The Blue Flame [Book 1 of the Daradawn Series]

by Barbara M. Hodges

"Not what?

  "Very talented in making love."

  His eyes swept over her. “You are made for love."

  "But I'm not. I don't even like it,” she said.

  "Perhaps that's because you haven't had the right lover,” he said smugly.

  She frowned. “I'm just not very exciting. I'm sure Lara's much better."

  "Would you like her to join us?"

  Regan drew back from him as far as her saddle would permit. “God, no."

  "I was hoping you'd prefer us to be alone."

  Regan glared down at her saddle horn. She heard him laugh, and glanced up to see he had turned back around in his saddle.

  The path they followed narrowed as they rode through tall spindly trees. Thorny vines with large waxy green leaves and purple-clustered flowers grew so close to the packed-dirt trail the horses’ swishing tails lashed the vines, showering everything with a fine mist.

  She glanced up at the sun. It looked as if they had been riding for an hour or two, and were heading north.

  Darrian had kept his word and released Kelsey and the others from the cave once they had crossed the river into Vilsathor. Regan watched as the four rode out, her heart aching as Peter raced up and back along the mountain's side.

  Darrian laughed as he watched. “The cave entrance is no longer there. The bush is gone also. They will think you've been trapped inside."

  In seething anger she had reached inward for the Power, aching to blast the smirk off the elven prince's face, but the only thing burning in her stomach was rage.

  Gilda turned to meet her eyes, but without magic, Regan could do nothing but stare into the mare's eyes. Another thought struck her. I can't use the opal earrings to let Kelsey know I'm alive.

  Darrian stopped at an opening in the brush. He guided his horse through the break, and the rest of the elves followed like obedient sheep. Darrian lead them around a giant oak tree and stopped at the edge of a wide field ablaze with yellow daffodils. A breeze touched Regan's cheek, bringing with it the flowers’ sweet scent and the lazy drone of bees.

  Darrian turned in his saddle and looked beyond her to the other elves. He raised his hand and pointed. Regan twisted in her saddle and saw the elves silently turn and ride back into the trees, all except Lara. The elven woman remained where she was, glaring at Regan.

  Regan glanced at Darrian in time to see him frown, and then point at the trees again. Regan turned back and saw the elven woman ride her horse closer to them, a look of pleading on her face.

  "Lara, go. You are an embarrassment and a bore,” Darrian said, his voice cold with censure.

  Regan saw Lara's eyes sheen with tears, then she viciously whipped her horse around and galloped into the trees. “Did you have to be so cruel?” she said.

  The elven prince looked at her in surprise. “Why should you care? She hates you. She would kill you herself if I permitted it."

  "Can't you see she has feelings for you?"

  Darrian's eyebrow rose. “Off course she does. I am her prince. It is expected.” The breeze blew a strand of hair into his face and with a quick swipe of his hand he brushed it away from his cheek. “Enough. Our journey ends just beyond this glade.” With a laugh, he pitched Gilda's reins in Regan's direction. “You may run if you wish, but you will never get beyond this glade. It's bespelled with elven magic.” Still laughing, he nudged his horse forward, not bothering to see if she followed.

  She glanced around, chewing on her upper lip. “Damn you,” she said, then urged Gilda to follow.

  He rode across the field, then turned into another stand of trees. She followed reluctantly, then suddenly pulled back on Gilda's reins. Her eyes widened. In the middle of a pool of green grass stood a cottage straight out of The Brothers Grimm fairy tales.

  The walls were mortared gray stone. Ivy, in variegated shades of green, curled up around doors and framed windows. A red brick chimney poked from a darker gray shake roof. White smoke curled from the chimney's square opening. A deer stood within a few feet of the carved wood door, sedately chewing grass. It looked up, met her eyes and froze, its body quivering. It's scared to death. Why doesn't it run? Regan looked up. At the end of a brown limb, she met the eyes of a gray squirrel, also frozen in place. She cast a quick glance at Darrian. He stared, enraptured, at the scene before them. His smile reminded her of an artist ogling a much slaved-over canvas. As she watched, he urged his horse forward and, with a movement almost too quick to see, flicked his fingers at the deer. The released deer bounded into the trees. Regan looked up in time to see the squirrel's tail disappear among the oak's thick leaves. More elven magic. For a moment, she was impressed by his pretty little picture of serenity.

  She watched as he dismounted and moved toward her. She quickly slid from Gilda's back. He froze in mid-step, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the cottage. She watched in silence as he opened the door, walked through, and slammed it behind him. She winced as the ivy twining above the door shook with the impact. If he thinks I'm going to make this easy, he's crazy.

  Regan scratched Gilda's nose. “I'd like to think we won't be here long enough to warrant removing your saddle, but I suppose it's wishful thinking.” She reached under the saddle's flap, unbuckled the girth and heaved the saddle from the mare's back. Stumbling with its weight, she back-pedaled a few steps and laid it across a round rock.

  She used the long sleeve of her shirt to wipe the sweat spots the saddle had left on Gilda's back and then wrapped the reins loosely around a branch. “There. You need to be brushed, but that'll have to do.” She glanced at Darrian's still saddled horse and frowned. Sighing, she crossed to the horse and reached to loosen its girth.

  "What are you doing?” Darrian demanded from the cottage door.

  She kept her back to the door. “I'm taking the saddle off your horse. What does it look like I'm doing?"

  "Leave it. Someone will come for him."

  She stilled her hands. Then someone does know of this cottage. She wiped her palms along the leg of her pants before turning to face Darrian. “As you wish."

  "Come in. I've drawn a bath for you."

  She hesitated, then shrugged and walked toward the cottage. The elf turned, but not before she saw the satisfied smirk on his lips. Regan's lips tightened in response. You may have won the skirmish, but the war is just beginning.

  She stopped in the arch of the cottage's doorway and surveyed the scene before her. Her lips parted, and she fought bubbling laughter.

  A fire crackled enticingly in a stone fireplace. Lying on the floor in front of the fireplace was a white fur. A tall bottle and two silver goblets sat next to the fur. There were no furnishings in the cottage, just piles and piles of ivory silk pillows. God, it's a seduction scene right out of Playboy magazine.

  A freestanding screen stood at the far right of the room. Regan watched steamy mist rise beyond it. Draped over the screen's top was a ruby-red robe.

  Darrian waved his arm with nonchalant grace in the direction of the screen. “Your bath awaits, my lovely. Just toss your clothes to the side. I will have them burned."

  Regan walked into the room, and behind her the door slammed shut. She jumped, then turned and looked at it. “I suppose it's locked?"

  Darrian laughed. “You're my guest. I can't have you leaving too soon."

  From outside Regan heard Gilda neigh. She rushed to the window and saw the mare being led away by two elves. “Where are they taking Gilda?"

  "She will be seen to, just as any of my other horses. When you leave she will be brought back to you."

  Regan whirled to face him. “If you harm her..."

  "Enough,” Darrian cut her off. “This game is becoming a bore. Now get out of your clothes, or do you need help?"

  Regan raised her chin and swept a cold gaze over him. “I've been undressing myself for years."

  "What a pity.” He walked to the white fur and stretched out on it. “You've thirty minutes for your bath. If you haven't joined me by then, I'll
see what I can do to hurry you along."

  Regan turned and stalked behind the screen.

  An ivory oval tub filled with steaming water awaited her. Next to the tub was a small vial of pink liquid. Regan held it to her nose and inhaled. The smell of roses caressed her senses. With a slight smile, she capped the vial and set it aside. “Fat chance,” she murmured.

  She pulled her shirt over her head, stepped from the trousers and then tossed both reeking garments over the top of the screen. From the other side of the screen she heard a muffled curse and grinned. Serves him right for trying to get a peek.

  She stepped into the tub and settled back, smothering a delighted sigh. A round sponge rested next to the perfume vial. She picked up the sponge, dunked it, and then squeezed a stream of water over her shoulder.

  "Regan, I'm waiting."

  Her fingers dug into the sponge. Somehow I've got to get away from this egotistical lunatic.

  Five short minutes later, she stood and stepped from the tub. A large white towel lay folded on the floor. She toweled dry, then reached for the robe; it was soft as silk in her hands. She pulled it over her head and let it drop. The crimson fabric pooled around her feet like glistening blood. Glancing down at the neckline, she scowled. It was shaped in a deep wide vee, the point resting between the valley of her breast. God, if I move wrong it'll fall off. She pulled the shoulder seams up and back so the vee'd point rested just below her neck, kicked her feet free of the bunched up silken mass, then took a deep breath and moved from behind the screen.

  Darrian lounged on the fur in front of the fire. The red-gold flames reflected off the silver goblets he held in each hand. The elven prince had used the time she bathed to change into a robe the mirror image of hers. The deep vee showed her an ivory-skinned chest that looked smooth as silk.

  He watched her as she neared. A predatory smile curving his full red lips, he held one of the glasses out toward her. As she took the glass from his hand, their fingertips touched, and she almost dropped the glass of wine in surprise at the heat that radiated from his. The elven prince patted the fur next to him. Regan perched stiffly next to him. Darrian locked his gaze with hers, then lifted the glass to his lips and drank. Regan watched his throat move as he swallowed the wine.

  "Try some,” he said, motioning toward her glass.

  She swirled the purple liquid in her glass. “I'm not thirsty right now."

  He pushed himself up on one elbow, then leaned toward her and took the wine from her hand. “Perhaps your appetite yearns for something different?"

  I can't let this happen, she thought, but what can I do?

  He set the glass aside, then pushed up to a sitting position. She turned her back to him. She felt his arms twine around her waist, and he pulled her back against his chest. The heat from his body singed her skin. Warm lips touched her nape, and teeth nibbled along the back of her neck. Against her will she shivered. She turned her head, her gaze seeking the glass of wine. If I drink it, maybe it wouldn't be so bad? I might even like it. He couldn't be any worse than Jack was.

  He trailed his lips along her shoulder, and with a soft moan she closed her eyes. Peter's face floated before her and she snapped her eyes open. “No,” she cried twisting away.

  She turned to face Darrian and watched the elf's face tighten.

  "You wish to do this the hard way?” he said.

  "I don't wish to do it at all."

  "But I do and so we will.” He smiled once again. “You're a witch who's cast a spell over me, and I must have you."

  Her mind pounced on the word. A spell. The Power doesn't work in Vilsathor, but what about my spells? My magic isn't of Daradawn. Is Vilsathor guarded against them?

  She rapidly pulled, discarded, and then pulled more words together. Please let it work, she silently prayed as she recited to herself.

  "No I said and no I meant.

  Your overtures I deplore, your attitude I reject.

  I wish you softer than before, in a place you don't expect.

  Your passions burn high, a fiery ember.

  Cool the fire with the chill of December."

  As she mentally flung the last words at him, he ran his hand up inside her gown and along her thigh. His robe stretched tight across his groin, and she saw all too clearly the spell had failed.

  Her shoulders sagged, and she reached for the glass of wine. The glass rim was at her lips when a hand pounded on the wooden door. She froze.

  "Go away,” Darrian yelled.

  "My Prince, Margeaux is looking for you. She's questioning all of us and Lara has threatened to tell of your captive."

  "Damn.” Darrian pushed Regan aside and stood. Her gown slid off her right shoulder and bared her breast to its pale-pink nipple. Her cheeks heated. She moved to pull the neckline up and he grabbed her hand. “Leave it. Soon I'll return to remove it from the rest of your body.” He squeezed her hand, then stood and walked to the doorway. At the door he turned, smiled at her, and then walked out.

  "Damn you,” she said to the closed door.

  Regan heard the jingle of bridles, then the pounding of hoofs. She scrambled to her feet, ran to the door and twisted the knob. Bespelled glade or not, I'm getting out of here. The door was locked. Why does he lock the door if the glade is spelled? Anger coursed through her. How could I have been so stupid? I could have turned Gilda and ran.

  She stalked back to the fireplace and picked up the two glasses of wine. With a cold smile she emptied them, then the bottle of wine, into the flames. Scowling at the white fur she kicked it aside, then piled a bunch of pillows on the floor in its place.

  So why didn't the spell work? Was it the wording? Her forehead creased. What did I say? No I said and no I meant. Your attitude is a bore ... no that's not right. I'd better write it down.

  She crossed to where her clothing still lay on the floor. Holding the pants with her fingertips, and as far away from her as possible, she removed her notebook from the pocket and padded back to the fireplace.

  Sitting Indian style in her nest of pillows, she stared down at the open notebook lying on her knee for a long moment, then pushed it off onto the floor. “I don't have anything to write with.” Tears threatened and she angrily blinked them away. “No, he will not win."

  She stood and let her gaze wander around the cottage. There has to be a pen here somewhere, but where? The little table next to the tub, she thought, did it have a drawer in it? She ran to the screen and pulled it aside. Below the flat top was a small drawer. Please don't let it be locked, or full of soap. She pulled on the gold ornate knob. The drawer opened. In it lay a flat leather-bound book. She yanked the book out, then searched the drawer with her fingertips. Damn, no pen.

  Staring down at the emerald-green book, curiosity overcame her disappointment and she flipped it open.

  Inside, in tight cramped writing, was page after page, all detailing Darrian's seductions. Her eyes scanned a few pages and her cheeks heated. “God, what an ass he is. These women meant nothing to him.” She flipped to the last entry, then whooped with delight. A feather-tipped quill pen lay trapped in the book's deep vee.

  "Ink, I need ink,” she murmured walking back to the fireplace. “I suppose I could do like they do in some of those old horror tales and use my own blood, but...” She stared at a pile of ashes that had escaped the fireplace. She knelt beside the pillows, scraped a pile of ash close to her, spat into it, and mixed it with her finger. She dipped the end of the pen into the gray mess, then opened her notebook and tried a few letters. It was crude but legible.

  The words came back to her a little at a time.

  "No I said and no I meant.

  Your overtures I deplore, your attitude I reject.

  I wish you softer than before in places you don't expect.

  Your fires burn high, a fiery ember.

  Cool the fire with the chill of December."

  As she finished writing the word December, the page before her glowed. The black letters flared s
carlet, then turned black once again.

  Startled, Regan pushed the book from her lap, then stared down at it wide-eyed. “What the hell! That's never happened before.” She tentatively touched a letter with her trembling fingertip, but it remained black. So what's different? She laughed shrilly. What isn't? She gulped in two quick breaths. Get a hold of yourself, girl. This isn't the time to lose it.

  A sudden thought hit her with the blow of a sucker-punch and, for a moment, she couldn't draw a breath down her dry throat. It's the first time I've written in it since I came through the rift. Do the spells I write have to be written in the book to work here? Oh, God, if that's right, then the one we wrote for Dirkk will fail. A wave of panicky dizziness had her shaking her head to drive it away. No, wait. I can write the spell in now. She picked up the pen and hastily scribbled “Evil is as evil does..."

  She finished the last word and stared at the page; no flare of light, no scarlet branded words. What's the problem? Why didn't it work? Then she remembered Peter's bent head and closed eyes as he wrote the spell's final stanza. “Peter has to write the ending."

  She scrambled to her feet and ran to the door. Pounding on it with clenched fists, she yelled. “Let me out of here!” From the other side she heard a chuckle, and Darrian pushed the door open.

  "Still eager to leave, I see,” he said.

  She grabbed his arm. “Darrian, you have to let me go. I have to get back to Peter."

  He frowned, then pushed her aside and slammed the door. “You choose Peter over me?"

  "I love him."

  Darrian's face flooded with scarlet. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging like knives into her flesh, and jerked her back toward the pile of pillows.

  Unable to tear away from his brute strength, Regan raked her fingernails across the back of his hand, leaving stripes of blood. “Let me go!"

  He threw her down onto the pile of pillows and dropped on top of her, his left hand holding both of hers captive behind her back. His fingers dipped into the neckline of the gown and ripped it off her right shoulder. Naked to the waist, she struggled to free her hands. Their eyes clashed, his full of hate and passion, before he bent his head and fastened his lips on her nipple.