“So that’s where it all started,” Eve murmured.
“T’airna women have always been creatures of great passion and reckless hearts, and the goddess knew that to safeguard their new power and ensure it was carried forth, they must choose mates with hearts as true and courageous as their own. That’s the reason she created the talisman.”
“So it’s sort of like a good-luck-in-love charm?” she ventured.
Grand straightened in her chair, indignant. “Not at all. Quite the opposite in fact; the talisman was created so that for a T’airna woman, matters of the heart would never again be left to mere luck. Do you recall the legend of Lia Fáil?”
“I think so. Lia Fáil is what’s known as the ‘stone of destiny,’ right?”
Her grandmother nodded. “It stands at Tara still. In days gone by it was used as the coronation stone, and when the rightful king would put his foot upon it, the stone would give a shout of joy.”
“So says Irish mythology . . . emphasis on the ‘myth.’ ”
“Are you so sure of that?”
She shrugged. “You know what? I’m not sure what I’m sure of at this moment. So I guess you could say no, I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s only a myth.”
“Good, it will be easier for you to believe what I’m about to tell you if you understand that Lia Fáil is no more a myth than . . . than this pendant in my hand. In fact, in a way, the two are one and the same. You see, the goddess used crystals from Lia Fáil to fill the hourglass, and gold from the throne at Tara to cast the pendant itself. She intended for it to serve as our own stone of destiny, with its pure white crystals empowered to glow red as a sign that a man’s heart is true.”
“Literally?”
“Quite. All a man need do is touch the talisman and we can read his heart and know if he is the one.”
“Like Cinderella’s slipper,” Eve mused.
She’d say one thing for Grand: when it came to drama she had the auctioneer beat all day. Ben’s claims of diamond dust paled beside her version, with its high kings and gifts bestowed by goddesses. Part of her didn’t believe a word of it, of course. But another part, the part she could never completely silence or escape, no matter how much she pretended she had even to herself, that part of her knew that what Grand was telling her was not only possible but also, just maybe, the stunning, absolute truth.
Did she want to admit that and open, even slightly, a door she had shut and locked long ago? And for very good reason. While she was making up her mind, Grand added to her quandary by turning the hourglass over so that she could see the engraving on the base.
“And then there is this,” she said, and Eve’s breath caught in her chest.
The engraving on the hourglass was a cross within a circle; it was an exact match of the birthmark over her own heart.
Five
The witch had green eyes. Soft, smoky green eyes that could suddenly flash like emerald fire, eyes that spoke to a man in a silent language all their own.
Cat’s eyes, thought Hazard, recalling how the outside corners tipped upward ever so slightly. He hadn’t noticed that when she first stopped him in his tracks outside the ballroom. He’d been so taken, he noticed little except the color of her eyes.
And that she’d cast a spell on him.
In those few minutes or seconds, she’d held him bound to her, quieting everything around him and in him until there was only her, and the sudden, inexplicable willingness to grant her every wish.
She hadn’t made a wish, however. She’d walked away without a word of explanation or the slightest hint as to what she wanted with him. And he, hardened man of the world that he believed himself to be, had been left standing there, helpless to do anything but watch until she was out of sight. Only then did his head clear and his will become his own again. He hadn’t discovered what she was up to until later, when she used her magic to cheat him out of the pendant.
He was still chafing about the loss when he walked into the house . . . his house, the house he’d bought for one reason only, after coming to Providence for one reason only, and that was to get his hands on the pendant. And now, after all the searching and planning and waiting, he’d been tricked out of it by a damn witch.
He slammed the front door behind him and was immediately sorry; his head was throbbing and had been ever since their little standoff in the garage. Since before that actually; the first sharp pain came at that point in the auction when she had him rooted to the floor like a damn tree. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it over the banister on his way to the bar in the study. The granite-topped bar was well stocked with the finest Irish whiskey money could buy, and nothing else. Whiskey was the only thing he drank, and no one else mattered since there was no one else around.
“You’re back,” exclaimed an eager voice behind him.
No one except Taggart, that is, and he wasn’t particular.
Damn. He tightened his grip on the bottle, sorrier still he’d slammed the door. He should have known better than to announce his return. A little self-control then might have bought him a few more minutes of peace now. Taggart would expect a full report on the events of the evening. And who could blame him? He was part of this; indeed, Hazard couldn’t have gotten this far without his useful connections and myriad skills.
Gabriel Hazard possessed all the knowledge of magic that a wealthy, highly motivated—some might say desperate—man could acquire over time, but no power of his own. Elden James Taggart was a halfling, his mother being human and his father fae; he had his fair share of power, but no money. The dichotomy made for a mutually beneficial association.
Of course Taggart had another good reason for sticking around and being helpful, but the less said about that the better.
He finished pouring and took a generous swallow before turning to face Taggart with a glower and a curt, “Yes. I’m back.”
“And celebrating, I see.” There was a trace of the back alleys of London in his speech as he grinned and nodded at the glass in Hazard’s hand, happily oblivious to his dark mood. “I’ll be glad to join you in toasting our success, but first I’ll see the prize.”
He looked around, still sporting that irritatingly bright smile. A few inches shorter than Hazard, he had a wiry build and medium brown hair and clever hands. Quick to laugh and slow to anger, he was the sort of man people didn’t notice, the sort who could easily get lost in a crowd, and that could be a great asset.
“Well, where is it?” he demanded.
Hazard took a gulp of the finest whiskey money could buy and found that tonight even it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “If you’re referring to the pendant, I imagine that at this very moment it is safe at home with the happy winner.”
“Right, safe as houses with the winner.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “Enough stalling. Let’s see this treasure we’ve chased around the world and back again to find.”
Hazard ground his teeth together. The mucker was going to force him to say it. He tossed back more whiskey. “I don’t have it. I didn’t win.”
The grin melted from Taggart’s face, replaced by a look of disbelief.
“Didn’t win? You mean you . . . didn’t win?” He appeared as flummoxed as if Hazard had just told him the world was flat after all, then his eyes went wide with shock. “You lost? How the bloody hell could that happen? You’ve more money than Zeus, for God’s sake. How could anyone possibly outbid you?”
“No one could. Not fairly.”
Taggart’s head jerked back and his voice lifted an octave. “Cheated? You let yourself be cheated out of it?”
“I don’t know as I’d say I let it happen, but yes, ‘cheated’ is as good a word as any.”
“How do you cheat someone at an auction? It’s all aboveboard and out in the open for all to see.”
“Yes, and everything was going fine until . . . until I was incapacitated by a green-eyed witch.”
“Incapac—” Taggart b
roke off, his gaze narrowing. “What kind of witch did you say it was?”
“A green-eyed witch.”
“How would know what color eyes they were?”
“Because I saw them.”
“Thought you couldn’t see colors?”
“Well, tonight I did.”
Taggart’s eyes narrowed; he plucked at the front of his shirt. “All right then, tell me what color shirt I’m wearing. Or my socks . . .” He grabbed his pants leg and yanked it up a few inches. “What color are my socks?”
“I don’t know,” Hazard snapped. “I don’t see you in color . . . or anything else for that matter. Only her.”
“All of her?”
He shook his head, wishing he could hold on to and study the images that flickered in his mind and were gone, flashes of her hair like a swirl of sunset, and her dress, not blue, not green, but both, and dark as a midnight sea. “No. Not at first anyway, and never as clearly as I saw her eyes. The rest of her was . . . hazy and faded, like an old photograph. But her eyes . . . her eyes were . . . remarkable.”
“That’s bloody odd if you ask me,” declared Taggart.
It was odd. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen anything in color. He hadn’t been born color-blind; he’d chosen it. He’d taught himself not to see color by blocking it out bit by bit, day after day, willing the colors to fade and bleed together until the world around him was nothing but shades of gray. It hadn’t been easy, or quick. But he’d learned that a man could train himself to do almost anything if he had enough time and determination.
And his theory had been right; drained of color, the world around him was a little less tempting, his days a bit easier to get through. It worked well, until tonight, when he’d come face-to-face with the witch. Somehow she had reached inside him to undo what he’d worked so hard to do, and he didn’t like it.
“So just how did this green-eyed witch manage to incapacitate you?”
“With a spell of some sort. I’m sure of that much.” He scowled at the amber liquid in his glass, remembering. “She may have cast it earlier in the evening, but it didn’t take effect until the bidding had come down to only the two of us, and then she turned and stared at me, straight at me from all the way across the room. That’s when I felt it.”
“What? What was it you felt?”
He shrugged. “Something. My arms suddenly dropped to my sides and stayed there. I couldn’t raise them. I couldn’t move a finger or speak a word until the bidding was over and she’d been declared the winner. And then it was too late.”
Taggart pressed his lips together, his expression bleak as he mulled that over. Then he sighed. “All right, what’s done is done, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be undone. It may be this witch just got carried away. Happens all the time at auctions. People get caught up in the excitement of bidding and buy things they don’t even want. Bidder’s remorse they call it. You should have sought her out afterwards and struck a deal, made it worth her while to let you have the thing.”
“I tried. She wasn’t interested.”
“You should have tried harder.”
“I would have,” he retorted, “if not for being interrupted by a pair of warlocks. Black hats. Dark glasses. Power to spare. Sound familiar?”
Taggart paled. “Vasil’s dogs.”
He nodded, his gaze hard and pointed. “My thought exactly.”
Vasil was a loan shark who specialized in wagers of a mystical nature. If there was a mage duel or hellhound race happening anywhere in what was commonly referred to as “the otherworld,” the world of magic that existed alongside the everyday world of mortals, Vasil had a piece of the action. Taggart, who’d happily bet on which of two raindrops would hit the ground first, was a longstanding client. More than once Hazard had been forced to step in to cover his losses and save his hide from Vasil’s army of hired muscle.
“Did they . . . say anything?” Taggart inquired, the picture of innocence. “Mention what they were doing there?”
“They were there for the pendant. And they’d have gotten it if the witch wasn’t so powerful.”
“She bested them?” Taggart countered, clearly impressed.
“She conjured a protection shield. They ran.”
He snorted. “I’d like to have seen that.”
“They wouldn’t have been there in the first place unless Vasil gave the order. And as contemptible as he is, Vasil is no common thief. That means he must believe he has a valid claim on the pendant. Any idea why he would think that?”
“Maybe . . .”
“The truth,” Hazard ordered.
“Fine. It so happens I did run into Vasil not so long ago, and I guess it’s possible I could have mentioned that I expected to be coming into a certain valuable piece he might find interesting.”
Hazard folded his arms and said nothing as Taggart shifted his gaze to the ceiling and his weight from one foot to the other.
“All right, all right,” he said finally. “I suppose I might have let slip a bit about the pendant, or maybe even offered it to him, you know, to settle a few outstanding debts.”
“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. When you say you ran into him you mean that Vasil tracked you down, and by offered you mean you promised it to him.”
“Only after you were done with it,” Taggart hurried to add. “You can bet I made that clear right up front. I didn’t think you’d mind since if everything went right, which I was sure it would, you’d be standing there with the pendant right now and we could finish this business and you wouldn’t be needing it again, now would you? How was I to know you’d come out the loser?”
Loser. The word rankled. He could live with defeat if he was beaten in a fair fight, but this hadn’t been a fair fight. It never was with magic.
“You’re right. You couldn’t have known ahead of time that I would lose. And neither could Vasil,” he added, thinking aloud. “He assumed I’d come away with the pendant, and he didn’t trust you to deliver. He sent the warlocks to take it from me; the witch just got in the way.”
“Didn’t trust me to deliver,” Taggart muttered under his breath. “And after all the business I’ve given that sod through the years.” He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “All right then, spilt milk and all that. What’s our next move? Find the witch and get it back, right? It’ll take some doing, but with the right supplies and a little time, I’d venture I could work a spell to turn the tables and incapacitate her.”
Revenge would be sweet, he thought, entertaining a vision of those green eyes flashing up at him, temper heating her cheeks and pulling her full bottom lip into a pout. Maybe too sweet.
“Tempting,” he said to Taggart. “But no. Let Vasil make the next move. He and his henchman can have the pleasure of dealing with the clever little witch. Once they’ve managed to take the pendant from her, Vasil can name his price for it and I’ll pay.”
Taggart’s brows lifted. “You’d rather do business with Vasil?”
“Any day. Vasil can be bought. I’m not so sure about the witch.”
He was recalling the way she’d looked when she told him that the pendant wasn’t for sale, with her shoulders squared and her chin high, determined and magnificent. For a heartbeat of time, his resentment had slipped and instead of a deceitful witch, he saw before him a beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen or ever hoped to see, in fact, and something wild inside him had responded fiercely. It was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time and hadn’t expected to feel again. The witch had found her way past defenses he’d thought impenetrable, and that was another good reason to do business with Vasil instead.
Still, he couldn’t help thinking about how the warlocks would respond to such a show of spirit on her part. Violently no doubt; the image wasn’t pretty. He pushed it away and reached for the whiskey, pouring some for Taggart before carrying the bottle with him to a high-back leather chair by the fireplace.
On the way by, he flipped the switch that started flames dancing in the hearth, fed not by wood but a stream of gas. It wasn’t a proper fire; a fire ought to smell of wood that you carried and arranged yourself, carefully placing the logs so that the hardest woods, those that would burn longest, were on the bottom; elm and hickory to start, with birch and poplar next, or maybe maple. Pine went last, placed on top for a fast burn that would give off sparks to ignite the rest. That kind of fire would burn through the night and warm a man body and soul. What flickered before him now wasn’t a real fire anymore than this was a real home or his was a real life. But it warmed well enough and tonight he’d settle for that. He’d become very good at settling.
“To victory delayed,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “When this is done, your debt will be paid, I’ll have the pendant and Vasil will no doubt have pocketed an outrageous profit. Everyone wins.”
Everyone except the witch, and she wasn’t his problem.
And if the warlocks should inflict any damage while retrieving the pendant, well, that wasn’t his problem either. Any bumps and bruises she suffered wouldn’t be on his conscience.
He tried not to think about the long flawless line of Eve Lockhart’s throat and the pale curve of her shoulders. That was her name, Eve Lockhart; he’d troubled himself to learn that much, and he knew that a few minutes at the computer would reveal a great deal more. Research was simply another kind of hunting, and it never failed to amaze him how a few of the right keystrokes could unlock worlds of secrets. He could easily learn a few of Eve Lockhart’s secrets before the night was through if he were interested. Which, he reminded himself, he was not.
The witch didn’t warrant his concern, and she certainly didn’t need his protection; she’d proven she could take care of herself. Look how quickly and efficiently she’d managed to conjure a protection shield strong enough to keep both of them from being shredded and send the warlocks into a full retreat.
The Lost Enchantress Page 7
