by Nina Croft
“Perhaps it can be that way again,” he said.
Freya didn’t answer. These last few days had shown to her clearly what the Order had done by stealing their magic. For the first time she felt complete, the empty place inside her filled. She wanted that for all her sisters; she wanted Arroway to bloom again. But freeing the Goddess seemed harder than ever. She had to find three witches with the mark. Shayla was the only one she knew, and she was gone.
Freya had no clue what their next move should be. But they desperately needed more information, and the only source she could think of was the man who’d first told her of the clearing where Shayla had disappeared. They were heading to his village now, and she hoped he’d be able and willing to tell them more.
There was no sign of pursuit, and some of the urgency had gone.
They traveled slowly, but for long hours, so at night they both slept deeply. She no longer worried that Shayla was dead. She sensed her presence in that new place where the magic now lived, growing stronger each hour. And as the magic strengthened, so did the desire, warming the coldness she had lived with all her life.
She peeked at Jarrod again. She could feel his tension, but he hadn’t attempted to touch her again or insisted on any intimacy between them, and she was glad. Really.
He must have sensed her watching him, because he laid a hand on Starfire’s glossy neck so the horse halted.
“We’re almost there. We may as well stop here for a while and enter the village tonight under cover of darkness.” She nodded and slid down from the horse. They’d seen no sign of the Order, but they must be out there somewhere, hunting them. Jarrod made to turn away, then cast her a sharp glance, a frown forming on his face. He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on hers. Reaching out, he lightly touched her right cheekbone. His eyes widened. “Witch.”
“What is it?” she asked, fighting the urge to sway toward him.
Instead of answering, he stepped back and drew the dagger from the sheath at his thigh. He polished the blade on his cloak and held it in front of her face so she could see her reflection in the gleaming silver metal.
She gasped. A perfect sickle moon marred the smooth skin of her cheek. She touched her finger to her face, stroking the mark. A tingle of magic ran through her and wonder replaced her initial shock.
“So now there are two,” Jarrod murmured.
“Two?”
“Witches with the mark. You and Shayla. You only need a third, and you can fulfill the Goddess’s prophecy.” He was right. Her worry lifted a little. But they still had no idea where Shayla had gone. “If we find Shayla.”
“We’ll find her.”
He unsaddled Starlight and let the horse free to graze. “We may as well rest. We need to be alert tonight in case things go bad.”
“You think The Order is still after us?” She’d hoped they had given up, gone back to the Keep. After all how important was she?
The Order knew nothing of the new mark—they thought her a mere pleasure slave.
“I don’t think Malachi can afford to let us go free. We know too much.”
The afternoon was warm. Freya took off the cloak, spread it on the ground, and sat, her back resting against a fallen tree trunk.
Jarrod sank down close beside her, but too far away to touch, and she resisted the urge to shift closer. He called to something deep inside her, and as the magic grew, so did the need to have him near. To touch him. Feel his body on her. In her. She shook her head to dispel the images. “Why does he care? I’m just a pleasure slave.”
“A pleasure slave who has seen the Goddess. Who knows Malachi has her imprisoned in the tower.”
“She must have been there for a thousand years.” It seemed inconceivable. The Order was powerful but surely not enough to imprison the Goddess. “How has he done it?”
“I’ve been thinking. When Casterix nearly destroyed the world, the Goddess reversed the spell, but she was weakened. Malachi must have placed her in the tower then, probably to keep her safe.”
“But she would have awoken.”
“Maybe by that point, Malachi didn’t want her awake. He must have known the Goddess would never condone the Laws of Segregation and what was done to the witches of Arroway.”
“But how did he manage it?”
“I think he must have used the magic taken from the witches at birth to power the spell. It was moon magic I felt in that room.” Freya remembered back to the feel of the air in that high tower.
The pulse of magic—so familiar. “Bastard.”
“I’m sure at first, he did it for the land.” He winced at the scorn in her face and continued. “He wasn’t always evil. And I was there. Casterix would have destroyed Arroway.”
Shock jerked her upright. “You were there?” She hadn’t known anyone survived from those long ago days except for Malachi.
He sent her a strange glance. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Casterix was my sister. My twin sister.” Jarrod saw the shock blossom across her features. “You didn’t know?” She shook her head.
He found it inconceivable. He’d worn his guilt over Casterix for so long he thought it was plain for all to see.
“The Laws of Segregation forbade us from even mentioning her name,” Freya said. “It was whispered, but never more than that, and anyone who knew the truth was long dead.” The ordinary people of Arroway had a lifespan of around a centu-ry. Witches and warlocks could live much longer depending on their powers. Casterix had been the most powerful witch in living memory.
If she had survived, she might still be alive today. Jarrod was. He’d matched her in power, though the magic of warlocks was different from that of witches; it required ritual and focus. A warlock was powerless without his staff. Unlike the moon magic which was wild and free and powerful enough to destroy the world. As they had discovered with Casterix.
His sister was responsible for what had happened to the witches, for the Laws of Segregation that resulted in them being nothing more than slaves to the Order, their magic taken from them. “You must have hated her,” he said.
“No. We didn’t know enough. Will you tell me what happened?” He hated to speak of it, but she deserved that much. He settled back against the trunk and thought about where to begin. “Back before the Laws of Segregation, witches and warlocks were natural mates.” He almost smiled at the expression of disbelief that flashed across her expressive eyes. “And the witches did the choosing. Cass had fallen for a young warlock called Callum, very powerful but always at odds with the Order. The Order wanted her to mate with Malachi—which was sheer madness—it was never going to happen. Cass always hated him, ever since we were children. Anyway, when she defied them, they had Callum murdered.”
The old familiar guilt washed through him. He should have stopped it. But the Order had kept the information from him—they must have known he wouldn’t have tolerated Callum’s murder, and though still young, even then he’d been a match for any warlock within the Order.
“Cass was wild with grief and fury. I believe she lost her sanity for a while, swore she would kill them all, and nearly succeeded. She tried to bring him back from death, and spoke the Word of Power that would have destroyed the whole world. Only the combined forces of The Order and the Goddess could reverse the effects.”
“What happened to your sister?”
“She vanished.” He might have been able to find her if he’d gone looking straight away, but he’d been in no position. At that point, he’d been imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the Keep, insane with rage and grief. He’d always had an empathic bond with his twin, and he’d lived through her despair.
He’d remained in that dungeon for nearly five hundred years. He was sure they considered his death on more than one occasion, but something held them back. By the time he was released, Malachi was head of the Order. Maybe it was the memory of their friendship, or the fact that the Order wanted more warlocks of his line. He didn’t
know why they had released him, but he knew they no longer trusted him.
“As soon as I was able, I went hunting for her. I knew deep down that Casterix wasn’t dead. I would have sensed her loss. I wandered the world searching for any sign, any talk that would hint she had been there. I found nothing, and occasionally I would come back to see if the Order had any news. I never stayed long—I couldn’t bear what they had become.”
“You didn’t try and change things?”
He could hear the censure in her voice. “I blamed myself. I should have stopped them killing Callum, and then I should have prevented Casterix from her revenge. Because I didn’t, the world nearly ended and my sister was lost. I didn’t think I had the right to change anything, to have any say in how the Order was run. Besides, I kept to myself and didn’t see what was going on, how bad things had become. I’d come, find they had heard nothing, and be gone again. Until one day—” He broke off as he realized what he’d been about to say.
“One day?”
One day, he’d ridden into the keep, meaning to have a meeting with Malachi and be out of there by nightfall. Instead, he had seen one of the pleasure slaves. His world had tilted on its axis, and everything had changed. But he wasn’t sure she was ready to hear that.
Freya had been eighteen at the time, so beautiful his heart had ached just gazing upon her. She hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t noticed much, and for the first time he really studied the pleasure slaves.
Red-hot rage had engulfed him as he realized what had been done to them. He’d almost stormed in to see Malachi, but held himself back. Once Jarrod had been the stronger; now he was no longer sure he could take on Malachi and survive. Instead, he’d gone to Malachi and told him he wanted the slave. Malachi had seemed amused, but had made him a deal. He could have Freya for his exclusive use, but he must impregnate her for the Order’s breeding program. So he’d promised and planned.
And she had run out on him.
He turned to look at her now and pain welled in his heart. She was changing, coming alive before his eyes. But would she hate him or love him once the transition was complete? In the end, would she choose him?
“Enough stories,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
~*~
They left the horse tethered in the forest and made their way on foot. The village was a prosperous one, but strangely silent, even for nighttime. Freya led him through the empty streets, keeping to the outskirts, and finally knocked at the back door of one of the bigger houses. No one answered and there was no sign of light through the windows.
She turned to him and shrugged. “Maybe there’s a village meeting. Come, we’ll go look.”
“Wait a moment.” He leaned toward her and pulled up the hood of her cloak, hiding her cheek with the incriminating witch’s mark.
A prickle of awareness ran down his spine. He had a bad feeling about this, and as they neared the center of the village, his sense of unease grew. He wanted to pull Freya back and get out of there, but she was hurrying ahead.
Flickering torches lit up the village square. The space was crammed with people; the whole village must be there. Freya had come to a halt in the shadows surrounding the meeting place. Jarrod came up beside her and rested a hand on her arm, determined to stop her if she made to move forward.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
The words were shouted, rising above the noise of the crowd, and for a moment, he thought Freya had been spotted. Then he realized a man was standing on a podium at the front of the square. Jarrod recognized him as a young warlock from the Order. They must be sending emissaries out to all the surrounding villages.
A low murmur of voices filled the air.
“We need to get out of here,” Jarrod whispered.
“No. We need to speak to Darren. Just don’t act suspicious.” She pulled the cloak tighter around her and stepped away from the shelter of the buildings. Jarrod swore under his breath; he had no choice but to follow her. She weaved her way through the mass of people coming to a halt beside a tall, lean man with a shock of dark red hair.
Jarrod’s whole body stiffened as she placed a hand on the man’s arm, and he had to stifle the urge to tear her away from him.
Mine.
The word reverberated through his mind, and he gritted his teeth to prevent himself from shouting it out loud.
The man’s eyes widened as he recognized Freya. He didn’t speak, but nodded and then turned and pushed his way through the crowd.
Freya followed with Jarrod dogging her heels.
They stopped in an alley, between two low-rise buildings, where they could still see the meeting, but far enough distant so their words wouldn’t be overheard.
“Freya.” The man reached for her and pulled her into his arms, and Jarrod couldn’t prevent the low growl trickling from his throat.
The man didn’t release her, but at least he put Freya from him, held her at arm’s length, and studied her. Lifting back the corner of her cloak, he revealed the witch’s mark.
“By the Goddess,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t be here. It won’t take much for this to turn into a mob.” Freya ignored the comment. “Darren, we need information.”
“We?” He nodded at Jarrod. “You’re working with the warlocks now.”
“He’s Shayla’s father.”
Darren glanced at him sharply. “Aye—I see it—she has his eyes.
That doesn’t mean you can trust him.”
“He helped me escape the Keep. We need to find Shayla. She disappeared two nights ago, from the clearing where you sent us. Please, Darren—if you know any more, tell us.”
He considered them for a minute, his gaze flicking from Freya to him. Finally, he lifted one shoulder. “I’ll tell you what else I know, which isn’t much. My family has been keepers of the secret for generations ever since the Laws of Segregation were first introduced.
In those first years, the Order hunted down the witches; some were killed, some were taken prisoner. But there were others who escaped.”
“Escaped where?” Freya asked.
“We don’t know. But it’s said that there are areas where the walls between worlds are thin and it’s possible to pass through.”
“The clearing where you sent us?”
He nodded.
“Is there any way we can follow, or bring Shayla back?”
“I’m not sure.”
Jarrod was watching the crowd. Several people had turned to look at their small group and were whispering among themselves.
He wished he had his staff, but he’d left it out in the woods; he would have been too conspicuous carrying it here.
“Freya, we have to go.”
She glanced at him and then at the crowd. She must have sensed their unease, because she nodded. At the same time, a small group broke off from the main crowd and headed toward them.
“Go!” Darren said.
Jarrod took Freya’s arm and hurried her down the alley between two buildings.
“Burn the witch.”
The cry rang out behind them as they fled through the narrow streets and out into the open country. Freya had heard the words before, though in the past they’d been aimed at Shayla. She gritted her teeth against the fury that rose up inside her at their blind stupidity and ignorance.
The breath was burning in her lungs by the time they reached Starfire, but the mob was still a good distance behind. Jarrod hurled himself onto the horse’s back and pulled Freya up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist as the horse leapt forward.
She peered over her shoulder; in the distance, the flickering of torches lit up the night sky, illuminating their pursuers. She felt no fear, only rage at the senseless hatred the Order had brought to their world.
Jarrod glanced behind him, then holding the reins in one hand, he drew his staff and raised it high. He called out a spell to the night sky, and a curtain of purple smoke materialized behind them, obscuring them from view.
Finally, they slowed to a jolting trot.
“We’ve left them far behind,” Jarrod murmured.
Freya raised her head, but kept her arms tight around his waist.
She knew she should release her hold, push herself away, but she didn’t want to let him go. At the thought of being parted from Jarrod, a pain sliced through her, and she pressed herself closer.
Her fingers gripped the material of his cloak. She loosened them and slid her hand inside the coarse material to touch his skin. Her palms glided over the satin smoothness, then into the silky hair that bisected his lean belly. He tensed beneath her touch, his muscles lock-ing rigid. Her hand drifted upward to where his heart pounded, keeping time with her own.
Jarrod pulled Starfire to a standstill and dismounted. For a moment, he stood looking up at her, searching her face. What he found there darkened his eyes. His nostrils flared, and reaching up, he dragged her down from the horse, whirled her in his arms, and his mouth came down on hers.
Her first kiss.
She opened beneath him, and his tongue thrust into her mouth, filling her with the taste of him. She clutched his shoulders as the world spun.
Without breaking the contact, he backed her up so the rough bark of the tree. His hands moved lower to rip the shirt open and cup her bare breasts; his fingers ran over the stiffening peaks. Flames flared to life in her belly, and deep inside her the magic awoke. She had no thought to deny him. This was what she wanted. What she needed.