by Nina Croft
She’d been eighteen and the most beautiful, compelling being he had ever seen. She had twisted something inside him, changed him irrevocably. He’d wanted to deny it, and not because of the Laws of Segregation, but because he had seen firsthand the destruction such emotion could render.
Mine.
The word had been torn from somewhere deep within him, oblit-erating all else, filling him with wonder and terror.
He’d tried to keep away, but the thought of her kneeling before anyone but him had driven him into a frenzy. In the end, he had done what he had vowed never to do: make a deal with the Order. They wanted a warlock of his line for their breeding program—one they could manipulate as they’d never been able to manipulate him.
So he’d made a bargain—his seed in exchange for Freya.
When she’d knelt before him the first time, he’d wanted to tell her she didn’t have to pleasure him. She’d given him no chance to speak, performing her duties like an automaton, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself taking the relief she offered. Afterward, he had hated himself. He’d wanted so much more—needed more. He still did, but he feared he would never break through the hatred she felt for his kind. There must be some way to melt the ice she had built around her heart.
“Know this, warlock—that was the last time I will ever kneel before you.”
The words broke through his reverie. Her eyes were cold, and he dropped his gaze to the dark shadows between her thighs, then raised it to stare back into her face.
“Then perhaps next time, I will kneel before you.” 19
Chapter Three
Freya was back in the dungeon. They hadn’t constrained her in any way, and she paced the confines of the small room unable to settle, her mind buzzing with questions.
Why was the warlock helping her? Could she trust him?
He was Shayla’s father, but what difference did that really make?
She had no doubt he had fathered other babies. Only the oldest, most powerful warlocks were allowed to breed, and Jarrod was obviously very old. What she didn’t understand was why she’d been chosen from among all the pleasure slaves? Was it pure chance, or had he picked her from the rest to bear his child?
Did it matter what his reasons were? He had freed her once before. She wasn’t about to deny him the chance to do it again. And once out of the Keep, she could leave him behind as she had done the last time.Her mind went back to the taste of him, the feel of him shudder-ing against her. Maybe that’s why he was helping her. He desired her.
The concept was alien to her. While Freya was sure all men weren’t bad, she had yet to meet a good one, and never one she wanted.
His words echoed in her head. Would he really kneel before her?
Would he taste her with his mouth and his tongue? Would she want him to? A warm wave of heat ran through her body, settling at her core. The sensation was new and unwelcome, and she halted in the middle of the cell, unable to believe the direction her thoughts had taken her.
She threw herself down on the stone floor and sat back against the rough wall, waiting for something to happen, searching her memories for a way to find Shayla.
After escaping the Keep twenty-two years ago, she’d headed deep into the forest and there alone, had given birth to her daughter. The experience changed her forever. Before Shayla, her existence was without reason, merely going through the motions of a life that was empty of meaning, believing that the only part of her with any worth had been stolen from her by the Order. But from the moment she held Shayla in her arms, she had a purpose—to keep her daughter safe.
At first, it was simple. They traveled far from the Keep, through the forest, to the great range of mountains that bordered the known lands. And still, she kept moving, following the foothills, always heading away from the influence of the Order, until she and her daughter came to a place where witches and warlocks were a mere legend, something to tell stories about over the evening meal, and for a while they settled.
But when Shayla reached puberty, the magic awoke within her and grew to a tangible thing, with a life of its own. Freya realized they needed to find someone who could help control the wildness inside her daughter. There had to be other witches somewhere who’d survived the Order’s purge. Freya started to search, surreptitiously, for any information she could find. She heard many rumors, but they all led her back toward the Order, and slowly they drifted closer and closer to the Keep.
Even then, it had been relatively easy to hide and blend in. They traveled with the Outlaw Guild who had contacts everywhere and no love of the Order, and in each of the villages they hunted for information, staying a few weeks, a month, until they would hear another rumor and move on.
Then a year ago, the moon mark had appeared on Shayla’s cheek, and it had become almost impossible to hide, and each day the magic grew stronger. She would dream and the sky would fill with crimson lightning.
Freya lived in fear then. Her daughter wasn’t evil—wherever Shayla traveled the dying land blossomed—but the ordinary people of Arroway had been indoctrinated too well. They needed someone to blame for the declining harvests, the fading land, and the Order had handed them the witches.
Finally, a man had come to them. He’d told them little, only that his family had been helping witches since the Laws of Segregation, and he knew of a place, a clearing within the forest where they could find help. They had been on their way there when the Enforcer had caught up with them.
Freya had sent her daughter onward and told her they would meet up at the clearing and then deliberately allowed herself to be captured to give Shayla more time.
If the warlock got them out of here, then that was where she would head. It wasn’t far from the Keep. Maybe she could reach Shayla before the Enforcer...
The sound of footfalls jolted her from her thoughts. She leapt to her feet and peered through the grill in the door. It was Jarrod, and a moment later, the door swung open. She stepped back to allow him to enter. He was dressed for traveling in boots and a cloak; a sword hung down his back, his staff in one hand, a bundle in the other. He stood just inside the cell, his hot gaze running over her nearly naked body, a dull flush staining his cheekbones. She waited for him to break the silence; instead, he tossed her the bundle he carried. She snatched it up and found a dark cloak and a pair of knee-high boots. She pulled them on and shook out the cloak.
The sight of her body in the diaphanous dress was enough to send the blood rushing to Jarrod’s groin. His cock hardened, and he shifted, forcing his gaze upward to her face.
She was scrutinizing him, her lips curled in contempt, her blue eyes cold, then she deliberately wrapped the folds of the cloak around her, hiding her body from him.
“Are we leaving?” she asked. “Or are you going to stand there gawking at me all day?”
He turned away, ashamed of his lack of control. He’d taught himself to subdue his sexual urges, though the lesson had been hard.
But she was right. They needed to get out of there, now. He’d put a sleeping spell on the guards, but the longer they remained the more chances there were they’d be discovered. And he couldn’t shift the uncomfortable notion that Malachi was playing him. He’d feel better once they were free of this place.
“Follow me.” He led the way out of the cell. They were in the dungeons beneath the Keep, but only just below ground level. Off to the right, the tunnel headed downward, far beneath the earth, but no one had ventured into the depths in many years. The Keep was old, older than any of them even remembered, and there were rumored to be dark things living in the hollowed out land beneath, kept locked down there by powerful moon magic from before the Laws of Segregation. No one wanted to risk releasing them.
Instead, Jarrod took the tunnel to the left, which would take them up the surface. They were almost there when he heard the noise of booted feet on the stone flagged floor.
“I want them stopped.” Malachi’s clipped tones echoed off the bare walls. “Kill t
hem if you have to, but they don’t leave the Keep.” Jarrod swore softly and held up his hand behind him to tell Freya to halt. He peered around the last corner. Malachi was at the head of a troop of warlocks; he must have suspected Jarrod all along and was obviously taking no chances.
Once he’d been stronger than Malachi, but over the years, Malachi had grown in power. Jarrod suspected he had found some way to harness the magic he stripped from the witches, turning it to his own will. Malachi denied the accusation, saying the moon magic would never bend to the will of a warlock. Blood magic, he called it. Women’s magic. Even before the fall, he’d had contempt for witches and for women in general. Jarrod knew he did not use the pleasure slaves, but instead went to his brothers—some of whom were willing—for sexual release. But wherever Malachi had gained the extra strength, it existed, and even using magic, there was no way Jarrod could ever get past Malachi and twenty warlocks.
It was over. They would be recaptured, and this time, he wouldn’t be allowed near Freya. They would never get another chance. His mind searched for a way out, a place to hide, but came up blank.
Malachi was the oldest of their kind. He knew the secrets of the Keep better than anyone.
Fingers touched his shoulder, and he jumped.
“This way,” Freya whispered behind him.
He turned to see her already heading back the way they had come.
“Wait.” But either did not hear or chose to ignore him, her cloaked figure vanishing into the darkness. He hurried after her only hesitating when she took the tunnel that would take them further underground.
“Freya, wait.”
She glanced back. “What is it?”
“We can’t go that way.”
“We must.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer, but hurried on. Jarrod snatched one of the torches from the wall and followed her. They left the last of the natural light behind as they entered tunnels hewn out of the earth by long-forgotten generations. The torch cast a flickering orange glow that threw shadows on the rough walls. Even Freya slowed, so they walked side by side, as the weight of the Keep above them pressed down.
The air thickened until each breath was a labor to get sufficient oxygen into his lungs. Beside him, Freya was breathing easily. Could she not feel the heaviness of the atmosphere?
The tunnel narrowed as they went deeper, and he moved to walk ahead, his staff raised in front of him as though he needed to push his way through an invisible barrier. Magic shivered in the air, sending prickles racing across his skin. Moon magic. He hadn’t felt the touch of moon magic in many years.
He peered over his shoulder, but could see no one following.
Where was Malachi? He must have realized this was where they had run to—there was nowhere else to go.
The tunnel came to an abrupt end. A low door was set in the solid rock wall. He would have to stoop to get through it. It appeared old, and a thick net of cobwebs crisscrossed the dark wood, the only deco-ration a black metal lock.
The door thrummed with magic, and Jarrod hesitated before he placed his palm to the smooth wood and pushed. Nothing.
He raised his staff, tapped on the wood, and spoke an opening spell. A backlash of magic flowed through his arm, but the door remained locked by some enchantment he couldn’t even recognize.
This was why Malachi hadn’t bothered to follow them. He knew they had run down a dead end, and that they would have to emerge of their own accord at some point. Or starve.
Despair swamped him. He thought of the daughter he had never even seen and of the man hunting her. Of the woman standing silently behind him. He’d been alone for so much of his long life, and until he’d seen Freya, he’d believed that was how he would always live, and that he deserved no better. He wanted a chance to make things right between them, convince her that his desire for her went far beyond mere lust. In truth, he didn’t understand his feelings fully. He suspected they were driven by magic, but no less real because of that.
Maybe more real.
“Move out of the way.”
Her sharply spoken order broke through his thoughts. “What?”
“We need to get through that door.”
“It’s locked, and I can’t undo the spell.” Did she not understand it was over?
She put a hand on his arm and warmth flowed through him. Then she tugged him out of the way so she could move closer. Reaching out, she rested her palm flat against the wood, and the door swung inward.
“Come.” Freya didn’t wait for the warlock. The magic was calling to her, drawing her forward. She’d sensed the pull as soon as they’d left her cell, but had followed Jarrod until he had come to a standstill, and then she had known what she needed to do.
She stepped through the portal, half expecting the tunnel to continue downward. Instead, a narrow spiral staircase headed upward, each step cut from the black rock of the Keep.
As she hesitated, the image from her dream flashed in her mind.
A woman lying on a stone slab, in a tower high above the Keep, and hope blossomed to life inside her. This was meant to be; the Goddess was showing her the way. She placed a foot on the first step. The warlock still stood on the other side of the doorway, unmoving, his green eyes gleaming in the flickering light. For a second, she considered leaving him, but she would very likely need his help if she came up against the Enforcer.
“Come on.” She didn’t attempt to keep the impatience from her voice.
Doubt flashed across his face, but he shook himself and stooped beneath the low doorway. A visible shudder ran through his body, and she knew he was sensing the moon magic.
“Let me go first,” he said.
She frowned, then realized with a jolt of surprise that he wanted to protect her. She’d spent the last twenty-two years looking after herself, and it seemed a strange notion. But she stepped aside and let him go ahead.
She didn’t know what they would find, but strangely, she felt no fear. Some part of her knew she was meant to be here, and anticipa-tion built inside her with each step.
A dull ache burned in the muscles of her thighs as they continued to climb. Up ahead, Jarrod paused. He whispered a word and the orange flames of the torch sputtered and died, leaving them in semi-darkness. They were no longer underground; slits in the wall looked out into the outside world. Night had fallen and the moons were rising, their sullen red glow filtering in through the narrow windows.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“In the north tower.”
Shock slammed her in the gut. As far as she was aware, the only time anyone entered the north tower was at the castration ceremonies where they stripped the magic from the baby girls soon after their birth. It was a place avoided by all, especially the slaves. It stood tall, looming over the rest of the Keep, a dark symbol of their misery and despair.
“Keep going,” she said.
He turned and stared down at her. “Why? There is no way out.”
“Go back if you must, but I’m going on.” She made to push past him, but he shrugged and headed on upward, his staff held out in front of him as though he could fight off some invisible foe.
She followed, admiring the easy way he moved, with the lithe grace of some great animal, never tiring. She’d thought she was fit, but she was breathing hard by the time they came to another door, and she knew they had reached the top.
This time, Jarrod didn’t attempt to open the door; instead he stood aside, and Freya moved up next to him. This door wasn’t plain, but inlaid with runes that glowed with power.
She hesitated. What would she find on the other side? A tremor of trepidation shivered through her body as she rested her palm on the wood, felt the runes shift beneath her fingers and the tingle of magic course through her.
Once again, the door swung inward, and she recognized the place from her dreams. The large circular room was empty but for a low stone couch at the center. Bare stonewalls were punctuated by narrow windows so the stars s
hone through, casting their light on the woman stretched out on her back on the couch. Dressed in a robe of black cobweb lace, she lay so still at first Freya thought she must be dead.
Stepping into the room, Freya rubbed her bare arms as the tingle of magic strengthened until it was a tangible thing throbbing in the air. She pushed her way through it to stand over the woman. Long black hair was artfully arranged around her like a cloak; her skin was white, flawless, but for the three sickle moons that marked her right cheekbone. Freya recognized her at once, the woman from her visions—the Goddess—not dead but trapped in an enchanted sleep.
She fell to her knees beside the couch.
“Who is she?” The question came from behind her. She’d forgotten the warlock’s presence. Now she peered over her shoulder to where he stood in the doorway, a frown on his face.
“The Goddess,” she replied.
Shock flared in his face, and he took a step forward.
Freya ignored him and turned back to the Goddess. Relief washed through her as she saw the slight rise and fall of her chest. Not understanding what drove her, she reached out and took the woman’s hand in hers. The magic flared, and behind her Jarrod gasped.
She squeezed the slender hand. Heat flowed between them, and she was sure she detected a faint movement in the fingers she held so tightly. Staring down into that pale, beautiful face, she willed her to awaken.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the Goddess’s eyes flickered open, dark purple, fringed with thick black lashes. At first unfo-cused, they grew brighter with each passing second until they filled with knowledge and recognition.
“You came,” she murmured. “I’ve been waiting so long.” All her life, Freya had prayed to the Goddess. Her prayers had never been answered, and she’d believed them all abandoned and left to their fates. Now, a wave of pure joy washed through her. They had not been forsaken. The Goddess had been trapped here, unable to help. “Tell me what I can do,” Freya said.
“Arroway is dying. You must bring together the three witches with the mark. Only they can free me and save the land.”
