by kimberly
"Rest, dear, rest." She turned pleading eyes to Morgan. "She's the child of my child. If she dies, the Blackthorne legacy dies with her. I don't want that to happen."
"You knew it must someday come to its end," he said. "Let her go. Why waste time on her?" He shook his head as he walked away.
Anlese released a scoffing sound. "Says you!"
"Aye, says me!" he spat over his shoulder.
"And no one knows more about self-preservation than you, correct?" Her words were a thorn, pointed and sharp, and had she pushed it deep.
"Please. My lack thereof is not the subject." He spread his hands in an arc of impatience. "You know I believe all mortals are a hindrance."
"Even those of us who have served you faithfully?"
Morgan assumed a defensive posture, folding his arms across his chest. "Twisting my words on me, Anlese?"
"Of course." Her voice had lost all its strength and dropped to a whisper. "I'll do anything to save my granddaughter."
"Anything?" He impassively appraised her small form, wondering what the old woman would possibly have to offer.
"Yes," she answered evenly. "Even sell you my soul."
"What about hers?" Morgan demanded. "Cassandra took her away. Would you offer her to me now?" He smiled, but only in an indifferent way, deliberately shadowing his tone with sarcasm. "Sorry, but I am not interested. The only soul that concerns me presently is my own."
Anlese bowed her head. "My ancestors vowed to serve you. I, too, gave an oath to guard your secrets. All I ask is that you help me preserve her life."
Morgan knitted his brows in consternation, but gave no sharp words of rebuke. He could not fail to notice the slight tremor of the old woman's hands, the hesitancy before she was able to swallow. Anyone lacking complete mastery over their feelings immediately drew his displeasure. He was not a man given to unrestrained displays of intimate and heartfelt emotion. A stoic, he seldom wasted time mourning for what was--or would be--lost. Instead, he set his jaw, hardened his heart, and accepted. That was the way he was composed, the way he had always been.
"It is within your power." She hurried to fill the silence that had fallen between them. "I ask you, no, beg you beg you--help me heal her and she will belong to you."
"I do not want her. I have no need of her." Unfolding his arms, he jabbed an angry finger at Julienne. "Is she even worthy of your pleas?
"She's worthy. She has a strong history of ritual and tradition to preserve. If she grows into the Wicca, she'll be a fine witch."
Morgan could not help pursuing one final argument. "And what if she is like Cassandra? Mocking your ways to walk her own path?"
"Like you?" Anlese reminded, gently prodding. "You, too, denied your heritage, despite the cards Fate dealt you."
He gave a slight nod in acknowledgement of her words. "To my eternal regret."
"Then don't let this become one of your regrets."
He pursed his lips, then drew them into a thin line. "I swore I would not go back to the practice, Anlese."
"Can't you? Think of someone beside yourself, Morgan. You have the ability. I don't. I can't help her by myself."
"You do not know what you ask," he said, shaking his head.
"I do," she countered. "And I ask."
Morgan ran his hands through his thick mane, ruffling the untamed mass. Her request engendered complicated feelings within him, all kinds that he had no desire to confront. Through her eyes, he knew that he must seem cold, an unfeeling ogre who would take a young woman's life without a second thought…or remorse. But those eyes also saw that under his veneer of absolute order were tiny hairline cracks--his psyche shot through with the empathy he had been conditioned from childhood to suppress.
To appease Anlese and keep the peace, I could let her live through this night, he told himself. What I decide for her later will be of no consequence.
The atmosphere of the room was beginning to stifle him, the cloying scent of the incense changing suddenly from relieving to sickening. The smell of it curdled his blood and turned his stomach. He could not think in such a place. He had to get out. He needed time to think, clear his head.
Going to the French doors, he twisted the knobs, threw them wide, and strode out onto the balcony. The night air was clean, perfumed with that unique smell of dewy cold grass and wood smoke from the fires that warmed the manor. The bite of the brisk air soothed him, for it seemed his own skin had taken on a fever. The sky above was a luminescent haze of mixed purples and grays. Clouds had rolled in earlier, low to the ground; blanketing the earth in moist fog, they played hide and seek with the half moon. Magenta shadows formed, rimmed with just a hint of gold. The breeze that sent the clouds skipping across the sky gently ruffled its feathery fingers through his dark hair, hardly doing damage to its untamed style.
He tilted back his head and studied the night sky, the placement of the stars. This time was his world. The night calmed him. In this mortal realm, he belonged only to the darkness, not the austere lines of the unforgiving day. He lived for the night, longing for a world with no sun in its sky, a world lit only by translucent mists that covered a rocky wasteland. He realized he no longer belonged among humans. Indeed, he never had. Born into their world, he had never been one of them.
Leaning against the balcony rail, Morgan cast his gaze over the land. The gardens behind the house, so meticulously groomed, gave way to uncultivated wilderness as his eyes progressed. The gentle zephyrs of the witching hour sang of its secrets, whispering lyrical tales of creation. He cocked his head, listening to the sounds that came to life only during the hours of darkness. In the year 1738. That was when he had established Blackthorne, founding his mortal coven. He had granted it life, his very blood, so that it would not only survive but flourish. The land still prospered, but the women were dying off.
He reached into an inner pocket of his vest and drew out a slim silver cigarette case. Flicking it open, he selected one of the thin brown cylinders. Tamping it smartly against the case to tighten the tobacco, he planted it in the corner of his mouth. A gold lighter emerged from his trouser pocket and he lit it in a single sure move. Thick bluish smoke rose from its tip. The breeze stirred the air around him, taking into itself the rich, foreign scent of dark tobacco mixed with pungent sweet cloves.
Taking a deep draw, he savored the scorch of smoke on his throat and in his lungs. Catching it in the V of two fingers, he lowered it, exhaling the smoke. The cigarette smoldered bright red in the hazy light emanating from the half-naked lady moon above. Just like Julienne's lips.
She has not even been here twelve hours and already I am back puffing the fags like a fiend. These were not the images he should entertain of her. Did he not possess any self-control? Surely she has not buitchit, bewitched me?
A preposterous notion. No Blackthorne woman, including Cassandra, had ever affected him in such a way. Why should Julienne? In her present state she was nothing more than skin and bone. He quashed the idea that he was attracted to her. He had never given his heart to any woman; he certainly was not about to part with that vital organ now. He was too cynical to believe in love. Lust, yes. He recognized its need and had fallen prey to it often. He enjoyed the thrill of pursuing the opposite sex. Chasing a woman down, breaking her resistance, wooing her into his bed…and then leaving her without a word.
He gave himself a hard mental shake, shattering Julienne's image in the mirror of his mind. Hardly a man given to sentiment, he was finding it difficult to put his feelings aside where she was concerned. Like her mother, she was willful, capricious and wholly female. She had a fiery spirit, one he would relish breaking, taking down as one would a wild bucking horse. He had to be realistic, though. Julienne was not a woman he should fall in love with. In his world, love did not exist.
I cannot let myself be taken by her, he warned himself. I have the oddest feeling she is…
Dangerous?
Trouble waiting for me…
When had such an id
ea taken its seed? Though he would deny his feeling of apprehension, he had the premonition that, if allowed to live, Julienne Blackthorne would prove to be a thorn in his side. Like Eve with the apple, she would tempt him mightily, lure him to the…what? That, he could not yet predict. Danger, however, appealed to his self-destructive character. For the moment, what else did he have to keep life interesting?
He turned his mind back to the plea Anlese had made. All she asked was that he help save Julienne's life. He stifled an inner shiver. Far from being cold, he was surprised that Cassandra's daughter had managed to affect him in such a deeply personal way. His attraction to her reminded him of another woman in his past.
Nisidia.
Circling the material of her sash around his hands…
Morgan grimaced and his expression darkened to a scowl. There were moments of such pain in his life that he felt like he was descending into a black cave of rage and despair. The first thought that comes with unearthing a secret grave in one's own mind is--did he really have to try and bury it that deep to forget what he'd done? Once opened, then exposed, these vague sensations never failed to waft back into the forefront of consciousness like apparitions. He'd gone to that place he thought was safe inside himself, his private purgatory. There, despair was conceived, the searing memories that would remain forever inside.
The sash going around her neck…
You will live with what you did to her to the end of your days. Bile burned the back of his throat. It was fitting that he never forget, lest he be tempted to return to what he was then, when his own wrath had been like a rabid beast on a chain about to snap.
Lifting his cigarette, he was surprised to see it had burned down to the filter. Lost in contemplation, he hadn't noticed it smoldering away. He hadn't even taken a second drag. He frowned severely at the thoughts running freely through his mind. One would believe they governed their own mind, but somehow the brain had a way of letting loose when attention was elsewhere. He killed the coals by smashing the cigarette in the palm of his right hand, flicking the filter over the balcony in a single fluid motion, brushing his hands lightly together to clean away lingering ash. As he watched it fly, a vein pulsed on his left temple. He winced, brought up short by the spike of pain zipping like lightning through his skull.
"Dammit!" He cursed through gritted teeth. His hand lifted to stay the throbbing in his head but stopped midway. To give into it prematurely would show weakness. He fisted his hand and drew it down to his side. Betraying even a hint of his agony was the surest way to upset the fragile poise that kept him functioning.
Each time it comes I lose a bit more of myself.
There was no time to think of the curse he could not fight. It would be days yet before it struck with full strength. It would do no good to fight it. He must force himself to concentrate on the coming days. The decisions he had made hung in the air over his head, a double-edged sword waiting to fall.
He did not close the doors when he entered back into Julienne's suite. Anlese looked up at him expectantly. She said nothing, waiting to hear what he would say.
"I will do as you ask," he said.
Anlese smiled, relieved that he was softening toward the idea.
"When I leave here, all ties are severed."
Turning his back, Morgan closed his eyes, rubbing them hard with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. Far from receding, his migraine was growing worse. A harsh taskmaster with a heavy belt and a vicious, unforgiving temper, it sat behind his eyes; a faceless beast clothed in a shroud of black corrugated with sanguineous rivulets. The beast laughed, snapping the lash hard through the soft tissue of his brain. Pain bolted through his skull. The vein in his temple leapt again. To break a mind was a very slow process. To injure a mind beyond its border of recovery takes concentrated dedication. His pain, his oppressor, was very thorough. It took its time.
Anlese sensed his distress. "Something's wrong?"
Her words filtered through his mental morass. "Of course not!" he snapped testily. "I was just thinking that any woman is a hindrance no matter her abilities!" His voice carried a tone that said he would not welcome further questions.
"You prefer her to die?"
Morgan did not turn. "No," he said over his shoulder. "Despite what you may think of me, I do not relish acting as death's angel. We waste time arguing. Have we not other things to think about?"
Anlese came up to him and placed her hand on his arm. "Then you will help her?"
He made a startled move, then, resisting the urge to shake off her hand, he said, "Yes."
Relief visibly flooded through her. Her haggard face became radiant with an almost-painful hope. "You're prepared?"
He could hold himself aloof no longer. "I am. Bring the ashes."
Anlese bowed. The darkness hid the glimmer of her grateful tears. "As you ask, I serve." She left the room, returning a few minutes later. She carried a small, finely carved box. Its contents were sacred to Wiccans, for it held the spirit of the trees the Celtic people revered. "Here is what you need."
Morgan squared his shoulders as he prepared to perform the rite that would save Julienne's life. Anlese silently followed, knowing her place in the ritual. He could feel the taut material of his shirt stretching across his back. Knotted with tension, his entire body ached. He was a bundle of raw nerves wrapped in a perfect package.
Not even the twitch of an eyelid betrayed the spiritual battle going on inside him. He thought he could hear the brush of wings spreading through the hovering silence, hear the sound of voices. Far away and ancient, were they singing praises to the gods…or were they moaning as they writhed in the agonies of damnation, the echoes of angels, fallen from grace?
I knew these bitter things would again come into my life. I swore I would not go back to the practice of the dark arts. The occult never lets one of its own go. First it drains, and then consumes. He could not stay the malignant thoughts festering in the back of his mind as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Going through with the ceremony would only worsen his pain. Why bring such misery down on his head?
Nisidia. Memory of her, of what he had done.
Tugging, the feeling of the material growing ever taut…
He bent over Julienne and placed a hand beside her shoulder to support his weight, careful not to disturb her. The cotton pillowcase was crisp and cool under his hand. He visually traced her features, taking his time to study her.
As a Celt hailing from the medieval age, he came from a people who highly valued female priestesses and their ability to give life. These women knew the secret power of words, stones and herbs. Earlier, Anlese had lovingly brushed and then braided Julienne's waist-length hair. The single thick rope lay over her left shoulder, tangling around her neck during her uneasy tossing. He carefully laid it aside, noting its lustrous sheen by the light of the candles; its natural copper tint was untouched by any artificial dyes, as red as glowing embers on a chill wintry night. Her face was a strong one, almost an exact replica of Cassandra's. Scars aside, her alabaster skin was amazingly clear, spattered lightly with a few flattering freckles. Emerald-green eyes, nose straight, chin strong and firm, forehead high, brows arched, a generous mouth made for kissing.
He reached out and traced the scars on her cheek. Though she did not open her eyes, she seemed to settle into a soothing rest, as if his touch banished the evil spirits tormenting her mind. She murmured softly, drawing in a deep, fortifying breath. Her heart assumed a steadier, stronger beat. By the light of the candles, her lips were enticingly crimson, as if all the rubies in the world had been gathered and crushed into a fine sparkling gloss. He recalled the feel of her skin beneath his fingers this afternoon, her searching gaze wanting so much to trust. In many ways he recognized that her soul was wounded, fragile as a newly spun web. She was weak, defenseless. If he so chose, he could end her existence on the face of this earth.
Blood is the tie that binds. If I do this, her life will be mine. She will belo
ng to me.
"Give me the ash."
Anlese opened the small chest and held it within his reach. Inside was a dried powdery substance, nothing more than wood burned down to a fine ash. Each fine dust particle had been carefully chosen for its magical properties: Ash, for healing, Broom to purify and protect, and Yew to harbor a soul from death to resurrection.
Morgan dipped into the ash and lifted out a handful. Beginning at the eastern point, he made a clockwise circle, daubing it around Julienne's head and shoulder so that an invisible circle of healing would be formed around her. Her mortal life had to be extinguished; he would take and hold her living breath within himself. When her weak body was repaired, he would restore it. He lifted his gaze.
"It has been a long time, Anlese, since I last said these words. Do not falter in the invocation of the litany or she will not cross over."
Anlese smiled gently, reassuringly. "I will not fail you."
He paused, then began. "I consecrate this circle of protection to the gods of our people. Here, may they manifest and guard this woman with their blessings." His accented voice lent the simple words a mellifluous charm.
"May the ancient spirits help and guard you on your journey," Anlese intoned, bowing her head in reverence.
Morgan reached out and stroked Julienne's forehead with the ash, anointing her with the strength of the trees. "I call upon the four powers to behold this rite." He lifted and crossed her arms across her chest, making an X of her overlapping wrists.
"The circle is bound, with protection all 'round," Anlese chanted perfectly in continuance. "Between the worlds shall she stand, with protection at her hand."
Morgan bent close, whispering in Julienne's ear the final passage of the rite. "You will go to a place that is not a place, in a time that is not a time, on a day that is not a day. You shall stand at the threshold between the realms, before the vale of fire. May the gods show mercy and return you wholly."
He lowered his mouth to hers. His lips brushed hers once, lightly, and then settled hard. Denied oxygen, she struggled briefly, but he easily overpowered her, pinning both her wrists to her torso. Inhaling her breath into his lungs, he slowly drew away. Eyelids fluttering like the wings of tiny hummingbirds, her body shuddered as she gasped to take in precious air.
