Broomsticks and Stones

by Jane Davitt

  * * *

  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Jane Davitt

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2006

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  "Ah, there you are, Peter. Yes, sit down, sit down."

  Peter Carruthers gave his employer a cautious smile and took the only chair available; an upright wooden one, placed squarely in front of the wide mahogany desk. “Thank you, sir. I was told that you wanted to see me as soon as possible, so you'll have to excuse my appearance. I've come straight from the links."

  A hand cramped by age waved away his apology. “Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all.” Faded blue eyes narrowed. “Although I hope that if you were playing golf with Scott Perlham you took care not to offend him."

  "He won on the final hole,” Peter said dryly. “And, yes, he cheated as usual; conjured up a wind spirit when he thought I wasn't looking and had it help his ball into the hole."

  Mr. Callum groaned and closed his eyes for a moment. “Man's a bounder,” he muttered. His eyes opened. “Played for money, did you?"

  Peter nodded. A guinea a hole...

  "Put in a claim for it. I'll see that it's authorized."

  "Thank you, sir,” Peter said politely.

  "If his account wasn't so valuable—well, we'll say no more about that.” Mr. Callum leaned over his desk, his eyebrows drawing together portentously. “Lady Amanda died an hour ago, Peter."

  "My condolences,” Peter said automatically. “She was your aunt, I believe? A sad loss."

  "Tush; never mind that folderol! I'll miss her, of course I will, but she was over a hundred and quite, ah, quite..."

  "Batty?"

  The blue eyes narrowed. “There has never, never been any vampire blood in my family, young man! She was ... eccentric. Yes."

  Peter remained silent. If Mr. Callum wanted to use that word to describe the antics of a woman who, when compos mentis, had been capable of anything from riding an elephant around Grovesnor Square wearing nothing but the Viscount of Altringham to celebrating her seventieth birthday with an incantation that turned the sludgy water of the Thames into champagne for an hour—although an inferior vintage, and the water weeds and dead fish still present in it rendered it undrinkable—well, who was he to argue?

  "And she was, as you know, the current holder of the Luck of the Callums."

  "Quite,” Peter murmured, flicking a small piece of dried mud off his plus fours and then regretting it as he met an arctic glare from his employer.

  "This firm has dealt with the affairs of my family for centuries,” Mr. Callum told him. “Since the Transmogrification Accord. Which is, in part, why it's tradition that the third son should always work here.” He looked wistful. “I didn't want to be a lawyer. Not like you. No, I wanted to be—but it's of no consequence! Family duty..."

  "Yes, sir,” Peter said, trying not to let his impatience show. His plus fours were damp, his socks soaked through—and even if it was January, that squall on the ninth hole had been suspiciously ... localized. Perlham had taken three steps sideways and remained perfectly dry. How the man had managed to bypass the anti-magic charms on the course, Peter didn't know. His own talents, such as they were, lay elsewhere.

  "With Lady Amanda's death, the Luck has to be delivered to the new Head of the Family,” Mr. Callum said, managing to invest his words with capital letters effortlessly.

  "And that would be...” Peter searched his memory, frowning slightly. The Callum family tree was convoluted to say the least, and the inheritance wasn't based on anything as simple as a direct line of descent. Rather, every decade, on January the twenty-third, anyone over the age of twenty-one with a drop of Callum blood had their name put in a hat once worn by the Lost Prince and left behind at Callum castle as he'd fled from the hunters in the form of a white wolf.

  Or so the legend said. Peter had studied the fable and found it to be littered with inaccuracies, inserted purely to make a deadbeat, spendthrift prince into a romantic hero for political reasons. Primming up his mouth, he wondered if the Callum family really believed that the spirit of the prince chose a name from the hat to be the head of the family for the next decade. Odd, if so, that Lady Amanda's name had been chosen the last three times; the prince hadn't been a woman-hater—far from it, which was one of the reasons he'd fled the court—but he had been a firm believer that outside the bed a woman had nothing of value to say. Peter was fairly certain that the voting was rigged, but had no intention of sharing his opinion.

  "The interim drawing, necessitated by the death, takes place tomorrow morning,” Mr. Callum said. “Pity really; the official drawing would have been held in just two weeks, and it's by no means certain that whoever is drawn tomorrow will be drawn then. Imagine! Two weeks of fame and fortune and then it's all snatched from you! Tragic."

  "Quite,” Peter said, unable to decide if his employer was serious. The Callum name was as venerable as it was possible to be, and, yes, granted, there were financial advantages to being the Head of the House, but it wasn't exactly the windfall Mr. Callum implied.

  "The Luck has to be given to the new Head by sunset or—"

  "'The castle falls, nae stone left standing, nae slate to shield thee from the howling gale.'” Peter quoted from memory. “Indeed."

  Mr. Callum scowled at him. “'Indeed'? Is that all that you can say? My ancestral home is doomed and you—"

  "Well, it isn't doomed yet,” Peter pointed out. “I take it that you want me to deliver the Luck to the Castle? I assume all the potential Heads will be there?"

  "Aye,” Mr. Callum said tersely. “I do, and they will, and ye'd better.” He sounded suddenly very Scottish. “Here.” A black velvet pouch was tossed at Peter, landing in his outstretched hand and leaving it tingling slightly with the unmistakable residue of magic. “It has to be carried by magical means, ye ken?"

  "Hmm?” Peter was peering inside the pouch at the glitter and wink of the huge garnet, carved with a thistle and a stag rampant—very rampant. The significance of his employer's words sank in. “Oh, sir!"

  "Aye,” Mr. Callum said, sounding smug. “Ye can leave your fancy new car where it is—and I think we're paying you too much if a junior lawyer can afford a Tornado—and take a broom."

  "Sir, with all due respect for tradition,” Peter said, “it's a hell of a flight and there's snow forecast."

  "You've got until sunset tomorrow,” Mr. Callum said inflexibly. “It's no more than six o'clock now and you won't melt for a few flakes of snow—or freeze, either. Many's the time I've flown up there for a Gathering. Bracing. Yes."

  Peter nodded gloomily and stood, tucking the pouch into his pocket.

  Mr. Callum stared at him solemnly. “By sunset tomorrow, that garnet has to have touched the hand of the new Head of the House. Fail me in this, and you might find yourself recreating the Flight of the Lost Prince."

  "I can't transform,” Peter said weakly.

  "Then the hounds won't have as far to run!” snapped Mr. Callum. ***

  Peter peeled one cramped hand from his broomstick and swiped ineffectually at his goggles. The charm designed to weatherproof the broom—and its rider—was starting to fade and the snowflakes were seeping through the weather shield in increasing numbers and melting on his face. Recharging it would mean landing, and he wasn't su
re, given the gale, that he'd be able to take off again. Especially as he seemed to be passing over a forest.

  Peering down at the compass attached to the central stick and set to the castle's co-ordinates, he saw to his dismay that it was spinning wildly instead of pointing north-west as it should have been. He couldn't have arrived at the castle yet; even in the blizzard he'd have been able to see the lights of the many rooms and, as they were expecting him, a landing beacon.

  There was something visible below though, a small, wavering flicker of yellow light in a clearing. The shielding charm spluttered and died as he tried to decide where it was coming from, and Peter felt the breath driven from his lungs as the full force of the storm hit him.

  Cold. So bloody cold.... Clamping his chattering teeth together and scrubbing snow-encrusted goggles one last time, Peter switched to manual control and settled his feet firmly in the stirrups.

  Going down...

  The rush of frigid air and stinging, spiteful pellets of icy snow scoured the exposed skin on his face, but he clung grimly to the stick, guiding the bucking broom toward the patch of light. As the ground rushed up to meet him, he realized that he wasn't going to be landing in the approved touch down, stride forward, stop method. In fact, he was going to be lucky to be left standing at all.

  His feet smacked into deep, soft snow, the end of the broom carving a narrow path through a drift before it hit something solid—a rock?—and then he was flying forward, his feet still tangled in the stirrups and the broom managing to twist and deal him a smart rap on the forehead before he landed on it with an ominous crack.

  As he opened his mouth to say ‘Oww', it filled with snow.

  Peter lay still for a moment, assessing the damage, and concluded that he was still alive, which was good, freezing cold and wet, which was less pleasant, and in trouble, as his broom was broken and he had to be some miles away from the castle.

  He got to his feet, pulling off the goggles and blinking away some stray snowflakes as he looked around. The light he'd seen was from an attic window in a small cottage over to his left. Hesitant though he was to impose on a stranger—for many reasons, not least the knowledge that he was carrying something valuable—he really had no choice. Picking up the two halves of his broomstick, Peter trudged through the drifts to the cottage and knocked on the door, propping his broomstick tidily against the wall.

  The door opened, warm air rushing out to meet him.

  "Good Lord, it's a snowman come to call."

  Peter gave the pleasantry a perfunctory smile and cleared his throat, glancing up at his prospective host. The explanation died on his lips. God, the man was, well, he was—

  "Och, come in, will you?” His appreciative appraisal of wide shoulders beneath a green sweater, narrow hips and long legs enclosed in a sinfully threadbare pair of jeans was interrupted when a large hand reached out and grasped him by the shoulder. Another began to dust him down, thwacking at the snow lying thickly on his flying suit. Peter made a soft sound of protest and gray eyes studied him thoughtfully from under a shock of red-brown hair. “Sorry; was I a bit rough with you?"

  "No, it's just—I crashed on my broomstick; still a little shaken up, I think."

  The man pulled him into the blissful warmth and kicked the door shut. It was suddenly very peaceful as the howl of the storm became a muted whisper.

  "Crashed, did you? On a night like this, you're lucky to be alive, man."

  "Indeed, I am,” Peter agreed. He glanced around, avoiding another look at his rescuer because the first had been enough to leave him breathless, and saw an untidy but pleasant room, lit and warmed by a large wood fire burning a clear green, signifying that the hearth sprite was content. Shabby but comfortable chairs and a wide, sturdy table covered with the remnants of a meal filled most of the space, and the walls were lined with bookcases."If I might ask for shelter from the elements?” he said, trying to remember the exact formal phrasing. It was considered distinctly old-fashioned in the south; archaic even, but he had no wish to offend. Summoning up the energy to bow, although the warmth was making him sleepy, he recited carefully, “A traveler benighted, asks naught but this; a bed, a sup, and a friendly ki—” He faltered, watching the gray eyes narrow in amusement.

  "Go on then, as you're doing it properly,” the man said.

  "—friendly kiss,” Peter muttered, his face flaming with heat. He could understand the reasoning behind the wording in the days when a village had only a small number of able-bodied men, thanks to the near-constant fighting, and the young women were glad of any chance to seduce a passing visitor and get with child, but dear heavens, it was ludicrous these days.

  "Aye, well,” the man replied, one long finger scratching meditatively at his square chin. “You don't look like the sort who'd murder me in my bed—” Given that Peter was three inches shorter than the man who looked to be solid muscle, that seemed a safe bet. “—but I'd like to know a little more about you before I agree to some of that."

  Peter shrugged, sending a trickle of melted snow down his back. “My name is Peter Carruthers and I work for a firm of lawyers in London. I'm in these parts to see a client."

  The man nodded. “You've given me your name, so I'll do likewise; Jamie MacGellis. I work for no man but myself."

  Peter extended his hand. “It's an honor to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said politely.

  "'Sir’ is it?” His hand was shaken briefly and then released. “Call me Jamie, as you're dripping on my floor."

  "Gladly.” Peter glanced up at Jamie, his hand going to the zip of his suit. “So—I may stay?"

  A warm hand closed around his, startling him because, unlike the handshake, it lingered. “Not yet, lad. I'll not ask you your business, but tell me who it is that you plan to see."

  "Client confidentiality—” Peter began. A crook of a russet eyebrow stopped him and he sighed. “I am bound for Callum Castle on a matter of some urgency."

  The hand left his. “Amanda is dead and you carry the Luck."

  It wasn't a question. “Why, yes, but how do you—"

  Jamie took his hand out of his pocket and sent a scatter of sleep crystals flying toward Peter, who was too surprised to duck. They swirled around his head and popped in a series of tiny explosions, filling the air with a pale-pink mist. Peter tried to step back without breathing, but Jamie's hands gripped him and held him in place until, the oxygen in his lungs exhausted by his struggle, he had no choice but to take a breath and sink into fathomless slumber.***

  Waking brought with it the realization that he was naked, in bed, and not alone. Panic and a violent thrashing of his limbs followed as he tried to extricate himself from the clutches of a feather mattress and a heavy quilt.

  "You woke me up,” said a voice in his ear. “I hope you're going to make up for that."

  Peter turned his head and glared into the darkness. “Do you?"

  Jamie yawned, then gave a soft chuckle. “Now I've seen you naked? Aye, and if you're stuck as to how, I'd be happy to show you. Och, I'm sorry; was that too blunt of me? I'm forgetting you're not used to folks being straightforward, what with you being a lawyer and all."

  Leaning on his elbow, Peter extended his hand and snapped his fingers. “Light,” he said crisply. The expected glow failed to materialize, and he frowned and tried again, with a similar lack of success.

  "No magic but mine will work between these walls,” Jamie said lazily. “But if you want to see what you're doing, I've no objection."

  A globe of light flared to life and dimmed to a gentle glow before floating up to the ceiling. Peter waited for his eyes to adjust, and then met Jamie's amused gaze. “Why did you do that?"

  "The light?” Jamie asked, frowning in pretended bemusement. “I thought you wanted it."

  "Putting me to sleep,” Peter said tightly. “Stripping me—oh!” He turned over, his eyes searching the room for his belongings. His suit had been tossed over a chair, still damp, and the rest of his clothes lay i
n a heap on the floor. The pouch containing the garnet had been stored in an inner pocket of the suit, but Peter couldn't imagine that it had been overlooked.

  A hand came to rest on his shoulder and a long, strong body moved close enough to him to leave Peter in no doubt of Jamie's intentions. He jabbed his elbow back sharply and got another of those annoying chuckles for his pains as Jamie twisted so that the blow did no more than glance off his side. “Lad, there's no need to fret. If you're not of a mind to fuck—” The hand moved and slid down over Peter's chest, slowly enough that he could have stopped it if he wanted, fast enough to make it less a caress than a hand on its way to somewhere else.

  When it got there, with Peter taking short gulps of air to try to stay calm, it paused. “You'll have to help me out here,” Jamie said mildly. “I'm getting confused. Do you want to fuck, or don't you?"

  Of course I do, you stupid man, Peter railed silently as the hand wrapped around his achingly hard cock stayed frustratingly still, Jamie obviously waiting for an answer. You're bloody gorgeous, apart from your habit of knocking people unconscious and it's been months since—

  "Months?"

  The surprise in Jamie's voice was genuine by the sounds of it, but that wasn't something that Peter was overly concerned about. “Get out of my head!"

  "You didn't say that aloud?"

  Jamie sounded worried, which was rich. Peter reached down and put his hand over Jamie's, tugging it away from his cock and gritting his teeth as Jamie's fingers opened at once—then slid down over his balls in a move surely designed to render him speechless. “No, I didn't. I thought it, and you've no business performing unauthorized—unauthor—oh God, stop that!"

  "Your skin's so soft there,” Jamie murmured in his ear, stroking the inside of Peter's thigh, high enough that Jamie's wrist was nudging an erection that wasn't going away. “And I didn't do it on purpose. You must've been shouting."

  Peter took a shaky breath. “Please—I can't think, and I need—need to ask you—"