by Kresley Cole
Both of her parents had found something they preferred over raising her. It wasn't as if she'd been a demanding daughter. Hell, if her father hadn't died he could've returned at any time and she would've forgiven the past. He could've shown up on her fifteenth birthday with some unwitting-absentee-dad gift like a tea set or a Barbie oven. Mari would've been so grateful she'd have held off getting her learner's permit to bake cakes with a lightbulb.
Yet he hadn't come back--he hadn't even called her. Not once. It was like he'd disappeared from the face of the earth. One day she had a father; the next day she hadn't.
But Jillian's desertion had hurt her the worst. If things had been bad between Mari and her, then her leaving wouldn't have been so devastating. But life with her had been wonderful.
She remembered her mother blindfolded and smiling on the beach, arms out, as she'd tried to catch Mari, who'd been squealing with laughter. "Where's my little witch?" she'd cooed, with her red hair shining like fire in the sun. When Mari had let Jillian catch her, she'd swung her up, and then they'd collapsed laughing onto the sand.
Elianna had explained that her parents were--or had been--Important People, and that they had--or had had--Important Things to Do. . . .
Acton, Mari's first love, had ditched her as well. For years, the young demon had been her boyfriend. He'd courted her when they'd been fourteen, taken her at sixteen, and then she'd taken him at every opportunity for the next three years.
She'd been happy with him until he'd thrown her over for a tall, willowy nymph with flowing golden locks. Well, not technically thrown her over. Because storm demons didn't have a single fated demoness, they often kept harems, and he'd still wanted a relationship with Mari as well as with the nymph. That was bad enough, but it was clear Mari would have been B team if she'd stayed in the game.
Of course she hadn't, but losing him had hurt so much and for so long. He was her first love and letting him go had nearly killed her.
Seemed Mari always was B team. Was that her fate?
She glared over at MacRieve. Ten-to-one odds said his fey princess was blond and tall.
And the Lykae wasn't merely choosing another woman over Mari--he preferred what he thought was another version of her.
As if reading her mind, MacRieve said, "Been thinkin' about the question you asked me last night."
"Oh, I have been, too," she said in a deliberate tone, her anger simmering. The werewolf had no idea he was sidling round a spring trap hungry for his paw.
"And what have you come up with, then?"
"No, no, you first." When he hesitated, she added, "I insist."
"I doona know that I'd answer it the same," he finally said. "The more I'm around you, the more I . . . the better you appear--even for a witch."
Suave, Lykae, melt my heart.
"Now you tell me."
She met his eyes. "I was thinking that if you don't come to a different conclusion, I'll be forced to protect myself."
He hesitated, clearly not presented with the answer he'd expected.
"It's a simple matter of self-preservation, MacRieve. If this reincarnation could possibly have taken place, then there's no way I'll allow you to go back and wipe me out. I'll destroy you first."
"Could you do it? You could no' kill me yesterday."
"You weren't intent on erasing me yesterday." She cast him a menacing smile, feeling very witchy. "Besides, I'd already killed my quota for the day."
26
I've always wondered what goes on behind coven doors," Cade said to Mari when he'd returned from recon several miles ahead.
"I really can't speak for all covens, but mine is pretty worthless. Lots of soap opera and internet addiction." She was supposed to lead them to greatness, but then, Mari liked her soaps, too. "Have you pictured a slew of hoary old women cackling over a cauldron?"
He raised his brows. "Yes."
"If someone busted out a cauldron, we'd chortle with laughter and make fun of them for being 'old skool' for months. And you rarely see hoary old women because most witches use glamours of some sort."
She noticed MacRieve seemed to be listening intently. Even Rydstrom and the archers appeared interested in this topic.
"Do you really chant spells and make blood sacrifices?" Cade asked.
"We chant spells when they're new, but they quickly become second nature. It's like you wouldn't say to yourself, 'I am walking to the kitchen, and there I will boil water for tea.' You would just do it. But if it was the first time you'd ever walked to a kitchen or had tea, you might talk yourself through it."
"And the blood sacrifices?" MacRieve prompted.
Mari gazed around at everyone. "Do you guys really want me to talk about witchery?"
Cade hastily said, "Yes," just as MacRieve grated, "Aye." MacRieve in particular seemed absorbed in everything she was explaining. Could he really feign interest like this?
"Well, some witches still do the blood thing. But in our coven, we look at it like this--giving up whatever is prized and personal is a sacrifice. In the old days that was a lamb or a chicken because giving up food would be a great sacrifice. But now . . . if I wanted to call upon Hekate's altar, I could give up my iPod and feel the sting."
"What were you awaited to do?" Tera asked.
"I have no idea," she replied. "No one does--there's nothing but speculation."
Cade said, "Maybe you were supposed to destroy that tomb."
MacRieve gave a humorless laugh. "Do you think that's all the witch has in her? You've no' been on the receiving end of her powers as I have."
Mari was startled--she'd been thinking the same thing. She hadn't wanted to hit the high point of her life at only twenty-three.
"What enemies do the witches have that you could vanquish?" Tierney asked, plucking at the meat of a cracked-open coconut. Exactly how far had he run toward the coast to reach a palm tree?
She answered, "There are some wizards who went rogue, a sorcerer who likes to murder pregnant witches--"
"If you're to be the greatest witch," MacRieve interrupted, "then you've been put here to fight the greatest evil. Fate does no' blow her bullets for nothing."
"That's not possible," she said. "No mortal or even immortal can defeat our greatest enemy."
"Why no'?"
"Because she's a goddess." Mari drank heartily of the processed water, then wiped her mouth on her shoulder. "Or she was. Her name is Haxa, the Queen of False Faces."
"What's her damage?" Tera asked.
"Again, do you really want to hear this?"
MacRieve's "Aye" just beat out Cade's "Yes."
"Okay, then," she said slowly. "In the beginning of the Wiccae, there were three goddess witches, sisters. Hela was all good, Haxa was all bad, and Hekate was both."
"But you said you worship Hekate, right?" Tierney said, between chews. "That means you worship a goddess who was part evil."
"She was a balance of good and evil. We believe it's all about balance. All good is bad. The universe can't handle all creation without destruction."
"All sunshine makes a desert," Cade offered, and when she smiled and said, "Exactly," MacRieve shot him a killing look.
"When Haxa kept growing stronger, Hekate and Hela bound her powers--made her an immortal instead of a goddess."
"Why didn't they just kill her?" MacRieve asked. Naturally, that would be his first instinct.
"They can't. All three are witches at heart, and it's impossible for one of our kind to kill a member of her own family. And others have failed to take her out because Haxa is still extremely powerful--she feeds on misery, seeding it in others, then harvesting it." It was even rumored that she kept living beings in her lair, frozen in eternal agony, feeding off their misery forever.
"What does she look like?" MacRieve quickly asked.
"She can assume the form of anything, or anyone, living or dead. No one knows her true face. She could be any one of us . . ."--Mari made her voice theatrically ominous-- "and we'd neve
r know it."
"How does she choose her victims?" MacRieve asked impatiently.
"There's no discernible pattern. She'll strike out against a despot as easily as an innocent farm girl."
MacRieve seemed to mull this answer for long moments, then he said, "Is it true you witches will no' heal others without payment?"
She should have known MacRieve would cut straight to the heart of why witches could never gain the respect of other Lorekind. She swallowed, then admitted, "Mostly, it's . . . true." As expected, everyone grew quiet. "But you have to understand why." MacRieve raised his brows as if he couldn't wait to hear this. "A thousand years ago, witches gave freely, over and over, but we were always ultimately persecuted for it. My ancestors concluded that our kind needed the protection and clout that money could buy. The bottom line is that witches who live in mansions and have the ear of kings don't get burned to death as often as those who live in toadstool hovels at the edge of the forest."
MacRieve's expression was inscrutable, and she couldn't get a sense of what the others were thinking either. Should she try to convince them of the witches' plight? To point out that no other faction in the Lore was as persecuted as they'd been?
The opportunity was lost when the brush grew thick again. Conversation became difficult, which left her free to experiment more with the mirror.
She opened the compact in her roomy pants pocket. Merely touching the glass seemed to give her focus. Mari had long learned all the spells expected of her but had never been able to utilize them. Could she now, with the help of a focusing tool?
As she slowly rubbed her thumb in circles on the glass, magick rose up in her hand, but now it felt centered, concentrated. The mirror did in fact conduct her powers, steering them, almost like a ground wire for electricity.
While she was enjoying this heady control, she decided to test a few minor spells on the werewolf--because it would be good practice, and by good practice she meant amusing for her.
She caused a root to hike up directly in front of his feet. When he tripped, she folded her lips in, biting back a laugh.
Magick . . . good.
For the next hour, whenever his boots came untied just in time for the laces to collect bullet ants, or limbs whacked him across the face, or he scarcely dodged bird and monkey droppings, he always regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion. She would casually glance over at him with a "Whaa . . . ?" expression.
But he hadn't said anything, and as for her, well, she could do this all day--
Out of the corner of her eye she spied movement. What looked like a vine suddenly uncoiled from the ground and came flying toward her. With a shriek, she attempted a pulse of energy to ward it off. But MacRieve had already snatched the snake; her magick caught him and sent him flying, his body crashing through the brush, felling the trees in his way.
After landing one hundred feet away and angrily tossing the snake, he shot to his feet, charging back to her, eyes ice blue with fury. "Goddamn it, witch, no' again!"
27
It was an accident!" the witch cried, and she might have been truthful, but Bowe was beyond caring.
"All morning you've toyed with me, have you no'?" He stalked closer to her, letting her see a good glimpse of the beast within.
Yet after swallowing loudly and retreating several steps, she seemed to force herself to stand her ground.
He was dumbfounded that she wasn't cowering. Battle hardened vampires recoiled in the face of a Lykae's werewolf form, but she'd planted her boots, and she hadn't budged.
She even raised her chin.
Cade had started hurrying down the embankment as if to protect her. The very idea made Bowe draw his lips back from his fangs. No doubt thinking his renewed fury was for her, she pulled magick into her hands.
Raising both of her glowing palms, she beckoned him with wiggling fingers. "Come on, then. I'll go another round. Though by now even an amoeba would've learned not to fuck with me."
Everyone grew still, silent. Then Cade started back down for her, redoubling his speed.
"No, Cade, I've got this," she said evenly, never looking away from Bowe.
Meanwhile, Bowe had subtly pulled his head back, feeling as if he'd just been presented with a species of creature he had never seen. Then he caught Rydstrom's look of amusement--the demon was obviously loving this--and he found himself . . . grinning. "Kitten's quick to bear those claws, is she no'?"
Rydstrom ruefully shook his head at Bowe, as if sorry for his unavoidable and imminent demise, then got everyone, including a reluctant Cade, moving again.
As Bowe passed Mariketa, he leaned in close. Not bothering to hide his surprise, he murmured to her, "And damn if she does no' have them sunk into me."
Her gray-eyed gaze was wary. He noted that she kept her palms fired up for some time after they continued on.
Even after her blatant show of magick, he felt so proud she'd held her ground that he wanted to stand tall and point her out as his female. That's my lass. Mine. But his heart was also thundering because he realized that in the heat of the full moon, when he was completely turned, she might not run from him. He still intended to get her away from him before this full moon, but for the future . . .
Excitement burned within him, and he found himself closing in on her and saying, "You're bonny when you're about to strike."
"You would know."
"Come, then, sheathe your claws, kitten. And we'll be friends once more."
"We weren't friends to begin with!"
"You're warming to me. I can tell."
"True. I only throw guys I dig. And don't you dare call me kitten again!"
"You look like one with your wee, pointed ears."
"Are you done?"
"Canna say." He was silent for a few moments, then added, "Think you're the bravest lass I've ever seen. Though I doona care for your using magick against me so readily. Do you enjoy it?"
She seemed to mull this for a moment, then raised her brows. "I do. Besides, I think you need someone to threaten you now and again. To remind the great and powerful Lykae that you're not so unbeatable."
"Aye, I do." He clasped her hand in his. "Sign on."
She pulled out of his grasp. "I don't do temp jobs. And that's all you're offering."
Actually, he'd been reevaluating that stance all morning. . . .
On the trail, she'd never once complained or asked them to slow down, though he could see she was working hard to keep up with inexhaustible immortals. She obviously appreciated that these people were helping her when they didn't have to.
Besides having a bold heart, she made friends handily, with strong bonds. And she seemed to look at everything with wonder and curiosity. He'd noticed that she'd longed to stop several times to investigate some intriguing sight or another. Had it been only the two of them together, with no time limit, he'd have patiently followed as she explored. He knew that some of her wonder was due to her young age, but he believed she'd never grow out of it completely.
Today he'd learned that she didn't proffer blood sacrifices at an altar--always a gratifying detail to learn about a potential mate.
Not to mention that the witch looked like she'd been plucked from his most fevered fantasy of a woman. Hell, she was a waking wet dream.
As if to illustrate his thoughts at that moment, she paused to wind up her hair and knead her neck. Each time she did this, he tensed in anticipation, rubbing his palm over his mouth, knowing she was about to draw up her shirt to wipe sweat from her brow. Once again she did, displaying for him the delicate marking at her back. Just below it, he spied the low edge of her black silk panties, which were visible enough for him to know she wore a thong--even if he hadn't picked it out this morning.
And with that teasing hint of a sight came an unwelcome realization. He was going to traverse the country of Guatemala with a raging cockstand the entire way.
Unless he could get her to relieve him of it.
When they began ascending a
particularly steep trail, and she seemed to be flagging, he decided to cup her arse and push her up. Just as he reached for her, she said, "A fine way to lose a paw, MacRieve."
He grinned. "I have, and I doona recommend it."
"Then try keeping them to yourself."
Once they'd arrived at the trailhead, they came across a picturesque gorge. A slow-moving river flowed into terraced, limestone waterfalls. The water was aqua blue and clear.
Mariketa gasped at the sight, then turned to Rydstrom. "Can we stop here?"
He shook his head. "We need to keep going. You still have to make that call in time."
She looked so crestfallen, glancing out over the murky jungle they'd just emerged from, that Bowe found himself telling Rydstrom, "I need to boil water for her for the rest of the day anyway." He surveyed the area but found no dry wood, nor dry ground for that matter. He'd have to go back down into the forest. He scanned for Cade, and when Bowe didn't scent or see him or Tierney, he told Mariketa, "You've as long here as it takes for me to get your water ready."
She smiled brightly--the first real smile she'd ever cast his way.
Oh, bloody hell. She had a bewitching smile. Aye, no shite.
Then she dashed to the water's edge, raising her face to the sun. For three weeks she hadn't felt that light. Because of him. Trying to shake off his regret, he approached Tera. "I'm going to dry ground to make a fire, and I . . . I would ask you to keep an eye on Mariketa."
"I'll do it, but not as a favor to you," Tera answered shortly. Bowe had noticed the archers weren't as irate with him since they'd heard he hadn't meant to trap them so long. But they weren't eager to be buddies with a Lykae either.
He dropped his pack. "Her towel and belongings are in there if she needs anything." Then he lowered his voice. "But you canna let the witch go anywhere else. Just have her stay by the water. And doona let her touch anything. She'll likely get curious about something and wander off, so you canna take your eyes--"
"Lykae, enough! I won't let her get killed in the time it takes to boil water, okay?"
*
Mari nearly trembled with excitement. This place was . . . Eden.
Flowers with blooms as big as plates basked in the sun. Their scarlet and yellow petals were so bright and flawless, they looked fake. Shallow pools cascaded softly down, one after the other. The water was turquoise, and each basin was surrounded by ferns or had islands of flowers dotting it.