Love Spell in London

by Shereen Vedam

  “You do not care about Hudson,” she said, her breath catching at his sensual touch.

  “I care that you care.”

  A screech drew their gazes upwards where a raven flew toward the surrounding tower walls and landed on a corner of the south tower just as guards with green cloaks marched by.

  “Church guards,” Grace said, with concern. The Church of the Green Cross disliked Wyhcan kind. Their ancestors had hunted them centuries ago. Was this the “situation” Merryn mentioned? Or had she brought them? After all, she was married to one of the guards. “Will you be able to deal with the guards and Merryn?”

  With a forefinger under her chin, he drew her attention back to him. “The Warlock Council is sending someone to act as my intermediary. I will be let in. They need me.”

  On impulse she hugged him. “Be safe.”

  He gently set her back and then ever so slowly, as if waiting for her to object to each inch he drew nearer, he bent until their lips touched. It was like coming home.

  Every kiss she had shared before had merely been practice, to make this one perfect. His lips were warm and welcoming. She snuggled into Dewer’s hold, running her hands over his face, neck and shoulders, wanting to mold every bit of him into every crevice of her. Inhaling his essence as she imprinted him to her, at once claiming him, and offering herself up to his possession. Shock waves erupted and his kiss, which had begun in a teasing, flirty mood, now seared and ignited her senses, burning her from the inside out, as if he had already pulled her into his underworld, to be forever imprisoned.

  Finally, he withdrew, leaving her breathless.

  His eyes were molten black and a little glazed, as if he, too, could not believe the reaction they had on each other. He blinked, bringing himself back to the present. A tender smile spread across his lips as he traced her swollen lips. “If you want more of that, come find me when you have finished your healing.”

  With that tempting promise, he stepped away, leaving her deprived and shivering alone on the shore. His staff, Kemp, swooped into his grip as he strode off back toward the tree line and the tower.

  Grace was still catching her breath, her pulse hammering and her body frustrated as he left, not once looking backward.

  A splash drew her reluctant steps toward the river. Hollis was impatient to lead her to his friend, Hudson. Still in a daze, hands cupping her flaming cheeks, Grace stepped into the Thames. Just before her head sank under the surface, she glanced over her shoulder one last time, but Dewer had vanished.

  Her breathing bubble in place, Grace finally turned her attention fully to locating her next patient, but a smile played about her well-kissed lips. There was one thing she was absolutely certain about now. Dewer was no longer infatuated with Merryn.

  Grace followed Hollis deeper into the river bottom, near the embankment on which the Tower of London rested. His friend lay curled around himself, looking pale. She was surprised he was still alive. A quick probe confirmed that he was swamped by the same black poison that had infected the water god. Hollis should have died long since. Something had kept him alive until she could arrive to tend to him.

  The Creator must have a hand in this little miracle. Why? What was so important about this little eel? Creatures lived and died on a daily basis, from disease, predators, and sometimes just bad luck at being in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

  Relinquishing that impossible-to-discern train of thought, she delved deep inside the eel. As she had done with the water god, she pushed the dark matter out of the eel’s body; chasing it from every hiding place until the eel was completely free of the underworld infestation. As the last dot of darkness ran from her touch, Hollis wiggled awake and then slumped back down, exhausted.

  “You need time to recover, my little friend,” she said, gently stroking his back.

  Hudson wrapped himself around Grace’s arm, offering his profound thanks.

  “You are very welcome,” Grace said before turning to address Hollis. “Stay with your friend. He should be well enough to travel in a few hours.”

  Anxious to return to Dewer’s side, she kicked herself upward toward the surface when a chill drew her attention back down. Pausing, she glanced around, wondering about the change in temperature. There, a crack in the stone embankment was releasing an icy chill. From that slender, jagged hole, darkness seeped into the water, and as it exited, the deadly black thread split into millions of tiny pieces and dispersed into the water.

  Grace called to Joy and her staff swooped into her grip. Her hat instantly dropped a shield around her. She pointed Joy at the hole, and commanded, “Seal!”

  Her power flowed toward the crevice but the darkness struck back with a stabbing burn. Grace cringed from its terrible touch. More black glistening goo squeezed itself out of the crack, flowing faster now, pushing the crack open wider, as if in a frenzy to get out.

  DEWER REACHED THE WESTERN edge of the Tower of London and Farfur raced up to greet him. Ifan trotted over in his wake, followed by the elderly Bartos at a more leisurely pace. Dewer hugged Farfur, shocked and pleased by the warm feeling of fellowship emanating from the hellhound. He had missed him.

  “Well met, Farfur.” Ever since Dewer evicted the water god from his mind and encased him in his staff, the hound had been mentally chattering about every turn of the road Farfur and his friends had travelled, and each new scent that enchanted him. Dewer now mentally ordered the effusive hound to be silent.

  Farfur’s running commentary quieted, but he was unable to stop his tail thumping the ground in a fervent, happy, drumbeat.

  “Follow me, all of you,” Dewer said, and continued along the south side of the tower until he reached the shoreline. There, he fashioned a barge wide enough to carry the four of them past Traitor’s Gate to the meeting spot the wolf had given him. A fitting entrance. Legend had it that all who entered that way never left the tower.

  With the tide out, the stairs to the gate were half underwater. The gate stood wide open. His barge floated in without hindrance.

  Merryn, or more appropriately, Lady Braden, was at the top landing with arms crossed, blond braid tousled by the wind, and her familiar frown marring her beautiful face.

  He expected his heartache to bloom at seeing her again, so many months after he spotted her kissing the church guard, whom she eventually married. That ache would be followed by a gnawing need to exact revenge against the two. Instead, Dewer felt calm, quiet, and still. This unusual silence within his soul was akin to a sense of peace. Into that stillness, came a vision of Grace hugging him because she was worried that he might be hurt by this encounter. Warmth instantly spread like a warm toasty blanket on a chill day.

  Suppressing a grin, he sprinted the stairs to reach the landing that was part of the wide corridor between the outer walls and the White Tower within. The hellhounds and Ifan followed behind him.

  He was surprised his mother had not made an appearance yet. In the past, whenever he approached this witch or her brother, Dewer’s mother would be there to cause trouble. Then he understood her absence. She must be waiting for Merryn’s allure to break into her son’s current fascination with Grace. She would be waiting a long while.

  “Good morning,” he said and bowed to Merryn.

  “Why did you bring the horse?” She asked, pointing to Ifan, and then quickly added, “Why isn’t Grace with you?”

  “Ifan is needed on this mission and your cousin is attending to a sick eel at the bottom of the river.”

  She looked as if she wanted to argue both points, and then clamped her lips tight. “Typical.”

  “Your cousin has a tender heart.”

  “You will not toy with her heart or any other part of her.” As you did with me, the unspoken words echoed off the stone walls.

  Her lingering anger and pain were a reflection of all the tragedies this place had witnessed over the centuries. Now he was inside the Tower of London, it reminded him oddly of the underworld. It had strength, offered
refuge, and dished out indiscriminate cruelty.

  “Entirely up to Miss Adair,” Dewer replied in a quiet reverent tone.

  The narrowing of Merryn’s eyes suggested that was the right answer or perhaps she approved of his use of the lady’s formal name, signifying their relationship had yet to progress to the more intimate use of first names.

  “The Warlock Council has sent word that you are to help us close the underworld gate. Is this true?”

  “Would you believe me if I said, yes?”

  “No.”

  He had always enjoyed Merryn’s straightforward honesty, just like her brother. If he is still alive, I will bring him back to you, Merryn, that I promise. “Shall we go in?”

  As she considered his suggestion, uniformed men lined up behind her. Not the warders in their distinctive black and red, but armed men in green cloaks.

  His shoulders tensed at sight of the Guards of the Green Cross and he readied a defense spell in case any of them took it into their heads to attack. They were sensitive to a warlock’s presence ever since one cast a mind spell recently on some guards and their archbishop. The fact he wasn’t that warlock likely wouldn’t matter.

  A boat bumped against the underwater steps. Without checking, he guessed the newcomer must be the envoy the Council promised to send to intervene on Dewer’s behalf to be here at the Tower of London to deal with the dark fae invasion. Relief coursed through him at the timely intervention.

  Merryn’s mood, however, didn’t darken at the arrival of a warlock, it lightened. The gentleness overlaying her features gave Dewer an indication about the identity of the newcomer before he ever turned around. His already tense shoulders muscles tightened like a coiled snake rearing.

  Facing the legendary church guard springing up the steps, Dewer bowed and said through clenched teeth, “Lord Braden.”

  Could this day get any worse? He might be over his infatuation for this man’s wife, but he was far from being able to forgive Braden for so thoroughly stealing Merryn’s affections.

  Farfur growled while Bartos backed away, likely remembering the injury Braden’s sword had once done to him. The two hounds mirrored Dewer’s feelings of fear and loathing about this troublesome church guard.

  Chapter 11

  OLIVER, A RAVEN FROM Kent, had flown up to London today because word had spread that female ravens were willing and eager to mate. He swept along Tooly Street and swerved along the edge of the London Bridge. It was still early morning, the sun had barely risen. He planned for breakfast at the Tower of London.

  Whenever he visited, one of the warders there fed him a mouse or rat that he might have caught in his traps overnight. He landed on the east wall of the White Tower. Two young lads atop the Bloody Tower waved him to fly over.

  Oliver gave a shiver and stayed exactly where he was. He didn’t take well to ghosts and these two brother princes dressed in shirts, doublets and hosiery were notorious for playing games. Not nice ones either.

  “We’ve news,” the taller one shouted. Oliver put him at around twelve years of age. “Come over here and we’ll tell you all about it.”

  Oliver wasn’t falling for that old gambit. “I’m waiting for breakfast,” he replied. “If it’s so wonderful, tell me from there.”

  “Come here now!” the elder boy shouted, slamming his fist on the parapet. A show of temper that suggested, he didn’t take kindly to fools or he’d been brought up expecting everyone to bow to his every wish.

  Too bad. Oliver turned around pointing his tail feathers in their direction. The door to the queen’s cottage opened, and one of the warders in black and red came out.

  Oliver cawed a welcome.

  The man waved back, a smile of welcome. “Stay there,” he said. “I’ve got a right treat for you today. There’s a ghastly infestation in the basement from many-headed creatures to multi-limbed monstrosities.”

  Sounded tasty. Fluffing his feathers in anticipation of the morning treat, Oliver glanced back to see if the boys had lost interest and left. No, they were still there, watching him.

  “The warder’s talking about trouble brewing in that tower,” the shorter one said, a couple of years younger than his brother. “I wouldn’t tarry over your breakfast.”

  Oliver couldn’t help himself. He had to ask. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind those two are here to deal with.” The elder boy pointed across the field toward the River Thames.

  Oliver glanced over and spotted a couple kissing. He’d flown over them on the way here but not paid much attention. There’s been plenty of people and birds and animals smooching in London today. The rumors were right. Love seemed to be abundantly flourishing in town lately. The very reason he’d flown up here from the south today.

  While waiting for the warder to return, he took a closer look at the two the boys pointed out and realized they weren’t just any old love-sick couple. Those two were a witch and a fae-warlock. Giving a deep, throaty kraa of alarm, Oliver took off, spreading out his large wings.

  His flapping made a swish, swish sound as he winged his way to the east. Breakfast could wait. Whatever those two Wyhcans were here to deal with didn’t bode well, especially after the ghostly brothers’ warning. A tasty mouse, even a two-headed one, wasn’t worth dying over.

  BRADEN REACHED THE landing and approached Merryn. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between husband and wife. Though neither touched the other, they might as well have kissed ardently.

  Dewer’s stomach turned as if he had eaten a moldy piece of cheese. Not from disgust, as much as envy. Would Grace and he ever reach such a level of unspoken intimacy? Chances seemed slim, until he remembered their kiss.

  “Dewer.” Braden nodded in greeting, his gaze roving with avid curiosity over the horse and hellhounds. Both hounds unconsciously retreated a little behind Dewer while Ifan whickered in a warm welcome.

  After mooring their boat, Braden’s manservant climbed up next at a more leisurely pace. If Dewer remembered correctly, this man’s name was Garth. The wizened manservant was a wizard of some talent, though Dewer had managed to deceive him once in London. Only once. Garth stood at Braden’s back, keeping a wary eye on Dewer.

  The fact that Braden had hired a wizard always surprised Dewer. Church guards mistrusted magic, so aligning himself, nay befriending this wizard, was unusual. Then again, Braden was no ordinary church guard. He was married to a witch and carried a sacred broadsword strapped to his back. Bartos was shivering beside Dewer. He, too, knew the deadly power of that blessed sword.

  “The Warlock Council has requested that I be your escort here,” Braden said in a cheerful tone.

  A morning of monumental surprises.

  “Why you?” The question slipped out before Dewer could rein it in. He hated that he had sounded petulant.

  “They needed someone the church guards would heed,” Braden said. “They also requested that I present you to the House of Lords to receive your title, once this little problem is resolved.”

  Dewer wanted to throw that last offer back in Braden’s face but his mother’s teaching halted his instinctive rejection.

  Never turn your back on an opportunity to turn the tables on your enemy, Devil.

  “Much obliged,” he murmured with a subtle head nod, and squashed the urge to punch the amiable church guard’s handsome aristocratic nose. The Council trusted a church guard, but still kept Dewer at arm’s length. His old sense of betrayal returned, bringing its bitter flavor.

  Merryn looked as displeased by her husband’s offer as Dewer and curtly said, “Then shall we proceed?”

  She entered the first floor. Braden drew his broadsword, which sang with a metallic tune as if readying for battle, and then he followed his wife in. Garth was right behind him. Merryn said over her shoulder, “All visits to this keep have been suspended.”

  Dewer strode in last with Farfur, Bartos, and Ifan, a more comforting alliance than his other companions. He had missed the hounds after h
e locked himself in his tower to retrench after Merryn’s desertion. Ifan’s unrepressed cheerfulness was simply a joy.

  “You cannot seriously be planning to bring that horse in here?” Merryn called back. “Besides which, he will not fit in the stairwell that leads down to the basement.”

  Dewer turned to observe Ifan. Since Farfur’s and his communication was reinstated, Farfur had been regaling him about Ifan. How he seemed to trot as if to music even after trudging for miles without relief. That he was unafraid of Braden, even allowing him to pet him. Also, that the horse instantly obeyed Farfur’s every order. Ifan’s eyes were currently wide open with excitement, as if he were anticipating a grand adventure. He reminded Dewer of himself as a child, the day his mother first took him to visit the underworld.

  An odd affection blossomed in his heart for the horse. Perhaps Farfur’s sudden attachment to Ifan was rubbing off on him, which in itself was odd. Before they entered London, horse and hound had been at constant loggerheads.

  Shaking off that odd change in behavior, he now considered the problem at hand. Merryn was correct on one point. The narrow stairs leading to a confined basement was no place for a stallion. He had plans for Ifan, however, that did not include leaving him behind.

  He ran a hand down the horse’s broad black back, reaching for the energy memory of the hare inside the horse and tweaked it, bringing it to the surface. Ifan instantly transformed back into his former shape.

  “Ah, bait,” Braden said, with an approving nod.

  Ifan’s ears twitched and he looked ready to hop back out, but Dewer laid a restraining hand on his furry brown neck. I will not allow anyone to harm you, he mind-spoke, but the hare was in full panic mode and could not seem to hear him.

  The two hellhounds whined as if they, too, were concerned about Dewer’s plan for their companion.

  He held out a hand to them to keep calm, and channeled a mind spell to quell the hare’s fears. Such spells – banned outright by witches – were discouraged by the Warlock Council, especially for use on humans. Wyhcan mind spells were dangerous to wield on Earth, often changing unexpectedly during mid-cast. However, the Council had refused to admit Dewer into their circle, so he had no compunction about disregarding their strictures. Nor did he owe any allegiance to witches. Yet.