Bryce stopped mid rant and glanced at Gair in panic. “I would not put it past him to poison us in here.” He relaxed to inhale through his abdominal openings, and then shut the plates over them to hold his breath.
Gair shoved him, and Bryce’s muscles contracted and his breath gushed out. “Fool,” Gair said. “As if holding our breath will save any of us. If the cloud and Dewer are in league, we are doomed. Our only hope is if the cloud has, for some reason, stolen us from Dewer.”
“I do not know about either of you,” Euan said, flying up to them, “but I am glad to be away from those hellhounds. Look what the smaller one did to my leg.” He extended his left hind leg to show where clear teeth marks had penetrated his exoskeleton and yellow liquid was seeping out of the holes.
“Behind you,” Bryce warned.
Gair swung around to where another opening formed. This time, instead of blue sky, Adramelech’s beloved tusked-boar face peered in at them from the underworld.
“Master!” Gair shouted in joy.
The demon reached in but at the same moment air pushed the three hornets out of the cloud, flinging them into their master’s arms. Instead of grabbing hold of them, their master clenched the edges of the cloud and pulled it toward him.
The funnel cloud released a terrified feminine scream. Gair scrambled out of the way as his master relentlessly tugged the writhing cloud into the underworld, handful after squirming handful.
DEWER, THE HELLHOUNDS and Llyn, who looked disheveled after her recent experience in the underworld, arrived behind some shrubs to the side of the road where his vehicle had stopped.
“Stay here,” Dewer whispered to the fragile water goddess, his heart still thundering from their close call. “I will prepare my party for your visit.”
As if too weary to argue, she faded from view, a mist of white, charred at the edges.
Farfur whined and Dewer absently petted the hellhound’s forehead, absorbing the hound’s waves of sympathy. It is beyond me how to heal her, Farfur. Even our talented Miss Adair might be challenged with tending to her.
Now the danger had passed, weariness descended while Dewer contracted his wings until they vanished within his spine. This reverse process was as painful as forming them had been. His backbones and ribs ached as if he had lifted a heavy boulder and then held it up for an hour. A minor inconvenience compared to the water goddess’s trials.
Having been held captive by Adramelech, Dewer was in complete accord with her. Short as her time down below had been, the underworld’s scorching heat must have been anathema for the water goddess. He hoped whatever injury she had sustained was not permanent.
Yet, there was also much to tout about their accomplishments. Llyn, though battered, was still alive. The two hellhounds were unharmed and had proven that despite Miss Adair’s coddling, they were still excellent fighters. Best of all, he had returned the hornets to their underworld home, alive and without his mother’s help. Win. Win. Win.
He was certain his deeds should have at least earned him a kiss from the lovely witch.
A tap of his staff and it swooped out of his hold to settle back into place on the carriage roof. Then he attended to the hellhounds. Once their flying appendages were removed, both hounds shook themselves as if gratified to be earthbound.
Flying was a nerve-wracking experience for any not born to the art. Bartos looked to be limping on the same leg where he had been wounded before. Dewer knelt to check on him, worry dampening his anticipation at reporting back to Miss Adair about their success.
The hellhound’s limb appeared red and painful. Thankfully, the old wound had not re-opened. He massaged the limb, muttering a soothing spell until the hound’s leg stopped quivering and his skin was cooler to the touch.
Satisfied, he stood, his gaze straying to the far side of the carriage where he could hear but not see Miss Adair in a heated conversation with her mother and his. Their intense conversation raised the hairs on his neck stiffer than opening that gate had done.
Peter was closer, standing guard beside Countess Westerly and Dotty, both of whom were seated on the ground. The elderly witch appeared pale and spent. Dewer’s concern swelled for a witch who had not only helped his mother to create a protective shield, but also to maintain it. That act had freed him to deal effectively with Adramelech and his hornets and possibly win Miss Adair’s appreciation. Yes, this elderly witch had paid a high price for her valor.
Peter nodded toward the carriage, an affirmation that his brother rested well and was healing.
Dewer acknowledged his silent report and quietly knelt beside Dotty. The countess glanced with concern from him to her companion. He had little strength left, but willingly offered what he had to this gentle old witch. Holding his hand an inch behind her back, he moved his arm up and down, buffering Dotty with his strength. She leaned back into his hold, arching into his hand, as if relishing his gift.
The moment he finished, he withdrew his touch and she glanced at him with a wide welcoming smile imbued with warm uninhibited acceptance. “Mr. Dewer, you have defeated those beasts and rousted the enemy who waylaid us!”
Not a question but an assertion that showed her complete faith in him. He resisted the urge to kiss her cheek. “The hornets are gone, ma’am. Yes, we are safe.”
“Well done, Mr. Dewer,” Countess Westerly said. “You are every inch the hero your mother believes you to be. You are welcome at my home any time you wish to visit her there.”
He gave the human a confused glance, uncertain how to respond to that bizarre declaration and invitation. By now, unless she was a simpleton, this lady must realize her maid was no mere servant and the other women here were no ordinary humans either. She had also astutely put two and two together and realized he was related to Burns, confirming the countess was no fool. Then why continue to believe his mother would maintain her pretense of being her servant? Most astonishing of all, where had she gained the misguided impression that his mother considered him a hero?
Dotty put her hand on his arm and he helped her rise. Her color was returning, her eyes were sprightly and her stance straight, proclaiming she was back to her healthy self.
“Oh, but, sir, you are hurt,” she said once they were both on their feet, and touched his still-stinging cheek.
He cringed away. “It is nothing, a scratch.”
“I am glad to see you returned in one piece and relatively well.” She then leaned forward and did what he had hesitated to do, and kissed his wounded cheek. “You are a good lad. My granddaughter has excellent taste.”
Hiding his pleasure at the suggestion that Miss Adair had already chosen him, Dewer released her and assisted Peter to help Lady Westerly gain her feet. “What do the other ladies discuss so intently?”
“They have been at it since you left,” Lady Westerly said. “Your mother seems particularly distressed, so I suspect whatever the problem, it likely involves you, Mr. Dewer.”
“They discuss how to dismantle Farfur’s unnatural attachment to you.” Dotty stepped away from them and shook herself side to side. Dirt flew off her like on a churning water wheel, leaving her clean and refreshed.
“Oh,” Countess Westerly gasped, glancing at her own muddy, wrinkled gown. “I wish I could do that!”
“Allow me.” Dotty pointed her staff at the lady.
Countess Westerly’s gown and underskirt flew upward to an indecent level, exposing bare limbs and . . . Dewer hastily swung away and turned Peter with him, who was gaping with his eyes and mouth wide open.
“My apologies,” Dotty said. “My staff has been acting silly ever since I linked it with Grace’s to cast that confounded London rain spell.”
He wanted to ask, What London spell? Instead, what came out was, “What is so surprising about Farfur being fond of me? I used to be his master.”
Witches might be immune to his charm, but surely hellhounds were not beyond his purview to win their affection.
“Did you not realize that
Grace has permanently returned both hounds to you, sir?” Dotty added. “Also, she believes Farfur is your familiar.”
“He is my what?” He swung around to stare at the elderly witch, stunned by her revelations. Countess Westerly’s hems once again touched the soggy ground, and so the image of her exposed limbs thankfully faded from his memory.
“Your mother is discussing ways in which the bond between yourself and Farfur can be broken.” Dotty reached to pet the hellhound’s forehead but he leaned away.
“You are mistaken,” Dewer said with certainty, though gloom descended with that assurance. Bonding with a familiar was one of his long-cherished hopes. Finding someone to love who was prepared to return his affection was another. His attention drifted toward Miss Adair with inexplicable longing.
Farfur whined, drawing back Dewer’s focus. Surely the idea of Farfur being his familiar was utterly absurd? Though lately, the hound did seem to quickly respond to his wants. Farfur was a hellhound. “Even if he could become my familiar, I have not done the necessary ritual to make him mine.”
I wish I knew how.
“Wroof!” Farfur wagged his tail as if in apparent approval of that silent wish. The hound’s instant response shook Dewer’s certainty about his stance. No, Farfur could not read his thoughts. If his reasoning had begun to mirror Dotty’s, it was an indication he had spent too much time in her company. He absently rubbed the fur behind Farfur’s ear. Sit.
The hellhound sat, and leaned into his touch, tail thumping the ground in loud whacks.
The elderly witch, the countess, Peter and Bartos watched him and Farfur with what looked to be identical skeptical expressions. He released the hound and stepped away.
“Shall we perform a test?” Dotty asked.
“How?” He despised the hope bubbling up in his chest.
She shrugged. “Such bonds are a warlock tool. How do you normally command Farfur?”
“I tell him what I want and he obeys.”
“Can he refuse?”
“No. If Miss Adair has released him to my care, he is bound to obey me. Familiars are animals that are tied to their masters, but they still have free will. Hellhounds are creations of dark magic and are under a compulsion to obey their Creators, or those who subjugate them.”
She bent to look Farfur in the eye. “Farfur, do not do what your master next orders you to do.”
The hound whined but lay down before her.
She glanced at Dewer with an eyebrow raised in challenge. “Order both hounds to come to you.”
He snapped his fingers. “Bartos, Farfur, at my side.”
Bartos immediately ran over. Farfur looked at him with sad eyes but stayed where he was.
Dewer shivered, shock and delight wrestling with ingrained doubts. Farfur had been torn about obeying him once before. That day at Saint Agatha’s church when Miss Adair was tending to a wounded Bartos, Farfur had obviously wanted to stay with the other hound. Yet, he had come when called but so reluctantly, that Dewer, drenched in heartache at Merryn choosing Braden over him, had derisively transferred his magical hold of both dangerous hounds to Miss Adair and left.
“Seek him inside you, Mr. Dewer,” Dotty said. “If there is indeed a connection, you should find him there.”
Dewer glanced from her to Farfur and then shutting his eyes, sought Farfur in the darkness of his thoughts. A lonely place he had visited often while being tortured by Adramelech.
Farfur?
The hellhound instantly appeared, tail wagging – an ethereal joyful glow within the isolation of Dewer’s soul. Then Farfur was on him in reality, large paws landing heavily on his chest. Dewer toppled under the hellhound’s weight as the hound indiscriminately licked his master’s face, fangs grazing Dewer’s already sore cheek.
Laughing, he pushed the hound away. “Sit!”
Farfur sat.
As Dewer rose to his feet, he checked on the hound and realized he had obeyed out of a willingness of spirit, not a compulsion of magic. Within himself, their connection pulsed clear and steady. “How could I have missed this link?”
“I believe it is of the Laneast wishing well’s doing,” Grace Adair said, strolling toward him with a sensual gait that began to haunt him.
“We must find a way to undo this atrocity.” His mother followed her at a brisk, no-nonsense pace.
“No,” Dewer said in a firm unyielding tone, brushing the mud off his breeches and coat, and retrieving his fallen hat.
“Be sensible, Devil.” His mother came to a halt at his side. “Such a bond will weaken your defenses.”
“Or strengthen it,” Baroness Adair suggested, trailing beside her luscious daughter like a guardian wolf.
Dewer was prepared to be mauled for attempting to win his kiss from her daughter, who grew more delectable with each passing hour. Having faced Adramelech and lived to tell the tale, he was certain, if push came to shove, he could take the baroness. Even his mother.
Miss Adair’s bold green gaze met his and held, reflecting his desire and transfixing his attention.
“You do not know that!” his mother snapped, breaking into his trance. “This binding is an abomination.”
“Make no mistake,” the baroness said, “I do not condone such warlock/familiar pairings. No witch would, though perhaps not for the same reason as yourself, Burns. We merely believe it to be unfair to the animals, for such bindings are forced on them against their will. Now your son is aware of the connection, if anything were to happen to Farfur, Mr. Dewer can defend himself against an unexpected breakage and deal with the accompanying sense of loss. Love and risk go hand in hand.”
Though the baroness spoke to him, her thoughtful gaze was fixed on her daughter.
“There will be no breaking of bonds,” Dewer said with finality, and he, too, addressed Miss Adair. Did she understand? If her flirtations were merely a game, this was the time to strategically withdraw. He was fast approaching the point where he would be fully committed. Past experience had shown that once he offered his heart, there would be no taking it back whole.
For the first time, her glance filled with doubt and instead of boldly tempting him closer, she looked away. Her closed expression was so reminiscent of Merryn’s fear and abhorrence once she discovered his true identity that Dewer’s world shattered.
Had he lost Miss Adair’s interest, too? How? He wanted to shout, I saved those hornets for you, but the words choked in his tight throat. No matter how hard he’d tried, he had been unable to win back Merryn.
Fact: Attempting to earn another’s affection was akin to embarking on a fool’s errand.
Farfur leaned against his side and Dewer received an unexpected jolt of sweet sympathy. It was the first time anyone had tried to console him. His mother’s idea of comfort was to drench his tower with the vile stench of stinky yellow roses.
“It grows darker.” Dotty laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Despite your wonderful support, sir, I am weary. Shall we continue this discussion at the inn, in Bristol?”
Dewer rose above his melancholy. “First, there is someone I must introduce to Miss Adair.”
Her clear gray-green gaze met his with surprise in the fading light. “I would be honored to meet any friend of yours, Mr. Dewer.”
He squashed a swirl of pleasure at her words. They were a formality, not a note of confidence in him. An icy chill grew from within, dousing the heat of his desire for this inconstant witch as he bowed and faced the mist lingering impatiently a short distance away. At his nod of acknowledgement, Llyn grew taller and substantial.
Countess Westerly gasped, clasping her hands to her ample chest. “Is this another of the gentry, like Burns?”
“Nay, my lady,” Dewer corrected. “Not a fae, but a deity.”
The mist cleared to reveal a lady with midnight locks wearing a flowing blue gown, with not a tentacle in sight. Dewer noted with approval the pretty picture she presented as she curtseyed. He doubted anyone else noticed the frayed edges of
her long black locks where Adramelech had grabbed her, or the darker smudge by her left shoe where one of his arrows had burned her.
“I present to you, Her Holiness, Llyn Gwel Annwn,” he said, “an amazingly brave water goddess from Wales. The lady is here to request a favor of you, Miss Adair. As she has been of great assistance, and indeed, risked her life to help us be rid of Adramelech’s hornets, I hope you will do her the honor of listening to her request.”
GRACE’S GLANCE LINGERED on Dewer, whose left cheek had an angry new scratch that said he had not given them the full story of his and this goddess’s recent adventure. She wanted to offer to heal him, too, but did not dare with both his and her mother standing guard between. Besides, once she began to touch Dewer, she might be tempted to caress more than that scar.
Not that he seemed ready to allow her anywhere near him. He had just defeated Adramelech’s deadly hornets and saved her mother and grandmother’s lives and countless other innocent humans in this vicinity, but instead of praising him, all she wanted to say was, Why could you not have spared those hornets?
After her mother’s pointed talk of love and loss, Grace’s “Do no harm to any living thing” affliction weighed heavily on her conscience. He needed a woman who would not flinch every time he killed an enemy. It was beneath her to begin a doomed relationship with a warlock who was still recovering from his last broken heart.
Releasing a regret-filled sigh, she curtsied to the water goddess. With pale skin, a curvaceous figure a dressmaker would die to gown, and bathed in an ethereal glow, the lady was breathtaking. The only aspect marring her captivating allure was her grieving eyes.
Was it her sorrow that left Dewer so melancholy? Then Grace noticed the discoloration in the goddess’s left foot. She swept her healer’s gaze back up, searching for other signs of illness. The pulsing on the lady’s scalp next drew her concerned gaze.
“You are hurt,” Grace said. If healing his friend would make him happier, she was prepared to turn Heaven upside down to accomplish it. “I would be honored if you would allow me to assist you.”
Love Spell in London Page 11
