But even as he yearned to run to her, he couldn’t find the energy to move. He was trapped in the world of the eyes, and they wouldn’t let him go. Would never let him go, he fatally accepted, as they swarmed in on him until he could no longer see the woman.
As he lost sight of her, her voice began to fade until there was nothing left but a deafening silence and the eyes. They were his punishment—his torture—and they’d be there always and forever.
RYAN ALDEN BOLTED upright in bed. His body was slicked with sweat and trembling uncontrollably. As his gaze flew around the dark room, it took him a moment to remember where he was.
When he finally recalled that he was in some shabby motel room in the foothills of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, he drew in a ragged breath. Then he dragged his hands across his face, trying to dispel the remnants of the nightmare. But even as he performed the act, he knew there was only one sure way he could escape the dream. He had to outrun it, just as he’d been outrunning it for the past six months.
Switching on the bedside lamp, he climbed out of bed and hurriedly donned the clothes that, according to his watch, he’d shed only an hour ago. Thankfully, he hadn’t even unpacked his shaving kit, so he could leave immediately. Grabbing his motorcycle helmet and his duffel bag off the floor, he headed for the door.
Outside, his Harley Davidson gleamed in the light of the full moon. He strapped the duffel bag onto the back, pulled on his helmet, and swung astride the bike. Moments later, he was on the road, with the warm, spring air flowing over him. He didn’t know where the road went, but as long as it took him away from the eyes, he didn’t care.
The leashed power of the bike vibrated beneath him like an eager stallion begging for its head. Ryan recognized the danger of giving into the allure of speed. He was on an unfamiliar, twisting mountain road at night. One mistake and he could end up dead.
That in itself was an enticement, because that’s why he had bought the motorcycle. He wanted to challenge death until it finally claimed him. What could be a better challenge than taking on this road at night?
With a grim smile, he leaned into the wind and gave the bike full throttle. It hesitated for a moment, and then it leaped forward at such speed that he felt as if he were flying. Exhilaration and fear shot through him. He could feel that old bastard, Father Death, riding on his shoulder. He could sense how badly he wanted him, and Ryan was determined to best him yet again. He didn’t mind dying, but if Death wanted him, he was going to have to put up one hell of a fight to get him.
Narrowing his eyes, he concentrated on the twists and turns illuminated in his headlight. He was subliminally aware that he was going deeper into the woods. His only conscious thought, however, was of the road and the unknown dangers it had in store for him. He rode the Harley uphill and down, dodging rocks and potholes, never once reducing his breakneck speed. He was running the race of his life—for his life—and, by damn, he was winning it yet again!
As he reached a fork in the road, he instinctively took the one on the right. When he did, a voice inside his head whispered, Now you’ve found sanctuary. Your journey is at its end.
The voice, more than the words, startled him, and he almost lost control of the bike. It was the woman’s voice from his nightmare! How could she be speaking to him when he was awake? And what did she mean that his journey was at its end? Was he finally going to die?
The thought should have pleased him. Instead it scared the hell out of him, because he was sure he’d spend eternity with those damnable eyes. But his fear wasn’t strong enough to make him slow down. Whatever lay ahead, he would meet it full throttle. After all, his future couldn’t be any worse than his past.
AS SHE WATCHED her friends dance clockwise around the bonfire in the center of the meadow, Shana absently toyed with a blade of grass. It was Beltane Eve, and their dance would bring good luck to the coven and protect them from illness. Tomorrow was Beltane and they’d dance around the Maypole, celebrating birth, fertility, and the renewal of all life.
With a despondent sigh, she leaned back against the trunk of the old oak tree she was sitting under and glanced toward the sky. A warm, spring breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and she stared at the full, silver moon suspended above the horizon. Of all the Greater Sabbats, Beltane was her favorite, but she couldn’t get into the spirit of the festivities. She felt as if something evil was hovering over her, and her instincts were telling her that Moira was back.
She shivered as she lowered her gaze and surveyed the dark forest surrounding the meadow, looking for some sign of the ancient witch. In the six months since Samhain, she’d had no contact with Moira. She had assumed the old witch had been forced to return to the spirit world. However, like Samhain, during Beltane Eve, the veil between this world and the spirit world was thin. Shana couldn’t shake the feeling that Moira had again managed to cross over without a summons.
“But I’m not in love, so there’s nothing she can do to me,” she whispered fretfully.
It was a hollow claim, because she wasn’t sure it was true. The legend of Moira’s curse had been passed down for five centuries. It was possible, even probable, that the details had been altered. She knew how her people enjoyed embellishing their legends. Somewhere along the line, someone may have added the love angle simply to make the story sound more romantic. Indeed, many of the curse’s details could have been fabricated, which meant there was only one absolute she could depend upon. The curse was real or the Tarot would have never been banned from use.
Resting her head against the tree trunk, she closed her eyes. Why had she so foolishly broken coven law? If she were a warlock, she could be cast out of the coven for using the Tarot.
However, witches were never exiled. As far as she was concerned, their punishment was worse, and she shuddered at the reminder of what would happen to her. She would be stripped of her powers and shunned. She’d have to live alone in the small, barely habitable shack at the furthermost corner of coven land for at least a year. When she was allowed to return, she would remain powerless until a warlock fell in love with her and chose her as his mate. Then it would be up to him when, or even if, she would have her powers restored, which would be sheer misery. A witch’s life with a warlock was difficult enough with her powers intact. It was why she had hoped to be one of the coven members allowed to seek a mortal mate. According to Ariel Morgret, who was her best friend and a mortal, men were often chauvinistic, but they were less domineering than warlocks. And if anyone would know that for sure, it was Ariel. She had mated with the high priest, Lucien Morgret, eight months ago, and one of her most frequent complaints was his dictatorial attitude.
Ironically, at this point, Shana knew she would willingly suffer through the degradation of a shunning and the loss of her powers. If it would rid her of Moira, she’d even happily mate with the most domineering warlock alive. Why had she been so foolish? Why hadn’t she just let the future take care of itself? Why . . .?
She stopped herself. Recriminations wouldn’t solve her problem. What she needed was a plan to deal with Moira.
Opening her eyes, she searched the crowd. When she spotted Lucien, she considered going to him and confessing what she’d done. As high priest, he would have to deal with Moira, and she wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.
But as much as Shana yearned to turn the problem over to Lucien, she couldn’t. Ordinarily, a spirit could harm only the person who had summoned it, but she hadn’t summoned Moira. She’d come to the conclusion that the Tarot had done so. Now, because of her impatience to see the future, Moira had the enchanted cards. Through them, she might have enough power to claim any soul within the coven.
But for Moira to contact anyone else, that person had to acknowledge her existence. That’s why Shana had spent the past six months living in daily fear that someone would discover the Tarot missing. Once it was learned the deck was gone,
everyone would know that Moira might be loose. With that type of acceptance, there was no telling what havoc Moira could create.
Shana heaved a sigh of resignation. If Moira was here, it was her responsibility to get the Tarot back. The best way to start was to go to the house and summon Moira from the safety of the pentagram. Once she made contact, she’d try to figure out a way to straighten out this mess.
Rising to her feet, she furtively slipped into the forest. Her familiar, Portent, waited not far away. The huge, white stallion would get her home quickly. With any luck, she would have the Tarot before the witching hour, and Moira would return to the spirit world where she belonged.
When Shana arrived at Portent’s hiding place, he whinnied softly in welcome. She took a moment to wrap her arms around his neck and rest her cheek against it. As their minds connected, she frowned. Portent also sensed evil, which meant the other familiars probably sensed it. If they began communicating their unease to their masters, she might be caught.
With a muffled curse, she stripped off the white ceremonial robe that covered her clothes. Tossing the robe across the front of the saddle, she mounted Portent and urged him to hurry home. Since his main purpose as her familiar was to be her protector, he automatically resisted.
She heaved an impatient sigh and said, “Portent, if I don’t get the cards back, Moira is going to lay claim to my soul. You have to take me home so I can try to stop her!”
When he again whinnied, she argued, “There is no guarantee that if I go to Lucien for help, I’ll be safe. I brought Moira here, so I’m the one who has to defeat her. And the best way to do that is to get the cards back before she starts causing trouble. Now, take me home!”
He let out a snort of begrudging agreement and began to maneuver his way through the trees. A few minutes later, he entered the meadow edging the dirt road leading to her home.
With a toss of his head, he began to race across the meadow. Shana automatically leaned in close to his neck, reveling in the smooth, controlled power of his body moving beneath her. When he reached the road, he veered to the center of it and began to gallop. She felt as if she were riding the wind, and despite the ominous meeting awaiting her, she threw her head back and laughed in exhilaration.
When they rounded a bend at breakneck speed, her laughter died, and she screamed in terror. A motorcycle was coming toward them so fast that Portent couldn’t get out of the way. To avoid collision, she would have to conjure a protective spell around them. However, she didn’t know if she could invoke the spell in time.
Urgently, she began to chant. Just before she reached the end of the spell, the motorcycle rider, who was no more than a foot away from them, suddenly jerked on his handlebars. The motorcycle careered toward the ditch. Shana recognized that at the speed he was traveling, the crash would kill him.
Just as the motorcycle hit the ditch and the driver flew into the air, she finished the protective spell and propelled it toward him. When spell-lightning circled around him, he was already swiftly falling toward the ground. Shana knew it would cushion his body against serious injury, but it was too late to slow his descent and protect him from minor injury. Even with the spell in place, he hit the ground with enough force to make Shana flinch.
Portent came to a stop, and she quickly climbed off the horse and ran toward the man, whom she’d already determined was a mortal. A warlock would have connected with her mind and helped conjure the protective spell instead of taking a suicidal turn toward the ditch.
Why didn’t I sense him on the road? she wondered in bewilderment as she jumped across the ditch. For that matter, why hadn’t she or Portent heard the motorcycle’s engine? And quick contact with Portent assured her that he hadn’t heard or sensed anything, either.
When Shana arrived at the man’s side, she discovered her answer, and she let out a horrified gasp. The light from his crashed motorcycle spotlighted him. He was lying on his back with his arms outstretched. A Tarot card rested in the center of his chest.
Fear paralyzed Shana as she stared at the card, which was The Chariot in the reversed position—the symbol of downfall. Though the chariot driver’s face on the card was unfamiliar, she was sure it was the image of the motorcycle rider. There was no other reason for Moira to place the card on his chest.
“But what does it mean?” she whispered, frantically glancing around in search of Moira. Since the card was here, she had to be here too. “What does he have to do with me?”
Suddenly, an unnatural and bitterly cold wind swirled around her. But it wasn’t the wind that made her shiver. It was the words that echoed through her mind. The future is mine, and soon yours will be mine.
The wind died as quickly as it had arisen, and Shana knew that Moira was gone. She also understood that by bringing the mortal here, Moira had set the future in motion. It was too late to stop her. All Shana could do was follow the path Moira had set and pray that she could save herself and protect the coven.
With a heavy sigh, she knelt beside the mortal and probed his mind, confused by his unconscious state. Though he’d hit the ground hard, the impact shouldn’t have been enough to make him lose consciousness.
Worriedly, she probed more deeply into his mind. The signals from his body indicated that though he was suffering from several aches and pains, the only real injury he’d sustained was to his right leg.
She glanced toward his leg and saw that it was at an awkward angle. Leaning forward, she held her hands over it. According to the energy patterns she received, the leg wasn’t broken. There was, however, some muscle damage to his knee. It wasn’t serious enough for him to need medical attention, but she suspected it would be several days before he could walk properly.
Gently, she straightened his leg. Then she removed the Tarot card from his chest and studied his picture deciding that he fit the fierce image of a chariot driver. He had dark blond hair that nearly reached his shoulders, which surprised her. Though long hair was normal among warlocks, she’d found that most mortal men wore their hair short. It was his face, however, that intrigued her. It was composed of sharp, angular features that, when taken separately, were unattractive. Combined, they made the man strikingly handsome. There was also an element of recklessness in his dark brown eyes that gave him a decidedly dangerous aura.
“Well, whoever you are, it looks like you’re trouble. Of course, considering that Moira brought you here, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Shana stated dryly as she tucked the card into the back pocket of her denims. Then she began to gently remove the man’s helmet.
As she did so, she again meshed with his mind, trying to figure out why he was unconscious. At first she received nothing but the aches and pains being telegraphed by his body. Then, without warning, she suddenly found herself being sucked into a whirling, dark vortex.
She tried to recoil from the darkness and was both startled and frightened when his mind wouldn’t let hers go. How could this be happening? Mortals didn’t have the mental powers needed to trap another’s mind!
This had to be Moira’s doing, she realized, as she was swept deeper into the blackness. Her head was spinning and her body felt as if it was weightless, nonexistent. She knew her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see. Her ears were filled with a frantic keen that she sensed was coming from her own mouth, though she had no physical knowledge of making the sound. She could feel herself gasping, as though tortured for breath, and her heart was racing at such high speed that she was sure it would explode at any moment.
But it wasn’t her physical distress that terrified her. It was the emotional emptiness surrounding her. She was trapped by a mind that had no soul, and those who had no soul had nothing to bind them to this world. Their fondest wish—their greatest fantasy—was death.
Was that why the man was unconscious? Was he willing himself to die? Was he going to take her with him?
&nb
sp; No! I am not going to die! It is not my time!
The future is mine, and now yours will be mine!
Moira’s taunt caused Shana’s terror to escalate. She began to mentally struggle to break loose from the mortal’s mind. She was a witch. She could break away from him. She had to break away from him! But even as she fought against the hold he had over her, she felt herself falling deeper into the vortex.
THE DARKNESS BEGAN to wane, and in its place came a new horror. She was surrounded by eyes. Eyes that accused and beseeched. Eyes that pleaded and condemned. Eyes that were filled with pain and fear. And, most horrible of all, eyes that were filled with the emptiness of death.
She tried to get away from them, but no matter what she did, they continued to surround her, to close in on her. They wouldn’t let her escape; they would never let her escape. She was going to die, and they were going to torture her forever.
No! I am not going to die! It is not my time!
The future is mine, and now yours will be mine!
Again she began to tumble deeper into the vortex, and again the darkness waned. But this time, it wasn’t horror that awaited her. She was lying naked in a meadow. Kneeling between her legs was the mysterious mortal wearing nothing but moonlight and an expression of lust so intense that her entire body quivered with a resonating chord of overwhelming desire.
With a guttural groan, he dropped a hand to the ground on either side of her head and lowered his lips to hers. As his mouth branded her with his passion, his hips flexed, and he sheathed himself inside her with one quick, hard thrust. She cried out in wonder at the feel of him—so big, so blunt, so male!
Touch of Magic Page 2
