A Wicked Night

by Kiersten Fay

  She canted her head at him. His features hardened so quickly she decided she must have been mistaken; her watery eyes had contorted her vision.

  Just as Mace got to one knee, readying to stand, Knox locked him in a chokehold.

  Grimacing, Mace dug his nails into Knox’s arm, his face already turning red. It looked as though Knox might snap his neck, or choke him to death while she watched.

  “No, Knox! Please,” she blurted. “I’ll do anything you want.”

  Two completely different sets of gazes met hers. One merciless, one pained.

  “Just don’t hurt him,” she pleaded.

  “Do I have your word?” Knox’s tone was cold and even.

  As Mace struggled to breathe, his steady gaze said he wanted her to revoke her statement. When he tried to shake his head and speak, Knox snaked his arm tighter, cutting off his gargled words.

  Her stomach dropped. She thought of all she and Mace had gone through over the last few months. The running, the fighting, the love making. In such a short time she had grown closer to him than she had any other person throughout her life, not only physically, but emotionally. He was kind, caring, and even claimed to love her.

  She was accustomed to making decisions that only affected her. All her life she had been alone. Even married to Winston, there had been a measure of loneliness. And though Winston’s death had affected her roughly, her recovery had been swift. She had wept only for the loss of status and wealth, not for the man. But if she lost Mace now, she knew a permanent tear would fillet her from the inside and out, and the resulting scars would never heal.

  To save him, could she give herself over to Knox to be used as he saw fit? It was clear he wanted more than her blood, but would he really expect her body as well? He was the kind of man to take from a woman what he wanted, when he wanted. Could she submit to that? Would she be able to look herself in the mirror afterward? More importantly, would she be able to look Mace in the eye?

  Growing impatient, the muscles in Knox’s arm bulged, and Mace flushed a new shade of crimson, his struggles slowing as his eyes rolled back.

  Her breath grew fierce with urgency. Even if Mace grew to hate her for it, at least he’d be alive.

  Just as his skin tone shifted towards purple, she nodded at Knox. “You have my word.”

  Knox eased up on Mace’s neck, but kept him in place as he announced in a humorous tone, “You hear that, mate? I suggest you respect the lady’s decision now.”

  Mace coughed and then wheezed in a breath. “Damn it, Cora,” he snapped.

  Even though he sounded harsh, relief at hearing his voice had her slouching back in the chair. A bit of her anxiety melted. However, his next words made her tense once more— “He was never going to kill me.”

  Knox grinned up at her. “Deal’s been struck. No backing out now, pet.”

  Dumbfounded, she took in Knox’s smug expression. “You…you tricked me?”

  Knox still held Mace around the neck, keeping him down on one knee. “Wasn’t my intention, but when an opportunity presents itself…” To Mace, he spoke more seriously, oddly straightforward and companionable. “Listen to me now. Cora has been possessed by an unfortunate acquaintance of ours.”

  Mace stilled. “You lie.”

  “Not about this. I had hoped to coax the bitch out for definitive proof, but you’ll believe me once I tell you who she is because you know I would rather be skull-fucked by jackals than have her vile name on my tongue.”

  Mace’s eyes widened with uncertainty and swept toward Cora. Oddly, she felt exposed by his scrutiny. And a little unnerved by the change in mood.

  How had things between the two shifted so suddenly?

  “It can’t be,” Mace muttered.

  It happened faster this time, that familiar pressure bearing down on her, only now it came from within, shoving her back as if against the wall of her own mind. Terror surged as she lost control of her body once more.

  Then, without permission, the corners of her lips curl upwards. “Oh, but Knoxy, my name is most definitely not the vilest thing that has graced your tongue.” The tone Cora had always known as her own before now had dropped several octaves, becoming some mutated version of itself.

  Knox’s expression morphed into a glare of pure hatred.

  “No,” Mace whispered, horrified. “Sadira?”

  Apparently deciding Mace was no longer a threat, Knox released him and backed up. Mace stood and took a hesitant step toward Cora, or more aptly, Sadira.

  Knox placed a hand on Mace’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Do not cross the line.” He indicated the white powdery circle around the chair.

  “How has this happened?” Mace shoved Knox’s hand away and turned on him, the promise of violence in his eyes barely caged.

  Knox barely took notice. “Do you remember the reason I was assigned to the cottage?”

  Mace replied curtly, “Something about ghosts.”

  “It was to check on Sadira.” Knox spat the name. “I come here every year to make sure her curse holds strong.”

  “Oh, my love,” Sadira sank into a pout. “I thought it was because you just wanted to see me.”

  Both Knox and Mace shot piercing glares at her before continuing their conversation.

  “That explains nothing,” Mace said. “I always assumed she was dead, that maybe you had killed her, but how did she come to be cursed? And why here, of all places?”

  “A place that no one but members of our clan can enter unless expressly invited? An eternal prison? That was the plan, anyway. When Trent had the spells on this place re-enforced so many years ago, he commissioned a coven of witches to add a dimension that was to act as Sadira’s prison.”

  “The witches would never have cooperated to condemn one of their own.”

  “They would if they were from the Morrigan coven.”

  Mace went silent.

  “You recall what Sadira did to them?”

  Sadira made a snorting noise followed by a child-like giggle.

  Mace nodded, staring at nothing in particular. “And now she’s free—” He glanced her way, his eyes stark.

  Sadira kissed the air at him.

  “—because of Cora.”

  Knox narrowed his eyes, his body going tense. “So she did allow this to happen?”

  “No,” Mace replied earnestly. “Not intentionally. She was curious about the ghost. She worked a spell. It…didn’t go well.”

  Knox growled. “I told you her magic was dangerous, did I not? I told you we should have kept her bound.”

  “She just needs to learn how to control it. She tried a spell that was too advanced, is all.”

  “Oi, that’s all? Clearly it backfired. She’ll condemn us all before you heed my warnings.”

  “You’re paranoid,” Mace replied.

  Knox swiped an impatient hand toward Cora’s possessed body, as if she were Exhibit A.

  “No harm’s been done yet.” Mace grimaced at his own statement. “You apparently have it under control.”

  “Only because Sadira is an arrogant chit and called me by that damn nickname. I might have thought it was Cora coming to me. I might have welcomed her the way she was presenting herself. It’s not a leap to assume you unfit to give her what she needs.”

  Sadira threw her head back and laughed.

  Mace balled his fists.

  Knox continued, unperturbed. “It only took me a second to realize who was actually eye-fucking me, and I nearly threw up in my mouth a little.”

  “That’s harsh,” Sadira said, rolling her shoulders in a seductive manner. Every move she made seemed dipped in sensuality.

  They ignored her.

  “How are we going to get her out of Cora’s body?” Mace asked. “The Morrigan line has died out.”

  Sadira laughed again, this time a heartless, cruel sound. “They couldn’t break my curse after all? They always were weak-willed. Serves them right to think they could lock me away and escape their fa
te.” They couldn’t reach the cure in time.

  “Shut up, you unholy nutter,” Knox spat.

  “I always did love your accent, Knoxy. Say it again.”

  He sneered and turned back to Mace. “Any prat worth a damn should be able to extricate a worthless wraith.” He followed up with a meaningful look.

  Mace pursed his lips, shaking his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  ——

  Saraphine tidied up the crystal display, buffing the fingerprints off each little trinket. Afterward, she moved on to the pendants. Only three sold over the last week, but they weren’t big movers anyway. From the wooden drawer under the display counter, she pulled three new necklaces to hang on the wire jewelry tree. Then, on the purple fabric skirt that circled the base, she fanned out a handful of talismans.

  As she crossed toward the set of shelves that boasted several varieties of candles and incense, the bell above the front door jingled.

  She turned to see a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair enter.

  “Hello, Mister Davis,” she forced a smile—hard to do these days. “I’m sorry you came all the way out here. I’m a little behind on orders at the moment. I told Misses Davis when I saw her the other day—”

  “No worries, Sara.” He presented her with a brown paper bag, the top folded over. “My wife wanted me to drop this off. We were sorry to hear about Edeena.”

  Sara’s esophagus constricted at hearing her grandmother’s name. As she accepted the package, all she could muster was a simple, “Thank you.”

  “It’s a cinnamon apple strudel. My wife made it.” He paused. “Your grandmother was a fine lady. And she loved you very much. She will be missed.”

  Her throat tightened further as a burning sensation enveloped her eyes. “Yes, she will. Thank you. I should have your order ready tomorrow. Stop by any time after three.” Her voice only slightly shook, yet Mr. Davis grew visibly uncomfortable. He palmed the back of his neck, inching toward the door.

  Most men didn’t acclimate well to exposed feminine emotion. Sara wasn’t comfortable with being so pathetically transparent, either.

  “Will do.” Mr. Davis waved as he headed out.

  “Thank Misses Davis for me,” she called after him, then transferred the package to the front counter next to two other sympathy packages she’d yet to open. Aside them sat a bouquet of wildflowers that she already hated to look at. What a cheery reminder of loss.

  Though not everyone had cared for her and her grandmother’s particular beliefs—Wiccan was the standard religious cover for a house of witches—Gran had made an impression on the community. She’d been rough around the edges, blunt to a fault, and sometimes far too nosy, but at the same time she’d been kind and generous. She might have even had an admirer or two.

  Gran should have had dozens of years before death came for her. Dozens of years to criticize Sara for her manner of dress or using crude language in front of customers, or for being late, or forgetting to order inventory, or messing up a client’s spell. Dozens of years to guide her. To try and mold her into a fine Windshaw witch.

  Sara balled her fists. She was supposed to have had more time. How was she supposed to guess Gran would have been ripped from her so soon?

  The day Gran died, a thousand tons of responsibility had crashed down on Sara’s head.

  Though she was nearly eighteen, in many ways, she still felt like a kid. For the love of the holy goddess, she still had her V-chip. For some reason, the local guys weren’t lining up to take it from her. Those silly hicks couldn’t handle a strong woman like her anyway.

  Maybe her grim-reaper-chic style didn’t appeal to them, but Sara just didn’t feel right playing a bubble-gum-pop fantasy for a little lip service with some dude when she’d only wham-bam-thank-you-man him in the end. The idea of a long-term relationship with anyone in this town was…depressing.

  She shrugged off her gloom and turned back to the candle display. The color arrangement always seemed out of order to her. Gran was—had been—a little particular when it came to things like this. She’d arranged them according to her personal view of their order of importance. Sara really should rearrange them by color, since most customers only wanted a pretty candle and couldn’t care less if it was meant to increase creativity or health, but she couldn’t bring herself to displace a single one. In fact, she hadn’t been able to change anything about Wicked Wares at all, even though before Gran’s death, Sara would constantly bombard her with ideas for sprucing up the place, teasing her that it needed a little sexing up.

  The bell rang again. Sara whirled around to greet the customer, and then caught her breath. The man who entered was rakishly handsome. Short blond hair, deep brown eyes, his face all hard edges. A black leather coat emphasized strong shoulders and partly hid a white tee underneath. His dark blue jeans appeared well worn and proudly displayed a trim waist.

  A flutter of feminine approval swept through her. He might have seen it in her eyes because one brow arched, his lip twitched, and his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief.

  The place needed sexing up all right. And with him in it, mission accomplished.

  She swallowed, glad she had put a little more effort into her outfit today rather than phoning it in with the lose Tshirts and unflattering sweats that had been her visage of mourning.

  Today, she wore a red Asian-inspired strapless silk top decorated with a pattern of white cherry blossoms, because after so much dreariness, she’d needed a little color. Her black pants were tight and molded to her hips like stretched rubber. Several bracelets dangled from her left wrist. A silver metal cuff clutched high on her other arm. Her hair was left wild, curling down her back. Knee-high utility boots with two-inch soles finished the ensemble.

  “You’re new in town,” she observed.

  The town might not be small by normal standards, but it wasn’t huge either. Most of the inhabitants had, at the very least, seen each other out and about. And the town-gossip would have lost her voice orating over the arrival of this particular newcomer.

  Sara gave him another once over. He didn’t look like the type to frequent magic shops. “You lost or something?”

  “Can’t say.” Intelligent eyes scanned the store from left to right. “I usually end up where I’m supposed to be. Quaint shop. Is the owner about?”

  “That would be me,” she replied.

  His brows went up slightly. “And you are?”

  As he spoke, he slowly circled her while closing in. It reminded her of the slow gait of an animal observing prey. She opened her senses to him, trying to read him. She couldn’t be too careful with all the new fangs running around town. She didn’t think he was a vampire, but there was definitely some kind of latent power in him.

  On instinct, she weaved a protective spell in her mind and let it slip out to cocoon her. It wouldn’t be as strong without the words spoken aloud, but she didn’t want to alert this stranger of her uneasy feeling.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked, still circling.

  “’Course not,” she lied, turning to keep him in her gaze. Could he tell she’d just used magic? Was he a witch as well? She hoped he wasn’t a warlock: dark witches who rely solely on dark magic. Despite popular belief, they could be either male or female. However, she didn’t think that was the case here. With warlocks, the evil they courted usually manifested on the outside, gnarling their features till they were no longer recognized as human.

  This man was just plain hawt. Even if he did seem a little dangerous.

  She crossed the room to place the checkout counter between them as she answered his first question. “I’m Saraphine. And you are?”

  “That’s a beautiful name,” he said, and then tested it on his tongue. The syllables rolled from him like liquid silk, his voice lowering a note.

  Holy hell, why do all the creepy ones have to be so lickable?

  “I’m in town for a short sp
ell”—the corner of his lips curled into a half smile—“and I’m in need of a few unusual items. I’m told I might find them here.”

  “What are you looking for? I’ll let you know if it’s in stock.”

  “Belladonna?”

  She grinned. “I have shavings of the root, dried stems, and berries. Which do you prefer?”

  Instead of answering, he asked, “What about henbane?”

  “I’ve got that as well.” She canted her head. “You planning to poison someone?”

  Looking appalled, he replied, “Not at all. I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I use small doses mixed with other herbs to make myself drowsy.”

  She shrugged. Gran would do that sometimes, too.

  After gathering the requested items, she rang them into the till. “Anything else?”

  “I think this should do it.” He paused. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to pick up one of those.” He pointed to one of the black scrying mirrors on the back wall, used for seeking. He rolled his hand in the air. “And while I’m here, might as well grab some dried monkey’s brain if you have it.”

  Sara eyed him studiously. Monkey’s brain was a rare item, and difficult to procure. She disliked carrying it in the store, but Gran always kept some on hand for those who worked darker spells and were willing to pay for it. We don’t judge, she would say. Sara, however, was glad to be rid of it. Even as she was curious what this man intended it for.

  It was looking more and more like he was a witch, but since it was considered impolite to ask that of a stranger outright, she said, “You must be cooking up something special. Do you need a cauldron as well?” Always be upselling.

  He smiled pleasantly. “Sure, why not.”

  He pulled out his wallet and paid for the items, having decided on the belladonna root—the most potent part of the plant.

  Man knows his stuff.

  She bagged everything up and handed it over. When he turned toward the door, she took the opportunity to admire his insanely wicked backside. Damn, I’d love to get a handful of…

  He glanced back at her as he reached the door. She pretended to examine her nails. Yes, her nails required immediate inspection.