by Petra Landon
Almost euphoric, Tasia jumped up from the rock, wanting to savor the water one last time before this interlude came to its inevitable end. She turned to the inscrutable man beside her, her eyes shining.
“Whatever floats your boat. I’m just glad you won’t waste your magic” she directed at the Alpha.
His hand snaked out to clasp her wrist, holding her back before she could run to the water. “It’s what floats yours that interests me, witchling” he said huskily.
And just like that, the air charged up between them, seething with unspoken declarations, unfulfilled wishes and raging desires. It had always been so between them. A touch, a word or a look enough to ignite the air and kindle passions, allowing their considerable differences to recede into the background. The gold eyes held her captive, the fire in their depths stoking a similar flame in her. For once, Tasia did not want to deny him. Or herself. Not here and not today.
The noise from a motorcycle, on the curving road above them, shattered the cocoon of intimacy that held them in thrall. His gaze flickered towards the road. And Tasia’s eyes followed his. Up on the headland, lights twinkled in the cluster of cottages by their car. The taverna was waking up to serve dinner, as the sun set over the Ionian Sea. An impulse, so strong she found it difficult to shake off, seized Tasia.
“Are you hungry?” she asked him, before she could lose her nerve.
His reaction was everything Tasia could have asked for. The palm, that clasped her wrist, whipped away and he went utterly still, heavy eyelids descending over the gold eyes to screen their depths. Such a response from the ferociously controlled Alpha was gratifying. But as the seconds ticked by in silence, the first doubts assailed her. Tasia shoved them away determinedly.
He stood up to face her, the impassive gold eyes meeting her gaze. They stared at each other, silhouetted by the setting sun and soothed by the lullaby of lapping waves.
“I’m always hungry” he said.
Tasia took a deep breath. “The taverna is serving dinner.”
A tawny eyebrow arched up fluidly. “And?” he prompted.
“I’ve enjoyed every meal on the island. The Greeks have amazing food” she expounded, the words tripping over each other.
Stop babbling, Tasia admonished herself sternly with the next breath.
He sighed theatrically. “Spit it out, witchling. If you want me to have dinner with you, you’ll have to ask me.”
Tasia stared at him in amazement and he added provocatively. “I’m not a mind reader.”
She blinked at the blunt words. “Why?”
“That’s how it’s done, witchling” he explained kindly. “If you remember, I asked you to dinner once and you treated it like I was inviting you to start a world war.”
Stunned by this glimpse of the Alpha’s frivolous side, Tasia closed her mouth with a snap.
“If I wasn’t secure in my masculinity, something like that would be tough to recover from” he enlightened her, the gold eyes glinting. “Fortunately, you’re in luck. I told myself that you were simply having a bad day. But now, to be absolutely sure you’re not having another one, I require an invitation from you.”
This was too much. Tasia narrowed her eyes at the impossible man. “Why are you being difficult?” she demanded.
“Difficult?” he repeated incredulously. “Christ, woman, when have you ever made anything easy for me.”
“No.” Raoul shook his head decisively, as Tasia’s eyes widened. “You’ll have to ask me, witchling.”
An exasperated Tasia shot at him. “Would you like to have dinner at the taverna?”
Amusement and a hint of laughter danced across the handsome face, transforming him from the cold, unapproachable Shifter to something far more attractive.
“Dinner at the taverna with me” he prodded encouragingly, stringing out each word in an exaggerated manner.
Tasia made an effort to not gnash her teeth. She told herself that he deserved this small revenge.
“Now, now, witchling, you can’t take back an invitation you haven’t extended yet” he admonished her, openly enjoying the inner battle depicted on her expressive face.
“Would you like to have dinner at the taverna with me?” Tasia spelled each word out separately.
“Yes, I would” he consented readily. “Greek food’s a favorite of mine.”
At his easy acceptance of the invitation, she went tongue-tied.
It was the Alpha who gestured at the water. “Now or after you’ve indulged yourself?”
Tasia wrenched her eyes away from the glinting gold orbs. “A last dip in the water” she stammered, more to buy herself some time than anything else.
“Take your time.”
Tasia strolled away from him and into the water in her bare feet. The sea was colder than before, almost freezing as the last of the warmth, absorbed over the course of the day, evaporated. But she stayed by it, using the water as an excuse to regain her composure. If she intended to joust with him, she’d better come prepared, Tasia reminded herself. In some ways, he would not give her an inch. In others, he was willing to gift her the moon and then some. It was confusing, she admitted. But also exhilarating and intoxicating.
When Tasia returned to the beach to dry her feet and put on her shoes, she was composed. They set off for the gravel path that led up towards the road. Like most Mediterranean countries, the Greeks ate late. Thus, the taverna was just starting to stir for the evening when they seated themselves at a table with a view of the water. The food was simple and hearty, like most of the fare she’d sampled in Corfu. She had gemista — tomato and green pepper stuffed with a mix of rice and herbs, while the Alpha enjoyed kleftiko — lamb roasted in parchment paper until it fell off the bone. Conversation flowed surprisingly easily over dinner. He told her about Andreas Lykaios and the legend associated with his unusual family name, and she talked about the sightseeing trip to the mountain and the north shore.
At first, she was uncertain which Shifter would come to dinner — the inscrutable and controlled Alpha or the man who’d teased her unmercifully at the beach. Still reeling from his reaction to her spur-of-the-moment invitation, Tasia was relieved that he was back to his usual self. The Alpha she was learning to handle. The other man from the beach aroused immense confusion and awakened feelings she had not yet come to grips with. But her relief was to be short-lived. Towards the end of the dinner, as Tasia enthusiastically demolished a bowl of Greek yoghurt drizzled with honey and walnuts, he rattled her again.
“I want to get something straight” he stated. “You’ll run from me if I ask you to dinner, yet you reserve the right to issue invitations?”
The spoon froze on its way to Tasia’s mouth and everything receded into the background: the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the locals striding into the taverna, the breeze wafting in from the sea and the whisper of the water below. I’m not ready, she wanted to tell him.
You have no idea what is at stake, and I can’t tell you what giving in to my heart might cost me. Or you.
But some things Tasia could not run from — she owed him an honest answer.
Before she could formulate a response, he surprised her again. “It’s an observation, witchling. Not a criticism or an objection.”
The assurance made it easier to hint at what troubled her. “You know what happened when my parents fled the Vampires” she said softly.
“They meant to fake their own deaths but something went wrong; and eventually, your mother succumbed to her injuries after you were born” he affirmed, keeping his remarks brief and concise.
Tasia girded herself. “What no one knows is why they chose to run. My mother was pregnant.”
He stiffened, as her words washed over him. Leeches were incapable of propagating like that. They were called the Undead for a reason. However, like the Wyrs, they could sense burgeoning life with their hyperaware faculties. He understood why her parents had faced an impossible choice. Yet, Raoul wondered how a Blood Mage
, with unparalleled power, could create life, especially in captivity. If the witchling was any indication, her mother had been a formidable Magick. Chosen history was strewn with clues that suggested the more magic you had in your veins, the less likely you were to procreate.
She read his question. “The Blutsaugers feared her powers and what she could unleash upon them. Also, they knew that she was desperate, with nothing left to lose. So, they sapped her magic while she was in their custody. And to protect his Vampires, the Master assigned a Guardian as her jailer.”
Much of what had puzzled him before about the situation was suddenly clear. Yet, the most important question still persisted for Raoul. Why would the leeches hold a captive with the power to devastate them? But he didn’t ask since he’d promised the witchling that he would not press for her secrets. Instead, Raoul quizzed her about another anomaly.
“How did the leeches sap her magic?” he questioned. The Clan had little magic of their own and draining a Chosen required serious and unusual powers.
“The Nest had a Mage in their employ.”
“A Bleeder!” He used the colloquial term. Raoul was flabbergasted. Ancients with power akin to the Stone of Mortality were rare.
“Not quite a Siphon Mage but someone with similar abilities” Tasia submitted hesitantly. Some of her mother’s ancestors were rumored to have uncommon command over their magic. But Tasia did not disclose this. The only knowledge she had about the ancestors had come from her Wizard father. Her mother’s incarceration and his stint with the Lombardis were topics her father had not been keen to discuss. And she’d never pushed him, confident that he would not hide anything crucial about the Magicks she must spend her life hiding from.
Raoul recognized that the Ancient in Monseigneur’s employ had been powerful, for a Blood Mage had been stripped to nearly Si’ffa status. Then, something else in her remark struck him.
“Monseigneur had non-leech allies even then” he murmured.
His comment had Tasia recollect long forgotten memories. “The Nest was on good terms with many First Ones” she confirmed. “My father said that was what convinced him to work with the Vampires.”
A Guardian turning his back on the GCW would never ally with the Clan without good reason, Raoul mused. This had always puzzled him about Azevedo. He’d asked the witchling before about her father’s proclivity for leeches and she had answered all his pointed queries. Now, it struck Raoul that he had not asked the right questions about the Guardian.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Thanks to the long captivity, my mother had very little magic reserve” she said gravely. “When things went south, she could not heal herself. My father tried to save her but he expended too much magic to do so and had little left for himself.”
Raoul’s brows drew together. Things had been very dire indeed if a Guardian spent too much magic to be left with nothing to heal himself. Most Chosen with the touch of healing exerted only a minuscule part of their power when mending another Magick. He said nothing, allowing her to tell the story at her own pace.
Tasia sighed. “In the end, he was only able to save her until I was born. Always conscious of living on borrowed time, he became even more so after my mother was gone. He threw himself into training me and imparting all the tools, techniques and knowledge I might need to protect myself from the Chosen when he was no longer by my side. But of everything he taught me, top of his list were the rules of engagement with other Magicks. I was to follow them diligently.”
Raoul understood what she was getting at. “You broke a tenet when you helped Hawk escape the rogue Shifters” he cited.
“That was only the first one. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve broken in the months since” Tasia admitted. “When I worked magic at a Blutsauger Nest; when I accepted your offer to be Pack; when I used my power in the presence of Guardians at The Vault … the list goes on.”
“I don’t regret any of it” she assured him hastily, as he frowned. “But now, I must consider breaking the one commandment he insisted I hold true to, no matter what. You told me once that I was like Pandora’s Box. You were right. What you know about my past, heritage and magic will pale in comparison to the potential consequences of breaking the precept my father alluded to as opening the Box.”
Tasia fell silent, her father’s warning echoing in her head.
“Opening Pandora’s Box will rip apart the fragile peace that binds the Ancients. It is not your burden to protect that which holds the Chosen. However, the discovery will also unite the Clan. They will come after you and you will have nowhere to run, because the Blood Elementals will surrender you without a second thought. Promise me, Ana, that you will never allow a Magick to wield the power of life and death over you, no matter how unlikely a threat he be.”
Raoul contemplated her. “No one has ever equated a date with me to opening Pandora’s Box” he pronounced blandly. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted.”
Tasia’s eyes fell away from the penetrating gaze. She could not give him any more on this subject.
He sighed silently. Tell me, he wanted to urge her. Trust me. But Raoul was starting to get an inkling of why she hesitated. As with everything about her, it boiled down to the past; entanglements and mistakes made before she was born. But if she was struggling with a pledge made to a dying father, she must come to terms with it at her own pace. Also, if what he suspected about the Blood Elementals was true, it would be a tough decision for her to break with the past. Such a betrayal would be hard to recover from. At the same time, he recognized that another threshold had been crossed today; one more barrier between them torn down. Unlike before, this one had been initiated by her. Baby steps, he told himself. They were circling each other, baring vulnerabilities and nurturing trust before the dance could be brought to its climax. They had come a long way from their tempestuous association. Once he’d made his peace with it, he had worked hard to erase her early impression of him. The only thing holding the witchling back now was the past. As someone who had gazed into the darkness before being pulled back from its edge, Raoul understood only too well that the past must be wrestled with on one’s own terms, or else, it would destroy any chance of a future.
“Take all the time you need, witchling” he declared. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then, as Tasia continued to eat her yoghurt in silence, he could not help teasing her.
“I shall add this to my growing list of unique witchling novelties, like being compared to a pet cat.”
Reminded thus, her eyes flashed up to meet his. Tasia’s lips quivered before a smile broke through.
“You were not completely off about your Tiger” he remarked. “There are similarities.”
Tasia’s eyes flared. It was his turn to smile as a multitude of expressions flitted across her expressive face.
When they returned to the hotel, most of the team was in the common area. Tasia observed that Elisabetta, Simeonov, Maartje and Atsá were missing from the discussion.
Hawk’s face lit up as she walked in. “Tas, where were you? Sienna and I have been looking for you.”
The Pack and its Lair were a hotbed of gossip. Always supremely conscious of it, Tasia stared at Hawk, lost for words at being called to the mat.
“She was with me” the Alpha stated, taking the chair by Duncan.
The others took the announcement in stride, but Sienna looked anxious, almost haunted. Nandini noted her sister’s puzzling reaction. Tasia was the closest thing to Pack a non-Shifter could aspire to be, so why was Sienna distressed by the Wizard’s tête-à-tête with the Alpha who led it, she wondered bemusedly.
Duncan chimed in smoothly. “You were about to make an observation from your father’s notes, Sienna?”
Diverted thus, Sienna gathered her thoughts together to make her argument. “I remember how Faoladh explained the nitty gritty of visions and their interpretation by Seers” she said, careful to allow no whiff of her familia
rity with the subject matter to escape her. “He called it an art. A Seer sees glimpses over the years and must piece it all together to make a prophecy. Usually, it takes a while to connect the dots into a coherent narrative. The Seer might not know the people or events that appear in his flashes of the future, which makes the job of tying the visions into an official prediction even harder.”
“Foretelling the future accurately has always been singularly tough” Jason attested. “Which is why so few Seers are successful at it.”
“Da made his last prophecy the night of the election for First Wizard” Sienna reminded them. “He was already married to her. She’s not a stranger to him. If she’s the custodian — the heart of his prophecy — why hide it? He has no reason to depict his wife so vaguely in his interpretation.”
Sienna glanced around the room to declare triumphantly. “She’s not the rainmaker. She cannot be.”
Roman was the first to counter her argument. “He’s also veiled about your role in The Prophecy, Sienna” he pointed out gently. “His motives might not be as cut and dried when it comes to his loved ones.”
“I’m not sure I concur with that, Roman” Duncan contended. “Life in the public glare for anyone with the shadow of a prophecy, especially one made by the Oracle, hanging over her would be akin to living in a fishbowl. His wife was already an influential Guardian but Sienna was but a child when her Da made the prophecy. The evasiveness regarding his daughter was probably intended to protect her.”
“I could see him splitting hairs that way” Roman conceded, upon reflection.
“I’m all in with Sienna’s argument” Jason interjected. He found the bits about the custodian the most alarming from all of the Seer’s hints. Lady Bethesda as the heart of The Prophecy was the stuff of nightmares for him. “It suggests a rainmaker the Oracle is unfamiliar with. By the same token, it’s not Lady Esmeralda either. The First Wizard is his sister-in-law — he’d hardly fail to recognize her in his visions.”
