Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  Alec heaved Andreiu over the saddle and draped a blanket over him. Nick perched behind his partner on Lazybones for the ride back to Woodhush Farm, Featherfoot’s reins in his hand and an eye on Andreiu at all times. They found the road again without too much trouble.

  “Good thing it’s still fairly early,” he told Alec. “Holly will get to bed on time.”

  “You really like her, don’t you? I’ll admit to a weakness for red hair and freckles, myself.”

  Andreiu growled, shifting on Featherfoot’s back, across which he was slung like a sack of grain. “Quiet down,” Nick advised, putting some magic into it just so he didn’t feel quite so useless. “And don’t even think about biting the horse. He’s likely to bite back.” To Alec: “I didn’t know you liked redheads that much. Your last five girlfriends have been blondes.”

  “Always at the top of my list.”

  Which included, Nick reflected peevishly, every conceivable hair color, eye color, and cup size known to New York City.

  The horses picked up the pace, recognizing the road home. Soon enough the men were unloading their cargo onto a hay bale in the barn. “If you’re cold, I’m sure we can find another blanket,” Alec said with mock solicitude. “A bit horsey-smelling, but one makes do with what one has.”

  Nick unsaddled Featherfoot, who seemed relieved to be rid of his burden. “Where’s the garlic?” he asked.

  “I thought you brought it.”

  “Damn it, Alec, must I do everything?”

  Further censure was prevented by the timely entrance of Lulah and Holly—the former with a silver crucifix, the latter with a long braid of garlic.

  “Got him, I see,” Lulah remarked, nodding her satisfaction. “You gonna do the garlic-in-the-mouth and stake-through-the-heart routine, or just leave him out in the sun tomorrow morning?”

  Nick blinked at her casual ruthlessness. “We’ll take him back to D.C. for the proper authorities to deal with.”

  “Hmm. Pity. Well,” she continued, hanging the crucifix on a nail by the door, “if y’all throw him in the back of the truck, Holly can circle him with garlic.”

  Andreiu never took his eyes off the girl. As Nick retrieved the turquoise from Featherfoot’s saddle, something itched in the back of his mind, some nagging warning of danger. Silver, garlic, crucifix—Andreiu was safe enough in his hay nest in the back of the pickup until morning, when they’d throw a tarp or something over him for the drive.

  But he couldn’t get over the feeling that there was something they’d missed.

  Back in the house once more, the tale of the capture was told—quickly, in deference to the hour. Alec promised Holly embellishments at breakfast. Then they finished Cousin Clary’s chamomile tea and said their good nights.

  Upstairs in the Wisteria Room once more, Nick finally gave words to what had been churning in his mind since capturing Andreiu. “You nearly died tonight.”

  Alec shrugged. “You’re overreacting. I didn’t get a scratch.”

  “But you should have. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Nick sat on the bed and scowled at his partner. “Emerging unscathed from having a stone wall fall on you doesn’t seem the least bit odd to you?”

  “It’s better than not emerging exceedingly scathed.”

  “Alec, will you be serious?”

  “Okay, okay.” From his pocket he pulled the talisman Lulah had given him. “Observe that the stones are bound with iron, which protects against evil spells.”

  “Andreiu is a wampyr, not a Witch.”

  “But we’ll agree that he is evil, and the hypnosis and so forth that true wampyrs bring to bear are spells, of sorts. We have carnelian for luck—that’s Basic Phylactery 101. Protection against stone walls is carnelian, too. One wonders why umpty-ump Great-grandpa Goare worried so much about walls falling on him, but maybe he was in charge of a fort during a British bombardment.”

  “Stop babbling,” Nicky said severely.

  “I’m not babbling, I’m lecturing. Your education was sorely neglected. By the way, there’ll be a quiz next class period, so pay attention.” He dangled the charm playfully in front of Nick’s nose. “The bloodstone felled the walls that the carnelian protected me from. Of course, carnelian also reveals hidden talents. Maybe I’ve got a hitherto undiscovered knack for dealing with vampires.”

  Stubbornly serious, Nick retorted, “Alec, I can’t understand why you walked away completely untouched by something that should have killed you.”

  “When you can tell me why this is a bad thing, we’ll resume this conversation.” Kicking off his shoes, he retrieved his pajamas from the closet. “Until such time, I’m tired and want to sleep.”

  “Very well. Answer me just one thing, though. Why did your spell work perfectly?”

  This time there was no glib reply, no “Because I’m so brilliant at what I do,” no “Maybe there’s something to old Grandpa’s jewelry after all.”

  “You’re good,” Nick went on softly. “But nobody’s that good, to drop a wampyr so quickly and cleanly. You said yourself he’d just fed. He was at his strongest. Why did it work?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Alec snapped.

  The obscenity both surprised Nick and warned him that his partner was on the thin edge of exhaustion. They dressed for bed in silence.

  “ … AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED next.”

  Holly repressed a shiver, tried to cover it by lighting another cigarette. Nick sensed it anyway. He always did.

  “It’s a long time ago, Witchling,” he murmured. “Shall I finish? Or would you rather not—?”

  “I’d like to hear it from your point of view. If that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” He settled back in the porch swing. “Andreiu got out of the barn by breaking the truck window and crawling through to the cab. He must’ve used the tire iron under the seat to break the silver chains.”

  “I hope it hurt like hell,” she said viciously.

  “It probably did. But never discount powerful motivation.”

  “It’s so nice to be wanted,” she retorted.

  “Don’t be impudent. Then he hot-wired the truck and drove it past the garlic and through the barn door with the crucifix on it. We only knew he was in the house when your window broke and Bandit howled.”

  “And all hell broke loose.”

  NICK COULDN’T SLEEP. Silently rising from Alec’s side (“Why do you hold a pillow? …”), he pulled a sweater on over his pajamas and left the Wisteria Room. On the tour this afternoon, Holly had shown them a small library downstairs; this was his goal. Specifically, a volume on jewels.

  It was a square, slim book, no more than fifty pages: Gemstone Essentials. Obviously intended as a primer rather than an encyclopedia on the subject, the text was terse and to the point. He clicked on a reading lamp beside a worn leather chair, sat, and began to explore.

  In the next few minutes he learned that agates healed scorpion bites, fire agates enhanced night vision, snakeskin agate diminished wrinkles, and moss agates not only assisted in making and keeping friends but gardeners were advised to wear them—presumably, he thought with a snort of derision, to gain the affection of their vegetables. Tourmaline came in black, blue, green, pink, red, orange, yellow, and watermelon (of all things) varieties, and each color had different properties. Black was suggested for easing neuroses and obsessions. He considered informing the American Psychiatric Association.

  Thinking of the stone he’d worn tonight, he found turquoise and read:

  Primary holy stone of Native Americans; warns of danger; protects against evil. Luck, happiness, good health, prosperity; pledge of friendship when given as a gift. Protects horses.

  Another snort died aborning as he recalled how Featherfoot calmed down when he’d hung the talisman on the saddle. Could there really be something to this? Had Alec been serious? He flipped back through the book, looking for Carnelian.

  Joy, protection, energy.
Activates and energizes personal power, revealing unsuspected gifts. Wish stone. Courage, joy, peace; heals grief; protects against falling walls; suppresses blood loss.

  “Falling walls,” he murmured, shaking his head. Shifting uneasily in his chair, he found Bloodstone—

  Favorite talisman of soldiers. Stops bleeding; wards off accidents. Courage, vitality, wisdom, generosity. Brings honesty to relationships. Heals wounds; opens doors; topples stone walls.

  —and decided that when he returned to New York he would be spending quite a bit of money in a rock shop. Taking the turquoise from beneath his shirt, he frowned at it. He supposed that his education was sketchy in this regard. Still, the Rom who raised him hardly had access to the variety of jewels taken for granted by the son of an ambassador and the grandson of a judge. He imagined Alec as a little boy, sitting with his grandmother in the parlor of that old Boston mansion, sparkling gems sifting like rainbow fire through his fingers. During those same years, Nicky had crouched in the dirt beside his grandmother—or a woman who said she was, anyway—learning to hold real fire in his hands.

  Yet that was what made the two of them so excellent a team, as Mr. Scot had decided four years earlier. For all that Nick was the bookstore-owning scholar of the pair and Alec dealt in the numbingly practical details of contract law, their talents were opposite to their professional personae. Alec dealt in fine esoterica; Nick, in utilitarianisms. Alec wove the subtlest of Illusions; Nick Summoned with brutal efficiency. And tonight—tonight, Alec had cast the spells, while Nick had brought the silver.

  Silver, garlic, crucifix—he reassured himself that Andreiu was safely penned for the night. But the sensation that something was wrong became a clamoring in his head—“Turquoise … warns of danger”—no, ridiculous—but sky blue had darkened to muted, muddied blue-green—

  Shattering glass and an anguished yowl brought him to his feet. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard Lulah McClure scream her niece’s name.

  Alec blocked the door of Holly’s room, both hands white-knuckled around the doorframe. Lulah stood behind him, disheveled and shaking, not even noticing when Nick looked past her shoulder. Holly huddled against the headboard of her bed, blue eyes fixed in mindless terror on the gigantic black bat perched on the footrail. Between her and it, claws sunk into the quilt, was Bandit: arched, spitting, fur standing on end so he looked twice his usual size.

  “Sweet Mother of All,” Lulah breathed, “what does he want? She’s only a little girl—”

  “He wants to make her one of his own,” said Alec, and the bat hissed with laughter. “She’s the one he was after tonight.”

  Nick knew how Andreiu would take her: blood, soul, and body. Sliding gently past Lulah to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Alec, he said, “He’ll not have her,” and saw the same vow in his partner’s quick, fierce glance.

  Lacing his fingers with Alec’s in their habit of working support, he waited for energy to flow between them, palm to palm in ever-steadier heartbeat rhythm. Together they took a step forward, and then another.

  “Holly,” Nick murmured, his voice pitched low and precise, power thrumming through him. “Holly, look at me.”

  The girl’s mind and will were imprisoned by the creature poised at the foot of her bed, and it was the Cat who responded to Nick’s words. Eyes like green chrysoprase flickered toward him, and for an eerie unanticipated instant he was thinking Bandit’s thoughts.

  “No—!” Nick broke free of his partner and lunged forward as a blur of ginger fur flew at the bat, claws and teeth sinking into the leathery black neck. The wampyr’s furious shriek was answered by Holly’s scream. Knowing himself nine times a fool, Nick grabbed the outstretched wings from behind. The massive head was flung back and a gurgling noise rattled in his throat, but Bandit hung on tight. Nick could only do the same—fighting instinctive revulsion as steely wing-bones and tough hide quivered beneath his fingers. As the bat-shape shifted to human, the bedpost splintered, throwing Andreiu off-balance. There was no advantage in it; the speed and strength of a wampyr were as advertised. Nick lost hold of one wing; its flailing raked a talon across his cheek and stabbed his right eye.

  Crying out, still he dug his fingers into granite biceps. The instant the change was complete, Andreiu was on his feet, one hand tearing Bandit from his neck and the other arm smashing back. Nick twisted, but not fast enough; the point of Andreiu’s elbow cracked his rib like a matchstick. Still he clung, and his fall tumbled them both to the hardwood floor. The wampyr’s weight crushed all the remaining air from his lungs.

  For a long time there was nothingness. Then nothingness and pain. And then only pain.

  “Nick? It’s over. Come on, Miklóshka. Look at me.”

  Alec. He opened his eyes—and remembered he probably had only one eye left to open. An involuntary gasp of denial sent agony howling through his chest.

  “Just one broken rib, as near as I can tell,” Alec said, voice unnaturally calm. “You’re lucky you don’t have a punctured lung. Stay still and breathe shallow.”

  He obeyed. A soft cloth wiped at his cheek, skirted gently around his eyes. The cloth came away from his face smeared with blood. He wanted very badly to take a very deep breath to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. Squinting with his good eye, he saw his partner kneeling at his side.

  “Holly’s all right,” Alec told him. “Andreiu … isn’t.” He glanced to his left. Nick turned his head and saw the split end of a length of oak sticking up from Andreiu’s back. There were scars in the polish, as if from claws. Of course; what remained of the oak bedrail. How very practical of Alec. Nick wished he had breath enough to tell him so.

  “That was a damnfool thing to do, going after him with your bare hands,” Alec chided, his voice not so steady now. “What were you thinking, you idiot?”

  “It’s … all right … ,” he managed. “Worth it.” He tried again, taking small breaths. “I’ll look … rather dashing … with an eyepatch … .”

  Holly’s voice came from the doorway. “I want to see Nicky—”

  “He’ll be all right, I keep telling you,” Lulah replied. “We have work to do.”

  “I want to see for myself.” And then she was kneeling beside him, all wild hair and huge eyes, with Bandit purring contentedly in her arms. “Nicky?”

  Alec rose, moving toward Andreiu’s body. Nick tried for a smile that was a very bad fit. “I’m only scratched. You were very brave, Holly.”

  “I was scared to death,” she reported frankly. “If you and Bandit hadn’t—Nicky, what did he want?”

  He was spared having to answer by the noise of a body being dragged across the floor. Bandit hissed. Distracted, Holly glanced over at the dead wampyr and shivered—less with fear than with revulsion, Nick saw, and was relieved.

  “Holly,” Lulah said briskly, “get Clarissa Sage on the phone and tell her we’ve got an eye injury and a broken rib. She’ll give you a list of things. You bring them all up here right away.”

  “Y-yes, Aunt Lulah.” She patted Nicky’s shoulder—tentatively, as if touch might hurt him further—and ran to do as told.

  The next thing Nick knew, his partner had gently gathered him up and was carrying him to Holly’s bed. “Alec—”

  “Shut up. And eat more, you scrawny little Rom.”

  He was carefully settled atop the quilt and covered with a blanket. “Give me something so I don’t bleed all over everything,” he murmured; he’d gotten the knack of how deep to breathe, and could manage a whole sentence without having to gasp in the middle.

  “Here.” A clean washcloth was provided. As he pressed it to his cheek, Alec asked, “Will you be okay while I dispose of Andreiu?”

  “Fine. What will you—?”

  “I’m going to shove garlic down his throat till it comes out his ass,” he snapped, “and leave him out so the sun fries him to a crisp.”

  No sooner had Alec left than Lulah came in, Bandit at her heels. The Cat leaped onto the be
d and tucked himself around Nick’s feet.

  “You need a hospital and an ophthalmic surgeon,” Lulah said, delving into the deep pockets of her green velvet dressing gown. “But for now you’ll have to put up with some old-fashioned Witch doctoring.”

  He winced his appreciation of the dry joke, then winced in earnest as his torn cheek throbbed. “I’m not in a position to argue.”

  “Good. Don’t.”

  She emptied her pockets, and he forgot some of the pain in fascination. What she planned to do with a willow switch, a blue candle, a flat oval of malachite, a sycamore pod, and a bottle of aspirin was utterly beyond his comprehension. Except maybe for the aspirin.

  “You don’t like to say much out loud, but you have a talkative Face,” she told him, and he was taken aback—he who had always prided himself on the impassivity of his expression. Lighting the tip of the willow switch, she let smoke waft through the air for a moment before touching the tiny flame to the blue candle. A scent of sage tickled his nose. Then she extinguished the willow and placed it with the candle on the bedside table. “To answer the question you’re too polite to ask—yes, this crazy lady does know what she’s doing, with a little guidance from a specialist. That’s Clary. We all study with her for at least two summers, over at her house near Monticello. All this stuff has to do with healing, magic, and sight.” Pausing, she cocked her head at him. “No guarantees, but I’ll do the best I can. Trust me?” Then she snorted. “As if you have much choice.”

  “Exactly,” he said wryly.

  “I admire your calm.”

  “Hysterics would seem to be counterproductive.”

  Her lips twitched, and her fingers reached beneath his pajama shirt and brought out the turquoise talisman. “Your pardon for getting fresh,” she said, a muted twinkle in her eyes, “but I need this, too.”