Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  If sleep wouldn't come, she'd try music.

  She punched the CD player and came up with Altan, a disk David had given her. They started in on "Pretty Peg," a Scottish reel she'd heard his group practicing once.

  She ripped the headphones off and threw the portable player and phones and cables and all across the room. The whole load hit with a muffled thud, landing on something soft in the darkness. Angles and trajectories swirled through her head, and she came up with her bald-assed giant teddy bear, poor bedraggled refugee from her childhood. She couldn't have hit it on purpose if she'd tried.

  Insane laughter bubbled up, and she locked her teeth against it. You fucking idiot, you can't even make a tantrum work! Not with a bang but a whimper. Ought to crawl out and get the .38 and put five slugs through that damned CD. Then sit quietly and wait for the men in white coats to haul you away to the funny farm.

  Pills. Doc Frantz had given her some pills when she couldn't sort out her sleep patterns on the midnight shift. She'd gotten promoted to evenings before she'd used them up. Damned things would stun a horse. Double the dosage and they even killed the nightmares. They were still on the bedside table.

  Her fingers traced the overlapping paper labels on the bottle. Four or five of them, she remembered. They spelled out dosages and warnings. One said something like "Avoid alcohol while taking this medication."

  Screw that.

  She swallowed two pills, dry. Then she thought about night noises and took two more. She didn't want to wake up before David left. Before Jo left. Maybe not before Mo left.

  The pills nibbled at her, inch by inch, until she floated away into swirling darkness.

  Chapter Four

  Dougal MacKenzie forced himself to keep calm. He didn't jerk on the black leopard's collar. He didn't release it, either. Shadow was too valuable a beast to loose on a mage as wily as Sean. Fiona's pet brother wouldn't stroll into this forest without protection.

  Instead, Dougal just stood there--a gnarled stringy gnome scarred by the fangs and claws of a thousand beasts. I've had too much practice keeping calm with Sean and his elegant sister, he snarled to himself. When a thorn festers in your skin, you squeeze the wound to force it out. Just a little more patience and I'll be ready to lance this boil.

  He breathed deeply and concentrated on the earthy smells of the wildwood. They helped him hold his temper, studying the trees and shadowy underbrush rather than Fiona's slim errand-boy in gray turtleneck and slacks. The giant cat caught his mood, though. Dougal could feel the tension where dark fur pressed against his leg.

  Shadow wanted to kill. His simple predator mind lived for these prowls through the forest--lived for warm blood on his tongue and bones crunching between his teeth.

  "And you did nothing? The two of you did nothing while this Pendragon hacked Liam to pieces? Brian is as much a threat to you as he is to the rest of us! Common sense should have told you to kill the snake when you had the chance!" He glared at the eunuch in front of him, but held his temper. I'll attack only when I'm sure of winning.

  The Forest of Castle MacKenzie was no place for a casual walk. Dougal had found it, molded it with his magic, and stocked it in the image of a far older and deadlier land. Some of the plants were nearly as dangerous as the animals. Even the bedrock was a living weapon--his weapon. If Sean strolled in, alone, to bring his news, his sister must have warded him.

  "Fiona doesn't want him dead." Sean wrinkled his nose and then gave a smirking half-shrug--a feminine move that emphasized how much he resembled his twin sister.

  They had the same intermediate height, moderate for a woman or smallish for a man, with slim muscles built for stamina rather than brute strength. Their faces could be masks from the same mold--dark brooding eyes above high cheekbones, smooth dark skin that would look more natural on Crete than Galway Bay, a nose just short of sharpness. They were sensual predator's faces, dangerous on a woman and incongruous on a man.

  Dougal pulled himself out of the anger. Standing in his forest, he couldn't afford such thoughts. Sunlight dappled the shaggy trunks and tangled underbrush, forming mysterious shadows and lumps that seemed to move in the corner of the eye: wild forest, forest with the teeth and claws and danger left in it. Civilization had never touched this forest. Dougal intended that it never would.

  Dougal grunted. "So Fiona wasn't ready to move. I was. Your precious Pendragon ruined weeks of planning. My next plan is going to include killing him."

  Shadow flicked his ears and licked his lips, staring at Sean with hungry eyes. The cat had felt the thoughts of blood and death. Dougal read his body language clearly: the mutated leopard was thinking about a little snack. The beast-master squatted down beside his creature and ran a soothing hand over the coarse fur. The sharp smell of male cat twitched his nostrils.

  Not yet, his hands said. This one does not make good prey. It is weak. It is not quick and challenging in its turns. You would find it a boring hunt and the flesh is bland.

  Dougal stared into yellow eyes. Wait, he thought. We will find a better hunt for you.

  One they were sure of winning. Survival in the Summer Country involved cold calculation as often as it did passionate violence.

  Shadow settled at his feet, a sleek pool of ebony fur with coal black paw-print markings where the light touched just right. The cat started licking one paw and nipping gently around his fishhook claws, then lifted his gaze to meet Sean's-- coldly weighing potential prey, measuring, thinking hunter's thoughts. Dougal's thoughts.

  Sean watched all this with lazy confidence and then shook his head. "Fiona wouldn't like that, you know. She'd be displeased if you killed Brian. She has plans for the little boy."

  "Plans?" Dougal spat on the ground between them. "I had plans, too! Your fair-haired boy waded right into the middle of my plans and murdered Liam, and the two of you as much as helped him! I ought to string Fiona's ears around my neck for standing by and watching like it was two beasts fighting in a pit! Now she's saying I can't even take vengeance on the Sassenach who held the blade? Your bitch sister asks too much."

  A sardonic smile answered him. "As the human children would say, any time you're feeling froggy, just hop. You won't be troubling my sleep, much less Fiona's. And you'll have a hard time selling that Sassenach label in the Summer Country. Brian's blood is as pure as yours or mine."

  Dougal straightened up, resting his hand casually on his dagger. "Blood is one thing. Mind is another. The Pendragons have the Sassenach mind. Merlin taught them to believe in rules. Merlin taught them to believe in God and King and Parliament. Brian would bind iron chains around your wrists and ankles. Do you want to live like that?"

  Sean's mocking smile hardened. "Fiona's plans won't leave Brian much room for God and King and Parliament. Just stay clear of him. Otherwise, my sister will be most displeased."

  Interesting, thought Dougal. He keeps talking about Fiona's plans. His sister will be most displeased. Sean was always slipping little twists into his words, giving one sentence five different meanings. It sounded as if there might be a touch of brotherly dissent brewing, even the jealousy Dougal had noticed more than once before.

  "And don't you have any plans of your own, friend Sean?"

  "Oh, I like this plan." Sean's drawl carried a slight edge. "We've been playing tag with Brian since he was in diapers. This year, we've decided to win."

  "And yet she doesn't want him dead. What does she want to do with him?"

  The half-man shrugged, but a glint of hatred grew in his eyes. "You know Fiona, all scientific and modern. She has an experiment she wants to run."

  The thought of being one of Fiona's experiments chilled Dougal. She had an evil reputation, even by the standards of the Summer Country. Rumor said that her house-rowan was all that remained of a former lover, showing his blood in the crimson berries. Rumor said that a web spun from human nerves tied her lands together, binding it to her touch.

  Maybe she'd decided to make Brian a sentry spirit for her l
and. Grind his body into a mush of DNA and spin the warrior genes out in a centrifuge, then splice them into every cell of every tree and sprig of grass around her cottage. She'd take the genetic engineering she stole from the humans and warp it to the uses of the Summer Country. That was the way her mind worked, passion ruled by a logic so cold as to make an iceberg seem like Tahiti.

  All Dougal wanted to do was kill the bastard.

  Work on Sean's hidden anger. There's something about this that little Fiona's little brother doesn't like. Something more than usual.

  "And are you happy taking orders from your sister? Is your manhood so damaged you enjoy serving as a ladies' maid? What do you want to do with Brian?"

  Sean's sudden glare made the cold hilt of the dagger feel very reassuring. Then the insolent smile was back.

  "Touchy, touchy, Dougal me laddie. Killing Brian won't really ease your pain. We both know what the problem is between you and my lovely sister. You're the only man in the Summer Country she's never bedded, never shown the slightest interest in. You're too ugly for her or for any other woman. So you sit up on your hill and stare down at her cottage and wish. I'm surprised that cat isn't female."

  Dougal tensed and then relaxed, and smiled quietly. There was Fiona's trap: defensive spells wound around Sean, spells that could slip quietly into Dougal's forest without triggering his own defenses. But if Sean goaded him into an attack . . . then the counterstrike would come. Sparring with Sean or Fiona always seemed like that. Feints within feints within feints. Dougal's own magic worked in other directions.

  But that would change. I'll have the Pierce woman soon. She'll rival Fiona in power and beauty. When she's trained, there'll be some changes in the Summer Country.

  Malice sparkled in Sean's eyes. He'd seen the instant when their trap edged on success, and then the failure. "My sister sends her love and condolences with the news. Please do come and visit us. It's been so long since we had company for tea." He turned and strode off through the forest, ignoring Shadow.

  Tea? Dougal wondered what would be in the cup, if he accepted their invitation. He doubted if it would be wholesome. When he had his woman, then they could pay a social call. Her magics were of Fiona's kind.

  Just before Sean disappeared down the trail, he turned back. "We all know you like killing things. Look around for something else to soothe that itch. Stay away from Brian. Fiona wants him." He paused, and smiled. "Besides, I doubt if you could handle him alone. We can."

  Then the gray form vanished between the trees.

  Dougal glared after him. The eunuch had touched a nerve. Dougal knew exactly why he both hated and feared the witch twins. Yes, Fiona had spurned him. She'd made the reasons clear, in her acid-tongued way.

  Certain combinations of the Old One and human genes made the ogres of myth--the kobolds and Nibelungs and other twisted gnomes of earth and forest. Certain combinations made the fairies and the elves, the sidhe, the fair people of light and air. The earth always desired the air, and the air always rejected and mocked the earth.

  Shadow stirred. Dougal sensed restless energy in the bond between him and his killer. The cat was bored with these abstract problems. His was an immediate world built of the smells and sounds and dash of prey. Dougal had promised the cat a hunt.

  "Yes, my friend. Your kill is near. It hides somewhere down below us. Wake up your nose, wake up your ears and eyes and instincts. Something is hiding in my forest, and you're the one to find it. You're the one to flush it from its den and kill it."

  The cat's eyes glowed. Dougal touched Shadow's mind, placing a picture there: the track, the smell, the shape they hunted. The cat smiled back at him, his tail twitching in a slow snake-curve. Some kinds of game attracted Shadow more than others. This was his favorite.

  "Ah, my laddie," he whispered. "You're black death, brought to my hand and tamed. Strange, isn't it, the love we have for deadly things, the love for owning and controlling them? So beautiful they are, so satisfying to loose them on our enemies. You wouldn't be half so fair, if you fed on berries or on grass. It's death we love, as much as beauty."

  This woman, she would be as beautiful and deadly as a hunting cat. She wasn't, now. She didn't know who she was, either as a woman or a weapon. He would mold her into the mate he needed. Control her weaknesses. Aim her fears. Build her strengths.

  Tamed and trained and brought to his bed, he would use her as a rapier to cut the new ways out of the Summer Country, extend his fief, strike his enemies like a thunderbolt out of the cloudless sky. Wipe out Fiona's neat checkerboard of fields and bring back the tangled dangerous wildwood that was the Summer Country's proper face, the face he loved.

  And then there would be children, children of the Blood. They would be worth even more than the woman's powers--children with the blending of Old One and human blood, with all the abilities of both races.

  She was his perfect mate.

  "Not my equal," he whispered to the cat. "No woman is my equal. A woman's position is to serve, my beautiful assassin. To serve as you serve me."

  The sister was little more than a prostitute even though her bloodlines were the same. He could never be contented with a whore. Bringing her to bed, controlling her, owning her, would not be a challenge. It would be like taming a chicken to peck corn from his hands. Someone else could have her.

  Dougal needed a falcon for a mate.

  He slipped the leash. Shadow flowed and became his namesake, a moving blackness among the other pools of black under the ancient trees. The two of them crept along the valley, searching through the tangled underbrush of the ridges and the laurel thickets along the clear limestone stream in the depths, testing the air for scent and the ground for tracks. Dougal let the tension and danger of the hunt, of the primitive hostile forest, wash over him and take his spirit. Shadow lived for the hunt and the kill. So did his master. They became two bodies of one will. Then Dougal knelt and read a track, tracing the thin line of its edge in a single patch of carelessly printed moss.

  This would have been the only trace of his prey, if he had been hunting by himself or with a normal cat. Shadow was not normal. Most cats hunt by sight and sound. They have good noses but rarely hunt by smell. Not Shadow. He would follow a scent through the brimstone fumes of hell.

  "Yes," Dougal whispered, half in his mind. "Yes, my old friend. We have him. We have our poacher."

  Dougal scratched the coarse fur between the ears, smoothing it into a slick pelt and then roughening it down to the roots and the fierce heat beneath. His hunters gave him the gift of friendship, of the intimacy that Fiona and the others denied him. Shadow, and the peregrine, and the others, they were Dougal's true lovers.

  The Pierce woman would be another, far greater than the others. Liam had said she even worshipped trees. She would understand his passion for the savage beauties of the wildwood.

  "Go. Kill."

  Shadow bounded along the line of the track, clearing twenty feet at a leap, and vanished into the bushes. Dougal's finger traced the track again, a single boot-print in the moss.

  Man, human, slave: the fugitive hadn't fled from Dougal's keep. The same beast-mastery that bound Shadow and the falcons also worked on humans. None of Dougal's slaves ever ran away. None of them ever turned on him, or disobeyed, once he'd finished training them.

  That was Dougal's magic. That was his gift from the Blood. That would bind the woman to him, once she was brought from the land of humans to the Summer Country.

  Thrashing burst out in the bushes ahead, followed by curses and a scream. Dougal pushed himself up from his crouch, straightening kinks in his spine and quietly wiping his hands. He could have moved as fast and deadly as the cat, but he didn't need to rush: Shadow could avoid any weapons a human slave might carry in the Summer Country. That was the other way the cat was more than a normal leopard. A brain sat behind those golden eyes.

  Now Dougal smelled fear on the breeze, rank human sweat and blood tinged by thin sour urine. Twigs snapped and
a scraping sound gave him a clear picture of fingernails clawing bark. Shadow coughed once, a snarling cat-curse followed by silence.

  {Treed.}

  The thought blossomed in Dougal's head. His smile grew broader. To flee a leopard into a tree . . . .

  Dougal could feel a plan forming. Shadow measured distances and angles, tensing muscles as his thoughts bounced to a low, heavy branch and then a higher one, switching back and forth and spinning like furred lightning until the frightened human twisted around and lost his grip and fell or dropped his spear. Then the kill would follow, and the hot rush of sweet blood.

  {Do it!}

  The image broke. Dougal didn't mind. He didn't need to see the details as they happened. The sounds and his bond with the forest gave him what he needed: the scratch of claw on bark, the thrashing leaves as a hundred pounds of cat sprang from ground to limb to limb, the scream of terror, the clatter of a wooden shaft falling to the ground, the crunching thud of a body following it.

  There.

  Shadow crouched under the tree, paws claiming his kill. His golden eyes blazed with blood-lust. Beast-master and beast read each other's thoughts, respectful.

  The human lay twisted, leg broken by the fall. Deep fang wounds tore the throat where Shadow had made his killing bite. Dougal didn't recognize him, but the Old One rarely paid much attention to slaves even in his own keep. They were fixtures, much like chairs or doors. He only noticed them when they didn't work.

  Shadow inched away from the head of the corpse, keeping a possessive paw on the lower back. This meat belonged to him.

  Dougal crouched, not looming over the cat and threatening his claim, and drew a short, heavy boning knife. Skill slid the point between two vertebrae and levered, snapping one bone loose from another. Sharp steel sliced through the tough cartilage, the tendons, muscles, arteries, and veins, until the head fell loose. The trophy was all he wanted from this kill. It would hang outside his keep, not important enough for a place of honor but a statement none the less.