Touch of Magic

by Carin Rafferty

  Opening his eyes, he said, ‘I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather do this myself.” When she looked as if she would continue to argue with him, he quickly added, “If I run into trouble, I’ll call for you. Now, will you please leave?”

  “If you insist,” she agreed, although her expression said she was doing so reluctantly. “I’ll be waiting outside the door, but you must be careful, Ryan.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he assured. “Now, go.”

  “All right, but if you need me—”

  “I’ll call.” When she finally walked out and closed the door behind her, Ryan muttered, “Thank God.”

  He tossed back the sheet and cursed when he saw his injured knee. It was swollen to twice its normal size, and the bruise forming around it assured him it was going to be a long time before it was back to normal.

  Leaning forward, he gently probed the patella, flinching at the pain the touch provoked. Gritting his teeth, he continued his examination, relieved to discover that though the injury hurt like hell, it appeared to be nothing more than a bad sprain. Once he got away from this loony bin and its witchery nut, he’d pick up an elastic bandage. And the sooner he got dressed, the sooner he could leave, he reminded himself, preparing to move to the edge of the bed.

  “What the hell?” he suddenly exclaimed when his knee wouldn’t bend.

  Quickly, he leaned forward and examined it again, confirming that there didn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong with it. But when he tried to bend it, it still wouldn’t give.

  As he stared down at it in confusion, Shana’s voice suddenly reverberated in his mind. I cast a spell over your knee to protect it from further injury. You won’t be able to bend it.

  “That’s impossible.” Ryan declared vehemently. “There is no such thing as a witch!”

  But even as he made the declaration, an inner voice whispered, If that’s true, then why can’t you bend your knee?

  It’s just hypnotism, he told himself. She’s a magician, and some magicians are also hypnotists.

  But even as he offered himself the explanation, he knew it wasn’t true. When he was in medical school, he’d volunteered for a study involving the use of hypnosis to stop smoking. He hadn’t been accepted into the study, because he was one of the few people who could not be hypnotized.

  Slowly, he turned his head toward the door. When his gaze finally landed on it, he knew that no matter how much he wanted to deny it, Shana Morland had told him the truth. She was a witch. What in hell was he going to do?

  Chapter Four

  The Moon Card

  Unforeseen Perils, Deception,

  and Psychic Influence

  “THERE IS NO such thing as a witch. It has to be some form of hypnotism, and what you’re going to do is get dressed. Then you’re going to get out of here,” Ryan told himself firmly.

  As he spoke, he scooted to the edge of the bed and swung his good leg over it. Using his hands for support, he began to ease his bad leg over the side. Pain zipped up his leg like an angry lightning bolt, and he mentally chanted a litany of curses until his heel was finally resting on the hardwood floor. Though his every instinct was telling him to hurry, his stiff leg impeded his progress. It seemed to take forever for him to dress.

  “Okay, you’re on the downhill slide now,” he told himself when he’d finally gotten his clothes on and reached for his boots.

  He grabbed the one for his bad leg and started to pull it on. At the first tug, his injured muscles rebelled at the abuse, and he sucked in a harsh breath. Gritting his teeth, he continued to tug until the boot finally slipped on. Then he stamped on the other boot.

  After pulling on his jacket, he grabbed his personal items off the nightstand and stored them in his pockets. Bracing his hands on the mattress, he tried to lever himself to his feet. It was only then that he realized his arms wouldn’t lift him high enough in order to pull his stiff leg beneath himself.

  “Well, hell,” he angrily mumbled, glancing around for something to use to pull himself to his feet. A headboard would have been perfect, but there wasn’t a headboard.

  He switched his gaze to the chair. Its back was tall enough for him to pull himself up, but he had to get it close enough to use it. Stretching out his leg, he tried to catch the chair with the toe of his boot. He cursed when it remained an elusive few inches out of reach.

  “I’m not giving up,” he declared, surveying the nightstand. It looked sturdy enough to hold his weight, and he was sure that if he could sit on it, he could reach the chair.

  Carefully, so as to jolt his knee as little as possible, he scooted to the top of the mattress. Then he tried to figure out the best way to maneuver himself onto the nightstand. He shook his head in disgust when he realized it wasn’t going to be easy. He would have to lean forward and brace his hand on its far edge. Then he would have to lever himself high enough to swing his body onto it. It was going to take concentration to maintain his balance.

  Leaning forward, he took hold of the nightstand and heaved himself up. Too late he realized that the nightstand wasn’t as stable as it looked. As he felt it tipping over, he made a frantic grab for the bed, but it was too late. The nightstand turned over, and he landed on the floor on his butt. Immediately, pain erupted in his knee. It was so agonizing that stars exploded in front of his eyes and he began to gasp for breath.

  Suddenly, Shana’s voice taunted, Now you’ve found Sanctuary. Your journey is at its end.

  The hell it is! As soon as I catch my breath, I’m getting out of here!

  Never!

  It wasn’t the implication of her threat that horrified Ryan. It was a card that suddenly fluttered past his face and landed in his lap. At first, it was solid black, but then a picture began to form on its surface. Before the picture was complete, he knew he was looking at a Tarot card, and he shuddered in revulsion. Even as a child, he had loathed Tarot cards with an aversion so strong it was almost primeval.

  When the picture was complete, he saw a wolf and a dog standing at the edge of a body of water and howling at the moon. Some type of shellfish were climbing out of the water and taking a path between the canines. He shuddered again. The rendering of the picture was so real that he felt as if the animals would come right off the card. Instinct told him that if they did, they would attack.

  He wanted to grab the card and rip it into a million pieces, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. Instead he batted it off his lap.

  As he watched it fall to the floor, the door flew open and Shana burst into the room, gasping, “What happened?”

  Ryan jerked his head up. As his gaze swept over her slender body, he was hit with a jolt of lust so powerful that he was instantly and fully aroused. His involuntary physical reaction to her infuriated him, because she was standing there looking at him through eyes that were wide and guileless. He wasn’t fooled. He could see through the veneer of her sensual innocence to the malevolence that lurked beneath it. She was the personification of the Tarot—the embodiment of all that was inherently evil—and she intended to lay claim to his soul.

  “You’ll never defeat me!” he vowed harshly. “Never!”

  OH, NO! IT’S HAPPENING again! Shana wailed inwardly.

  The moment she entered the room, Ryan’s features became subtly blurred. It was as if the visage claiming to be Aric was trying to superimpose itself over his face, but couldn’t quite make the transition.

  Why did Moira want him to portray Aric? she wondered in bewilderment. It didn’t make sense. Aric had killed her, for pity’s sake!

  As she watched him warily, she said, “I have no desire to defeat you, Ryan. I am, however, concerned about your knee. Your fall must have caused you a lot of pain. Do you want me to help you back to bed?”

  He blinked at her words. When he did, the wavering Aric image disappear
ed, and Shana let out a sigh of relief.

  “What I want is for you to undo whatever the hell it is you did to my leg, and then I’m going to get out of here,” he angrily stated.

  “How are you going to leave? You can’t walk.”

  He glared at her. “I’ll manage. You just fix my knee.”

  “Ryan, the purpose of the spell is to protect your knee from further injury. If you’ll just go back to bed—”

  “Damnit, lady!” he yelled. “What does it take to get through to you? I am not going to stay here. Now, fix my knee so I can leave!”

  “My name is Shana, not lady, and removing the spell will not fix your knee,” she responded impatiently. “You will still be injured, which means you still won’t be able to walk.”

  “Then I’ll crawl.”

  “That’s absurd. If you can’t walk, you can’t crawl.”

  “I said I’ll crawl.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? All I want to do is help you.”

  “Then fix my knee so I can get out of here.”

  Shana wanted to throw her arms into the air in frustration. This was worse than dealing with a warlock! How was she going to make him listen to her? One look at his belligerent expression told her that the only way to reach him was to give him what he wanted.

  “If you want the spell gone, then I’ll remove it,” she said, giving a resigned flick of her wrist.

  He regarded her suspiciously. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Tentatively, he bent his knee, and his soft curse assured Shana that the action hurt. His expression, however, was triumphant. She gave a confounded shake of her head. How could he be happy about being in pain?

  “What are you doing?” she asked in confusion, when he leaned over, grabbed the chair by its leg and pulled it to his side.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he answered determinedly.

  As she watched him maneuver himself into a kneeling position and brace his hands on the chair seat, she realized that he was going to try to stand. When he shifted his weight to his injured knee, he grimaced and muttered another curse. However, his desire to stand was obviously stronger than the pain, because he bent his good leg so that his foot was braced against the floor. Then he pushed himself upright. Turning the chair around, he propped his hands on the back and gave her another triumphant look.

  “Very impressive. So what’s next?” Shana asked dryly.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “And how are you going to do that? You still can’t walk, and your motorcycle is broken.”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  She shook her head. “We don’t have a taxi service in Sanctuary.”

  “Then I’ll take a bus.”

  “We don’t have bus service, either.”

  He scowled at her. “Look, lady, I am getting out of here, and you can’t stop me.”

  “I am not trying to stop you from leaving, and I’ve already told you that I couldn’t do that if I wanted to,” she said, her temper beginning to stir. Why was he being so darned unreasonable? “I’m merely pointing out that your options are . . . limited.”

  “According to you, they’re limited.”

  Her temper rose another notch. “Are you insinuating that I’m lying?”

  “I’m insinuating that where there’s a will, there’s a way, and I have a hell of a will,” he answered with a combative lift of his chin.

  “Even a ‘hell of a will’ can’t overcome the impossible,” she pointed out. “And as far as I can see, outside of sprouting wings and flying out of here, you’re stuck.”

  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” he muttered, glancing around the room.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Something I can use as a crutch.”

  “Well, there’s nothing in here that could possibly be used as a crutch, so outside of breaking up the furniture, you’re out of luck.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. He began to eye the chair critically, and she suspected that he would tear it apart to make a crutch.

  “You don’t need to resort to destroying the furniture,” she said with an irritable sigh. “If you want a crutch, I’ll go find something that you can use as one.”

  She turned toward the door, but stopped when he drawled, “You have five minutes, lady. If you aren’t back by then, the chair is mine.”

  Shana stiffened at his words. Up to this point, she had managed to hold onto her temper. His threat, however, shattered her control.

  Glaring over her shoulder, she stated tightly, “As I have told you frequently tonight, my name is Shana, not lady, and before you start issuing ultimatums, you’d better consider who you’re challenging. I am a witch, Ryan, which makes me a hundred times more powerful than you’ll ever be, and you are starting to try my patience. Believe me, you would not like it if I lost my temper, and if you damage my chair, I can guarantee that will happen. It may not look like much to you, but that chair has been in my family for nearly three hundred years, and it holds a great deal of sentimental value for me.

  “Now, if you will excuse me,” she went on before he could respond, “I am going to go find you your crutch. I expect you to remain right where you are, and I will be back when I am damn good and ready.”

  With that, she stalked out, slamming the door behind her. As she headed for the kitchen, she grumbled, “Why did I ever think I wanted a mortal mate? They’re as bad as—no worse than—warlocks, because at least with a warlock, I can throw something at his stubborn head and know he has enough common sense to duck!”

  RYAN GLARED AT the door as he muttered, “If anyone has a reason to be mad, lady, it’s me. You not only ran me off the road and caused me to tear up my knee, but you had me stripped, and then tried to have sex with me without my knowledge or my permission. You’ve been haunting my nightmares for the past six months and jabbering in my head all night. Now you’ve started throwing Tarot cards at me, and you have the nerve to say I’m trying your patience? Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  A witch.

  He closed his eye and shook his head. The logical part of him wanted to refute her claim—to reinforce his lifelong belief that there was no such thing as a witch. But if there wasn’t, how had she immobilized his knee by no visible means, and then released it with nothing more than a flick of her wrist?

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t explain it, which irritated the hell out of him. Compared to the flamboyant stunt she’d pulled with his clothes, his knee was such an insignificant accomplishment. That’s what made it so profound. He could dismiss flamboyance as sleight of hand, but he simply couldn’t dismiss his knee.

  But worrying about whether she really was a witch was a waste of time, he determined as he opened his eyes. What he needed to do was figure out how he was going to get out of here. If this Sanctuary place didn’t have a taxi or bus service, then he doubted they’d have a rental car agency or an airport. If he was in California, he could call his family or a friend to come get him. But he was in Pennsylvania, and he didn’t know a soul in the entire state.

  He considered calling the police. After all, he’d had an accident, and they’d have to come and investigate. The trouble was they’d probably be local police. Since Shana had referred to a high priest, they might also be witches. Even if they weren’t, they might be afraid of her. Since she’d made it clear she wanted him to stay, they would probably make sure he did what she wanted.

  Raking a hand through his hair, he grudgingly admitted that Shana was right. Outside of sprouting wings and flying out of here, he was stuck. Damn! If his bike wasn’t totaled, he could just hop on it and be gone, but it wasn’t going anywhere without a tow truck, and . . .
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  That was it! he realized as sudden inspiration hit. He could call the auto club for help. If a town was too small for a bus, it had to be too small to support a local auto club office. He wouldn’t have to worry about them being witches or having them fear Shana if they weren’t. All he had to do was get to a phone and help would be on the way.

  He smiled smugly at the door and said, “I was right, lady. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and in a few minutes, I’ll prove to you that I have a hell of a will.”

  SHANA STUDIED THE contents of the broom closet, determining that the best item for a makeshift crutch was the sponge mop. It not only had the right design, but the sponge would serve as an underarm cushion.

  Pulling it out, she checked the metal bindings to make sure it wouldn’t cause Ryan another injury. Considering how determined he was to be on his feet, he’d probably use it even if it was sharp enough to cut off his arm.

  Though the metal appeared safe, she took an extra few minutes to wrap the sponge with some towels for more cushioning. Then she headed back to the bedroom. She’d been gone longer than five minutes, and she wondered if Ryan had ignored her warning and started ripping her chair apart.

  As she approached the door, she gave a wry shake of her head. Now that her temper had cooled, she had to admit to a grudging admiration for Ryan. He was not only hurt and basically helpless because of the injury, but he’d just learned that she was a witch. Yet he refused to accept that he wasn’t in control. As irritating as his stubbornness was, she acknowledged that it was a laudable trait, because it denoted an innate instinct for survival. If she could just persuade him to work with her instead of against her, she was sure that Moira wouldn’t stand a chance against them.

  “And the first step in persuading him is to soothe his ego by giving him his ‘crutch’ and letting him feel in control. Surely then he’ll be open to reason,” she murmured as she rapped on the door twice and then opened it.

  She hesitated in the doorway, surprised to see him standing right where she’d left him. She really had expected him to be up to something, if for no other reason than to defy her.