“I wonder,” she mumbled, eyeing the bedside cabinet. She wiggled her finger and the top drawer slid open. She couldn’t see the contents except from memory. “Out,” she sternly ordered, and each T-shirt folded within floated to where she pointed at the bed. “This is just insane,” she said aloud, still amazed to the point of unease. Few human beings had such a talent as this. She was very possibly one of an elite group. Not that anyone else was going to know. No scientist of parapsychology was going to conduct hours of torturous testing on her. She made a solemn promise to keep this to herself. Always.
Only William would know. She could trust him because he told her with his compassion. “I will teach you everything your heart desires and more.” She was safe with him. Still shrouded in mystery, that sense of the unknown was no longer daunting. In fact, she found herself ever drawn to him. Their relationship was increasing. It was a matter of defining the relationship. Whatever the title, Olivia knew her life was taking on a drastic change.
Then there was the one sobering image that continued to haunt her. The painting. It had changed three times, she was certain of it now. First the woman with the blonde hair, her identity unknown. Next the darker woman who had motioned to her shoulder, shown Olivia the mark on her delicate shoulder, the mark they shared. Finally the man, the one who called her sister, the one who spoke of destruction. Olivia had dismissed the reason for the metamorphosis as a result of her drinking red wine. No, she mused, the reason for the images was far more sinister than a reaction to wine. This puzzle remained stubbornly unanswered.
The diary. Was there not a mention of such a mark in it? Olivia went to the bottom drawer where she had tucked the small book away, and pointed. Obediently, the drawer slid open. “Rise,” she demanded, and the diary lifted to the air and wobbled. It hadn’t taken so kindly to a command issued with magic, remaining stationary for only a few seconds before dropping to the floor with a thud.
The binding, already cracked and dry, did not react well to the unintentional abuse. Olivia cursed her heedlessness and picked the diary up with the care it deserved. Poking out, from the widened tear in the binding, was a yellowed paper, rolled tightly within. Another secret, a piece to the puzzle slowly relinquished, she pulled it out and marveled at the aged treasure. The ribbon round it was frayed and disintegrated to her touch. The paper remained sturdy, however. She unrolled the page.
No signature of the author, it was written in a refined scrawl. Every space was cluttered with words. Unlike the diary, no space was allotted for punctuation. The hand that wrote this belonged to one who was hurried. Several of the letters were scratched, almost incomprehensible. Olivia held it to the light and read.
I sin greatly to the lusts of common men My flesh stings to violation my family dishonored by such aberrations My reasons based on justification my body a servant for abuse by many men I must allow these violations or else risk awakening the evil of the One who would sense innocence and rise for me as I carry the mark that would arouse his evil passions This cannot be allowed I will not permit him to find me for his terror would drive me mad as it drove the others into oblivion of torture Misunderstood by all they believe me to be a mistress of darkness and many demand my flesh be committed to the fires of purification but no I shall escape with another a sweet prince who has sailed into port in a ship of gold He shall rescue me from a path of destruction He has promised to take me to the New World and I shall leave my nightmares behind Surely this curse cannot travel across the depth and breadth of a vast ocean I am rescued I have found freedom with him Now the mighty Sorcerer will never find me or those who may come after me Make it so I beg all power good and true to be my guide.
Anna Von Der Weilde. No name needed to be attached for Olivia to know who had penned such a heartfelt passage. Accused of being a witch she had found refuge here with her English husband. But if history were correct she continued her craft for protection. Whatever it was that had frightened her so, had followed.
Who was the mighty sorcerer she made reference to? Perhaps it had been another who shared the gift of telekinesis, during an era when such talents would certainly be misunderstood as an allegiance with the dark side.
Olivia had hoped this small piece of paper would reveal answers to the family mystique. Instead it only evoked more questions. Without realizing she had reached for her shoulder. It burned, as though she had been in the sun too long, and to the discomfort she went to the mirror and lowered her blouse.
Mother had stated it was a scar created by a difficult birth. But what if it was a mark that had been born with her? It had been faint, barely noticeable, but now it had darkened, becoming more prominent in appearance. The three thin scratches looking more distinct, like claws, the same blemish that the woman in the painting had taken such urgency in showing her. “You were born to be mine.”
That night she barely slept. And when she did, she dreamt of a long voyage across a tumultuous ocean, the ship followed by a great bird of prey that screeched out for her to listen and understand, its massive wings blotting out the sun. No matter how she tried to understand the images, they failed to inspire her with truth, resting just beyond comprehension. As she leaned to listen, she knew the words would become clear. Soon, she would understand. The puzzle was slowly locking together.
And when the fog lifted, Olivia, too, would be faced with the terror of decisions, ones that would ultimately change the course of her existence, as they had done with her ancestors.
* * * *
Tired as she was from a night of restless dreams, dulled into obscurity with the morning light, Olivia carried the burden in solitude. Mother had enough on her mind making a living at the bookshop, finding the extra money to have the car fixed, while pushing into the background the loneliness of being single. Olivia didn’t want to further the anguish with talk of sorcery that seemed ever more entwined with their family history. Much was still being kept from her. If Olivia was to find an answer it would have to be done with caution.
Armed with a list of a few needed groceries and a purse light of coin she started off for town. Those she passed seemed especially guarded. Wary glances were common, something she had tolerated her whole life. But this afternoon each cautious eye that turned aside was particularly condemning, either that or she was especially sensitive. Ignoring the convictions as best as she could, she couldn’t help but smile. With a flick of her finger she could startle each and every one by moving an object without cause, the thoughts of their frightened faces was amusing. Tongues would waggle then! A sense of preeminence straightened her spine. Olivia held her head high.
She’d collect the items on her list, drop them off at home, and then go see William again. She argued with the soft voice inside in her mind that reminded her she had once vowed to avoid his company. The vow was made before her apology, before their short luxurious kiss, before feelings had whelmed up so powerfully inside her heart. Mind over matter was not about to persuade her to abandon the need to spend time with him. The more she thought of him, the more she ached to be at his side. It was becoming quite clear she was teetering on the edge of falling in love with this dark mysterious man, and it was a fall she was increasingly wanting to fulfill.
Reaching for a package of tea Olivia froze in her tracks. Voices from the other side of the aisle were far from polite, and the theme of the private conversation was disturbing.
“I think it’s Taylor, Teisman, or something like that.”
“Why anybody would want to buy that disgraceful old place is beyond me. It should have been torn down years ago.”
“I heard he’s got something to do with the Byrnes. Rich relative from Europe, I heard. Made his fortune selling guns to murderers.”
“You don’t say? My Rosie came home from school yesterday and said that Billy said his mother was talking to a fellow from England. Said he was a ghost hunter here to write a book.”
“That photographer? I heard that was just a cover. He’s a detective, here to f
ind that other fellow, bring him to justice. A wanted man, apparently. Said this Taylor fellow was very dangerous and he should be run out of town.”
“Terrible business. Shady people. We don’t want such characters in this town. Bad enough we have to tolerate those Morgan women.”
Olivia stiffened.
“Maybe they’re all in it together. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re planning some sort of heathen festival out there. Should be laws against people like that.”
“Sex crazed the bunch of them. We’ll end up being as bad as Salem if something isn’t done soon. Who knows how many more of their kind will flock here.”
“You’re right. We’re good God-fearing people and we shouldn’t have to put up with any of them.”
Olivia could bear no more. She stomped around the aisle and glared at the two women, their mouths dropping when they saw her appear. “You stupid, self-centered old bats!” she seethed. “How dare you say such things.”
The two gaped, stepping back from her fury, clutching their collars.
“It’s your kind that should be gotten rid of.” The more she spoke the higher her temperature rose. Words flowed from her mouth as though they had life of their own. “You’re nothing more than a couple of gossiping old hags. William Talbot is a gentleman--not that either of you would recognize one--seeing that you’re both married to village idiots.”
“Well,” gasped one through sheer shock. “I never.”
“That’s an understatement,” Olivia continued, her cheeks burning to an ever-growing rage. “You never stop to think about the horrible things that flip off those rotten tongues of yours. You two are the biggest, ugliest witches in this town.”
Olivia slammed her empty basket to the floor and turned on her heel to leave. Just looking at them made her feel sick. She needed some fresh air and a brisk walk to calm down. She didn’t trust herself, staying any longer. As rude as she had been, the potential to say far worse was impending.
When she raced out the corner shop door she whirled right into Stephen Fillmore.
“Hello again,” he said warmly, not bothered by being bumped in to.
“And you’re another one,” Olivia spat, the gossip she had just overheard making more of an impact on her than she wanted to believe.
His smile dropped to confusion. “Pardon?”
A blind rage had all but consumed her. “You! Going around adding to all these filthy rumors about my family. Why don’t you just take that camera and shove it!”
“Hey-up,” he said, reaching for her in pacification.
Her fist flayed, demanding he stand clear. “It’s bad enough those old sows can’t hold their tongues but you didn’t have to come here and make it all worse.”
“No, luv, I....”
“Don’t you ‘love’ me. If you’ve come here to hurt him then you’ll have to get past me first.” Olivia couldn’t believe what she was saying. Her tantrum had reached a crescendo.
“He’s not what you think he is.” The gentle foreigner had suddenly become extremely stern, his conviction sending a chill through Olivia’s blood.
“What would you know?” she yelled. Her arms were trembling with the exhaustion of fury.
“I know,” he said. His dark eyes never blinked. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You must listen to me, Olivia. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and he has come here to tear you to pieces.”
A red wave fluttered in front of Olivia, her stampeding heartbeat crashed in each ear. Fists unfurled she lifted her finger, uncontrolled anger demanding the camera strap around the accuser’s neck to constrict. It obeyed, much to the chagrin of the owner, who garbled to the immediate pressure on his voice box. His fingers dug at the strap, a desperate attempt to loosen the grip. His breath stolen, he rattled for air, but his eyes never left hers. They were shimmering with shock.
“No,” he choked, his chin lifted, the strap coiling tighter like a malicious serpent gone mad. “No, please.”
“Saints preserve us!” A small crowd had gathered to watch the altercation. The photographer being choked with his own camera strap at the command of a slim finger had caused shrieks of horror. “She is a witch!”
The shriek had a sobering effect on Olivia’s temper. She curled her finger, whelmed with regret that she had used her talent for such a reprehensible infliction on another. No sooner had the photographer wheezed to release when a rock, hurled from some unknown bystander, clipped her in the temple. She staggered, lights flashing before her eyes, and dropped to the concrete sidewalk, skinning both knees.
“Leave her be!” It was Stephen Fillmore. He knelt, shielding her quaking shoulders from another onslaught of abuse.
Blood trickled down her face. She felt the warm path but was far too consumed with anguish to brush it away or even to consider how badly she might be injured. Tears were flowing like water. All she wanted was to get away, run. “Don’t touch me,” she wailed as the photographer tried to examine the wound. The crowd had collectively moved closer despite one’s sympathetic attention.
“He taught you to do that, didn’t he, Olivia?” Stephen spoke quickly, sternly, his words steeped in exigency. “You could easily have killed me, snapped my neck like a twig with a flick of that pretty finger. Don’t you see? It’s begun. He’ll corrupt you if you let him. Let me help.”
She crawled away, blinded by tears and pain. “Animals, all of you,” she shrieked. “I love him. I have always loved him and he loves me.”
“It’s a façade, Olivia. He couldn’t love you, even if he tried. He’ll feed on your goodness and then leave you in ruin.”
Somehow she managed to get to her feet.
“Olivia--listen--please! He is Wyldelock De Croft, not the nobleman you think, but a sorcerer, centuries old.”
“You’re crazy,” she cried, humiliated, stunned, confused. She blinked, trying to clear her sight and forced her feet to carry her away from the scrimmage that sought her demise.
“Another hunts him, Olivia,” the voice shouted, growing ever dim. “Let me help or you will be caught in their struggle.”
She blotted it all out and ran. Pavement became grass, dotted within the uneven ruts in the road to the Keep. On and on she ran, barley seeing the path as she staggered forward. “William,” she cried, her call barely a whisper, slumping to dizziness, not certain to where. “Help me.”
The sharp sting in her temple dulled. A gentle touch lifted her chin and she opened her eyes. He had answered her call. The sweet smile of safety flooded over her as if from the glow from a freshly lit fire. He picked her up off the ground as effortlessly as if she were a rag doll and carried her inside to the long darkened gallery. The world with all its viciousness melted away and she slumbered in his embrace.
“They hurt me,” she said, lulled as he smoothed back the hair from her cut. “More so with words than any weapon.”
He knelt beside the couch where she rested. “Persecution. Our guilt is the inimitability they cannot understand.” Slowly he leaned toward the damaged temple and kissed the bruise, healing heat, remedying the pain, physical as well as emotional. Her sorrow was gone. She was at peace.
“I want to be with you,” she said.
Odd, this sudden certainty that took hold of her with a severity never before experienced. She watched his brow lift, quietly questioning the conviction behind her words. Reflected in his eyes was no evidence he wished to harm her. Olivia saw only longing, that he, too, wanted as she did, to be with one who could answer dreams, one who could share their common bond, consummate allegiance. Together, in their shared uniqueness, they could ward off all those who wished to destroy what providence had borne. He had come for her, and now she was willing to accept his passions and try as best as she could to illustrate she would reciprocate his every wish.
“Olivia?” he whispered, an aching need for confirmation that what he was hearing was at last true.
She ran her fingers up into his thick mane of hair, her nails dig
ging into his scalp. He leaned closer to the bidding, the moment lingering, heavy with expectation. Within the moment she allowed her thumbs to caress the hard curve of his jaw. His lips parted in a short expulsion of breath, so near she tasted its sweetness. “I want you as none other,” she said gently, drenched to prelude.
Her words ricocheted through him as a shudder. His lids dropped, brown throat bouncing to a hard swallow. His display of genuine sensuality overwhelmed her in an austere madness, one of extreme need. The fantasy swept her away. She gripped his hair in a tight pull, forcing his chin to raise, his lips to part in surprise, and she kissed him with promise, one that could never be demonstrated with anything as weak as mere words.
Olivia heaved into his immediate lunge, fingers buried deep in the silky hair that waved against her cheeks and shoulder. Tightened arms against her forced air to exhale from her mouth and he took it to his, his kiss bathing her lips, tongue prodding every crevice with fanatical hunger, yielding a soon to be honored promise of invading her body in totality. This salacious kiss was the beginning of pleasures beyond experience, that which he had promised to her, and she kissed in return, a gesture of acceptance. Olivia was ready to prove the depth of her growing love.
Control was dissolving, yet she pulled his hair, demanding he wait. His chest rose and fell quickly and he opened his glistening eyes to ask why she lingered, why she teased him so. Olivia smiled and pressed her mouth to his nose, forehead, and cheeks. His breath was weighty but he allowed the playfulness with constraint. “Seductress,” he said, in a voice fraught with greed. “You tease me with opulence.”
The storm was building, the air saturated with the mugginess of heat. Her new title was issued as the first fork of lightning that penetrated her mind. Then, it bolted through her breast as an untamed force, one that only his lavish touch could quench with cooling rains. He knelt before her, as a magnificent warrior, waiting to be anointed with the sword that would bestow knighthood. “I am your servant. Ask of me ... anything ... and I shall give.”
The Sorcerers Mark Page 11
