down and one foot up with the quickest possible economy of motion. Her sneakers dug into the carpet, gaining traction in the softness, and she rapidly overtook the long expanse of the corridor. There, she looked over her shoulder. Sklar was crouched low, with haunches tucked in tight, loping in pursuit.

  Lania bent deep into a runner's sprint and tapped into her draining reserve of energy. Victory was close. She only had to gain the portcullis to secure her freedom.

  Sure, perhaps too sure, she stumbled, slamming into the carpet. She slid several feet, her skin scraping on the carpet. Still, she crawled on, ignoring the pain, disregarding the burning sensation that shot up her arm.

  The hound, like a silent hound from hell, was right behind, paws muffled, gait widened, easily eating up the distance.

  Whoosh!

  Sklar brought Lania down to stand over her. The hound's sharp, well-defined teeth chomped at the air near Lania's neck.

  Lania had only one choice: to fight. She brought her two-handed, clenched fists against the hound's head. Yelping, the hound recoiled from the blow and changed. Right before Lania's eyes. First Sklar was there and then she vanished. A woman, a very exotic woman with coloring to match the blue-black fur of the wolf dog, was in her place.

  Before Lania could recover from the shock, Sklar-or the woman, or both-curled her fingers and, with nails sharp and pointed, attacked. In Jock's castle realm of magick, an old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill catfight was underway.

  Until Lania got in a good right cross and Sklar retired from the field.

  Leaving Lania to get back to the important business at hand.

  Disregarding the sheets of rain that soaked her to the skin, Lania rammed the portcullis with her shoulder. The gate bounced back under her assault, staying in place. She beat against it until she sensed the futility of her attack. Through the wooden slats, past the courtyard, to an atelier beyond, she could see a shiny, sleek sedan crouched against the curb.

  Battering out. Hopeless. There has to be another way.

  Lania spied a column staircase to her right and ran up the wrought iron steps. She leveraged her weight to crank the winch of the portcullis, never wishing more that she had the use of her witching powers. She heard the sound of scraping slabs as the gate raised, its pointed teeth slowly separating from the earth below.

  She reveled in her almost-won freedom until an enraged Jock appeared to grab her around her waist.

  She howled with anger, her arms striking out madly, until he seized them, pinning them behind her back.

  So close. So unfair.

  Tears seeped through her thick lashes to fall in profuse droplets, mixing indistinguishably with the cascading rain. She kicked out. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her hard. She caught her breath on an angry sob.

  "Stop that!" the warlock prince commanded.

  "Let me go!"

  "You're not getting away. You might as well settle down."

  She tried to wrench free, bucking against him.

  "Cut it out before you injure our son!"

  He punctuated the command with a stinging
slap to her backside.

  His unbelievable conduct brought her up short. No one had ever treated her like that. Not even her coven mothers who had clucked their collective tongues at her headstrong willfulness as a child, but who had never dared to touch her.

  Despite Lania's struggles, Jock held her firmly. His hand snaked out to flip an electrical switch. Lania watched with maddening eyes as, like a modern-day elevator, the portcullis lowered into place.

  "Huh," she grunted out. "I should have known."

  "Yes," he said, turning to march her into the innards of his castle realm. "You should have known."

  Chapter 5

  In the broad banquet hall of Jock's castle, Lania picked at her food, pushing it around on the gold plate before her. Although the Sole Almondine with a light, lemon sauce smelled delicious and the fruity punch in her crystal goblet looked cool and refreshing, she left both virtually untouched. The presence of the warlock prince holding haughty court at the head of the table was ruinous to her appetite.

  She was his prisoner.

  Again.

  She hated him.

  She was intrigued by him.

  He had acquiesced to her demand that she not be chained in the dungeon. She had felt a stab of elation until he had informed her of the pentagram hex. She had the liberty of his castle realm, but nothing more. An impenetrable barrier separated her from freedom.

  Jock watched through eyes, slit black, as Lania played with her food. His scar pulsed dully and he set his jaw. He had tried hard to please her, conferring with his chef to create the most delectable dishes to tempt her. Babies needed nourishment, especially babies whose parents were both at the highest end of the spellcasting scale.

  "Our son is going to starve if you don't eat something," he said.

  "What makes you think it's a boy?"

  "The firstborn sired by a reigning Darkling prince is always a male."

  "Oh. Right. I forgot. Wiccan Lore."

  "Right. Wiccan Lore."

  She gave an exaggerated yawn behind her hand. Jock couldn't tell whether she was really sleepy or just pretending, to piss him off. Either way, he wished that she would eat something.

  She looked him full in the eyes.

  "Why didn't you tell me about the bitch?" she asked.

  "Who?"

  "Sklar. That she's a changeling."

  "Does it matter?"

  "Of course, it matters. They're trouble."

  "Now who's talking myth?"

  "Always transmuting into stuff," Lania said. "I mean, a person should pick a form and stick with it." She flicked her fork at a slice of sole.

  "Sklar is-was-a six thousand-year-old temptress."

  "Well, now she's just a bitch."

  "Jealous?" he asked, with a raise of his jet-black eyebrow.

  "Should I be?"

  Jock's eyes turned smoky.

  "I know what I want."

  "The way she was almost licking your crotch. Must be the dog in her."

  "Why did you refuse my troth offering?" he asked. He refused to debate irrelevancies.

  "That old, hocus-pocus thing?"

  "That old thing was priceless."

  "It didn't go with anything that I have."

  "Funny, I thought that it went with something that I want. Badly."

  "The color sucked and the shape and it was sizes too big."

  "Enough!" he roared.

  She was pushing his buttons-besides giving him a headache. On the other hand, maybe it was the aftereffects of her candlestick slug. Regardless, he wanted peace.

  She was insolent. And pregnant. With his son and heir. That made her dangerous. And vulnerable. And desirable.

  He threw down his napkin, kicking back his chair.

  "You look like you've had a hard day at your cauldron. Take a nap."

  "I'll sleep when I damn well please, my lord." She spat out the last two words.

  "And does it please you now, my lady?" He leaned his hard body into her soft one. She could almost feel the beat of his heart. She got the sudden desire to kiss him.

  "Yes, it does."

  She walked, with regal haughtiness, to the bedchamber.

  Chapter 6

  The roll of thunder startled Lania from an uneasy sleep. Glancing at the bedside clock, she was surprised to discover that she had slept for several hours. She was as exhausted as when she had rested her head against the pillow.

  She had fallen asleep only after a prolonged bout of sulking. Jock was right. She could not spellcast in his castle realm. She had tried everything that she could think of, from runes to black magick to conjuration, to no avail. She couldn't break through the pentagram or mental search to her coven sisters. The only thing that she had accomplished was a pounding headache. A headache made worse by a flood of uncontrollable tears.

  It's the baby. The changes. Being pregnant. Crazy hormones. It has to be. It can't be love.

  She splashed water on her puffy face, biting her lip at her reflection.

  I shouldn't have been cocky. Those dreams, those damn erotic dreams. I should have suspected something. Been on my guard. I should have known, after the troth offering, that he wouldn't give up.

  He says that the future of our plane of existence rests on the handfast. That's a load of crap. The coven mothers would have warned me if that were my destiny. I know my duty. I've done my duty. I've accepted of burden of ruling my people from childhood-and I have never failed them.

  Lania gained heart at the thought. I won't fail them. My mojo is back!

  With arrogance in her stride, she left the bedchamber, only to return two hours later more frustrated than ever before. She had explored every cranny of Jock's castle realm, even venturing to the tower rampart, without finding a way out. The phones were strangely static-ridden, the servants stupidly unhelpful, and the computers securely passworded. She had stalked to Jock's library where she had a temper tantrum to end all temper tantrums, threatening to spellcast over Jock's dead body. He had not paused in his study of some runic images, except to turn the page with a wave of his hand and to observe that she needed to relax.

  Now, she was back in the bedchamber and no closer to freedom than before.

  She gripped her bottom lip between her teeth, looking around. She smiled.

  No smoke detectors. No water sprinklers. Even Jock Steele couldn't stop the fire department. Probably, wouldn't want to. He seemed quite fond of this old pile of stone and brick. Now if the rain would check a little. Here's hoping he paid his insurance premium this month.

  Lania ripped an ancient tapestry from the wall. Her actions revealed an antique mirror tucked in a hidden alcove.

  Heeeey! What have we hereeee? A warlock who can mirror. Snow Whiteling's evil stepmother must be rolling in her crypt.

  "Mirror."

  "O mirrrr-rrrror."

  "Nothing. Let's see. Jock's so antiquated what with his belief in Wiccan Lore."

  "Mirror, mirror, on the wall."

  "Damn. Still nothing."

  A sudden vision of the portcullis flashed through her mind.

  "Electrical switch?"

  She ran her hands around the frame and found a hidden console with buttons like a DVD player. She pushed the voice-command button.

  "Play."

  "Nothing."

  "Rewind."

  At the low hum, she rubbed her hands in anticipation.

  "Stop."

  "Play."

  An image appeared in the glass of her bedroom, with her on the bed, in a private, most intimate, moment.

  "Rain and wind and earth and fire..." She began one of her most powerful spell casts. A blinding pain struck her, driving her to her knees. The pain worsened with her every word until she had to cease the incant. Swiveling on her heel, she tracked Jock down, still in the library, still engrossed in study.

  Smack.

  The warlock prince recoiled from the blow. His eyes spat fire.

  "You pervert. You sleazy, slimy Peeping Tom," she sai
d.

  He bottled his desire to retaliate with extreme effort. His temper was already rubbed raw from his need to mate, from being around her without release. Fingering his scar, he spoke through clenched teeth.

  "I've been patient with you, Lania. Very patient. I vowed to give you time, time to adjust, as much time as I can, but hell and the devil, you push me too far."

  She reared back her arm to strike again. He blocked the blow easily and sent her spinning from him.

  He strode over to her, to tower over her, his legs astride, his hands at his belt.

  On all fours, she back-pedaled, her hands and feet biting into the deep carpet.

  "It's time you learned who is your lord and master," he said.

  "My lord and master would never mirror into a woman's bedroom."

  "It's my right."

  "You disgust me." She sneered out the words, magnificent in her scorn.

  "Wiccan..."

  "Don't hide behind that trash."

  He pounced on her.

  "You will obey me," he said, "you will handfast with me, you will smile and be obeisant like a gracious consort should and, damn it, you will like it."

  Her struggles only enraged him further. He pried open her legs, pinning her down with a hard knee to her abdomen. He ripped the silky fabric of her shirt, flinging the pieces from him. Her pants and panties were the next target of his attack and, within seconds, her lushness was revealed to his hot, exploring hand.

  She squirmed beneath him, trying to avoid the tingling sensations that he created. She whimpered when he cupped her, kicking out with a nearly successful shot to his groin. From the look on his face, she didn't know how she had dared.

  "You devious, no-good, perverted oath-breaker!"

  Grrrrr. He sounded like a beast above her when he flipped her onto her belly. With rough hands, he grabbed her about her waist, tilting her ass up until her knees hardly touched the floor. She escaped. He let her. Only to drag her back. He drove in her without mercy, but could go no further when he felt the dry roughness of her vulva walls. He pulled himself from her, pushing her away with a long-armed yet lingering touch.