The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne)

by Lori Devoti

  “No, you lout. I tell you half of what you need to know and you release me into my body. Once I’m safely back and confident everything is working, I’ll tell you the rest.” Except there was no rest; she’d sold the chalice to a dwarf. There was little she could tell the dragon past that.

  Joarr lowered Amma’s finger and trailed his hand down the length of her body. “Yes, must make sure everything is working. That could prove entertaining.”

  Amma ignored him, or tried to; she couldn’t keep from watching as his fingers traced the low neckline of her peasant blouse, paused at the indentation between her breasts.

  Without warning, he pulled his hand back. “You tell me half, I release you. Then you come with me. Once I have the chalice, you will go free.”

  “I tell you what I know—that’s it. I’m not responsible for whether you are or aren’t capable of getting the cup back.”

  “You stole it. You make sure I get it back.”

  Amma counted to ten. Conversing with the dragon made her want to scream. He had the upper hand and he was using it, abusing it. She didn’t know how long it would take him to find his chalice; it was insane to demand she stay with him until he did.

  Revenge, she realized. This was part of his revenge.

  She muttered a curse, thinking what she would do when he didn’t have the upper hand, when she was free… She shook herself. She was letting the dragon get to her. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She had nothing to lose by agreeing with him. Once she was back in her body, she’d leave. He’d only asked for her word that she wouldn’t. Dragons apparently were as arrogant as the tales made them out to be.

  “Agreed,” she said.

  Joarr held the lantern to his face; his blue eyes filled her world. Amma kept herself from reacting, from saying something that would weaken her bargain.

  “Agreed,” he replied.

  Amma’s spirit expanded inside the lantern. She didn’t know if Joarr could see her joy, and she didn’t care. Her bodyless state was about to come to an end.

  As she was celebrating, the lantern jolted. Joarr had sat the thing down, and only feet away from Amma’s body. She could see herself laid out, her golden hair in waves around her face. Her favorite skirt, patched and with a worn fringed hem, still fit perfectly. It was neither too loose nor too snug. She hadn’t gained or lost an ounce, which made her wonder what had happened to her body. What state would she find it in once she returned to it? Perhaps this was all a trick; perhaps she would find herself trapped inside a body that wouldn’t come back to life…

  Joarr brushed by, quickly, Amma catching nothing but the flash of his white sweater, but it was enough to snap her out of her moment of panic. Her body was fine. Everything inside it was fine.

  Joarr came back into view, stepping toward her.

  Soon she would be herself again, and she’d teach the dragon not to make the same mistake twice, not to trust so easily.

  Chapter 3

  Two weeks earlier…

  Dark rock music screamed from the speakers. Somewhere in the back of the bar a patron screamed, too. Walking along the plank that hung from the twelve-foot ceiling, Fafnir didn’t bother to glance down. It was midnight, time for a drink. A very special drink. The dwarf had been waiting for his father, Hreidmar—known to those he did business with as the Collector—to disappear before leaving his post at the bar’s entrance.

  “Where you going?” Regin, Fafnir’s brother, blocked his path. “You’re supposed to be on the door. Some humans tried to get in without paying.”

  Fafnir scowled. “Too much for you? You losing your skill?” He glanced at his brother’s waist where a slim blade hung.

  “It’s not my job—it’s yours. I’m busy. Someone broke into the vault again. Dad was not happy when he left.”

  Fafnir pretended surprise. “Anything missing?”

  Staring down at the heads of their customers, Regin spoke without looking back at his brother. “No, nothing has disappeared since the chalice.”

  Fafnir shrugged. “An object Dad had no use for, anyway.”

  Regin turned back, his gaze assessing. “Dad has use for everything, even if we don’t know its purpose.” His fingers, unusually long and nimble for a dwarf, tapped the handle of his blade. “Have we had any more dragons through?”

  Fafnir stiffened. “You know dragons don’t wander to the human world often.”

  “True. But they are known thieves. And I heard one was spotted in the human world only a few weeks past.”

  Fafnir’s heart sped, but he kept his tone bored. “Near here?” What he had said to Regin was true—dragons didn’t wander into the human world too frequently, but even less so since the last had fallen.

  Regin shook his head. “Not particularly.”

  Fafnir hesitated, not wanting to give away his interest, but if a dragon was roaming the human world, he needed to know. He needed to find him. He was also, however, concerned over his brother’s interest. “Why do you ask, anyway? About dragons coming through?”

  Regin’s pebble-hard gaze held his. “The cup, of course. Its magic has something to do with dragons, and until its disappearance, we’d never seen one. Do you think it attracts them?”

  How Fafnir wished the chalice attracted dragons. He glanced over his brother’s shoulder, to his office where his drink was waiting. He was eager to get to it, but Regin was now fully blocking his path again.

  “Does Dad know what the cup does?” Fafnir asked. If Regin was going to cost him time, he might as well pay for it with information.

  “If he does, he isn’t saying.”

  Fafnir licked his lips. The pressure to get to his drink, to feel the cool, thick liquid sliding down his throat, was overwhelming. “I’m sure it’s nothing, then.” He pushed against Regin, forcing the slimmer dwarf to step to the side—a risky move considering his younger brother’s prowess with a blade, but Fafnir’s insides were crawling. He had to have that drink.

  This time Regin let Fafnir pass. Fafnir scurried as quickly as his short legs would carry him over the boards, sending them swinging back and forth. When he hit the intersection of four paths, he turned to the left, putting his brother back in his view. The younger dwarf stood sure-footed, not even bothering to hold on to the hand ropes as the boards swayed.

  “Do whatever you’re so hurried to do, then get back to the door. I don’t have time to be hauling off bodies, not tonight.”

  Fafnir held up one hand in agreement, then trotted the last few yards to his office. Normally, he wouldn’t have taken Regin’s orders so easily, but his drink…

  He stepped into his office, shoved the door closed and slid the lock into place. Confident his brother wouldn’t “remember” something else he needed and walk in on him, Fafnir scuttled to the safe that lay hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling mirror. The mirror was his father’s, but unlike the chalice Fafnir kept locked up behind it, the mirror had been a gift.

  He touched a spot on the ornate frame and the secret door swung open. Inside was a small room, lined with metal Fafnir had forged himself. He didn’t have the same skill with metals his brother did, but like all dwarves, his talent was still impressive. On a shelf in the back, further obscured from accidental view by an ancient helmet, was the dragon chalice.

  With both hands cupped around its rounded sides, he brought the chalice to his lips. The liquid inside was almost gone. A sip a day from the magic cup was all he was allowed. The dark elf who had sold him the tale had emphasized that. Too much and the magic would be too strong, too much for Fafnir to control. The darkest part of the dragons’ power would swallow him, devour him, make him into what all dragons, all beings, feared…a wyrm.

  The blood in the cup now was old and stale. His last harvest from a living dragon had been months earlier. According to the dark elf, the cup’s magic only worked with fresh blood, drawn from a pumping heart, but the dragons’ stronghold was on lockdown.

  Fafnir had spread tales of treasure, thinking the stori
es would lure a few young dragons to the bar, but months had passed and nothing.

  Now, though, maybe there was hope. Regin had mentioned a dragon being spotted.

  Feeling more alive than he had in weeks, he pressed the gold against his parted lips. One sip, one sip, he chanted. It was so tempting to take more, but he had to maintain control. If he didn’t, if he got sloppy, when he had fresh blood again, he would slip.

  He took a breath, but didn’t inhale the scent. Instead he thought of fresh blood, remembered how it warmed his mouth, how his body tingled as the magic contained in it flowed through him. He concentrated on that, and as the liquid rolled down his throat, a tiny bit of the craving subsided, but not all, not by a long shot.

  He closed his eyes and stood with the cup still pressed against his lips. He breathed in and out, and recited his chant again. Then slowly he forced his arms to reach for the shelf, his hands to slide the cup back behind the helmet and his fingers to release their hold.

  His hands empty and his heart bereft, he turned and left the vault. With the mirror closed over the opening, he stared at his reflection.

  He looked the same. Short, bandy legs, wide shoulders and an oversize head—compared to the humans that frequented the bar that was. For a dwarf he was perfectly proportioned, attractive even. But he wasn’t doing this to change his looks. He was doing this for power beyond physical strength. He was tired of being the grunt of the family, bossed around by father and brother. Nothing more than hired muscle. He needed magic—dragon magic.

  When he had it, when he could shift into the mighty beast, he would have everything, would take everything. His father’s treasures would be his, and his brother’s blade. Anything and everything he could ever want would be his.

  He rounded his lips and blew out a breath. Smoke, black and smelling of sulfur, puffed from his mouth. He grinned. He flexed his hands, envisioned being a dragon, his body growing, a tail extending from his back… Nothing happened. His grin faded.

  Three cups of fresh dragon blood he’d drained and half a cup of old. How much longer until he could shift?

  He angled his head.

  Who was he fooling? He would never turn into a dragon without new blood. He had to find another dragon, and soon.

  Chapter 4

  Present day

  Joarr picked up Amma’s prison. He held it for a second, contemplating his choice. He wasn’t afraid of setting her free. She might be a witch, but she was no match for him. The Ormar’s steadfast belief that losing the chalice weakened them was nothing but superstitious nonsense. As he’d told her, little could destroy a dragon. Dragons’ weaknesses were well documented: their own greed and their opponents’ craftiness.

  Greed wasn’t an issue—the chalice was one piece of treasure he would be happy to be rid of, if the legend that went with it disappeared, too. So, that little dragon weakness was no threat here.

  And so far as outwitting him? Tales of dragons being outwitted were popular, but that popularity far outranked their reality. Dragons’ adversaries tended to repeat the stories that showed themselves as the victors. But no one spoke of all the other humans, dwarves and would-be heroes who failed, who were toasted or frozen or just left walled up inside some dragon’s cave.

  Dragons might well be greedy, but they were not stupid—especially not this one.

  So, all in all releasing Amma held little risk for him. Plus he would get the benefit of keeping her from complete freedom for a while, repaying her for at least a fraction of her crime. And if she cooperated, she could help him reach his goal—bringing the damned chalice back to those who believed in it and saving himself from becoming a wyrm.

  He strode to her body and pulled out the item he had stored under the table. Amma might think he was a fool, but he wasn’t.

  His safeguard in place, he held up the lantern and stared inside. “Time to pay. What did you do with my treasure?”

  Smoke thickened inside the thing, changing colors as it did. Amma thinking, he guessed. Trying to figure some way out of her deal most likely. He shook the lantern. “Give me a name and a world.”

  The fog stilled, a pink cloud trapped behind the glass. Then waves appeared and words formed inside his head. It wasn’t a voice really—more like cue cards flashing in rapid succession in his brain.

  “Collector. A dwarf.”

  The name rang no bells, and the note Rike had shown him looked as if it came from the human world, not Nidavellir, home of the dwarves. Joarr tapped on the glass. “The truth, or I won’t let you out.”

  “It is the truth.” The cue cards flashed like neon in his head, emphasizing Amma’s annoyance.

  “Why did he want the cup?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. He COLLECTS things.”

  She was getting testy or testier. It should have made Joarr reluctant to release the witch from her cell, but strangely it had the opposite effect. His spine tingled with anticipation. Even after one hundred years without a body, the witch still had spirit. Maybe that was the point. It was all she’d had. The idea of battling with her, playing with her, maybe celebrating her return to her body with her…reminded Joarr that he’d been a prisoner, too. Been cut off from many of the same physical pleasures Amma had.

  Perhaps they could rediscover them together.

  He lowered the lantern, thinking. He’d planned to get more information out of her before giving her what she wanted most, her body. But actually, once in her true form she would be easier to control and read. In his dragon shape, he could read minds. He doubted the witch realized that. It would be a handy surprise.

  Decision made, he snapped the manacle around his wrist and flipped open the tab that held the lantern’s lid in place.

  “Fly home,” he whispered.

  * * *

  Freedom. Amma could smell it. Not literally, not yet, but it was close.

  She flew from the lantern. Outside of its magical glass walls, she lost her sight, but it didn’t matter. She had developed strange talents over the past hundred years: the ability to sense life in a room, to feel the pulse inside a body—not of blood…of existence.

  Joarr was close and huge. His force was so strong Amma was moving toward him automatically, drawn, fascinated. His voice stopped her.

  “Are you in there?”

  He was bending over her body; he had to be. She slowed herself, focused on the space beside Joarr where she knew her body had to lie. Slowed the wild need that was coursing through her and remembered what she was seeking—not any life force, not Joarr, but herself. She was searching for her body, to restore her life force.

  Centered, she reached out, groped for some sign that would show her guess was correct, that Joarr was beside her body, but there was nothing, no pulse, nothing. She hesitated, her earlier fears of being trapped in a lifeless body returning. But what was her choice, this? Staying in spirit form…maybe trying to wile her way back into someone else’s body? The last time had been all kinds of unpleasant.

  She had no choice. She focused on the area beside Joarr and winged closer.

  * * *

  “Amma?” Joarr leaned over the witch, watching for some sign her spirit had returned to her body. It hadn’t occurred to him before this that she might not be able to return, or that it would require anything more than opening the lantern and setting her spirit free.

  Somehow, he’d thought Amma would figure the rest out herself.

  But now, as the seconds ticked past, he was beginning to wonder, and worry. Left free in her spirit form, what havoc could Amma wreak? And, he realized, he felt a strange sense of responsibility. He’d threatened the witch numerous times, but at the idea that because of him she might be left floating for eternity without even the lantern to anchor her, something damn close to panic shot through him.