Fact: His mother was as possessive as she was treacherous.
Distract her.
“In case you missed the news while down below, Merryn Pendravan is happily married. I do have plans for her that might sully that happiness but those do not concern you.”
She raised an inquiring eyebrow as she silently weighed his words, judged his intention and calculated her options. Then her gaze swerved toward the house where the alluring Miss Grace Elizabeth Adair was likely packing her bags to travel in his company. His heart sped like a crazy fool at that delightful thought.
Be calm. He must not raise suspicions that his romantic interest was once again engaged or Miss Adair would not survive to reach London.
His mother’s dark gaze, so like his own, returned to study him. She raised her arms and snapped her fingers. The hounds vanished, and Dewer could not help a sigh of regret whispering past his lips. Then shadows coalesced again, this time into three voluptuous women clothed with far less material than the properly covered Miss Adair. All of them, however, sported her ebony hair and bewitching gray-green eyes.
“If I had known dim-witted blondes with blue eyes no longer interested you, Devil, I would have peppered my court with these beauties to draw you home. Time you returned. Trouble stirs that I wish you to handle.”
What trouble? Never mind, there was always trouble in his mother’s kingdom, and in all the other levels of Hell. “I am never returning to the underworld.”
The three green-eyed fae temptresses had reached him and began to drape themselves over his back, shoulders and chest with sensual abandon.
Dewer disentangled himself from the lustful nymphs and stepped out of their range. He had learned at a young age that he could ill afford to sup at his mother’s table. “Give over, Mother. This trick no longer works on me.”
“Be gone!” His mother snapped the order and the dark fae vanished in a puff of acrid smoke. “You are a hard child to please, Devil.”
“I never needed pleasing.” He cleared his irritated throat but the burn of that dark magic lingered. He was no longer a child to be placated.
“You balk at my every affectionate gesture.”
“I would balk less if you stopped killing those I love.”
“Then stop loving unworthy witches.”
He expelled his mounting frustration in a grunt. Winning an argument with his mother was akin to persuading a boulder to turn over. Then again, he was now famous for moving mountains. “If you are concerned that I am drawn to Miss Adair, then you are mistaken.”
A twig snapped nearby and Dewer’s pulse shot up faster than his mother’s flames. Had Harridan caught him loitering in her garden? Would she blame him for her roses being torched? A quick check showed no one among the surrounding shoulder-high shrubbery.
“We are alone, none can approach without my knowledge.” His mother’s narrow-eyed survey of the terrain at his back did not match that confident statement.
Would she tell him if someone was there? Just like her to set him up for a fall in front of the witches in that house, baiting him to say the wrong thing or stir another fae-Wyhcan war in Callington. Lying was second nature to his mother.
He double checked his findings. Where his eyes failed to spot an intruder, Dewer sent his senses roaming. There! Crouched behind a wide hedge, he spotted Bartos, Farfur and a white cat. His pulse pounded as realization sank in about that cat’s identity. Miss Adair was the only one with such control over his two hounds. Farfur and Bartos would have torn any other feline to pieces, never mind hover near so protectively. Especially Bartos, who had positioned himself slightly in front, as if to shield the cat from attack.
Also, his earlier conversation had suggested that Dotty’s animal form was most likely a chicken while Harridan would never deign to hide. She would have long since charged at him like an enraged harpy.
He took care to hide his terror at Miss Adair’s presence – in her vulnerable feline form no less – so close to his lethal mother. Too late for distractions. Time for a frontal assault.
Trouble was, once he executed the plan he’d hastily formulated, Miss Adair would never speak to him again. A part of Dewer that had come alive after the young lady entered her drawing room, shriveled and died, leaving a familiar ache in his chest. He shrugged off that useless sense of sorrow.
Fact: Life was unfair.
“You were right, Mother. Witches are more trouble than they are worth. I have sworn off them.”
His mother’s canny gaze met his. “Indeed?” The word dripped skepticism.
“Even if I had not, the bold Miss Adair would be the last witch, nay, the last woman on this blighted earth who would ever tempt me.”
Queen Eolonde rested an elbow on crossed knee and chin on fist. “Do spill, Devil. What brought on this bit of wisdom?”
He strode closer so she would not mistake his meaning, but spoke loud enough for their foolish eavesdropper to hear every cruel word. “She is disagreeably brazen. She stole my hounds while I was confused and beaten down by Merryn’s rebuff. She is self-centered enough to discount her mother’s wishes to amuse herself by seducing me. Obviously, she is uncaring of others’ needs, else she would have immediately flown to her papa’s assistance instead of insisting on a leisurely ride in my carriage.”
“How delightful,” his mother said. “I begin to like her.”
“You would,” Dewer said, heart hammering with anxiety and deep regret at what he must say next, “since her character is a mirror of yours. Ensuring I would never consider her a suitable mate.”
“Oh!” His mother who had been relishing his every contemptuous insult, now blazed with reproach. “You rude child.”
Black smoke flared, engulfing him in its scorching embrace. He coughed and swept his arms to clear the air. Once the smoke dissipated, muted light trickled from the cloud cover to highlight the charred remains of every single rose bush.
He sent his senses scurrying into every nook of the surrounding gardens to ensure his mother had indeed left. She had. Relief coursed through him in a cool wave. Only then did he focus his inner sight on his other victim. Miss Adair, still in feline form, was racing toward her home, Bartos loping beside her. Farfur was still nearby, watching Dewer.
A harsh “meow” from the distance and Farfur’s ears perked, pointing backwards. Only then did he respond to his mistress’s command to heel.
Interesting. So, Farfur was not under her full command.
A rustling nearby drew his attention. A hare hopped into the circle of charred plants and sitting back on its large hind legs, observed the lumps of ashes in silent wonder. Then spotting Dewer, it turned to speed away.
Dewer pointed his finger and stopped the animal in mid-motion. Traveling inside his carriage with now two witches who despised him soured the idea of accompanying the Adairs to London even more. With a nod, he made up his mind. He would ride instead.
A swirl of his hand and the brown hare with its long floppy ears, large feet and short tail grew taller and transformed into a stallion that dropped onto all four hooves. It twitched its new smaller pointed ears and flicked a thick flowing tail. After a moment of contemplation, Dewer twirled his forefinger to change the stallion’s color to black, his favorite shade. “Much better.”
A snap of fingers and the horse was saddled. At his nod, his mount tromped toward him over the ashy ground, but its eyes remained terrified.
Dewer gently stroked its forehead and added a soothing mind spell to calm its nerves. “You are a horse now,” he murmured, to dissipate the animal’s confusion by sharing information. “I will ride you and we will travel to London, which is far from here. You will be safe under my care. Do you understand?”
The horse shook its head. A definite no.
“Well, become accustomed to the concept. Consider it a new fact of your life. As will be your name. Ifan.”
Naming his new horse broke one of his mother’s rules. She insisted that if he named an animal, he wo
uld grow too fond of it, which immediately turned it, and him, into a liability.
He no longer cared about following her rules, any more than he was bothered with why she had come here today. He was never returning to the underworld, no matter what troubles haunted her. The day Merryn married Braden, Dewer had decided that he wanted to be finished with that dark life.
Fact: As long as he clung to his mother’s realm, he would never find happiness.
Except, he had one unfinished business that kept drawing him back down there. After his father was killed, his fae aunt had evicted his mother from Wales. As if Eolonde had been responsible for allowing those murderous demons into the upperworld and into their home. The germ of an idea to prove his mother’s innocence and find his father’s killer had taken root in Dewer that day.
His father’s murder was linked to the underworld and Dewer was determined to uncover that secret and deal with that long overdue retribution. He was certain an arch-demon named Adramelech was at the heart of that mystery.
Dewer had been ten when he met Adramelech, Lucifer’s Chancellor. He had come to pay Dewer’s mother a visit to her newly claimed underworld kingdom. Though shaped like a muscular man, Adramelech had sported broad fancy wings made of colorful peacock feathers, but they were counterbalanced with a terrifying boar’s head with curved tusks. Young Dewer, eyeing those fierce tusks while hiding behind his mother’s skirts, had been certain they were designed to rip a boy apart.
Adramelech had stared at Dewer’s mother as if she were a choice piece of meat set out on his dinner plate. Even more disturbing was his mother’s reaction. She twirled her hair as she spoke to the hairy, barely-clothed demon, and asked in a teasing tone, would Lucifer not miss his Chancellor if he lingered too long.
Disliking their playful exchange, Dewer chanted from behind his mother that the demon looked like Lucifer’s little piggy. He discovered that day that his mother did not appreciate cowardice in her child and that Adramelech never forgave an insult. Ever since his thoughtless taunt, Dewer had been paying a price with both.
Could Adramelech be the “trouble” his mother mentioned? It would not surprise him.
Several years after his thoughtless remark, Adramelech had captured Dewer and held him bound in one of his cells, burning Dewer alive, for days on end. In the underworld, torture was considered more effective the longer it could be extended. To extract maximum suffering.
His skin twitched with remembered agony, of his flesh melting and then reforming, to melt again. During one of Adramelech’s many boastful visits to that prison, the demon had accused him of being as gullible as his father. Then he set his demon hornets on Dewer.
While recovering from that tortuous visit, he wondered if the hornets were meant to be a distraction for a slip. Had the demon not meant to mention Dewer’s father? Why? Because it might reveal that the Chancellor had designs on his mother even when her husband was alive? Instantly, the venomous notion took hold that Adramelech had played a role in Dewer’s father’s death.
He endured his confinement longer than needed, hoping to learn more. Six months into his torture, his mother came to his rescue. He suspected it had taken her that long so she could teach him as a lesson to never let down his guard again. One of the many useful schoolings he had endured at her pleasure. He was a better fighter for it.
Instead of being grateful, however, Dewer had silently raged that she had come too soon. He had not uncovered the proof he needed to substantiate his suspicions about Adramelech’s involvement in his father’s killing. Once home, during his long months of recovery, both mental and physical, despite his mother’s obvious disappointment in his inability to rescue himself, he refused to share his reason for putting up with his confinement. Telling her would have put her life in danger.
Queen Eolonde was as unforgiving as Adramelech. If she believed the demon was responsible for her husband’s death, she would risk even Lucifer’s retribution by ensuring the devil’s favorite chancellor breathed his last breath. Dewer refused to risk her enraging Lucifer by going after his pet demon until he had solid proof to substantiate his suspicions. Then he would take care of Adramelech, once and for all.
He shook off that tormenting memory. If Adramelech was annoying his mother again with his persistent courtship, she could deal with him. He was done playing interference between those two.
Dewer mounted Ifan and was about to leave when he reined in and surveyed the burned rose bushes. At a clap, the ashes rose from the ground, reforming into their previous shapes, this time covered with more buds that were not so droopy. Every shade of rose he had ever seen was represented, all except yellow.
Once, while he wallowed in his tower, miserable about Merryn’s choice of lover, his mother presented him with a bouquet of stinky yellow roses, saying the reeking bouquet suited his envious disposition.
Dewer had needed her help so he accepted that malodorous gift. The moment she departed, he tossed the flowers out his window. The next morning another bunch of yellow roses appeared in a vase on his dresser. It was months before those blasted yellow blooms stopped reappearing.
With a wave, he sent three long stems, heavy with rosebuds, winging toward his carriage, each settling on a seat for the three ladies who would be traveling under his guard. Two of the stems had pink buds, but one was pure white.
“Come, Ifan, let us join the ladies. The sooner we are off for London, the sooner we will arrive and can part ways.”
Chapter 4
ENROUTE TO BRISTOL
“I am off to seek good London, with the most brilliant wizard in England.”
Farfur stuck his head out the carriage window to glare at Ifan who sang while proudly trotting behind the carriage carrying their master. “Is your attic to let?” he howled at the horse. “He is a warlock, you nincompoop, not a wizard!”
Half dozing on the carriage floor, Bartos groaned in protest. “You have been shouting insults at Ifan for the past fifty miles and it has neither dented his merry mood, nor his atrocious singing. Keep this up and the baroness will toss you out to run alongside us all the way to Town.”
“I would be proud to run beside my master.” Farfur whacked his tail on the carriage floor. “Ifan hops like a rabbit.”
“My idea of leisurely travel involves napping.” Bartos stretched, his hind legs pushing against one side of the carriage while his forelegs scratched the other. “I wager that horse used to be a hare. His ears are pointed enough but longer than normal and his great thumping hind limbs suggest he would taste odd, gamey.”
Farfur shifted against the Witch-Who-Heals’s limbs to make room for his friend and asked a question that had been bothering him since they left Callington. “Why did the master not choose me to be his steed, Bartos? I could carry him with far more dignity than that dolt.”
“You belong to the mistress now. We should thank our lucky stars for that fortunate outcome. Do you not see the significance of the evil one’s return? She wants her son back and if she takes him, and we belong to him again, where do you suppose we will end up?”
“The master told her that he did not wish to return to the underworld.”
“What the master wants is irrelevant. What the evil one wants, she gets.” Bartos raised his head and sniffed the air. Then he jumped up and, pushing Farfur aside, stuck his nose out the window.
“What’s wrong?” Farfur was unable to squeeze himself out of the small window alongside his friend. The only part he could see past Bartos’s large head was open grassland bathed by the late afternoon sun.
“I smell trouble ahead,” Bartos said. “Maybe running alongside the carriage is a good idea, after all.”
“GRACE, CAN YOU NOT control these confounded hounds?” Her mother booted Bartos across the carriage floor. The moment she eased the pressure, he slid back against her leg. “If one is not howling at the wind, the other giant is kicking at my legs as he stretches across our entire cramped quarters. They also stink to high heaven.”
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“She is unhappy.” From the opposite seat, Grace’s grandmother observed her with a compassionate expression while cradling a vase that held two rose stems heavily laden with rose buds. The elder witch had whipped up the vase to contain the two stems, one with pink buds and the other white. Grace’s mother had tossed a second pink-blossomed stem out the carriage window when she discovered it on her seat. Grace suspected their hind carriage wheel had well and truly disposed of that one as they departed.
“I believe Dewer may have hurt Grace’s feelings when he refused to ride inside the carriage,” her grandmother whispered.
Grace’s mother patted her knee in overt sympathy, but more likely in congratulations for shedding that dangerous warlock’s attentions. “His decision to stay out was the best news I heard this entire day. I hope he rides all the way to London.”
If only choosing to keep his own company was his sole offense. Dewer’s hurtful words still rang in Grace’s ears, as did her interpretation of his meaning.
She stole my hounds. Thief.
She is self-centered. Selfish.
She is uncaring of others. Inconsiderate.
Grace fought the urge to cry. She had done enough of that on Merryn’s shoulder once she called the Coven Protectress to warn her about the fae queen’s presence in Callington.
During her cry, Grace had wavered between canceling the entire trip to still traveling to London to help her father. Unfortunately, despite Dewer’s low opinion of her, his carriage was their best travel option. Her father did need her. She would not disappoint him, at least.
Merryn had wanted to inform Grace’s family, but Grace said she could handle their protection. Besides, her mother was a formidable witch and so was her grandmother, in her own way.
Not to mention, Dewer would be there to protect them. Whatever her mother believed of his character, or any opinion he had of her, she was certain he would never allow Queen Eolonde to harm any of them.
Still, Merryn questioned Grace’s sanity in wanting to continue on at all. Finally, unable to dissuade Grace from her course, she reluctantly left to convey the bad news to her aunt Morwena, head of the Callington coven.
Love Spell in London Page 5
