9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC

by Unknown

  Saylym frowned, raising the mirror up and down until she had a good view of her bruised throat in the mirror. “Little nibble? It looks like a big hickey! But it isn’t. I’ve never heard of a hickey instantly growing or immediately changing color just from a single stroke of a fingertip.” Her eyes widened. “The-the…Underworld?” She gulped.

  “Yeah,” he said, eyeing the blemish. “You know, where Dym and King Titan dwell —” He broke off, noting the startled look on her face. He shook his head. “No. You don’t know. Well, never mind.”

  He took the mirror from her and placed it back on the counter, then glided a fingertip down one flawless cheek. “The mark is nothing for you to concern yourself with. Eventually, it will fade. It’s merely a temporary warning for others to stay away during Beltane. A claiming,” he said softly. “Do you not understand a waken’s right to lay claim…?” His voice trailed away when he saw the confusion and disbelief on her face.

  Talon cleared his throat, nervous now, and tried again to explain. “A female witch, once marked by a waken, is his property.” He hesitated as her eyes grew round with disbelief and anger. “Uh…every waken has his own unique style and colors for marking a female. Once she is claimed, no other male may touch her. I have claimed you, Saylym. Marked you. You belong to me,” he ended on a triumphant note.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she barked. “You can’t just claim me as if I’m a piece of property.”

  “I can,” he said feeling smug. “I did. It’s a law.”

  “Whose law?” she snapped, hands fisted on her hips. There was no holding this witch back. She rallied quickly. “Well, I claim you too! Bend down so I can bite you.”

  Talon widened his eyes. His lips twitched. “It doesn’t work that way, La-Scheme. Only the male does the claiming. The…biting.”

  She shook her head. “Unclaim me,” she demanded. “At once!” She waved her arms around as if trying to gain his attention. “Do you hear me?” she asked. “Are you even listening? You have no right. No right!”

  “I have every right. It’s Beltane. Every witch of mating age will be mated or bonded, with or without her permission. I’m honoring you by claiming you as my own. Besides, it’s tradition.”

  “Honoring me? You want to control me.”

  “Only if you’re into that.” He winked at her. “You belong to me, Saylym, so unclamp those little fists.”

  “I belong to no one, especially you.” She relaxed her fists all right, and stabbed him in the chest with her index finger.

  It took him a moment to realize he was backing up every time she poked him.

  “I said unclaim me!”

  His dark brows knitted together in a scowl. “It’s our law, Saylym. Our law. The law of Ru-Noc. I’ve already claimed you. I can’t unclaim you. There’s no such thing. It’s done. We will mate. It doesn’t mean you’re my prisoner. You’ll be my equal, unless of course you want me to bind and blindfold you? Kinky. I understand illumrofs like to get kinky. Yes, I could get into that.”

  Saylym snorted. “In your dreams.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “Bloody hell! We will not mate,” she shouted. “Illumrofs?”

  “Illumrofs.” Talon nodded, frowning, puzzled by her lack of understanding of their language. “Humans. Our species is assorted and made up of vampires, werewolves, witches, wizards, wakens, warlocks, demons, and all the fey creatures of the woodlands.”

  Saylym laughed and blew out a deep breath. “Whew! You really had me going there for a moment. Witches? You may claim to be a waken, but I’m not a witch.”

  Talon smiled faintly. “You have something against witches? Against wakens?”

  “Nothing personal.” She snickered. “I just don’t want to be one.”

  He brushed a curl from her cheek. “Believe me, sweetheart, you’re a witch.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “Though you are claimed, La-Scheme, so am I. For your magic has cast a spell over me and taken my heart prisoner. You own me, La-Scheme. I’m yours for eternity.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Abigail Hobbs, Bridget Bishop, Giles Corey, and Mary Warren were examined. Abigail Hobbs confessed to being a witch.

  ~William Hobbs

  “I can deny it to my dying day.”

  ~Salem Witch Trials

  April 19, 1692

  Page Entry…

  Queen Shy-Ryn knew her brother’s intent as soon as she saw him close the door to her chamber and seal it shut with waken magic. She lifted her chin, seeing the shroud of Black Magic that darkened his mind and soul.

  Kran took his time crossing the room. There was no need to hurry. He had the entire month of Beltane to accomplish his goal. Shy-Ryn was fertile. And like all male witches, he smelled her readiness to breed. He cared not she was his sister.

  “Our son will inherit the throne, because when I’m done with you, you’ll never want another waken touching you. Through me, Zoman will accomplish what he intended.”

  Shy-Ryn backed up a step, but there was no escape. She was trapped and she knew it. She sensed his evil magic holding her prisoner inside the chamber. Screaming, she flung a ball of fire at her brother’s head. He batted it out of his way and threw himself on her. Together, they fell in a tangled heap of arms and legs on the bed.

  “Kran, don’t,” she pleaded. “It’s an abomination! Zoman was my father, too. His seed has already inherited the throne. Can’t you understand? Accept?”

  Kran’s lips curled with a thin sneer. He punched her in the mouth. “Shut up! You’re a female, and like all females, unworthy to rule.” He shed his clothes in the waken fashion, then ripped her gown from her body. “Fight me, Queen Shy-Ryn. It will give me the greatest of pleasure to punish you with pain.”

  ~Pages of history from the Winslow witches.

  In the Year of Samhain, 1555

  Sanctuary

  Sage and Stry stood near the outskirts of Sanctuary, their heads close together as they discussed their mutual concerns of their assignment. Sage eyed the evening shadows creeping in around them, warning of approaching night.

  Painted with myriad shades of purple and indigo blue, the sky looked as bruised and battered as he felt inside. The sun slowly dipped beneath the horizon, bringing an unexpected chill that layered the air, alerting unwary travelers of a cold night looming ahead.

  He shivered, huddling deeper inside the folds of his gray woolen cloak. “Damn, I thought winter was over, but it feels like we’re going to have more snow and ice.”

  The look on Stry’s face said he agreed. He nodded and smiled grimly. “Ru-Noc’s weather is unpredictable as always, May can be a bitch.” Stry scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t understand why I can’t locate this Nyra Winters. I’ve sent out several summoning chants to her, but I’ve had no response. How could she possibly ignore my summons?”

  “Perhaps she’s woven a spell of protection against you,” Sage suggested, blowing on his icy hands.

  “She doesn’t know I’m searching for her but I agree. I think she’s cloaked herself with a protection spell. Maybe she’s hiding from someone else?” Stry’s voice lilted with question.

  “Maybe.”

  Stry puffed out an irritated breath. “I can’t believe I don’t have the power to cross the barrier of her spell. I have to try something else. It’s been a week since the elders sent us out on this damnable witch hunt. I’m no closer to locating her than I was the first day.”

  “What are you going to do?” Sage asked, shuffling his feet in an attempt to stay warm.

  “I don’t know.” Stry shrugged. “Maybe try some night hunting. See if I have any better luck with my summons.” He blew out a long, disgusted breath. “I’d better find her soon or the guild will set Black Drayke on her. They’ll doubt I’m trying to locate her. I hate to think what that bag of slime would do to any one of those witches. I want to save Talon the pain of that if I can.”

  “I know.” Sage chewed on his bottom
lip. He held his hand out to his cousin. “I’m hitting the pastry shop,” he said. “The witch Kirrah or the illumrof female should be there, maybe both if I’m lucky. I can get my part of this job finished.”

  Stry shook Sage’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know why the ancients assigned you two females to terminate, but be fast and be discreet. We don’t want to start a panic among the witches. It would be disastrous this early in the season. Good luck and stay strong.”

  “I hate this.”

  Stry’s lips tightened. “I know.”

  Sage sketched a quick salute and turned in the opposite direction, headed to the Sugar-N-Spice pastry store. He frowned, his brows drawing together as he walked down the boardwalk. The thought of taking the soul of a witch haunted him. He wondered if she’d feel pain, and if she’d haunt him afterward.

  Drawing a deep breath, Sage made his way past the Maypole and through the town-square of Sanctuary. He hesitated outside the Sugar-N-Spice bakery, swearing softly. Dragging his heels wasn’t going to get the job done. He should have already taken care of Hannah Miller, but he’d jumped at the chance to help Stry, an excuse to delay his own assignment.

  Now he was fresh out of excuses.

  Straightening his shoulders, Sage released the locked door with a single incantation and stepped inside the pastry shop.

  * * * *

  Sanctuary

  Talon looked around the gift shop while he waited for Saylym’s last customer to finish browsing through the scented candles. The patron, a young witch, was in no hurry to complete her shopping, though she kept sending him nervous glances.

  He wasn’t sure if she was frightened of him because he was a waken or simply nervous of royalty. Once she realized his interest was centered on Saylym, she relaxed, and concentrated on her selections.

  She darted an occasional glance toward her small son, who busied himself skipping up and down the aisles on one leg. Suddenly the child tripped and fell, crying out as his hands and knees connected with the rough, hard floor.

  Saylym rushed over to the child, lifting him to his feet. “Aw, sweetheart, let me see.”

  The little boy whimpered, his lower lip trembling. She lifted him on the counter and eyed his scraped knees exposed below black shorts. “Goodness that mean old floor just reached up and bit you on the knees.”

  The child’s eyes grew round. He bobbed his head up and down. “Big tooth bit me.”

  Saylym smiled at the boy’s mother, nodding to let her know her son was fine. “What’s your name?” she asked. Talon watched as Saylym dug a couple of adhesive bandages from her jeans pocket.

  The child’s eyes grew round with wonder. “What’s that?” he asked, watching her rip open the paper.

  Saylym looked up surprised. “What? These little things? Band-Aids.”

  As the little boy looked confused, Saylym asked, “You don’t know what a Band-Aid is?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Course not. For a moment there I forgot I was in the Land of Oz. Silly me.”

  “Lamee,” the child sniffed, losing his curiosity with the Band-Aids and instead, concentrated on his pain. “I’m Lamee. It hurts sooo bad.”

  “I know, baby. Lamee? My, that’s a fine name for a little boy. Is it short for lamb chop?”

  The little boy shook his head, his thick brown curls bouncing back and forth. “It’s short for Lamee.”

  Saylym giggled. “Well, it’s a fine name, sweetie.”

  “That’s what Mommy said.”

  “Your mommy’s a smart lady.” Saylym plastered the Band-Aids across both his skinned knees, then reached for a black marker near the cash register. The child watched and laughed when she drew smiley faces on them. “There, now,” she said, brushing the dirt off the palms of his hands. “You have something you can show off to your friends.”

  Lamee flung his arms around Saylym’s neck and pressed a slobbery kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, lady witch.”

  Saylym patted the child’s back, laughing softly as she helped him from the counter. “You’re very welcome, sweetie.”

  Talon watched Saylym with the child, transfixed. He swallowed hard as an unfamiliar ache caught at his heart. His gaze followed the line of her breasts to her flat belly and he couldn’t get the image out his head of her heavy with his child. He fisted a hand against his mouth. Never. She’d never carry his son or daughter.

  His body clenched with a sudden staggering need to plant his child in her. Uneasy with the raging demands of his body, he shifted his gaze away from Saylym while she totaled up the young mother’s purchases.

  It’d been a mistake coming here. He couldn’t fight the overwhelming urge he felt for her or the achy tenderness that plucked his heart right out of his chest and gave it into her keeping.

  He hadn’t stolen her soul, but she’d sure taken a piece of his, and he didn’t think there was a way to reclaim it. Unclaim me. His mind screamed the urgent command. Too late, his heart cried. No matter how hard he fought it, he belonged to her.

  Talon smiled wistfully thinking of Saylym’s demand he unclaim her. Never. Who’d ever heard of unclaiming? Just as there was no escape for him, he’d never release her either.

  He swore softly when he realized just how determined he was to keep her. He didn’t want to unclaim her, even if it was possible. He couldn’t. She was a part of him now, had wormed her way into his heart. She might bear the mark of claiming, but they belonged to each other.

  Damn. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Somehow, he had to convince the guild that she was worthy of living without his surrendering his freedom to her or giving up the chance of ever fathering a child. Talon pulled his thoughts from Saylym and glanced around.

  In spite of everything, he was impressed with the shop. It was small but organized. Bins ran the length of the center aisle, brimming with crystals and rune stones. Statues of tiny ceramic wizards and witches stood facing each other on shelves, as if they were at a standoff.

  On the shelf next to them were dragons, faeries, and even crystal balls for scrying. Chimes made from multi-colored gemstones hung from the ceiling and jingled every time the door was opened. In every nook and cranny, shelves held scented candles and sticks of incense.

  But reigning supreme were the books—every shape, size, and century imaginable—on magic.

  Drawn to all things magical.

  Talon frowned. Was she attracted to him simply because he was magic? No. He wouldn’t accept that. But the question lingered like a dark shadow in his mind. He looked around. Saylym had done a fine job of fixing up the place.

  The little shop sent a message of warmth, an inviting place hard to resist, but he was still surprised at how busy she’d been all afternoon. There wasn’t a thing inside the shop that a witch couldn’t conjure for herself and still the witches came, shopped and lingered.

  A small seating area gave them a place to gather and Saylym served tea, fresh ground coffee, iced coffees, and assorted frosted cookies. The witches lingered to chat, whiling away hours. Saylym’s laughter and warmth drew them and invited them to sit and stay awhile. It was odd because mainly, witches, like wakens, shied away from Impures, but not in Saylym’s case.

  He inhaled, drawing in the scent of the shop. It smelled of roasted coffee, sugary delights, and dusty antiques. Most importantly, it smelled of Saylym. Excitement stirred the air. In spite of the sudden change in the weather, flowers bloomed all over town, coming to life to enjoy this special time.

  Beltane. A time of renewal. A resurgence of life. One could hardly miss the Maypole and ribbons in the town square. When he’d walked to Saylym’s shop earlier in the day, young women of all ages could be seen with crowns of spring flowers in their hair. He’d paused to watch them dance and sing. Their soft chanting and lilting voices blended sweetly.

  In spite of the chilly air, the sound of their joyous laughter rang out like musical bells, filling the town with the sweet music of happiness and anticipation as the wo
men circled the pole.

  Excitement buzzed everywhere.

  It was a time of pleasure and sensuality, a time of romance, love, and fertility. Queen of May would be elected in a little over a week. She’d sit upon her throne and rule, with absolute power, for the one night of her coronation.

  The phallic icon of fertility the Maypole symbolized encouraged every witch and waken to celebrate their sexuality to the Horned God, an approval to mate and reproduce. For the next four weeks, wizards, warlocks, wakens, and witches would be mating. With luck, some of the witches would conceive.

  Come October, if the season proved to be a ripe one, there’d be an influx of new births. However, few wakens would choose a bond mate, instead leaving the witch to rear the child on her own if she conceived.

  It was a tradition as old as time itself and ‘bastard’ was not a stigma recognized in their world. It was simply their way of life. It’d been this way for all time. At the thought of mating with Saylym, heat seared Talon’s body. He grew hard as a witching rod. By the gods, he desired to mate with her. He wanted to do it often this season, but like most wakens, he shuddered at the thought of bonding. He was barely five hundred years of age, much too young to settle down with a mate.

  And there was a distinct difference in mating and bonding. Bonding with a witch was a lifetime commitment, like the human’s marriage ceremony. He couldn’t imagine spending centuries and centuries with one witch.

  Life would become tedious.

  He sighed.

  Beltane. Mating time. Fertility time.

  Though not involved with the rearing of the child, a clever waken chose a mother for his child wisely. Or if he preferred no child, he abstained during Beltane, which wasn’t to a waken’s liking at all. They were, by nature, sensual creatures and being locked out of Sanctuary every year until Beltane arrived had long been a thorn in the wakens’ lifestyle.