Love Spell in London

by Shereen Vedam

  “I am close to him,” Farfur said. “Dewer talks to me all the time.”

  Ifan opened his mouth and Bartos growled.

  The horse sidled sideways as far as his reins would allow and shut his mouth, for all of one minute. “Where could he be? I thought he wanted to come to London.”

  “Probably distracted by the mistress,” Bartos said. He missed her, too. She always fed him on schedule and petted him as she fell asleep each night. He might get laughed at in the underworld – that a hellhound could crave such pampering – but Bartos didn’t care. He was older than any other of his kind and he was ready to retire from life’s trials.

  “Something must be wrong,” Farfur said, just as a hackney rolled up in front of the townhouse. The carriage door opened and a wizened old man jumped down from the top and then pulled out the steps.

  Bartos’s nose signaled the identity of the passenger before the human’s polished hessians ever touched the first step. Bartos was instantly down the street and around the corner, with Farfur hot on his heels. Hidden behind the wall of a building, they silently peered around the corner toward the Adair townhouse.

  “What is he doing here?” Farfur whispered, as the church guard who had once almost killed Bartos descended to the pavement. His holy broadsword was strapped to his back and his green cloak of office fluttered in the breeze as he walked over to pet the tethered horse.

  Ifan gave a neigh of pleasure and then turned to shout toward the two hellhounds, “Oy! Why are you two hiding?”

  “Shut up!” Bartos growled low in his throat.

  “You should have let me eat that foolish hare for breakfast,” Farfur said.

  “I wish I had.” At this moment, incurring his master’s displeasure for attacking his horse was preferable to that guard finishing what he began at Dewer’s black tower. Even if he only wounded Bartos again instead of killing him, the Witch-Who-Heals was unlikely to waste any more of her life tending Bartos. He knew from experience that the torture of a holy wound was worse than death.

  The guard’s wizardly manservant ran up the steps and knocked on the Adairs’ front door.

  Once the two humans were admitted inside the townhouse, Bartos and Farfur slunk back to Ifan’s side. While Farfur stood watch for the return of the church guard, Bartos quickly tugged at the horse’s reins until it came loose and then he led Ifan away.

  “Where are we going?” Ifan asked in an excited tone, his hooves striking the pavement in a musical trot.

  “As far from that church guard as we can get,” Bartos mumbled past the reins. His back trembled as if that sword had just sliced into him. He wasn’t sure why he was saving the horse, too, but ever since they arrived in London, he’d begun to care about the welfare of the stupid hare-turned-horse.

  “We are going to find Dewer,” Farfur said, suddenly looking as chipper as Ifan. “The master just spoke to me. He wants all three of us to come to him. We must hurry, and Ifan, you will stop talking!”

  DEWER’S MOVEMENTS BECAME lethargic as if he were traversing through deep water. As he maneuvered forward, memories assaulted him, from his imprisonment at Adramelech’s hands and then farther back to his childhood in his mother’s underworld kingdom. The water god seemed to be rifling through Dewer’s past in search of something. His pulse shot up, fear crowding close that the water god might stumble across Dewer’s secret longing.

  He arrived at his memories of his home in Black Mountain, but this dark tower was from the past, when his father lived there. He fumed at his laborious pace in entering the library. Inside, the water god lounged on Dewer’s father’s chair, a goblet of wine held in one tentacle while several other limbs were flung carelessly over the chair arms.

  “Get out!” Dewer said.

  “This is what you are after,” the water god mused. “You intend to find your father’s killer and make him pay. A noble, if foolish, goal.”

  Dewer shot a bolt of energy straight at the intruder. The chair erupted in flames. When the inferno died down, the chair was charred and a hole in its center showed straight through to the wall of books behind it.

  “Temper, temper,” the water god said from high up behind him.

  He swung around in frustratingly slow motion, fuming at having missed his target.

  The water god was sitting on a high bookshelf, blue tentacles spread out.

  Dewer itched to send a second bolt upward. He clenched his fist instead, conserving his strength. “What do you want?”

  “Every boy needs a father figure in his life,” the water god said, one of his tentacles thoughtfully tapping the top of the shelf.

  “If you are applying for the role, it is already taken.”

  The water god chuckled. “By your mother? Or Adramelech? He craves that role, if only to impress the queen.”

  “My father may not be here in person, but I remember him quite clearly. I need no substitute.”

  “Your father died when you were five, Dewer. No matter how much you cling to his fading memory, he cannot advise you on how to dress to impress the ladies, when to open your heart to a lover or why sometimes it is important to accept defeat.”

  Dewer flicked his hand in dismissal, thinking about his recent pain. “I have learned all of those lessons by myself. You are one to talk. Rumor has it that you indentured your son to a druid for centuries. You were not exactly present for him, were you?”

  “His punishment taught him how to become self-sufficient,” the water god snapped, showing the first sign of a flare up. “If I die soon, that lesson will prove to be vital for the lad. That brings me to why I am here. You will soon be called upon to face your greatest challenge and I have been requested to offer my services. If not as a father substitute, then perhaps you will accept me as a mentor? Warlocks value that sort of relationship, do they not?”

  “I am no ordinary warlock,” Dewer said, though the suggestion of a mentor brought bittersweet pain. The Warlock Council had refused to farm Dewer out to an experienced warlock who could have taught him the intricacies of Wyhcan magic. Once Dewer was old enough to mentor a warlock boy, they refused even that tiny concession. As a result, he sometimes felt as if he were crippled as far as his magical studies were concerned.

  “What do you propose?” he asked with caution.

  “Allow me to stay within you and I shall teach you everything I know about Earth magic. I shall show you how it works. Where it flows strongest. How to draw on it so it does not balk at your alien Wyhcan touch.”

  Dewer’s excitement surged with each successive offer, until his ears buzzed so loud, he could barely think straight. Be calm. No one gave away such power. “What do you want in return? It must be more than to simply use me as a vessel.”

  “Clever lad,” the water god said. “The Callington witches have obviously underestimated you.”

  Dewer held his silence, his thoughts now churning in a logical fashion instead of in an excited frenzy. “You believe I will not survive whatever journey Miss Adair wishes us to take. As such, you will not need to keep your part of this bargain.” His eyes narrowed, noting the water god’s tentacles were not so much blue, like his daughter’s, as blue-gray and lackluster. He might have recovered from his recent illness, thanks to Miss Adair, but not fully. He was growing weaker, not stronger. “You believe neither of us will survive! What could she possibly be planning that would take both of us out?”

  The water god gave a profound sigh. “She plans to travel to the underworld to rescue a warlock boy.”

  “Who?” Dewer asked, stunned. Witches were not known to show warlocks kindness. Then again, Miss Adair was no ordinary witch. Perhaps this boy was ill. Unlike others of her coven, if the boy needed her assistance, she would blindly jump at the chance to help him, even he was a warlock.

  “Who do you think would warrant such a drastic journey into the underworld?” the water god asked.

  Dewer considered the question, rifling through all he had heard lately about warlocks. Sadly, his
knowledge was limited. Then a sickly feeling invaded, making him feel as blue-deviled as the water god appeared.

  “Jonas is dead.” Even as Dewer said the words, he realized they were a lie. Another of his mother’s lies.

  Jonas Pendraven was alive!

  “You must leave now,” Dewer said to the water god. His quiet tone belied his rising excitement and too-long fettered joy.

  “You are not going after the warlock boy on your own,” the water god said, guessing Dewer’s intention.

  That was the trouble with having someone squat in one’s head. No privacy.

  “I have been informed that it is fated for you and Miss Adair to journey together,” the water god said.

  He had said something similar earlier. Who gave orders to a deity? “Informed by whom?”

  The water god hesitated a moment and then tentatively pointed a tentacle up.

  That was a shock, but Dewer quickly shrugged off the unsettling distraction. Every second he stayed here and argued was a moment wasted. “This is no longer your concern. Or the Creator’s. It is Wyhcan business.”

  If his mother were here, Dewer would have hugged her, and no doubt earned a sharp reprimand. She did not tolerate physical shows of affection. Yet, if Jonas was alive, that meant she had not killed his best friend. Merryn’s parents had died, yes, but that was in a fair battle. Killing the boy would have been killing an innocent. She had likely tortured Jonas; certainly, she had made Dewer go through the agony of loss and guilt for years, and ruined any chance of he and Merryn ever having a relationship. Still, she had not killed Jonas. Everything else was a forgivable offense.

  “Miss Adair must accompany you,” the water god insisted. “As must I, to watch over her until she discovers why your world is polluting mine.”

  “She would never survive in the underworld,” he replied in a flat implacable tone. “Any more than you would.”

  “Which is why both of us need your support.” The water god sailed down to hover before Dewer, tentacles undulating as if he were swimming in a deep lake.

  “That is why neither of you is coming with me.” Dewer crossed his arms. He could not afford to waste his energy guarding anyone else while fighting through his mother’s forces to reach Jonas, not even a powerful witch with a too-tender heart, or a water god out of his element.

  “Only Miss Adair can identify the source of the poison flowing into my waters from the underworld and stop it. We are coming with you. Be assured of that.”

  “Even if it means both of your deaths?” The fools. Dewer barely managed to survive in the underworld while growing up. His shoulders twitched as if recalling those hornet stings.

  The water god crossed his tentacles. Limbs crisscrossed as if they were in a weaving contest. Show off. Running out of patience, and time, Dewer nodded. “Very well. Miss Adair may approach the boundary, do what she needs to expunge the poison from your waters back into the underworld, and then seal the gate behind me. You will not travel inside me any longer. If you need a transport vessel to the gate, since you have already altered my staff, you may stay there. While within Kemp, you will be safe from the scorch of the underworld.”

  “Travel inside that tiny twig?” the water god asked in an affronted tone and expanded to twice his size.

  “Or do not come at all.” Dewer’s mind already swirled toward his next steps. His mother would have hidden Jonas deep in the underworld. Who had she set to watch over him? Could Dewer take down her guard? Or guards? There was a chance he and Jonas might not make it out of the underworld alive, so before he left, Dewer intended to ensure Miss Adair was crystal clear about how he felt about her. There would be kissing involved, and not just on the back of her delicate hand.

  “You will regret this decision,” the water god said, but he faded from view. His parting words echoed inside the library. “It does not bode well to obstruct the Creator’s plans.”

  Feeling the familiar emptiness inside him, Dewer nodded with satisfaction, and opening his gaze, found himself back on the dorey. Before him, his staff floated horizontally. While he felt liberated and no longer waterlogged, Kemp was vibrating like a fish caught on a hook. Dewer’s sympathy grew for his power staff. He sent a silent apology for inflicting the water god on it.

  Kemp’s shivers finally died, and it settled down at the bottom of the dorey, resigned.

  “What happened?” the water goddess asked from his right.

  “Your father happened. He is in there now,” Dewer said, pointing to his staff. Then he turned the other way to skewer Miss Adair with a stern uncompromising glance. “I will rescue Jonas.”

  She returned his pointed look with a frown. “No, Mr. Dewer. We will rescue him.”

  “You will not survive in the underworld for ...”

  “Only I know where he is being held,” she countered.

  He gritted his teeth as all thoughts of kissing her were replaced by a frustrating urge to shake the stubborn witch. “You could share that information.”

  “Or I could seek him out on my own.”

  “You are being deliberately reckless.”

  “And you do not trust me to fend for myself,” she countered, throwing his earlier accusation back at him.

  “Name one creature you have killed since we met.”

  “Destruction is not the only method of defense.”

  “It is in the underworld!”

  They both paused to take a breath and the water goddess chuckled, earning a glare from both her companions.

  “I see nothing amusing about this situation,” he said, thinking the daughter was much like her father.

  “You two sound like a couple of grumpy old married humans,” the water goddess said, her smile as bright as the day.

  That blistering insult sank into Dewer like lead. He prided himself on being as far from human as anyone could possibly get.

  Just then Kemp rose into the air and floated to hover over Miss Adair, and then sank to rest on her lap.

  Dewer gritted his teeth at that lecherous gesture depicting where the water god’s support resided.

  “Then we are agreed.” Miss Adair lifted Kemp and leaned forward to offer the staff back to Dewer. “The three of us are going to rescue Jonas.”

  Before long, Llyn dropped Grace and Dewer off as close to the Tower of London as she could bring them without drawing notice. She then bid them and her father, now ensconced inside Dewer’s staff, a fond farewell.

  The plan was for Dewer to enter the Tower first and secure the location where the gate resided before Grace’s arrival. Meanwhile, she would check on Hollis, and his sick friend, Hudson.

  Dewer pointed to the tree line. Grace at first saw nothing out of the ordinary there. Then she noticed a furtive movement in the shadows. “What is it?” she asked. “Farfur?”

  “He’s not here yet. This looks to be a wolf,” Dewer said. “The Warlock Council chief’s familiar, Cedric.”

  “Wolf? I thought those beasts had been hunted out of existence in Britain?” Grace said, surprised.

  “Privilege of rank,” Dewer said. “He saved a pack. They live exclusively on his grounds in Wales. I will see what the Council wants and return.”

  IN HIS ABSENCE, GRACE retrieved her message stone and sat cross-legged by the shore. Then she channeled a summons to her mother.

  Baroness Mandell appeared before her, partially blocking Grace’s view of the Thames. After they completed the ritual greetings, Grace informed her of her current location and that she was here to assist the water god with an urgent matter. Then she glanced behind her mother.

  “Is Burns still with you?” Grace whispered.

  “She’s in the other room with your father. She seems fascinated by his worry about his sick fish.”

  That sounded suspicious. She had expected Burns to leave London the moment her role as escort ended. Grace was quick with her report so her mother could check on her father. “Do not expect me home for a few days, Mama. Please tell Papa that if I
succeed in resolving the water god’s problem, that might also alleviate the sickness affecting his trout. If not stopped, this infection may slowly spread across all the rivers and lakes in Britain.”

  Her mother’s gaze flicked to either side of Grace. As if disappointed at not seeing anyone else, she said that she would inform her husband and Merryn about this development and ended the link.

  Grace frowned. Merryn? Why inform her cousin? Dewer had finished his conversation with the wolf and was strolling back toward them. She was about to return the stone to her reticule, when it flared around her fingers and Merryn’s face appeared before her.

  “Morning,” Grace said, noting Dewer’s casual stance straighten. Her pulse sped up, as did her tension, tightening her gut. Did he still carry a flame for the Coven Protectress?

  “I am dealing with a situation within the White Tower,” her cousin said. “This is not a good time for a visit.”

  Merryn was inside the tower? What rotten luck. This must be why her mother had contacted her powerful niece about Grace’s presence nearby. Now her unease doubled. How were they going to get past her clever cousin to reach the gate to the underworld?

  “I’m here to help with the invasion,” Grace said. After a moment’s hesitation, she also added that Dewer would be accompanying her.

  Merryn instantly unleashed an earful of recrimination and scolding. So much so, Grace cut off the communication while it was still in full progress and pocketed the stone.

  “All is well with your family then?” Dewer asked with what could only be described as a smirk.

  Grace stood to face him, unhappy with their planned next steps. Most especially about Dewer meeting Merryn. What if he succumbed to her cousin’s allure again? Or was he still under it? “Perhaps I should accompany you inside now.”

  “Shortly after we enter the White Tower, we will leave for my world.” He stepped close enough to gently trace the line of her lower lip with his thumb. “Will the sick eel survive until our return?”