by Unknown
MeLora grabbed his arm. “Do not even consider mating with her. I will not have you spilling your seed in her and giving her a child. I’ve waited too many years for my revenge. It is my son who will wear the crown.”
He moved quickly, a blur that gave MeLora no time to escape. Black Drayke locked his fingers in her upper arms and pressed her against a wall, his hot breath foul against her face. “Do not continue making the mistake of telling me what to do, MeLora. I have that enough from the King, the guild, Prince Talon, and that pompous ass, Prince Stry. I’ll cast you into Dym-Mar if you refuse me anything or give me one more order.” He wrapped his fingers in her thick hair and yanked her close. “Do you understand me?”
She nodded, her eyes burning with anger. “I understand.”
Black Drayke smiled and slipped his hand inside her bodice. Slowly, he pinched one nipple. “Just remember, I enjoy inflicting pain, especially on you, my love.” His cruel mouth smirked with satisfaction. He released her with a shove that sent her staggering into the wall behind her. “Do what is needed with King Darak this night. But remember, it is not just your son who will sit upon the throne, but mine, as well.” He left, slamming the front door behind him.
* * * *
Black Drayke paused just outside and leaned back against the door. How difficult would it be to force a mating on Saylym Winslow? He rubbed his crotch, smiling as his manhood rose, aching and hard. Beltane was definitely here.
And he had always been a warlock hard to satisfy.
Surely if he forced a mating with Saylym ahead of Talon and claimed her for his own, then he’d have a quicker path to the throne, and he wouldn’t have to deal with MeLora’s treachery. He liked the thought of beating the prince and taking the crown from him. Any future matings with MeLora suddenly lost appeal. Now that he thought about it, she no longer satisfied his lust. He wanted this Winslow witch. He’d seen her when he paid a discreet visit to Sanctuary. She was indeed a captivating beauty, even if she carried the scent of an Impure. For possession of the crown, he’d fuck a demon.
All illumrofs smelled bad, even half-breeds, but he’d make an exception for this Winslow witch. What a prize she’d be. If there was any possibility she was of royal blood, then he wanted to be the one who mated with her. If she could conceive, he intended to be the one who gave her a child. She’d give him a fine son—a son of royal blood with a far purer bloodline than MeLora could provide.
For now, he’d be patient, bide his time, and continue with his and MeLora’s plans, but as soon as he claimed Saylym, he’d ditch MeLora and the child she carried. They were expendable.
Black Drayke smiled, snapping his fingers. Immediately, he stood outside Wizard Marcelo’s laboratory door in the basement of the dried-up old wizard’s tumbledown shack. Perhaps the wizard could concoct a brew that would ensure the queen’s silent cooperation tonight. He snickered. Very soon, all his plans and dreams would be fulfilled.
He might have changed his mind where MeLora was concerned, but he wasn’t about to give up this evening with Queen Helayne. He rubbed his hands together with delight. He knew exactly what he wanted to ensure the queen’s silence.
His thoughts turned to the black-hearted witch. There was something MeLora wasn’t confiding in him, something important. It angered him that she refused to trust him. He would have to think of an appropriate punishment for her.
How angry she’d be when he destroyed all her careful plans! She wanted desperately to wear the crown. He laughed. MeLora might accomplish her ambitions to sit beside King Darak and rule, but her success would be short-lived. He’d see to it personally that neither she nor the son she carried held the throne for long.
In MeLora’s place, Saylym would reign, and once she’d produced a son, he’d take her soul. Now that he had a definite goal in mind, his anger settled, his frustration calmed.
It was a perfect plan.
Black Drayke felt supremely smug. He couldn’t wait to steal MeLora’s nasty soul. What a tasty treat she’d be. She’d never see him coming. He grinned as the pun raced through his mind.
He’d make certain his pleasure peaked at the exact moment he took her spirit.
And he’d make damn certain she felt no pleasure at all.
Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth Proctor and Sarah Cloyce were examined before Hathorne, Corwin, Deputy Governor Thomas Danforth, and Captain Samuel Sewall. During this examination, John Proctor was also accused and taken prisoner.
~Salem Witch Trials
April 11, 1692
Page Entry…
Beltane arrived.
Kran set his plans in motion.
His sister, Queen Shy-Ryn, was alone in her chambers as was her usual routine at Beltane.
This night, he decided his visit would be more than brotherly.
Telling them he planned a late visit, Kran dismissed the queen’s royal guards. This wasn’t unusual, for he’d set the routine years in advance. The guards didn’t hesitate to leave their posts.
Not bothering to knock, Kran opened the door and entered the queen’s chambers. Smiling, he sealed it behind him with a spell no other could break...
~Pages of history from the Winslow witches.
In the Year of Samhain, 1550
Ru-Noc
Sanctuary
The world around Saylym blurred. She blinked and tried to focus her vision, but it was like trying to see through thick fog. For a moment, she thought Talon intended to kiss her when he dipped his head closer to hers.
How strange; her body felt hollow, as if it had suddenly been zapped and left as drained as a bleached bone. Her arms hung useless at her sides, and her legs felt like straw. A thick, gray haze drenched her thoughts and sent them into the smoky distance.
Talon’s mouth floated a whisper above hers, so near, yet—not near enough. She hungered for his mouth, yearned to feel his body surrounding her, claiming her, taking her places she’d never been before.
He parted his lips and she heard a soft jingle of words, saw him quietly inhale, a deep filling of his lungs. Chills trickled down her spine like ice water. She could no longer feel Talon’s welcoming warmth. That wonderful sexual heat he emitted had gone missing. Only the sharpest of frost surrounded her now. It sliced through her flesh, bitterly cold and with a razor’s edge. Frigid fingers wrapped securely about her shoulders.
Talon’s chest rose with another breath. The little heat left inside her evaporated, rushing away like steam escaping a broken pipe. Each time he breathed, she grew colder.
The air in her lungs felt so cold, it hurt to breathe. Then she couldn’t breathe. Her insides quivered, iced over, and collapsed into each other. Her heartbeat wobbled, paused, and then pounded with surprising force, battling the ice layering everything within her. Her teeth knocked together like rolling stones. Even her bones rattled, clacking like dry tree branches in winter.
* * * *
“You can’t do this, Prince,” Vox said, watching from the counter. The magical owl ruffled its feathers, upset at what it saw. “My heart is heavy. You won’t do it, Prince. Not my prince. My prince is noble. I can’t be wrong about you, Sire. I can’t.”
But Vox was wise and he knew a witch’s soul, once tasted, was a tempting aphrodisiac. Like a drug, it excited. It enticed a waken, beckoning like the sweetest of stimulants. It was almost impossible to release a witch from the powerful enthrallment once the stealing ritual was initiated. It was just as difficult for the waken to let go.
“Release her from the enthrallment, Prince. You can’t do this thing,” Vox said again, quietly, fearfully. “It goes against your nature. You won’t destroy just the witch. You’ll annihilate yourself. You have claimed her for your own. Stop, while you are still able.”
“There’s no choice, Vox.” Talon shuddered.
Saylym’s heat, the intoxicating, inner radiance that was her soul, leapt eagerly from within her. It beckoned him, drawing him closer and closer. She sighed, a soft whisper of s
ound. Her breath brushed faintly against his throat, his skin.
Talon supported her weight, his fingers biting into her flesh as her strength ebbed from her body. He gripped her shoulders and she leaned heavily into him. A fuzzy, nebulous light burst up from within her. It raced toward him from the center of her being at a horrific rate. He drew her closer and inhaled a third time, a stronger intake of breath, a deeper drag on her soul.
Gods, could he bear this?
His own soul rebelled against this terrible thing he did to an innocent. In his heart, he knew he was destroying something precious and good, something pure and sweet.
“Talon—”
“Don’t. Don’t say anything else.This is hard enough, Vox. I—” Talon’s voice broke. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before squaring his shoulders and opening his eyes. “Do you believe for a single moment I enjoy this?”
Talon flinched at the sound of Saylym’s gentle sigh. Her head drooped against his chest and he wanted to weep. He brought his hand up to the back of her slender neck, supporting her head. Blinking, he fought the sharp sting of tears that prickled his eyes. He pressed his mouth to the crown of Saylym’s head and trembled. “Please,” he whispered. “Let it be over quickly.”
Gods! But her hair felt like silk against his lips. He caught the faint whiff of wild roses on her hair and skin. Drawing a shaky breath, Talon thrust his fingers through the silken skeins of her hair, determined to finish the job he’d been sent here to do.
Gingerly, he tilted back her head and lowered his mouth. She was exquisite, a beautiful star about to be extinguished. He couldn’t imagine a world without the sound of her sweet laughter, her gentle smile, or her kindness. Or even her stubbornness.
Her flesh felt soft against his mouth, but cold as marble as he traced his lips lightly down her throat. He’d stolen her warmth, but not her beauty. Not yet. He heard her soft whimper, a weak mewling sound that shattered his heart.
Talon dropped to his knees, cradling her in his arms. There, he wept openly, grieving for both of them. His soul might still be in his body, but it was tainted forever. It was a terrible thing he was ordered to do, and for the first time in his memory, he despised what he was, the powers he controlled.
Saylym stirred, struggling to raise her head. Her spirit, an ethereal light, grew brighter as it drew closer and closer, soon to be sent into another plane to wander for eternity.
Abruptly his blood boiled with need. Raging and urgent, Talon was suddenly achingly hard, and near to bursting. He thought he’d shatter if he made the slightest move. If he so much as brushed his thighs against her, his seed would rupture from him, spewing like hot lava. His skin sweltered, ready to ignite into flames. Sexual release was but a heartbeat away.
Gods! But it was a wondrous feeling.
The urgent hunger to devour Saylym’s spirit sizzled through his veins setting his nerves a tingle. The last line of the chant hammered at his brain. And he smiles as he steals a witch’s soul.
Talon inhaled deeper, drawing her spirit closer.
She whimpered and shuddered in his arms.
He nibbled at the corners of her lips. “Easy, little one,” he soothed. “It’ll be over in a second.” He moved to settle his mouth over hers, to complete the task set before him.
Steals the witch’s soul.
Her frail sob penetrated the rampant fog darkening his mind. Abruptly, Talon changed the direction of his mouth, pressing his lips to her throat, holding her tightly against his chest.
His body shook with restrained violence. Urgent need raged through him. He shuddered, inhaling and exhaling through his nose, his deep breaths harsh and ragged. Sweat poured down his face. His jaws felt numb, he clenched them so tightly.
There was little relief granted him from the rampant torment raging through his soul. His entire being zinged with unleashed power. It quivered like a tightly drawn bow, demanding he complete the ritual. Fulfill the chant. Steal her soul!
The words pounded inside his skull over and over. Do it. Do it, now.
Steals a witch’s soul.
Steal the witch’s soul.
Steal.
Steal.
Talon closed his lips against the flesh of Saylym’s throat, latching on, drawing deeply, until at last, he gained a small amount of control and was able to rise to his feet, holding her close against his chest. He breathed slowly. In. Out. Over and over, until the pressure in his skull finally eased, and he could think without the magic pulsing through his mind.
He inhaled, savoring the warmth of her spirit as it stirred within his body. It swirled, dipped, and blazed around him like a shooting star spinning out of control.
Saylym gave a feeble whimper, and clawed at his shirt. “Kiss me,” she pleaded. “I don’t…I need—”
“I know, little one.” Talon tenderly brushed a tangled curl from her forehead and pressed a light kiss to her brow. “I know,” he whispered, “the same need claws at me.”
* * * *
Saylym felt the sharp sting of Talon’s lips pulling against her throat as he lowered his head and pressed his mouth there. She gasped. The sense of a bright light returning deep inside her settled; for the moment, content to linger where it belonged.
Cool air rushed inside her lungs, filling her body with life. The whirling vortex in which she’d found herself spinning helplessly, suddenly faded to a black void that left her grasping for a balance that wasn’t there.
As if from a great distance, she saw Talon reel drunkenly away from her. She heard his harsh, ragged breaths. He mumbled words to the owl that sounded like, “What are you grinning about?”
A smug reply, “I knew you couldn’t do it. I knew it! You’re too good a man to go through with it.”
Saylym shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Right. A talking owl. Huh.
She was definitely in a bad way.
What had happened?
* * * *
Damn it! Vox was right. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t drain the spirit from something as gentle and pure as Saylym Winslow without coming apart. He’d unravel if he did this terrible thing.
Relief swept over him. All right. All right. That must be his final decision. He couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it, and he’d never allow Black Drayke near her. So that left the choice to bond.
So be it.
He couldn’t imagine being content mated to one witch for the rest of his days, especially one with whom he couldn’t have children, but there was no other choice left for him.
How would he ever make her understand and accept what they had to do? “Damn the guild and its decrees!” Talon turned back to Saylym, raking trembling fingers through the strands of his hair.
“Are you all right?” she asked, touching his face with a gentle hand.
He flinched. “Don’t! Don’t touch me. Give me a moment.”
She stepped back. “You look ill. You’re gray.”
“For the gods’ sake, Saylym, give me a break.” He looked away, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
She flinched at his harsh tone.
Talon dragged in one last deep breath and slowly released it. That was better. At least he felt he had a little control back. Saylym was rubbing her forehead. Yeah, he imagined she had the headache from hell and he’d yelled at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, massaging her temples with her fingertips. She turned and walked away.
He watched her, frowning. She was an even bigger mystery than she’d been before he’d tasted her soul. He wanted to be the man who unlocked all her secrets, the man who discovered the core of her passion. He wanted to be the man she nurtured, and loved, sheltered in her arms and pressed to her bosom. To save her life, he’d gladly give up his freedom.
Talon went to her, clasped her hands, turned them over, and placed a gentle kiss in the center of each palm, then closed her fingers over them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
A worried scowl drew he
r silken brows together. “You always kiss the palms of my hands,” she said, searching his face.
“Do I?”
“Yes.” The frown vanished. “My headache’s gone.” She looked at her palms, then back at him, suspicion on her face and in her eyes. “What did you do?”
“A small spell to ease your pain,” he said softly. “And a bit of protection.”
“Protection?” She sounded puzzled.
“From maddened wakens. Against pain. Evil.” If there was one thing he was certain of, evil, in one form or another, was her enemy. He’d come devastatingly close to absorbing her soul. He still reeled from the powerful high.
She shook her head. “I feel as though I’m emerging from a cocoon.” Absently she scratched her neck. “My throat hurts.”
He clasped her wrist. “Leave it alone.”
“What?” she asked. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, La-Scheme, a simple declaration.”
“What?” She rushed over to pick up an antique hand mirror off the counter and peered at her reflection. “Bloody hell!” She traced a fingertip across the red, swollen area. “You bit me!”
He dragged her hand from her throat and eyed the reddened area. “Don’t scratch it. Scratching will only make it increase in size and change color.” He frowned. “It was no bigger than an insect bite and barely pink. Now it’s the size of a Thaler coin and red as the fires of the Underworld. I’ve never seen that happen before.” He rocked back on his heels. “And it was only a little nibble.”
