Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions

by Melanie Rawn

  Noel burst out laughing. “Isn’t she priceless?”

  In between trying to avoid toxic dewdrops and trying to make sense of plopping and clunking words, Evan told himself that nobody would go to this much trouble just for an orgasm. Then he tensed as Noel reached into a pocket and brought out a folded penknife.

  “I need a little sample, Marshal,” the man said almost apologetically. Almost. “One mixture of herbs requires a special bonding agent.” He stepped behind the bench, behind the semicircle of candles, and leaned close to Evan.

  Who couldn’t move, even as the familiar surge of adrenaline trembled in his muscles and cleared his head some. The three-inch blade that appeared before his nose looked wicked shining sharp. “I thought—I I thought you needed a ceremonial blade,” he managed. His heart raced, providing nicely distended veins in his arm or neck or wherever Noel planned to stick a spigot.

  “Not all of us make our implements obvious.” He tucked a finger beneath the high neck of Lachlan’s sweater, drawing it down, stroking skin. Lachlan braced for sudden piercing pain. Instead there was a dull chime of metal on stone as the blade clattered from its casing to the floor.

  “Oops,” Denise said.

  Twenty—eight

  “HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHERE you’re going?” Nick asked as they crept outside toward the BMW. “Failing that, have you a plan?” Stony silence. “Ah, well. Familiar enough. I’ll drive.”

  “Familiar?” she echoed as they got into the car.

  “Of course. Alec never plans anything either.” He started the engine and pulled quickly out of the driveway, narrowly missing Elias’s Lincoln.

  Holly stretched out her legs; the passenger’s side didn’t have a memory, except of the last time a certain long-limbed marshal was in the car. “Why didn’t you tell on me?”

  “Well, I could say it’s because they’ll come after us the instant they hear the engine, anyway,” he said, giving her a sidelong smile. “But in truth, it’s because this is familiar. I’ve been in your position, and I’ve done the same thing.”

  Holly nodded slowly. “It’s not … endurable, you know? I mean, Elias getting all studded up like Special Ops heading for Tikrit to find Saddam. I’ve been playing the what-will-Noel-anticipate game and it’s driving me crazy. Will he expect the Circle, will he expect just me, will he expect us to expect him to expect whatever—?”

  “—and you end up thinking ‘Oh, the hell with it,”’ he finished for her. “So you’re going to give him what he wants. Your blood.”

  “Yeah.” She mimed pricking a finger and held it up. “Come ‘n’ get it, honey. I brought me a large-bore needle.”

  “Distracting him, while I do something scathingly brilliant to save the day—not to mention Marshal Lachlan.” He sighed quietly. “If this were one of your novels, I’d say let’s go for it. But you can’t script this, Holly. You can’t plot everyone’s moves.”

  “Maybe not,” she admitted, “but I can make some good guesses. Denise will be looking out for Denise, end of story. The best thing would be to remove her as quickly as possible so she doesn’t screw up anything else.”

  “Agreed. Evan, on the other hand, will be looking out for you. So it would behoove us to get him out, too.”

  “And by that time Elias and the cavalry will arrive to take care of Noel. So we really don’t have to worry about him at all.”

  He cast her a sideways glance. “Darling girl, if you believe that—”

  “Yeah,” she replied glumly. “I know.”

  “DAMN THAT WOMAN!”

  “And that sneaky little Rom,” Alec added to Elias’s outburst. “Come on,” he said, heading for the hall closet. “Nick and Holly both drive like maniacs. We’d better hurry.”

  “I won’t rush anyone into this. We have to be ready. If they’re determined to go haring off on their own—”

  Shouldering into his overcoat, Alec asked, “Are you telling me you’d allow that much risk to your Spellbinder? And let’s not even mention my partner.”

  “One of the hundreds of things you don’t yet know about Sammael is that like all manifestations he’s attracted to specific things. He likes—”

  “I thought the idea was to keep him away, not Summon him with arcane associatives.”

  “—certain woods,” Bradshaw continued grimly. “Primarily oak and holly.”

  “You’re reaching.” Alec started for the front door. “It’s just her name, Elias. And I don’t care if he’s attracted to caramel lattés. You can catch up when you’ve talked it into the ground.”

  “You’re not leaving. What you don’t know can kill any or all of us.”

  All the smooth cream charm of the man turned to hydrochloric acid. “I know Nicholas Orlov and I know Holly McClure. That’s enough for me.”

  “HOw FAR IS IT? Holly asked, peering through the windshield into the night.

  “Not very.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t get lost, the way Ian did on the way back this evening.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know he was upset and all—what with Noel coercing him into leaving with that note—which reminds me, do you think your Come-Hither will work on Noel?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Nicky, talk to me!”

  “Lovely weather for October.” When she growled, a tiny smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Very well. I’m curious about something. You never even turned your head to look when we passed the World Trade Center location tonight.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I was just wondering. After all, looking is compulsory. As if we’re all hoping it was all a nightmare, and the Towers are still standing.”

  “And the fear and anger and grief come back all over again when we see that they aren’t. I don’t like reminders of failure. Especially not tonight.”

  A surprised snort escaped him. “‘Failure’? In what way?”

  “Why can’t we ever do anything useful?” she burst out. “Why can’t whichever of us who can look into the future see the important things, the catastrophic things?”

  “Why aren’t any of us omniscient? Because then, my dearest, we’d be gods.”

  “Now comes the oration about how we’re only human, and people not like us don’t understand that, and that’s why we hide. Heard it all before, Nicky.”

  “While obviously paying no attention whatsoever. Why did none of us foresee 9/11 ? The answer might be that we weren’t looking. Maybe we wouldn’t have believed it if we saw. Who would have believed? Or perhaps the answer is that anything so unspeakably evil—call it a miasma surrounding it, so that anyone even glimpsing it must needs look away or be infected by that evil.”

  “You believe that?”

  He was quiet for a time. Then: “I believe in Creation.”

  “Creation,” she echoed, watching his face.

  “Yes. We come closest to Deity when we create—whether it’s a work of art, a friendship, a baby, a marriage, a satisfying meal, laughter, the smile on the face of a child.” He broke off with a shrug. “Don’t most of us venerate, in one form or another, the Creator of All? Something results from a creative act. Destruction is just the opposite. An emptiness is left, most obviously on the skyline, most terribly in people’s hearts.”

  “The Eagles,” she said suddenly. “‘There’s a hole in the world tonight—’”

  “But with what do we fill the void? More hatred? More destruction?” He shook his head. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

  “Why, then?” she cried. “What’s the point? So I create something, I write a book—big fucking deal!”

  “That book is read by thousands, maybe millions, the vast majority of whom will learn something, see something differently, be inspired to go looking for more information, or simply have a good time during the hours they spend reading. You add to people’s lives. What you create touches them in some way.”
r />   “That’s not why I write, Nicky,” she protested.

  “I know. But it’s the result you end up with all the same.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question—”

  “Why do we never do anything useful?” When she nodded, he gave a quiet sigh. “We are what we are, Holly. Society labels us Witches for convenience’ sake, just the way it pigeonholes everyone. Gay or straight, able-bodied or handicapped, religious or atheist, patriot or traitor—most of the categories are opposites, and that’s for convenience’ sake, too. We subscribe to it because we’re part of society. Us, the Witches—and Them, the Normals. But why should any group hold more responsibility than any other?”

  “Responsi—”

  “That’s what you’re getting at, whether you realize it or not. Because of our magic, do we have a greater responsibility? Should any of us have foreseen—?”

  “People with gifts, whatever they are, have an obligation to use them.”

  “Ah, but who decides how those gifts ought to be used? The state-run ‘from each according to his abilities’ tactic has been tried, and it didn’t work. Millions died in the purges and gulags before it was finally admitted that it didn’t work.”

  “So we all have to make the choices and decisions for ourselves?”

  “Yes. We do. So,” he went on, slowing the car and pulling it to the side of the road, “is any individual’s responsibility to humankind greater than any other individual’s? No.”

  “It’s the Good Samaritan story,” Holly blurted. “The man categorized by everyone as outcast was the only one who helped. He recognized his obligation.”

  “Thereby saving a life, which is creation of a sort.”

  “But he did something more,” she insisted. “What he created was a connection—the old Chinese saying that if you save a life, you’re responsible for it.”

  “It’s better to be responsible for a life saved than for a life destroyed.” Switching off the engine, he said, “And now to create a diversion, so we can get your marshal and that silly woman out of this mess. Do you know she actually had the impudence to flirt with my Alyosha?”

  ALEC SINGLETON HAD HOT-WIRED THE Lincoln and was gone before Elias had even fully explained to the others that Holly and Nicholas had left. What remained of his Circle—Kate, Ian, Martin, Simon, and Lydia—readied themselves with renewed determination for what Elias now knew would be a battle royal. The six of them got into Kate’s SUV and Martin’s Porsche for the drive to The Hyacinths, uneventful but for Martin’s missing a turn. Kate slowed, waiting for the Porsche to catch up again, and as Elias squinted into the side-view mirror he began to swear under his breath.

  “Problem?” Simon asked from the backseat.

  “Of course not,” he growled. “Life is wonderful. Everything’s just peachy. Kate, pull over.”

  She did so, mystified, parking just beyond a streetlamp. Elias jumped down and stalked over to a white Mercedes that rolled to a sedate halt in the gravel beside the road. From the driver’s side emerged a tall, distinguished, silver-haired gentleman who approached Elias with both hands outstretched like Christ beckoning the little children to come unto him.

  “Reverend, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “THIS IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE most pretentious house I’ve ever seen,” Holly commented as she and Nick walked through wet grass toward The Hyacinths. The place was minimally lit by outdoor floodlights that accented a turret here, a tower there, a goodly section of walls, and most of the courtyard.

  “Snob,” Nick accused. “You just naturally incline toward white columns, Spanish moss, and verandahs.”

  “I’ve been known to hanker after a castle or two in my day. D’you think it has secret staircases and hidden passages and everything?”

  “Restrain yourself, child. Let me concentrate.”

  They circled the house. Occasionally Nick stopped to stare up at a turret or a spire, then shake his head. Apart from the sporadic floodlights there was no illumination, and this place needed lamps glowing from every window or risk major spookiness. The breeze, faintly smelling of the nearby ocean, got colder. Holly hunched her shoulders inside her heavy wool coat, balled her fists inside her pockets, and wished she’d brought gloves.

  They were almost back at the front, not having found any useful points of entry, when her sinuses began to itch. Nick turned suddenly, caught her rubbing her nose, and grinned in the gloom.

  “Sure you don’t have some Southern bloodhound in your ancestry?”

  “What?”

  “Follow your nose.”

  WITH A DRAWLING INDIFFERENCE DISTINCTLY at odds with his mood, Lachlan said, “Guess you’ll have to wait for the Spellbinder’s blood.”

  “Shut up,” Noel ordered. “Why did this happen? This isn’t supposed to happen.”

  Denise was staring at Lachlan, eyes wide with speculation. Her look made him antsy, a feeling aggravated by the reeking incense that wisped around the cellar like an inversion layer of smog. Noel’s hand came back around within sight, naked blade gripped between forefinger and thumb. Lachlan drew away as far as he could. It wasn’t far. But the movement was enough to jostle Noel’s arm, and the steel glided harmlessly across skin.

  Lachlan smelled the man’s breath as he hissed his exasperation, and though not exactly foul, neither was it minty-fresh. It just smelled weird. Noel dug his fingers deep into Evan’s hair, dragging his head back and to the side, exposing his neck like a Mithras bull’s for sacrificial slaughter. From this angle Noel’s face was visible: lips stiff with annoyance, pinpoint pupils centered in the arctic blue of his eyes. So he had taken something. Lachlan wondered what it was.

  “Third time’s the charm?” Denise asked sweetly.

  Noel was so startled that he dropped the blade. Its point caught in a link of the chain around Lachlan’s neck. He plucked it free and tugged at the necklace. Lachlan felt the medal just below his breastbone move fractionally and then stop as if snagged on chest hair. Which was ridiculous, because he didn’t have much chest hair. Noel worked a finger beneath the chain at Evan’s collarbone, pulling. The medal stayed where it was.

  “What the fuck is that?” he demanded, moving back.

  As it had been earlier when they’d shaken hands, when Noel had slapped his back, when he had touched him the first time to try for his blood, the lack of him was an acute relief. Evan rolled his head, trying to ease the muscles.

  “The necklace.” The hands were back, feeling through his sweater. “Just above the diaphragm,” Noel muttered. The knife sliced through luxurious cashmere, from the neck halfway to Lachlan’s waist. “This is what I sensed earlier. She gave you this, didn’t she? There’s magic all over it.”

  “St. Michael,” he offered, trying to sound helpful. Pretty sure he sounded drunk. He felt drunk. “Patron of law enforcement. It’s from Rome—it’s even been blessed by the Pope.” He wished he could cross himself, just to see the reaction.

  “I said magic, not religious trickery! I can smell her blood! When did she give you this? What does it do?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  Denise giggled. “Can’t you feel it? No, course you can’t.” She tilted her head around to smile mockery at Noel. He backhanded her. She cried out, blood gushing from her nose.

  “That make you feel like a real man?” Lachlan snarled furiously. “You gotta knock a woman around before you can get it up?”

  All at once Noel darted from behind the bench. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what? I didn’t hear anything. Did you hear something?” Lachlan kept talking to cover up any noise Noel might actually have heard. The flush of anger seemed to have cleared his head again—he’d have to remember that adrenaline could be very useful. “Might be a deer or the wind or somethin’—”

  “Shut up! There’s someone outside.” Noel cocked his head, listening intently.

  This time Evan heard it, too: one ordinary, everyday sneeze.

  WHAT REVEREND
FLEMING WAS DOING there did not enter into his explanation of how he had arrived. Kate’s house being at the end of a cul-de-sac, it had been simplicity itself to wait on the main street, unobserved, for cars to emerge. Holly’s black BMW had excited conjecture, but no other cars had followed. Then had come Bradshaw’s Lincoln, but without Bradshaw inside it; the Reverend had almost followed, but only a few minutes later the SUV and the Porsche left within moments of each other, making the same turn as the first two cars. So he’d set off in pursuit.

  Simon assumed a harmless, genial, absentminded professor demeanor. “Reverend, I sympathize with your loss. But I can’t understand why you’d be following any of us at all. We’re just going out to dinner.”

  “I’ve been following Judge Bradshaw, or having him followed, ever since I heard about the death of his paramour.”

  Elias growled low in his throat. Simon hastily asked, “To what purpose? What makes you think—?”

  “Please, sir, spare me the prevarications.” The hand wearing a Yale Divinity School ring waved away Simon’s protestation like a bothersome insect. “I know where you’re going tonight, and it isn’t to a restaurant. You are heading for The Hyacinths, and on the night of Hallowe’en.”

  Now, Elias thought, they would be treated to a tirade on the Fundamentalist Christian condemnation thereof. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped. “Reverend, I strongly advise you to go home and minister to your flock—mong which I am not to be counted. Simon, Kate, get back in the car. We’re out of here.”

  “Please.”

  Bradshaw turned slightly, looking at the man over his shoulder. “‘Please’?”

  “It is not a word I use often,” the Reverend admitted. “But I want to know who murdered my son. I want—I need—to see his killer brought to justice. And so I say to you—please.”

  Kate threw Elias a speculative glance, then moved toward the preacher, the lone streetlight shining on the pale blonde of her loosened hair. “I don’t think you understand,” she said gently. “Two people are held hostage. We can’t call in the police—this man would escape them. He is beyond the reach of legal authorities.”