She also learned that she was able to break any spells or curses when the torque was off…such as the one preventing the hellhound from escaping the trap.
The first time the necklace detached, the surprisingly heavy metal came away in her hands, and her neck felt naked without it. The relief at being free almost made her giddy…until the magic carved into her back began to build.
The power would gain strength and continue to grow, until it seemed it would consume her from the inside out. Only when she couldn’t take the pain anymore did she replace the torque. The metal would click into place, warming in welcome, as if glad to be home.
The witches didn’t know she carried magic, and she had no intention of telling them. They were ruthless, many of them believing their powers made them special and above the law. After being treated worse than a slave by the witches for the past ten years, she wanted nothing further to do with them.
The torque helped keep her secret, often changing its shape, as if trying to amuse her. It was protecting her, not the prison shackles as she originally feared.
In order to rescue Ascher, she needed magic to release his foot from the contraption. Different sigils were etched into the metal, the spell glowing slightly to her enhanced senses. Only a witch would know the combination to open the trap.
But if she had enough power, Morgan could destroy the spell altogether.
Much to her surprise, the torque came away easily, curling itself around her wrist like a snake. Almost immediately, the runes along her back shimmer to life. The hellhound sensed the change, and crouched down, his head lowered, never removing his gaze from hers.
She moved slowly, not wanting to startle the hound, and gripped the edges of the trap. Magic surged down her arms and slammed into the metal. The light from the spell dimmed, bowed under her magic, until she heard a crack. The sigils grew tarnished, the glow of the spell floating in the air like a cloud of sparkling red dust before dissipating.
The rusty metal screeched in protest when she used her enhanced strength to wrench it open.
The hellhound whimpered in pain, his leg clearly broken.
Morgan carefully lifted his limb out of the trap, unprepared when the hound lunged forward and clamped his jaws painfully around her wrist. Teeth sank deep, drawing blood, and she sucked in a startled breath.
Almost as fast as it happened, the hound whimpered low in his throat and retreated, staring at her remorsefully. Morgan knew she should to run, knew he couldn’t follow, but the pain in his eyes tempted her to linger.
She ripped off the bottom of her shirt, and carefully approached the hound, gingerly wrapping his injury.
Then she noticed the collar clamped painfully around his neck, so brutally tight, his hair had been rubbed away, his skin chafed and so abraded that nothing remained but a motley collection of scabs.
When she touched her fingertips to the collar, magic jolted into her so hard she was knocked off her feet, landing flat on her back.
The spell shattered, and red, sparkling dust floated in the air, leaving her feeling like she’d wrenched something deep inside.
The runes on her back burned like hellfire, wiggling under her skin like worms burrowing through her flesh, and nausea rolled through her. The markings were changing shapes—which should have been impossible. The torque tightened painfully on her arm, and she obediently unwound it, replacing the metal around her neck.
As soon as the torque clicked into place, the pain eased, and she shivered in relief, grateful the disturbing feel of her flesh rippling had stopped.
She was startled when Ascher licked her face, and she peered up into his clear blue eyes. She reached out, tentatively brushing her fingers against the rough, velvety fur-like hide covering him, noting the collar was gone. Seconds later, he turned and bounded into the woods.
For the next few weeks, Ascher stalked her every time she ventured out, careful to keep his distance.
Both of them pretended not to notice.
When she hunted at night, he joined her, and they quickly became inseparable.
The perfect team.
When the witches discovered the pairing a year later, they demanded she turn the creature over to them.
Morgan refused, accepting the inevitable beatings as punishment for her defiance. MacGregor finally overruled them, declaring it was more important to catch the creatures harming humans than capture and experiment on a simple hellhound. Though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, she sensed he was pleased to know she was no longer hunting alone, that she had a protector, no matter how unlikely.
That didn’t stop the witches from setting their traps for him in secret.
As she neared the mansion, she saw it was ablaze with lights, shining like a beacon in the night, and her stride slowed.
That couldn’t be good.
For a half a second, she debated heading back into the forest, but she wouldn’t shirk her duty.
What if there was a problem with one of the soldiers?
A tiny clutch of worry tightened her gut.
What if there had been more creatures hunting her?
While the soldiers seemed more than capable of protecting themselves, that didn’t mean they were indestructible.
She pulled her shoulders back, ignoring the sting of her injuries, and reluctantly trudged toward the place she called home…coven headquarters, and her own personal hell.
Chapter Five
Morgan approached the mansion cautiously and decided she could learn more by using an indirect approach. She swerved off the path to detour around back, planning to scale the wall when a guard emerged from the shadows by the majestic stairs.
“You might as well use the front door. They’re waiting for you.” Harold was tall but lean, his blond hair cut brutally short, so the strands only held a hint of curl. But, tough as he looked, he also was one of the few guards who actually made an effort to be polite to her. His main charge, the lead witch at the mansion, was the same woman who relentlessly pursued her favorite pastime—that of making Morgan’s life a living hell.
Catalina.
Her shoulders slumped at the coming confrontation, but she nodded. “Thanks.”
His blue eyes softened slightly, but the bonding marks on his shoulders tying him to Catalina prevented him from offering any friendship.
If Catalina ordered him to beat the crap out of her, he wouldn’t hesitate to obey, though he wouldn’t enjoy it like the other guards.
Harold was part of the legendary death squad. One of the few elite assassins. Most of the warriors considered Morgan beneath their notice, and trained her with daily beatings to force her to quit. After a few months, she began to fight back, and they no longer found it amusing when they were the ones lying on the ground broken and bleeding at the hands of an eighteen-year-old girl.
It was their job to protect the coven, and they saw her as a liability who would get them killed.
Morgan refused to allow their prejudice to deter her, and relentlessly persisted with her training.
She trudged up the marble stairs, stopping before the large, ornate double doors, admiring the snarling lion-head knocker. The whole mansion was made of stone and so much magic it radiated from the building.
It had been created to withstand a siege against the deadly creatures they hunted. The building was stationed next to the largest rift in the world, and the coven was the first line of defense.
When she touched the knocker, magic shimmered up her arm. Once it confirmed she wasn’t the enemy, the latched clicked and the door opened soundlessly.
She stepped into the opulent mansion, shivering at the way the doors closed on their own and sealed her inside. Everything was a pristine white—the walls, the floors, even the ceiling and the grand staircase. It was supposed to be prestigious, but managed to look sterile instead. She felt more at home in the forest.
The ornate, gilded frames on the twenty-foot wall to the right displayed every MacGregor who’d been in charge o
f the coven over the past five centuries, leaving the mansion looking pompous, rather than what it was…a functional fortress and last bastion against paranormals.
Morgan strode forward, her feet barely a whisper on the marble floors as she headed for the stairs.
“Morgan, please enter.” The gritty male voice emerged from the large office to the left, and she barely resisted the urge to cringe. She trudged toward the doorway, wondering how MacGregor always knew where she was when he didn’t have even a lick of magic in his blood.
Part of her wondered if the young soldiers had spotted her in the woods despite all her precautions, and tattled on her.
When she surveyed her appearance, she sighed. Her pants were dirty, stained with blood, and ripped in multiple places. Her shirt was in even worse condition. At least most of her wounds had stopped bleeding, though a few of them were so deep that even with her advanced healing abilities they had yet to close completely.
Taking a fortifying breath, Morgan pushed open the door, her heart beating a little faster at the possibility of seeing the young soldiers again, up close and personal, and she grimaced at the betraying thought.
But when she scanned the room, they weren’t there.
Disappointment pinged through her, and she couldn’t help being annoyed with herself. Then she shrugged it off and strode forward to stand in front of the MacGregor’s desk.
She loved this room, the dark oak paneling reminding her of a Scottish hunting lodge. A large fire always burned in welcome, but what she loved more were the two whole walls covered with ancient tomes containing myths and legends from around the world. She’d spent hours in this room, taking refuge in the books, but it was the man behind the desk who drew her gaze.
The MacGregor was a burly warrior well past his prime, who reminded her of a gnarled old grizzly. Though he might have retired from active duty over twenty years ago, he kept himself in great physical shape. A knotted, twisted scar climbed out of the collar of his shirt, wrapping around his neck, where he had nearly been beheaded. His hair was silver and wild, reminding her of a shaggy sheepdog. Wrinkles creased his face, giving him a severe expression, and she couldn’t help wondering if it would crack if he ever smiled.
Sharp, faded blue eyes raked her from head to toe without giving away a hint of what he was thinking, the intelligence in them intimidating, even after all the years she trained with him.
He sat ensconced behind a desk at least eight feet wide and three feet across, the surface covered in equal measure with weapons and paperwork, plus an ancient computer that failed to start half the time.
She came to attention in front of him, holding still under his perusal, ignoring the trickle of blood that ran down her back. Only when he gave her a nod did she relax her stance and study the other occupants of the room.
Five witches were currently in residence, while two more were out on missions with their squads. Each of them exuded the tremendous power that had earned them their prestigious spot in the Maine coven.
Three of the witches were sprawled in chairs, their magic tightly contained, sparing her only a glance, then proceeding to ignore her. Each had black hair, dark eyes and skin so deathly pale they reminded her of corpses—and showed as much emotion as one. Morgan dubbed them The Triplets, since she never spotted one without the others.
Of the remaining two witches, one had flaming red hair and pale skin, her dainty form surprisingly voluptuous—the quintessential image of a witch. When her green eyes latched onto Morgan, she scrunched up her nose, disdain oozing from her pores, before lazily going back to paging through the book in her lap.
The last witch was Catalina. The woman could be considered gorgeous, with light brown hair cut in a wavy bob, a dainty figure, and refined features normally reserved for supermodels…until you looked into her eyes and saw only insatiable ambition staring back.
She made no bones about wanting to be the next—and youngest—MacGregor, and she was ruthless enough to do whatever it took to make it happen.
She stood to the right of the desk, her hands on her hips, and glared at Morgan with hatred burning in her eyes. To Catalina, Morgan was nothing more than a mongrel who should have been drowned at birth. Because Morgan wasn’t a witch, she was considered subhuman, and a nuisance.
A sneer curled Catalina’s lips, and she snorted in derision at Morgan’s disheveled appearance. The Maine coven was very old, and many considered it an honor to be appointed to serve. She clearly though Morgan wasn’t good enough to even lick the floors. “Look at what the cat finally dragged in. I don’t know why you indulge her like you do. She’s nothing but trouble, pretending to be something she’s not.”
MacGregor waved his hand, and Catalina subsided with a scowl.
Morgan forced herself to remain relaxed and not react to the taunt.
Only males were eligible to become warriors—the ultimate assassins.
Despite knowing Morgan had to work twice as hard to earn her spot in the coven, Catalina saw her as a distraction and roadblock to achieving everything she wanted. When Morgan first arrived, the witch had decided to experiment on her, and received a rude surprise when Morgan managed to break every curse and spell she cast.
Which only pissed Catalina off more, and Morgan shivered, remembering the pain when the witch tried to rip Morgan’s useless magic out of her body, only to fail when her unknown magic sank deeper and deeper into her bones, hiding until it became untouchable…even to her.
When MacGregor discovered what Catalina had been doing, he took Morgan under his wing, making her untouchable. While she doubted MacGregor had any great affection for her, his gruff kindness cemented her loyalty to him. His brutal training didn’t matter. He was helping her achieve what she wanted, and she was determined to prove to everyone that she wouldn’t break.
She would become a warrior, even if it killed her.
MacGregor’s protection and favoritism only served to infuriate the witches more.
It galled Catalina to be forced to obey an old warrior, but she dutifully followed his orders.
For now.
Each coven was tied to an area, but it was the building itself that selected the most eligible and capable person to rule it…the MacGregor. Morgan suspected the house and the MacGregor were tied together somehow, but she didn’t understand the mechanics.
If the witch ever took over control of the Maine coven, Morgan didn’t doubt for a second that Catalina would hunt her down like a criminal and imprison her so they could resume their testing.
“Come here, lass.”
Morgan broke her stance, carefully easing closer to the MacGregor while taking care not to leave her back exposed to the others.
When she neared the desk, he held out a gilded envelope of heavy cream vellum with her name embossed grandly in gold foil across the front. “Do you know what this is?”
“No.” She shook her head, reluctant to take the envelope, her gut churning, warning her that accepting it would irrevocably change her life forever.
Catalina snorted, only subsiding when MacGregor cast her a warning glare. Then she crossed her arms defiantly, unable to hold her tongue. “There must be some mistake. There is no way the Academy of Assassins would allow a mutt like her in their ranks.”
A vein began to throb on MacGregor’s forehead as his anger spilled over. “Then it’s a good thing it’s not your decision to make.”
His disdain for her opinion was obvious. Before anyone else could protest, he waved a hand at them. “Your objections have been noted. You’re dismissed.”
The old man was unpredictable, which made him dangerous. It was one of the reasons Catalina didn’t challenge him for his position. She wouldn’t win, and she knew it.
Morgan was conscious of the witch’s hate-filled eyes on her, but didn’t give the witch the satisfaction of acknowledging her. As they filed out the door, Catalina flung a spell at Morgan, her magic a living, breathing thing as it battered at Morgan’s already-abused bo
dy.
Pain nearly buckled her knees as liquid fire poured into her many wounds. She breathed through the agony, the runes on her back heating as they quickly countered the magic before dispelling it completely.
The witches’ laughter reached her seconds before the door clicked shut, and the wards on the room slammed back into place, granting them privacy, and protecting her from further retaliation. Ignoring their spiteful antics, Morgan never once took her gaze from MacGregor or reached for the card he held.
“You’re kicking me out.”
It wasn’t a question.
She kept her face blank, but acid burned the back of her throat at the betrayal.
First Ascher disappeared, and now her safe, somewhat predictable life was being torn from her.
Slowly but surely, she was losing everything that meant anything to her.
His eyes flickered with sorrow, not denying it. “They have summoned you regularly for the past five years, but I selfishly fought to keep you here. Unfortunately, what I want no longer matters.”
He pushed back his chair, withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He removed a shoebox and pulled off the lid. Nestled inside were at least two dozen envelopes similar to the one he’d placed in the center of his blotter.
Morgan was stunned, uncertain what to feel.
“You’ve been selected to train at the Academy of Assassins. We’ve received an invitation once a year since I took you in my care, but this year we’ve been receiving one a week.” He set the lid aside, and pushed the box forward. “They are no longer accepting no for an answer.”
“I’m not a true witch.” She blurted out the automatic protest. “I don’t belong there.”
She hunched her shoulders, conscious of the runes carved into her back belying her claim, and absently brushed her fingertips across the torque around her neck, comforted when the metal warmed at her touch.
To be truthful, she didn’t belong anywhere.
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