Powerful Magic

by Karen Whiddon

  Powerful Magic

  By

  Karen Whiddon

  Published by Karen Whiddon

  Powerful Magic

  Copyright 2010 by Karen Whiddon

  PROLOGUE

  Trembling, Megan waited, exactly where they'd agreed to meet. She watched as Roger hurried across the freshly cut field, wearing a harried expression of distaste. In one manicured hand he clutched his wireless phone - wouldn't do to miss any important calls. He hadn't wanted to meet her here, begrudging the time from his busy schedule. But she, in an uncharacteristic bit of bravery, had insisted. She had to do this, had to put an end to it while she had the nerve, before it finished her.

  Above, the old oak tree spread its leafy branches, sheltering her from the summer sun. Though she knew it couldn't protect her when Roger heard what she had to say.

  Even the weather seemed to mock her, the cloudless sky at odds with the turmoil inside her. Once she had thought she loved Roger, when she was foolish and naive, and blind to the dark sort of cruelty that could exist, hidden away deep inside men like him.

  Love. She wasn't sure she even believed in it any more.

  And Roger, well she thought he might not know the meaning of the word love. To him she was a possession, nothing more, a young and rich heiress. He meant to mold her to his every whim, to his will. Once she married him she knew she would gradually waste away, a shell of her former, vibrant self.

  It had already begun to happen.

  The sharp edges of the enormous diamond ring he'd given her cut into her palm. She'd taken the ring off and intended to give it back to him.

  It terrified her, this action that she meant to take. She was afraid, afraid of the anger that she knew could rise so swiftly within him, afraid that he would hurt her as he had before. She took a big risk, this she knew, a risk that he would refuse to listen, to take her words seriously. Or an even greater risk that, once he knew that she meant it, he would kill her this time.

  He smiled as she got closer, the chilling kind of smile that made her freeze inside. She forced herself to continue walking, to show no expression. Most of all to show no fear. She'd rehearsed what she had to say over and over; she knew the words well, though getting them past a throat gone parched would be difficult. Her heart pounded and, though there was a cool breeze on this gorgeous June morning, she began to perspire.

  It occurred to her that she could have done this much more safely by telephone or by mail. But she would not run; the one thing she had left, though it was in tatters, was her pride. She would face him down somehow, and walk away with her courage and dignity intact. She hoped.

  Almost there. She could hear her heart thudding inside her chest. Forcing her breathing to slow, she lifted her chin and raised a hand to greet him, wondering if he could see how she shook. He'd like that, she knew, so she redoubled her efforts to appear calm and composed.

  Unafraid.

  Just then a loud crack sounded. At first she'd thought he'd hit her; that he'd somehow read her mind and retaliated even before she could speak.

  But no, it wasn't him, not this time. From the cloudless, perfect sky a bolt of electricity snaked down, striking like a relentless cobra. She knew a moment of terror, in that instant wondering if this was fate's merciless retribution, before everything went utterly, totally, black.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The air smelled different - the crisp, moist, tangy bite that promised snow. And it was freezing, Megan realized, shivering in her denim overalls and short sleeve t-shirt as she slowly took stock of her surroundings. Maybe heaven - or hell - wasn't like everyone thought. She had to be in one or the other - after being struck by lightening, she doubted she had survived.

  Yet she still clutched her engagement ring in one hand. With a shaky sigh,she slipped it on her finger for safekeeping. Moving slowly, she blinked and swallowed. Everything looked ashen. Grey rock, slate sky, even the leafless oak tree had sooty bark. So maybe she'd landed in purgatory. It was supposed to be colorless, like this. But cold?

  Cautiously, she climbed to her feet, biting her lip to keep from moaning in pain. She had to grab hold of the tree to stop herself from falling, though the rough bark scraped her hands. She realized she hurt. Bad. Every bone, every muscle, even her skin felt like she'd been cooked too long in a high powered tanning bed, then pummeled by some sadistic masseuse. Though this could be a good thing - if she hurt, then maybe she wasn't dead. Why then, hadn't Roger taken her to the hospital?

  Had she even got a chance to break the engagement? She couldn't remember. No, Roger hadn't even reached her yet when the lightening had zapped her.

  God, she was cold. Or, she amended hastily, make that dear God. Right she couldn't afford to take any chances of offending Him.

  Still holding on to the tree; a tree, she noticed, that looked suspiciously like the very same tree she'd been meeting Roger under, minus the lush leaves, Megan took stock of her surroundings. It was a barren winter land, she decided, her breath leaving her mouth in frosty puffs. The kind of place best faced in a down-filled anorak and thermal jeans. Desolate. Deserted. Dead grass covered the rolling hills, and the entire thicket of trees in the distance looked stripped of leaves.

  But it was June, the end of Spring, beginning of summer. Unless she had somehow been transported to someplace on the other side of the equator, it shouldn't be this cold. Not unless it was the dead of winter, or an alternate hell.

  As if to prove her thoughts right, fat white snowflakes began to drift lazily down from the slate sky.

  The thought occurred to Megan that perhaps she was dreaming. Maybe in reality she lay in some sterile hospital bed, hooked up to various machines, fed full of morphine or some other strong painkiller. She'd heard people on drugs had some pretty strange and fantastic dreams.

  Shivering in earnest, she discarded that idea too. If this were a dream, she would wish herself toasty warm. Or, at the very least, she'd give herself some kind of coat.

  So then, where was she?

  Snow began to fall in a heavy white curtain, soon obscuring the horizon from view. Letting go of the tree, Megan took one faltering step, then another, ignoring the pain that racked her body as she moved. She would have to decide later where she was - right now she needed to find shelter before she froze to death.

  #

  Kenric gave the war horse its head, knowing the animal merely exulted in the crispness of the December air. As he did. God's teeth it was good to be out of the Keep, away from those who wanted only to use him. Though he rode dangerously close to his lands - yea, he still thought of them as his, though another ruled there now - he felt far more richer in his freedom than could be accomplished by any gold.

  To remind himself that he'd nearly reached his goal, he'd brought along the bag filled with coin that he'd accepted a mere two hours ago. Jingling merrily, he knew he ought to hide it, but for now he counted himself safe. None would suspect a ragged warrior such as he of any kind of wealth, he thought ruefully. Though he did have his sword, more valuable than any gold. The great blade had been forged, some said, in magic and blood some two hundred years ago. It had been handed down from generation to generation, until his own father had placed it in Kenric's bastard hand as he lay dying.

  Thinking of this brought a black scowl. The death of his human family at the hands of the Faeries still tortured him, though it had been four years gone by now. Four long, exceeding grueling years, earning money as a mercenary so that he might reach his goal of owning land. Human land. He wanted nothing to do with the Faerie land that those of Rune claimed was his by birthright.

  He disowned that birthright; had disowned it on the day he learned who had killed his human father. Even if the murderers had been, as the Faerie folk claimed,
renegade Faeries, some evil faction that had chosen darkness over light, mayhem over compassion, he still wanted nothing to do with them or their magic.

  Nay, he had his own goal, to be a human man with human land; to be a simple farmer, warrior no more. A goal, he reminded himself, controlling his eager mount's head with a light touch, that he had nearly enough to reach. Everything he'd earned was safely hidden in his cave.

  None knew of this secret place, hidden in the rocky mountains of Wales on his own family's former land. It was, now, his home. The only way he could keep in touch with the soil and the land that still, in his heart, belonged to him.

  Someday - someday soon - he would have land of his own. Then he would be able to keep the vow he had made to his father's grave. Bastard son or no, it was up to him now to continue the line. He, Kenric of Blackstone, was all that remained. So he fought and he saved, ruthlessly hoarding the money and waiting for the day he would have to fight no longer. After all, he could only stomach fighting other mens' battles for so long.

  Though, Kenric conceded with a rueful chuckle, they paid well. He nearly had enough to bribe the King, hoping to be awarded a small parcel of rich, Welsh land.

  For now, he would go to his hidden cave, dangerously near the Welsh mountains, hunt up some meat, and rest. He was bone weary, tired of bloodshed and killing, though it would be necessary a few more times before he had enough gold.

  Slowing the massive steed to a walk, Kenric casually surveyed the surrounding hills. A light snow had begun to fall, which was good. It would, should anyone come looking, cover his tracks. Though no one would dare follow him, he knew, grinning at the thought of his surly demeanor whilst among the nobleman who had hired him. It was the same, wherever he went, whoever's battles he fought. Kenric of Blackstone, friend to no man, warrior of renown. They feared him and, perhaps hated him, but they needed him.

  As they would again. Though soon, he would not have to answer when they called. Soon he would be done with fighting battles for other men, done with war, unless it was one of his own making. His sword, the one thing of magic he allowed near him, would not be used for deliberate bloodshed again.

  Satisfied that he was alone, he dismounted, his heavy boots sounding loud on the hard, frozen ground. Trusting him implicitly, the war horse allowed himself to be led into the dense thicket of yews. Together, they picked their way over the stony ground, their breath making plumes in the frigid air.

  Finally they came to the low outcropping of rocks, some as large as a man, that signified the rise in land. Ancient burial mounds, many of them were, and as a consequence other men avoided them. He was well satisfied with this.

  Once more glancing around him, Kenric listened for any sign that he was not alone. There were none; all he could hear was the war horse's labored breathing. Patting the animal's thick neck, he turned and led the way up, into the rock itself. Into a place where no man, were he sane, would think to go.

  Here, hidden inside an outcropping of boulders, was his cave. His safe place, his refuge. And for now, his home.

  Because he had been here before, the horse followed him unhesitantly inside the dark entrance.

  Once inside, Kenric stopped. Something - he knew not what - was wrong. Every inner sense told him things were not as they should be. The cave, his sanctuary, had been disturbed, and recently. He could feel it. Even now, the faintly rich scent of some exotic flower, so out of place in this winter land, drifted in the frigid air.

  He sighed, more annoyed than worried. No doubt some impotent mage tried a new magic spell or trick. From past experience he knew no spell would work on him. Though he'd not claimed it, refused it in fact, magic was an unwelcome and hated part of his heritage, his blood.

  Bitterness welled up in him as he thought on it. Magic hadn't helped his family when they needed it. They'd all lost their lives in one fell swoop. While he, Kenric, bastard son and unbeliever, had been kept alive simply because he wasn't there. Damned to an eternity knowing he'd failed them. He no longer believed in things like magic.

  He no longer believed in much of anything.

  Best to make a fire. With the heavy snow, the smoke would not be seen or scented. No man, had they a warm, dry place to sleep, would venture out in such a winter storm.

  The war horse snorted a warning. Kenric froze, his hand going to his sword. They'd spent years together, and he trusted the huge beast's instincts. He heard a sound; a piteous mewling that could be human or not. Most likely it came from the abandoned offspring of some large cat.

  Cautiously he started to move to investigate, then thought better of it. He would get the fire going first. That way, if the mother cat returned, fierce with the desire to defend her offspring, he would have the flames to protect his war horse.

  He needed that horse, more than he liked to admit. The well-trained animal was his only possession other than his sword, the only companion he allowed himself. Though he would not let himself grow too fond of the beast; he needed no such weakness, no chink in the hard armor that kept him sane.

  Once the fire was crackling merrily, and he'd brought hay to his horse, Kenric grabbed a crooked branch and lit the end of it, creating a primitive torch. The mewling had not come again - perhaps the animal had died.

  His stomach growled, reminding him of the need for fresh meat, though he knew hunting would be impossible in the storm. Luckily he'd thought to bring some dried bacon and several loaves of hard bread with him. For now, he would seek the source of the sound. Perhaps he might be able to end its pain.

  There, in the furthest corner of the small cave, huddled under a ragged blanket that he used sometimes to cover his horse, he found the intruder. No wild beast, but a human, a young female near death from cold. She'd wrapped her arms around her for warmth, but he could see from the pale gleam of her skin that they were bare, her long, pale legs too.

  For a heartbeat he simply stared. He, warrior supreme and fighter of armies, did not know what to do. The tattered blanket did not cover much, nor did what little clothing she wore. In his experience, a naked female served only one purpose, and he'd had done with that along with everything else when the hated Faeries had brutally ended his other life.

  This female, with her milky skin ashen and her lips blue, looked near death. She moved, shivering, again making that piteous mewling sound. Now he recognized it as a feeble cry for help, like that of a small child torn from its mother's arms in the heat of battle.

  He thought perhaps he should cover her and attempt to return her to the keep. No doubt that was where she was from; yet another foolish girl sneaking off to meet a lover.

  The howling storm told him that would be a foolish idea. He'd never make it, not in this blizzard.

  Too, she'd found his cave. That made her a threat.

  Again Kenric regarded her, noting again her blue tinged lips and uncontrollable shivering. She was near death from the frigid cold. The easiest thing to do would be to turn his back and walk away. If he did not help her, she would not live.

  Yet he, hardened warrior, bitter loner, found he could not simply let the girl die. His younger sister had been about the size of this one. He hadn't been there to protect her when the invaders had brutally used her, something for which he'd never forgive himself. He, with his own capacity for great magic, dangerous magic, the only thing that would work against Black Faeries, had been unable to help her. Her death, along with the death of all the others, would lay forever like a thousand stones upon his conscience. He needed no more such deaths to blot his soul.

  He had no choice but to help her, like it or not.

  Decision made, he bent down and scooped her slight form into his arms. She weighed next to nothing and, as the thin blanket fell away, he saw that she was clothed, though barely. She wore some form of lightweight shirt, of a finer material than he'd ever seen, with a more coarse fabric over it hooked together with some sort of metal fastenings. The coarse material, unfortunately for her, ended at mid thigh, exposing her
long, creamy legs to the elements. On her feet she wore a sort of leather sandal, open in the toe.

  No wonder she lay near death. Only a fool would dress thus in the winter. Though, he reflected with a rueful shake of his head, only a harlot would dress so in any season.

  As he brought her near the fire she stirred, but made no sound other than the harsh rasp of her breathing. Again her unusual scent drifted to him. Odd that her scent brought to mind Spring, when the first stubborn flowers would poke their heads through the melting snow.

  Spring was a long way off.

  Studying her face, he thought she might be beautiful, were her lips not so bloodless and her skin so pale and sallow. She sighed, parting her mouth slightly - enough for him to see she still had all her teeth and that they were white and strong.

  Her age he could not guess at, nor the circumstances that had brought her to his secret cave, dressed in such a strange and inappropriate manner.

  Answers he would have later. For now, all that mattered was keeping her alive.

  Gently, he placed her on a recent acquisition, a thick and heavy bear skin. Wrapping it around her, he rocked back on his heels, wondering what he would do with her when she woke. After that thought came another; he found himself strangely curious as to the color of her eyes.

  Fool. Chiding himself, Kenric added more wood to his fire, pleased as it crackled and danced in the modest stone hearth he'd created years ago in the cave wall. It was close enough to the front of the cave that most of the smoke would flow out, yet near enough to the back to warm the entire small enclosure.

  Feeling the warmth, the woman stirred. Her eyes fluttered open as she stared at the fire, then at the dim interior of the cave, and finally at him.

  They were brown, he noted numbly, though a brown unlike any he'd ever seen. Gold flecks danced in them, and the upward tilt of her eyes made her look mysterious and very, very beautiful.

  "Hell." She muttered, a foreign inflection to the familiar English. "I'm in hell. It figures."