Till Death And Beyond (Witch World)

by Lyn C. Johanson

  Raven was burning. The two lovers he saw in the sky were none but themselves, fresh from his dream. Except it was not a dream. She saw it too. He was certain.

  The view left his mouth dry, his whole body throbbing, but her voice stirred something in his heart. For a second there Raven felt once again alive. Then, everything went dark.

  They’ve been sucked into a world without light or hope. An abyss of lost souls filled with screams of vengeance and wrath.

  The darkness was blinding. All around thunder roared, bawled at everything, echoing long after the last traces of it should have vanished; and only then lightning cracked the sky apart, its long sharp talons scratching through the clouds all the way up to heaven, wringing tears of pain and sorrow from above. Pouring its anguish and despair down to earth.

  It was a freakish storm Raven could not even begin to comprehend, and his witch was standing in the middle of it. The blistering storm tore her apart, ripping her slim dress to shreds. She decisively stood her ground, singing more fiercely than before, ignoring the wind pulling her sable locks, ignoring the rain coursing down her body. Her eyes burned into him, and the only option left for him was to drown.

  For a moment, even the storm retreated into the shadows when faced with a stare so fiery Raven felt dizzy, breathless. Could even see glimpses of his past playing in front of his eyes, which kicked him wide awake as nothing would.

  Damn it, he cursed under his breath, and violently tugged at the curtains, almost ripping them down.

  “Magic,” he uttered, his anger mounting. He could remember reading about witches capable of controlling weather, but it was said that about a dozen were required. Here she stood, alone with a power ten times greater than normal, controlling the forces of nature. Not to mention digging into his memories. Under the markings of the Zearr no less. It just deepened his suspicions about the extent and nature of her powers.

  Contrary to what Raven thought, Amira was not controlling anything. Somehow she had managed to lose the upper hand in this game. She was suffering. A hail shower was rending her delicate flesh apart. Still, she refused to surrender. She kept her voice strong and bright. And when Raven disappeared from the window, breaking their locked gazes, everything went still.

  Suddenly she understood. She couldn’t control the storm, because it was not she who had raised it. It was him.

  She got what she wished—his inner world.

  She had tasted his passion, and it was only natural to experience the rest of him. His anger.

  Two different emotions were so closely entwined together—fighting a constant battle, trying to escape from their cramped prison, from the sealed cage he had locked them in and lost the key to… Until she managed to break the lock.

  Anger rose out of great pain, so perishing she could feel coldness biting his heart. But the passion—the passion was so fiery it was burning her own.

  It was only the beginning, only the tip of the iceberg. She had unleashed his demons and was caught in the middle. No, she was destined to be in the middle, to travel miles, storms to withstand—to reach him.

  Why him?

  Chapter 9

  Raven always thought of himself as a patient person, especially considering how many years he’d spent travelling, searching, or waiting for opportunities. But the hole his carpet was in danger of sporting belied Raven’s conviction.

  He was going demented. Walking the edges, so close to the point where he would lose it and choke the witch, just to hear silence once again. Consequences be damned.

  With her incessant singing every waking hour for the past day, he felt trapped and haunted. Worst of all, her voice had gotten under his skin, and it was driving him crazy. The only reprieve he had was when she was eating, something Raven was not able to do himself since Martha refused to even let him into the kitchen until he released the “poor girl from those damned shackles” as she so eloquently put it. But even if he had a king’s feast laid out in front of him, Raven was certain he wouldn’t be eating. For some reason he’d lost his appetite.

  Massaging his temples, Raven groaned in his throat and resumed pacing. His head felt as if it was split in half. He was getting frequent nose bleeds. His whole body shook with rage, because he suspected it was witchcraft that was making him ill. He could gag her, he supposed, but somehow just ended up wearing out the same circle on his carpet instead of leaving the room.

  Suffering another day of this was not an option either. Only who said life had to come with options? His own experience attested to how unfair and cruel it sometimes was. His brother needed him to be strong and relentless. For Dacian, he was ready to sacrifice everyone and everything. Including himself. Raven whipped the blood running down from his ear, trying his damnedest to ignore the pain which seemed to be accumulating, and an escalating urge to strangle her.

  He had to remind himself every other minute that he needed that witch. Without her, he had no leverage. Nothing. Without her, his brother was doomed.

  Without her … he would be able to breathe. Raven clenched his fists at the wayward thought, hating himself even more, because deep inside he knew he was close to begging for this singing to stop. It wasn’t just pain that assaulted him, but memories and feelings; and it all gnawed both his body and soul with such intensity, he knew he had only hours, maybe, till he dropped. No matter how steely his resolve.

  * * *

  Amira sat on the wooden dais, her eyes closed, chest moving slowly. She was so tired, fighting exhaustion with every moment. Her body was weakening with every word she sang. Unfortunately, she could no longer stop. Even the energy all around her was futile when her flesh was languishing.

  Every muscle in her body felt tired and sore, and her head ached from the effort of keeping people at bay from the harmful effect of her singing. So many people!

  This was a punishment, she just knew it. She should never have played that trick on him.

  The first time she used magic Raven had almost killed her; then he tied her up, threw her like a sack of grain over his horse. The moment she tried to mess with his mind, he gained control over her. She still felt the pain the storm of his emotions left behind. And yet, she was still messing with magic.

  Or maybe, for the first time in her existence, magic was messing with her.

  Suddenly she sensed danger; her eyes flared open. Everything around her was screaming, warning her. She stiffened, but refused to recoil as Owen walked straight up to her and freed her hands, without saying a word.

  Amira looked at him, and instantly wished she hadn’t. She knew exactly what he was up to. She didn’t even need to pry to know what was in store for her. Over her dead body, she almost spat, but she did cease singing as Owen grabbed her hands and began dragging her.

  “Praise the Gods!” he spat out, “a beautiful voice you may have, but it’s started to give me headache.”

  “Let me go!” she ordered, barely refraining from bursting something up inside his skull. Now that would give him a headache. If this continued, however, all bets were off. She won’t care how loud everything inside her screamed not to use magic.

  “You are in no position to demand anything, my sweet little whore.”

  Little, Amira decided to focus on the word. She suspected she was actually taller than the man, but who cared at this point. She simply tried not to think about the other word, the name he took such delight in calling her, so she wouldn’t forget why she thought using magic was not an option. Instead, she used all the appendages of her body, tired and aching as they were, to break free. Owen apparently didn’t appreciate her nails digging into his flesh; glared with his narrowed eyes, and threw her down.

  Amira’s body slammed into the ground with a powerful bump, reverberating through her with a thousand stinging needles. She wanted to cry out loud. Instead she gathered all her strength to get up. Once on her feet, she hoped she could try to run. But Owen grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the building. She was trapped. Her back pressed to the
wall and her front completely covered by this ugly man.

  He gripped her even harder and roughly pressed his lips against hers. It was hideous. She could smell Owen’s sweat mixed with stale ale, and felt his crude hands grabbing her breast. Shivers ran through her body. She didn’t care about the consequences anymore. If they wished to kill her, so be it, but she was not going to let anyone rape her. Ever.

  Amira pushed Owen as violently as she could, but it didn’t even faze him. Didn’t send him flying ten feet away as she had envisioned. She swore inwardly. How could the goddesses leave her powerless in a situation like this?

  She was so tired of their games and tests she had no wish to be a part of, the scream of anger and frustration rose high in her throat. She was powerless, damn it! Maybe just for a few minutes, since even gods could not bind the ancient power for long. But the few minutes it normally took her to regain her magic could seem like an eternity.

  Usually, when her powers were stripped, Venlordians would simply kill her. They never took time with her, never tried to take advantage of her state—at least not after the lifetime in which she became strong enough to defeat them.

  Throughout the centuries they had hunted her, and yet never lingered before driving the knife into her heart. It was no coincidence. They knew. Had always known how dangerous she could become within a matter of seconds.

  Owen was ignorant of all this. And as such, much more dangerous to her.

  He ripped the front of her dress, fumbling in an attempt to grab her breast with his fingers. Amira swore again. Magic or no magic, she was not going to let this happen. She bit his lip, instantly spitting the piece out. Disgusting.

  Owen growled, and a moment latter Amira felt a sharp pain as he struck her once, twice. She tasted blood—her own. Her head was ringing. She fell down and moaned. She couldn’t even see clearly anymore. Everything was happening in a blur.

  The next thing she knew, Owen was on top of her, holding her hands atop her head in a vice-like grip, parting her legs. She could not move. Could not kick, or scratch, or bite; she could only watch as he tried to unbutton his pants with one hand.

  “No!” She tried to wriggle. “Stop that!”

  Owen smiled, or tried at least, his bloody lip probably making it difficult. “Soon you’ll be begging me not to stop,” he leered as he leaned over her.

  “Get. Off. Me.” She screamed, trying to summon her magic, which was still refusing to obey her. She squirmed and squirmed frantically, trying to shake off his grip, but she was no match for him, probably not even on her best day.

  “Stop wriggling, whore,” Owen ordered, his grip tightening on her.

  Amira spat like an alley-cat—it was the only thing left for her. She could have begged, she supposed, but it was not in her. Besides, she knew he would not listen.

  “I’ll kill you,” she vowed, “you rotten piece of—”

  Amira got slapped again. At least he wasn’t fumbling with his pants. If she had to call him all the vilest things in the world to stall him, even if it earned her a slap, it would be worth it.

  “You—”

  “Bastard!”

  Owen flew through the air, landing ten feet away from her.

  Her eyes widened. How could this be? She couldn’t access her powers.

  “Is that how you thank me, by taking what’s mine?” Raven’s voice finally reached her.

  Amira sighed with relief, though inside she was still screaming. She was not his! Mentioning it right now, however, wouldn’t be prudent, especially since Owen was not pawing her anymore, only clumsily trying to stand up.

  “If my lord wants a first go, its fine by me.” Amira’s eyes sent a murdering glance to Owen, who added, “I’ll wait.”

  “Yes, you will,” Her unlikely savior’s voice was cold, no emotions showing. And it made her question his motives for interfering. She tried to get up, but the world was spinning, and her legs didn’t obey.

  “Need help?” He reached for her, but she flinched at his touch. How dare he be nice and gentle now? Was that a plan of his? She probably wasn’t thinking straight, but a splitting headache could do that to a girl. What she needed was to be left alone. To lick her wounds.

  “I can manage,” Amira murmured. Her pride was still intact, and she was not going to let him see her begging. No matter how much all of this was her own doing. She may have pushed and probed and used too much magic, but she refused to feel guilty. Or ashamed.

  “True to the last,” Raven shook his head, refusing to listen to her.

  Was he mocking her? Amira stepped forward, but her stiff legs stumbled and she found herself falling down. Straight into his embrace.

  Her first instinct was to jump out of his grip, but then she saw his eyes. There was no mocking in them, only warmth, which made her relax. Her hands curled around his neck, making her heart skip a beat. She cushioned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Her body stopped shivering.

  The strangest feeling overwhelmed her. She didn’t care where he was going or what he was going to do with her; in that moment, she felt safe.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Raven blinked. She had almost got violated because of him, and yet not a curse or rail escaped her lips—at him that is—but rather a simple thanks. Could that be a rebuke? A voice deep in his heart told him he well deserved one.

  He was no saint. Never pretended to be. Raven might not like what his life had come to be, but with time he had gotten used to the blood on his hands. Didn’t shy away from killing monsters anymore. But this… It was one line he knew he would never cross. Nor would he let it happen in his own home.

  Raven glanced down. She looked sleepy and peaceful, though the bruises on her cheeks and crusted blood on her lips betrayed her real condition. It was the first time he’d seen her afraid for herself. But instead of the satisfaction and pleasure he thought that would give him, he felt protectiveness. He even felt proud of her in a way he didn’t understand. Her courage… She didn’t crumble, or beg. She fought.

  Slowly he passed the wooden stake, and without a second glance turned for the mansion where Martha was already waiting for him.

  Raven ignored the stern look on her face, climbed to the second floor, and headed straight for his own room. Making a beeline for his bed.

  He leaned in an attempt to lay her on it, but her hands were locked in a tight grip around his neck. An action that brought a poignant smile to his lips.

  Everything was so messed up.

  “It’s alright,” he breathed, “you can let go now.”

  Amira released her hold. She opened her eyes briefly to confirm what her body already knew. She was in a huge bed with him sitting beside her. Despite her earlier resolution to fight to the death, she felt her mind drifting away. Her body so weak she could barely keep her eyes open. Figuring what was going to happen next was so beyond her, a part of her didn’t even care.

  Either way, reading Raven was next to impossible, and considering her spinning head … she gasped as their gazes locked, and every last doubt she might have had died in mid-air. For the first time she didn’t see hatred looking back at her, only concern and guilt.

  “Out!” a sharp voice interrupted, severing the link between them. Amira tried to gather the pieces of what was once called a dress and stand up, figuring it was her someone had a problem with; but could barely move. Instead it was Raven who stood up.

  “If you hadn’t noticed, it is still my room, Martha.” Amira looked around, her eyes instantly going to a beautiful blade hanging on the opposite wall.

  “And you brought her here, because…?” The old woman kept her hands on her hips, fiercely staring Raven down.

  “You would prefer me to take her to the stables?” he responded with his own contemptuous stare.

  Martha eased a little. “Out,” she repeated.

  “I'm going, I'm going.” Raven stepped towards the door. “I still have a small matter to attend to,” t
hen looking over his shoulder added, “give her something to wear.”

  Amira could only imagine how she must look. Had no desire to know, but still, she glanced at herself. Her dress was torn and dirty, her hair—an unruly mess—and she was very grateful she could not see her face. The bruises hurt, though.

  “Good heavens girl, just look at you,” the woman approached, sat down and, gathering Amira’s jaw in her palms, examined the beaten face. Her friendly brown eyes smiled sadly. “I raised him better than this. To leave you to that criminal … I don’t care that he’s too old to be spanked,” the woman said vehemently.

  That, she would pay to witness, Amira yawned, her sore, exhausted body refusing to stay awake for another minute. She shifted in his bed, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 10

  Amira awoke in the middle of the night, for a few moments struggling to remember where she was, or what she was doing in this room. It was definitely not hers. It was Raven’s, she soon realized, watching entranced how the moonlight shimmered ethereally through the window. Everything seemed so peaceful, so … deceptive was the word that came when her eyes landed on the sword.

  She also remembered how Martha had helped her bathe, brought dresses that looked fit to be worn by a queen rather than a maid. And then left her to rest.

  Slowly, Amira climbed out of the bed, donned a beautiful crystalline silk night dress, which ran down her body like a gentle waterfall tenderly enveloping her sensitive skin, and, holding onto the ledges of the stately furniture, walked to the bookcase.

  She drew out the first leather-covered book, only to read the words “Black Magic” on the dusty cover. She withdrew another, then another—they all looked the same. “Magic”, “witchcraft”, “witches”; all the covers had some mixture of these words. Several even sported all of them.

  The man was obsessed. No wonder he kept a stake in his yard, a sword on his hip, and an amulet of Arushna on his chest.