by Anya Breton
He’d commissioned the work so they’d have something to remember him by. Rather than smile as Sara had begged, Fintan had insisted upon being painted as a formidable man. He’d never made her see him as he was—as the powerful high priest who had earned his place over the Ohio River Valley. He’d tried to shield his princess from violence.
The violence had hurt her nonetheless.
Brent settled silently beside her in the wooden chair her father would have held had this been any other coven member’s funeral. His rigid frame gave her a measure of comfort she ought not feel. He was only doing his duty by his dead mentor. Whatever she’d thought he’d wanted from her had been disproven when he’d run from her bed this morning.
The white-haired Cleric who presided over the area funerals appeared beneath his black umbrella. He took his spot behind the portable pulpit. With an irritatingly slow pace, the man spread out papers he didn’t need. His deep brown eyes lifted, meeting Sara’s tear-filled gaze. She responded to the respectful bow of his head with one of her own.
“Life is a curious journey,” he began the service every Fire witch beneath the canopy had heard countless times in their lives. The Cleric mixed it up here and there but the message was always essentially the same.
Witches lived. Witches died. Witches were reborn. Perhaps they’d loved. They’d certainly lost. Along the way they hopefully learned something.
Sara wanted to hurl her tiara box at the Cleric’s head. Everyone beneath the canvas canopy blithely accepted this was the way of things. No one questioned why it was perfectly reasonable for a redneck with a lucky shot to take over his learned neighbor’s tiny kingdom. Each of these Fire witches believed the powerful were entitled to what they could grab. Each except Sara.
It was barbaric! She didn’t want to live like this any longer. Sara certainly didn’t want to breed—to bring another child like her into this world of endless violence.
Brent stirred beside her. She kept her attention on the oil painting.
“Priest Conley,” the Cleric called out. “Would you care to speak a few words?”
Her companion lifted himself to his feet in a smooth motion. He soon crossed the carpeted space to the pulpit with sure steps. The Cleric took the vacated place beside Sara. His wrinkled lips offered quiet words of regret while reminding her that her father was even now being reborn into something greater. Sara didn’t know how it was possible.
“Fintan McKenna was a great man,” Brent announced in a loud volume without the need of a microphone. “None of us gathered here need to be reminded of what we’ve lost but we owe it to our high priest’s memory to speak the words regardless.”
He lifted his dark head a few inches. “Priest McKenna was no ordinary high priest. He believed in exhausting all avenues of diplomacy before resorting to violence. He was unique among his peers in that he only ordered aggression when he believed it was absolutely necessary. And unlike his contemporaries, concepts like greed and envy were alien to Fintan. He believed in hard work—in earning a place in life. Yet Fintan gave of himself in everything. His wealth was the coven’s. His time was his people’s. His success was the success of all.”
Brent paused for a silent moment that carried with it a weight of meaning Sara couldn’t quite grasp. When he began again, it was in a firmer voice. “Conversely the coven’s sorrow was his as well. Nothing was too insignificant for Fintan’s personal attention. He never made anyone feel as if they were a burden. Rather, he cherished every soul placed into his care. He made it his mission to push each of us to the pinnacle of our potential. For Fintan believed a coven whose every member, from the weakest to the strong, performing at the peak of their ability, was more powerful than a coven headed by several strong entities carrying the weak.”
Green eyes glittered as they scanned over the silent gathering. “It was a crime so honorable a man was struck down in his prime.” He shook his head in a jerking gesture then abruptly marched away from the pulpit.
Confused whispers broke through the gathering as the Cleric scrambled to his feet and took up his place. The white haired man sent Sara a meaningful look. She gave him a small shake of her head.
No, she could not speak of her daddy’s memory. Not without lambasting the very institution in which he’d lived and died. It wouldn’t be respectful to rant and rave. She’d merely quietly mourn him.
Several others had no such qualms. They eagerly took the pulpit, droning on about how lucky they’d been to know Fintan and how sorry they were he was gone but that it was the way of things. Clearly it had been his time, one said.
A cool hand covered hers as her temper rose. Sara sent a startled glance at the owner of the limb. Brent stared at her with empathy shimmering in his eyes. She squeezed his palm with her chilled fingers in return. His words at the pulpit had proved he’d loved Fintan nearly as much as she had.
The whispers lifted when the Cleric once again silently appealed to her. Again she shook her head. Derisive jibes about the princess echoed beneath the canopy from all sides. Sara straightened angrily. Couldn’t they for once concentrate on respecting a person’s memory rather than gossip?
Finally the Cleric closed the service with a prayer to the Phoenix. The gathering made their way to the host’s home, giving the immediate family a few moments to mourn in peace.
Sara sat rigidly until the canopy was empty of all but her and Brent. “Do you need a few minutes with him?”
“I’ll be waiting at the car,” he answered before setting her hand atop her lap.
His footsteps faded on the carpet. Sara stared at the oil painting. The pattering of the rain on the stiff canvas above was the only sound she heard.
“Oh, Daddy,” she moaned, bursting into fresh tears. “Why couldn’t you have become a Cleric?”
Sara allowed herself to cry now, resolving to be brave hereafter. With shaking shoulders, she made herself stand. The walk to the ghastly sodden hole cut in the earth took forever.
Her fingers trembled as she took hold of the wooden urn from its temporary pedestal. Sara’s entire body quaked when she lowered herself to a kneeling pose and set the urn in its new home.
The wood would degrade over time then perhaps the ashes would be reborn exactly like her society’s revered Phoenix.
She set her precious cherry tiara box inside the pit beside the urn. Slowly Sara covered both with a handful of earth.
She stared at the remnants of everything she’d held dear. Her tears slid freely down her cheeks as she left them both behind.
For if there was no king, there could be no princess.
Chapter Eight
If Sara had to nod in respect to one more witch, she’d scream. She’d ducked up the stairs into her room after a mere forty-five minutes of listening to the endless words of sympathy and watching countless witches fawn over Brent when they’d thought she wasn’t looking. And when she had been looking, their smiles had been false. Their eyes had held the truth of their sentiments.
Everyone pitied her. Especially her friends.
Fintan’s princess had been left alone in her little kingdom with no way to protect herself. Inevitably their gazes strayed to Brent while they spoke to her. Pity then turned into something worse. Be it envy or lust, no one looked at Brent as they did her. And everyone expected Fintan’s protégé to protect her.
Never before had Sara felt like an utter failure. As a Fire witch, Sara may well have been the weakest element in Fintan’s coven. He’d never made her practice her casting when she’d cry that she hated it. Her father had allowed her to explore the non-aggressive avenues of their abilities without pressing her. Had he pushed everyone to their ultimate potential except her?
Seated at the edge of her blush pink bed within the room she’d adored as a child, she hissed at herself for thinking ill of her daddy. He’d known it upset her to think of anything in pain. And he’d respected her decision to live a peaceful life as much as she could. He’d said she would be safe if she never
attempted to become a priestess. But he’d never counted on this happening.
Was the only way to win to fight Fire with Fire? It was cliché, yes, but no one among her race would listen to a pacifist. They would have no choice but to consider her counsel if she became as powerful as them.
Sara shot to her feet before she could reconsider her decision.
****
She was barefoot with swollen but determined eyes as she pounded down the stairs in her black finery. She cut through the gathered crowd of mourners with her attention fixed solely on Brent. Exhilaration zinged through him from the tips of his ears right on down to his toes even though he had no idea why she’d come.
But he could certainly fantasize. Heated visions of her grabbing his neck, of her tugging him down the inches to her lips, warmed his skin to a feverish sheen.
Brent would be lost if she kissed him. A thousand witches could literally set him on Fire but it would be nothing compared to what Sara could enflame with a mere touch.
He knew it even if she’d never done it.
Sara halted in front of him, tossing aside the strands of honey hair that had fallen from her bun in her grief. “I want you to teach me.”
His jaw went slack. Oh the things he’d like to teach Sara. None of which were fit for the prying ears of the entire local coven and half of the regional ones. Brent recovered himself enough to take her fingers lightly in his and guide her to her father’s office. He closed the door then faced her.
“I’m tired of being looked at like a weakling,” she declared before he’d opened his mouth. “You all call me princess when you don’t think I’m listening. It’s not a pretty title. It’s meant as an insult.” Sara lifted her chin regally as if she were royalty. “I know what everyone thinks of me.”
“You shouldn’t care what everyone thinks of you,” Brent heard himself saying even though he’d always cared what was thought of him. Especially what she thought of him.
Sara gave him an impatient look before tracking across the room filled with matching mahogany furniture. She settled on the edge of Fintan’s desk as she always did. Seeing her there—in the spot Fintan had indulgently allowed her when no other could so much as lean on the sturdy piece—brought a dull ache to his chest. He missed her father dearly.
“That’s not why I want you to teach me,” she insisted, gazing intently on his face as her long fingers trailed absently over a polished stone paperweight. “I’m the weakest witch in the region.”
“You’re not the weakest witch,” he argued without bothering to consider his words.
Again she gave him her impatient look. “I am.”
He wasn’t about to let her get away with that answer. Not after what he’d experienced with her on the road. “Last night you syphoned more energy, faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. You’re not the weakest.”
Sara lifted her chin higher. “I’m the weakest because I’ve obstinately avoided training. I don’t want to avoid training anymore. And you’re going to teach me.”
He was?
“I…I can’t teach you, Sara. I’ve never taught anyone anything. I’m just…”
She finished his stammered statement without blinking. “The high priest over the Ohio Valley Region. You better learn how to teach because witches are looking to you now. Who better to practice with than me?”
“You?” he repeated with far more horror than he’d meant.
Sara’s eyes and nostrils flared wide. “As loathsome as it will no doubt be for you, yes, me.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “Sara,” he stepped forward but halted when she pulled her head away from him. “You’re not loathsome. We just… We fight like cats and dogs.”
“I’ll try to be good,” she replied with a stilted delivery that said more than her words had.
Brent couldn’t help but laugh. “I won’t make that promise.”
Her forehead momentarily wrinkled. “Then I shouldn’t have to either.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“But I don’t understand. You won’t teach me because we fight…”
She looked adorable then with her blue eyes crinkled in confusion and the soured twist of her mouth. He wanted to cross the room and touch her cheek, to feel the satin of her skin beneath the rough pads of his fingertips.
Heat flared within him when the memory of all he’d seen that morning flashed in his mind’s eye. She was perfect. Even in grief, she’d been the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. Perhaps it was good she’d recoiled from him moments ago.
Without thinking, Brent declared, “I’ll agree to teach you on one condition.”
Sara’s gaze squinted as she drew in an irritated breath. Her shoulders pressed back, stiff and yet more dignified. “Yes?”
“You don’t move to New York.”
Her mouth parted wide enough for a finger, or a tongue to slip between. Brent forced his thoughts to stay on topic. Clearly she was surprised he knew what she’d planned to do post graduation.
“Yet,” she tried on for size.
Though he hadn’t put much thought into his demand, he now understood he’d spied a chink in her armor. She may have once dreamed of making it big in New York but he had a feeling that dream wasn’t as important as her current quest to become a better Fire witch. And if her precious dream could be delayed…perhaps it wasn’t truly precious after all.
And so he drew in all of the courage and confidence at his disposal. “No. You don’t go at all. You stay here.”
“My dream is in New York,” she exclaimed, gaze going narrow with each word she spoke. “Everything I’ve worked for these past five years is there. I have to go.”
Brent had nothing to lose, not when her squinting features implied she was already fully pissed off. He crossed the room until he stood inches from her. Brent drew in a breath of her warm amber and crisp pine scent even as she positioned herself a little farther from him. Perhaps those little movements away were anything but distaste for him.
His voice was barely above a whisper. “Is it what you still want or simply what you think you ought to?”
Sara opened her mouth—too fast to have given his question thought. He snatched up her hand, gently squeezing her palm in his. Her gaze shot to where their skin met. A startled breath emitted from between her pretty lips.
“I want to become a news anchor,” was her slow, stubborn reply. “There’s nothing for me here.”
“Nothing?” he echoed with a challenge to his tone.
Brent’s control slipped when her cool blue gaze dropped to his lips. His free hand cupped her cheek seemingly with a mind of its own. Before either of them could reconsider, he smashed his mouth over hers. Another startled noise escaped her throat. Her lips parted in surprise, opening a whole new world to him.
He dropped her hand, freeing his own so he could grab her by the other cheek. With her held securely in place, Brent pushed his tongue into the sweet opening she’d created. She was delicious heat, like licking a honeyed flame, and she had yet to get involved in the kiss. He might burn up if she did. Already he was rigid with need, straining at his slacks.
Though he’d forced this on her, he carefully checked for signs of distress. She hadn’t pushed at him. She’d not tried to pull away. She hadn’t made any noise apart from the initial gasp. But she also hadn’t joined in.
At last, her weight slackened in his grip. Brent shifted his left hand to her back, holding her steady. The delicate slides of his tongue turned to needy swirls now that she was warming to him. A moan vibrated her neck—a sound that sent a flare of heat through his blood. This was more than warming up.
The flare reached his brain. One blazing fact pierced his consciousness. Her father’s funeral had been not an hour earlier. He was behaving like a cad!
Reluctantly he extracted his tongue from her mouth. Without releasing her, he drew back so they could both breathe again. Her sooty lashes blinked heavily in time with her chest’s broad up and d
own motions—motions that stretched the limit of her fine satin dress.
Brent panted with need but he had to speak the words he should have said last night and he had to do it before she made another deluded declaration.
He made certain she could see the earnest expression on his face, and then he softly said, “I won’t make you miserable.”
****
Sara could hardly breathe let alone think but she’d heard that loud and clear. Her mouth began running with little help from her brain and neither was particularly coherent after that mind-scrambling kiss of his.
“What…? Is that why you…?”
She shoved at his chest minutes too late. He dutifully gave her room. With the opening now available to her, Sara charged away from him.
“I can’t believe you turned my finally wanting to train into an opportunity to push my duty on me,” Sara exclaimed from the security of the bookcase half a room away from him.
He opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out.
Because the jerk had no argument. He was trying to use her request as leverage.
He wanted her to stay? Here? In Indiana? It was where news anchors went to die!
But was that really her dream? Or like he’d asked, was it what she’d felt she ought to reach for?
Furious that he’d made her question everything she’d worked for, Sara stomped the three feet to the office door. And then she left Brenton Conley to stare mutely after.
Chapter Nine
Sara lifted her head from the Sunday newspaper atop the granite kitchen island. Brent stepped into the kitchen, shirtless, and rubbing his hand across black hair that stood on end. He had tan lines from short sleeves on his powerful biceps but it was the trail of dark hair weaving a narrow path through the valleys of his toned chest that caught and held her attention longest.
Brent’s mouth was open wide in a powerful yawn. A half second later it abruptly shut. “By the Phoenix, what are you doing up already?” he exclaimed even as he reached down and discreetly checked that the flap in his blue plaid boxer shorts was closed.
