Till Death And Beyond (Witch World)

by Lyn C. Johanson

  And now a witch in his bedroom…

  For what purpose? Amira wondered. If his sister had been murdered by Venlordians, it stood to reason he should be hunting them. And judging by the protection charm around his neck, he hadn't been sitting on his hands. There was no other way to obtain the amulet than by pulling it off the dead man.

  Why did he even need it? The amulet of Arushna didn't protect from sword wounds. Again, her thoughts went back to the witches and his hatred. What role did she play in all of this?

  If he were simply hunting witches, she would have been dead by now. But every time he had an urge to strangle her, he refrained. Unless … unless it was not her head he needed. Amira remembered a witch from his dream. So she was here to lure her out—finally pieces began to fall into place. Which led Amira to the next question: was she supposed to help him murder a witch, or was she to stop it?

  The reflection of the moonlight on the surface of a steel blade caught her gaze and Amira bit her lip. She winced when her teeth scratched at the wound; her eyes however, didn’t leave the sword. It appeared to be mocking her. Baiting her to use the opportunity. An opportunity to die, she all but snorted.

  Amira had no strength to lift it. Even if she had, for the life of her, she didn’t know how to wield a blade this long. Moreover, swords had never been the weapons of her choice. But for a fleeting moment she allowed herself to entertain a fantasy of crossing the room, taking the sword into her hands and by some miracle managing to hold Raven at the sharp end of it. For what purpose?

  Hers was a fight won not on a battle field. Gaining a secret was not the same as defeating a foe in combat. Except, she had no idea how to proceed. As the past events attested to, she couldn’t force herself to rip his mind open; which left her with what?

  Discarding the jumbled thoughts that threatened to gift her with another headache, Amira focused her attention on the bookshelves.

  After a long and diligent search, she found a small, paper-covered book free of spells and enchantments, of the darkest variety. The love poems she encountered rifling through the well-worn pages had a different power—a power to sing to one's heart.

  Amira moved closer to the window for the moon to illuminate every precious word. She looked one more time, sighed, and closed the book.

  * * *

  Raven was waiting for everyone in the house to drown in sleep. He had to go back to his room for the amulet he'd left earlier in the day, and Martha wouldn’t allow him anywhere near it. One would think she was protecting a maiden from an ogre.

  The first time he tried to sneak in, she announced “Bright Eyes” was in dire need of rest and that she would have none of his meddling.

  Bright Eyes indeed! Raven rolled his eyes. Martha explained that she had to call the girl something. And the only way she would let anyone annoy the “sweet” girl would be over her own rotten corpse.

  Raven fully expected her to be watching the door like a faithful hound, and was amazed to find it unguarded. Was Martha so tired, or was he the restless one? Either way, he couldn’t lay his eyes down, knowing who was sleeping in his bed.

  He searched for the clock, confirming it was well past midnight. The witch should be sound asleep by now, Raven assured himself. He would just take what he needed and be right off.

  He felt ridiculous, furtively creeping into his own chamber like a thief afraid of being caught. He had every right to be in his own home, but still, gently touching the knob, Raven slowly pushed the burnished oak door so not to allow a single squeak.

  Once in the room, he stumbled on something lying on the floor. Picked up a book, only to identify it as the first installment of the trilogy on witchcraft history. So she’s been studying. How to make a frog out of him, no doubt. But it was not a volume on witchcraft he noticed in her hand when he glanced up. She held pages and pages of the love poems his mother so loved.

  Raven’s chest constricted at the sight of an angel illuminated by the pale moonlight. She looked serene standing against the window, wearing nothing but a gossamer silk gown. So delicate. Almost fragile. Yet the power she exuded was as tangible as the book he held. Even he could sense it seeping out of her. Flowing, wave after wave.

  It felt like a strange embrace. A caress, even. Raven was surrounded by something warm, something which made his skin prickle. He had been wrong in thinking he could just sneak in and out. He was not sure he would be able to move, even if his life depended on it.

  Raven stared at her as she gracefully lifted her right arm and touched the glass as if it were a lover. Magical words flew out of her lips, causing uncouth stirrings in his heart.

  I walked through the night like a shadow,

  I held no one close to my heart,

  Until the day that you reached me

  Until you banished the dark.

  Raven closed his eyes. Memories came flying back.

  His mother was laughing, telling how his father had bought the book for her. She used to read it to both Dacian and him thousands of times, until they were sick of it.

  He always thought the book contained prettier pieces than that, but hearing these mundane words from her lips made him understand the magic that lay not in a few simple words of verse, but in the person whose heart spoke them.

  “No one will hear it” slipped out, before he could stop it.

  Amira turned around to find Raven standing twenty feet away from her. Ivory shirt open at the neck to give her a peek of well-molded pectorals, strong arms holding her quickly-forgotten book, and black pants tracing and complimenting his lean hips.

  His jaw was neatly shaved, giving him an almost boyish expression, which quickly faded away as his tousled ebony hair came under her notice. Wild and unruly, giving her an imprudent urge to bury her fingers in it.

  Her gaze lowered to his eyes, the most untamable feature he possessed. They looked hazy, fierce and … a small glimpse of sadness caught her eyes as his masculine beauty, even more breathtaking than she could remember, made her ache for him.

  “It seems to me someone did hear it,” she said, still looking into the depths of his mesmerizing eyes, now burning hotter than the fire itself, almost wishing he would obliterate the space between them. And at the same time cursing herself for her weakness.

  “So for which of them did the lord come here?” she uttered, seeking to create distance with her formal words.

  Confusion stretched Raven’s face taut. He could swear he saw raw hunger in her eyes, the same that tormented him since he first laid his eyes on her. Or was it just the flickering shadows playing on her face?

  Now she looked nothing except serious. As if his answer could change her future.

  “I beg your pardon?”—he had no idea what she was talking about. Could it be she knew about his amulet? And that false courtesy in calling him a lord—he almost frowned at the word.

  “Did the lord finally decide which it would be,” she said uneasily, as if tired of the unknown. Uttering the blasted “lord” word yet again. This time he did frown.

  “A sword through my heart,” she spoke slowly, “or ravishing me and throwing to the dogs, as Owen suggested?”

  Raven blinked.

  “I am entitled to know my fate.”

  “And which one would you prefer?”

  Amira froze, realizing the error in asking the question she already knew the answer to. She hoped he would unveil something, anything. Raven had turned the tables instead; leaving her to watch as he placed the book back in its proper place, and wonder what was she getting herself into this time. Or maybe she would have been wondering, if not for the fact that her every last thought was focused on how it would feel to be ravished by him. As wondrous as his kisses were? Passionate and hot against her melting flesh? Gentle? Rough?

  Amira almost moaned. Pull yourself together, she commanded. “You mean to tell me I can choose?” She finally found her voice. Which was somewhat of a miracle, considering that his mesmerizing eyes were trained back on her.
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  “I wish to know if you would prefer death to my touch,” he asked, closing distance between them.

  Amira hoped he wouldn’t notice how her legs were trembling. Trying to stand her ground, she tilted her chin higher, and refusing to surrender, met his bold gaze with hers.

  “What am I supposed to say? I’d sooner die than surrender my virtue?” she said sarcastically. “According to you, I’m sure I have none.”

  “You don’t?” he inquired, reaching for her.

  “Some. Maybe.” Her answer caused a raised eyebrow.

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t want to die,” she breathed deeply as his fingers trailed down her neck, “but I refuse to lie with a man who hates every little thing about me.”

  “A wise answer,” he admitted, giving nothing more than a simple, gentle touch with the tips of his fingers. She felt it to the core of her essence though. Then leaning closer, only an inch from her lips, whispered, “but not a choice.”

  Amira felt her traitorous nipples harden, her taut breasts ache for the touch that was not coming. “Then I guess my fate is in your hands,” she whispered back, biting her lip hard to stifle a moan from leaving her mouth. She ached, she ached so much, in places he hadn’t even touched.

  Standing so close to each other, breathing his air, feeling his body’s heat, she shivered with anticipation. His lips were so close, it was sheer torture.

  A few more moments and she would have begged for the thing she refused. Fortunately, Raven had more sense than she did. Not that she thought herself fortunate at the moment.

  He stepped back, releasing her, and breaking the moment.

  In a way, Amira realized, she had won a small victory; only instead of delight she felt loss. Her body was still aching for him and her heart wished he could see the real her, and not what he wanted to see.

  Biting her lower lip even harder to suppress her traitorous desires, she took her own steps to increase the distance between them.

  “Martha treats you like one of her subjects often?”

  Raven studied her for a few moments, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer, eventually turning his gaze from her to the furniture.

  “I fell from her good grace by binding you,” he confessed, fiercely searching for something in the chest of drawers.

  “Well, I am sorry to hear about your discomfort,” she retorted angrily, watching as he heartily ransacked through the second drawer. “Try sleeping while chained to that pole.” Not that she had actually slept.

  Raven glanced over his shoulder and just managed to catch a glimpse of her burning eyes. She was beautiful, even when angry.

  “Try looking in your nightstand,” she suggested.

  Raven slowly walked to the other corner of the room and opened the first drawer. On top of the huddle of papers lay his amulet. He gaped. “How did you know?” It was all he could manage.

  “I’ll tell you my secrets if you’ll tell me yours,” she offered.

  He didn’t answer. He had no wish for her to pry into his life.

  Knowing it would happen if he stayed around any longer, he started toward the door, fastening the amulet around his neck.

  “You are hurt!” she noticed his bruised knuckles and the knife wound across his hand.

  “I’ll survive.” Raven replied, reaching for the doorknob; but before he could slip out, she was there, blocking his way.

  “I don’t remember seeing it earlier,” she arched her brow in a questioning frown, determination showing in every inch of her face. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Nothing at all. His fist had simply decided to punch a wall the moment he'd left her battered body in his bed, and merge with a very stiff skull.

  Raven didn't know how he'd managed to control himself when he'd found Owen hurting her. Or how he'd managed to breathe the whole way to his bedroom with her curled in his arms. Maybe he hadn’t breathed. For all he remembered now, was the rage he'd been choking on. As the result, he'd beaten the crap out of Owen and had told him to gather his things and leave.

  Raven didn't want her to know any of it. He didn’t want his witch to realize how much she affected him, but when she looked at the wound understanding lit in her eyes.

  “A small matter?” she asked without smiling or gloating.

  “The smallest.”

  She looked at him as if digesting the information, and then she reached for his arm, “Can I?”

  “There’s nothing you can do.” He tried to dodge her touch, only to find his palm in hers.

  “That only proves how little you know,” came the reply, and glancing toward the bookcase she added, “despite all your books.”

  Raven was on the point of objecting, when a sudden warmth took all his words away. The feeling was stupefying, like a bolt of energy surging through his veins. Fever fully overwhelmed him. Scorching flames licked his hand.

  He could not explain why, but worry was the last thought to cross his mind. Right then, all he was was curious.

  “All done,” she breathed unsteadily.

  Raven looked at his arm—not a single scratch. Then at her—a pale, fatigued face came into his view. He noticed her riotous respiration, her trembling body, and had a feeling she was fighting a war to keep herself upright. Knew she would never admit it. So without a single word he swept her in his arms and carried to the bed.

  “How… Why… You are white as a sheet,” he finally got out.

  “I guess I didn’t realize how weak I was for such a trick,” she murmured in a sleep-laden voice.

  “Rest now,” he told her, rising from his bed.

  Raven listened until her breathing steadied, and left her. Somehow he ended up in the empty corridors, wondering. His head was splitting from all the unanswered questions and feelings he had. The witch was right in saying he knew little. None of those books mentioned anything vaguely similar to what he had just experienced.

  They all spoke of thousands of unimaginable ways to destroy body, mind, and even soul. But not a single one of them suggested the possibility of healing. He didn’t think it was feasible until he saw it with his very eyes. “A trick,” she’d said—a miracle more likely.

  Why did she do it, if it cost her so heavily?

  She was an enigma.

  Of all the books in his room, she picked love poems. It was his luck, it seemed, to enter the moment those lines came flying out of her lips, as she stood like a goddess in the whole magnificent glory of the moon. Fate was really a fickle friend, Raven smiled bitterly.

  She was a temptation the like of which he’d never encountered. A witch he should not want to touch, yet craved every moment, even in full knowledge of what it could cost him. It was madness, the way she was conquering his mind. The more he knew her, the more he was intrigued. And even though he would never admit it, he admired her spirit and strength. Not many would’ve been able to stand their ground after everything that had happened.

  Raven raked his hand through his hair, wishing he could understand her.

  I’ll tell you my secrets if you’ll tell me yours, she’d said.

  It meant opening his heart, releasing all the demons he fought so hard to keep at bay. Even worse, letting her in, allowing her to poke at the darkest corners of his soul. The bargain was not acceptable to him.

  He’d lost too much to pretend. He’d sacrificed his life to the only person who mattered—his brother. He could not jeopardize Dacian’s wellbeing. It was Raven’s fault Dacian was the way he was. Raven’s fault Dacian was captured by a witch and tortured till his mind fractured. Every time he thought about his brother his heart bled with pain and guilt. That’s why he needed to tie her to the stake again, to do whatever it was necessary for him to get to Ethely. The problem was—he couldn’t.

  Maybe it could still work, he figured. Her being in his bedroom…

  People tended to blow stories out of proportion, after all, and by the following week it would definitely be the case of a young witch
chained to his bed for the things he didn’t even want to imagine. Or he would never be able to sleep again.

  He just needed a few guards for her, since he couldn’t watch her every moment. Neither did he want to. Too much of a distraction.

  Tomorrow, he thought. Today she was going nowhere.

  Chapter 11

  “We need to send word to the Lord and Lady St. Clair,” Giles suggested.

  “No,” Natalie interrupted him. “My uncle and aunt have enough on their minds right now. What we need is to find Amira.”

  “But we searched everywhere we could,” Logan raised his grey-green eyes—a few shades darker than his sister’s—and still no one could see his guilty expression from under shoulder-length blond hair. He barely looked directly at people anymore.

  “Our inquires are turning up new questions we can’t answer,” Ciaran said, pacing the length of the room, his thoughts darting erratically. The gaze from his dark brown eyes jumping from person to person. “She is a witch, and by law…” he paused, cursing the damned law, the ignorant people, even the king, who became a puppet in the hands of the Order years ago. “We can’t draw more attention, it would only seal her doom—that is if she is not already…”

  “Stop that!” Natalie shouted. “She is not dead, she can’t be.”

  “Then where is she?” Ciaran asked, barely managing to keep his wrath under control. Nothing was going the way he wanted. He couldn’t find Amira the day she vanished, when there was less than a mile between them; and now, after three days of searching high and low, desperation was taking hold of him.

  “I don’t know,” said Natalie, her eyes filling with tears for the hundredth time in the past few days. She quickly blinked them away.

  “That’s great!” Ciaran lifted his hands in frustration. “And who the hell knows?”

  “Stop it!” This time it was Logan’s voice that echoed inside the four walls of the study they were gathered in, succeeding in drawing everyone’s attention. “How do you think it makes me feel? I was the one who let him take her away. I was the helpless one! He overpowered me with such ease…” Logan’s voice trailed off and he lowered his head again.