9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC

by Unknown

  Interesting.

  Good thing she took that class on mythology in college. The arrow dangling from his ear was a form of an ancient Germanic language meaning ‘warrior.’ A subtle way of revealing a bit of his character? Or a loud declaration? She had a feeling there was nothing subtle about this man.

  He flashed a devilish smile and slowly released the book to her.

  For a moment, she stared blankly at the leather-bound tome. Well, for pity’s sake, she’d forgotten all about the talking book.

  “You have to be careful with magical things,” he said huskily. “Spells sometimes rebound. There can be a terrible price to pay when that occurs.”

  “Spells? Ah, I get it. Magic shop. Magic book. Right? Very funny. And just what do you do for a living, bud?”

  Very carefully, she placed the book back on the shelf and waited to see if it ‘d speak. A tiny thrill of anticipation raced through her, but the book remained stubbornly silent. Of course it did, because books didn’t talk. Hummmmm.

  She inhaled slowly, then softly exhaled, and hid her disappointment. Brushing a strand of tangled hair from her face, she turned to face her customer. “Welcome to my shop. I’m Saylym Winslow. How may I help you?”

  Flustered, and suddenly feeling self-conscious at her earlier rudeness, she reached out to shake his hand. Without warning, a reddish-orange flame shot from the tip of her right index finger straight toward him. He jumped back, brushing wildly at the flames scorching the front of his shirt.

  “Oh! Oh!” Saylym shook her finger, puffed on it over and over, but the stubborn blue flame remained firmly attached to her fingertip. “Oh—shit. I’m on fire!”

  “You’re on fire? In the name of the gods, what are you trying to do? Roast me alive?” The poor man sounded incredulous. Quickly, he locked his fingers around her wrist, raised her hand and slid the flaming fingertip inside his mouth. The warmth of his tongue curled around her finger, wet and titillating, and smothered the flame.

  Saylym gasped. How on earth had her finger caught fire? More importantly, were any other parts of her body going to explode into sudden flames? Yep. If he kept sucking on her finger, she was toast.

  And why did this stalker person still have her finger inside his mouth?

  Her breath lodged in her throat. Her heart pounded. If she didn’t manage to somehow draw a breath, she was going to hyperventilate. Just as soon as she got past the amazing fact that her finger had self-ignited, she was going somewhere and quietly pass out. Hummmmm.

  Reclaiming her finger, she jumped at the sound of the soft, wet pop she heard as she jerked her finger out of his mouth and inspected it for burns. Nothing. No blisters. No redness. No overdone French-fry. Amazing. “Th…thank you,” she stammered. Leaning closer to inspect his scorched shirt, she heard his low growl. Yep. Alpha male. Hot. Very hot. “I apologize for burning your shirt.”

  “It will heal.”

  Saylym tilted back her head and blinked. He had the thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a male. “The shirt will heal?”

  He latched his gaze onto her mouth, his eyes glittering. “Of course.”

  Sure it would. Saylym refrained from rolling her eyes. Barely. “I-I don’t know what happened. I’ve never caught on fire before.”

  “Ye Olde Witch’s Brew?”

  “Pardon?” She blinked, trying her best to escape the potent spell holding her prisoner.

  “Shop of Magick? That’s the name of your shop. I figure you must do the little magical things to impress your customers.” A grin widened his lips and he flashed a row of straight, white teeth. “I’m impressed. A little toasted around the edges, but definitely impressed.”

  Grateful for the excuse he’d offered, Saylym nodded. She couldn’t get a word past her lips. But at least he’d seen the flames. Either they both were hallucinating or she really did spontaneously combust. She wasn’t sure which was better. “You saw my finger catch fire.”

  He nodded. “Magic. Pure, sweet magic.”

  Crap! That’s all she needed, another nutcase believing in magic.

  He raised her chin with a fingertip, gently closing her mouth. “You can breathe now.”

  She nodded, drawing in the breath she desperately needed. “Can I help you with something?”

  “A room?”

  “What?” She shot her gaze to his face.

  “Preferably with a bed?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

  “This is a magic shop, not an inn,” she snapped.

  He lifted the other eyebrow. “The sign on your door reads, ‘room for rent, partially furnished’. I was hoping the ‘partially furnished’ came with a bed.”

  God, he must think her a complete idiot. She simply couldn’t seem to get her thoughts in working order. What were they discussing? A bed? Her mind immediately leapt to sex. With him. Yes, that was a vision they’d shared earlier. No. She shook her head. No. She couldn’t believe that. There was no such thing as mind sharing. No wriggling brush. No talking bed. No witch living next door. She’d turn twenty-one in October, not three-hundred-fifteen.

  She had to keep things in perspective, but the look on her face must have been as blank as her brain, because he laughed softly and said, “A room? With a bed? Somewhere I can…sleep?”

  Saylym gulped. “Sleep? Oh, right…sleep.” Absolutely, they were not discussing sex. “Sure. It does. Of course, it does.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose and laughed at her foolishness. “You’re lucky. I just posted the sign about ten minutes ago. The room’s upstairs above the shop. I’ll show you.”

  His mouth quirked with humor as he dipped his gaze to her breasts, settled for a delicious second, and moved on to dwell on her toes. Her crimson colored toenails peeped back at him from the black rope sandals on her feet.

  “They’re painted Hot-Mama-Red,” she blurted, and could have bitten her tongue. Why on earth would she tell him such a thing?

  He grinned, rubbing his jaw. “Very…er…hot-ish,” he replied, before returning to his slow inspection of her toes. Finally, he lifted his head, his gaze never wavering. “The room comes with a fire extinguisher, right?”

  Before she could reply, he clasped her hands, turned them over, and pressed his mouth to each open palm. Her fingers curled. His lips were incredibly soft. Deliciously warm.

  “I’m Prince Talon,” he said huskily, raising his head and releasing her hands.

  “What?” Saylym squeaked? “Prince? A real prince?”

  “A real, living, breathing prince.”

  Oh, this had to be Eldora’s doing, her idea of a joke. Okay. She’d play along. Play dumb. Play insane. “Not, Prince Charming?” she teased. “I was promised Prince Charming today.”

  An odd expression flitted across his face. “Will you settle for me, Prince Talon?”

  “Just…Prince Talon? No last name?”

  “A waken has no last name.” A twinkle glinted in his jungle-green eyes.

  “Waken? Right. I’ll need some ID if you’re going to sign a lease.”

  For a moment, when he said ‘waken’, she’d thought he referred to what the book had said, but then it dawned on her he was teasing her, because the book hadn’t truly spoken. No, it was all in her insane mind. “No last name? Huh. So, wakens don’t know who fathered them?”

  He stiffened as if she’d just insulted him. “I’m the son of King Darak and Queen Helayne, second to the throne of Ru-Noc. Only the females of our species carry a last name. It has always been this way.”

  “Of course,” Saylym replied, laughing, but feeling a bit jumpy. She decided the would-be stalker was far more insane than she could ever be. Hummmmm.

  * * * *

  The sound of her soft, disbelieving laughter feathered over Talon’s skin, spreading like rich plumage. It sent a slash of urgent need burning straight to his groin. He wasn’t surprised at the sudden rigidness of his cock. He’d been in a state of semi-arousal since the first moment he heard her summon her Prince Charming.

 
No, it wasn’t the aching hardness that stunned him, because Beltane tended to keep a man pretty much ready throughout the season. But damn, this unexpected need to claim. It was something he’d never felt in his entire life.

  His breath caught in his throat at her sweet smile. “By Samhain, you’re beautiful,” he breathed.

  Her lips parted with a full grin. “I think you must be something of a flirt, sir.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe, you believe,” she said on a choked laugh.

  Talon frowned. “The devil you say!” He didn’t think she realized how tempting she truly was. Her smile captivated and was warm as the lighted candles at Imbolc. The extraordinary shade of her hair was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch the silver-blonde strands, feel if it was as silken as it looked. More urgently, he wanted to caress her face, glide his fingers over her soft lips.

  He gave a restless movement of his shoulders, disturbed by the itchiness of his skin. Odd. His chest felt heavy, the air around him thick as Mandreyan honey. His lungs ached, starved for air. He drew a sharp breath and quietly exhaled but the heavy pressure remained.

  What a strange effect she had on him, on his body. It had to be the Impure blood.

  Talon searched her face for some clue as to what was happening. Her eyes. Damn, why hadn’t he noticed right away? They weren’t blue or anywhere near any shades of blue he’d seen before. Instead, they were clear and pale as ice. It was like looking inside the soul of a mirror, except in her case, the light in her eyes was filled with purity.

  Leaning closer to inspect them, he barely smothered his surprise. They weren’t simply one shade of the light, smoky color but were streaked with ribbons of soft lavender. He watched, stunned as deep spirals of violet swirled through the lighter shades.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What are you looking at?”

  “What color are your eyes?”

  “My eyes?” She looked at him as if she thought he’d lost his mind. “Violet?” she replied with a question in her voice.

  She must think him insane. Right now, he felt as though he’d jumped off a cliff with no safe place to land. “Huh-uh. They’re silver, almost colorless, except—”

  “Violet!” Her eyes flashed fire, matching her tone. “They’ve always been plum-colored. Is this some kind of a come on?”

  He stepped back, wariness settling in his heart. For just a second, when she’d snapped at him, he swore her eyes sparked. But that wasn’t exactly accurate. They didn’t glow. No. The three colors eddied, creating tiny sparks of purple fire as they bled together in a dizzying pattern.

  This was not good. This wasn’t normal. Not for a witch.

  Witches and wakens had two eye colors. Not three. Even then dual colors were seen only at Beltane or during mating when the couple reached their peak.

  But somewhere, he’d seen eyes that odd color. Where?

  Maybe this was a trait among the half-Illumrofs. He didn’t know. It was certainly tantalizing. By the gods, this flash of heat engulfing his skin, this desire to lay claim, wasn’t normal either. There was something more than just her eyes that made her different, more than her simply being an Impure. It was as if she hummed with hidden power, a force with enough energy to draw and seduce him.

  He grinned. Damn. She was humming. Loudly. Gods. She sounded like a wailing cat with its tail caught in a wall plug.

  She looked startled, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “I don’t sound like an electrocuted cat,” she snapped.

  Talon winced. He hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts aloud. Damn, he was fast losing ground with the little witch.

  “Nor do I have any hidden powers.” She grabbed the spare key off the register to the flat above the shop. “I guess you’d like to see the room. It’s probably not up to your usual standards, Your Highness. Although, I’m not certain if I want a waken prince renting from me. Are you dangerous?”

  “I can be.”

  She whipped around allowing her eyes to silently strip him. “Yes, not much doubt about that.”

  He couldn’t breathe with his body clamoring so hard for release. “I’d like to see the room and the…bed.”

  * * * *

  Saylym stepped back from him, surprised at the silken intimacy in his voice. “A waken, huh?” She knew he heard the disbelief in her voice, so what was he grinning about? Sighing, she turned and started up the narrow stairs.

  Okay. So he was charming, seductive, and all male. She highly suspected he was dangerous in many ways. He had a killer smile, a cute dimple and a voice that could melt rock. He admitted he could be dangerous, so bloody hell, why was she going to allow him to live above her shop? “Because I’m an idiot,” she muttered. “An insane idiot!”

  But she needed the money she’d collect now to order next week’s supplies for the shop.

  “You’re not insane,” he said, “unless you consider talking to yourself a sign of mental illness?”

  She hesitated before hurrying on up the stairs. Don’t think about him. Simply rent him the room and be done with him. Ha! Easier said than done with this—this—waken person hovering around—oozing sex appeal like syrup from a maple tree. She only thought there might be a streak of insanity in her family. There wasn’t any doubt he was nuts, claiming to be a male witch and such.

  Oh yes, they were a pair.

  Waken, indeed.

  If she wasn’t careful, they’d be sharing straightjackets!

  Chapter Four

  Although Osborne and Good maintained their innocence, Tituba confessed to seeing the Devil who appeared to her “sometimes like a hog and sometimes like a great dog.” But worse, Tituba testified that there was a conspiracy of witches at work in Salem.

  ~Salem Witch Trials

  Late-February, 1692

  Page Entry…

  Five hundred years had passed since Leyla accepted the throne. They were lonely years for the queen. She was quickly approaching the age past her child bearing years. In urgent need to produce an heir, she took a risk the following Beltane and bonded with the waken known as Zoman.

  On All Hallows’ Eve, Leyla gave birth to her first child, a son, Kran.

  To the witches’ consternation and disbelief, Zoman immediately proclaimed Kran heir to the witches’ throne.

  ~Pages of history from the Winslow witches.

  In the Year of Samhain, 800

  Sanctuary

  Saylym finished counting the cash for the day. What a strange day it’d turned out to be. A tiny frown creased her brows as she stared at a ragged, unfamiliar bill in her hand. Someone had slipped her a ten dollar bill with the face of an old crone engraved on it. She shook her head. She would have to pay closer attention or get one of those counterfeit pens and check each bill.

  She assumed she could trust the people in Sanctuary unless…

  Her thoughts trailed away as a thought sprang to mind. Perhaps Sanctuary had its own money and she was making change back to the customers with the wrong money. Crap! She hadn’t thought of that, but since everything else was crazy—no, she had to stop thinking like that. Everything else wasn’t crazy–just her.

  The bell over the door chimed its sweet melody. Although she’d closed the shop fifteen minutes earlier, she’d given Talon a key to the front door since the only entrance to his apartment was through the shop. She looked up and smiled. The smiled faded when she took in his rugged appearance.

  Good grief! He was covered with a layer of grime, garage-floor type grime. The black leather pants were replaced by a pair of ragged, faded jeans. A blue cambric shirt rippled across wide shoulders, ripped in a few places and missing buttons. The shirt fell apart and revealed a small patch of dark, curly hair covering a nicely toned body. Darn if he didn’t look almost normal…for a waken.

  He gave her a bright grin, that tiny dimple flashing at the corner of his mouth. Shutting the door behind him, he flipped the closed sign back in pl
ace. “I bought a house just outside the border of Sanctuary a few weeks ago, a fixer-upper, but worth it. I like working with my hands. It gives me a sense of accomplishment, as if I’m not wasting the life given to me. Does that make sense?”

  Saylym blinked, wondering how his callused hands would feel on her. Callused? She couldn’t imagine a prince doing manual labor, but the solid proof stood before her in scruffy work boots. What was it he said to her, something about making sense? “Uh…yeah. Sure. It makes perfect sense. That’s why I have my own business.”

  He brushed at the sawdust in his hair. “Oops, sorry,” he apologized, when the shavings of wood drifted onto her clean floor.

  Saylym gave a careless wave, indicating it wasn’t a problem. She couldn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could keep the lust out of her voice. Best to concentrate on the money, but she couldn’t resist eyeing his rear with silent appreciation when he walked past her. Nice bum. Her gaze followed his butt across the shop to the staircase. Tight buns. Bloody hell, didn’t the man have any flaws?

  Well, of course he did. He thought he was a witch. He was nuts! How could she forget that itty-bitty defect? She swallowed, forcing moisture down her dry throat. It seemed to take forever for her tongue to come unstuck from the roof of her mouth. She licked her lips. “Er—”

  “What?” His right boot rested on the bottom stair. He paused and looked over his shoulder, lifting a silky brow.

  Saylym locked the cash register and grabbed her purse. Sliding the strap onto her shoulder, she edged around the counter. “Uh…there’s this old lady who lives next door to me…well she’s in front of senile. Delusional. Very delusional. But harmless, unless you count the bright colors she wears that practically blind one.”