Under Your Spell

by Shiloh Walker

  And yet another.

  There would be more. But he couldn’t finish it tonight. He was too weary. She had made a stupid fucking mistake, but she didn’t deserve to keep being forced to die the same fucking way, Sean thought, taking his hands from her face and stalking the room, sweat covering his body.

  “Is something wrong, dear?” Even though she was thousands of miles away, her voice filled the room, not his head, but the room. Rhiannon slept on, undisturbed.

  He froze at the familiar voice. “Mama…”

  Her voice, as gentle and soothing as a spring rain, came to him. “I feel some terrible anger in my soul, and it all feels like it is coming from you.”

  But he was in no mood for soothing just yet. “I found her.” It all poured from him in a torrent. His mother had been his teacher in this life, like she had in his first. Somehow, they had found each other again, and Sean had suspected then that this would be the life that would close the circle, finally.

  “No magic. She is totally mortal then.” Maura Concannon’s voice was soft and low, somber.

  “Aye.”

  “I need not ask if you are certain it is truly Aislinn,” she said regretfully, her sigh rustling through the air. Her laughter followed, the sound filled the room, blowing his hair back from his face and it had the chimes that hung over Rhiannon’s window dancing as she added, “And I had better not ask why you are in her room, when you have only just met, now had I?”

  “I have known her always,” he said heatedly.

  “I know that. The memories you are taking, how many more?”

  “A few. Not many.”

  “Are you certain you must?”

  Sean laughed bitterly. “She has never even gone to watch fireworks, Ma. She is that afraid of fire. And regardless of what you say, I am as much to blame as she. I did not lead her to kill herself, nor did I ever intend for such a thing to happen, but I misled her for months. I must carry that blame. I drove her to such grief, such pain—”

  “No. Nicholas and Aislinn are to blame, equally. Rhiannon Welles and Sean Concannon are no longer Nicholas and Aislinn,” Maura said firmly. Across the Atlantic, she slid her husband a reassuring look and sighed, telling herself she was doing the right thing. Because she knew, if she had stopped the wedding centuries before, none of this would have come to pass. So she must also carry some of the blame.

  Katherine had known of Aislinn. And she had trusted Nicholas to follow his heart. When he hadn’t stopped the wedding, she had believed he had done what he wanted. It wasn’t until that very day she realized how horribly wrong she was.

  She should have followed her own heart, and stopped it herself.

  Aidan Concannon crossed the room, his aching body at peace now that he had finally taken Maura’s advice and taken the bloody potion she had pushed on him. For years, he had suffered through the various aches of old age, stiff joints, stiff knees, bad bones…until finally, Maura had started slipping potions into his food. He had thought it was mind over matter. Until she hissed out, “Bosh! It’s in your bloody food, you old Irish goat.”

  So now, refusing to be spoon-fed, or tricked like a babe, he took it himself. And suffered far less now.

  His iron-gray hair still fell thick and full to his shoulders, even though he was nearing his second century. He had been close to his first century before Maura had finally conceived—they had thought they would never have a child. They had known, oddly enough, who they had been in that first life together, and had wondered at finding each other again.

  But even more amazing was finding their Nicholas in Sean again. What a child he had been. Sean had been worth the wait. Aidan’s deep-green eyes misted as he realized how very little time they had left with him. Even as long-lived as their kind was, Maura and he were pushing the limits. They were not as powerful as their son. Perhaps God was extending their time here, to tie up some loose ends.

  The brooch was one of them. Seeing it into Rhiannon’s hands had been his job. Folding his hand over Maura’s, he murmured, “You cannot carry all the blame, beloved. I knew Nicholas did not want that marriage. I wanted to strengthen the Montgomery family and I forced it on him. I could have called an end to it—you encouraged me to do just that. If I had listened to my wife, if I had looked at my son and seen his unhappiness, I would have done just that. If you want to shoulder some of the blame then so must I.”

  “We all make our own choices, love,” Maura said, for his ears only, before speaking to their son so many miles away.

  “If she has no magic, Sean, she will grow old the way any mortal woman does. Not the way a witch would, regardless of who she was back then.” Maura chewed her lip, as she always did when she was nervous, and hoped she was keeping her shields tightly in place. She had known Rhiannon had no magic. And she had known Rhiannon was the girl Sean was seeking. For years, she had known. For there was one gift that she had where she overreached even her son—sight. She could see decades into the future, though not always clear, not always complete. But she had known of Rhiannon before the girl had even been born.

  “I know that.” Sean’s voice was grim and thick with anger, rage, and even now the grief of a life lost centuries before, and the lives broken because of it.

  “What will you do?”

  “She has it in her, somewhere. I’ll find it.”

  “And if you cannot? Will you let her grow old and die, while you watch?” Maura turned her eyes to Aidan, stroking her fingers through his iron gray hair. “Live another century beyond that without her?”

  Now Sean’s helplessness came through, and the fear that he had been refusing to let show. A gut-deep fear that this was the price he would have to pay. “I have no choice, have I? I cannot leave her again, now that I have found her. I cannot.”

  “You could find a way to live without your magic?” It should have been anathema to even speak it, Maura knew. She knew how heady it was, to feel it rush through her body, almost sexual, always joyful and always powerful. But she had done it once. Not in this life. But she had done it…she had given up the magic for love, and she had never once regretted the choice.

  Across the Atlantic, Sean scoffed and kicked the doorjamb. “You either have the magic or you do not, Mama. You can choose not to use it, but it is still there.”

  “Ah, my sweet boy, that is where you are wrong. I found a way to live without it once. I lived, and died, as a mortal. I grew old with your father, lifetimes ago, and died with him. And I bless the woman who showed me the way. For that, I am ever grateful.” Her faded blue eyes closed and she remembered that life, when her son had ridden away, not just broken in his heart, but in his soul. His sister and brothers had married and left within two years, and Nathaniel had started to grow old as she watched, while she stayed young and strong. She could not imagine living her life without him, but she would not cast her life away as the young witch had done.

  But she knew what many did not.

  The magic could be burned up. Used up. All lives were like a candle, and the life of a witch was two candles inside one body. Magic needed fuel, and if you didn’t give your body time to rest, it could easily burn itself out. So, if you tried hard enough, you could put one of those candles out. She had done it, and damn near killed herself in the process, but she had been able to grow old beside Nathaniel Montgomery. She had died with him—within a week, actually—and it had been sweeter than ten lifetimes as a witch.

  Sean stared into nothingness as his mother relayed this.

  She had never told him this before.

  And finally, her familiar presence faded.

  There it was.

  His choice.

  Or rather, Aislinn’s choice, the one she had laid before him nearly seven hundred years ago.

  Until you love me enough to forsake everything, your honor, your pride, your own soul, we cannot be together.

  Not his soul.

  Not his pride.

  Not even his honor, as he had always expected it w
ould come down to. And he had been prepared to forsake his honor, his name, everything, to have this lifetime with her.

  But it had come down to something that meant even more.

  His magic.

  He stared down at his hands and breathed magic into them, watching as a tiny rainbow formed. It danced and spun and grew larger and larger, until it filled the entire room, casting its light on Rhiannon’s lovely, naked body.

  Will she ever remember? he wondered. But he already knew the answer. He had to destroy the painful memories and once he destroyed them, there was no hope of her ever remembering any of it.

  But did it really matter?

  He loved her and they belonged together. She may not know it, but she loved him as well. What did the memories matter? He wished just once, he could make love to her while the magic swelled around them. But if he had to lose it, then it was better to do it before she knew about it, so he wouldn’t have to explain it. He crossed to her as the rainbows faded and dimmed and died.

  He took her face between his hands and went back to the tedious, heartbreaking task of destroying the memories that had been tormenting her. If he was lucky, maybe this task would be enough to burn his gift out. He was bone weary as it was. He had been prepared to wait a night or two before trying to erase the last few memories, especially that first, horrendous death.

  If he did it all now, as exhausted as he already was with coming here, finding her, wiping so many memories out, it just might be enough. Otherwise, he was afraid he’d lose his nerve.

  It was the first burning that was the hardest for him. Not because he was there to witness it, but because she was hurting so terribly inside, in her heart. And because he had caused it. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but she was angry enough that she didn’t care. And the stubborn little witch was stubborn to the end. Almost to the very last she could have saved herself, but she had chosen not. She had chosen to die.

  Maybe that was why it was harder to erase that memory. His strength was sapped by the time he was finished, and it took what little remained of his reserves just to pull himself out of her mind. He felt weaker than a kitten when he was done.

  He rested a fingertip on her brow and sifted through her mind, searching for the torment.

  And found nothing.

  When he was finally done, he rolled her into his arms and slept, curling her against him, tucking her head up under his chin and sighing with pleasure, his heart feeling almost replete, for the first time in centuries.

  Chapter Seven

  Neither of them felt the magic that slid between them and separated them that night. A light, motherly hand stroked Rhee’s head and whispered, “Forget.”

  A deep, rolling voice, said “In time, my boy. You’ve set the groundwork. Now we have to wait a bit.” Something invaded his mind, weakened by the exhausting work he had done, and wiped away his own memory of the past day and night, of meeting Rhiannon, leaving just a vague memory of the shopkeeper who wouldn’t sell.

  The groundwork, as it were, had been set.

  “Are ya sure it must be this way, my love?” Aidan asked as they entered their own home. “Why must he forget it as well?”

  “Too much torment for him to remember, I’d suspect. I just have the feeling this is how to do it. And he needs to be here just now.”

  Both were weary from the magic they had used. Normally neither of them would have expended such energy. They weren’t young anymore, but time was running short. Maura stroked Sean’s head as Aidan lay him on the bed.

  “Aye. We’re running out of time, you and me. And he made the conscious decision to give up the magic. That’s all he needed to do. That’s all anybody should ask. When the time comes, the magic will go away on its own. But he must be here when it happens. And he will want to be here when our time comes.”

  Aidan sighed and asked, “I do not suppose you could be telling me how you know this?”

  His wife slid him a look from her fey blue eyes and laughed. “The same way I knew she was Aislinn, beloved,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him from the room.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Sean Concannon woke up in Ireland at his family home, befuddled, confused, the past few weeks blurry and misty. He recalled America and Teri, thinking she had found the brooch, and a shopkeeper who wouldn’t sell. Had it been the one?

  He couldn’t remember. He didn’t have the brooch. And when he spoke with Teri, when his blasted parents finally let him get to the bloody phone, Teri said the shopkeeper still refused to sell—and by the way, how was he feeling?

  “I got a call from your parents that you had taken ill and wouldn’t be coming to Kentucky after all. You’ve cancelled interviews, cancelled tours…what’s going on?” she asked, worried.

  “I really canna say.” And he couldn’t. Sean felt not quite right. Weary, fatigued, shaky.

  Like he had lost something.

  Well, besides his mind.

  His mother stroked his brow and said he had been sick. His father wouldn’t look him in the eye and shrugged off his questions, saying he still hadn’t heard of the blasted brooch. Sean told him about the shop in Kentucky and Aidan assured him he would take care of it; if this American had it, Aidan would see to it that she brought it to Ireland, and he should get some more rest, or maybe some good Irish whiskey.

  Sean had both.

  And then, for some odd reason, promptly forgot about the brooch.

  His parents died, in their sleep, holding each other, two weeks later. The serene, peaceful smiles on their faces lingered with him, for some time after. They were satisfied with their lives, and what they had done.

  He realized they had brought him home for that.

  But exactly what was it they had done?

  He thought his life was falling apart a few months later. Not only had he lost his parents, but he was in a car wreck that scrambled his fucking brain, and did something awful. He couldn’t find his magic. It seemed, the past few months, like it had been leaking out of him, at a steady pace. He had been so very weary when he had woken at the family home and he had never fully regained his strength.

  He left the hospital, spent a few weeks recovering, and he felt almost…normal, like he hadn’t felt since months before his parents had died.

  And his psychic skill returned in full-force, much like it had been when he had lived as Nicholas Montgomery. Sean hadn’t had this strength in this life. Oh, he had a bit of psychic power, but not nearly what Nicholas had had. His father had definitely been the stronger of the two.

  But now…well, he was quite back to what Nicholas had been. Maybe even more. Strong enough, in fact, that he was able to tell if something, or someone, had been fiddling with his mind. Of course, it wasn’t true magic. It would not keep him young for decades on end.

  And there was only one person he could think of who would have crept into his mind and done such delicate work without damaging him—cut out bits and pieces and left without a trace.

  Da, what were ya doing, tinkering with my mind? he wondered, as he walked down the cobbled street in Kilkenny. He strode past Kyteler’s Inn and sidestepped some of the tourists going in and out before turning onto High Street and heading for Kilkenny Castle and the nearby shoppes.

  What pieces of me did ya take and would ya be so kind as to tell me why?

  It had to have been his father. Mum hadn’t that kind of magic.

  If Sean’s strength had been there, it never would have happened. His magic had been too strong for it. But at the time his father had done it, Sean had been weak, from what he didn’t know, but he had been weakened, and whatever Aidan Concannon had done, it had been done well and good and permanent.

  The pieces and bits Aidan had taken were good and gone.

  He was baffled, but he missed them too bloody much to be angry.

  And he needed to know why.

  He paused outside an antiques shoppe just off of High Street, as he always did. Hoping. He was certain he’d nev
er find the brooch. This wasn’t the life in which he’d find Aislinn. For so many years things had seemed so right. The magic had been so strong. His parents. Everything.

  Then they had died. Then the wreck. The magic was gone. This morning he had seen something he had never expected to see, a fine silver hair threading through the dense black on his head.

  He was aging. Granted, it was just one hair, but he had not aged in nearly seven decades.

  With a sigh, he acknowledged a sad fact. The way his bloody luck was going, he’d find Aislinn and she’d be in the bloom of her youth, full of power, and he’d be a bloody old man.

  Damn it all to hell.

  How much longer must I wait?

  Chapter Eight

  A woman came out of the store, walking toward him, head down. She had a banner of golden curls, some silvery, others flaxen, and she was tall and slender. As she drew near, he caught the hint of vanilla and lavender. Gold twinkled on her breast. She was glancing at her watch and didn’t see him.

  Something about her held him mesmerized and he didn’t think to move until she walked straight into him. She dropped her bag, her purse and landed flat on her butt, muttering under her breath in a distinctly American accent.

  Sean knelt down to help her pick up her things, smiling crookedly to cover his own sheepishness. “It does help to watch where you are going, even in Ireland, lass. Especially here around the castle and the inns. Did ya hurt yourself?”

  She looked up, briefly lowering a thick fringe of golden lashes over her eyes as her lips parted.

  He stared into her purple eyes and time fell away. The eyes shifted, changed into blue as she walked out naked from a stream while he stared at her, wearing his fine noble clothes, feeling his shaft harden while fear turned his blood cold. If the bandits had been the ones to find her—

  Those purple eyes darkened and her tongue slid out to wet her lips. Sean saw acknowledgement in her eyes and realized he had been projecting. He gathered her things and rose, slowly, offering a hand. “My lady,” he said graciously.