“You… You are an impundulu.”
Most witches, priestesses, and shamans would give their right arm to encounter such a creature. Legend was that an impundulu was born with the desire to serve a magic user, and that they thrived under the guidance of someone whose magic would invigorate them in exchange for services similar to those supplied by an exceptionally powerful familiar. An impundulu could give a magic user access to its weather abilities, could hold energy for their bonded to use later, extending the amount of magic they could work in a given time frame. They were valuable and supposedly very loyal companions.
Using the sensitivity that came with being a conduit for the loa, she peered past flesh and plume, deep inside the creature, where its soul glowed like a steady flame. The impundulu’s heartbeat echoed in her ears as though it was her own, the void gnawing inside it bottomless and black. Like a glass with no bourbon, a pitcher with no water, a lamp with no oil. Empty.
Her magic rose, flowing toward the impundulu, responding to that emptiness like a river rushing to meet a barren desert. Her energy surging to fill that empty space, nourish it with life the same way it infused a gris-gris.
Black plumes dusted the air, and beak struck flesh. Pain stabbed her arm. In the mere second it took her to jerk it behind her back and pinch her lip between her teeth, the bird had withdrawn its beak, the tip wet with her blood. Impending tears pooled behind her eyes, but she refused it little more than a glare as she clutched her wound.
Feathers puffed, fanning up around its neck and skull like a ruffled mane. Just when she thought they’d stand there locked in stalemate of hateful looks for an eternity, its body melted away, plumes shedding from muscles and skin wavering in and out of reality until Julien emerged from the change.
The bird’s black eyes remained. His once warm brown eyes darkened into slick black orbs flecked with molten shards of liquid mercury. His shoulders were tight, every tendon of muscle and sinew stressed and vibrating with barely restrained violence. His hands clenched and unclenched, his voice hoarse, words clipped like his true form was still very close to the surface.
“Keep your magic to yourself, witch.”
“Witch?” Dominique pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to spit on him in answer to his insult. “I am no witch. Hold a civil tongue or I will remind you exactly who I am.”
He barked out a laugh and swayed on his feet, the only outward sign of what shifting twice that quickly had cost him. “I know what you are. And now that you know what I am, it seems that it is you who should hold a civil tongue.”
She curled her lip in a mockery of a smile. Two could play at that game. “Yes, I know what you are now. A servant in search of a mistress. No wonder you’re so desperate for a marriage instead of a simple business partnership. Your needs go so much deeper.”
She never saw him move.
One moment she was glaring into black eyes speckled with silver, and the next thing she registered was the ceiling and a wisp of material that looked like her headscarf. Floor. Impact. Air punched from her lungs, pain arcing from her wounds in jagged lines until it felt like flames were licking from her nape to hips. She arched involuntarily only to be pinned back to the wood by his weight.
Blistering awareness of the naked muscle cradled between her thighs scorched, and she regained her bearings enough to swat his shoulder—he caught her wrists and trapped them above her head, his hold anything but gentle. Fresh tendrils of discomfort prickled her forearms, and his grip worsened. “I serve no one. I will never serve anyone and if you ever try to enslave me again, I will—”
“Enslave?” Dominique wrestled against his hold. Her headscarf dislodged completely, spilling her hair to the floor in a mess of curls. She blew on a curl that tried to cover her eye, and shook her head in frustration as another curl fell to join it. “I would never enslave anyone.”
Julien’s mouth twisted into a vicious sneer that transformed him into a stranger. There was nothing of her pirate in those starry sky eyes, and that hard slash for a mouth.
“Save your claims of innocence for someone who didn’t feel the evidence of your true intentions. I felt you trying to infuse me with your magic, trying to bind me to your will.” He leaned closer, his breath hot against her face, his fury a tangible heat between them. “Know this, witch. I will not bend my knee to anyone. Enslave me, and I will kill you.”
Dominique twisted on the floor, but didn’t manage to do more than rock him to the side. “I am sick of your blatant disrespect. If you don’t know the difference between a witch and a priestess, then—”
A sudden thought struck her with the force of one of the impundulu’s summoned bolts of lightning. She was hurled back in time, plunged into a warm bed, next to an even warmer body. Pleasure coursed through her with head-spinning intensity, crashing over her with the weight of a tidal wave. That moment of connection, it had been more than two bodies lying together. A part of her that reached out, touched a part of him that called to her, was waiting for her to…
She blinked to clear her vision. “That’s why you left me.”
The sneer melted from his face, but lines remained around his eyes, the corners of his mouth. “What?”
The fight leeched from Dominique’s muscles, leaving her limp beneath him, no longer straining against his hold. Things were falling into place, like jagged pieces of a horrible puzzle. “You felt it too. The bond that started forming between us.”
The lines around his eyes deepened as he scowled at her. “I felt what you tried to—”
“I didn’t know what you were, I thought that feeling was…” She pursed her lips, holding back the rest of that humiliating thought. “But you knew what it was.”
He stiffened like he’d just realized exactly what she was talking about. She’d spent years working to forget him, and never could because there was always a tiny part of her that wondered whether she simply hadn’t been enough for him. Whether she’d been lacking in some way, and the night they’d spent together, the things she’d felt were just a young girl over exaggerating feelings produced by the heady combination of liquor and pillow talk.
And now, she knew the truth. He hadn’t run from her, he’d run from them. Run from the connection he’d felt as well as she.
“I serve no one. I will never serve anyone. Enslave me, and I will kill you.”
She lolled her head to the side. “Your kind is rumored to want that bond, but you called it enslavement.”
“It is the only word for it.” His voice was still harsh, but his grip loosened and melted from her wrists to her biceps as he seated the bulk of his weight on his elbows and forearms.
His body heat cocooned and caressed her skin, the sensation unbearable in the midst of the chilling realization crystallizing in her mind. She held still despite the discomfort, not wanting to give him a reason to tighten his hold again. “All this time, I thought you didn’t feel the same connection I felt, but you did. You just didn’t… You thought it was… You thought I was trying to…”
None of the words fighting to make it out of her mouth sounded right, none of them were enough. No words could be enough. The angry creases evaporated from his face, his gaze wandering over her in slow study. She ignored his scrutiny, trying to focus on the aching remnants of her abused wounds in an effort to keep her head in the flood of swelling emotions.
All this time…
In one smooth, fluid motion, Julien released and rolled off of her into a seated position. She doubled up slowly, hands limp in her lap. They sat like that for a few long minutes, neither of them saying a word.
Her eyes wandered around her home, taking in the table heavy with a rainbow of bottles and jars of prepared powders, ointments, and potions. The mantle over the fireplace lined with holy objects, statues, and ritualistic instruments. The bookcase stuffed with journals and texts, items she’d been gifted with, and all the odds and ends she used in her faith. Everything in her home was a reflection of that faith, a s
ign of her dedication. Nothing personal. Nothing that was just hers, Dominique’s, not the voodoo queen’s.
How much of that was because of Julien? How much of her dedication was a result of that need to prove she had value, prove she wasn’t just some foolish child who had mistaken lust for love. A silly girl who’d imagined some mystical connection when it had been nothing but physical release—the likes of which could be had from Narcisse for a handful of gold.
“You were a powerful woman even then.”
Julien’s voice was quiet, contemplative. She wrapped her arms around herself, eyes roving around her home in search of some sign that part of her personality had survived her initiation into voodoo royalty.
“Powerful, and so very beautiful.”
Julien folded his legs. Her gaze flickered over him in time to glimpse his body’s response to the memory of that night. It wasn’t flattering. Not when she knew what else he’d thought of her. What had seemed to matter more than her supposed beauty.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Julien’s gaze danced around their surroundings, as though facing her were difficult. “You can’t tell me you don’t. And you felt it back then, at least part of you did.”
“You mean that empty place inside of you.” She lowered her gaze to his chest. “It looks like a pool of swirling shadows. It must be so painful.”
“I felt you try to bond with me that night. I felt your power flowing into me. I was surprised I got away, that I was able to leave you and break that connection. I should have realized then there had been no will behind the bond. If you’d truly meant to bond with me, killing you would have been my only option for breaking that link.”
His voice was no longer accusatory. He said it so simply, as though he were talking magical theory instead of musing on her death. Every word chaffed, like sandpaper against raw skin.
“And you would have killed me. Had that been necessary.”
Julien closed his hand, staring at his fist. “Yes.”
She nodded, the pain along her spine spreading into a dull throb over her entire back. “All this time, I thought you didn’t feel anything for me. But you do. You feel it, and that’s why you’ll never stay.”
His shoulders tensed. “Dominique—”
“If you fear a bond between us so much, than why do you want to marry me? Why would you risk being so close to me, staying near me when you know that both your instinct and mine threaten to do the very thing that scares you more than anything else?”
“I…” His brow furrowed. “I told you. Your curse ruined my business, made me an easy target to any law enforcement in any port from here to Dacia. I want you to repair the damage you did.”
He sounded like he was reciting facts he was no longer certain of. Or perhaps realizing how thin his reasons were.
Stop it. It doesn’t matter what his reasons are, what he feels. He will never stay. Never, never stay. “I have a proposition for you.”
Julien leaned back like he was trying to suppress the urge to scoot away from her. “What is it?”
“I will marry you. I will remove the curse and do what I can to dissuade those who pursue you. I will be the counterpart you need to enter this new kingdom. But once we are there, once you have the invitation you want so badly…you will let me finish the binding I started today.”
His entire body went still, the pulse fluttering in his throat the only proof that he was still alive at all. “The binding that—”
“The binding that will keep you away from me. Forever.”
Chapter Eleven
“Forever?”
The word dragged itself from his mouth, roughened by his dry throat. It echoed in his head, growing louder instead of fading away. He pressed the pads of his fingers against the floor as if bracing himself against the wooden planks would keep the world from tilting beneath him.
“Forever.”
Unlike his rasp of a single word, Dominique’s voice was even, if a little quiet. She wasn’t meeting his eyes and he had a sudden, fierce need for her to look at him, to look into her eyes and find hope that contradicted her offer. Some sign that it had been as painful for her to say as it had been for him to hear.
He ducked to catch her gaze, but she kept her eyes trained on the fire roaring beneath the mantle. He raised a hand to touch her shoulder, force her to face him. , but halted in mid-reach and recoiled. If she noticed, she didn’t show it. Without raising her eyes, she stood and returned to the table still laden with everything she’d pulled from her cupboard. She laid her fingers on one of the jars.
“Stop.” Julien shot to his feet. “Don’t do it. Step away from the table.”
Sighing heavily, Dominique dropped her hand to her side, her gaze still weighted on the nearest jar. “I’m not going to do anything right now. No magic, no spells. I’m simply preparing for the rituals I’ll be conducting tonight. It is still the Midsummer Celebration.”
“You can think of the Midsummer Celebration? Now?”
She offered him a half-shrug and gathered her scarf to begin the intricate process of corralling her curls. A small, sad smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “I am trying.”
Her bountiful spirals vanished behind the endless red scarf, and his fingers closed into fists in an effort to keep from ripping the scrap of fabric into shreds. “A witch’s job is never done, eh, chere?”
His pulse thudded, a steady, maddening beat in his ears. He waited for her to whirl around, waited to see the stubborn way she stuck out her little chin when there was fury burning bright in her eyes. He waited for the indignation, the scorn—something.
“I suppose not.” She bent to remove a small crate from beneath the table. The inside of the crate was set with thin sheets of wood that sectioned it off into individual compartments for different sized bottles and jars. One by one, she nestled the table’s burden into the crate, examining each one before tucking it away.
The air in the room chilled despite the warmth and glow of the fire.
“So you’ll marry me and stay married to me as long as it takes to get the invitation to the new kingdom?” The words tasted sour on his tongue and he wished with every fiber of his being for a pint of rum to rinse them away. Surely Dominique must have some bourbon here somewhere?
“Yes.”
His mouth grew dry. “It could take a long time, chere. It wouldn’t do for our marriage to be seen as a sham, we would need to stay married long enough for people to believe it. And who knows how long it will take for—”
“I will remain your wife as long as it takes to satisfy your demands.”
“All my demands?”
The teasing innuendo shriveled up and died as quickly as his attempt to anger her. She didn’t even pause in her packing.
“I have many duties to perform, so it won’t be difficult to explain why we spend a great deal of time apart. And of course you’ll be at sea for long periods of time. The occasions when we will have to pretend to be a happy, loving couple will be few and far between, I think. Nothing we can’t manage.”
The jostle of the lid against the crate grated on Julien’s nerves. Out of habit, he dropped his hand to touch the hilt of his sword. His hand brushed the bare skin of his hip, reminding him he was naked—and unarmed. Grateful for the distraction, he gathered his clothes.
“I’m glad you came to your senses.” He slipped into his shirt and tugged at the fabric to settle it properly over his shoulders. “Finally, we can be adults about this whole thing.”
“Mmmm.”
He looked up from his buttons as she disappeared behind a dressing screen. The framework acted as the stage, the beautiful, willow patterned panels the curtains. They were paper thin, the light beaming from the small cottage window over her bed hugging every curve of her silhouette until he could feel her fine curves beneath his fingertips. She unwrapped the bodice of her dress in a slow peel. His rational mind was aware she was trying not re-open her wounds, but if she let that material drift off her sho
ulders any slower he’d swear she was teasing him.
She folded an arm over her breasts, and he wallowed along the elegant line from her shoulder down her arm as she dropped bandages into the dark impression of a bowl.
Go over there, take her in your arms.
Rooted to the spot, he couldn’t summon the will to close the distance between them. It would be ungentlemanly, it would risk annoying her, make her withdraw her offer, and…and if he took her in his arms and she remained cold and unresponsive, he didn’t know what he’d do. He buttoned his trousers and started wrestling with his belt as if it were responsible for all his troubles. “Perhaps a drink to celebrate our alliance?”
If she noticed that his voice was too loud, with a semi-hysterical lilt to it, she didn’t comment. “There is a bottle of bourbon in the back of the pantry. Help yourself.”
He scooped up his jacket on the way to the pantry and the sanity-saving brew therein. “You’ll have a glass with me.”
“No thank you.”
Still with that awful flat voice, so unlike the fiery-tempered woman who’d been fighting with him since he’d set foot in her village. He draped his coat haphazardly over his shoulder as he upended the bottle, taking several deep pulls before lowering it to draw a breath.
Get a hold of yourself. This is what you wanted, everything you wanted—more than you wanted.
“A binding that will keep you away from me. Forever.”
Why did those words turn his stomach?
I just don’t like being told what and what not to do. It’s sheer stubbornness, that’s all.
The sentiment was half-hearted, but he clung to it, taking another pull from the bottle. Yes, that had to be it. After all, what was the alternative? That he’d wanted to stay married? That he’d wanted to spend his life with Dominique, be husband and wife in truth?
A vivid memory of his last wives’ heckling drove a spike through his thoughts.
Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) Page 11