by Billi Jean
Chapter Seven
Alex staggered to his feet, his head swimming and every inch of his body on fire—including his broken wrist and what felt like several broken ribs.
Sorcha had tossed him off the side of a mountain!
He’d trusted her. He’d given her a bit of freedom and she’d rewarded him by shoving him off a cliff. He swiped the blood out of his left eye and twisted his head left and right until his neck cracked. His wrist was already healing. His ribs knitted together with each breath.
She’d forgotten one thing in her temper tantrum.
He had the antidote.
Or he had had the antidote. His pack had been ripped off somewhere on the side of the sheer rock face she’d sent him over. Had she thought of that? Hell no. The witch would though, he thought eyeing the hundred-foot climb. The question was, should he fetch the pack or the witch?
The guidelines for her antidote had been clear. Twice a day. Once at night. So far, he’d not let her feel the effects of missing those parameters. He’d been too soft. He’d been too overwhelmed with her beauty, he saw that now.
This changed everything. Not even his constant need of her stood in his way now. He’d tie her up like a goose and carry her slung over his shoulder for the rest of the time it took to reach the meeting place. Then he’d hand her to the mage and maybe, just possibly, take her home after he killed the bastard.
Decided, he breathed in deeply, finding her scent within seconds. She’d headed north. Why north? Why not back south to a town and possibly people to aid her? He glanced at the ground and spotted her footprints. He touched his head only then feeling a cloth she’d wrapped around his forehead. He pulled it off and realised it was part of her T-shirt. She’d come here, checked him then left him?
He glanced back at the spot where he’d risen and found another cloth, bright red with his blood and wet from where she’d cleaned his wounds.
Didn’t matter. Her kindness didn’t matter. Hell, he needed her. He couldn’t go to the meeting without her and the first check was tomorrow.
He was within days of his revenge. Of avenging his family’s death. He needed her for that.
The evidence of her tending his wounds baffled him. He didn’t understand her, but he was going to make her understand one thing.
Nothing came in the way of his revenge.
* * * *
The wilderness of Sorcha’s home wasn’t the same without her power.
Everything worked against her. A twig snapped behind her sending her heart racing harder. She looked over her shoulder to see only the dimness of a moonlit forest and twisted her foot in a hole. The pain dragged a muffled groan from her before she landed hard on her hands and knees.
In the distance, she heard a sharp howl, followed by another. Dogs. At one time, she could have communicated with them. Hell, two days ago she could have. Not now. Now she struggled back to her feet and took off at the painful lope she’d managed off and on now for what seemed like hours.
There’d been no sign of Alex following her. He’d been breathing when she’d found him, but he’d had blood on his forehead and more on his side. She’d cleaned both wounds before binding his head in case it didn’t stop bleeding, then she’d raced off. One of the strongest of all immortals, the Lykae could regenerate even a missing hand or foot. Broken bones were like splinters to them.
Curse them all.
Not that she wanted him to suffer. She’d realised that, staring at his unconscious face. He’d been so silent, warm and heavy in her arms, but she didn’t want him gone from this world. She didn’t want to see him cold and hollow with death.
She also didn’t want to see him ever again. Right?
Absolutely.
He’d shown himself to be just like those other beasts. Threatening her with using his manhood to silence her? The jerk. He was lucky she didn’t have this potion figured out because when she did, she just might spell his impressive package to the size of her pinky finger. See what he’d use to silence her with then!
She stumbled again, jarring her mind off her revenge and back on her misery. The heels of her feet were raw. Slices stung her hands from falling. In her way of thinking, it was all worth it. If she could break the hold Alex had on her, she’d walk on coals. She shouldn’t have gone to check on him. She should hate him. He’d drugged her, gagged her, bound her, threatened her and kissed her. She shouldn’t have cared that he lived or died. Hurt or not.
But she had. She did.
She obviously couldn’t realise how wrong he was for her. Her goal though wasn’t more pain, it was a gate. The mangy wolf wouldn’t know that though. She hoped. He might and that worried her. The mountains he so casually wanted them on had a gate as well, one that this one linked to. She should know since she and her sisters had first built them centuries before. To think that this mage now used them frightened her. Did that mean he used this as well? And if he did, was he even now on his way to take her from Alex?
Up ahead she heard the sounds of rapidly moving water. She’d almost made it. The moonless night hid most of the land from her, but she used other, much older and forgotten senses to find her home. The feel and scent of the air. She could almost experience the pain she’d endured along this very path more centuries ago than she wanted to remember.
She cut down a grassy slope to the sound of water and pushed through the brambles, getting caught so many times by their thorns she swore they were trying to hold her back. Cursing under her breath, she shoved through and earned a smack in the cheek from a low hanging limb for her trouble. The welt burnt across her face, no doubt leaving a mark. She tasted blood and added that onto the list of grievances to lie at the wolf’s feet when she saw him again.
If. If I see him again.
Suddenly she gained the ravine by falling on her butt and sliding down the slope, but she managed to avoid landing in the water. There were better ways to reach her goal she knew, more graceful maybe, but she’d left her pride somewhere along the way. Who would believe it if they saw her now? Dirty, okay, filthy, bleeding, sore and so afraid she was trembling.
She stood and stared at the waterfall. The sight stirred memories from the past she’d worked hard to suppress, yet still they came crashing down, much like the water pounding into the narrow stream.
Mortals didn’t understand immortality—the so-called gift of long life. Immortality was a double-edged sword she’d not anticipated. The edges cut deep, the memories at times so crystal clear she could still feel them slicing into her.
She’d died here, that first time. Too tired, too full of pain and loathing for herself to carry on. She’d deserted her sister—Circerran—and had gone where no one had been able to touch her. For a time at least.
She dug her fingers into her palms and she fought the bile rising in her throat. No death is without its horrors. Circerran had suffered death and rebirth seven times—each time Sorcha had guided her soul back to her broken body and healed her. Circerran’s gifts did not lie with healing. Sorcha’s recoveries, as a result, were much longer, but her deaths much fewer.
The water called to her, reminding her of her thirst. She limped to the edge of the clear stream and painfully knelt. She sipped a handful and cleaned her neck and face. A slight fever had begun, demanding her attention when she had none to spare. She caught her breath and stared at the sky. Unlike Alex, she had no night vision. The cloudy, moonless night slowed her, and required all her focus.
Alex would make better time, she knew.
So far, she’d not heard the wolf. Would she? The Lykae could travel silently when they chose. Rumour held that their enemies never knew their death was upon them until too late.
No doubt, Alex didn’t make a sound when he hunted, but for some reason, she believed he’d not hide his pursuit from her. Why bother to hide from a witch who could do nothing to stop him? The thought brightened her anger.
Her thirst quenched, she stood. She might not make it to the gate. Between her and t
hat chance at freedom stood some of the most daunting lands in the world. She’d have to clear the low hills in the dark. After that was bogs, then she would face gravelly, rock-spewed highlands where the winds could drop the temperatures to twenty and thirty below zero. Add to that the bonus of fear—not of Alex, he, she understood would be angry and seek vengeance swiftly but needed her alive. But the lack of antidote hung over her like a blade, ready to take her head.
She pulled her sweater off and tossed it aside. The added warmth of fever would replace the heavy wool. Quitting wasn’t an option. She’d only given up on one thing in her entire existence and that one thing—or person—hunted her even now.
One glance back at the waterfall and she drew a breath to begin. This land was her past, her home, but she’d not die on this soil again. Each time, each death could be her last and she’d not experienced life. Not really. She’d survived, but she knew deep inside that she’d merely existed—bereft of the one man that would complete her. Her mate.
She took off at a pace that would have surprised Alex had he seen.
Chapter Eight
Alex found Sorcha after the moon had set behind him. She was still, her body smaller than he recalled. Her face was deathly pale, making the blood seeping from her nose and dotting her lips even more startling.
“Damn it, witch!” He hauled her out of the stream and up against the soft turf along the bank. Why was she in the freezing water? Half of her clothing was soaked, her hair sweat streaked and mussed.
The loud thunder of his breath made it hard to hear a heartbeat, until he pressed his head to her chest for several agonising seconds. Gradually he picked up a slow, steady rhythm. She lived. Barely.
He shook her, but she didn’t respond except to groan and hunch over, gripping her stomach. She’d taken her sweater off. The fact registered dully in his mind along with the awareness his chest suddenly ached as if someone had rammed a knife into his heart.
Suddenly she screamed. Her body stiffened and she arched her back off the ground, thrashing in the throes of something painful.
His heart nearly cracked his ribs. Holy mother of them all.
The antidote. He scrambled back with her, searching for a way to ease her, without the vial of potion. Her cry softened until it turned into a low pain filled keening.
The hurt in her voice did odd things to him. Instincts raged inside his mind—his wolf paced closer than ever to the surface urging him to run, to hold her, to stay, to fight whatever harmed her. With a frustrated growl, he stood with her in his arms and started to run.
Her flesh burnt. He bent his head to touch his cheek to her forehead and felt the instant shock of her unnatural heat. The stream. No wonder she’d been without her sweater and half in the icy water. He jumped over a boulder and landed easily, barely jostling her in his arms. He veered back towards the water, knowing he’d have to leave her, get the antidote, then come back.
He stopped, breathlessly shaking his head. She’d got farther from him than he would have ever believed possible. It would take him hours to reach the pack and get back to her.
Would she live that long?
He set her in the icy water, securing her to the bank by wedging her in-between two rocks. Jesus, she was small. He rose to leave and her eyes opened. She blinked and lifted her hand to him, whispering something in Gaelic. He knelt next to her to hear her better.
“Circerran? It hurts. It hurts.” Her Gaelic was ancient, tinged with the colourful highland accent from his past.
“Shh, lass. Shhh.” He didn’t know who this Circerran was but realised she must be suffering from visions. Or nightmares.
“I can’t. I can’t be quiet any longer. I can’t take it any longer. Go before they catch you as well.”
Ah, shit. A memory perhaps. She dropped her arm and her head fell to the side, motionless.
As he stood to leave, she sobbed again—a broken sound that cut through him like a sharp knife. She thrashed and nearly went under. He reached for her immediately, but she fought him, dunking herself in the water in her fight. As quickly as it began, she stopped only to start again with her murmuring after only a few short seconds.
“I tried. It was too much pain. Too many of them. Too much hatred to fight against. Next time they won’t catch me. I promise, I promise. Please, please don’t go, please. I am strong. I am strong. I am.” She babbled on, the words tumbling from her as she begged for something he already guessed she did not receive.
She stilled then started again, this time sounding dismayed. “She wouldn’t come to me. She simply left, walked away in the snow and left. I was too weak to stop her. The pain, the killings, Tabithia gone, all of it too much. We’re alone now, sister, truly alone. Danu protect us.”
He had no idea what to do. He’d never eased anyone who suffered so much, nor sat with someone who’d been sick. The clan was strong. Sickness did not happen often, and death, well, death was swift and sharp.
“Circerran, I will not call you such,” she snapped in English, sounding more like the Sorcha he knew. He even sighed in relief at the sound. This, he was used to. Seconds later she said, “No, no, you are many things but not trouble, Circerran. Trouble is not even a name.”
Ah, shit. Her sister was Trouble? The hot-tempered witch would kill him when she learnt of this. How had he not known that little fact before taking Sorcha? Would it have stopped him?
He brushed her wet hair off her face and pulled long strands from her mouth. No, it wouldn’t have.
When Sorcha was angry and tried to hide it, her eyes burnt like someone held a candle up to an icy loch—green and cold. He’d also seen her burn bright, not bothering to hide her rage and the heat in her gaze was enough to burn a man. He couldn’t imagine her dead, couldn’t imagine not turning his head and seeing her bright hair and pale, beautiful face with her lush lips, and delicately curved eyebrows.
Blood dripped from her nose. He saw a faint mark on her bottom lip where she’d bitten it. A scratch marred her cheek, a branch he guessed. He brushed the blood from her face with his shirt tail, disturbed by the sight in ways he couldn’t understand.
Nothing could have stopped him from using her, he knew. But would he have used a potion on her if he had known it would hurt her like this?
“How many times must you die? How many times must I watch you come back, broken and burnt?”
Her whispered cry sent a shard of pain through his chest. He’d heard of the troubles witches faced throughout the years—stoning, burning at the stake, drowning, slavery, the famous witch trials—but he’d assumed those were for mortals mistaken for witches. He’d never dreamt that a witch like Sorcha, or her insane sister, Trouble, had suffered such painful pasts.
He shook his head hard and debated what to do. The clouds hung low, colouring everything in the soft greys of dawn.
Around him, the ancient forest stirred with the sounds of night-time creatures but nothing more. He couldn’t leave her here. He had to take her, go back, fetch the pack and bring them here again.
For that, he needed her awake, unharmed and walking.
She’d missed taking her antidote by hours. Soon it would be dawn and he had no idea what would happen then.
Why hadn’t he asked these things?
Because all his thoughts had been focused on revenge, not the well-being of a witch.
Another cry broke past her lips, but this time her murmurings were too low to understand.
He would take her with him. She would burn from her fever and suffer more, but he could lessen the time it took to feed her the antidote if he took her with him.
A second later, he gently settled her in his arms. She tossed her head and her wet hair stuck to her pale throat like a slice of blood. He pulled the crimson strands off her neck and face, disturbed by the image. Blood still trickled down her cheek from her nose, but she didn’t scream again. Alarmed by her silence he stood with her in his arms and took off at a ground-eating pace, his focus only broken by
regrets.
He shouldn’t have said such a vulgar thing to her. What had he been thinking, threatening her in such a way? He’d not been thinking. Her teasing, endless chatter and innocently asked insults had both intrigued him and sucker punched him. Thoughts of her using that pink soft mouth to tease him in other ways had set his temper off. She would never bestow such a caress upon him. He’d kidnapped her. Hurt her. Insulted her and ordered her about like a youngling. She thought him cold.
But he didn’t feel cold with her. He felt on fire.
Did his people see him as a man that couldn’t enjoy life? A cold, heartless bastard that was good for nothing more than slaying their enemies?
He knew the answers before he’d even thought the questions. Yes.
He’d watched his father and brother slaughtered. The blow had struck down everything in him but the need to grow into the strongest warrior he could so that when the chance came, he could gain his vengeance.
The mountainside he needed came into view. He’d made good time, but she’d started to shudder in his arms.
What the hell did that mean?
He felt crushed under all the doubts. He shrugged them aside, crossed a stream and raced up the grassy slope. He was lucky it was grassy and not a rocky terrain. She could have done much more harm to him. Did she care? When she’d shoved him off the cliff, had she cared? Is that why she’d come to him first, then left him with his wounds cleaned? For some reason he pictured her surprised expression when he’d fallen, the utter shock she’d shown brought a smile to his face. No, she’d not known she’d be able to shove him off the cliff, but she had.
She started to struggle in his arms, fighting some vision from the past he guessed. He didn’t like the sound of her pain.
“No! Why not me? What is wrong with me? Why can’t he see me and want me, see me and care.”
