by Nina Croft
Casterix.
The witch who had nearly destroyed Arroway a thousand years ago. Tallon nodded once and left the room. Jarrod gazed after him. He had to find a way to get to his daughter before Tallon, and the only way he could think was with Freya’s cooperation. And she hated him.
~*~
The heavy door swung shut behind her, leaving her alone in the cell. She was underground, in the dungeons hewn out of the rock below the Keep. The only light came from a metal grill in the ceiling, dim but sufficient to make out the room, less than ten feet by ten feet and bare, no furniture, and rough stone walls. But at least the air was fresh and clean.
They had unbound her hands, and she rubbed at the red patches on her wrists where the rope had chaffed. The Enforcer hadn’t hurt her, but he had been implacable and taken no chances on her escaping. She hadn’t tried anyway—at least while he was bringing her here, he wasn’t hunting Shayla. Besides, most of the way, she’d been unconscious and in no state to attempt anything. Once she had come to, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider where they were heading, what would happen at the end of their journey.
Now she needed to think. But she was finding it hard to overcome the encroaching despair that clouded her thoughts. She was back in the one place she had vowed never to return, and she could already sense the air of pervading evil that saturated the Keep. The tendrils tugged at her mind, sapping her will and making it hard to concentrate.
She hoped that Shayla would be sensible and not come looking for her. With luck, she wouldn’t even be aware her mother had been captured. They’d separated, hoping to confuse their pursuers, and it would hopefully be days before Shayla discovered what had happened.
Freya presumed she would be dead by then. She wouldn’t let them use her to ensnare her daughter. And no way would she submit to any warlock; they would have to kill her first.
Briefly, she wondered what had happened to the warlock who had helped her all those years ago. Both Freya and her daughter owed him their lives, but she could hardly remember his face. Was he still here? She pushed the thoughts aside. She hadn’t understood why he helped her back then, and she wouldn’t allow herself to hope. Besides whatever his reasons, he was still a warlock. Without his kind, there would have been no need to save her from anything, and she would never forgive them for what they had done to her and the other witches they kept as slaves.
The power within her daughter terrified her at times, but it also showed her exactly what the Order had taken from them. Their magic ripped from them at birth leaving them empty shells to be used for the Order’s pleasure.
She sank onto the rock floor, leaned her back against the rough wall, and hoped it would be over soon. Would they torture her? Try and make her tell where Shayla was? Would they use magic?
Her one hope was to anger them enough to kill her before they could use her. And maybe if she were lucky, she would get the chance to take one of them with her.
She’d learned a lot in her years on the outside. How to look after herself. How to fight. She had trained side by side with Shayla, determined her daughter would never be anyone’s victim. Shayla was small but she was fierce. A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of her daughter.
Arroway’s hope.
Her existence had given meaning to Freya’s life. Now hopefully, Freya’s death would give Shayla a chance to find the help she so desperately needed.
Resting her head on her knees, Freya closed her eyes, drifting off into an uneasy sleep and an old, familiar dream...
She stood at the top of a narrow staircase, her body aching from the climb. In front of her was a door inlaid with runes and pulsating with power. She touched her fingers to the ancient wood, awakening the magic. The heavy door swung inward revealing a circular chamber bathed in starlight, and on a stone slab in the center of the room lay the Goddess, trapped in enchanted sleep. But Freya could sense her restlessness; the magic that bound her was weakening. All she needed was someone to...
The scrape of the bolt jolted Freya awake. The door of the cell swung open, and three girls stood in the opening She didn’t recognize them. They were young—younger than Shayla—and must have been born after she left the Keep. All beautiful, but all with the vacant expressions of the pleasure slaves. They didn’t speak and kept their eyes downcast as they gestured for her to follow them. A guard stood behind them, but Freya ignored his presence and followed the girls. They led her along a narrow corridor, up a steep flight of stone steps, along a wider corridor, and eventually into a part of the Keep she knew all too well.
This area was where the pleasure slaves were housed. Freya had spent much of her life here after she had been selected. The place was as she recalled. Comfortable enough, but the air reeked of a sickly sweet mixture of perfume and despair. Nausea roiled in her stomach at the remembered smell.
She allowed the girls to strip her clothes and bathe her—in fact, the warm water felt good against her skin, soothing her aching muscles. They brushed out her long hair, and she only baulked when they tried to rub the perfumed oil into her skin.
“I’ll throw up, if you do,” she warned, and they backed off.
Finally, they dressed her in a red silk shift that skimmed her body, leaving her arms and legs bare, then left her alone.
Freya stood in the center of the room, gnawing on her lip. The day had taken a strange turn. She’d expected torture and would have preferred it to this. Did they think she would continue where she had left off? That she would meekly kneel down and suck their stinking cocks?
They would soon learn different.
The door opened, but she didn’t turn around as soft footfalls sounded on the carpeted floor.
Chapter Two
Living with her daughter, Freya had become attuned to the feel of magic, and now she sensed its presence. Strong magic with a flavor of Shayla in the pulsating power.
The man stepped around her and came to a halt a foot away, and she started in shock. She’d thought she had no memory of him, but she recognized him instantly—the warlock who had helped her escape all those years ago.
Was he here for his reward? If so, he was going to be disappointed.
Tall with a lean powerful body beneath black pants and a black shirt, he appeared to be in his prime, but there was an air of age about him as though he’d lived for many years. She’d learned much in her time away: the people talked of the Order and what had happened to bring about the Laws of Segregation, but it was so long ago and hard to tell the truth from mere legends. She did know that some of the more powerful warlocks were old. It had even been rumored some had lived over a thousand years, had been there when the witch Casterix nearly destroyed the world, and the Order had saved Arroway from certain destruction.
As she forced herself to look into his face, her whole body went still. His eyes were green, with a slight exotic tilt. Her daughter’s eyes.
Freya took an instinctive step back, and her hand flew to her chest to press against her pounding heart.
She didn’t remember him; the faces of the men she had knelt before in her time as a pleasure slave were blurred together in her mind.
She’d barely noticed them. Just as she didn’t remember the warlock who had impregnated her with Shayla. The room had been dark, and she had kept her mind blank through the ordeal.
It hadn’t been painful, at least not physically. The warlock had been gentle. But still her whole being had rejected what was done to her.By this man.
She knew it with a certainty. This was Shayla’s father.
Was that why he had helped her escape all those years ago? Did he believe there was some sort of bond between them? If so, he was out of his mind.
“Kneel.”
The softly spoken word pulled her from her thoughts, and she almost knelt in automatic response to the command she’d heard so many times. This place was playing with her senses, sapping her free will, and she had to force herself to hold her ground, concentrate. She shook her head an
d took a step back.
His eyes narrowed.
Freya breathed deeply and focused her mind and her body on the fight to come. She couldn’t win; she was smaller and unarmed, while he wore a long silver dagger strapped to his thigh. But she’d had over twenty years of freedom—a freedom she had never even suspected existed—and she would rather die by his knife than go back to the old servitude.
Besides, she suspected this must be a way of putting her in her place, making her remember who she was. They would break her if they could and then use her to get to Shayla—if she was dead, they could never do that.
She had a moment of regret that she wouldn’t see Shayla again.
She pushed it aside—her daughter was strong, beautiful, and free.
Freya had given her that, and it must be enough.
Without thinking further, she whirled around and kicked out at his lower legs. He stumbled, and she kicked again, aiming for his chest. With her bare feet, she couldn’t do much harm, but maybe she could knock him down, snatch his dagger...
Instead, he moved faster than she could follow, his fingers wrapping around her ankle, and he yanked her toward him and off balance.
She smashed into him, and they both crashed to the floor. The warlock landed on top of her, and the breath left her lungs in a whoosh.
She sprawled, dazed beneath the long, hard body. He swore softly and then shifted on her so he lay against the cradle of her hips. At the feel of his hardening shaft pushing at her belly, she fought again.
His strength was almost inhuman, but she managed to get her hands between them and shoved at him with all her might. It wasn’t enough, and he didn’t budge, just pressed her further into the soft carpet.
“Stop it,” he ground out, his voice low. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She twisted and turned, and he grabbed her shoulders in his big hands, leaned in close, and whispered against her ear, “Behave. We may be being watched.”
His words filtered through her brain, and she went still beneath him. Her gaze flickered around the room almost as though she expected someone watching them, but they were alone. And why would he care if they were being watched? She forced her body to lie still as his warm breath feathered across her throat.
“Your daughter is in danger. I can help you save her.”
“Our daughter.” The words left her lips before she thought to stop them.
He leaned away from her, and shock flared across his face. “You knew?”
“No, but she has your eyes.”
An expression of wonder flashed across his features but was quickly blanked out. He kept his voice low. “We need to talk, but it must look as if you are cooperating.” She shook her head; she had no intention of cooperating. “Shayla is safe. She got away.”
“The Enforcer has gone after her. She’ll be dead within the day.” Dread held her still for a moment. Her mind worked furiously.
Could the Enforcer find Shayla? He had a reputation for being ruth-less and always catching his prey, and she couldn’t risk ignoring this warning. She looked into those green eyes so like Shayla’s and gave a brief nod.
The warlock’s grip loosened, tentative at first as though suspicious of her compliance. Rising to his feet, he backed away and stood facing her, his legs braced.
“Kneel.”
She scrambled to her feet then dropped to her knees in front of him. She had sworn she would never do this again, but for Shayla she would do anything. And it hardly hurt—not physically anyway.
In front of her, the long line of his erection pressed against the dark material of his pants, and she reached out a hand and touched him.He jerked back. “No,” he muttered, his tone harsh. “There’s no need, just listen.”
She glanced up the line of his body. “If they are watching...” She reached for him again, and this time he didn’t move away.
This part meant nothing to her—it never had—it was the act of kneeling she hated so much. The sign of subservience to the Order that made her whole being scream in denial. She flicked open the fastening of his pants, and his shaft sprang free. He was already huge and hard, and she knew from remembered experience that he would be done in minutes.
“So talk,” she said and leaned forward. The musky, almost-forgotten smell filled her nostrils as she took him in her mouth.
His head went back, and a low groan escaped his throat. His shaft pulsed against her lips.
For the first time, she recognized the power that this act could have over a man. Always before she had blanked her mind to what she was doing, performing her task as she would have performed any chore. Now she studied his reactions, how he shuddered beneath the stroke of her tongue. The tensing of his muscles as she suckled the swollen head. He tasted salty but clean. She sucked harder, his hand came up to cup the back of her head, and she paused. It was not per-mitted for the warlocks to touch the pleasure slaves, but he threaded his fingers through her long hair and urged her on.
Jarrod’s whole body hovered on the edge of violent explosion. It had been so long. More than twenty years. The pleasure tugged at his balls, rippling up his spine. He tried to make his brain function, but he was unable to think beyond the promise of relief.
He couldn’t believe this was happening. He would never have forced her, and he had seen loathing flash in her eyes when he had ordered her to kneel.
The depth of her hatred had shocked him. He didn’t know why.
Glancing down at her, a shudder ran through his body—her soft pink mouth wrapped around his engorged cock was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Sensations flooded him, heating his blood, and he let the desire build, reveling in the slide of her hot, wet mouth, the stroke of her velvet soft tongue.
Her mouth worked on the tip, sucking hard. One slender hand gripped his shaft, while the other cupped his balls. She squeezed, and he exploded, pumping into her mouth, unable to pull away, his eyes shut tight.
Finally, he was empty, and the last tremors shivered through his body. Her lips left him, and she made to back away, but his hand was still burrowed in the soft silkiness of her hair. He didn’t want to release her; he wanted to lie down, drag her into his arms, and sleep with her beside him. To forget the guilt, the loss, and be at peace for a brief time. Reluctantly, he released her.
Forcing his heavy lids open, he found her peering up at him, her dark blue eyes filled with contempt. She sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Talk,” she said.
He shook his head, trying to clear the remnants of desire from his fogged mind, then tucked himself back in and fastened his pants to give himself a moment to gather his thoughts.
Jarrod wasn’t sure whether they were being watched. It was quite possible, but he was almost certain they couldn’t be overheard. “Tallon—the Enforcer—left almost immediately after dropping you off.
He believes he knows where your daughter is headed.” A frown flickered across her face. “How?” He shrugged. “Tallon has a network of spies. He’s heard that she’s heading this way. If he says he’ll find her, then he’ll find her.”
“Will she be brought back here?”
The fear was clear in her voice. Jarrod didn’t want to hurt her, but he had to be harsh if he was going to gain her cooperation. “He has orders to kill her.”
She bit down on her lower lip, and her hands clenched at her sides. “Why?”
“Though shalt not suffer a witch to live.” He quoted the first Law of Segregation and watched for a reaction.
For a brief moment, anger flashed in her dark eyes. Then she gritted her teeth, no doubt to prevent the furious reply spilling from her lips. Good, she was ready to be sensible. Anger would not help them here. He needed her to keep a calm head if they were to escape the Keep and find their daughter before Tallon reached her.
“Will you help me?” she asked.
The tension drained from his muscles. He’d succeeded; she was willing to work with him. He kept his elation from showing and nodd
ed.“How?”
“Our only hope is to reach her before Tallon. We need to get away and quickly. They will take you back to the dungeon—I will come for you when I have made the arrangements.” She pushed herself gracefully to her feet. The long lines of her body were visible through the diaphanous shift, which was all she wore. His gaze lingered on her full breasts, almost too heavy for her slender frame, the pale pink nipples jutting against the thin silk. Her belly was flat with the dark golden curls at the base and shadows between her slim thighs. He remembered how it had felt to lie between them, to embed himself deeply in her warm, wet tightness, to pump his seed into her body and make a new life. His cock stirred at the memory, and he shifted to ease the pressure.
Freya watched him through knowing eyes, standing tall and proud. There was no subservience left in her; she was strong like the witches of old, even without her magic.
He had lived long enough to remember the witches from before the Laws of Segregation. They had been magnificent creatures. As a young man, he’d been filled with awe just to be in their presence, to feel the pulse of their magic as though it were a living thing, a part of the land itself. That was before the Order had decreed the only way to keep Arroway safe from the destructive moon magic was to take it from the witches at birth, reducing them to mere shells—empty of all that they could be, slaves to the Order. Malachi said they were content to serve.
The warlocks of the Order all took a vow of celibacy, as any child they fathered had the potential to be a witch or a warlock, and they couldn’t take the risk of producing more witches who would drain the world of its last power. The only sexual release allowed to them was in the mouths of the pleasure slaves.
Jarrod hadn’t spent much time around the Keep, barely noticing the pleasure slaves on his brief visits for information. Until one time he had caught sight of a particular slave, and his whole existence had changed in an instant.