Under Your Spell

by Shiloh Walker

  Dressing her body in the blue silk, he smoothed it down, covering the hideous black burns on her legs and hips and belly. The ones on her elbows were angry red, but her hands, the gentle, delicate hands were untouched, like her face. As he lay her in the coffin, he lifted first one hand, and then the other, pressing kisses to each palm, each finger.

  “I never should have touched you, sweet, lovely Aislinn. Never should have hoped for somebody as wonderful as you,” he murmured thickly as he smoothed her hair down.

  He heard a soft whicker behind him and froze with shock when he saw Diana standing there in the clearing beside the stream, staring at him with eyes that looked…sad. Did horses feel grief?

  “This is my fault. I might as well have lit the flames myself.”

  The horse whickered again and he saw something that looked like disagreement in her eyes. And Nicholas decided grief had shattered his mind if he thought a horse was capable of that as well.

  “I know Aislinn said you were special.”

  He covered her still lips with his, wishing he could breathe life back into her. “I’d go away with you if I could turn back time, love. Know that, wherever you are. Honor without love means nothing.”

  Lowering the lid on the coffin was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, even harder than walking away from her.

  Nicholas used magic to lower her into the earth as gently as he could. Tears rolled down his face like rain as he silently and stoically covered her grave with earth. Her marker was the stone on which she had sat as she dried herself that day they had first met.

  He never saw another rainbow. His grief-stricken eyes seemed to see little more than black and white and gray.

  He never laughed again.

  Her screams rang in his ears and woke him from sleep every night for the rest of his life.

  Nicholas died seventeen years later, in Ireland, in the home of a young witch he had saved from burning. He trained her, to the best of his ability, and hoped, maybe, the scales were balanced, just a little.

  Chapter Three

  The smoke stung her lungs as the flames ate her flesh, but she held silent for so long, until in the end she nearly choked with the effort it took to hold back the screams.

  And then they started—

  Her screams…those loud, tortured screams that woke him from his sleep for easily the thousandth time.

  He rolled from his bed, his gut roiling, nauseated, his mind filled with anger at himself and at her. He paced the room until it had passed a little and then he wandered to the window and flung it open, breathing in the cool night air and wondering.

  Where are you?

  The smoke stung her eyes and filled her lungs so that she couldn’t breathe. The pain…she clenched her teeth against it so tightly that her jaws ached with it, but finally she couldn’t hold them back the screams started—

  She woke up, screaming, sweating, crying and struggling with her blankets like they were ropes, convinced that they were, that she was tied to a pole, burning…and then the memories, like those from a bad dream, faded, as they usually do.

  And she remembered nothing but the terror.

  And gleaming, pain-filled green eyes as she stumbled for the bathroom and fell to her knees, retching and heaving until the nausea passed.

  When she curled up again in bed, from her subconscious, a murmuring voice and those gleaming green eyes rose up and guided her back into sleep. With a sigh, she surrendered.

  Rhiannon had no idea why she turned to go into that particular booth. The items for sale were junk, even the uneducated eye could see that. Strands of chipped glass beads, faux gold necklaces to turn the neck green, tables missing legs, or worse, tables sporting an obviously fake leg that someone had put there in hopes of catching the untrained eye.

  But nonetheless, she swerved for the booth, dodging other shoppers at the crowded monthly flea market held at the fairgrounds. Smiling politely at the old man who sat on a folding metal chair, she wandered the tiny cramped area, frowning absently.

  A box of glittery gems caught her sharp eye. Sifting through it, she lifted a necklace of glass beads that was actually in good shape. She guessed it to be less than fifty years old, but it was pretty, the beads all the color of the leaves in the spring. Looping it over her wrist, she figured it would bring her a few dollars, at least, considering the popularity of retro styles.

  Pulling her hand from the box as she turned to study a row of books, something pricked her finger. “Damn it,” she hissed under her breath, jerking her hand out. A drop of blood oozed from it as a scowl formed on her face. She turned, ready to light into the shop owner when a sparkle of green caught her eye.

  There was no reason for the brooch to gleam so richly. The disc-shaped brooch was the color of old gold, glinting in the sunlight that filtered through the windows. The green stone sparkled and danced, casting light as she lifted it, angled it.

  It was old.

  And she didn’t think old as in a few measly decades or even a few centuries.

  It was old.

  Ancient, older than anything an American could understand.

  And completely real. Heavy and solid, and oddly warm in her hand. This was the once-in-a-lifetime kind of find that so many antique shopkeepers dreamed of.

  Old…the kind of old that could bring in a small fortune. And hot, sudden greed sang through her. Mine. She cooled the fire in her eyes, refusing to let anyone see it as she studied the brooch.

  “How much is this?” she asked quietly, her voice noncommittal, even though she would have sold her whole shop to have this brooch.

  “I imagine we can agree on a price,” he responded in a very distinctive voice. It sent a rough shiver down her spine and without realizing, she looked up into deep, deep, green eyes, set into a lined weathered face. He was an older man, but polished and regal with it, still handsome enough to turn heads and a voice that could make a woman sigh.

  Wordlessly, she reached into her purse, plucked out her glasses and put them on, studying the brooch more closely. It was genuine. She would bet the bank on it. “Any idea about the history?”

  His only response was a shrug of his still strong, broad shoulders. There was something about this older man, something almost familiar, with his iron gray hair, and dark green eyes, like the color of an evergreen pine. He folded his weathered hand over hers, tilting the brooch to study it better. “I know not. What is history after all? Either you want it, or you do not. It is very lovely, isn’t it?”

  It didn’t matter. Not to Rhiannon. And that was just plain strange. An orphan who had no idea of her own ancestry, she loved antiques simply because of the wealth of history and information available. Rhee rarely bought anything without some clue to its history.

  But this wasn’t going in the shop. “Yes, it is. How much do you want for it?”

  He smiled, a charming, gentle smile. If it hadn’t been for the rather kind, almost—well, it looked like apology—in those eyes, she would have been disturbed by just how charming he was. “How does one-hundred-seventy-five-dollars sound?”

  One-seventy-five? No way. It was worth maybe ten times that. But she couldn’t afford to pay that, and she was afraid that if she pointed that out, he’d change his mind. To her surprise, he seemed to realize what was going on in her mind. Lowering his head until he was eye level with her, he said softly, “Sometimes, sweet child, things are worth more than just the dollar value, are they not? You will cherish this piece, and it is rightfully yours. Trust me. I know this. I could easily sell it for far more. But why? You want it.”

  Casually, she asked, “Are you seeking mental treatment? That seems a little crazy to me.” She fished the money out of her wallet.

  To her amazement, he laughed as he accepted the money. He shook his head as he tucked the money into his pocket and looked for change for the two one-hundred-dollar-bills. “No. Would you believe I am seeking atonement?”

  Folding her hand around the brooch, sh
e felt that wild greed sing through her again, unrestrained this time. Mine. She felt like she had found an incredible buried treasure that she had lost long ago and had just now uncovered.

  Leaving the booth, not seeing the crumpled fives the shopkeeper held out to her, she stroked the smooth disc, studying the clasp on back that oddly enough, was solid and sturdy.

  Behind her, the shopkeeper grinned widely, the crumpled fives fading from sight, the rest of the wares turning into simple plastic dolls and salvage goods and damaged boxes of hair dye.

  And in less time than it took for Rhee to move five steps away, he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  He had been waiting for centuries.

  Centuries without end.

  Nearly seven hundred years had passed since he had seen her, touched her, loved her. Watched her die, when she could have so easily saved herself.

  How much longer must he wait?

  Where was she?

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  “It is exactly like the one you’ve been looking for,” Teri told Sean. Calmly, she met his intense gaze, until he dropped his eyes to the rough sketch she had shown him. While she waited, Teri shifted in the seat, crossing her silk covered legs, smoothing her practical navy skirt over her knees.

  “A shopkeeper in Bardstown?” he asked again, frowning as he laid the sketch down. A band of hammered silver gleamed on the ring finger of his right hand, reflecting the light as he leaned back, crossing his hands over his lean belly.

  “It’s a town in Kentucky,” she offered, “becoming very popular for collectors.”

  Arching an ebony brow at her, he replied dryly, “That, I know. What I’m curious about is how a shopkeeper in Bardstown, Kentucky came to own it. The brooch was last in Killarney, Ireland, more than three hundred years ago. It belonged to the Concannon family, as it was left to them by a Nicholas Montgomery back in the fourteenth century. I am wondering how it ended up across the Atlantic and at an antique shop when it was supposed to have come down my family line to me.”

  Giving him a serene smile, Teri said, “I imagine she bought it somewhere.”

  “Why do I put up with you?” he muttered, raising his eyes heavenward as he plowed a hand through his raven-black hair, reaching for patience.

  “Because you’d hate to do all that searching for the brooch yourself,” Teri supplied, reaching for her teacup. It was part of an early nineteenth century set that she, of course, had secured and purchased for her boss—very few of his possessions were kept behind glass.

  Sean had a deep-seated belief that things, no matter how old, were meant to be used and appreciated, not locked up and hidden away from the world. Sipping the excellent coffee, she asked, “Shall I look into it?”

  Not answering her, Sean rose from the desk and turned to the window. “How did ya find out about this, if ya don’t mind me askin’?” As always, when he was thinking deeply, or distracted, his Irish accent thickened.

  And now…he was both.

  A tiny smile curved her mouth as Teri studied him. Lifting one shoulder delicately, Teri said, “Pure luck. Or you’d call it karma. I was in the area on a busman’s holiday, of sorts. They have this marvelous inn in what used to be the jailhouse and I stayed there over the weekend. I dropped into the shop on a whim. Timeless Treasures—that’s what it’s called. I wanted to find a snuffbox for my father’s collection and the owner was wearing the brooch. I asked about it but she didn’t give much of an answer.”

  When he offered no more than a hmm, Teri added, “The shop is terrific. The building itself is an antique. Used to be a blacksmith’s shop. She said the original building dated back to the late 1700’s. There’s an add-on that was done sometime in the 19th century.”

  “What about the owner?” he asked, his voice oddly flat. “What can ya tell me of her?”

  “Why don’t you check out your crystal ball?” Teri drawled, grinning at him when he snarled at her.

  “Because this is what I pay you for?” he suggested in an irritated voice.

  She admired his restraint. She was certain his first instinct was to tell her to go fuck herself. Or to fire her. Then she took pity on him. For some reason, that brooch was extremely important to him. With a sigh, she said, “Oh, all right.” She already knew the answer to that one anyway. Although it was a closely guarded secret, she was one of the few who knew.

  The world-famous magician Sean Concannon had a few tricks up his sleeve that nobody would ever been able to guess at. He was, in fact, a witch, one who could do real magic—true magic.

  He’d spent years trying to find this brooch, using every means available, from spells to scrying.

  And he’d failed.

  “Her name is Rhiannon Welles; she inherited the shop from her adopted parents, Michael and Eliza Welles, both deceased. She’s 27 years old, a graduate from Bellarmine College—with honors, might I add. Rhiannon majored in Arts Administration, with a minor in history. Did some individual studies with an art academy in England that specializes in the study of antiques, but most of her knowledge is what she learned from her parents.”

  Silence fell once more and Teri finished off her coffee while she waited. After a few minutes of silence passed with no response from Sean, Teri asked, “Do you think this is the brooch you’ve been searching for?”

  Sean Concannon turned his head and met her eyes across the expanse of the office.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “Get it for me.”

  “Is there a limit to what you’ll offer?”

  “No. No limit. I want it.”

  “And you sure this is the one you’ve been looking for? I can have some photographs done, try to see if she’ll tell me the history of it.”

  Slowly, Sean settled himself back into his chair, his eyes, an odd silvery gray, unfocused as the ring gleaming on his right hand started to shimmer. Softly, he said, “I already know its history. Just get it for me, Teri—will ya do that for me, darlin’?”

  Too used to Sean’s…odd ways to be disturbed, Teri merely sighed. He was certain.

  The door closed behind her and Sean’s breath left him in a shudder. A hum of magic filled the room and for a brief moment, his control left him. Outside, thunder rolled through the air, lightning streaked through the clear blue sky and the wind whipped. Inside his office, every piece of furniture lifted from the ground and hung suspended for a split second while he struggled to rein in his emotions, and the wild magic his loss of control caused.

  First, he thought, dragging air in through his mouth, he had to get the brooch.

  Once he had the brooch, he would be that much closer to finding Aislinn. It wanted to be back with her. It would find a way to reunite them. That, he knew.

  He caught sight of himself in the mirror. As always, he had to stifle the start it gave him. It was him, sort of. The black hair was the same, long, past his shoulders, thick and straight. The eyes were different, silvery gray, and he had pale skin that would never tan. He was taller than he had been in that first life—likely by a good six inches, but it was so hard to tell.

  He reined in the magic and lowered himself into his chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Aislinn would look different as well. Maybe much different. But he would know her when he saw her.

  And when she saw him?

  Would she know who he was?

  Would she see Nicholas?

  Or the world-famous magician, Sean Concannon?

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  She was dreaming, of a man with a wide powerful body, thick black hair, compelling green eyes. Dreaming of him as he made love to her, as he whispered how much he loved her and needed her.

  As he broke her heart.

  As he married another woman.

  And then fire—

  She woke screaming, gasping for air, and unable to remember any of it.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Rhee glanced up from the photographs she had scattered on the glass countertop. Underneath the chimes that danced a
s the door opened, stood the woman who had been in the shop a week earlier. Smiling, Rhee removed her reading glasses and tucked them in her pocket. Shop owners always liked repeat customers.

  Especially customers who didn’t seem to mind paying high-dollar for fine quality antiques.

  “Well, hello. I see you decided to come back,” Rhee said, moving out from behind the counter, one hand stretched out in greeting. “Here for the chiffarobe this time?”

  Casting the expensive piece a covetous glance, Terrance McGuire smiled slightly. “Maybe. Just maybe. Especially if my first business goes well. I’m here in a professional capacity today. I…acquire certain objects for my boss, Sean Concannon.”

  A slim blonde brow rose and Rhiannon repeated, “Sean Concannon. The magician?” That name brought a face to mind, a lean face with silvery-gray eyes, black hair, high cheekbones, a mouth that would make a woman shudder and wonder. At least, Rhee often had. He had wide, powerful shoulders and a matching chest that tapered down to a slim waist, lean hips and muscled legs that he liked to display in casual jeans and white button-downs, even for his tours.

  Those jeans showed his ass to perfection as he strolled across the stage, flirting with the ladies in the audience as he worked his illusions with an ease that was…well, magical.

  He had an Irish accent that could have you laughing as he stripped you clean of your valuables while telling a funny little joke, or have a woman shuddering and sighing as he coaxed her on stage for one of his fabulous illusions.

  He was, without a doubt, one of the sexiest creatures ever to walk the earth.

  “One and the same,” Teri said with a polite smile. “I mentioned my trip down here to him. He was particularly interested in a piece of jewelry.”