Love Spell in London

by Shereen Vedam

  Would he return?

  Would he finally see her?

  Would he realize she was a better prize than Merryn?

  Those hopes had shadowed her footsteps for months. She had researched every bit of information about Devlin Chase Dewer and the stories, whether they were harsh or wretched, only served to foster her fascination with the man. He was unique in his views, impassioned in his feelings and extraordinarily handsome to boot. Then one day he had shown up on her mother’s doorstep. Shock of shocks, when his gaze met hers in her drawing room, he had seen Grace. The contact had sent shivers up her spine and froze her at the doorway.

  His desire had been unmistakable. His pupils had widened. He had even absently caressed Farfur, and from the hellhound’s surprised expression, she suspected his master had never before petted the hound.

  As for his kiss before they left for the underworld...she slowed Ifan to a trot...when Dewer kissed her by the Thames, Grace knew she had captured his heart as firmly as he had captured hers all those months ago on the steps of Saint Agatha’s church.

  She, Ifan, and the hounds were panting as they came to a halt. The animals were exhausted after that mad dash. She was out of breath from the recognition that her choice of a mate had indeed been made. She and Dewer were permanently intertwined. There could be no turning back.

  Soon, however, the reality of such a daring choice sank in and her euphoria was dampened and her racing heartbeat slowed.

  Years ago, Grace’s eldest sister, Anna, had chosen not only to pretend to be human as most witches did, but become one, by denying her magical inheritance. The act had broken her mother’s heart. Grace had been an impressionable thirteen-year-old back then, unable to mend her mother’s deep wound. She had sworn to herself that she would never inflict such a cut on her mother. Yet, in aligning herself with Dewer, that was exactly the path she now trod.

  With a heavy heart, she urged Ifan to keep going. They entered a dense tropical forest. She spotted an opening among the bushes. A pathway that led toward a colorful blue-painted house.

  Without direction from Grace, Ifan trotted down that trail, which suggested that this might be Burns’s home. The structure was unlike anything Grace had expected a queen of the underworld to choose as her abode. Where were the soaring towers, the golden drawbridge or crowds of hangers on?

  More squat than stately, this secluded one-storey building stretched out to form a square structure extending around a central courtyard where pomegranate trees bearing red globes of fruit rose high. Bird chirping filled the air, and in the distance, one struck an enchanting note with a rising whoop-whoop-whoop call, unlike anything she had ever heard.

  The sights and sounds took her breath away. If she had not known she was in the underworld, she might have been as fooled as Ifan into thinking she had been transported into a fae kingdom with sprites and pixies living in the underbrush.

  Ifan halted and tapped his foreleg twice to indicate they had arrived at their destination. The hounds wagged their tails and gazed at her expectantly.

  Grace dismounted and, keeping a hold on Ifan’s reins, she inhaled the heavenly scents wafting from the flowery front garden and then she strolled up to the doorstep. The cottage’s wooden front door looked much like a witch’s door might, in a fairy tale book.

  The intricate carving depicted a forested landscape, with emeralds and sapphires highlighting lush mountain peaks and deep rivers. The whole proclaimed this home’s inhabitant as unafraid of thieves attempting to steal treasures housed on the door or behind it. The bold sparkling sight made Grace afraid as she remembered who resided behind that elaborate door. She was not a witch. She was a dark fae and Dewer’s over-protective mother. A queen of the underworld.

  Of course, no Callington witch would ever own such an ostentatious entrance. Not that they could ill-afford such extravagance or would be incapable of defending it. No, Wyhcans preferred an ordinary entrance because their goal was to blend into the local population, so their neighbors would mistake them for other humans. That thought set her back, for it made her wonder, despite this home being in the underworld and Wyhcans occupying the upper world, who was being the more deceptive?

  Shaking off that disturbing thought, she knocked.

  Receiving no answer, she knocked louder. Surely Burns kept a housekeeper or guard on the premises? She would not have abandoned her home simply because she was away. Not with valuables inside, and treacherous monsters outside.

  Tired of waiting, Grace tried the door. It opened without resistance. Pulling Ifan after her – who knew what he might eat out here in her absence – she cautiously walked into the entry chamber.

  The house looked to be as well-maintained inside as outside. Releasing Ifan’s reins, she ushered the animals in before shutting the door. A finger trailed along a side table proved not one stray dust particle was in sight.

  “Is anyone here?”

  No answer.

  The walls had harmless-looking artifacts and paintings of Wales. An understandable choice in decoration. Burns’s father had been a fae king from Wales. She had also married a Welsh warlock and raised his son. Something in one of the pictures moved and Grace jumped, stumbling into Ifan.

  He whinnied in protest.

  “Sorry,” she said, before chiding herself for being so nervous. What if the paintings were alive? Many witches had magical landscapes hanging on their walls. Her mother had several scenic pictures that changed color with the season.

  She calmed her nerves by telling herself she was safer in here than outside. She stepped along a corridor on the right to explore adjacent rooms, wanting to understand the man she loved better by discovering who he had been as a child. At each doorway, she cautiously called out, in case whoever was in charge of this home was asleep inside.

  The more rooms she traversed, the more certain she became that this was more Burns’s home, than Dewer’s. The house had a feminine touch, with flowers in all the vases, delicate curtains in each room, and dainty furniture throughout. Then she came across a large circular space that could only be described as an audience chamber.

  Burns’s portrait was prominently displayed high up behind a throne. No, not Burns, with her frumpy hair, dowdy clothes and cowed demeanor. This portrait proclaimed the woman every inch a queen. This was Queen Eolonde in all her cruel glory. A shiver of dread crept up Grace’s back. She took three steps back and something skittered behind her feet.

  She swung around, heart pounding, staff powered to fire. There was nothing there. Whatever had brushed her heels, had made itself scarce.

  She flexed her clenched fingers, thanking Heaven that it had not been Jonas, or she might have broken all her rules about preserving life and destroyed her cousin. She brushed aside that horrible possibility. She was here to save a life, not take it. Dewer would laugh but the idea that she was ready to strike if attacked oddly consoled her.

  The little girl who had gaily strung a worm on her fish hook to catch her dinner might not have gone far after all. That meant she might just survive her way back out of this dangerous realm. Without endangering Dewer. Not that he was here to protect her. What kept him?

  Ifan trotted through the open doorway behind her and gave her shoulder a friendly bunt.

  “I am glad you are with me, Ifan,” she murmured and scratched behind his ear.

  She searched for the hellhounds and found both Bartos and Farfur seated on the other side of the doorway leading into the audience chamber. Wise hounds.

  “Are you two hungry?”

  Bartos sat up with an interested gaze. Farfur seemed distracted, searching over his shoulder toward the front door. Probably missing Dewer as much her. He definitely needed a distraction and food would serve that purpose well. While she and Ifan must resist eating here, the hellhounds who originated from this realm were not in danger of consuming food here. Besides, she was anxious to get out of this audience chamber. The room gave her the collywobbles. She stepped back into the corridor,
rubbing her nervous tummy.

  “Come along then and show me where the kitchen is.”

  Bartos instantly loped ahead. She, Ifan and Farfur followed at a slower pace. The kitchen larder was empty, as were the cupboards. She returned to the middle of the room and pushed the kitchen table aside to make room. The three animals watched her with expectant eyes.

  “Time to see if my Wyhcan magic works in the underworld as well as it does in the upper world, boys.”

  Pointing her staff to the floor, she sent out a shot of energy, picturing meat. “Enough to satisfy the two hounds.”

  Within a cloud of energy, a freshly killed carcass appeared, skinned and ready for consumption. She set her staff down, releasing the spell. This was like no animal she recognized. A variation on a deer perhaps, with a missing head.

  Both hounds tore into their meal without hesitation. Ifan curled his lips in dislike and backtracked.

  Sending out a silent apology to whichever hunter she had stolen the meat from, Grace led Ifan away so the hounds could enjoy their meal in peace.

  “Let’s find something to distract us from eating, Ifan,” she whispered, and gently stroked his neck as she led him out of the kitchen. He quieted under her touch, snuffling into her hand.

  They entered the central courtyard and a black bird flew low overhead, almost striking Grace. She looked up in time to see the bird land in a nearby tree, disappearing within its foliage. Then came that whoop-whoop-whoop call again.

  “I wonder if that bird is the queen’s missing house guard?” she asked with a jovial smile.

  Ifan was glaring at the tree, tossing his head as if he had been unimpressed by the bird’s rude greeting. Then he stomped his foot and a squeal erupted from below.

  Something scurried into the shadow of a nearby bush, its snake-like tail trailing behind. She recognized the creature as the same type that had invaded Dewer’s carriage until her mother dealt it a swift strike.

  “Ah,” Grace said, “so this place is not unguarded.” She released the reins. “Good spotting, Ifan. Keep your eyes below and I shall watch above.”

  Grace cautiously approached the black bird. It had neither the monstrous human head of the pythos, nor the snake man’s sense of menace. The bird’s unusually enticing call did, however, fit the fae sense of the neatly kept, feminine house and front fragrant flower garden. None of it was what she had expected to find in the underworld, which made her curious about the bird.

  The house and garden she could perhaps explain as a suitable setting Burns had designed to make her son feel as if he were living in a safe comfortable home. What was the black bird’s role in this stage play? Companion and friend to Dewer, perhaps?

  At one time, Jonas and Dewer had been childhood friends. As a young girl, Grace had found a picture of the two boys in an attic trunk. When she asked her mother about it, the picture had gone up in flames. Her mother’s only explanation was that she must have missed it during the bonfire they had, to destroy all things related to Dewer. That took place after Jonas died and the circumstances of his death, and Dewer’s supposed role in it, became clear to Jonas’s family.

  If all of what they assumed was wrong and Jonas was still alive, he would be about one and twenty now. He had been three years younger than Dewer. What if Jonas was still a boy, having never aged? Or not Wyhcan at all. In this magical world, he could be anything. A tree. A throne. Or a bird with a whoop-whoop-whoop call?

  “Jonas,” she said quietly, looking up into the tree, trying to spot the bird she was sure was hiding in there, watching her. “Is that you?”

  The moment she asked the question, she felt ridiculous. How could she even know if he was this bird? Or the tree the bird hid within?

  Ifan snuffled her ear and Grace jumped, startled. She had forgotten the horse and it had followed her. “What do you think, Ifan? Could that bird be my cousin? If so, how are can we be sure? Would he remember me? Or who he once was?”

  Ifan shook his head as if overwhelmed by the flood of Grace’s questions.

  “First things first,” she said to the horse. “We must discern if this bird truly is my cousin. I have an idea of how we can entice him closer so we can find out.”

  Pulling out the orange she had squirreled away in case she encountered Jonas, she called, “Here birdie.”

  She hoped eating the orange from the upper world would mitigate whatever effect Jonas was under from having eaten food in this realm. She whistled as she peeled. If this bird was just a bird, or even a mirage of a bird, she could not afford to squander all of this fruit. She must be judicious in how much she shared.

  Wings fluttered among the thick leaves. Whoop-whoop-whoop, came the rising call, closer this time, and then a black bird flew into view, eagerly eyeing the dripping fruit.

  Black from head to tail, it resembled a crow except for its red collar and distinctive, rising-in-pitch call. It cocked its head and the motion was keenly reminiscent of Jonas gazing at her mother whenever she demonstrated a particularly tricky magical spell.

  Grace’s heartbeats sped up and her hopes took flight but she firmly brought them to ground. Though this bird did indeed look like a real one, its mannerism resembled Jonas and it resided within the confines of Burns’s home. Also, it did not possess a macabre human head. No extra limbs. Nothing even frightening about its make-up, like the over-large and ferocious hellhounds. Still, she wanted proof before she wasted her precious upper-world fruit on it. If this was Jonas, would he respond to his name?

  “Jonas?”

  The bird switched his attention from her offering to her. Did he recognize the name?

  Grace squinted, calling on her Wyhcan sight to show her if this bird was under a spell. Indeed, it was. The spell was not all over the bird, as it would be if this was a mirage. The only flare of magical energy was around its red collar. Like a shackle. She could no longer restrain her enthusiasm. Tentatively, she held out a slice of orange.

  The bird plucked and ate her gift and again gave her that odd, held-tilted scrutiny so reminiscent of her cousin’s attentive stance. That band of red shrank in width.

  All her doubts flew away. “You are Jonas,” she whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

  She quickly tore apart the rest of the orange and offered it to the bird with a trembling hand. Before long, he had eaten almost all of the orange and not flown away yet. Best of all, his collar was now no more than a slender circle of red. Barely able to contain her joy, and wishing she had brought more, Grace offered her last piece of orange.

  Ifan reached over her shoulder and stole the fruit from her palm.

  The little bird chirped indignantly.

  “Ifan,” Grace said in protest, “Jonas needed that.”

  The horse’s eyes lowered and he twitched his ears back in disgrace, dropping his head low.

  Jonas wiped his wet beak on the branch and then studied her with his characteristic head tilt.

  An alternative idea for freeing him surfaced. Her cousin, after all, was an extraordinary young lad. Like his sister, Merryn, he was the progeny of a witch and warlock. A rare occurrence, because the opposite genders of the Wyhcan race normally shunned each other. In Merryn’s case, that unique parental combination had resulted in a powerful Coven Protectress.

  Jonas, also with pure Wyhcan blood flowing in his veins, had the makings to become a most powerful warlock. Perhaps even a Wyhcan Council leader. Somewhere deep inside him, his magic must still be alive.

  The bird hopped from one end of the branch to the other. Probably wondering when she would take out another orange. Unfortunately, all she had left to offer now was advice.

  “The simplest of spells are Wish spells, Jonas,” Grace said to the bird, “and you had mastered that magic before you were taken. See if you can do one now. Close your eyes and picture who you once were.”

  To help him, she swished her finger until an image of the boy she remembered appeared beside her.

  The bird whooped in alarm and fle
w away. “No, come back. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  Chapter 13

  JONAS, HAVING EATEN the tastiest fruit he ever recalled consuming, gifted by a stranger, was incensed when a horse stole what should have been his last morsel. He wiped his wet beak on the branch and scolded the thieving horse.

  Sadly, there were apparently to be no more treats. The woman rightly also berated the horse. It was hard to pay attention though because his throat suddenly tingled. He scratched at it but that just made him dizzy. Then the woman waved her hand and cast a spell creating an image beside her.

  He’d seen plenty of magic to recognize the danger sign. Crying out in alarm, he flew up into the higher branches.

  Only when the woman, no the witch, moved away, did Jonas think back to the image she had woven with her spellcasting. It had resembled a boy, about the height Master Dewer had been when Jonas was first gifted to him. Jonas hadn’t recognized the boy but he had seemed familiar. As if this was another boy he could trust the way he trusted Master Dewer. The witch, too, had made him feel safe, until she began casting that spell.

  Cautiously, Jonas dropped down branch-to-branch, until his view of her was unhindered by leaves. She was walking away while talking to the thieving horse. Then a movement in the doorway caught his eye. Oh joy, oh joy! His master had returned!

  he was about to rush over there to welcome him when the witch noticed him, and ran over to rain kisses over Master Dewer’s face. He didn’t seem to mind, so Jonas decided the witch must be trustworthy after all.

  Jonas hopped from foot to foot, waiting for Master Dewer to call him. He always did when he came home. Though he had been gone a long while this time. Jonas had missed him. Once, he’d even ventured to the edge of the courtyard to look into the audience chamber for a sign of Master Dewer, until one of the monkey men lunged for him. Then Jonas flew back into the trees for safety and stayed away. This tree was his only safe haven. By the queen’s command, even the ravenous pythos were not allowed up here.