Even Farfur gave him a disbelieving glance.
This could not be happening. He could not be conversing about his desires with a hellhound as if he were talking to a friend.
“Join Bartos,” he said, more to give himself time to think than to be rid of the hound who confused him.
Farfur, with tail lowered, loped ahead to join Bartos. That hound leaned in and bunted his returned companion in a conciliatory gesture that was as incongruous as Farfur’s response to Dewer’s questions.
The last memory must have come from Farfur because Dewer had never been in Miss Adair’s bedchamber, and now he knew it as intimately as his own, down to the alluring scent infusing her skin, her witch’s hat resting on the windowsill and thrumming as if it snored. He was even aware of the magical signature of her staff as it rested against the fireplace.
The knowledge left him unsettled, for it overturned his understanding of a hellhound’s purpose in life, and how it communicated and functioned. Worse, now he was plagued with thoughts of how to inveigle an invitation into Miss Adair’s bed.
“MY BOY’S FATHER DIED when he was five,” Burns said. “Murdered by an uncle, his late uncle, who sought to steal his birthright.”
Grace trembled at her emphasis on late. Had she killed that man? Dewer’s mother was said to be both ruthless and vindictive when crossed.
“They would have killed my Devil, too, if I had not whisked him away. I swore that day to protect the boy from any who sought to harm him.” Burns’s gaze settled over her, and Grace leaned back with an intake of breath.
Burns blinked and her friendly smile returned, eyes crinkling playfully. “I might have over-indulged the boy in my bid to make up for his father’s loss.”
Lady Westerly draped a large arm around her tiny maid and gave a hearty hug. “Am sorry about your husband, of course, Burns. Children are impressionable regarding such losses and need comforting. I would have done no different. I doted on my sons despite their having led a blessed life. Had two boys who would have given your young Devil a run for his money on how spoilt they were at five.”
“Children need discipline as much as love,” Grace’s mother said. Despite being firm, her tone had softened a trace. “Else they fail to learn their boundaries.”
“Devil has always been crystal clear about his boundaries,” Burns said in a fierce tone and extricated herself from her mistress’s comforting hold by leaning away until the enveloping arm was withdrawn. “At every turn, all he came in contact with served him that harsh lesson. Often in excruciatingly painful ways.” Lips drawn tight, she added, “Including me.”
“How sad,” Lady Westerly said in a shocked tone.
Dewer must have felt bewildered as a child, not understanding why the adults in his world treated him so harshly. Grace brushed away a tear that welled. Had that childhood experience marred the man? Was her mother correct? Was Dewer now unredeemable? After all, he was half dark fae.
“Our home was not a safe place for a tender-hearted boy.” Burns glared at Grace as if she sensed her silent reproach and resented that judgment. “He needed to be hardened.”
“Where was your home, Burns?” Lady Westerly’s eyes were wide with curiosity. “It sounds like a dreadful place.”
“You would never have visited a place similar to my home, my lady.” Though Burns’s words were addressed to her mistress, she shared her disdainful gaze equally with the three witches.
“I may not frequent such places, Burns,” the countess said with a proud tilt of her head. “but I have heard talk of places like St. Giles and Seven Dials, which are said to house rookeries. There, a half dozen families or more sometimes live in a single home. Footpads and cutthroats frequent dark alleyways. Many children are ill-treated. Learning about places such as those is the reason I insist my husband be generous in his support of the poor in our parish. Of course, it is our Christian duty to do so.”
“My home was worse.” Burns’s answer was succinct and terrifying.
“Then I understand perfectly why you would have wished young Devil to be toughened,” Countess Westerly said in a gentle tone.
“You want him to return there?” The words jumped out before Grace could prevent them from escaping. In admitting that she had overheard this woman’s request for Dewer to return to the underworld, she had, in essence, admitted to being in the garden earlier.
Burns’s exultant smile confirmed that Dewer’s mother had known of her presence. Oh, what a coil.
“Neither of you should ever go back there,” Lady Westerly said. “Now you are in my employ, Burns, there is no need to. I will welcome your Devil at my home anytime he wishes to visit.”
“Why, thank you, my lady.” Burns gave the countess a side glance drenched in surprise.
“Have you been in Lady Westerly’s employ for long?” Grace’s mother asked.
“That is the funniest story,” Lady Westerly said. “Almost as amusing as my suddenly deciding to go to London, is it not, Burns?”
“Do tell,” Grace’s grandmother said. “This conversation grows more entertaining by the moment.”
“Would you believe she has only been with me this day?” Lady Westerly asked. “I hardly credit it since I feel as if I have known Burns all of my life. I found her at the first inn we stopped at to exchange horses. Fortunate, since my maid unexpectedly took ill shortly after we stopped at the inn. Luckily, the innkeeper recommended Mrs. Burns, who happened to be there as well and was in need of employment.”
“How fortunate,” Grace’s mother said.
“Yes, it was,” Lady Westerly said. “As is her son. Burns, I insist that once we arrive in Bristol, that you write to him and inform him of my invitation to come to visit.”
“I shall, my lady. Thank you very much. You must know, however, that he is a grown man now, capable of defeating any beast. He is well aware of the dangers of his society.” Then she shook her head as if perplexed. “This is why I fail to understand why, as an adult, he persists in crossing the very boundaries I took such pains to outline.”
“How so?” her employer asked.
“He insists on loving the most unsuitable women.”
“Ah, women!” the countess chuckled. “We are ever a man’s weakness. It has been so since God created Eve.” The countess patted Burns’s hand. “Give up this battle, my dear. You will never win that war. I, too, on occasion, have attempted to steer my sons in the right direction, but I know better than to insist on my choice for their mates.”
“Perhaps your boundaries cannot be his,” Grace said, her fingers clenching. The same antipathy that had erupted when her mother said she must forget Dewer now rose like a geyser.
“Or perhaps he is living up to the nickname you gave him,” her grandmother said. “I begin to like this Devil.”
“He might have some merit.” Grace’s mother seemed as uncertain as Burns had been a moment ago. “Especially, if he is indeed capable of thinking for himself.”
That sounded as if her mother was softening toward Dewer. If so, however unsafe this journey became, Grace was glad they had invited Burns to join them, for it meant the door to her having any kind of relationship with Dewer had just opened a tad wider.
Did she still want one? Signs were there that he was beginning to care for her, and history said, that once he gave his heart, he gave it fully. Pleasing warmth spread through her at the possibility of him caring for her with as much fervor as he once had Merryn.
Was she capable of returning his regard in equal measure?
Yes, was her uninhibited response. The more pressing question remained. Would either of them ever be given permission to lay claim to each other? The answer to that lay in both her and his mothers’ hands. Her mother was showing signs of bending. Not so Burns. Grace could not think of how she could ever win this brutal queen’s favor.
Fae, both light and dark, were difficult to understand at the best of times. Legend said the species had been on Earth since the beginning of
time, and were even rumored to have been instrumental in human evolution. In fact, their magical coercions of humans were apparently absolved by this world’s Creator, as long as the fae played by the rules – that a human must have the right to resist any fae suggestion. The outcome was often a reflection of an individual human’s character.
Grace suspected that Lady Westerly was on her way to London not only because Burns wanted her to go, but because deep down, the countess was missing the Season, and perhaps her husband’s company, and wanted to go.
During coven philosophical discussions, some witches purported that human interaction with fae was even encouraged by this world’s deity in order to test human character. However, no such leniency was shown toward the practice of alien Wyhcan mind spells on humans. That is, until recently, with the Coven Protectress. That amazing phenomenon was still under active study at many covens across Britain.
Burns was shaking her head. “I know what is best for my son. He should listen to me.”
Her audience stared at her in silence, and then all but Grace chuckled at that typical motherly wish.
Burns observed her fellow travelers with a ferocious frown. Then her lips began to tremble as if she were under some uncommon emotional assault. Soon her tight lips tilted up and an odd sound burst forth. Could she be laughing?
She was!
It was the first genuinely happy emotion Grace had witnessed in Burns. It shook her how pretty the woman looked when she smiled with true humor.
Grace took a much-needed breath and loosened her death-grip on her staff. A leaflet instantly sprouted on Joy’s handle.
She blinked in confusion at that recurrent anomaly and her involuntary smile at Burns’s chuckle died. What was wrong with her staff? She sniffed and then wrinkled her nose. It reeked of jessamine. What spell had her grandmother cast using Joy?
Just then, something flew past the window. Grace peered out wondering if Dewer had ridden ahead again. A man was rolling on the ground as if flung there.
“Someone has fallen!” With the jeweled head of her staff, she tapped the carriage roof to signal it to stop.
“Is it Dewer?” her grandmother asked with concern.
“I think it was his footman from the back of the carriage.”
The groom up top shouted to the neighing horses to stop and the carriage began to slow.
“Where did your broom come from?” Lady Westerly asked. “You were not holding it a moment ago. It is a dashed odd implement to be carrying about.”
“It was leaning against the door beside me,” Grace said, impatient to jump out and check on the injured man. “Probably belongs with the carriage.”
“I suppose,” Lady Westerly said, sounding uncertain. “Strange, to keep it stored inside instead of on top. As for this accident, I do not know how much assistance we can provide. There is no room here for another person, especially an injured party. Burns, you might have to ride at the back of the carriage.”
Like the rest of them, Burns was staring out the window, but instead of looking toward the ground where the man had rolled to a stop down an embankment, she was peering upward.
AN ANGRY BELLOW WAS Dewer’s only warning before a flaming winged demon swooped from above. He ducked and swerved Ifan to the roadside. The demon’s claws missed his shoulder and snagged Jack, lifting him high into the air. Within a few wing flaps, realizing its mistake, the demon gave a disgruntled howl and flung his captive, screaming in terror, to the ground.
“Roll!” Dewer commanded and Jack tumbled down the wet grassy bank instead of striking it straight on.
Despite that tempering of his fall, the lad struck the ground with more force than a human body could withstand. Dewer cringed as bones cracked. Jack’s screams cut off and he slumped to a halt at the bottom of a ravine. Dewer’s bones shuddered in deep sympathy. The lad would be lucky to survive. Better if he did not. What type of life would he have as a complete cripple, living in constant agony?
For now, he lay unmoving, perhaps unconscious. That would be a blessing, since it would be a while before Dewer could get to his side to see if he could do anything for the lad.
His mother’s first precept of war blocked Dewer’s wish to rush to check on Jack: See to your needs first. He smothered his concern and erected a barrier around himself and Ifan, before shifting his focus to high above where the offending demon swerved and streaked back toward him.
Its next lunge struck Dewer’s shield. The reverberation sent the demon spinning to the ground. Dewer’s initial elation withered as he recognized his assailant.
Adramelech! Blast and double blast. How had that vile villain contrived to make his way into the upper world? Opening such a portal was no easy feat for demons.
Must have cost him a pretty penny in favors.
Adramelech had hurt him too many times for Dewer to take foolish chances now. Remembered pain and rearing caution withered his long-nurtured wish to retaliate.
The demon was airborne again, regrouping his strength, strategizing how best to break through Dewer’s shield. Heat exploded over his head but his defenses held. Foiled, Adramelech roared and flapped his colorful, peacock-like feathers to take him higher.
Another blast of flames struck Dewer’s shield and sweat beaded his forehead. Licks of scorching heat penetrated. Even if he and Ifan did not burn, they would soon die from the high temperature. As if sensing that vulnerability, his steed neighed in fright.
Ahead, the carriage slowed and Dewer cursed his luck. Why did they stop? Did he not have enough to deal with?
If he had learned anything from his mother, it was to stay calm during a crisis and prioritize. First on his list of necessities was for Ifan to be his partner in this battle, not a liability. He ran a soothing hand over the horse’s forehead and said, “This is naught but an annoying gnat.”
Ifan’s nostrils flared and he stomped the roadway, tail flicking as he glared up at their attacker.
Indeed, Dewer muttered, in complete agreement with Ifan’s reaction. How dare this upstart annoy him! Again!
Time to turn his defensive posture into one of retaliation. Instead of deflecting the flames bombarding his shield, he absorbed the foul fallen-angel energy that tasted like sour milk. Then he swung Ifan around so they faced their enemy head on and flung the heat back to its source. Power streaked out of his hand shaped in a Wyhcan arrow of destruction.
Adramelech recoiled.
Surprised? Had this arch-demon failed to realize that the boy he loved to torment might have acquired a few new tricks since he was ten?
“You are now in my playground,” Dewer whispered with relish.
His next two volleys bombarded his enemy, scorching the edges of Adramelech’s wings and making him falter in midair. The next arrow struck the demon square on his chest. Adramelech twirled across the sky, his essence shimmering as if he were about to burst apart.
With or without proof, it was time to end this lingering annoyance. If Lucifer, ruler of the underworld, became enraged at the slaying of his pet protégé, Dewer had a good defense. Adramelech had brought this fight to him. Deep satisfaction burned away years of resentment and his magic built in his palm, spitting lightning flashes. For you, Father.
A portal slid open behind Adramelech and half a dozen giant hornets stormed through, stingers dripping poison. Those were Adramelech’s creations, as the pythos were of Dewer’s mother’s making.
Taking cover behind the monster hornets, Adramelech, the coward, raced for the opening. Then the impossible occurred. The portal sealed shut behind the demon, leaving his minions in this realm, and still alive. How was that possible? A demon needed to be present to control his spawn.
The hornets swooped toward Dewer and he sent his arrows speeding in return fire. They abruptly changed directions, eluding his volley of flaming arrows. The swarm gathered high above, as if to discuss this unusual situation. That, too, was unprecedented. He had never known his mother’s pythos to collectively communicate
or act cooperatively.
Demon spawn were self-centered; their aim was to kill or escape. Or in the pythos’ case, if they were beside one of their brethren, like starving rats, one might try to devour the other.
He sent a charge straight at the swarm to eliminate the lot with one strike. They instantly dispersed, then re-grouped.
Confused, Dewer gulped past a dry throat, his heart thundering in panic. These creatures were reasoning. Coordinating with each other!
Even when Dewer once used his mother’s pythos to attack Braden, his mother had remained at the other end of the doorway to the underworld, which Dewer had to hold open, so she could manage her beasts’ actions.
Above, the hornets split up, as if a plan of action had been decided. They attacked from different directions, making it harder for him to focus his response. His arrows were too widely dispersed. Though two hornets went flaming down, four dodged his strikes.
“Come this way!” Lady Mandell’s voice boomed behind him. He swung his mount and raced for the carriage. The two elder witches and his mother had built a dome of protection around the carriage. Together?
Their defense shield opened to allow him through and then sealed shut, the magic stinging his back and making Ifan leap forward with a startled cry, as if someone had swatted their behind. Dewer suspected that slap was courtesy of Miss Adair’s mother and had been meant only for him.
Why was Miss Adair not part of this curious shield-building team?
She might have tempered the wallop that struck Ifan and him. More importantly, was she safe? At the bottom of the bank below the road, Miss Adair was hunched over, tending Jack, while Peter offered assistance at her side. Best of all, the three were within the dome’s protection.
His heart swelled with sweet relief. They were safe. That was swiftly followed by overwhelming gratitude. With her help, Jack might yet live and enjoy his life.
Free to attend to the hornets without distraction, he called for reinforcement. A snap of his fingers brought the two hellhounds bounding toward him.
Love Spell in London Page 8
