Touch of Desire

by Susan Spencer Paul

  “You have dark magic,” it said. “You are worthy to be my master. But I feel danger in you.”

  “You are to obey me,” Morcar commanded, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he came closer still. The demon’s power put off a fearful heat and light; he had to narrow his gaze and turn his face aside. Years of blindness had taught him how to act without vision. “You will kneel—”

  “Stay back!” the demon roared. The sound made the air vibrate like thunder.

  Morcar forged on, past the fury and fire. His skin and eyes began to burn, but he ignored the pain and put his hand into his pocket, pulling out the Donballa. The amulet’s light burst forth with a blinding brilliance.

  The demon’s rage exploded, scalding Morcar’s face and eyes and hands like boiling oil as he lunged forward. He grasped the Donballa’s chain with both hands and forced it over Philistia’s head, closing his mind to the hot pain and terrifying smell of his own smoldering flesh.

  The demon left her body with an eruption of violence, shaking both ground and air and sending an explosion of wrath outward as it rose out into the sky.

  All those present were thrown to the ground, their ears burning from the high-pitched wails the demon made. Desdemona crawled to Sarah and set an arm about her; Dyfed covered them both with his body.

  “Now!” Malachi shouted, struggling to his feet. On either side of him Kian and Christophe pushed upward as well, their hands held aloft.

  Their powers combined, they shouted the incantation as one, “Exsulo!”

  What happened afterward none of them could precisely say. The demon’s screams were so overpowering as to make them all insensible. The force of the spell shuddered over the land, throwing them to their backs, and the burst of light that heralded the cythraul’s exit was so bright they were blinded.

  Malachi came back to awareness before the others, blinking into the dark stillness of night as his whirling senses cleared. He was wet and cold and lying on the damp earth. His ears were buzzing so loudly that it was several long moments more before he could make out any sound.

  It took an effort to sit, to make his eyes focus. He saw that Kian and Christophe were stirring on either side of him.

  And then everything else came back to him and he was on his feet, looking frantically for Sarah.

  “She’s here,” Dyfed called. “Stop shouting, or you’ll frighten her.”

  They were huddled together on the ground, not far away, Dyfed, Desdemona, and Sarah. The two women were sitting side by side, looking dazed. Dyfed had his arms about both of them.

  “Their ears haven’t cleared yet,” he said a little too loudly, indicating that his own hadn’t yet become normal.

  Malachi knelt before her; Sarah put her arms about him and hugged him tightly. Kissing her, he rose and returned to his cousins, making certain that both Kian and Christophe were on their feet before turning his attention to finding Steffan.

  He was on the rocks near the sea, kneeling beside Philistia, who was bent over Morcar’s body, weeping.

  Malachi moved toward them.

  “He’s dead,” Steffan said as he came near. He set a gentle hand on Philistia’s head. “She’s all right. Or as well as can be expected. There are burns that must be healed. Terrible burns.” His voice choked with emotion as Philistia’s inconsolable tears touched his sensitive mystic’s soul. “Morcar was killed when the demon left her body. The force was too great for him to absorb. He has gone to the spirit realm.”

  “Morcar.” Malachi knelt beside them. The body was badly burned, the flesh that had been exposed to the cythraul’s fury melted beyond recognition. All Malachi could think was that he could heal these wounds if Morcar had survived. Malachi could restore him to his former beauty and make him whole, if only …

  “We can bring him back,” Malachi said suddenly. “Steffan—”

  “No, cfender,” Steffan said. “You know we must not.”

  “It can be done,” Malachi insisted. “Kian brought Loris back from death. Do you not remember? Because he loved her so greatly and they were fated to be. The unoliaeth between Morcar and Philistia is no less strong. I’m sure of it. Can you listen to her grief and say it cannot be done?”

  Steffan hesitated. Lifting his hand, he stroked Philistia’s head. The strength of her pain left her incapable of speech.

  “I sense that she is willing,” he said. “Her love for him is great. But Kian is a powerful wizard, and it was that power that drew Loris’s spirit back to earth. This girl is but a mere mortal, who hasn’t the power to overcome death.”

  “We will lend her power, then,” Malachi told him. “And I will heal Morcar’s body so that he may live. Kian, Christophe! Come quickly! We’ve one more feat to perform this night.”

  “What is it?” Kian asked, kneeling beside Malachi.

  Malachi told them; his cousins reacted with confusion.

  “I’m sorry for the girl,” Kian said, “but to bring a Cadmaran back to life? It is a foolhardy task at best.”

  “The world has changed,” Malachi said, repeating Niclas’s words. “We will change with it or perish. Let us make the first step by giving our enemy the one thing his heart has craved. But I cannot do this alone. Just as I could not rid the world of the cythraul alone. Will you help me, Cousins?”

  “If they will not,” Desdemona said, pushing her way through the men, “I will.”

  They all gaped at her. She looked at them with what little patience she had left. “Morcar set me free to wed Dyfed,” she explained. “When he might have lawfully held me captive. After this we will each be free from debt to the other. And you may well believe, Cousins, that the Guardians would far rather let us have Morcar back than listen to what I have to say. My back aches like the very devil, and I’m not in the mood for argument.”

  She held out her hands. Malachi, Kian, and Christophe stepped in to make a circle. Steffan set his arm about Philistia and reached up to clasp his brethren.

  At Malachi’s word, they set out to do the impossible and retrieve the soul of the man who had been their enemy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Glain Tarran, November 1824

  Malachi closed the book he held and looked up at his wife, who stood nearby cradling their infant son. She was smiling at him knowingly, as if certain of what he was going to say.

  “And?” she asked.

  He sighed, defeated. “It’s marvelous.”

  Sarah’s smile grew well satisfied. “Aha,” she stated, and that, thankfully, was all the conceit she put forth on the matter, though Malachi knew she might have crowed far more loudly. As much as he disliked admitting that he’d been wrong, the book she’d written about the magic mortals in England was just what she’d promised. No one would believe that what she’d written was true, and none of the magical Families had anything to fear from the tome’s publication.

  “Of course you must admit that my suggestion was helpful,” he told her.

  “I admit it gladly and fully. If you’d not insisted that I emulate Mary Shelley and write my stories as a work of fiction, the book never would have survived. You wouldn’t have allowed it.” She looked at the child in her arms. “I’m afraid it’s true, Matthew, my love. Your father is a tyrant.”

  Malachi laughed and, putting the book aside, stood. “And yet I recall you telling me, my love, as you were writing this most excellent fictional account, that you’d never enjoyed writing so much before. I believe your exact words were that it was ‘terribly freeing.’ ”

  “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” she said. “And so it was. I was able to create my own magical world and didn’t have to worry about you looking over my shoulders the entire time. I was able to concentrate on my work, and you, my lord”—she handed him their son when he came near—“were able to concentrate on the Families.” Smiling up at him, she added, “I believe we can both declare a job well done.”

  It had been a busy year, Malachi thought, gazing into his son’s solemn, st
aring eyes—green, like his mother’s. Matthew Alberic Lewes Seymour, Viscount Kendon, was three months old and already bore the sober expression common to dark-haired magic mortals. It had been prophesied at his birth, by Steffan, that Matthew would be a famed traveler who would journey to unknown lands. Sarah had been pleased, knowing how enjoyable traveling could be. Malachi, understanding the hidden meanings of prophecy, wasn’t quite as thrilled. But he was confident, meeting his son’s grave stare, that the world would be a safer place for Matthew than it had been for those who came before him, for the world was changing, and magic mortals with it.

  A great deal had happened since the night of the cythraul’s arrival. Malachi and his cousins and, most important, Philistia had gone into the spirit world to retrieve Morcar’s essence and bring him back to his mortal body. It had required all their powers, and the intensity of Philistia’s love, to convince the Guardians to release him.

  His body had been badly burned, and it had taken a great period of time and the most powerful potions Malachi could conjure to heal him. Morcar, short-tempered and impatient by nature, had borne up far better than Malachi expected, but he’d had Philistia to nurse him and was content so long as she was near. For her part, Philistia reveled in doing everything for the man, from fluffing his pillows, to bathing his forehead, to reading aloud in order to entertain him. She managed to bully him into drinking the potions Malachi insisted upon and, more astonishing, to make him remain in bed when he didn’t wish to. Malachi had never imagined that Morcar could ever be so meek.

  Malachi wouldn’t go so far as to say that love had transformed Morcar, but it had significantly worked upon him. Rather than lose control of the dark Families, Morcar’s grasp actually grew firmer, once he was recovered enough to face them.

  The world was changing, Lord Llew informed those whom he’d summoned to Castle Llew, and they were going to change with it. There was to be no more enmity between the Families, regardless of whether their heritage was dark or not. They would all become one or they would all fail. The assembled hadn’t liked it, indeed, had threatened revolt, but Morcar had held fast. In the end they’d given way. They’d not really had any other options.

  It had been left to both of them after that, Malachi and Morcar, to call for a meeting of the Families to discuss a new and formal union. They had discussed and argued and fought for various concessions—all of which had made Niclas, who served as mediator, half-crazed—and had at last come to terms. The Families had agreed to decide upon one leader to give allegiance to and had chosen Malachi.

  Morcar hadn’t protested. In truth, he’d seemed relieved. He and Philistia had gone abroad for a few months, then returned to Castle Llew in the spring to begin preparations for the arrival of their first child.

  Morcar and Malachi hadn’t necessarily become bosom friends but, realizing the close relationship their wives shared, learned to be genial when in company. By mutual agreement they did not speak of past wrongs and strove to focus, instead, on the future. It wasn’t easy, but change seldom was. Their hope was to form understandings with magical clans in other parts of the world, such as the Caslins in America. Desdemona scoffed at the idea, insisting that her father would never make such an agreement. Tauron Cadmaran, writing from the States, was of the same mind. But Morcar and Malachi weren’t discouraged, for as Niclas liked to point out, it had taken hundreds of years for the Seymours and Cadmarans to at last cry truce; as Americans were far more stubborn, it would likely take hundreds of years more for them to come to their senses.

  Sir Alberic and Lady Tamony had settled in Cambridge, where Sir Alberic had at last embraced a life of teaching. They visited Glain Tarran often and had spent a full month at the estate following Matthew’s birth.

  Julius had left England after the advent of the cythraul and returned to traveling. He’d spent time with Morcar and Philistia in Italy during the winter months and had come home shortly after his nephew’s birth to see the child and visit with his parents and sister. Julius seemed, to Malachi, to be a different man. His book on Celtic history had been published to great acclaim the previous summer, but he appeared to care nothing for it. His travels were aimless and his interest in the Celts had died. More than that he would not say, and Malachi didn’t press him. Julius would find his way, somehow. Perhaps all he needed was someone who could bring peace and contentment to his life, just as Sarah had done for Malachi.

  He had long known that marriage would agree with him, but Malachi soon discovered he’d underestimated just how happy Sarah would make him. The feeling settled on him the moment they were declared man and wife and increased as each day passed. She brought so much to his life, to the realm where he carried such grave responsibilities as both the Earl of Graymar and Dewin Mawr, that, trite though it might sound, he didn’t know how he’d once lived without her. And now she’d given him a child.

  “The book is certainly a job well done,” Malachi agreed. “I especially liked the hero. Such a handsome, wise, and clever wizard he is.”

  “I thought you’d approve,” she murmured.

  “Very much,” he said. “Though I must say that this particular work”—he gazed at Matthew—“is your finest.”

  “Our finest,” she corrected. “It seems that we do very well, my lord, when we collaborate.”

  “Exceedingly well, my lady,” he said. “I look forward to our next effort. If we succeed half as well as the first attempt, we shall be most blessed.”

  “We are blessed,” she murmured. “I know a great deal about magic, but I didn’t believe it would be the path toward bringing me such happiness.”

  “Nor did I,” he confessed. “I’ve given my life to magic, and never thought of what it might give me in return beyond power and fortune. But it’s given me so much more, Sarah. It’s given me you, and now Matthew.”

  “And love,” she said, rising up on her toes to kiss Malachi.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s the best magic of all.”

  Touch of Desire

  © 2006 by Susan Spencer Paul

  ISBN: 0312933894

  ST. MARTIN’S

  Ed♥n