Sorcerer's Legacy

by Caroline Spear

  A muscled jumped in his jaw. “You’re not imposing. You haven’t asked me to do anything I didn’t want to do.” He pulled her into his arms.

  Leaning into his warm embrace, she inhaled his now familiar scent. For the first time in her life, she felt whole. “What can you do?”

  His smile held a secret. “Much more than you can imagine.”

  She grinned and chuckled. “More than control fire?”

  He raised a cocky eyebrow. “Much more.”

  What the hell. She didn’t have anything to lose.

  She had been curious about his abilities. She’d reined in her vivid imagination, but now she wondered. Could he fly? Make things disappear?

  Over a quiet meal, she sensed his forced enthusiasm as he distracted her with immaterial small talk about the weather, movies, and music. Who cared what temperature it was in New York City in the summer? Screw the weather. Screw everything.

  Doubts she’d be able to walk away from him built like a thunderhead on a humid summer day. Who was she fooling? She’d leave with her heart broken. Worse, would she even have a shred of evidence to follow to find her father’s identity? Would she care?

  Her hand clenched into a fist. Bitterness rose in her throat, burning, stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force her stomach to stop churning.

  His warm hand covered hers.

  “Shh. Becca, it’ll be all right. I’ll make it all right. I swear.”

  Her frustration and anxiety melted away with the certainty he’d keep his word. Hope sprouted.

  ***

  “Isn’t it dangerous, Ian? Remember the last time?”

  Apprehension skittered up her spine as Becca trekked through the woods back to the secluded beach. An owl hooted and she started, surprised.

  Ian’s fingers squeezed her hand. “Darling, you are safe with me. Besides, Rekkus dressed those young wolves down. I guarantee they are locked down at the bunker, battling each other on some video game.”

  “Okay.” Still, something was off. Something wasn’t right.

  “Come on. What you’ll see will amaze you.”

  “You amaze me.”

  “You humble me, Becca.”

  He shifted the bag he’d stuffed with a blanket and candles as they arrived at the cove. After assisting her down to the beach, he dropped the bag and pulled her to him. Sinking into his kiss, she struggled with the rising disappointment roiling in her stomach.

  Tears welled in her eyes. He wiped the moisture from her cheeks. His voice low and rough, he said, “You do not know how much this hurts me, too. I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”

  “What about your wife?”

  A sad smile turned up the corners of his lips. “I loved her. Of course, I did. But she was my friend. We got along. Really, more a contract than a relationship.” His lips caressed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheeks. “This, us, is completely different. I can’t control what I feel for you. You make me feel so much it almost hurts.”

  “Me, too.”

  He stared into her eyes for what seemed like minutes before he sucked in a breath. “Let’s find out what this scroll knows.”

  He spread the blanket on the sand. Candles circled the blanket. With a flick of Ian’s wrist, the flames speared up on their wicks.

  With the full moon glinting off the calm waters of the sea, this place, this man entranced her.

  They knelt on the blanket, their knees touching. He gazed into her eyes and placed the scroll between them. Chanting in a foreign tongue—probably Welsh—Ian laid his hands on the ancient parchment.

  What he said was anyone’s guess.

  Wind swirled about them with the unfamiliar chant, yet the candles continued to flicker. Like a benign tornado, air spun visibly around them, separating them from anything and everything else. The moon, ripe and bright, shone down on them like a spotlight as if all the magic in the world centered on them. Who knew? Truth was stranger than fiction.

  Ian’s eyes glittered, lit from within. Green fire danced in their depths.

  God help me. I’m getting giddy and silly.

  A smile stretched across his face, revealing his perfect teeth. “I’d forgotten the simple joy of magick. I got so bogged down in the day-to-day business of governing, I lost the connection.” He looked at his hands in wonder as if he didn’t recognize them then chuckled and clasped them together like caging a firefly gently between his palms. With a single motion, he threw his hands to the sky, releasing a shower of periwinkle sparks into the swirling winds.

  She gaped at the spectacle then lowered her gaze to the happy man before her. Wide smile, relaxed features, intense eyes, he let his guard completely down and let her in. His pleasure warmed her heart. His smile faded and he firmed his mouth.

  “Let’s find out about this scroll.”

  Ah, back to business. With a nod as the only acknowledgment, Becca fought the sinking of her heart. He was not hers to lose. Their relationship could only be temporary. How would she ever forget a man like Ian?

  With one hand cradling the scroll, he took her hands and placed them on the parchment. Laying his other hand on top, he began chanting. Her rational mind identified the words as foreign while her intuitive side, the side that had never questioned magick, understood every one.

  “Myrddin, father of my father, the first and the evermore, grant our wish to see the past. We wish to understand the significance of the product of your mind and your soul. We do not seek glory or power or riches, only answers. Let it be.”

  Murmuring began, like a rustling of leaves, building to a roar. The vortex of wind changed to fire. A scream stuck in her throat.

  Let it wash over you. Through you. Don’t fight it, love. Breathe.

  His familiar, beloved voice in her mind calmed her. If he said it would be all right, it would be.

  The flames lowered, the noise dulled, and the winds died. Before them, a watery pale blue wall shimmered with images of a young couple leaving a cave.

  Myrddin.

  Who was the woman?

  He paused for a moment then gripped her hand. Had he connected with his ancestor in some metaphysical way? Like revisiting a past life? How did the scroll play a role in her own past?

  Ian interrupted her curiosity.

  Her name is Anwyn. I’ve never heard Myrddin had a lover at this time of his life. Nor the name Anwyn. Only of his sister bringing him food and supplies from time to time.

  Anwyn, whose long red hair riotously curled about her face, clung to Myrddin. His eyes squeezed closed as he pulled her into a tight embrace. No sound resonated from the wavering scene, but the utter anguish was palpable. Myrddin raised his head, murmured to Anwyn, and unwound her arms from him. Clearly, he was sending her away, and it killed them both inside.

  Becca’s heart clenched as a fist of misery tightened in her chest. Her heartache mirrored Anwyn’s. She would leave her love in a couple of days. How would she learn to live without the man who made her hopes and dreams reality? He was her heart.

  As Anwyn shambled away, her sight obviously obscured by tears, Myrddin hung his head and tore at his hair. He dropped to his knees and rocked forward, planting his forehead on the bare ground.

  The scene dispersed like mist in the late morning sun.

  Ian turned her face toward him with his fingers on her chin. “Darling, don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it.” She accepted the handkerchief he offered and blew her nose. “Did you find out how the scroll relates to me?” With luck, he’d communicated with Myrddin on a psychic level to get the answers she needed.

  “Yes. Your ancestor Anwyn carried his baby. We’re very distantly related cousins. Probably at least thirty times removed.”

  Having a common ancestor from centuries before didn’t faze her. What rocked her was how fate seemed to weigh more than free will. And that neither of them seemed willing to fight for love.

  “I
guess that makes us kissing cousins.” She tried for a laugh but instead a sob broke from her lips. Sorrow swamped her. “She left him, just like I’ll leave you. Both our hearts broken.”

  He shimmered before her watery eyes. “Be mine then, fy nghariad.”

  Sure she hadn’t heard correctly, she shook her head. “Be yours?”

  His crooked smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes. Mate your soul with mine.”

  Her world crumbling, her heart breaking, she wordlessly agreed. Why not? The memory of one perfect night with her white knight to embrace when she returned to the real world.

  “How?” She sniffed and wiped her face on her arms.

  “Listen to your heart and your soul. Magick is in your blood. If you let go, we will unite.”

  She nodded, her heart blocking any words from escaping her lips.

  He cradled her face in his hands like she was the most precious work of art or delicate artifact. “We kiss. See us together in your mind; let your soul come to mine.” He nipped at her lips. “You’ll lose your breath, but I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Trust me.”

  “I do, Ian. I love you.”

  He smiled, this time with his eyes. “I love you, too, Becca. Always.”

  He kissed her gently, brushing her mouth lightly, teasing her lips apart with a swipe of his tongue. With a whimper, she opened to him, sliding her tongue along his in an intimate dance.

  She allowed her mind to drift. Fog and mist swirled around his body in the distance. They floated closer, feet never touching the ground.

  Their bodies twined; their mouths met; their souls fused. Bright light burst, blinding her and heating her body. Lightheaded blackness began to suck her under as her lungs began to burn.

  His voice whispered in her head, a port in the storm. Trust me.

  I do. Always.

  ***

  “What the fuck did you do, Chairman?”

  Cyrus stalked toward him, fury turning his normally stoic face into a mask of rage. Rage pulsed off him, bouncing off Ian in waves. His emotional barrier crumbled. Aware they were in the lobby, Ian checked to see who else was around. Thank the gods only Myron stood guard at her desk, flipping her ever-present cards.

  Ian didn’t need this shit this morning. He pulled himself together as best he could. Sleepless hours grieving had robbed him of the peace he’d found since arriving at Wiccan Haus, since finding Becca Jones.

  He faced Cyrus who stood with a stiff, someone-pissed-in-his-oatmeal stance.

  “What did you do to Becca, Branson?”

  Fear gripped his heart. “What do you mean? Is she hurt?”

  Cyrus’s nostrils flared.

  “No, she’s just lost.” He poked a finger in Ian’s chest. “What did you do? What the fuck kind of magick did you do to her?” His gaze dropped to Ian’s hand where a ruby ring glinted on his pinky. “Did you wipe her memory so you could steal that scroll and her ring?” Cyrus grabbed Ian’s shirt and twisted. “You bastard. You sicken me.” With an impatient shove, he thrust Ian away from him like a steaming, stinking bag of dog shit.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Oh, fuck. What have I done?

  “Like you care, you asshat.” With a glance at Ian’s face, he clenched his jaw, seeming to reassess the situation slightly. “She’s walking around in a daze, and she doesn’t remember you at all. As if part of her mind is gone.”

  Ian scrubbed his hands over his scruffy face. He knew better. Of course, he knew better. Wiccan code warned every spell must be done with the right intention. Whatever energy sent out inevitably came back threefold.

  After mating their souls—and allowing himself a few treasured moments of true peace and tranquility—he’d cast a spell to wipe any memory of him from her brain. He’d spared her the pain of losing their love.

  He’d cast the spell also to protect her from her heritage. She’d descended from Myrddin the sorcerer, and magick ran in her blood. If she never knew, she’d never develop those powers and never be in danger.

  Ian had to see her to know what side effects the spell had created. Cyrus stood in his way.

  “Where is she?” Ian had to determine if she was fine.

  “Why? You already know all there is to know, don’t you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, and I tried to warn you, Chairman.” Cyrus sneered the title, his lip curling in disgust. “She’s an innocent, but she deserves to know who she is, what she is. You left her defenseless. Sooner or later, her abilities will present, and she’ll question her sanity. Or she’ll discover her ancestry another way and everything may come back to her.” The big man’s eyes narrowed. “What will you do then, Chairman?”

  Helplessness, double what he’d arrived with, hammered him, along with a strong sucker punch of fury to the chest.

  Fuck, what the hell does Cyrus expect from me? What do any of them expect? I don’t need this shit. Why the hell do I have to shoulder all the responsibility?

  Anger coiled in his belly and the muscles in his biceps tensed. He shoved Cyrus back. Hard. Cyrus stumbled a couple of steps before planting his feet and clenching his fists. Ian ground his teeth and balled his own fists, ready to take on the dangerous Rowan brother. Heedless that Cyrus would surely beat him to a bloody pulp, Ian could not control his baser emotions.

  Trixie’s voice caught his attention. “This way, Becca. We’ll have some breakfast.” She spoke as if to a child.

  Ian turned his head, dread sliding into his heart, displacing the furious tension.

  Becca.

  Trixie, ever serene, guided Becca with her arm hooked through hers. Confusion and frustration rammed into his gut. Ian could not shut out the emotions slamming into him, especially not his mate’s. His own sorrow and loss almost brought him to his knees.

  He turned back to Cyrus to apologize.

  Thunk.

  Sharp pain erupted from his jaw. He wiggled it, wincing from the sting to test it. It wasn’t broken. Cyrus’s anger sapped slightly; he absently rubbed his knuckles.

  Ian sighed. He had no desire to fight back. He deserved a beating for hurting Becca with a thoughtless, selfish spell. Ultimately, he’d erased her memory to avoid his own guilt. He’d gladly have taken the backlash. Instead, sweet Becca suffered.

  Worse, he couldn’t take it back, couldn’t undo what he’d done.

  ***

  Having everyone’s emotions bombard him drove Ian mad. To get away, he ran the trails on the island. Lungs burning, muscles like jelly, he pushed until he reached exhaustion. Breathless and depressed, he stumbled over a root near where the wolf had attacked them.

  If only he’d trusted his powers to protect her. If only he’d fully taken her as his mate, taken her into his world, into his life.

  He lay on his back and stared up into the overhanging branches. Had sorrow so besieged Myrddin after sending his woman and their baby away that he’d gone crazy? The historical record supported the crazed wild man in the Welsh woods legend. He’d gone on to become a powerful sorcerer. Would he have been so powerful with a mate?

  “Ian?”

  Again, Trixie appeared. He’d understood her to be one of the human Wiccan Haus staff. Maybe he was confused. Anything seemed possible at this point.

  She stood over him for a moment, seeming to ponder his prone position on the ground. She dropped to the ground and folded her legs in her familiar pose. With a tilt to her head, she gazed at him.

  “Ian. You are troubled.”

  Her serenity grated on his frayed nerves. At least her emotions weren’t beating him up.

  He huffed out a breath. “Thought Cemil was the empath.”

  Her eyebrow raised and one corner of her mouth quirked, acknowledging his sarcasm. “I don’t have to be psychic to recognize pain.”

  No, his pain probably radiated from him like a reactor in terminal meltdown. Anyone not deaf, dumb, and blind could see how fucked up he was.

&nbs
p; “How is Becca?”

  “Lost. Strange how she doesn’t know who you are.”

  Pain seared through his veins, but he clamped his lips shut. Trixie seemed a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for. Smart people kept their mouths closed and their ears open.

  “You’ve broken her, Ian.”

  “I—”

  “No, just listen. She’s lost her sense of who she is. And I suspect you’re feeling a bit the same. You think you’re protecting her, but by taking away her knowledge of the scroll and the ring, you stole a part of her.”

  Trixie easily rose to her feet and pinned him with a pitying look. “The thing is, you need her.”

  He shook his head. His inner voice—or maybe Myrddin—called him a liar.

  She frowned at him. “You need her to ground you. As an empath, emotions are electrical impulses that can overload your system. Strong feelings are like lightning, but when you are grounded, you can channel the power into the earth safely.”

  He could not deny the truth of her statement. He’d hoped the experience of being with Becca would carry him through the worst onslaughts of fury, passion, and anxiety. In fact, sending her away decreased his ability to control his reactions tenfold.

  “You need her as your mate, too. You’re meant for each other. I see it. I feel it. Make it right.”

  “I can’t.” He hated the helplessness smothering him. Fuck.

  “Sarka can.” Trixie shrugged. Nobody liked asking Sarka Rowan for help. With her razor-sharp tongue and acidic attitude, nobody liked asking her anything.

  As Trixie ran off down the trail back to the Haus, he considered her observations. She’d nailed him on every point. The answer was simple yet hard to swallow. Prostrating himself before Sarka, the Dark One, tore at his pride, yet he must.

  He dragged himself to his feet and shuffled along the trail in Trixie’s wake.

  A stiff drink—or three—would give him liquid courage before facing the dark sorceress in her lair.

  May the gods take pity on me.