THE SORCERER’S MARK

By

Ellen Ashe

© copyright May 2005, Ellen Ashe

Cover art by Amber Moon, © copyright May 2005

ISBN 1-58608-585-9

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Prologue

He awoke because he knew.

Buried in the crypt beneath castle ruins, the darkness had robbed him of the passage of time. He had slept, for hours, days, months, years, a century or more, how was he to know? Water dripped down earthen walls searching for escape through tiny cracks, while damp air had saturated his straw lair. This! This was not a bedchamber for a powerful man, a feared sorcerer. This was a place of torture, a prison, meant to keep his lips silent, eyes closed. Meant to keep him from abusing the soft white flesh he craved to taste. Meant to rot the seed he was meant to sow. This was his punishment for taking one chaste maiden too many, for laying with her in a bed of satin and silk and for creating a child believed to be a blight—soiled blood. There had been many children—in the silence of recollection his ears filled with their cries—the pleading mothers, the shouts of dishonored families. He had ignored it then, he did so now. Except one, the last one—a woman abandoned, her brother angered to the point of vengeful destruction—for his family had welcomed him into their home. Welcomed him for he was the comrade to their son, a loyal friend, an honored blood-brother. Wine had flowed to celebrate the victorious return from fields of battle. Too much wine. Too many voices. A friend who had become an enemy. That voice was the loudest still. How he loathed the sound.

But he was awakening, ever so slowly.

He had had little empathy for those he once ravished. Why should he? They came to him, extolling his handsomeness, his eloquent speech, his fine clothes, inviting his charm. They presented their bodies for the pleasures he bestowed. He would never deny them the taste of passion. They were drawn to him, as moths to a lantern’s light, and if they were burned as a result, then this was not his concern. He was a warrior and a warrior’s path was long and crooked and it took him many places. He was a sorcerer and his pride had created superiority. He was wise and powerful and meant to travel a solitary journey. They were mere women. Yes, lovely, and soft, and ripe and welcoming, but limited in thought. None could compare to him. None could outwit him and certainly none were worthy to cast a hold on his attentions except for the duration of an embrace. Yes, their wombs swelled as a result of the embrace. This was the fate they brought upon themselves. How dare they cry once the foolishness of such acts produced results. How dare they utter that his seed was worthless and common. How dare they seek recompense. He was a warrior and a sorcerer, and his path was one he would tread alone. He was a slave to no one except the one who resided within his heart—his dark side—the one who spoke without scruples. This was what made him great. Wyldelock Talan De Croft would not be lumbered with conscience. To do so would mean ruin, limitation, infirmity and he harbored none of these. And his darkness, the brutal warrior within, was shared with only one other—his comrade—their bond secured, their talents extreme, their paths similar. Only he deserved respect. In a blink of an eye one fateful night, when the wine flowed too freely, the flush of victory too warming, that respect was lost. An honored comrade became a vengeful enemy.

He remembered because he was waking.

That fateful night he had answered the flirtatious suggestion, followed her to her chamber, and took the gift she offered. Her kiss was the sweetest, her sighs were the longest and he had luxuriated in delicate femininity. Only beautiful women could make him tremble so. She had been the most beautiful. But she was his comrade’s sister, and a child had been conceived. He left her chamber, harnessed his steed and rode away, following a crooked trail. She had been the most beautiful. The memory of her lingered too long. He had wrestled with the demon of confusion. Her brother’s face had haunted him. It was then he traveled the most treacherous of paths, to the Underworld, to sell his love for immortality. Love had no place in a heart confused, a soul condemned, a conscience pricked. But even in that wretched place he found no fulfillment. Lost love translated to cracked foundation—an empire could not be built on sand—and sand was slipping from beneath his feet. An enemy grew ever stronger.

He remembered. He was awake.

The darkness of lament filled his comrade’s soul. As the wine that flowed in celebration, it bubbled over the rim, spilling on the pure white cloth of friendship, staining it crimson. Soiled blood between them now. The darkness they shared, once a power in battle, a power of alliance, a power of shared dominion, had grown black. The inky depth was too much for a brother scorned. He succumbed to the rot of hatred and jealousy and revenge. The object of such hatred was Wyldelock’s existence. Demons drank from the cup of communion that had once been reserved for mortal lips. He fled from the one man, the only man that he had loved, respected and honored. He fled, for the terror of revenge glowed bright. So bright and harsh it was as fire, burning flesh, stinging eyes, singeing hair. So relentless its quest that the only relief to be found was deep within the earth, beneath the estate he had once called a refuge. In the crypt he would not be pursued. In the crypt he was safe from the glowing eyes of vengeance. But above him was uttered a threat. The walls crumbled, the foundation shattered. One last voice, one last promise of retribution regardless of the shield of time. One last memory before he fell into the straw and slept a dreamless sleep.

But not eternal sleep. For his vision was beginning to clear. Finally the ties were breaking.

And once more he caught the sweet fragrance of a woman meant for him.

He crouched on all fours, stretching unused muscle, luxuriating to the sensation of impending freedom. His naked body shivered within the dank air, eruptions of existence, warm blood that still coursed through his veins. His hair had grown into a matted mane. Fingernails curled like thin knives creating the claws that would help him to scratch away the earth that made up his prison. His nostrils flared, taking breath into limp lungs. He rasped, the vibration exercising impotent vocal cords. As he rose from the damp straw he howled, long and loud, the animal within finding its voice. Victory tasted sweet in his dry mouth. He was alive!

And he knew—another awaited him—within her breast he would find absolution.

He would find her.

The scent had wafted past his nostrils, even though the dampness of this place was everywhere. The scent had fluttered through his being, pooling in his groin, stiffening awareness. The scent renewed his potential. He reached down, touched himself and cried out with the searing pain. He was forbidden to relieve the pressure—the punishment had been cruel. Through the passage of time a harsh plight remained. He was conscious, alive, on the move, but his masculinity had been tampered with. His seed was dry.

In a scream of agony he urinated into the accursed mound of straw that had been his bed for the eons it took to wake. Never again would he rest here. The stinging flow of water made certain of the fact. Finding the spring that gushed nearby, he wet his lips, and then drank of the earth’s life-blood. Vitality was growing. He felt his muscles tighten—his legs, arms, shoulders. Urgency was searing through him. Her breath was his call. If he smelled it and awoke, so, too, would his enemy.

He knew. He understood what had to be done.

Punishment had followed. Immoral transgressions had a price to be paid. Never again could he take of flesh carelessly. Never again could he taste pure white maidenhood and then abandon its results. Never again could he lust for the sake of lust. Now there was only one, and in order to subdue the craving, his own flesh demanded he had to find her, cradle her, cherish her, be a mate to her. Betrothed to only one—this was the demand that had been left on him. For his body to sustain life, his soul had to be cleansed. He had no choice but to hunt her down. The fire could never be extinguished until that moment arrived. He would never be whole until his lungs were filled with the sweetness of her virginity. And to live, he must remain her loyal servant. She would sweep the cobwebs of darkness from the corners of his soul. She was his savior. She was his chosen.

She was out there. He knew it as well as he knew himself.

He lifted his fists in one last outburst of fury, shaking them to the ruined ceiling above. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft.” The stones beneath his bare feet began to tremble and rightly so. “I am alive.” The shudders emanated up each leg, growing in intensity. A noble stance, he held firm to the rocking of the stones beneath, the dust that began to slither down the murky walls. “My spirit returns!” he called, the words bouncing off the earthen cell, shattering rock. “I will live again.”

The quake opened the sky above his extended arms. Nothing made him flinch—not dirt or dust or falling stone or the blur of lights across the black sky. With the clean night air rushed the wash of restitution. Stars had been placed in the heavens just for this happening. His power surged through his veins, and as his nose filled with her perfume, his mind burned with obsession.

He awoke because he knew.

His cause would lead each step.

His hunger would direct his path.

Wyldelock Talan De Croft was reborn.

Chapter One

Except for a placid caress along the pebbled shoreline, the ocean was at peace. It was uncommon that such serenity touched the usually energetic surface. Usually, the dark blue broiled, stirred by currents and wind and a hidden eternal restlessness that demanded unrepentant respect for those who ventured near. As the early summer sun began its journey into the distant curve where the sky fell into the crystal sea, sinking into the mystical place where it slept for the evening hours, the cool wind died, giving up another day’s impassioned embraces. The same peace radiated through Olivia as she lightly picked her path along the beach. For the duration of these precious moments she felt as one with all that Mother Earth kindly bestowed.

Olivia had always been sensitive to the changing moods of the ocean. The angry waves had, since childhood, filled her with a mixture of awe and a need to whisper some faint word that might calm its restless spirit. But like any other all-powerful emotions within the human heart she was reminded that words did little when time itself was the only cure. Time, and mediation, and knowing that all energy flowed naturally within the realm of nature. Respect was the key—learn to understand the tug of the moon upon the tides, enjoy the currents of warm waters as a gift of summer, respect the icy cold on winter’s depression, and stand a respectful distance away when storms in the soul churned anger—until the serenity returned again and all turmoil was put at ease. She felt as though her life reflected each and every movement of the eternal sea that yawned out before her now. Yet she was so small and insignificant compared to its supremacy that she blushed, and apologized often for thinking she could even begin to have knowledge of one so prevailing. And then she would whisper sincere thanks for teaching her how to survive the confusions that these last days seemed intent on throwing at her. If the surface of the sea, so vast and deep, could mirror such tranquility, she, too, could learn to shoulder life’s burdens.

Her step froze as she gazed on the white pebbles, finding a gull that had been caught in a discarded piece of netting. Its eyes were glazed in death, feathers distorted, tiny neck twisted. She knelt beside the small corpse, tenderly releasing it from the weapon that had secured its demise. “Oh,” she cried. For this should never have happened. This was a reckless abomination on a creature fashioned by nature and soiled by the hand of man. “Poor thing,” she sighed, running her finger over the open beak. Of course death was a part of the cycle of life, but not like this. She sensed the instinctual struggle to survive, how it must have squirmed within the netting, trying in vain to find freedom. Losing hope it perished, and now, as Olivia scooped up the lifeless body and placed it reverently into the sea, she prayed that its spirit would find release to soar the sky again in another life. Such hope was a comfort, despite the wash of loss that gripped her heart.

What was it within man that instigated such carelessness? Could people not realize that they are a part of nature, not its supreme masters? Cruelty, even in ignorance, was intolerable. It was darkness within the human psyche she could never understand. Nor did she want to.

“Olivia.”

A phantom wind caressed her ear. She scanned the empty beach, senses alert, although she detected nothing out of the ordinary.

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders to ease the chill, she continued to walk. “I have been hurt as well,” she whispered, as though the gull’s eternal spirit tipped its head to listen. “I struggled within a net cast out by an irresponsible hand. He said he loved me and would utter no word that might cause me harm. But it was a lie.” She stopped, scanning the horizon. A fishing boat, a dot on the sea, bobbed silently. She wondered what waste they were throwing into the water concluding that because the sea was so wide and vast that the act would go unknown. Every action had consequences even though it might go unseen. Action and then reaction. One word, one look, one thoughtless flick of the wrist, and instantly a chain of events is put into motion. Without the word or the look or the flick of the wrist, a whole different outcome was possible. Only one was allowed, favored by fate, or luck, or providence, or whatever a mind wished to use as a title to rationalize the result. Whichever, action resulted in reaction, and her limited experience with love had been cruel enough to warrant austere caution.

“You are mine.”

Heat flushed her face.

Olivia lowered her gaze while drawing deeply the salt air into her lungs. “I thought I loved him, too,” she said, melancholy sinking her heart like a stone thrown into an empty well. “He demanded my favors because of simple words. I knew then that his confession of love was all a lie. So he left me for another who gave him what he sought.” A fresh sting of betrayal deepened her downhearted mood. Unlike the gull she had managed to free herself from the net. Even so, she felt as though a part of her had died. A promise of love had been dashed on the rocks. Then the darkness within her psyche whispered that love wasn’t even real—it couldn’t be seen, touched, tasted, measured. Those who said they understood lied for personal gain—physicality, control—and Olivia was beginning to believe that love had no voice after all.

“Come to me.”

Her feet had begun to move again. Confidence swelled in her breast.

Time would heal the pain. The sea could boil with the hurt of abuse and then settle again and if one so infinite could do so, then she could as well.

The night Olivia returned from college she had crawled into her bed and sobbed to relieve the hurt of a broken heart. She hadn’t spoken of her loss to either her mother or Gran, but when the house was quiet, Gran had crept into her bedroom and offered comfort. “This, too, shall pass,” she said, passing Olivia a white embroidered handkerchief. “Dry your eyes, little one. Make each day count. Love will find you.”

Olivia smiled, taking courage from Gran’s infinite wisdom. For being small and hunched and feeble, the elderly woman harbored strength in wisdom. That came with age and experience and a harmony that could be eked from the lessons of nature. Gran had the sight—a time-honored ability to see and understand what mere mortals could not. Her body was frail, her face creased, but her eyes sparkled with a lifetime of understanding. Sometimes, though, Olivia would catch Gran staring at her with a profound sadness. But when their eyes met she would smile and the sadness would disappear. Olivia wondered what it was Gran saw. In her twenty-one years of life, however, she never once asked.

The still water exaggerated laughter, men’s laughter. She stopped a moment to watch the fishing boat glide closer to the bay. Their nets hauled, they were returning to town and likely already celebrating a profitable catch with opened bottles.

Home had always been a cherished place. It stood halfway between the lighthouse and the town of Beacon’s Bay, built near the fork of a dirt road that led to paved. The loneliness of isolation never bothered Olivia. Even as a child she found contentment tending Gran’s herb gardens or walking along the beach, gathering shells and smooth stones, lost within her thoughts and dreams. Rarely did she venture into town when she didn’t have to. Other children teased her for being a witch, like her mother and Gran. Guarded adults crossed the street to avoid them when they shopped, and plastic smiles that were meant to hint politeness were nothing more than silent accusations. Yet when questions of the future were urgently sought, women from the village would arrive at their door with teacups or extended palms, and Gran would vaguely give them information meant merely to humor their taste for the supernatural. She knew they were hypocrites, at the very least ignorant. “Witches worship nature for what She is—the supreme body of Mother Goddess—so you needn’t apologize to anyone for being different,” Gran had told Olivia often. None understood that herbs and oils and spells were meant to keep the human spirit in tune with the subtle energy within all things. All the town’s women wanted were quick answers to troubling questions about husbands or boyfriends, and then they would depart to the safety of their own world to whisper cruel rumors about the three generations that still plagued this quiet fishing village.

The boat carried on, as did the bursts of faceless laughter. They were headed back to the village, back to their homes, where their families waited and wondered if the witch’s predictions of hope and fulfillment found in a cup or a crease on the palm might in fact come true.

“My chosen one.”

Regardless of the rumor of heresy, mother ran her business—a bookshop in the heart of town. Summer was a lucrative time, when tourists arrived and found delightful historical accounts of the haunted estate that stood near the lighthouse known as Byrne’s Keep. The stories recounted a tragic family history of mysterious deaths, an age-old curse, and over exaggerated the existence of several ghosts that were said to walk the stormy cliff at nightfall. Between the profits from mother’s shop and the life insurance left to them after her father’s passing, Olivia had gone to college, securing a degree in art history. Now she was home again with a certificate in hand and a broken heart in her chest. Uncertain as to what she would do with her future, she was content to spend summer with her family, to heal, and think and dream, tend a newly planted garden, walk the beach, and collect shells, as she had done as a girl.

“Closer.”

A peculiar sensation of arousal filtered through her gut. Merely seconds, and then the heat washed away. Memories. Her body was reminding her that the little girl was gone. “Even witches who are cursed need to be held,” she said.

“Yes.”

Olivia lifted her gaze from the shore to study the abandoned home high on the cliff. Byrne’s Keep. Built mostly of stone it resembled the Bavarian castle it was meant to imitate. Even a turret on one side with slit windows stood guard over the steepest side of the rocky crag. Once there had been stained glass windows brought from Europe, crafted by people who believed the mythological images could protect the inhabitants from the fury of evil spells. In the hundred or so years it had remained empty, venturesome children had dared each other to sneak close and throw rocks through the innocent panes, an act that reduced hours of passionate labor and beauty into shredded pieces of colored glass. Despite the desecration the building clung to its nobility as firmly as it clung to the earth beneath its foundations.

Sometimes, when Gran was feeling particularly reminiscent, she would share stories of the home’s history, and Olivia would hang onto every word for these stories excited her imagination and sense of romance; the two seemed intricately interlocked as far as Olivia was concerned. Gran didn’t often talk about the Keep because she said it was soulless, and that hinted mystery without romance faded in shadows. Regardless, when Gran did feel the need to talk, Olivia listened, barely even breathing so immense was her attention.

“Born for me.”

It had been her great-great grandfather, Henry Byrne, who saw the first stone erected. A retired English sea captain, he started the home for his German bride, Anna Von Der Weilde. It was their only son, Horace, who saw its completion in 1864. Tragedy seemed to follow these men of the sea. Henry was said to die of a broken heart when his wife fell fatally into the hands of fever on her fortieth birthday. Horace was swept into the ocean and drowned on a summer’s night by a wave that appeared out of nowhere, like liquid fingers dragging him into a deep watery grave. The legend of the family curse was born of these tragic events, crystallizing in the minds of the locals in Beacon’s Bay when Jonathan Byrne, intent on building ships rather than mastering them on the waves like his father and grandfather, returned to England to work for the then prestigious White Star Line. He was meant to return on the company’s crowning glory, Titanic. April 1912 saw another Byrne bride a widow. Mythical creatures on delicately stained glass seemed impotent against what fate deemed for those who chose to live within such cold hard walls. The few times Gran spoke of the Keep, she would pull her chair closer to the fire and blink grief from misty eyes. Perhaps it was soulless after all.

The stately home held no such sorrow for Olivia. Romance and intrigue wove a gold thread through its historical tapestry, a thread she now felt oddly compelled to begin unraveling. Providence was urging her on.

Olivia had promised Gran she would never explore the empty rooms. Often, as a girl, Olivia’s curiosity would lure her close, but she honored her promise and never ventured inside. Gran believed in the fierceness of a curse because of the evil within the heart that issued it. And the curse, she said, breathed as they breathed and must never be roused from sleep. Nothing pleased her more than to see the building remain empty. “If no soul enters,” she told Olivia once, “then no soul can be harmed.”

The motive of such fanciful tales, Olivia believed, was to keep her more from physical harm than for want of losing her soul. No longer a child she could certainly explore the inside, discriminating which floorboard was safe, or which stone was preparing to crumble. The concession didn’t take long to convince her to climb through the shrubs on the one slanting hill that led to the estate. Before long she was on the edge of the slope, the very place which once had felt the wheels of carriages and vibrated with drumming hooves of the noble steeds that pulled them.

“Yes. Come to me—now. Hurry!”

A rose garden gone wild from seasons of negligence had snuck through cracks in broken stone steps. The enforced wooden doors held tight to hinges that creaked protest as Olivia guardedly pressed the brass handle and regardless of how carefully she stepped, her presence echoed through the cheerless foyer. Void of life, the memory of an era long gone dotted the entrance—broken picture frame, shattered blue Oriental vase and a coat rack that held nothing but a tattered drapery of silver cobwebs. As Olivia sunk deeper inside the grand hallway, she was delightfully surprised to find the interior amazingly intact. Dry leaves carpeted the stone floor, blown in by the sea air, but the blocks were strong and the bare walls free from decay.

Sunlight streamed through into the rooms to her left where once her ancestors would sit to watch the day end over the sea beyond the cliff. She wondered if Byrne women would take their places here and sew, waiting for the return of men who chose to challenge the ocean with bold creations and then weep upon learning that arrogance had a price to be paid. A long bench beneath one casement held one stitched cushion, damp and moldy from intrusive salt spray. As Olivia peered from the glassless window, she saw the fishing boat finally glide from sight around the curve toward the town’s sheltered bay.

Shadows prevented her from inspecting the darkened rooms on the right. Instead she climbed the wide staircase, pausing on the landing to glance warily over one shoulder. A chill had fluttered down her back, as though unfaltering eyes secretly watched her exploration. Nothing stirred. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her arms and proceeded to the next floor.

The line of wooden doors was locked with the exception of one, what she assumed must have been the master bedroom within the turret. The rounded inside wall contained thin windows that overlooked the sharpest precipice, and she smiled to the imaginative image of medieval knights pulling their arrows in defense of the fortress. A grate stood guard against a cold fireplace. Its mantle was carved with openmouthed cherubs, each writhing to escape the impending claws of golden birds of prey, frozen within the moment of capture. An oval oak table, the center leg branching out at the bottom, three feet, its talons embedded into the wood stood against one wall. On the nicked surface was one candlestick, colored wax over the rim the only evidence of use. Olivia paused to wonder why vandals hadn’t long since taken such a treasure. Certainly a collector would pay much for such a beautiful piece of antiquity. But then, Olivia mused, a building could have a soul and this one still whispered a prevailing essence. “You know me, don’t you?” she said to the walls. “You know I am one of your own.”

“My own.”

The frame of a four-poster bed lay in ruins. It failed to stand up against the elements of nature that had crept with time through the window, or perhaps hands had torn it asunder to light a fire. Yet a trunk, solid and firm, sat unmolested in one corner. A beam of light from the quickly setting sun cast a direct glow on its brass enforcements and Olivia knelt, certain the blackened lock would hold fast. Her heart beat double time when the top succumbed to her tug. She gasped aloud with delight upon finding the contents.

A gown laid neatly folded, white now yellow. She dared not lift it, thinking any movement might cause it to instantly disintegrate. A Bible with leather binding peeked out from beneath the material. One pearl earring was partially hidden by the curled paper that lined the trunk. And another book with no title seemed to call for her attention. She scooped it up and sat on the floor, turning the cover with tender care.

“Amelia Anne Byrne. The year of our Lord, 1912.”

The pages of the diary were surprisingly sturdy. Olivia took exceptional care in turning the pages, however, as the corners were brown with age. Each page began with a date and a short Biblical quote.

“February 12th. God is good. Jonathan has been gone only three days and the loneliness of this place fills me with unspeakable sadness. I have only now stopped weeping, praying my fears are unwarranted. Such selfishness! For his joy in returning to the Old Country radiated throughout these rooms as brilliantly as the beam from any lighthouse. Yet I cannot but fear for his safety in voyage. Soon he approaches his fortieth year and my soul darkens to the prospect. I have no other choice than to believe in the power of my prayers over that of a malicious birthmark. Arthur, bless him, is a comfort to me. He is well and a happy boy. Tomorrow we celebrate his twelve years of life. I must remember God’s blessings, not dwell on the evil of this curse that courses through our blood.”

Olivia paused, taking a deep breath. Arthur Byrne was the grandfather she never knew. He died on February 13, 1940,as a result of a car accident. She felt her brow furrow. It seemed that the hallmark of fortieth birthdays was a difficult hurdle for certain members of the family—an odd coincidence that Gran had alluded to as a curse. Usually Olivia would shirk off the assessment of curses with an apathetic shrug, but sitting here in this quiet room that once echoed with the sounds of life and dedicated foreboding, she shivered. The authoress of this small book certainly believed in curses.

Turning the pages of web-like handwriting she found the page that congealed belief in evil. “April 13th. He is the Light of the world. My prayers have been cried in vain. Jonathan is lost to a watery grave with hundreds of other innocent souls. The Great Ship is gone and it took my beloved away from me.”

Olivia shut the small diary through shock alone. “It can’t be true,” she whispered. Her fingers trembled with the evidence within her hand. Henry Byrne’s wife died of fever at forty, Horace drowned at forty, Jonathan aboard Titanic at forty, her grandfather at forty behind the wheel of a car. It had to be a cruel coincidence. The peculiar deaths had stopped there, hadn’t they? Gran was in her seventies and mother had recently turned forty-three. True, her father had died too soon, but he was nearing fifty when cancer battled supreme within his body. She clasped the diary to her breast and blinked, realizing the shadows within the room were lengthening and that she was growing weary.

“I must go,” she said to no one except the walls, and prepared to stand.

“Olivia. Please stay.”

The voice was firm. Clear.

Instinctively Olivia crouched, darting quick penetrating glances between the door and the window. “Who’s there?” she called out, despite the constricting dry knot in her in throat. Her only answer was a short high pierced whistle—one diminutive gust of wind attempting thoroughfare in a shattered flue.

The wind. It had been teasing her all afternoon. Perhaps that was all she had heard now, nature’s lips accidentally forming syllables she mistakenly understood as language. Her senses had been keenly heightened by this nonsense of curses, and oddities within these bleak rooms had taken vitality only because her flare for imagination was overactive. But what if it wasn’t? What if a spirit, stirred by her beating heart, had risen from the cold to seek out her existence? Unwittingly she had trapped herself—the cliff and ocean beneath the window, and dark blue holes of nothingness along the home’s long passageways—one means of escape seemed as fatal as the other.

“Who’s there?” she repeated, bravely this time. Slowly she had risen and found that without commanding them her feet moved, carrying her trembling frame toward the bedroom door.

The hall was still, and by far blacker than when she had arrived. A dim hue on the landing was the light she aimed for, and with a gulp of torpid air she dashed, narrowly averting disaster, gripping the railing to foil a trip over one heel. Her wrist twisted, and she stopped momentarily at the bottom step to nurse her pride while scolding irrational fears. “Now look what you’ve done to yourself, foolish girl,” she chided. Regardless, urgency continued to demand she head for the main entrance and leave without apology for haste.

“Oh,” she sighed, adding stupidity to her list of self-abomination. “The diary!” She had left the book on the floor, beside the trunk. She wanted to keep that diary and argued fiercely with her fears about returning to the upstairs chamber to retrieve it. After all, she had spent a lifetime shrugging off stories veiled in nonsense—“curses indeed!”—and here she was, fleeing from what she had continually announced as inscrutable.

Stiffening her shoulders she walked calmly back up the stairway. Clinging to defiance, she shot icy glares into the shadows, almost daring what lingered there to step forth and present itself. Nothing did. Even so, her confidence was fragile. Nervous tremors beyond her control shivered fine hairs on her arms to attention.

“I shall not be outdone,” she said, finding assurance in brave words spoken with poise. To conquer this misgiving would certainly reflect bravery to those challenges that awaited her in the future, whatever form they took. Suddenly, retrieving the diary had become a sincere mission in cementing self-confidence. To reinstate her resolve she actually slowed her step.

“There now,” she exclaimed, reaching the top step. “Nothing to fear but fear itself.” But as she circled to the bedroom a movement outside the window caused her to shriek.

She clasped her thrashing breast, weakening in the knees. Then she smiled in embarrassment. An owl shifted its weight from one leg to the other on the window railing, bobbing its head, huge eyes seemingly wondering why it had startled her so badly. And as Olivia collected her dented senses, it continued to study her.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “I wasn’t expecting your company.”

It nodded and shifted again, long claws wrapped around the metal railing. She expected it to spread wide wings and flap away, but when it stayed, she felt she needed to explain. “The diary belonged to my great-grandmother,” she said. Odd, how the presence of another beating heart soothed her trepidation in this lonely place. Odder still how the majestic creature swiveled its head to gaze exactly to where the book lay on the floor. A warm flood of communion washed through Olivia’s chest. Obviously a coincidence, but she continued to speak to the feathered acquaintance as though it could comprehend her every word. As though in return it might offer empathy.

She moved quietly along the edge of the room, not wanting to frighten the owl. “Seems there is a history in my family of broken hearts. I’m certain that the diary will illuminate a few dark secrets.” She smiled at this. Not only was it silly to be admitting the possibility of a blight on her family tree, but she was also revealing such secrets to a bird.

Olivia knelt and picked up the diary, holding it against her breast under folded arms. The owl waited and watched. They looked at each other for a moment. It leaned forward and, so certain was she it was preparing to speak, she too leaned with expectancy. A ruffling of feathers was the only communication.

Suddenly she was acutely aware of her femininity. Internal muscles constricted, her nipples became tender, and a short bolt of ecstasy ricocheted throughout her body, lessening in intensity as it dulled. She clasped the diary, feeling confused, embarrassed.

“You are truly a noble and handsome creature,” she said, an urgency to leave now. “I must go. Time for me to be getting home.” She started off abruptly, thinking this might cause the bird to do the same, but it stayed. She felt the saucer-wide eyes continue to stare, not only at her, but also through her. Reaching the door she turned. “Thank you,” she said without knowing why.

As her steps faded away and the heavy door clanked shut, the owl shifted once more. Expanded wings narrowed and grew long, talons stretched and molded into feet beneath heavy legs, and the wide eyes narrowed, forming lids over brown pupils. Feathers manifested into heavy black hair that flowed over shoulders of flesh and muscle and bone. “Olivia,” the now human lips whispered as the massive bulk of the man stood erect in the empty room. “Olivia, my own,” he whispered. “This is your home.”

Chapter Two

“I’m late,” Mother issued as she tipped her breakfast plate and coffee mug into the kitchen sink. She whirled round to Olivia. “Ollie, would you check on Gran? She had a restless night I’m afraid, and I don’t have time to take her tea.”

“She’s not sick, is she?” Olivia asked with concern. There had been incidents that had worried mother. Gran had become wobbly on her feet, falling for no apparent reason, dark bruises forming on her thin arm or fragile hip as a result. Worse still she had become forgetful—leaving a tap running, or losing a thought in the middle of a sentence—troubling mother when she was at the shop. More than once she said it was a relief to know Olivia would be close by to keep a watchful eye.

“No,” Mother sighed. “Not sick—upset. It’s my fault, I suppose. Word has it that the Keep has been sold and Gran’s not happy about the prospect.”

“Sold?” Olivia blinked. “Who in their right mind would buy the Keep?”

Mother picked up her purse and pressed a kiss into Olivia’s forehead. “Anyone who is grotesquely rich doesn’t have to be in their right mind.”

“But….” She faltered, trying to come to grips with what fate might hold for the treasured old building. It had become a landmark and part of its mystique was that it remained hollow. For someone to buy the property meant change—renovation—or even worse, demolition. “But … why?”

“Don’t know,” Mother sang as she picked up her keys. “All I heard was that some wealthy duke or count has bought the whole thing—the Keep, the lighthouse and the ten acres that go with it. Whether that’s true or not….” She shrugged. “You know how the tongues in this town wag. Regardless, Gran didn’t take the news lightly. I think she’s been up all night.”

Olivia followed her mother to the car. A flood of questions had stalled in confusion. “Is that all you heard?” she managed to get out.

The engine turned over three times before spluttering to life. “That’s all. Gotta go, honey.” The car jerked backwards, belching a thick burst of exhaust. Mother waved as it coughed onto the paved street that wound into the village.

The morning mist that shrouded the coast was slowly beginning to burn off. Olivia squinted, peering longingly up the neglected dirt road that led to the Keep and the lighthouse beyond. She couldn’t help but feel a slight jealousy. She had always considered the structure a part of her heritage, taking for granted that despite the changes that touched her family, the house would always remain as it was. In the flow of time it was the one constant that mortality couldn’t invade. And now a stranger was about to intrude? Wealthy or not, titled or not, he had no right to molest the Keep. Her jealousy quickly faded into anger. Resolve told her such emotions were in vain. Then she saddened. Change had inevitably crept into her life again, and she had no say in the matter.

At least she had the diary. This was one gift the house had offered. She applauded her decision to return to the upstairs chamber to retrieve it. And the precious book was now protected, stashed under layers of sweaters in the bottom drawer of her bedroom cabinet. It was the one memento of her single venture into the Keep, one that would remain forever hers.

If she felt misgivings about the Keep’s new proprietorship, how much more deeply must Gran feel?

Olivia made a pot of tea and lightly buttered some toast, arranging the breakfast on a tray. She made her way through the sitting room and, with her toe, pushed opened Gran’s door.

The quilt was straight and smooth, the embroidered pillowcase free from creases. Olivia placed the tray on a stand inside. Gran had pulled her favorite chair to the table under a window that overlooked the winding lane to the Keep and Olivia tiptoed over, thinking perhaps fatigue had finally lowered the old woman’s lids. But Gran was very much awake. A short flame from an oil burner filled the air with the aroma of bergamot. Circling the burning oil were several white candles, a bowl of white flower blossoms, and propped behind all this was a picture of Olivia. The altar glowed with the white reflection from the cloth beneath as Gran rocked, staring with unblinking eyes into the flames. “I call upon all things white,” she murmured. “Protect Olivia, day and night. And by the power of my loved one’s charm, keep her spirit free from harm. So be it.”

Olivia recognized the chant as a spell for protection. She stood, respectfully at a distance, letting her Gran repeat the words as she rocked, dipping toward the light and back again. White, Gran had taught, is composed of all the colors of the spectrum, and by calling on its powers she was strengthening her magic. But why?

She crouched beside the chair and lightly placed her hand on Gran’s knee. Weary eyes rolled to Olivia, a faint smile cracked the lines on her wrinkled cheek.

“Gran?” Olivia whispered softly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“He’s here,” was all she said, uttered with such foreboding Olivia shivered.

“Who’s here?” They were alone, and except for the solitary willow tree outside the window, the yard was empty too.

Gran peered past the flickering candles, past the willow tree and across the yard to where the dirt road narrowed into nothing more than wheel tracks in the earth. Olivia followed the direction of her gaze. “Do you mean the one who has bought the Keep, Gran? Is that who you’re talking about?”

She nodded once before returning to the chant.

Olivia knew better than to further disrupt her grandmother’s need to work the gentle magic. Best to simply leave her to it, and when she wanted tea and toast and rest, she would find it all waiting. Olivia crept from the room, silently closing the door.

Her ire had doubled. Never had she known Gran to utter spells without sensing great need and for whatever reason, this count or duke or whatever he was, had turned their lives asunder. “He might be the one needing protection.” She scowled. What she wanted more than anything was to walk into the village and find out just who this man was and why he had chosen the Keep for his own. And then to tell him he had no right to be here—the home was best left as it had stood for going on a century—alone in its antiquity. Her frustration burned harder. She couldn’t leave just yet; she promised mother to stay with Gran to comfort her if required, but what better comfort than to somehow convince the new owner to desert their community?

“ He’s here.”

Olivia went outside. What greeted her, however, was not a count or a duke, but the rumbling of monster engines pulling long silver containers supported by countless wheels. Trucks, a convoy of six, were making an impossibly sharp turn onto the lane. She must have appeared more confused than concerned because the lead truck stopped and the driver flung open his door and jumped from the high seat. “Mornin’, miss.” He smiled warmly. He held a clipboard, validation for the injustice of such huge vehicles on a narrow country road. “Pretty sure we have the right location.”

“Where are you headed?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Byrne’s Keep. I understand it’s just over that ridge.” He glanced between her and the distant curve in the hill.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, wishing she had the talent to lie convincingly, tell him they were in the wrong place and to take these mechanical dinosaurs and go away forever. “May I ask who you work for? I mean, who has bought the property?”

“Oh, sure.” Another page flipped. “A William Talbot.”

“Talbot,” she repeated numbly. “Is he not with you?”

“No, miss. Never met the man.”

“I see.” Olivia wrung her hands with worry. “Such big trucks,” she said.

The driver tipped his hat. “We’ll be careful.”

“This Mr. Talbot,” she said before the driver had a chance to turn. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Sorry,” he answered sympathetically. “All I know is that he’ll be here tomorrow and if we’re to get these babies unpacked, we got to get started.”

“Of course,” she said. “Please, take care. This road isn’t used much.”

He nodded and jumped back into the truck’s cab. The soil trembled to the grinding of gears, and billows of exhaust fouled the salt air. The violation brought a tear to her eye. Her heart sunk. On this day she would mourn. Tomorrow she would try to understand.

Olivia curled in one corner of the couch under a lamp to work on her needlepoint. Gran had gone to bed early, exhausted from her previous evening’s need to meditate, and Mother, glasses perched on the end of her nose, glanced over the headlines in the news. A warming flame lapped a log in the grate—fog had dampened the late spring night. It would be another few weeks before faultless weather would realize the calendar had proclaimed summer.

All afternoon the sound of voices and the pounding of hammers echoed over the ridge from the Keep. More trucks had grumbled past the house, and empty containers drove back, but now that darkness veiled the coast, the noises were finally at rest. The mysterious Mr. Talbot, however, had consumed Olivia’s thoughts while the day’s activities carried on. She imagined him to be a horrible little man, one who flaunted wealth in order to compensate for ugly features and cruel demeanor. What else could she expect for one who stole their heritage without so much as one word of apology?

“Mother,” she said, dropping her needlework on her lap. “Have you heard anything else about who has bought the Keep?”

“Nothing I’d put any stock in,” she answered without looking up from the paper.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Well,” Mother said, taking off her glasses. “Mrs. Johnston seems to think he’s a gangster, running from the law for the crime of murder. Clarence Webb says he’s a banker who has amassed a fortune kept in a Swiss bank. Jenny Jackson says that he spent time in prison for money laundering, and now that he’s out, he collected his money and moved here to remain anonymous. And Ben Brewer is convinced he’s a pirate drug runner, setting up shop here because the coast guard would never think to search Beacon’s Bay for illegal booty. None of it very flattering.” She smiled. “I almost feel sorry for the man—the locals have already tried and convicted him. His presumed immorality will be a constant stigma in this narrow-minded town and he hasn’t even gotten here yet.”

“Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” Olivia said.

Mother tutted. “He’s likely a retired businessman, is all.”

“His name is William Talbot. I asked one of the drivers.”

Mother’s brow lifted. “Talbot. Sounds sophisticated. I wonder if he’s married.”

Olivia caught the implication immediately. “He’s probably a chiseled old man,” she muttered in disgust.

“Don’t you go making snap judgments, Ollie. Let’s meet him before we draw our own conclusions. I’d like to think we’re not quick to condemn like the rest of this medieval village.”

“I don’t want to meet him.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Olivia was, but she didn’t want her mother to know it.

“It was bound to happen someday—the Keep being sold. Besides, he’s obviously intent on fixing up the old place. We’d be watching bulldozers go by otherwise.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Olivia mused.

“Regardless, he’s going to be our neighbor, and I think we should make the effort to make him feel welcome.”

“Gran’s upset,” Olivia said, suddenly putting great stock in that legendary sixth sense. “She knows there’s something wrong.”

Mother sighed. “Your Gran blames the old house for family tragedies. She hopes if it stays empty then the curse can’t breathe. You and I both know that’s all nonsense. I only humor her because she needs to blame something other than providence for misfortune.”

Olivia was unconvinced, remembering the diary, her secret treasure, hidden in her bedroom cabinet. “What if she’s right?” Foreboding flooded through in Olivia’s voice, betraying her growing validation that there was more to this family curse than what either she or Mother wanted to admit.

“Depending on how Gran is feeling in the morning I’d like you to help out in the shop tomorrow,” Mother said, blatantly changing the subject. She flipped her glasses onto her nose again and lifted the paper. The topic of the Keep, and the mysterious proprietor, was closed.

“I’m never going to get married,” Olivia said defiantly, getting up to go to bed.

This caused her mother to laugh aloud. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That this man might be available?” Olivia was annoyed at the earlier hidden agenda her mother hinted.

“Maybe I’m the one who might want to marry.” Mother winked.

Olivia froze where she stood. She hadn’t considered that. But then, why not? Mother was attractive—a willowy figure, clear complexion, and sparkling blue eyes—and always cheerful and pleasant, full of vitality and kindness, to say nothing of a business of her own. Any man would be thrilled to find such a catch, except of course, those in Beacon’s Bay who thought she could turn grown men into croaking frogs with a flick of one finger. A new dread whelmed in Olivia’s heart. A stepfather would be too drastic a change to deal with. It didn’t bear considering. “You’re joking, right?” she asked with a nervous smile.

Mother glanced to the paper. “A chiseled old man with a suitcase full of money might be just what I’m looking for,” she issued in her little-girl voice.

Olivia was relieved. She was joking.

“Good night, Mother,” she sang with feigned chastisement.

“Good night, honey.”

Soundless wings sliced the dark fog. Fingered talons curled around one thin branch of the willow tree. A dim yellow hue from her light illuminated the room. Unblinking eyes watched. She prepared to sleep, turning back the covers of her bed, sweeping fingers through her heavy hair, slipping from her clothes.

Feathers ruffled. Talons tightened. The mark. Her shoulder bare, white skin, soft flesh. So close. So beautiful. Untouched. His alone.

“My jewel.”

His call, as always, was silent. She answered, as always, without knowing, lifting her chin, turning to peer blindly into the darkness where he clung to the branch. Slowly she drifted to the window, curves twisting as she moved. Such grace. Such elegance.

Long she stood, the light bathing her naked figure, a glow of sweet sensuality, an aura of sheer desire. A deep sigh thundered through his ears, her scent permeating the thick air. The man inside the small ribcage thrashed to be free, to imprison her in his arms, to sink into her body, take what was meant for him alone. This was not the time. The torture wracked his being.

The sorcerer, however, could manipulate space, dreams, and passions. The sorcerer could touch her through fantasy, where his existence could meld with hers.

He closed his eyes, taking her image with him into the haze. Even here she could not see him. She sensed him, however. Her arms rose to welcome him, lips parting. He took her hand, delicate bone, velvet fingers, and with the tip of one nail as his tool, began a gentle caress.

He wetted her finger with a kiss, and guided it over his lips. She sighed, comforted by the illusion of his mystical foreplay. He held her wrist, the only contact. But when she began to explore the outline of his chin, he let go, presenting himself, his pleasure derived from her increasing want.

The finger trailed down his throat, pausing in the hollow, before falling over the muscle of his chest.

“Touch me.”

Instead, her hand fell limply to her side. Her smile transformed into a cringe of pain. Inhibition. Embarrassment. A barrier only he could break.

She had turned to walk away. Even within the fantasy her bashfulness reigned triumphant.

“Olivia. I am the one.”

He clasped her hips, the sound of her thrashing heart pulsating through the haze like thundering horse hooves. Her shoulders against his chest he bowed, feathering a light kiss onto her throat. He felt her rhythm of life beneath his lips.

“I have come for you.”

“Yes,” she said softly. Her voice was drenched with longing. And she lifted her arms, locking her fingers behind his neck, tugging his hair.

In slow motion, he clasped one breast, stroking with his thumb. Luxurious deliverance. Promises of the future. His forearms strengthened. He had her locked in a solid embrace, a willing union. They swayed to an erotic dance. Then he coaxed her to turn, face him, so their mouths could meet.

The warmth of her burning passion cooled. The fantasy altered. She was walking away into the gray mists, leaving him. He ached to follow but could not. With a short glance over the marked shoulder she smiled to him.

And then the swirl swallowed her image.

Feathers ruffled. Wide yellow eyes blinked once. She was sleeping in her darkened chamber, and he, a night creature, kept a solitary vigil until the dawn’s light cracked the distant horizon.

The delightful smell of pristine books emanated from each box that Olivia cut open. Waxen covers, brightly colored were revealed. Each was a new and different edition of popular sights that demanded rewarding viewing. She placed the manuals in plain sight on a rack just inside the door of Mother’s shop. Meant to catch the attention of curious tourists, the pictures highlighted the most scenic of spots up and down the rugged shoreline. She lingered over the largest book— Lighthouses of Maine. Coincidently it opened to the one most familiar to her—Byrne’s Lighthouse. The photo had been expertly snapped during a clear summer’s day—the sky an exaggerated deep blue, the ocean wide and tranquil. In reality she had never known it to look as beautiful as the photograph portrayed it to be. The joy of fiction was meant to mingle with a few short hours of visitation, regardless of the weather. Memory in pictures was meant to be surreal—it’s why such lovely books sold so well.

The bell over the shop door hung without interruption. The fog hadn’t lifted with the dawn of a new day, so locals exited their dwellings only for necessities and of course the rush of sightseers hadn’t begun. Only the hot summer sky would bring them here in droves, seeking picnic parks and beaches and craggy rocks for exploration. Olivia was content in her work, especially when the small shop was clear of mingling bodies. It made unpacking and sorting much easier.

Mother sat near the till, studying detailed inventories. The gentle sounds of musical panpipes flowed from the speakers erected high in the corners of the shop. So lulling was the tune Olivia didn’t glance up from the shelf where she knelt when the bell over the door announced a customer.

“Good morning,” she heard Mother say, her voice uncharacteristically flat. The anomaly caused Olivia to peek round the metal shelving. She slumped where she crouched, awestruck at the tall stranger who seemed to demand that every object in the shop acknowledge his visitation.

Her line of vision first witnessed the soft leather boots that hugged his calves. The crushed material of dark trousers was tucked inside the tops just below the knees. A cape, shimmering with rain, touched the ridges of the boots and as she lifted her gaze, she saw long damp hair tied at the bottom with a gold clasp, the inky black thickness ballooning over the nape of his neck. A Victorian nobleman wouldn’t dress as fancifully and she instantly imagined he might be more at home sashaying down a pebbled street of ancient Europe. The romanticism of the thought made her gasp and upon doing so she crouched further behind the shelf, narrowing her view through a thin ribbon of space allotted by the absence of several unpacked books.

“Good morning,” he said. The edges of the cape swayed, brushing his walking stick, as he bowed slightly. “Am I correct in assuming you are the manageress, Ruby Morgan?” His voice sparkled as much as the drops of rain that clung on expansive shoulders.

“Yes, that’s right.” The stranger blocked Olivia’s seeing her mother’s expression, but she supposed it was one of admiration by the tone of the breathy response.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man continued. “I am William Talbot. You have no doubt heard I have recently purchased the property which borders your home.”

Olivia pressed her palm to her mouth to keep from squeaking aloud. Certainly not the hunched and withered old man she had, for some strange reason, predetermined him to be. His facial features remained obscured by his stance, but by the command in his voice and the stiff backbone that held a massive frame, he certainly did not carry sufficient years to need the aid of a cane except as a display of extravagance. Slowly she withdrew a book from the shelf to get a better view. As quiet as she was, he tipped his head slightly to where she continued to hide. She caught the round outline of a smooth olive jaw before he shifted back to his original position.

“Yes,” Mother said, audibly clearing her throat. “We have heard. May I be the first to welcome you to Beacon’s Bay.”

The black mane of hair twisted over his caped shoulder. The flexing arm denoted something subtler than a handshake. Olivia was shocked; he had reached to kiss Mother’s hand. “Thank you,” he said, his shoulders straightening. “The warmth of your greeting means a great deal to me. It is indeed an honor to meet you.”

Olivia stifled a laugh. Who talked like this? Despite the humor behind the absurdity, she had the unsettling feeling that beneath the charm there could be nothing less than a sinister cesspool. Too good to be true, she told herself. Cynicism dampened her opinion. It did nothing, however, to dampen her interest.

He sidestepped, the tips of the cape twirling to the sudden movement. The profile Olivia glimpsed was one of statuesque faultlessness, much like those she had studied in her art classes, exaggerated male splendor that caught the brush of talented painters or gifted sculptures. Never once did she believe such masculinity existed—most artists were paid to glorify their patrons with attributes that far surpassed true representation. Yet here was the ultimate model, raised above the pages of the history texts she had so keenly scrutinized. Personified idealism. And it was extremely unsettling.

His chin lifted and stalled, as though he were balancing something light and fragile. From where she watched, Olivia saw one nostril flare to a deep breath and after muttering a soft sigh his voice rose so dramatically that she jumped. “I have many possessions and I fear the continuous noise past your home has been an unspeakable violation. Perhaps I can tender my best apology by offering you this gift—a small token of appreciation for your bountiful patience.”

“Oh, my,” Mother said, accepting a pair of solid brass candle sticks, which he presented from a pocket within the flowing cape. “These are very lovely. Thank you so much, but there’s really no need to apologize. We think it’s wonderful that someone is fixing up the old place.” She placed the gift on the counter. “Do you have a family, Mr. Talbot?” Meant to be small talk, polite in presentation, but Olivia silently scowled. Mother was needling for information about the man’s availability.

“No, Mrs. Morgan,” he answered. “I have no family.”

Mother darted a quick glance to where Olivia hid. “Oh, I see,” she said absently.

“I must bid you farewell then,” he said, an octave lower, almost a purr. “There is much that waits my attention.” He took her hand again, pressing it to his lips. The cane tapped the floorboards as he turned, and then he paused, as though remembering some urgent question he had neglected to ask. But no question was uttered.

Olivia saw his face as he delayed what she expected would be a hasty departure to escape further personal questions. Hair pulled back from a high forehead, dark brows rose slightly as the brown orbs beneath drifted slowly to where she peeked from between the books. Locking her into a hypnotic stare, the air drummed in her ears. She wasn’t certain whether the eyes of a man or those of a predator had encased her being. Yet a stern sensuality promised that ecstasy awaited if she dared to seek the soul within. Full shapely lips parted and in slow motion he spoke, as if through a hazy dream, each syllable of her name. But the sound didn’t spring from his throat or tongue or lips—it vibrated inside her mind. “ O-liv-i-a.”She swayed to the impossible sensation of being both pulled into the depths of the earth while floating higher than a summer’s cloud.

A short smile touched the corner of his mouth and with a long stride the bell over the shop door jangled.

Prevailing loss was almost too painful to bear. She was certain her chest would collapse with the sorrow of it—that her very spirit had been sucked from within with one long draw, refusing to return until he gave permission to release it. Left weakened and dazed, she wondered if an object of great mass had actually struck her.

Outside she caught a glimpse of the cape as it vanished within a great swirl of fog. Sinking to the floor with a gasp she clasped her pounding heart. “He has come.” Change had been thrust upon her, but for better or worse, Olivia could not determine.

Fingers sprawled, he clutched the material of his robe, pulling the veil over his head, sinking into the haze of invisibility. The spirit world shrunk from the suddenness of his presence. Bodiless voices gasped and evaporated, yet they had nothing to fear; Wyldelock the Sorcerer was not here to demand their reluctant services. He had stepped into their realm merely to watch without being seen, hear without being heard, and to touch the thoughts of the one mind he had successfully found, to caress the heart that beat for him. The cloak was the window from which he peered into her world, one of solid form, the place where she moved and breathed, the place of distinct sensation, where she would eventually succumb to his charms. He was the master of magic, yet to satisfy the flesh that hung from his bones she had to see him as her servant. He could not tamper with magic or wistful fantasy. She had to seek him with her own free will. Determination to follow the rules, regardless how he loathed the restriction, issued hesitation. Tread slowly and carefully, for she was one who frightened easily.

She knew little of this borderless place where he crouched to wait, even though he sensed her untapped mystical ability. He could teach her much about bending the limit of what she called reality, to rejoice in the flush of preeminence, but she first had to give to him freely. Fear was the only threshold that could bar such lessons. If she were to deny him earthly pleasures, then he could never find release, never rid himself of the burn that crippled his flesh, never be able to share his wisdom. She alone held the key to his future existence. He could easily command the faceless ghosts that withered from him in this world, but he needed her promises so that he could survive within the world in which she lived. One without the other meant imminent demise.

The scent of innocence followed his transformation. If she only knew the supremacy she already held over him! Humility was a part of such innocence. Only within his arms, only from the heat of physical union, only through the culmination of ecstasy could she understand his unfailing servitude. Until then, he had no choice but to woo her with extreme precision. Once he became her mate the exploration of unlimited demand could be a joy they shared. He could be king only if she were his queen. And bore his heir.

Wyldelock lifted his all-seeing eyes. The edges of peripheral vision were blurred like flowing water, framing her image as she stepped from the building. He rose and followed, cloaked confidently within nothingness. She sensed him, he could tell, for she stopped and glanced over her shoulder, as she did the evening he watched her progress up the stone steps of the desolate ruins. He stood mere inches behind, time and space distorted. If he so willed, he could reach forth with minimum effort and touch the auburn silk locks that curled over her neck. Instead he remained obscured behind the cloak; she looked through him. He saw the color of her breath as she heaved a sigh. It was the color of betrayal and sadness and Wyldelock grew concerned.

The urgency of knowing what she was thinking became tantamount.

If he chose to do so, Wyldelock could take his formless consciousness and glide within her mind to view every memory, every secret, and every wish. Such potent eavesdropping would require summoning great magic on his part and leave him weakened. It might also disrupt her free will. There was also the threat he might damage one or more pieces of her thoughts, create fear within her heart; such an intrusion could become too perilous. It was an effective tool to search out the plans of an enemy, to find weakness or to plant seeds of doubt, but she was not his enemy. He could not risk damage despite the temptation to understand her every yearning. He had to be patient, be content with following her step, and gently coax her to willingly reveal the source of her pain. “Speak to me.” She had a habit, after all, of talking to herself when she believed she was alone. Her eyes told her she was alone.

“William Talbot,” she said aloud. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and gathered haste along the street. “What is it about the Keep that brought you here?”

Wyldelock floated behind, straining to capture every syllable she uttered. The sounds to him were the sweetest of songs. Each made him want to laugh and cry and dance. How he ached to hold and comfort her, tell her that only he could fulfill every desire. Patience was a virtue he found difficult to yield to.

“What is it I could say or do to convince you to go away?”

Leave? Why would she ask for such a reprehensible thing? He had taken great care in appearance before entering her mother’s shop. She had cowered behind the books, staring at him with awed pleasure. It delighted him so much to know she found him attractive, and he had chosen words with polite care. What was she so frightened of? “I could never harm you.”

“I don’t know your motives,” she replied. She faltered, and shook to a quick shiver. Wyldelock drifted back and smiled. She spoke, answered him without understanding why. His hold on her was strengthening and she was completely innocent of the fact.

“All men are a mystery to me,” she sighed aloud. “Cruel and heartless, looking for one thing and one alone. I shouldn’t doubt, Mr. Talbot, you are any different. You will not conquer me.”

Ah! The rebuttal added to his growing desire. If she stood so firmly behind a wall of denunciation, how much greater would the pleasure be in breaking through! She would succumb, eventually. She must, for he would make certain to complete her every dream. She would be incapable of denying his affection.

“Many rumors,” she muttered, shaking her head so that her hair shimmered in the dampness. “There must be a reason. Something has upset Gran. She wouldn’t be so anxious otherwise.”

Wyldelock startled. He peered through his vast cloak, catching a glimpse of the windows to her abode. On the ground floor, candles flickered. A white glow filtered into the yard. He understood now why the dormant gift of spiritual wisdom coursed through her veins. The sense was inherited from the grandmother—the Old Mother who dabbled with herbs and flowers and scented oils. It was a frail magic compared to his. But the Old Mother was wise enough to see that influence followed Wyldelock’s path, even though she was incapable of throwing out any obstacle. He had much to thank her for, however. The old one was the reason Olivia’s scent had called him to this place. Through blood, she had passed the gift of enchantment to her granddaughter, creating the very innocence, the potential that he would soon claim. And together they would explore the heights of sorcery, combining their powers through a union that none could challenge. Such irony.

He would deal with the Old Mother only if necessity dictated. Nothing was going to come between him and his chosen one, his jewel. Nothing! He had come too far to be foiled by the ridiculous chants of an ignorant witch.

Even so, acknowledging the existence of divination other than his own had alarmed Wyldelock, and with reckless abandonment, he reached out to touch her.

She shuddered and whirled around, frantically searching for the source of the feathered pat that had tickled her neck. He shrunk back, furious at his impetuous carelessness, and pulled the cloak tightly over his thoughts so she could sense nothing. She stood firmly, searching the fog, delicate features twisted with unease. He lifted his eyes from a deep bow and whispered, “You will want me as none other.”

Then she was gone, hidden within her dwelling of stone and wood, as he was hidden within the swirling fog behind his cape.

Featureless faces began to crawl closer to his presence, curious slanted eyes peering to him, attracted to his existence. He breathed; they did not. His heart pounded; theirs lay dormant. His mind functioned; they could merely react. All he had to do was lift one finger and they scattered again, high-pitched shrieks dropping through the mist like lumps of hardened rain. Except for one. One dark form did not falter to his raised finger. Rather, it grew larger, the blackness thickening, its head shrouded by a heavy mantle as though preparing for combat. How dare this spirit advance without permission! Wyldelock shivered in rage. He would not be challenged.

Worse still it had the audacity to utter his name.

“Wyldelock Talan De Croft.”

“Present yourself, minion, before I smite you for such impertinence.”

It laughed. Laughed! What brazenness was this? The haze melted and the figure stepped closer. “Not a minion. Think, Talon, think hard on my voice.”

Wyldelock leaned, dizzied by the command, memory on the outer edges of knowing who belonged to a tone as rigorous as his own. He wavered to a slight sensation that his governance here was diluted. His fists curled, his chest swelled and his eyes widened to a sharp threatening glare. “Speak before I secure your demise.”

“No, brother, you have it wrong. It is I who will secure yours.”The mantle flung aside.

Horror struck Wyldelock’s heart, as sharp and painful as any sword. “Dietrick!” The full figure of his oldest and dearest friend stood before him, draped in the nobility they had once shared, centuries ago. “Dietrick.”

Eyes of revenge slashed into Wyldelock, the hatred so true he could taste it. “The centuries have not ruined your memory. Good. Feed on my fury, Talan. Know that I am coming for you. Know that I found a way to follow.”

A thin strand of panic gripped Wyldelock’s soul. This was madness. No other could command this place as he could, no other could share in its dominion—certainly not a mere mortal who relied on nothing more potent than charms for luck. Yet here he was, as tall and real as memory dictated. “How? How can this be?”

The image began to fade. “The time is close at hand, Talan. Make your peace. I will come for you.”

Wyldelock fell, crashing into the ground, humiliated, stunned. The robe twisted over one shoulder as he gathered his wits as quickly as possible and drew salt air into his lungs. Rasping several long breaths, he grabbed clumps of damp earth, hanging on to a world solid beneath his knees. His hair had fallen loose over his cheekbone, wet and cold. And he growled, concentrating on the vibration that rattled through his throat.

A conscience was a warrior’s weakness and he had never taken notice in battle. The darkness that dwelled within his chest made certain his weapon would flash without regret, that victory would always be obtainable. Yet now, as he shivered to the haunting words of one who had been a comrade, a blood brother, Wyldelock watched to a review of distant transgressions that marched through his mind’s eye as any parading army might do, transgressions against his loyal companion.

He had held no other man in such high esteem as he had done Dietrick Von Der Weilde. They rode decorated steeds together, hunted fowl and deer together, feasted at long bountiful tables together, drank fine wines together, and wielded swords of combat together. And as their friendship deepened, Wyldelock trusted him enough to share secrets known only to sorcerers. So loyal a friendship, they shared blood—slashing each other’s palms and pressing them together to secure a bond that would hold them as brothers throughout their lives. A lifetime was short, however, and when Wyldelock’s magic grew deeper and more profound, he heard of rumors, a passage to evade death. He sought out and found the shadowy masters who ruled the Underworld, impressing himself within their close circle with his talents and his wit; they were amused by him and honored his request, directing him to the goddess they said would honor his dastardly request. Far from a gift, a price for eternity had to be sorely bought. The price she requested was love. He forfeited any ability to know love so that he could forever embrace youthful vigor. The physical appetite for women was worth sacrificing a useless emotion. The goddess took love from him and laughed, but he did not care. He retreated and bragged of the ultimate seduction of conquest.

Dietrick had been repulsed by such an attitude, mortified by such shamelessness, and angered. How could their friendship continue when Dietrick’s only sister was already with child, Wyldelock’s child? Wyldelock had not only abandoned years of comradeship but also the woman who needed a husband. Hatred had folded over Dietrick’s eyes like a thick ominous cloud.

But it was Sophia Von Der Weilde that Wyldelock remembered so well. He remembered her as though the conquest was only yesterday. Hair that flowed to her waist, ice blue eyes that floated in a sea of tranquility, curves that taunted beneath dresses of silk, a complexion like cream—and untouched. He met her on the night when he was welcomed as an honored guest, when wine flowed freely, when celebration was at its height. He met her as she reached the age of consent, and consent she gave! Barely able to control his passion he had crept to her bed, like a thief in the night, and ravished her as a starving man would ravish a full meal. She gave of herself to him again and again and he knew that as a result the union meant she would conceive. But when her belly began to swell and her breasts filled with nourishment, it was demanded of Wyldelock to take her as his bride, show honor to her family, provide the child with paternity. Worse, it was demanded he hinder craving other maidens, to be tethered, only to the woman who would bear his child. It was a promise he openly shirked. His lust was too great to be tempered by mere laws of morality. He had paid too great a price to dampen his cravings.

And it was then Dietrick openly turned on him. Dietrick’s voice joined the chorus of complaint about Wyldelock’s wicked philandering. Dietrick! Of all men, Dietrick knew of Wyldelock’s insatiable appetite. And the tender emotion he had sacrificed to satisfy it.

The trust was abused. His blood brother called upon the miscreant forces of the unnatural, sought out their possession, burned with their potent power of hatred and condemned him to the pit where he slept. And it was Dietrick’s chant that secured incapacity. Immortality kept Wyldelock safe and warm where he slept. Sophia was now nothing more than a pile of bones in her family crypt. He never doubted that her brother’s bones stretched near by. He understood in this new age he must promise faithfulness to one, an echo of Dietrick’s skill in casting one final enchantment, but it never troubled him—not since catching her clear and promising scent and then finding her tucked away in this tiny village. This awakening brought with it the genuine desire to have only her because she bore the mark of a sorcerer. Never to be an equal but she could aspire to greatness with guidance. Centuries of sleep were apparently not enough to subdue Dietrick’s revenge. He had followed; he had found a way.

Loathing had directed Dietrick’s path through the centuries and such compelling sorcery was an austere threat, as it was meant to be. Conquering the woman who bore the mark was meant to be relatively simple, but this! This was an obstacle he had not considered. He had risen to the scent of the woman meant for him and him alone. But so, too, had risen his adversary.

Dietrick Von Der Weilde had been a brother he once loved, during a time he knew love’s meaning, but now he was a formidable enemy, one Wyldelock must be prepared to fight. If his image grew clear within the spirit’s world, so would his existence grow clear in Olivia’s world.

“No,” Wyldelock cried, pulling the strands of wet hair from his face. “Damn you, Dietrick. You will not foil me. You have no right to follow me here!”

Hair cascaded through outstretched fingers, each strand transforming to feathers. Torso shrinking, feet turning to claws, eyes growing wide to allow night to be day—in one energetic flap he rose and swirled, effortlessly, weightlessly, through the dark sky toward the home that urgency demanded preparation for his mate, fortification against all that boiled against him. He left behind no evidence of the metamorphosis, except a long single trill of the screech owl he had become.

Behind the white candles that flickered in the downstairs bedroom an old woman stopped chanting and wept with both joy and foreboding. The master Von Der Weilde had been successfully summoned. The task that destiny demanded of her completed, all she could do now was wait.

Chapter Three

Sunshine and warmth brightened everyone’s mood. Gran hummed while making another pot of tea and Mother tended a few household chores without customary complaint. Despite a night of restless dreams, Olivia, too, felt cheerful. Worries that were devastatingly real during the day’s darkest hours always seemed to evaporate with bright sunny mornings.

Slipping on her running shoes, Olivia announced she was going for a walk along the beach. She paused, waiting for the usual warning not to venture too close to the Keep, a warning that, for some strange reason, wasn’t issued.

The ruts in the ground made by heavy trucks were filled with water from a night of steady rain. Olivia stepped over each with care to avoid getting her shoes muddy. She found the path that led to the beach and kicked off each sneaker. Not quite noon and already the sand was warm as it squished between her toes. The tide was inching away from the green-carpeted rocks beneath the water’s surface creating little pools that teemed with snails and shrimp and crabs, seaweed and cracked stone their only shelter from the growing heat. Seagulls and cranes were searching several for a quick lunch. Olivia pulled off her sweatshirt, laying it on a flat rock for a cushion, and sat with the sun at her back. A prelude to summer—her favorite time of the year.

She was the only human guest amongst the creatures that made the shoreline their home. Several fishing boats were on the horizon, slowly chugging toward the bay to unload their booty. And to her left were the huge rocks that had tumbled from the cliff to the shore from winter’s erosion, weakened by fierce and relentless winter storms. Above them stood the Keep, a proud sentinel over it all. Regardless of it now hosting an inhabitant, it appeared no differently than during the years of loneliness. She couldn’t help but wonder, however, if the building was content, now that someone had decided to lavish attention on it. She was grateful that at the very least, it wasn’t destined for destruction.

William Talbot. Why was it she couldn’t shake him from her mind? She had come to accept his ownership even though his underlying motives continued to nag at her, like an unreachable tickle. Odd, the slight cultured accent in his speech and the flare for medieval fashions he wore. He would certainly stand out in this reserved village of fisherman and farmers. But what hung with her imagination was his aesthetic beauty. Perhaps she had spent too much time poring over books recounting great pieces of art and believing, as a result, that such flawlessness could be found only from an artist’s brush. Dorian Gray. The thought of a painting aging so the subject would not caused her to laugh aloud. Then her smile faded. That wasn’t it, but there was some mystical aura that surrounded him. She felt it in her bones. As bright and beautiful as he was, there was definitely a shadow as well. Gran had sensed it and the more she thought of this mysterious Mr. Talbot, the more she sensed it as well.

“Stop it,” she scolded, rubbing the heel of each hand to her forehead, as though the self-chastisement might draw the memory of him out.

“Something wrong?” said a velvet voice close by.

Olivia jumped, nearly falling from her seat on the rock. Mere seconds ago she had been alone, the expanse of shoreline void of human intrusion except her own. And now, suddenly, the man who had haunted her imagination had materialized before her eyes.

“I apologize,” he said warmly. “My intent was not to frighten you. May I sit down?”

“Oh,” was the only clever reply that fell from her gaping mouth. She slid to one side of the rock while he sat, not waiting for a verbal concession. The stone was wide enough for her, but now that the two of them shared the spot his arm pressed against hers. Embarrassed by such close proximity she shifted, having to strain to keep her balance.

His leather boots had made no prints in the sand. She searched nonchalantly in each direction, but saw no evidence of his sudden arrival. Black trousers fit snugly to thick thighs, a contrast to the white sweater that hung loosely around his waist. A bout of extreme shyness prevented her from looking him directly in the face, and she struggled uncomfortably, searching for something casual to say. And to think only yesterday she harbored thoughts of angrily telling him to go away. Now, in his presence, she was barely able to speak, let alone voice her opinions about the Keep’s status.

“This is an artist’s paradise,” he said. “My glance is rewarded with such natural beauty.”

A flush rose to her cheeks as he tipped his head to stare at her. “Yes,” she said meekly, while flickering a quick glimpse to his smile. “Your new home has been the object of many a painter’s brush.”

“No doubt a poet’s intuitive theme as well,” he said. “I am neither but I do appreciate the talent of both.”

“Is that what brought you here, Mr. Talbot?” she asked.

“My motive is far more complicated than the simple pleasures offered by the arts.”

“Really?” she said. “That leaves wide the window of speculation.”

He laughed. The pleasant sound left her feeling relaxed. She even ventured another glimpse at his face. He didn’t return the gesture; his glance was fixated on the sea.

“The locals seem to think you’re hiding from a past life of crime,” she continued after a brief pause.

His smile faded as he considered this. The white sweater pressed against her shoulder as he sighed. “I suppose they are correct, in part.”

“I see,” Olivia said, even though she didn’t understand. He was going to cling to the mystery that shrouded his arrival, as well as the vagueness of his history.

“Oh, no,” he said abruptly, as though her opinion of him was of the utmost importance. “I may be many things but I am not a criminal.”

“What things are you, Mr. Talbot?” She was beginning to enjoy the banter even though he shared nothing concrete about motives.

“I am a humble man, Olivia,” he said.

This she sincerely doubted. For one, she speculated he owned great wealth—how else would he be able to refurnish the Keep? Wealth carried with it arrogance and assertion in business. This left no room for the humble. For another, he was fiercely handsome—virtually flawless in his masculinity—and with such virtue would come ego. To have both and remain humble would be bordering on the impossible. “I’ll take your word for that,” she said, skepticism evident in her tone.

“And what of you, Olivia? Why is it you hold this lonely place so dear to your heart?”

“It’s not lonely here,” she said defensively. “Besides, this is my home. Everything I love is right here.”

He nodded, but she got the distinct impression the depths of her feelings were beyond him, despite an attempt to value the emotion.

“Where is your home, Mr. Talbot?”

“Please,” he said. “It would give me pleasure if you were to call me William.”

“All right, William.” She waited for an answer, one that didn’t come. “You have a knack for not answering questions,” she added finally. “Am I being too inquisitive?”

“No, not at all,” he said, placing his palm on her knee. The spot instantly warmed and although the sensation was luxurious, the act was one drenched with too much familiarity. Before she could protest, he removed his hand. “I do not mean to be elusive. I am Germanic by birth and have made my home in many places, none of which I can claim affection for. I hope to change that now that I have found solace here.”

“You always talk like this?” she puffed.

“Like what?” His brown eyes blinked with puzzlement.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just you speak like a poet. I’ve never heard anyone quite so refined.”

“Does this displease you?”

His genuine concern made a direct impact and she stuttered. “Well, no, actually I find it quite charming. You’ll stand out around here like a sore thumb, that’s for certain.”

“Few opinions direct my path,” he said with resolve.

“Just as well you feel that way, especially considering the rumors.” She regretted her haste in saying this. She didn’t want him to be hurt by gossip. She knew all too well what it was like to feel the sting of idle talk. He didn’t seem the type, however, to be affected by such carelessness. “Easier said than done, sometimes.”

“Then we share a common bond,” he said.

“Yes. I suppose we do.”

“I think maybe we have much in common.” He twisted as he spoke, giving her his full attention. “Olivia, I would be honored to entertain you as a guest in my home. Perhaps you would be so kind as to join me in a celebratory glass of wine, say, tomorrow evening?”

“Oh, I don’t know if….” She faltered. Her first instinct was to refuse the invitation. Years of avoiding the building seemed to carry its own voice, one that warned her to constantly stay away. Yet now that interest was being lavishly bestowed within its great walls, surely it wouldn’t be as coolly daunting as before.

“I have made every attempt to remain true to the period in which the house was constructed,” he went on, laying temptation before her. “It would mean so much to me if you were to cast a critical eye upon those efforts.”

Excuses failed Olivia. She was stirred with curiosity and if she were completely honest, she was thoroughly impressed with the mysteriously gallant proprietor. His conduct was one of impeccable courtesy. They were neighbors, after all. “I would like that, yes.” She smiled. “Thank you, William.”

His brown eyes sparkled with the pleasure of her response. “Wonderful,” he said, getting to his feet. “I shall leave you to the solitude of your afternoon. Until tomorrow evening, then.” He tipped his chin to a pert bow and started off toward the steepest part of the cliff beneath the Keep.

“What a peculiar man you are,” she whispered as he strode farther away. And she was indeed thankful that the Keep had been blessed with such a gracious caretaker.

Olivia spent a good part of the remaining afternoon rummaging through her wardrobe—too early in the season for cotton dresses and too late for bulky sweaters—nothing she owned suited the upcoming occasion of an evening with William Talbot. His attire was chosen with immaculate taste, and she didn’t doubt there would be more than a hint of formality in his position as host, one she wanted to match. The search, futile as it was, left her with little more than the realization that she wanted deeply to make an impression on him. Such a desire, she knew, was the birth of expectation. She was peculiarly attracted to him and deep within her heart she hoped he, too, would grow attracted to her. That caused her head to swim with a mixture of delight and trepidation. She was opening herself up for another fall and yet she couldn’t help but swing wide the gate to delicate feelings. In frustration she abandoned her closet, deciding instead to visit a few shops in the morning.

He was so unlike any other man she had met before. College professors had impressed her with their elegant speeches, accented with knowledge and sophistication. Other students were a source of inspiration, conversations tinted with colorful words, a subject matter she could always join with confidence. None wore faded jeans or tattered shirts, an aspect of the literary environment she had treasured. At college she hadn’t felt unique, not the way her differences stood out here in an isolated fishing village. While she studied, she felt content with the Nirvana of academia, believing it was the ultimate measuring stick of sophistication. But the measuring stick was growing less defined now that she had met William Talbot. The professors and classmates she had held in such high esteem were dulling in comparison. And she was flirting with this opinion after one short conversation on the beach? Being with him was so comfortable—as though she had known him a long time. Maybe it was chemistry, that elusive bond between certain personalities that students of psychology so often debated.

Yet beneath all this she sensed that William Talbot was deep and precarious, like still water that pooled where sight alone was unable to discern the sandy bottom. To wade in meant risking the chance of unforeseen peril. There seemed to be an unknown mystique about him but it was a mystique she was aching to unravel.

The peculiarity was so enrapturing that it even haunted her dreams. She walked the sandy beach without leaving footprints, the sea as calm and clear as a pane of glass, its surface disturbingly black. Distant rocks glowed white in a twilight hue and the Keep had doubled in size, the slim window of the turret blood red, as though an unquenchable fire burned inside. Fearing for the safety of the one inhabitant, Olivia succumbed to the urgency of rescue. She reached her veiled arm toward the window and floated over the white rocks—with no more effort than a bird’s ability for flight. Conquering nature’s restriction of gravity left her feeling euphoric and she heard herself laugh to the freedom of weightlessness. A gift, that only a dream could procure, she hovered outside the turret’s window and gazed within.

No longer the empty ruined place she had explored, the room flickered to the gentle glow of flames that crackled in the fireplace. The oak bed was assembled, each of the carved four posts draped with plush velvet curtains. Branching candelabras, each one alit with burgundy tongues, illuminated the subtle folds in the material that swayed with gentle motion. Magnificently crafted tapestries decorated the stone walls, stitched eyes of cherubs and creatures side by side, joined with her to peer intently to the source of sighs that emanated from within the canopy. The dark curved outline of a body moved, flowing as though a wave on the shoreline. She strained to see the vision with more clarity, yet the twisting lace refused to give up any secrets. Disappointment stabbed her dreaming heart. This was a scene of perfect peace and she wished more than anything to be connected to such faultless tranquility.

The dream concurred and she found herself standing on the floorboards. Soundlessly she glided closer to the bed. Eyes in the tapestries followed her as she moved across the room, their gasps filling her ears with a thickening roar of silence. She ignored the embarrassment in their voices; she had to know what was happening within. And as she reached to pull the curtain aside the room suddenly expanded, the outer edges dissolving into shadow, the tapestries vanishing, mortified that such privacy could be interrupted. She shivered with expectancy, a gush of cool wind causing the candles to flutter wide and then dim to a knowing bow. The whole room acknowledged her attendance and the subservience filled her with respectful awe.

Clutching the lace she tugged it aside.

The lithe shoulders rippled to the constant writhe of muscle beneath the surface of olive skin, the curve of his naked body flexing to every motion. She drank the vision as one who was dying of thirst, a thirst for pure art, watching as the smooth flesh of his buttocks rose and fell, sensing the softness of twisted black hair that cascaded over his shoulders, concealing the identity of his lover. Rose petals peppered the surface of the bed, so many scattered about that some had clung to his thighs and legs and feet, entwined in the thin dark hairs. His arms were each locked, encasing the delicate body that lay beneath him, a stance of dominion, locking her firmly in compliance to his need. His spine continued to sway as he lifted and fell again and his long hair shifted ever so slightly as he lavished kisses onto her throat. Two voices melted together in sighs of mutual enticement and gratification.

She knew this man. At the same time he was a stranger.

“I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft. You shall want me as none other.”

Olivia’s dreaming mind staggered. The voice that echoed from the depths of invisible walls was that of William Talbot. No sooner had the sound penetrated her ears, he turned, peering over one shoulder, and saw her standing there, watching him. Smoky eyes were drenched with satisfaction, a half-smile curled one corner of his mouth, and the black hair that coiled over his temples was matted with sweat. The small oval face that peeked through the locks of black hair was hers! She was the object of his intense lovemaking! Olivia, embarrassed and stunned and thoroughly panicked, tried to utter a weak apology for intruding, and stepped backwards to make good her escape.

The floor was nothing except a thin wisp of fog. Her scream wedged in her throat, ending with nothing more than a soundless shriek inside her skull. Helplessly she hurtled down, spiraling into a vast pit, the round walls spinning into a blur of color. I am going to die. The concept was logical and her fall so continuous that she had ample time to think about this brutal impending fate.

“I will not allow harm to touch you.”

Something solid reached out for her and rather than push away in fear, she welcomed the embrace. The fall slowed as the massive arms wrapped around her torso. Her body against his, taut muscle straining beneath the velvet crush of olive skin—she melted into the heat of his chest, her nails digging into each shoulder for protection. He would not let her hit the bottom. In his arms she would never be lost; she knew it to be true.

“I want you.”The deep rumbling voice meant for one ear alone. She sighed to the sound, tipped her chin up, a strand of his hair caught between her lips. Naked thighs pushed into her hips, promising ecstasy if she complied with his wish. Her hand dropped down the curve of his spine and she strummed the supple flesh of his buttock.

“Oh, my sweet Olivia, my jewel. You want me as well.”

Plush velvet rubbed her back, a pillow beneath her head, the scent of roses—she was being pushed into the bed, the body above her encasing her into submission. His knee worked between her legs, gently forcing them to part, while kisses lavished her throat and chin. Her thin gown was hoisted, wrapped around her waist, his sculptured fingers expertly untwining the ribbon that crisscrossed the front, exposing her breasts. Heat everywhere—all over her body, in her mind—and it threatened explosion.

“Do you want me? Tell me if it is so.”

“Yes. Yes, I want you.”

He had swayed over her while she lay open and vulnerable, waiting for his torso to lower to hers. She playfully tickled his waist, but as her fingers danced she discovered not skin, but feathers—and not the downy feathers of a pillow, but long, stiff, harsh feathers. Her eyes snapped opened—the aesthetically handsome man was gone and a huge bird of prey flapped over her, talons clawing her flesh, curled beak dangerously close to her throat, eyes yellow and wide with hate. It shrieked, a mocking cry of success, as though it were an atrocious mythological creature that had found its human female to mate with, and with her it would create some perverse disproportional offspring that would become a cruel god—one that would rule the elements for centuries. The bird lunged, not to kill her, but to have sex with her.

Olivia awoke with sharp wheeze, bolting straight up in her bed, her nightgown clinging to her damp breast. Her heart was thrashing wildly. Several minutes lapsed before she could fully comprehend it had all been nothing more than a dream. But so real! The scent of roses seemed to filter through her small bedroom, the sound of a lover’s whisper resonating in her ears, the sting of razor sharp talons that had clutched at her body. The vivid scenes lessened, as reality spoke, assuring her she was indeed safe beneath her own blankets and not fighting the evil that had hidden behind a man’s dark face.

Never had she experienced such a vivid dream and it left her trembling so badly she could barely hold the glass of water to her lips. To ease her quaking nerves she swung her feet onto the floor, taking several deep breaths. It was the dead of night, a crescent moon peeking through the branches of the willow tree outside her window. The dream didn’t dull as quickly as the darkness outside did. Without realizing it, she was rubbing her knee, easing what felt like a burn. Lowering her gaze she noticed that the burn had taken the shape of a hand, three fingers clearly outlined, curled, knotted and pointed. The man, seductive, alluring, and then the huge bird, fierce and driven—first one, then the other—and then the two liquefied into one eerily sensual creature. Risk. She knew that to carry on with one so mysterious would harbor extreme risk.

Olivia watched as the burn on her knee dissolved. It was the very spot where William Talbot had touched her as they sat together on the beach and talked.

He was real. So, too, was the darkness.

Providence, chance, luck. None of these words had meaning for Wyldelock. He discovered, so long ago, that once the untapped power of the mind was controlled, then all else was conquered—the need for sleep, sustenance, water were minimal. And externally he could bend time and space, manipulate objects, transform matter, all simply because he wished it to be. His mind was his own. Concentration was the key and deep meditation the only renewal he needed in order to seek out desire. Because he could control with such ease, he rarely objected to the temptation to command other minds. And the female mind, it seemed, was the easiest to toy with. He had saved his greatest methods of seduction for the most tender of bodies, the most vulnerable of wills, and then only when they were reaching readiness of fertility. His methods were all finely tuned for even though Wyldelock wrapped his pride within a cloak of ultimate power, there was one chink in his perfected armor—lust. He could swim the most dangerous of seas without the need of air, he could soar through thunderclouds without need for deflection, and he could burrow through walls of wood, stone, earth without need for projection. But the scent of a young woman, untouched by any other, her body ripened—this was what cracked his dominion over his own mind—a weakness in his body, the need to satisfy the sexual craving so that he could derive strength from the act, so that his blood would course quickly through his heart and brain, so he could find rejuvenation. Lust was his weakness; it was his greatest secret, for what dragon wishes to expose a tender underbelly while swirling over an army of soldiers? His greatest secret, and yet known to one who was once his dearest friend, the one who would use the weapon against him in seeking the revenge that kept him filled with rage for centuries. Dietrick was preparing to bring the dragon down for he alone knew where the most tenderof spots resided, where to aim his sword, all because of the request for affection he had rebuked. And if Wyldelock were not prepared for that day of clashing swords, then the outcome would be fatal. The shield of immortality would be no barrier against another who followed through timelessness.

Through the lust, Wyldelock’s greatest instinct was self-preservation. He would have to kill or be killed, and death was not an entity he ever wanted to entertain.

“Olivia.”

The Keep was ready for her. Wyldelock had no need for carpenters, masons, and decorators. A few objects were delivered manually, but this was only for appearance to keep the local peasants from squawking too much. The hammering and voices that echoed from the Keep were all artifacts of his imagination to keep his impending arrival a curious aspect within Olivia’s thought. It took mere minutes for Wyldelock to restore his new home. He strode without hesitation from room to room, top to bottom, and with a mere wave of his walking stick it was ready. Except the turret. This was the room she had spent the longest exploring. This was the room where he’d appeared to her as the owl. This was to be the room where they would join. So Wyldelock had closed his eyes and delved into her requests. He created it as she had visualized it the evening she stood here. He knew she would be pleased with the care he had taken. His reproduction would add to the pleasure his body would give to her. It all had to be perfect.

He’d resisted the temptation to meddle with her will as they spoke together on the beach, relying solely on his charm, which in the end worked to his advantage. He was filled with a sense of extreme satisfaction that she had agreed to visit with him, her own mind one of decisiveness. It was what made her stand out from all the others he had bedded—determination, steadfastness, intelligence—and, of course, that unexploited mystical ability which he would assist to bring out. Her scent contained a curious flavor. She bore the mark of greatness. This mark would hold him steadfast to only her. She was the last conquest he would ever crave.

The encounter had been so brief. Wyldelock ached, having to leave her sitting there alone on the rock. His stamina was being strictly tested. They had been alone and he was her superior. How easy it could have been to unite with her there, fold her slenderness over the rock and bond with her. She might struggle with him at first, but physically he could easily overwhelm her body. But he was not an animal and neither was she simply a vestibule for his pleasure. No. She was far different than the other vain virgins he’d soiled and then abandoned. Olivia was unique, and their sexual encounter was going to be an act of total unification—body, soul, spirit. More than an exchange of fluids, they would drink of each other, he growing strong to condemn his enemy and she unlocking the powers that a bloodline had secretly donated. She would thank him for the revelation. She could only understand through compliance. Thus, patience had to be adhered to, for both their sakes. Still, Wyldelock burned as badly as he burned the night he woke in the cavern of damp earth and soiled straw. His need was doubling by the hour now that he had been so close to her without gratification. He had to have her soon or he would wither like an autumn leaf and rot beneath the snows of eternal blackness.

“Olivia.”

He had touched her, placing his hand briefly upon her knee. An essence had flowed through him from that fleeting touch, reminding him of her exclusivity. He couldn’t help but ponder why she harbored this rareness, but for the interim he could not waste time questioning reasons. The new day would bring her to his home and he had to ready himself for that visit. Once they were united then he would seek answers to the spirituality behind their attraction. But they had to bond first, and the act was making him shiver uncontrollably in expectation.

Wyldelock was consumed with the images of impending acts of sensuality. He could not shake the picture of her smile from his mind, even though he considered himself a master over his thoughts. It was a source of obsession. To alleviate the burden, he decided it shrewd to share the images with her and fell into meditation, whereupon he could infiltrate her dreams. A dream would build within her the hint of sincere pleasures, enticing her inquisitiveness to the extreme. She would dream and then he would prove those dreams a reality. Wyldelock shed his clothing and in the darkness of the turret knelt, summoning his thoughts to meld with her sleeping mind, so that she could begin to understand how much she needed him, and how he needed her.

She appeared in the window and he coaxed her inside. His eyes closed, he illustrated what a passionate lover he would be. He watched with her as she approached the bed and gently he proved she was the object of his unfailing devotion. There could be no boundaries once they were joined as one. She had nothing to fear. Yet she had recoiled and stepped away, her trepidation opening as a dark pit. He caught her, held her, extolled his physical attributes to her, and carried them both back to the bedchamber.

She caressed him! The bliss rippled through Wyldelock’s meditation, this small success a prelude to what would come. “Oh, my sweet Olivia, my jewel. You want me as well.” Her confirmation in itself was an ecstasy he could barely contain. “Yes. Yes, I want you.” He was victorious. Her dream would cement the future.

Then she screamed in terror. Her eyes were filled with pain and she pushed him away, so suddenly and so fiercely, he lost control. Alone in the chamber he knew she had awakened, his magic broken. Mortified at the loss he rose, trembling to an anger that besieged every sense. “Olivia!”

“Never again, Talan.”

Wyldelock shrieked fury. A huge grotesque Phoenix flapped its wings in jubilation for foiling the scene of passion. It squawked, hopping from side to side on curled claws, filling the room with the foul stench of its rotten breath. The face was human, as were its protruding genitals, the creature glaring at Wyldelock through malevolent searing eyes.

“Dietrick!”

“Yes! It is I.”

Wyldelock’s fists shook with rage. Dietrick had intruded upon her dream, threatening repulsive molestation within this manifestation. He was the source of her terror and he continued to flaunt the attempt by displaying the oversized male attribute that bounced as he bounced, from one claw to the other. And he laughed, further instigating his determination to foil Wyldelock at every turn.

“Soon, brother. The pit of damnation waits. The souls of those you have sinned against demand retribution. I will satisfy their lusts by insuring you never satisfy yours.”

Wyldelock lunged at the massive beast, his fury snapping into every muscle. It vanished, the cackling soon after, leaving Wyldelock as a heap on the floor, gasping for breath and cursing the existence of an enemy who had discovered the capacity to break into his dominion. He was left with no other recourse but to wipe the whole dream from Olivia’s mind. The turret glowed red with his bitterness. Through the glowing haze he lifted tears of frustration as an apology to her.

“Olivia!”

His cry, nothing more than a long single trill, echoed over the churning seas and was lost.

Chapter Four

“Did I hear you up in the night?”

“Yes,” Olivia answered, following her mother out the door. “I had a strange dream, but for the life of me I can’t remember it now.”

Mother swung her carpetbag over one shoulder as they started their trek into town. The car had choked and spluttered and died, but at least it was parked in the yard before it had finally given up the ghost. A strict budget meant it would remain stationary for the time being. Olivia was thankful. She wanted a chance to talk to Mother. The opportunity arose instantly. “Is something troubling you?” Mother asked.

“William has invited me to visit with him this evening.”

Mother grinned. “William? So, you’re on a first name basis. How did that come about?”

“I met him on the beach yesterday.”

“Well now,” she teased. “If he’s invited you to visit, he must be interested in you.”

“I don’t know what to think of him. He’s very polite, but … I get the feeling he’s hiding something.”

Mother stopped in her tracks. “You’re not letting all the gossip sway your opinion, are you?”

“No,” she said absently. “Well, maybe a little. I just can’t figure why someone like him would come here.”

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

“I did already. He’s less than forthcoming with his answers.” They continued in silence. As much as she abhorred rumors, they swirled through her mind anyway. Gangster, murderer, criminal, none of which made sense, yet she entertained the idea his uniqueness was born of some dastardly deed. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think he’s refreshing.”

Why was it that Olivia couldn’t get an answer that might satisfy her inquisitiveness? “You must have a better idea than that,” Olivia scolded.

“Sweetheart,” Mother said. “Get to know him a little better. Then make up your own mind. Different isn’t always wrong.”

“Tell that to the people around here.”

“Ollie!” Mother stamped her foot. “Don’t you dare judge anyone by the way these people talk. Look what they say about us, and is that true?”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

Mother gaped, flabbergasted.

“I know, Mother. I know there’s more to this family curse than you admit. I found a diary in the Keep, one that belonged to Amelia Byrne. Her husband died at forty anad so did his father and his mother before that. Statistically speaking that conveys a little bit more than mere coincidence.” Olivia’s voice was stern. She rarely spoke to her mother this way and fully expected chastisement. Instead, she was surprised to see Mother visibly blanch.

“You went inside?” Mother asked feebly.

“Yes, I had a look around. I found the diary and I kept it. Amelia wrote about a curse on the family. She knew her husband would die and she wrote about her fear for her son. Why? What’s it all about?”

“It’s got nothing to do with us, Ollie.” Mother had paled, contradicting the validity behind her words.

“I’ll ask Gran, then.”

“No! You mustn’t bring this up with Gran. She gets upset easily and I don’t want her troubled over this.”

“Tell me, mother.”

“Now’s not the time.”

Olivia reached out to touch her mother’s arm. “Please. I have a right to know.”

“You shouldn’t have gone inside that old building alone. And you should never have taken anything from it.” Mother’s cheeks flushed and she wobbled, pressing her hand to her forehead. “I need to sit down,” she said weakly.

They took a few steps to a bench, its seat still covered with morning dew. The dampness seeped through Olivia’s dress. She ignored the discomfort, worried more about her mother’s sudden state. Her heart pounded with a mixture of anxiety and lament, both overruled by the nearness of a few answers.

“It is true.” Olivia could hardly shape the words. Her mouth had gone dry. “There is a curse. And it has something to do with William Talbot, doesn’t it? That’s why he’s here.”

“Oh, Ollie, don’t,” Mother cried. “Don’t jump to all these silly conclusions.”

“How can I help but make conclusions when I don’t know what’s going on?” Olivia had grown impatient and anger filtered into her tone. “Are we in danger? Has this man come here to hurt us?”

“Of course not! Do you think I’d encourage you to see him if I felt he meant any harm?”

Olivia scrutinized her mother’s expression. She was hiding something. Her lips were pressed tightly together and she kept her eyes lowered. “What do you know? You must tell me or I won’t go tonight.”

“I suspect that Mr. Talbot is a distant relative of Anna Von Der Weilde.”

“Who?”

“That was her maiden name but we know her as Anna Byrne. Her husband was Henry Byrne, the sea captain who started building the Keep. He met her in France, as the story goes, and rescued her from persecution as a witch.” Mother puffed a sardonic laugh. “He apparently didn’t believe she was anything more than a pretty young girl with an attitude but he soon found out differently.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Probably nothing more than what your Gran does—potions and herbs for medicinal purposes, or reading tea leaves—but there were rumors.” Mother rolled her eyes. “Rumors had it that her craft bordered on the dark side, that she had a room in the Keep where she meditated, spoke to spirits, conjuring those who had lost their souls. It was said she had the mark of a sorcerer, carried from her family line from Germany, and she was trying to find a way to break the curse that followed her across the ocean. And the spirits she conjured were those family members who had passed before her, those who also bore the … I mean, those who also considered themselves cursed.”

“Germanic,” Olivia whispered.

“I am Germanic by birth….”

“Well,” Mother continued. “I guess whatever she tried to do didn’t work because she died of a sudden fever on her fortieth birthday, leaving Henry with their only child, Horace, who eventually went on to finish building the Keep in honor of his mother.”

“He’s the one who is supposed to haunt the cliff, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” Mother said, her mood lifting a little. “That’s because he died in such a freak accident.”

Olivia remembered reading the ghost story in a book from mother’s shop. Horace Byrne, often mistakenly credited for being the original builder, had been swept into the sea and drowned by the rogue wave that appeared from nowhere on a peaceful summer day. No wonder the locals said he was often spotted still meandering over the cliff, his spirit as confused as everyone else at such a peculiar phenomenon of nature. “He was forty when that happened, though, right?”

Mother nodded wearily. “But, haven’t you noticed that your grandmother is pushing eighty and I have passed that accursed age? Just barely, mind you.” She winked. “But I’m well and happy. So,” she announced getting to her feet, “if there was any substance to this so-called curse it hasn’t anything to do with us.”

“What’s the sorcerer’s mark?”

Mother’s smile dropped.

“It was mentioned in the diary and you said Anna Von Der Weilde had it. Is it like a birthmark?”

“Ollie, I have to get going. It’s past time I opened the shop.”

“Mother, I have a mark, on my shoulder.” Olivia felt a sudden stab of dread, as though she had been kicked from the inside out. “Is it the same one? Do I have this mark?”

“No, it is not! And no, you do not. What you have is a scar. I spent a long time in the delivery room with you young lady, and unfortunately you were left with a tiny souvenir.” Mother sat down again and patted Olivia’s arm. “Honey, please don’t go connecting dots that just aren’t there. Find a pretty dress and enjoy your evening with Mr. Talbot. If you think his intentions are less than honorable, I know you’ll put him in his place.” She gasped at her watch. “Mercy! I have to get going. Drop in later and show me what you’ve picked out.”

Olivia waved as her mother dashed down the street to the storefront. No sooner had she swung wide the door than two tourists followed inside. Another week or so and the village would be a busy place, but this year no ghost hunter would be allowed to leave their prints in the earth around the Keep.

Olivia plaited her hair, a solid braid, over one shoulder. The dress she had finally chosen was charcoal gray, one piece, narrow at the waist, gathered beneath her bosom. It hugged her form. The pleated skirt swung demurely mid length between her ankle and knee. Nothing fancy, it bordered on plain, but she had taken an instant liking to its modesty the minute she had tried it on. She had a pair of boots, the heels adding an inch to her height. And she had a red wool cape, one she saved for special occasions. Folding it over her lap, she sat on her bed and brushed the lint of disuse from the crushed material.

A tickle in her stomach was growing more severe. She had no choice but to admit to herself she was looking forward to the evening in William Talbot’s company. Scrutinizing the building’s interior had dimmed in comparison to scrutinizing the man. To be honest it was a silly façade, casting a critical eye over décor when she was by far more interested in him—his history, his connection to the house, his sophisticated demeanor—and she often smiled at the erratic butterflies that continued to flutter about within her stomach.

Olivia had just finished brushing her cape when Gran knocked gently on the bedroom door. She shuffled to the chair that was draped with sweaters and jeans, cleared a place and sat down, her bony fingers interlinked, continuously moving in concern.

“Please don’t worry about me, Gran,” Olivia said, suspecting the reason for the visit. “I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.” She was trying to ease her grandmother’s worry, frightened that worry would cause guilt in seeing the man that Gran believed to be dangerous. Her excitement had far outweighed the foresight of danger. By convincing Gran she would help to convince herself.

“I’m not here to stop you, Olivia,” Gran said with a hint of melancholy. “You are as intelligent as you are beautiful. I know you will be careful.” She lowered her gaze to her fingers that continued to rub into each other.

Olivia wasn’t certain what to say. Mother had forbidden her to bring up the perilous topic of curses even though the subject rested on her tongue, nearing escape. She kept the thought silent, waiting to find out the reason for Gran’s visit.

After a few moments of fiddling, Gran reached into her pocket and pulled out a small hand stitched satchel. “Put this in your purse,” she said, handing it over to Olivia.

“What is it?” Olivia asked gently, smiling thanks for the gift. The embroidery was a burgundy cross, faded with age. The contents dry, crackling with the slightest movement.

“One of a few things that has been passed down in our family,” Gran answered. “It belonged to my great-great grandmother. She made it a long time ago and now I want you to have it.”

“You mean Anna Von Der Weilde?”

Gran’s eyes widened with surprise. “Yes, that’s right. She believed in the power of the Rune. The one stitched there is called Nyd . It represents … destiny.” She bowed her head, as though in prayer, and Olivia was touched deeply by her reverence.

“Gran,” Olivia whispered, kneeling in front of the frail woman, taking her hand. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she prodded, as cautiously as possible.

“Nobility courses through your veins, Olivia. Don’t ever forget that. You are better than him. You always will be.”

“Him? Are you talking about Mr. Talbot?”

“Is that what he calls himself now?”

Olivia felt her brow furrow with confusion. Gran squeezed her hand. “If you don’t want me to go, Gran, I won’t.” It hurt Olivia to even make the suggestion but she loved her grandmother dearly. The last thing she wanted was to cause the old woman such heartache.

“You must go,” Gran said sternly. Olivia was surprised by the conviction in the tone. “You must go to him. Destiny has commanded it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Gran stroked Olivia’s cheek. “You will, sweet girl. You will.”

“Who is he, if not William Talbot?”

“He is whoever he wants to be,” Gran said, stiffening. “But you have a greatness he can never obtain. Just remember that. Don’t ever let him take anything from you that you’re not willing to give. Promise to be careful of him, Olivia. It’s all I ask.”

“I promise.”

With that Gran got up, smoothed down her skirt, and left the room.

Twice Olivia stopped on the way to the Keep. The first was to gaze behind to her home, a place where she had always been comfortable and secure. The second was when she crossed the crest of the hill and saw the Keep, a place that had filled her imagination since childhood with awe and wonderment. So here she stood, in this peculiar purgatory between two worlds. The unknown was calling her forward almost as powerfully as the familiar was calling her back. The journey was innocent enough. Still, Olivia had the nagging sensation that completing this short walk meant transition. She was crossing a bridge from one way of life to another, all because of the silent call of a man who continued to be cloaked in mystery and intrigue. He was the source of some odd hold on destiny, and she was ignorant as to whether it would be favorable or fatal. Never one for tempting fate, now she seemed to be gambling. The need to know more about William Talbot far outweighed her need to run home again and hide within the arms of the assured. The fluttering butterflies inside her stomach prompted her voyage to continue.

William Talbot. “Is that what he calls himself now?” A dormant memory teased her into believing she knew another identity, as though she had been told in a dream. Try as she might, however, she couldn’t bring that memory to the surface. It remained elusively out of reach.

Olivia pulled her cape tightly around her chest even though the evening was far from cold. The shiver came from within. If he was not William Talbot then who was he? Why would he lie about his name?

She stood for what seemed like hours staring at the Keep’s transformation. For so long it had been blackened by neglect and abuse, its rooms empty and its windows broken. This night it glowed, each restored pane of glass sparkling to a flickering gold light. Thin wisps of smoke floated from every chimney. Even the narrow slash in the turret winked illumination. Olivia had drawn closer without even realizing she had done so.

The rose gardens had been manicured and the stone steps were free from weeds. The proprietor had been very busy. In such a short amount of time he had turned the loneliness of a forgotten estate into a home. The exterior was pleasantly welcoming. Her heart beat double time to the delights that waited within.

“ Nobility courses through your veins, Olivia. Don’t ever forget that. You are better than him.”Better at what? Nobility. The impression was an idealistic one even though she was skeptical of her grandmother’s claim. Perhaps if she traced the family tree back into the folds of history she would discover a lineage where wealth and fame dictated certain style, a duchess maybe or a count, but to suggest she was ‘better’ than William Talbot, well, that seemed absurd. If she was so much better why would she need protection from a charm, and why did she feel so humbled standing here in front of the front door?

A brass doorknocker was the head of a lion, the ring clamped firmly in its fanged mouth. The artisan had captured the beast’s nobility. The eyes seemed filled with a hunger for the thrill of the chase. Olivia reached to clasp the ring and startled when the door swung wide, without the need to physically announce her arrival.

Her host filled the doorway, the yellow light behind him silhouetting his figure. She quietly gasped, not only at the suddenness of the opened door, but at the image that filled her with a great sense of splendor. Snugly fitted around his barrel chest was a magnificent waistcoat, blue and copper chenille, the shoulders capped, the front laced, the embroidery an accented copper trim. Beneath it he wore a white satin shirt, the sleeves slightly puffed. Long black hair cascaded over each shoulder, framing shadowy features, until he smiled, a genuine delight emanating from the welcome. “Olivia,” he announced. “I am so pleased you have come.” He stepped to one side and waved an invitation to venture inside.

She shrugged off her cape and he placed it on the coat rack, fully assembled, looking brand new. The small foyer glistened, even the vase revealed no hint it had once been ruined. If this was an indication of what the rest of the building would reveal, she was going to be thoroughly impressed. Sensory overload prevented her from uttering much, except an initial “thank you.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, sweeping a gaze over her form.

“So do you,” she returned. An odd compliment for a man, she knew, but it was true and hoped he would accept her assessment in the good humor in which it was meant. Needing to explain her choice of words she added, “Your vest, is it handmade?”

“Yes. Doublets like these were often worn by nobility in years gone by. I admire the history of such pieces as much as the handiwork involved in creating them.”

“Nobility courses through your veins. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Please,” he issued gently with a wide smile. “Come inside.”

“Oh my,” she whispered, taken aback by the grandiosity of the immense hallway. Dry leaves on the floor were replaced by Persian carpets, their dark woven colors reflected in the many tapestries that covered the stone walls. Thick candles were perched on iron stands while others flickered from their candelabras in strategic points outside every archway. The staircase at the far end was also dotted with light, an oil painting hung above the landing, a portrait of a woman dressed in a white flowing gown, a dark red love knot plaited through her waist long blonde hair. Her eyes seemed to follow Olivia, waiting as William did, for approval. “This is incredible,” Olivia said, breathless at the building’s transformation. She felt lightheaded with the delight of everything she saw and swung in a circle to drink it all in. “Absolutely amazing.”

He watched her reaction intently, not interested in what she gazed upon, rather how she felt about his choice of décor. “It pleases you?” he asked with yearning.

“Words fail me,” she said with truth. “Your taste is impeccable. I love the theme.”

His brow rose. Beneath, his eyes searched her face for further explanation.

“Medieval,” she answered. “It’s my favorite period. The woman in the portrait,” she went on. “Is she an ancestor of yours?”

“No,” he said. “But long ago our families were united through friendship.”

“She’s beautiful. Who is the artist?”

“Unknown,” he answered hastily. “Please, allow me to show you the gallery.”

Heat from his palm pooled on her shoulder as he guided her toward the archway. No longer did her footsteps echo from emptiness. She glided across the fringed rug and into the gallery. As impressed as she had been with the massive hallway, this room was one of unspeakable grandeur. All three fireplaces crackled with fires, uniting with numerous candles that filled the whole area with a soft yellow hue. Dark brown book shelves spanned from the floor to the ceiling, each stacked with leather bound editions—Dante, Chaucer, Malory—surely reproductions, unless of course he had transferred the whole of the British Museum’s library. A suit of armor stood guard, the glove holding a spear as though ready to challenge any hand that didn’t have permission to browse. The center fireplace was twice the size of the others at each end, above it hung several double-edged swords, their hilts adorned with jewels set within the woven steel. Not accustomed to appraising pieces of ancient weaponry, Olivia studied the design with fascination. “These look like originals,” she muttered, touching every inch of the lowest sword with her gaze.

“Yes,” William said from behind her shoulder. “They are. I am a collector. I have always been intrigued by their virtue. The expense of such pieces meant that only the elite could carry such exquisite instruments. Epics have justly conveyed their….” He paused with a dramatic flare. “Magical abilities.”

Olivia had never heard of a killing instrument being spoken of with such reverence. “They must be priceless,” she said. “Everything in this room is priceless.”

“Indeed,” he purred, fixating a suggestive stare on her, one that caused an eruption of fine hairs on her arm to flutter to attention despite her close proximity to the fire. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“That would be lovely,” she said, considering the fact she was going to need one to settle her nerves. This whole evening was becoming extremely surreal. It was almost as though she had walked into a time-slip, catapulting her into the fifteenth century. “I thought you said you were restoring the house to its original glory,” she said with a slight challenge. “It was built in the eighteen hundreds, not the fourteen hundreds.”

He poured dark wine from a decanter into two pewter goblets. “That is true,” he said with a wry grin. Passing her a goblet he added, “I believe the original mistress was, however, European. It is her taste to which I have remained true.”

“So you do have a connection to this building,” Olivia stated coyly. “Your being here is not by chance.”

“Yes, and no,” he said. His thumb stroked the pewter branch that cradled the cup of wine. He was lost in thought a moment before continuing. “As the symbolism in the goblet portrays, a family can branch in many directions. I am as familiar with those she left behind as I am yours. Research led me here.”

“Really?” Olivia made her way to the couch that was positioned close to the center fireplace. “Tell me more.”

“Conformity can be brutally ugly. It warps the imagination. Freedom of religion, especially for those who cling to the shadows, has always been a difficult road to follow. Those who dare break the web of traditionalism in the glare of persecution deserve respect. She broke free, Olivia. She came here to establish the glory we feast upon this night. I wanted to honor her memory, her strength.” His wide shoulders lifted to a heavy sigh as he glanced, with pride, around the gallery. “And I wanted to see if this strength, as well as her beauty, has been passed to her descendants.” He sat down on the couch and held the goblet to his lips before taking a sip. “I believe I have been successful in my quest.”

“You have a greatness he can never obtain.”

“Your words are very flattering, Mr. Talbot,” Olivia said guardedly. She had shrunk into the corner of the couch, away from the heat that radiated from his closeness. Both hands held the goblet to counteract the growing compulsion to touch the shining embroidery of the doublet, to feel for herself whether or not the bulk beneath was real, and not a figment of her own imagination. The pull was strong and she swayed with the need to control her actions. She didn’t even blink for fear that when her eyes cleared the room would be empty, dark, and damp and he would be gone like a dream that ached to be remembered, a fantasy yet to be reenacted.

A dream. The image, quick as a flash of lightning through the night sky, struck into her mind—a canopied bed, the flowing motion of a lover within. Then it was gone. What remained was a compelling sense of arousal, impossible to banish. She flushed in embarrassment as though he might read the madness that had overwhelmed her consciousness.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “The wine, it makes me a little lightheaded.” She placed the goblet on a nearby table, to confirm this was the only cause of her blush. Without an object to hold onto, however, she was left feeling exposed. She stood under the pretence of interest in the antiques and moved farther from him, for safety. Not because she was uneasy that he might attempt a display of affection, but because she doubted her own ability to remain polite. Drawn to a cabinet of figurines she tried to focus on them, not her growing passion. She struggled with awkwardness. Never had she felt so attracted to a man as she did to William Talbot.

The miniature figurines broke the tension that had stiffened her trepidations, and she laughed aloud. Each one was a model of fertility gods, held in high esteem by the ancient Romans. And each one exposed exaggerated male attributes with austere pride—Pan, Priapus and a few assorted images of fauns, half human, half creature.

William had followed her to the cabinet. “Freedom of belief,” he whispered over her shoulder. “Cultures once admired such symbols. They understood the importance of procreation. Their lives depended on it. Their religion reflected its principles.”

“Most of these are of Priapus,” Olivia said, doing nothing to conceal her smirk. “He was a naughty little fellow. Bit of an exhibitionist.” She was looking directly at the one figure, the stone cloak lifted to expose his remarkable extremity.

“He was responsible for the fertility of gardens and farms.”

“Yes,” Olivia agreed. “But if my memory serves me right even the Romans viewed him with more amusement and affection rather than awe, despite his boastfulness.”

“You are astute,” William said, his breath heavy and warm against her neck. Olivia was suddenly aware of his broad chest pressing against her back, and she sighed at the luxurious sensation of his palm inching around her waist. She tipped her head as his mouth swept close to her ear. “Clever as well as beautiful,” he whispered.

Seduction. She had warned herself of a probable intent. In the past such attempts angered her, escorts who suddenly turned to her with a glazed expression of insinuation, at which she would chastise. Never had she followed through on such lecherous suggestions for they always repulsed her. Hollow words meant merely to flatter, a means to an end. This time she got the distinct impression that the flattery was genuine. Either that or he was a clever manipulator. Or he had hypnotized her.

Both of his arms around her, she swayed backwards into the fold. Automatically she placed her hand on his, while long fingers caressed her stomach. His biceps tightened as he held her closer, his lips feathering a quick kiss onto her neck. The figurines vanished as her lids fell, and she drew air to keep from suffocating. Floating in an exquisite impression of detachment, she was struck with the knowledge that this was exactly where she was meant to be, held within the steely grip of his embrace, and a voice inside her mind sang a lullaby, coaxing her to surrender to his will, fall deeply into the ecstasy on offer. She was falling, and the sensation was far from uncomfortable.

His intimacy caused her whole body to burn with delight, want, submission. “Olivia.” His mouth encased her ear, the syllables of her name resonating throughout her mind, drenched with sensuality. A silky flow of hair brushed her cheek as he lowered his kiss to her neck, while each thumb discovered, with caution, the curve of her breasts. She melted at the generosity of affections, teetering dangerously close to the precipice of capitulation.

“Don’t ever let him take from you what you’re not willing to give.”

“No!” Olivia cried, breaking from his seductive hold. “I can’t do this.” As she swung round to face him she blinked. He was sitting on the couch, goblet in his hand.

Was she going mad? Her fingers flung to the spot on her neck where she had felt his kiss, still wet from the touch of his lips, her breasts still burned heat from his touch. The cabinet was real, the figurines all in place, at least her sight had not betrayed her. She stuttered to absolute confusion. “I—I’m sorry,” she stuttered, clutching the cabinet for support. Her knees felt wobbly. “I think … perhaps I should go.”

“You have paled,” he said with chilling calmness, lulling her with a monotone voice. “Please, come, sit down a moment.”

The fantasy, so erotic and pleasurable was gone, if fantasy was its true nature. It had upset her that such a daydream could be so vibrant, but it was insipid in comparison to the way her feet moved to his command, not hers.

He rose from the seat, and opened his arms for her arrival as she continued to glide closer and closer. “Stop!” her voice cracked, but at least the slow moving dream that coated her mind in a weighty haze complied with her demand. Flushed with the success of again capturing physical control, she fixated a hard stare on her quietly imposing host. “Who are you?” she said, not even daring to blink lest she loose precious concentration.

His chin dipped to a bow, lifting only his eyes, menacingly handsome and pure. “I am your humble servant.”

This was not an answer. “What are you?”

An iniquitous twist pinched full lips. “Mentor. Advisor. Counselor. I am at your service. I will teach you everything your heart desires and more.” His lips parted. Without speech he added, “I will demonstrate to you pleasures beyond belief. Spiritually and … most certainly physically.” His hand waved through the air between them, distorting it, colors swirling to an invisible breeze, painting tranquility. His fingers spread to a jolt and the air rushed, enveloping her in a tiny churning gush. In seconds it caressed her whole body, the ecstasy so severe she gasped, and when the shimmering eddy bolted into her body, she staggered at the total sensation of weightless bliss. It was as though he had reached inside her soul and held it in his hand. Breath poured from her lungs and she collapsed forward, sacrificing her all to gravity.

He clasped her forearms, preventing the fall. A rasping moan saturated her ear. “I can show you so much, Olivia. Let me take you. Give to me. Give me your spirit and I will guide its power. Give me your body so we shall be one. It is our destiny to unite. You were born to be mine. I have come to claim my prize. Say yes to me, Olivia. Say yes.”

“You must go to him. Destiny has demanded it.”

Olivia was drunk with disorientation. She fought desperately to find words of denial. They slurred out. She couldn’t be certain whether they made sense, for her ears were drumming under the warm water of sensuality, and she couldn’t distinguish what her lips pronounced. “You’re poisoning me with this sorcery.”

“Poison would mean pain and death. Oh, my jewel, I shall see that neither harms you.” He pulled her into his chest, her breasts squashing into the steely mass of muscle. Her arms had fallen, useless limbs. Her cheek rested into the soft curve between his shoulder and neck. Fatigue. So many emotions. It had all been so exhausting.

His hands cupped her skull. Scorching heat radiated from her scalp and flowed down, like lava, burning every internal organ as it crept farther. It pooled in her lower torso—she felt it radiate there, tickling, calming, preparing her for nature’s ultimate act of pleasure. And she was numbing to his spell. She could neither fight, nor beg. He had consumed her every resolve and all she could do was accept the incredible gift of pleasure his stroking hands promised to procure.

A low guttural groan vibrated from his throat. His mouth was on hers, yet she couldn’t taste his lips. “Say yes, Olivia. The time has come for us.”

Was this, too, an illusion? He had lured her to this lair, created it to impress upon her subsequent clever conversation, and then he cast his seduction, teasingly flaunting his masculinity so that she would fall prey to his desires. Weakened, she had become a willing captive. Of the two roads which yawned before her, the easiest to travel, the more gratifying passage would be the one of indulgence. Concession. He needed her compliance. Why? There was a pronounced urgency to his proposal and that hint of relentlessness was thoroughly frightening. The cup of persuasion had one last drop. It had not yet reached her lips.

Regardless of what trepidation voiced within her saturated mind, her body was not responding. He was playing with her, and she was letting him transfix her every action.

She swayed in his arms, gently moving in rhythm to the delicate notes of a distant harp. Haunting strands of music echoed throughout the building. The floor rippled as the ocean’s surface would to an unseen current, a liquid platform, yet he held her upright. The dance went on and on, the sweetness of a woman’s voice carried the tune.

“Listen,” he cooed, the word an octave lower than the song, less distinct. “Listen how she sings for us. She knows you are here. She is pleased that we are finally together.” His hands stroked her back in unison to the harp’s vibrations.

“Who is she?” Olivia asked, slow motion, through the increasingly heavy dream.

He clasped her chin, tipping her face. They were no longer surrounded by books, fireplaces, swords. They were on the landing, beneath the painting. The dance had taken them up the set of stairs. Olivia lifted her gaze to the portrait. It had changed. The hair was dark and loose, the gown black, not white, and the features were twisted from weariness. A tear was making a thin ribbon of light down the oiled cheek.

“Anna,” Olivia whispered. The Keep’s original mistress, a woman accused of witchcraft, a woman who was haunted by a family curse. Olivia recognized her. How and why, however, was lost.

The eyes on the painting widened. Voluptuous lips parted as though to speak. Her breast rose and fell as in life.

“Anna.”

She nodded and smiled, and slowly lifted her hand to the shoulder of her gown. The eyes never left Olivia, begging full attention. The image turned, the gown fell, revealing the cracked porcelain white of an artist’s paint. The bare shoulder was curved, the shadow bringing to life the structure of bone beneath. But the flesh was marred. On her skin was a mark. Olivia squinted, fighting the web of distorted light that began to flash with exigency. The mark. An outline of a claw, three sharp talons, the tips penetrating the white shoulder, small drops of blood oozing from each puncture.

“It was said she had the mark of a sorcerer….”

“I have a mark—on my shoulder. Is it the same one?”

The painting nodded, eyes growing grossly disproportionate to the face, each one glowed crimson, matching the red that had begun to stream from the wound. The lips curled to a silent scream. Olivia heard the agony. It shivered through her body, fixating her, paralyzed. White painted flesh melted from the image, the dark gown ballooned down to the bottom edges of the frame, folding over a lump that squirmed beneath. The claw inched from the material, all that was left of the beautifully sculptured feminine image, blood dripping from each nail. Its malevolence had taken a life of its own. It rose and with it came the Phoenix. Confined within the frame it fluttered, desperately trying to escape the gilded prison bars.

The music had died. Instead the sound of weeping, many voices united in a cry for release, tortured, burning, thrashing against eternal damnation. Women’s shrieks of heartache, madness, babies crying from neglect, deformity—louder, shriller—all emanating from the grotesque beak, the swollen tongue black with decay.

Then it, too, changed. A man, cloaked in a brilliant mantle, his chest protected by fine silver mail, leathered boots to the knee, doeskin trousers. He leaned forward, his jeweled sword the support. Light brown hair curled over his neck. His expression was stern, yet compassion whelmed forth from steely eyes. “Sister, give him not your innocence. He carries no love within his breast. Fear him. Embrace hatred for what he is. Leave. Or accept the madness that waits.”

“I don’t understand,” Olivia cried, feeling as though her heart had already shattered in hundreds of pieces.

“He lives because he has sold his mortality. The evil he harbors wishes to feed upon your righteousness. Help me, Sister. Help me to end his existence. Then we shall all be free.”

Many figures stepped forward from the murky shadows behind him. Women, beautiful and young, all carrying small bundles swathed in blankets, all the ashen faces silently pleading with her to understand, to help.

“I cannot do this deed alone. Together we can destroy him.”

“Go away,” Olivia wept. “You lie! I don’t believe any of this is real. Go away.”

“Beware,”he said, fading into the gloom with the others. “His transgressions are numerous, his sins unforgivable. Beware.”

Olivia had no memory of leaving the Keep. The void dogged her heels, the nightmare snarling ever closer. She paused, only to catch her breath, her focus solely on the safety of home, the small lights in view. Blurred by her tears, the lights led her on.

Wyldelock tore at his clothes, blinded in the consumption of rage. It slashed through his body as a wild fire would lap the dry weeds, leaving nothing but blackened destruction. He howled with the agony, smashing his fists wildly into the walls, crushing stone. He kicked aside the branching candelabras, breathing in deep gulps of the smoke streaming from smoldering carpets. And he pulled his hair, the sting of self-abuse a slight release from the raking pain of rejection. Then he kneeled to the floor, rocking, while shrieking profanity to every God that might dare have the audacity to listen.

As the tantrum slowed he scratched the shredded doublet from his torso. With jerking grunts he ripped away the ruined material, blood seeping over the white silk of his shirt. He folded in torment, his forehead cooled by the stone floor, his groin throbbing. He spread his legs to relieve the pressure, fumbled with the buttons of his trousers to lighten the swelling. Still hard, wanting, expecting, but nothing would alleviate the pain now. She was gone. Gone! If only he were permitted to touch himself. Need deemed he try but the attempt left nothing except forks of lightning, constricting him even tighter. The torment! It was unbearable.

As if the physical discomfort was not enough torture his mind played games, weaving in and out of focus the visions of supple maidens, ample breasts, curved thighs, long throats, rosebud mouths. They danced with him, each in turn, feebly submitting to the power of his suggestive eroticism. They dropped their veils, their blouses, their skirts, and took rightful position beneath his bulk and he lowered to reward such compliance with the thrill of his force. He took their maidenhood, that stab through a thin cover of innocence and he would quake to the gratification of its jolt. Then he would take his time with each. Some softly sighed, some remained quiet, others struggled, but he took them, each and every one. The memory teased him. With such clarity there was no hope in coaxing the tenderness between his legs to wane.

Wyldelock flattened his cheek into a cold stone slab, his fingers clawing the fringe of a Persian rug. Sweat trickled down each temple, down his spine, down his legs. Hair stuck to damp shoulders. He moaned in frustration and slithered along the floor, wiggling from what was left of his garb. Its finery had failed. His spell of seduction had failed. His grand home had failed. He crawled, inching farther, like a worm, trapped in a hollow piece of fruit. The garden had withered. The fertility god had neglected its duty. Seed had not been scattered. It would rot inside the case without penetrating the warm earth. Wyldelock rolled onto his back, arching his hips. No stance gave him aid. Only time would lessen the fullness that continued to expect what he could not acquire.

“Olivia.”

His teeth gnashed. What had he done wrong? Never had his touch been refused. Never had he been pushed aside with unequivocal determination. Never had a woman treated him as a pathetic lap dog, brushing him to one side with disgust. He had danced with her. They were halfway up the stairs. He could even smell the rose petals on the bed from where they stood on the landing. She was complying with his promise of care and tenderness and rapture. If only she had gone farther, if she had seen the bedchamber that he had so particularly prepared, then he would not be suffering now, aching with the agony of constriction, waiting for his suffering to drain. If she had only succumbed he would now be writhing to the sensation of deliberate expulsion.

His arousal had been so strong. Without indulgence he was left weakened to exhaustion. And susceptible to any enemy who might seek his devastation.

Wyldelock’s eyes snapped open. Dietrick! This was his sorcery!

A laugh started off as a distant chuckle from the landing and grew louder, gaining volume as it traveled down the stairs, bouncing from every wall in the great hallway. It had no flesh or bone attached to its velocity but Wyldelock did not need to see a face to recognize such wicked jocularity. Indeed, it was Dietrick, and Wyldelock snarled so solidly that a gush of blood filled his mouth.

“She is truly lovely, Talan. Almost as radiant as Sophia was before you soiled her. You do remember my sister, yes? You do remember that night when you left the celebrations, when you left me, to go to her bed?”

Wyldelock tried to lift his head but fatigue rendered him immobile. His eyes darted to every visible corner of the room, frantically searching for the source of the taunt. Nothing.

“Ah, brother. It was a pleasure to watch you strut about like a boastful peacock, to listen to your fine rhetoric, to breathe deeply the stench of your impotent seduction. She harbors suspicion, Talan, passed down through generations of madness. But now she holds the reins on this chariot of damnation and I am the steed that will supply your quick delivery into the pit if fire!”

The voice moved from left to right.

“She carries the mark, does she not? You smell it as I do. Now that I have made her acquaintance, Talan, I too find certain yearnings beginning to stir. Soon I shall acquire physicality and when I do, perhaps I shall be the first to pluck that virtuous flower from her womb. Then where would that leave you? As now, squirming to the sensation of failure, knowing your one last chance for redemption has been foiled?”

The laughter erupted again, pounding Wyldelock’s ears as thunder. Fury was once more beginning to constrict the muscle of his arms and legs. “To take her would be incest,” Wyldelock shouted, his shoulders trembling from the cold and the anger. “She is of your blood.”

“Yes!”Spittle sprayed into Wyldelock’s face from a mouth that had no existence. “She is of my blood. And if to unite with her would secure your destruction I will not hesitate.”

“Your hatred of me has blinded you, Dietrick. She is marked for me. You know this to be the truth.”

“Truth? You are not acquainted with the truth, Talan. Sophia slit her own throat once your son took his first breath. My grief prevented me from stabbing a knife through the infant’s heart there and then. The servants, superstitious ignorant peasants, left the child in the woods for the wolves. But it survived, Talan. The only offspring of the many you spawned that actually survived!”

Wyldelock seethed. A son. He had been buried, condemned to sleep, in the dungeon months before the event of birth. Sophia Von Der Weilde had been his last taste of pleasure, and although he knew she carried his child, he never considered with emotion what it would mean to him if the son lived. None of the others did. It was a pattern fate deemed payment for indiscretion. He had accepted this punishment, as long as his powers of seduction remained. Then he was sealed in the pit, Dietrick’s own doing of revenge. Sealed in sleep. Wyldelock believed his sins were paid in full and now he learned of the one child who survived? “You lie, Spirit,” Wyldelock challenged. “Your words are fouled. What proof do you bring that my son lived?”

Dietrick stepped from the air as though merely journeying over a simple threshold.

Wyldelock recoiled in terror, for his ancient friend carried a mighty sword, one which, if pressed into his chest, would open the emptiness within. Its hilt glowed, each of the three claws tipped with rubies. The rubies! The gift Wyldelock had presented to Dietrick as concession! A gift meant to appease spurned affections. They both knew a heart that could not love was empty, filled with nothing but stagnant air. The steel of this sword, the weapon encrusted with the Von Der Weilde crest, could puncture the foul organ, leaving Wyldelock to wither and rot, slowly and with excruciating agony. He inched backwards, cold now numbing his nakedness.

“Fear not. I am but a reflection of light, for my transformation to flesh has not quite been concluded. As much as I would relish thrusting this weapon through your ribs, I must wait, and consider this foreplay. No, brother, I want you to gaze upon the instrument of your only son’s death. It was a task not without trouble but I found him, forty years to the day of his birth. He died, almost to the minute four decades after Sophia bled to death because of you.”

“My son.” Wyldelock’s insides crushed. In the span of seconds he reeled to news of reproduction, and then the thrill was snatched away again with news of murder. “Why? Why take him when you had already broken me?”

“A clean house, Talan. Dust cannot be swept under the rug, no matter how lovely its weave. Dagaz demanded my name, my property, and my daughter. And his magic was increasing. No, Talan, he was too much like his father. He fought well—a gifted swordsman—but alas, it was my ear that witnessed his death rattle. And it was my declaration that sent him into eternal torment.”

A malevolence smirk teased the transparent cheekbone.

“Your son, my nephew, dead by my hand and soon I will ensure you join him in eternal torment. We have Olivia to thank. My blood, generations of enchantment, laying dormant and unscathed, waiting for her to be born. You woke because you smelled Sophia in her blood. And you think you will win her, be her master, grow ever stronger. No, Talan. The call went first to you and then to me. Thanks to the suffering of generations of those with the mark this curse on my descendants will finally come to an end. I will thrust my sword into that putrid mass of stench you call a heart and then Olivia will be mine. She will be my slave.”

He tipped his chin and laughed. Dietrick dissolved taking the mocking laughter with him, dimming into the darkness that had crowded into the hallway.

Wyldelock shuddered. Dagaz. His son, murdered, all because of Dietrick’s hatred. Sophia, dead by her own hand, his son, dead from the sword his old friend had carried, their existence ruined. And now he meant to grow stronger, ruin Wyldelock, enslave Olivia. History could not be allowed to be repeated. Dietrick had to be stopped.

He had to lay with Olivia, and soon. Soon Dietrick would have substance, the sting of the sword real. The Von Der Weilde sword. The curse. Dagaz had claimed his rightful inheritance—he was the one who had initiated the curse—the family who scorned his existence was marked. The first born of each generation carried the bird of prey’s talons, doomed to die at the age of forty. Wyldelock took courage. His son had been a great sorcerer to inflict such damnation. This was all the proof Wyldelock needed to know his son had breathed and worked such prominent powers.

Olivia had that mark. She was the gift sent to Wyldelock from his son. And he would accept that gift, rescue her and condemn the others.

He had much to do. Wyldelock crawled to his feet, raising his arms, lifting his face to the expanse of the night sky. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft. I will survive.”

Chapter Five

Burdock, a weed needing no care, flourished well along the side of the house, while chamomile, dill, elderberry, hyssop, parsley, and sage were a few that made up the herbs in Gran’s garden that Olivia loved to tend. Pleasant teas and flavoring for food Olivia believed to be their most important function. Mystical functions had roots that wound deeply into folklore. Attending the garden, digging her hands into the earth, being close to nature, all was far more favorable an aspect than reaping a crop for magical purposes. Still, for as long as Olivia could remember, her grandmother had looked forward to late spring, seeing the garden begin to show signs of rebirth. It had become a delightful habit, a place to go to collect thoughts, and Olivia needed now, more than any previous spring, to collect those thoughts.

It seemed the Keep was as haunted by madness now that it was lived in as when it echoed with nothing more than the cold Atlantic wind. And no less perilous. Olivia ran the events of her visit, over and over, through her mind. So many beautiful antiques, the warmth of the fires, the tastefulness of decoration, and a debonair collector who treasured it all with gleaming pride. No ordinary building. Certainly no ordinary keeper. How could he exist there without being touched by its individuality? And why such profound illusions?

Paintings were not permitted to move. Unwritten laws of normality forbade it to be. Like photographs they were snapshots of time, meant to remain motionless within their prisons, to be observed, not to interact. Their voices were meant to speak to an observer through the talent of the creator, and then only to those who had the zeal to see the subtle flows of light and color and interpret beauty in subjective appraisal. It had to be madness if the image turned, or wept, or reached out for attention. Or changed completely and begged assistance.

Olivia patted the warm earth around the small sprouts near her knees and sighed. Her eyes had told her what her mind insisted impossible. If this was the case, then she suffered ill will. Why would he create such confusion? Everything about him was eerily daunting—his attire, his speech, his unusual handsomeness—all so attractive. Regardless of this talk of destiny she had forbidden herself from ever seeking his company. Even that would be difficult, seeing he had taken a stance as owner, and the house was so close by. Worse, his affections had been issued with such gravity. Would her hasty escape mean he would suddenly submit to defeat? Olivia had little doubt William Talbot would enter her life again. She would have to be direct with him. He had damaged her integrity with his hurried advances. Careless men. They were all cut from the same mold.

So why did she mourn the failure? Why did her heart ache as never before?

A tow truck had backed into the yard. Mother fretted as their car was hitched onto the back and driven away. She watched the derelict being taken and then slowly made her way to the edge of the garden. “Transmission,” she said, crouching beside Olivia, absently pulling at a few weeds. “I guess we’ll be eating porridge for awhile.”

“We’ll manage,” Olivia encouraged. “We always have, we always will.”

“Whatever the cost, we need a car. Especially if an emergency arose.” Mother had a far away look in her eyes. “Your dad was great at fixing things,” she said sadly. “I miss him so much.”

Olivia felt a tug at her heart. “Me, too.” It had been so unjust, a man in his prime, being eaten by a disease that had aggressively sucked out his life. Six years had passed and Olivia sensed her mother still mourned. It had taken many years for Olivia to get over being angry—angry at her father for becoming sick, angry over how delicate the human body could be, angry at fate for casting such a dark cloud over their lives. That had been such a difficult period for all of them. In many ways they would never recover. But life went on and they had to be brave, for each other.

“How did you know when you were in love?” Olivia asked, hoping a brighter memory would lighten their moods.

“I just knew,” Mother said, smiling. “He was so handsome and witty and such fun to be with. When I was with him he made me feel as though I were the only woman in the world. And when we were apart, all I could do was think of him, and count the minutes till we were together again.”

“Sounds romantic,” Olivia mumbled.

“He was that and so much more. Ours was a whirlwind courtship. We were married shortly after we met.”

Olivia shot her mother a hard stare. “Why was that?” she teased, knowing full well what the answer was.

Mother flushed. “You’re embarrassing me,” she said. “So it was a shotgun wedding.” She laughed. “Didn’t mean we felt any less about each other.”

“You didn’t regret it then?” Olivia proceeded with caution. “Getting pregnant with me, I mean.”

“Not for one second. We were delighted. You were our bundle of joy. You still are.” Mother startled. “Ollie, you’re not pregnant are you?”

“No!” Olivia admonished. “I am not.” She went back to digging into the earth, with more ferocity than needed.

“Honey,” Mother said. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No.”

Mother didn’t let go, however. She had teeth of curiosity firmly planted into the subject, and slid closer, peering into Olivia’s face. “You were home early last night. How did your evening with Mr. Talbot go?”

“It didn’t go, so don’t bother quizzing me.”

“Oh, I see.”

Olivia wanted to talk however. She rubbed her dirty palms on her jeans and sighed in discouragement. “Why is it they only want one thing?”

Mother’s brow shot up with surprise. “What might that be?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Olivia scolded. “Not that I’ve gone on many dates but the ones I had all seem to think with a one track mind.” She hoped her mother would understand without going into greater detail.

“It’s their nature I suppose. Am I right in supposing our new neighbor tried to get overly friendly?” She pinched her lips together to keep from grinning.

“This isn’t funny.” Olivia felt like screaming. A great ball of frustration pulled so tightly in her chest that if it popped she was certain it’d fling her into outer space.

“I take it then you weren’t impressed.”

“That’s part of the problem,” she confessed. “I was very impressed. But he ruined the whole evening.”

“What happened?”

“He scared me, Mother. I heard voices, when there shouldn’t have been voices. And he had a painting that shifted before my eyes. There’s something terribly wrong about him.”

They sat quietly a moment. “Ollie, what were you drinking?”

“Oh, for goodness sake. I had one glass of wine. I don’t think that would cause me to hallucinate.”

“It might if it was red wine,” Mother said with a hint of unease. “Sweetheart, you’re allergic to red wine.”

Olivia’s heart dropped.

“Don’t you remember that Christmas your dad decided to have lamb instead of turkey? He brought home a lovely bottle of red wine and thought you’d be old enough to have one glass. For the whole afternoon you kept rushing to the window to tell us that Santa was right outside. We got a great laugh out of that till we realized what happened. After Dr. Philips gave us a lecture on underage drinking he told us about your allergy.”

If Olivia hadn’t felt so foolish she would laughed. “Oh, Mother,” she bemoaned. “I had forgotten.”

“So I guess this means you owe Mr. Talbot an apology.”

“Not quite,” she snapped. “He still tried to put the moves on me. A gentleman wouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t give up on him yet,” Mother said, getting to her feet. “Unless of course you don’t like his company.”

To justify her humiliation over forgotten allergies Olivia clung firmly to her damaged sensitivities, that his advances were not the actions of a gentleman. She touched her throat, remembering the kiss, so real and tender, and her embarrassment deepened when recalling her reaction to the kiss. She had wanted him to make an advance, from the minute he opened the door and issued invitation, and worse still, she had thoroughly enjoyed the prospect of being seduced. When she had turned to find the touch wasn’t real, he immediately read her disappointment. “He staged that little performance on purpose,” she muttered in disgust. “He was playing tricks on my mind. He’s like every other man on the face of this earth except for a talented use of illusion and charm. Well, that thick creamy tongue isn’t going to get me to….”

Mother stood, her brow raised in amused shock. “Go on,” she said. “Isn’t going to get you to do what?”

“How could he do something like that? I mean, I was so sure he was right there behind me. He even kissed my neck, and when I turned around he was sitting on the couch.”

“Ollie—red wine—remember?”

“No,” Olivia mumbled, playing the incident over and over through her head, like an investigator watching a crime scene video. “No, Mother. More than wine. Poison.” Divination. William Talbot was an expert magician. She was ready to say so when a noise caught their attention.

A sleek black car rolled into the drive. The driver got out, an older man, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit.

“Oh-oh,” Mother said under her breath. “I hope we’re not being audited. That’s the last thing we need.”

“Good morning, ladies. Terribly sorry to intrude but I was wondering if you could help me. I want to get out to the lighthouse to take some pictures and this seems to be the only accessible drive. Are you the owners?”

“No,” Mother said. “We’re not. The property has recently been sold.” Ever shrewd, Mother gave away no more information than was needed, especially to strangers.

“This is the only road?” he asked, not giving up easily on his mission. He looked troubled that the drive, unkempt and rutted, might disagree with his sports car. “I’ll tell you why I ask,” he continued, his voice jerking in excitement. “I’m here from England, doing research on lighthouses along the coast. To confess, it’s actually the ghosts who haunt the lighthouses I’m interested in. Imagine.” He chuckled, winding his fingers into each other. “All the ghosts we reputably have in England and my editor sends me here. Selling coals to Newcastle.”

Olivia was charmed. She loved the soft vowel sounds of the English. One of her professors had been from London and it was her favorite class. Often she listened to the musical tones of his voice rather than the content and had to shake herself to attention to scribble notes.

“A ghost hunter. My, my,” Mother said, winking privately to Olivia. “We haven’t seen one of those around here before, have we Ollie? Well, Mr….?”

“Fillmore,” he said, warmly shaking mother’s hand. “Stephen Fillmore.”

“Well, Mr. Fillmore, you’ll have to discuss photography and the permission thereof with the owner. Leave your car here if you want to walk. It’s only about half a mile or so.” She stole a quick look to his polished shoes. “Don’t expect to come back without getting those roughed up a little. If you’ll pardon me, I must get to work. Ollie will be able to answer some of your questions I’m sure. Good-bye then.”

Olivia scowled. Not what she wanted to spend the morning doing, but protocol left her being as polite as possible, considering her wish to simply be left alone to sort through a mass of confusing feelings.

He seemed innocuous enough. His hair must once have been very dark but now it was peppered with gray, as was his manicured moustache and beard. Deep lines fanned his eyes. It all denoted an age that his agile frame contradicted. “Half a mile is it?” he said, glancing over the wide lawn. “I’m frightfully unprepared. Silly of me. I should have known.” His eyes returned to Olivia and she felt a glint of predator in his gaze. “The building associated with the lighthouse, it’s called Byrne’s Keep, isn’t it? For the owner, Horace Byrne?”

“Pretty much,” Olivia answered.

“He’s the one who still walks the cliff, searching for his lost soul?”

“So the story goes.”

“Smashing stuff, these stories. I don’t put a great deal of stock into the validity of life after death, regardless how tormented the tale, but every story has such a unique history, don’t you agree?”

He was needling. Olivia recognized the smooth chat and became steadfast in her determination not to oblige his attempt. He hovered, expecting her to answer his query.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Fillmore?” she said curtly, annoyed by his staying.

“Yes. Do you know the proprietor?”

“No, can’t say that I do. But then he only recently moved in.”

“You’ve not met him?”

“I’ve seen him, in town.” This was after all, true. She didn’t feel obliged to tell a stranger much more.

“Must be a well-off bloke to take over a place like this. I wonder, is he from around here?”

“I thought you were interested in the ghost, not the proprietor.” Her suspicions were thoroughly aroused now. The friendliness of the stranger’s demeanor had wavered upon the mention of owners. The conversation had taken a turn toward being an interrogation. “What exactly is it you’re after, Mr. Fillmore?”

“Nothing James Bond, I assure you, luv. But if I’m to get my pictures I must get past Mr…. What did you say his name was?”

“I didn’t.” Olivia was anxious he leave. Persistence, bordering on rudeness, was making her uneasy. And quaint terms of endearment meant nothing either. “Love,” she added, dripping sarcasm.

“Oh,” he stammered, flashing a nervous smile. “I am so sorry. I don’t mean to sound….”

“Like the Spanish Inquisition? Too late.”

“I’m way behind my deadline and I must get back to London next week. I guess the pressure has made me thoughtless. Forgive me.”

“Certainly. Good luck.” She bowed her head to tug absently at a clump of weeds.

“Olivia. My jewel.”

“What did you just say?” Olivia snapped her attention back to the stranger.

He blinked several times. “Sorry?”

“You said something. I didn’t catch it.”

“Ah, no, well,” he stuttered. “I was thinking. Perhaps I did say something aloud. I didn’t mean to.” He flushed fiercely through the gray in his beard, his cheeks glowing like the Santa she had once hallucinated seeing.

“Never mind,” she said, with a warm smile. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just, things.” She waved her hand, reducing those ‘things’ to nothingness she wished to be true.

“I have my faults,” he said kindly. “Being a good listener isn’t one of them. I could buy you lunch.” He struggled to remain casual. “You could educate me about the spirits that haunt the area.”

She was softened by his thoughtfulness. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Fillmore, but I can’t.” Why did she refuse the invitation? There was no logical reason she couldn’t share a lunch with a lonely foreign photographer. He was congenial, nice looking, and likely filled to the brim with interesting stories about his experiences. Yet she harbored a fierce loyalty to William Talbot, faithfulness that she was shocked to discover was firmly established despite her many reservations about the man.

“I understand,” he said, taking a step backwards. “I wasn’t trying to impose.” Before reaching the car door, he called over. “That boyfriend of yours is a very lucky man.” Oddly, he glanced down the trail, to the crest of the hill. “Very lucky. Good-bye then.”

The car backed from the drive, stones crunching beneath wide tires.

“Boyfriend, indeed.” Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if she should shoulder more blame for her behavior that she should try to see William again, apologize.

All afternoon she expected the photographer might return, armed with the tools of his trade and dressed accordingly for trekking over the rough terrain. He never came back, so Olivia suspected he had given up, graciously deciding to omit Byrne’s Lighthouse from his collection of haunted buildings. Shame, since both the lighthouse and Keep were rich in folklore, and of course Henry Byrne had been English by birth. Strange, that this Mr. Fillmore wouldn’t at least make an attempt to get permission to take pictures.

Olivia kept busy, taking pride in preparing the garden for what harvest only the sun and the rain could conclude. She finished her chores in the house, made dinner for Mother’s return from the shop, but no matter what she did she couldn’t shake William far from her thoughts. By the end of the afternoon her theory of his ungentlemanly behavior was far less prevalent than her own reasons for a hasty departure. He must think her a foolish girl for the erratic conduct, and the more she considered her actions the more she believed to be at fault. Red wine. The shamefulness of her reaction to its ingredient gnawed at her. She had to explain. He might not forgive her, and rightly so, but at the very least she could clarify. An apology would ensure she’d sleep the night. Otherwise she’d be wracked with guilt. Besides, she came to the conclusion she actually wanted to give him a second chance.

After dinner she slipped on her running shoes, grabbed a thick sweater and headed for the beach. Perhaps she might find him there, enjoying the solitude. They had much in common, he had said, insinuating undisclosed depths between them. A mutual pleasure in the lure of the ocean’s soothing song was no secret.

He was there! Her heart stopped and once it had the presence to beat again it did so double quick. Just the sight of him made her pulse race.

Silhouetted, he was sitting on a flat rock beneath the Keep’s cliff, head bowed in observance to the dancing flames of a gigantic bonfire. He was a statue in a pose of contemplation and she waited a few moments from her place on the beach beyond the path, waiting for him to move, pick up another piece of driftwood to add to the flames, but the black figure never moved. Even from this distance she felt his grief. It hung around him like a murky cloak. His isolated loneliness called for her to come closer. If she was the source of his distress, then only she could relieve him of the unwanted burden. An apology had become urgent.

“William?”

Hypnotized by the flames, his eyes remained fixated, eking relief from the coldness of dolor. The orange glow caressed his olive features, which were set within the stone of sincere concentration. His forearms rested on his knees, fingers wound tightly into a solid clasp. Twitching thumbs were the only hint he was living, not frozen.

Olivia sat down beside him, as he had done with her the afternoon they first met, without invitation. She joined his search of the fire while carefully choosing what she prayed would be appropriate words of condolence.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, the proximity issuing no need for volume.

“I deserve your scorn. You have no need to release my anguish with your sympathy.”

She puffed a short laugh, not in humor, but in surprise to his never-ending eloquence. “If you are not a poet, William Talbot,” she said with lightness in her tone, “then you should certainly make an attempt.”

“I shall,” he answered. “With permission that I can use your loveliness as my theme.”

Olivia pinched her lips together to keep from laughing aloud. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he had walked directly from the pages of a quixotic tale of chivalry and conquest, he the dashing knight and she the swooning maiden. Who in this day and age spoke like this? His charm had a sobering sincerity, however. She wiped the amusement from her thoughts, embracing the genuineness, which he meant. Gone was the need to explain any past indiscretion. The relief was immeasurable.

A branch cracked and fell deeper into the pit. It burst apart in a flutter of sparks.

“Are you happy here? Are you going to stay?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have found my every desire. The challenge is its acceptance of me.”

His answer made her tingle. She reached over, put her hand over his. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly.

“Do you mean this?” he asked, letting her touch each of his knuckles. He had barely moved since she sat down.

Olivia twisted so she could look into his eyes. He kept his lowered, watching her fingers as they explored his hand. “I do mean it, William. I was worried at first, someone living in that old building, but it could have no better friend than you.”

He turned his wrist, entwining his fingers into hers. Gradually he lifted soulful eyes. “And what of you, Olivia? Do I merit your friendship as well?”

Every badly formed impression of him seemed to dissolve into irrelevance. He held her hand with such sincerity, a longing for acceptance and his tone denoted the same. There was magic all around him, this she was sure, but maybe it was nothing more than chemistry they shared. He had made her realize just how lonely cynicism had made her.

“This might seem very odd,” she heard herself admit. “So little time has passed between us and yet I feel as though I have known you for years. It’s all very new to me. And it’s somewhat overwhelming.”

“You know me. You have known me longer than you accept as true.” He tightened the hold on her hand and then let go. “May I show you something?”

“All right,” she said, intrigued by his sudden playfulness.

He shifted his weight while pulling her to sit between his legs. She snuggled into the warmth of his expansive chest while heat from the fire played on her face. His arms flexed around her as he held her hand again. Resting his chin on her shoulder she felt his smile. “You have a gift,” he said in her ear.

“Do I?” She laughed, his hair on her cheek felt like silk, smelled of smoke.

“Trust me?”

“Entirely.”

“Good. Look at the flames. Concentrate on one. Wipe all other pictures from your mind. Think only of that flame.”

This sounded like no average task, seeing she was almost wholly enclosed by his arms and body. Yet his voice had an authority that wiped away the beach. Even the sound of the waves on the shore dulled.

Olivia picked out one solitary flame, near the edge, where it spluttered, hanging onto existence with earnestness. It was the loneliest of all because of the seclusion, a situation she could relate to. Without the others it would soon fade. Inevitability. The sprig it clung to was dissolving.

He wrapped his fingers round her wrist, so lightly she barely felt his touch. “Point to it, Olivia. Give it life.”

She pointed, amused at the idea of giving anything ‘life’ by merely casting a finger toward it. Yet as she pointed the flame reacted, leaping up in a graceful pirouette. “How did that happen?” she gasped. She curled her finger, drawing it into the folds of her sweater. The flame dropped, blinking, as surprised as she.

“Again,” William coaxed. “Coincidence has no part in this.” He took hold of her wrist once more and stretched his arm with hers.

The flame widened in response, forked and twirled again. And when she laughed, it flickered from orange to yellow to red. Fascinated, Olivia wiggled the tip of her forefinger and the flame bowed to her.

“You see,” William said, his lips close to her ear. “It honors its Queen.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, the impact of such dominion making no dent in reason. Despite his warming embrace she shivered. “What magic is this?” She hadn’t wanted to use the dreaded word. It simply fell out.

He crossed his arms across her breast, holding her tighter. Thighs beneath her elbows hardened. “Your magic, Olivia. You have this gift.”

“Why? How? I don’t….” Words failed. But she sensed an odd surge of power, one that radiated throughout her whole body, despite a mind numbed to the absence of logic.

As a delighted child with a new toy she played. The fire crackled when her fingers snapped, rose into the twilight to a flattened palm, and sparkled when she waved. And when the first onslaught of terror gripped her heart, the flames cowered together and shrieked, the eerie cry adding to Olivia’s fear. She shrunk back, alleviated from the emotion’s damaging crush within William’s embrace.

Slowly the fire returned to normal, feeding only on dry driftwood.

“Last night was real,” she said, whirling to broken pieces that were slowly beginning to fit together. “You toyed with me then and you do so now.”

“You suffered only the pain of birth,” he whispered, tightening his embrace, sensing she might try to flee. “Your gift has taken its first breath.”

Olivia was drowning with questions, yet he held her, keeping her from being crushed by the weight of confusion. Lulled by his stroking thumbs on her neck, the warmth of the fire, the rhythm of the sea, she sighed, floating in expectation.

“I have traveled from afar to claim you as my own,” he cooed. “We are as one, you and I. Do not fear what you know to be true. Close your eyes. Search your heart. There you will discover the answer to every question. Let it be so.”

She walked through the lacy veil of a lucid dream. Her own image greeted her there, a gown of shimmering gold, her hair woven with jewels. The throne on which she sat drifted on a silver cloud, beside her, the man she loved. Long thick locks curled over each shoulder onto a breastplate of encrusted gems, his crown no less adorned. He held a walking stick as a righteous scepter and it, too, glowed, as the light of fulfillment did around his face. They clasped each other’s hand, for to loosen the grip meant destruction, their enemies waited for the bond to be broken, their power to falter. Jealous hearts darted malignantly amongst the shadows but the two remained steadfast, loyal to the other, confident in their union. Two as one. Bound together.

Olivia saw. And understood. Peace infiltrated her being.

She shook the dream away and turned. His eyes were at peace as he returned her stare. In them she saw sincerity. Again she lifted her finger, not to command a tiny flame to flutter, but to tease a lock of hair that draped his temple. It danced to her command, across his nose, over parted lips. This gift was one of sheer delight and she had him to thank for awakening this luxurious endowment. She wished to give in return, a token of appreciation, and leaned forward, never releasing his gaze from hers.

His lids widened in surprise and then fell as she kissed him. He reacted with subservience, permission to do with him as she pleased. Her lips lingered on his, a feathered touch, one drenched with adoration that whelmed from within her as an eternal spring. As she withdrew, he followed, a silent plea for more, his thirst far from quenched.

This request she could not honor. Not yet. She barred his mouth from hers with the enchanted finger and his face contorted with agony of refusal. His pain stabbed into her as deeply as it did him. “Please,” she whispered, praying he could forgive her cruel resistance. “There’s so much I don’t understand.”

“I am content with your kiss, Olivia,” he whispered, drenched with gratefulness. “It speaks of promise.” He bowed, creased forehead against her cheek. He took her palm to his lips, a low moan of compliance wrought with grief. “Allow your vassal the indulgence of but one request,” he said, his voice quaking to the strain of passion. He lifted his mournful gaze, clasping her hand to a thrashing heart. “Hold the key to my prison with care. For only your touch can set me free.”

“A poet, William Talbot,” she teased, breaking from his embrace. “A poet and a gentleman, a magician and a thief.”

“A thief?” he asked, the shadow of a worried smile on his mouth.

“Yes,” she said, skipping backwards so she could tease him just once more. “A thief. Because you have stolen my heart.”

This pleased him. He nodded, and watched her as she made her way down the beach.

“See you soon,” she called back.

He lifted his hand to gesture a reluctant farewell, and the sand beneath her steps danced.

“Ah, Talan. Remember the nights we feasted on wild fowl over an open fire? Why, it seems like only yesterday, does it not?”

“Yes, Dietrick. Like yesterday.”

“Remember the peasant girls who danced for us then? So young. So innocent. So sweet. I hear their laughter yet.”

“She is mine, Dietrick. All else has passed away.”

“Sadly true, my brother. Those tender sighs shall be no more. Their lovely bodies are dust. How sad that even the fairest joins their sleep.”

“Not so. She awakes. She dreams of pleasures now that only I can procure. She stirs to my calling.”

“Then sorrow will crack her feeble bone. What happens, Talan, when she finds only the coiled serpent of repugnance within your breast? What happens when she sees the blackness of an empty pit where love no longer resides?”

“I shall not be foiled. Dagaz left on her the mark—your crest—my claim—she is his revenge, my dowry. With her birth he assured that I would awaken. My greatness lived in him. Now he lives in me. She shall be won!”

“Not by you, brother. Dagaz is dead. Prepare your sword. Prepare to join your only son.”

Olivia kept her gift a secret. Secrecy added to the mischievous thrill, the tickle that fluttered through her each time she lifted her finger to make a command. She practiced—the edge of the duvet on her bed to fold back and forth, the corner of the curtain to twitch up and down, the drawer of her cabinet to open and close—and the delight grew. It had to be a telekinesis of sorts and why she hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon the capability earlier in life was a mystery. It took the gentle touch and the wise words of a certain teacher to bring the gift to the surface. And the skill was up to her to refine.

“I wonder,” she mumbled, eyeing the bedside cabinet. She wiggled her finger and the top drawer slid open. She couldn’t see the contents except from memory. “Out,” she sternly ordered, and each T-shirt folded within floated to where she pointed at the bed. “This is just insane,” she said aloud, still amazed to the point of unease. Few human beings had such a talent as this. She was very possibly one of an elite group. Not that anyone else was going to know. No scientist of parapsychology was going to conduct hours of torturous testing on her. She made a solemn promise to keep this to herself. Always.

Only William would know. She could trust him because he told her with his compassion. “I will teach you everything your heart desires and more.” She was safe with him. Still shrouded in mystery, that sense of the unknown was no longer daunting. In fact, she found herself ever drawn to him. Their relationship was increasing. It was a matter of defining the relationship. Whatever the title, Olivia knew her life was taking on a drastic change.

Then there was the one sobering image that continued to haunt her. The painting. It had changed three times, she was certain of it now. First the woman with the blonde hair, her identity unknown. Next the darker woman who had motioned to her shoulder, shown Olivia the mark on her delicate shoulder, the mark they shared. Finally the man, the one who called her sister, the one who spoke of destruction. Olivia had dismissed the reason for the metamorphosis as a result of her drinking red wine. No, she mused, the reason for the images was far more sinister than a reaction to wine. This puzzle remained stubbornly unanswered.

The diary. Was there not a mention of such a mark in it? Olivia went to the bottom drawer where she had tucked the small book away, and pointed. Obediently, the drawer slid open. “Rise,” she demanded, and the diary lifted to the air and wobbled. It hadn’t taken so kindly to a command issued with magic, remaining stationary for only a few seconds before dropping to the floor with a thud.

The binding, already cracked and dry, did not react well to the unintentional abuse. Olivia cursed her heedlessness and picked the diary up with the care it deserved. Poking out, from the widened tear in the binding, was a yellowed paper, rolled tightly within. Another secret, a piece to the puzzle slowly relinquished, she pulled it out and marveled at the aged treasure. The ribbon round it was frayed and disintegrated to her touch. The paper remained sturdy, however. She unrolled the page.

No signature of the author, it was written in a refined scrawl. Every space was cluttered with words. Unlike the diary, no space was allotted for punctuation. The hand that wrote this belonged to one who was hurried. Several of the letters were scratched, almost incomprehensible. Olivia held it to the light and read.

I sin greatly to the lusts of common men My flesh stings to violation my family dishonored by such aberrations My reasons based on justification my body a servant for abuse by many men I must allow these violations or else risk awakening the evil of the One who would sense innocence and rise for me as I carry the mark that would arouse his evil passions This cannot be allowed I will not permit him to find me for his terror would drive me mad as it drove the others into oblivion of torture Misunderstood by all they believe me to be a mistress of darkness and many demand my flesh be committed to the fires of purification but no I shall escape with another a sweet prince who has sailed into port in a ship of gold He shall rescue me from a path of destruction He has promised to take me to the New World and I shall leave my nightmares behind Surely this curse cannot travel across the depth and breadth of a vast ocean I am rescued I have found freedom with him Now the mighty Sorcerer will never find me or those who may come after me Make it so I beg all power good and true to be my guide.

Anna Von Der Weilde. No name needed to be attached for Olivia to know who had penned such a heartfelt passage. Accused of being a witch she had found refuge here with her English husband. But if history were correct she continued her craft for protection. Whatever it was that had frightened her so, had followed.

Who was the mighty sorcerer she made reference to? Perhaps it had been another who shared the gift of telekinesis, during an era when such talents would certainly be misunderstood as an allegiance with the dark side.

Olivia had hoped this small piece of paper would reveal answers to the family mystique. Instead it only evoked more questions. Without realizing she had reached for her shoulder. It burned, as though she had been in the sun too long, and to the discomfort she went to the mirror and lowered her blouse.

Mother had stated it was a scar created by a difficult birth. But what if it was a mark that had been born with her? It had been faint, barely noticeable, but now it had darkened, becoming more prominent in appearance. The three thin scratches looking more distinct, like claws, the same blemish that the woman in the painting had taken such urgency in showing her. “You were born to be mine.”

That night she barely slept. And when she did, she dreamt of a long voyage across a tumultuous ocean, the ship followed by a great bird of prey that screeched out for her to listen and understand, its massive wings blotting out the sun. No matter how she tried to understand the images, they failed to inspire her with truth, resting just beyond comprehension. As she leaned to listen, she knew the words would become clear. Soon, she would understand. The puzzle was slowly locking together.

And when the fog lifted, Olivia, too, would be faced with the terror of decisions, ones that would ultimately change the course of her existence, as they had done with her ancestors.

Tired as she was from a night of restless dreams, dulled into obscurity with the morning light, Olivia carried the burden in solitude. Mother had enough on her mind making a living at the bookshop, finding the extra money to have the car fixed, while pushing into the background the loneliness of being single. Olivia didn’t want to further the anguish with talk of sorcery that seemed ever more entwined with their family history. Much was still being kept from her. If Olivia was to find an answer it would have to be done with caution.

Armed with a list of a few needed groceries and a purse light of coin she started off for town. Those she passed seemed especially guarded. Wary glances were common, something she had tolerated her whole life. But this afternoon each cautious eye that turned aside was particularly condemning, either that or she was especially sensitive. Ignoring the convictions as best as she could, she couldn’t help but smile. With a flick of her finger she could startle each and every one by moving an object without cause, the thoughts of their frightened faces was amusing. Tongues would waggle then! A sense of preeminence straightened her spine. Olivia held her head high.

She’d collect the items on her list, drop them off at home, and then go see William again. She argued with the soft voice inside in her mind that reminded her she had once vowed to avoid his company. The vow was made before her apology, before their short luxurious kiss, before feelings had whelmed up so powerfully inside her heart. Mind over matter was not about to persuade her to abandon the need to spend time with him. The more she thought of him, the more she ached to be at his side. It was becoming quite clear she was teetering on the edge of falling in love with this dark mysterious man, and it was a fall she was increasingly wanting to fulfill.

Reaching for a package of tea Olivia froze in her tracks. Voices from the other side of the aisle were far from polite, and the theme of the private conversation was disturbing.

“I think it’s Taylor, Teisman, or something like that.”

“Why anybody would want to buy that disgraceful old place is beyond me. It should have been torn down years ago.”

“I heard he’s got something to do with the Byrnes. Rich relative from Europe, I heard. Made his fortune selling guns to murderers.”

“You don’t say? My Rosie came home from school yesterday and said that Billy said his mother was talking to a fellow from England. Said he was a ghost hunter here to write a book.”

“That photographer? I heard that was just a cover. He’s a detective, here to find that other fellow, bring him to justice. A wanted man, apparently. Said this Taylor fellow was very dangerous and he should be run out of town.”

“Terrible business. Shady people. We don’t want such characters in this town. Bad enough we have to tolerate those Morgan women.”

Olivia stiffened.

“Maybe they’re all in it together. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re planning some sort of heathen festival out there. Should be laws against people like that.”

“Sex crazed the bunch of them. We’ll end up being as bad as Salem if something isn’t done soon. Who knows how many more of their kind will flock here.”

“You’re right. We’re good God-fearing people and we shouldn’t have to put up with any of them.”

Olivia could bear no more. She stomped around the aisle and glared at the two women, their mouths dropping when they saw her appear. “You stupid, self-centered old bats!” she seethed. “How dare you say such things.”

The two gaped, stepping back from her fury, clutching their collars.

“It’s your kind that should be gotten rid of.” The more she spoke the higher her temperature rose. Words flowed from her mouth as though they had life of their own. “You’re nothing more than a couple of gossiping old hags. William Talbot is a gentleman—not that either of you would recognize one—seeing that you’re both married to village idiots.”

“Well,” gasped one through sheer shock. “I never.”

“That’s an understatement,” Olivia continued, her cheeks burning to an ever-growing rage. “You never stop to think about the horrible things that flip off those rotten tongues of yours. You two are the biggest, ugliest witches in this town.”

Olivia slammed her empty basket to the floor and turned on her heel to leave. Just looking at them made her feel sick. She needed some fresh air and a brisk walk to calm down. She didn’t trust herself, staying any longer. As rude as she had been, the potential to say far worse was impending.

When she raced out the corner shop door she whirled right into Stephen Fillmore.

“Hello again,” he said warmly, not bothered by being bumped in to.

“And you’re another one,” Olivia spat, the gossip she had just overheard making more of an impact on her than she wanted to believe.

His smile dropped to confusion. “Pardon?”

A blind rage had all but consumed her. “You! Going around adding to all these filthy rumors about my family. Why don’t you just take that camera and shove it!”

“Hey-up,” he said, reaching for her in pacification.

Her fist flayed, demanding he stand clear. “It’s bad enough those old sows can’t hold their tongues but you didn’t have to come here and make it all worse.”

“No, luv, I….”

“Don’t you ‘love’ me. If you’ve come here to hurt him then you’ll have to get past me first.” Olivia couldn’t believe what she was saying. Her tantrum had reached a crescendo.

“He’s not what you think he is.” The gentle foreigner had suddenly become extremely stern, his conviction sending a chill through Olivia’s blood.

“What would you know?” she yelled. Her arms were trembling with the exhaustion of fury.

“I know,” he said. His dark eyes never blinked. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You must listen to me, Olivia. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and he has come here to tear you to pieces.”

A red wave fluttered in front of Olivia, her stampeding heartbeat crashed in each ear. Fists unfurled she lifted her finger, uncontrolled anger demanding the camera strap around the accuser’s neck to constrict. It obeyed, much to the chagrin of the owner, who garbled to the immediate pressure on his voice box. His fingers dug at the strap, a desperate attempt to loosen the grip. His breath stolen, he rattled for air, but his eyes never left hers. They were shimmering with shock.

“No,” he choked, his chin lifted, the strap coiling tighter like a malicious serpent gone mad. “No, please.”

“Saints preserve us!” A small crowd had gathered to watch the altercation. The photographer being choked with his own camera strap at the command of a slim finger had caused shrieks of horror. “She is a witch!”

The shriek had a sobering effect on Olivia’s temper. She curled her finger, whelmed with regret that she had used her talent for such a reprehensible infliction on another. No sooner had the photographer wheezed to release when a rock, hurled from some unknown bystander, clipped her in the temple. She staggered, lights flashing before her eyes, and dropped to the concrete sidewalk, skinning both knees.

“Leave her be!” It was Stephen Fillmore. He knelt, shielding her quaking shoulders from another onslaught of abuse.

Blood trickled down her face. She felt the warm path but was far too consumed with anguish to brush it away or even to consider how badly she might be injured. Tears were flowing like water. All she wanted was to get away, run. “Don’t touch me,” she wailed as the photographer tried to examine the wound. The crowd had collectively moved closer despite one’s sympathetic attention.

“He taught you to do that, didn’t he, Olivia?” Stephen spoke quickly, sternly, his words steeped in exigency. “You could easily have killed me, snapped my neck like a twig with a flick of that pretty finger. Don’t you see? It’s begun. He’ll corrupt you if you let him. Let me help.”

She crawled away, blinded by tears and pain. “Animals, all of you,” she shrieked. “I love him. I have always loved him and he loves me.”

“It’s a façade, Olivia. He couldn’t love you, even if he tried. He’ll feed on your goodness and then leave you in ruin.”

Somehow she managed to get to her feet.

“Olivia—listen—please! He is Wyldelock De Croft, not the nobleman you think, but a sorcerer, centuries old.”

“You’re crazy,” she cried, humiliated, stunned, confused. She blinked, trying to clear her sight and forced her feet to carry her away from the scrimmage that sought her demise.

“Another hunts him, Olivia,” the voice shouted, growing ever dim. “Let me help or you will be caught in their struggle.”

She blotted it all out and ran. Pavement became grass, dotted within the uneven ruts in the road to the Keep. On and on she ran, barley seeing the path as she staggered forward. “William,” she cried, her call barely a whisper, slumping to dizziness, not certain to where. “Help me.”

The sharp sting in her temple dulled. A gentle touch lifted her chin and she opened her eyes. He had answered her call. The sweet smile of safety flooded over her as if from the glow from a freshly lit fire. He picked her up off the ground as effortlessly as if she were a rag doll and carried her inside to the long darkened gallery. The world with all its viciousness melted away and she slumbered in his embrace.

“They hurt me,” she said, lulled as he smoothed back the hair from her cut. “More so with words than any weapon.”

He knelt beside the couch where she rested. “Persecution. Our guilt is the inimitability they cannot understand.” Slowly he leaned toward the damaged temple and kissed the bruise, healing heat, remedying the pain, physical as well as emotional. Her sorrow was gone. She was at peace.

“I want to be with you,” she said.

Odd, this sudden certainty that took hold of her with a severity never before experienced. She watched his brow lift, quietly questioning the conviction behind her words. Reflected in his eyes was no evidence he wished to harm her. Olivia saw only longing, that he, too, wanted as she did, to be with one who could answer dreams, one who could share their common bond, consummate allegiance. Together, in their shared uniqueness, they could ward off all those who wished to destroy what providence had borne. He had come for her, and now she was willing to accept his passions and try as best as she could to illustrate she would reciprocate his every wish.

“Olivia?” he whispered, an aching need for confirmation that what he was hearing was at last true.

She ran her fingers up into his thick mane of hair, her nails digging into his scalp. He leaned closer to the bidding, the moment lingering, heavy with expectation. Within the moment she allowed her thumbs to caress the hard curve of his jaw. His lips parted in a short expulsion of breath, so near she tasted its sweetness. “I want you as none other,” she said gently, drenched to prelude.

Her words ricocheted through him as a shudder. His lids dropped, brown throat bouncing to a hard swallow. His display of genuine sensuality overwhelmed her in an austere madness, one of extreme need. The fantasy swept her away. She gripped his hair in a tight pull, forcing his chin to raise, his lips to part in surprise, and she kissed him with promise, one that could never be demonstrated with anything as weak as mere words.

Olivia heaved into his immediate lunge, fingers buried deep in the silky hair that waved against her cheeks and shoulder. Tightened arms against her forced air to exhale from her mouth and he took it to his, his kiss bathing her lips, tongue prodding every crevice with fanatical hunger, yielding a soon to be honored promise of invading her body in totality. This salacious kiss was the beginning of pleasures beyond experience, that which he had promised to her, and she kissed in return, a gesture of acceptance. Olivia was ready to prove the depth of her growing love.

Control was dissolving, yet she pulled his hair, demanding he wait. His chest rose and fell quickly and he opened his glistening eyes to ask why she lingered, why she teased him so. Olivia smiled and pressed her mouth to his nose, forehead, and cheeks. His breath was weighty but he allowed the playfulness with constraint. “Seductress,” he said, in a voice fraught with greed. “You tease me with opulence.”

The storm was building, the air saturated with the mugginess of heat. Her new title was issued as the first fork of lightning that penetrated her mind. Then, it bolted through her breast as an untamed force, one that only his lavish touch could quench with cooling rains. He knelt before her, as a magnificent warrior, waiting to be anointed with the sword that would bestow knighthood. “I am your servant. Ask of me … anything … and I shall give.”

His wide chest fully against her breast, she tore at his shoulders, the breaking storm both terrifying and inviting. Thunder crashed in her mind. He pulled back, finding her mouth again, lavishing another wet, full kiss while twisting every button of her blouse. Instantly his palms fell flat on her skin, the burn causing her to cry out with torment for more. A wave of hair cascaded across her breast as he fluttered hot kisses onto her flesh, caressing each curve. She tugged his black satin shirt, scraping her nails down the flexing sinew that waved beneath a covering of olive skin. He heaved to an arduous groan, weakening her into total acquiescence.

Abandonment. Freedom. She floated, sighing as full moist lips found her exposed breast. He fed on the tender nipple while the deep guttural moans vibrated through her. Back arched, she welcomed his tender nuzzling. Every sense exploded to his passions, his tender touch, the scent of his hair, eardrums echoing his unembarrassed verbal exultation of enjoyment.

Her hands swept over his shoulders, his waist. They were truly lovers now, exploring each other without lament. Familiarity. Yet so much more to obtain.

“Touch me,” he pleaded, his damp forehead to her cleavage. He had lifted his torso, the shirt falling loosely around his chest, as curtains, framing a window of sheer rock. He clasped her hand, reiterating his demand, tugging it to his parted thighs. Nearing tears, so stern was his want, he guided her hand over his tightened groin. “Oh, Olivia, my jewel,” he rasped as she obeyed his bidding. His whole body stiffened in response. “Tell me you want me.”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, I want you.”

He could no longer allow her to explore through the material. She felt his trembling hand as he unbuttoned his trousers. “Take hold of me,” he said, his pleading voice shivering with excitement. To not fulfill his wish would be torment. She did what he asked. She held his girth within her palm, cast iron wrapped in velvet. He barely took breath, and when she gently stroked him he cried out. Fearing she had caused nothing more than pain she stopped. He gasped, taking hold of her hand again, begging her to continue. “No,” he whispered. “This pleases me. So much.”

Olivia’s heart thrashed so wildly she was dizzy. And when he fixated a longing glare of sheer desperation on her, she grew wild, casting off what little was left to control. Lover, it was true, but his eyes betrayed the feral animal that rose to the surface with an anguish she had never seen.

If her hand pleased him, how much more would her mouth? Instantly she had engulfed him, her tongue bathing the silken skin, exploring his girth. He clasped her jaw, guiding her to slowly move back, then forward, the hard end touching her throat. And again. She sensed him shudder.

“Oh, yes.” His voice was soft even though his whole being was rigid.

Gently she slid her palm beneath the base, encompassing the malleable sacks, stroking with utmost care. A long intake of air, action, reaction.

His fingers tugged her hair as he beckoned her to lift.

“I must claim you,” he said, eyes flashing to the darkness that had overpowered his temperate passions with a rage of need. “I must make you my own.”

The look had prompted another thrill. A new sensation of lust had snapped into her gut, an innate longing, a wild creature about to be unleashed. Within the heat of a fierce exchange of enraptured kisses, he clawed at what was left of her clothes and she at his. A confusion of motion, trailing fingers, embraces, cool air on exposed flesh, a reminder of vulnerability, her nakedness a release in itself. They were giving to each other, as only lovers should.

A masterpiece of masculine asceticism, he lowered her to the floor, studying every shadow that fell across her neck. Her fall was so gentle she hadn’t realized she was on the rug till the material pressed her shoulders. He paused over her, a knowing smile twisting his parted lips.

A gush of genuine mischievousness took hold. “As I demand,” she said. “I am your seductress.” His cheeks flushed at the comment, as though he would not submit, despite the title bestowed.

She rolled to one hip, taking his form with her as she did. He followed, a compliant conquest, his brow furrowed. She fanned his hair over each shoulder without the need to touch, her finger dancing in the air between them. A vein in his neck pulsated, his chest heaved in mounting excitement. Her finger hovered over his throat, he gasped at the delicate sensation. Her eyes dropped over his stomach, fine soft hairs erupting at her tease. He flinched. “Olivia, why do make me wait? Why treat your slave with such cruelty?”

“It is my title that makes it so,” she answered, hinting dominion. “May I not first gaze upon the fountain that will satisfy my thirst?”

He smiled. Reaching to push back a lock of hair that had fallen over her shoulder, he nodded. “The waters are deep. Hope that you do not drown.” Without voice he spoke. “Touch me. The time has come for us. Make it so.”

She heard and obeyed, taking him in her palm again. He shuddered, his black eyes rolled white to the pleasurable sensation.

“I will demonstrate to you pleasures beyond belief.”

He heard her silent citation and blinked in approval. “You learn quickly. Hear my plea. Do not continue this denial,” he bemoaned. “I cannot wait longer. I cannot!”

Olivia concurred and slipped her slender leg over his hip.

His breath caught as she lowered, enveloping him. He muttered in a language she could not understand, but the tone told her he was pleased, as did his body, which lurched up with a force that shook with rapture.

A sharp pinch was quickly followed by luxury. She froze until her mind could compensate for the exquisite sensation of his infiltration within her body.

“Olivia,” he called out, teeth clenched at the bolting bliss of their union. “You are truly mine now.” With that he folded up, embracing her in a grip of steely muscle. His mouth bathed her chin, lips, his tongue penetrating in a deep kiss. She could barely respond, so saturated was she in his massive intrusion.

“Is this your magic?” she whispered, clinging to his shoulders for support, electricity sweeping through her as she succumbed to his totality.

“No, my jewel. Not magic. No pleasure can compare to the joys of union, both body and spirit.”

His hands clasped her hips, coaxing them to sway. He moved to the gentle flow, his whole form taut. She tightened her internal muscles in a sensual reaction and he moaned in delight. They were as one.

Enraptured by his vigor, the need to be mischievous had dissolved. She gave in to him and he took her, rolling over, dominating, the way it was meant to be, the way she knew he wanted. His hair flowed down over her, his mouth on hers, hips swaying to a growing rhythm of lovemaking. He pushed deeply into her, filling her with the physical enactment of devotion, besotting her with the prowess only he could offer. She strummed his flexing backbone as it flowed, waves stirred by a mounting storm, she the compliant shoreline, able to do nothing but embrace the onslaught.

Nothing she had experienced had felt so right, so pure. To give herself, even if to be an object of his fulfillment, then so be it. “I am yours,” she breathed. Behind the words her mind agreed, so besotted with his every utterance, every touch, every breath, that if he were to perish she would follow. To experience such wonderment and then part from it? Unimaginable. No, she belonged to him, absolutely, wholly, and she meant him to understand how deep these convictions ran.

“You conquer me without challenge, sorcerer,” she whispered in his ear, through a damp strand of thick hair.

His hips slowed, thighs flexed, she sensed his expansion within her. “More challenge than you could ever understand, sorceress.” Teeth nibbled under her jaw. Tongue flat, he trailed a hot streak down her throat. “Our journey has merely begun.”

Olivia accepted a future as long as he was part of it. Any obstacle ahead they would greet together and although she didn’t have the sight to view the future, she did sense that much danger lay in waiting. “Together,” she whispered, twining her fingers tightly in his thick hair. “We will fight, together.”

He lifted his bulk onto locked elbows and peered into her face, quietly searching, studying what lay beneath her eyes. And he rocked between her sprawled legs, a continuous reminder that he was part of her body. He was marking her while proudly displaying his stamina. Then, the rocking quickened, mounting with more force. The forearms at her side clamped tighter, pinning her to this one position. He breathed, short snapping inhalations, lips parted. Her torso shivered with expectation of the tumultuous event about to force his body from control. Not certain exactly what was to happen, she was soothed by the thought that the pleasure etched across his face was satisfaction he had found with her.

His nails, forefinger and thumb, dug into the nape of her neck. “Take of me first.”

The sting of a whip would not be as brutal as the jolt of white heat that flashed into her skull. His pinch seemed to sink through skin and flesh and his fingers squeezed her spine. She tipped her chin up, her breast crashing into his chest and a scream of pain caught deep in her throat, snatched from vocal cords by the intrusion. Then there was ecstasy, crashing through her, as crushing as a solid avalanche of heavy boulders. The scream evolved into a shriek of profound pleasure, and she shuddered at the sudden paralysis that enveloped every nerve, every muscle.

So extreme was the sensation that insanity infiltrated reasoning. She had bitten into his throat, the soft flesh beneath his jaw, next to his ear. Blood trickled on her lips, the sticky saltiness bursting open taste buds.

“Yes,” he moaned, demanding intimacy to the wound she had inflicted. He tipped his head, coaxing her to imbibe. “Yes, take of my blood, sorceress. Grow strong.”

Her mind was dense with nothingness, as though she were immersed in the heaviness of water, surrounded by weight, but able to breathe, to function. Blood oozed across her lips, under her tongue, some sliding down her throat, winding a slippery trail without hesitation. His thrashing heart pumped it, like a bubbling spring, her mouth filling as an open vestibule. And as it warmed her gullet she surged to strength, a power electrifying and austere. She lapped, hungrily for more, wishing nothing less than the greatness he was offering her. He permitted the feeding and groaned deeply at the satisfaction it offered. “Grow strong. Take of me.” And just when she could accept no more he cried out. “Enough.”

Taking hold of her hair he yanked her away with such fierceness she felt a rise of fanaticism whelm up within her torso. Her pleasure had been paramount and now she was crazed with the need that he be fully gratified. She thrust her hips into him and he responded, pummeling into her offer, eyes widening at the shock of expulsion. A stream of heat filled her body, she was immersed in him, blood, fluid, flesh and when he shrieked loud and long, she listened to the voice of her mate, master, lover, knowing her role a success.

“It is done,” he rasped, his voice barley audible over constricted breath. It grew in authority. He took long deep gulps of air, heaving over her in the dying throes of ecstasy. “It is done!” Their torsos remained connected. He lifted on locked elbows, his shoulders shivering to the thrill of success, and he called out, not unlike a crazed howl, a devil hound, issuing dominance to the rest of the pack. Hair draped his tensed features. All she could see were curled lips, a snarl over bared teeth. He slapped one palm into the blood that continued to ooze from the bite on his neck. “See this, brother,” he shouted shaking the bloodied fist to the ceiling. “I have won! It is you who is doomed now! I … have … won!”

Olivia was forced to accept what was becoming increasingly clear. The one who had claimed her was not the mere nobleman, William Talbot, a handsome collector of art, and sculptures, and antique homes. No, the fog of confusion suddenly lifted and with fresh eyes she saw. This was truly a mighty and dangerous sorcerer, his supernatural abilities, both physical and spiritual, rooted deeply in the centuries past, an immortal who had traveled through time, traveled here to claim her before the other could dare an attempt. The other, the enemy, had indeed followed, tried to woo her to his side, play on her feminine sympathies, to understand the sense of lost love, a broken heart. It was true. She was locked between them as they battled for supremacy, life, revenge—a struggle that was far from over. And there was no escaping this malignant hand of destiny that had swept her into the battle.

“You are my chosen,” she murmured without fear, for she understood. She was chosen for him. She had no more control over providence than he did. Now she understood she belonged to him, she would learn his ways, fight with him, protect their union. What she could not yet grasp was what evil, what dark shadow lurked inside his breast, or how much strength she could muster to contain it, keep it controlled, release its anger only during battle. Yet a great peace filtered through her, flowing from head to toe. Now she understood. Marked for him, he claimed his rightful property, and in that claim she was bound to be forever his. Devotion, firmly cemented, would drive her on. No other man, or spirit, could come between them.

Before the darkness of sleep took hold of her, he peered down, a storm of success still filling his black eyes with mania, still curling his lip in a cry of proclamation, still stretching his thighs firmly in his stance between her legs. He had been listening to her thoughts, and nodded in final pleasure, her adherence to only him. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” he affirmed, lurching deeply once more into her body, expressing dominion through brute force. “And victory belongs to us.”

Chapter Six

“Sleep, my precious,” Wyldelock cooed. “Rest, for we have much to accomplish before this night ceases.” He pressed his palm over her forehead to deepen her unconsciousness. She slumped within his arms and sighed.

He wrapped a thin lace covering over her limp form, keeping her warm with the heat from his own body. Dissolving all other sensory perception he drank only of her—the sweet scent of femininity, the silky softness of her auburn hair, the white porcelain skin of each slender shoulder, the gentle curve of voluptuous flesh. He extolled her beauty with excessive kisses into her throat and hair. And he exerted genuine dedication with a secure embrace. “Olivia,” he whispered in her ear. “We can never part.”

Cautiously Wyldelock peered around the darkening room. After each endeavor to grow closer to her, his enemy had appeared, taunting him with failure. No voice harassed him now. She had not been seduced. She came to him willingly. They had found unity for it was within her will to seek out his affections. Such determination had foiled the spirit who had made an intrepid attempt to keep them separated. Wyldelock enjoyed the luxury of success and allowed his victory to manifest into a wry smile. The shadows remained stationary. They were alone.

Silence drummed in Wyldelock’s ears. Olivia’s warm breath of sleep pooled against his neck. Her life force was so strong. Her emotions so untainted and true, it made him shiver in exhilaration. Within her spirit was strength even he had failed to recognize and she matured even as she slept, a combination of fortitude, loyalty and love. And an innate voice within her had demanded she take of his blood, share his life force, one that swelled up and out, finding release. Meant for only her. Predestined by the son Wyldelock never knew.

His thumb caressed the mark on her shoulder. This was the reason he woke from centuries of slumber. This was the quiet call that stirred his blackened eternity. This was the proof Dagaz achieved greatness. This was the sorcerer’s mark. The Von Der Weildes had scorned Wyldelock’s existence. They had vanquished Dagaz from their family line. Dagaz knew that when the one, most innocent and pure, the one with this mark was born that Wyldelock would rise again and claim her. This was his final curse on those who had rebuked them both. Within Dagaz’s curse Wyldelock would find redemption. With Olivia he found hope. She was his cherished one, and he would not fail in protecting her from Dietrick’s vengeful scorn. Once Dietrick was destroyed they would be free to practice their craft, to be together always, to survive. With her the enemy could be reduced to dust.

But tonight they were alone. Tonight they would unite again and luxuriate in each other’s passions.

“Olivia, my jewel,” he whispered, pulling her closer into his embrace.

He had considered that once they had been together the smoldering fires of obsession within him might be dampened, that his thirst for her be quenched. As he fondled her skin and hair, however, he soon grew aware that his thirst only deepened, that the fire leapt ever higher. More torment. Every muscle flexed, air gushed to his lungs, his mouth dry. He had to meditate, allow serenity to wash over his anxious needs, or else risk the possibility of causing her physical harm. If the black animal within his breast was allowed an ounce of freedom he would frantically seek out continuing gratification and she was by far too fragile to cope with such zealous longing. If he was not careful, he could easily ruin her and be left again with nothing. Even as she slept she called out to him with such exquisite beauty; Wyldelock took several long breaths, waiting for ardor to ease. Oh! If she only knew the depth of his allegiance!

The memory of their blissful union was fresh in his mind. Her sighs of jubilation, the smile of gratification, the rush of ecstasy, and then her precious words of loyalty. It was a struggle to keep from ravishing her anew, taking again of the sweetness she offered. He dared not risk another act so soon after the first. Yet her lips were like honeyed wine and he had barely sipped of the nectar. Much more awaited. She needed rest even though he did not. Patience, he charged to his inner self, for she remains frail, having much to do to grow in strength. Patience.

“William,” she sighed, betraying a dream that played behind closed lids.

“I am here,” he answered, and watched with immense pleasure as her mouth curled into a contented smile.

Cupping her skull he pressed his forehead to hers and drifted inside the room that held her dream.

Everywhere he turned he witnessed images of his being. She dreamt of love. It draped the corners of her mind as long velvet curtains would swathe a window, preventing the cold wind of winter from infiltrating the warmth of emotion. No other face except his, no other touch but his, no other kiss instigated such feeling. She had never truly loved till meeting him. Wyldelock’s chest whelmed with pride and then sorrow, for how could he return her love? Once an emotion he thoroughly understood but relinquished. He regretted it now, caught in the web of confusion. Centuries of sleep because of his boastful exuberance for dominion, if he had not made such a trade then he too, would be dust in death, succumbing to mortality as any other man. Breath coursed through his lungs, his existence real, and the chance to hold her in this time true, a price for life. Yet how he ached for the chance to return the emotion for her. She harbored a soul that could love, and love deeply. There was no other greater power than this.

“I have been a fool,” he confessed. “I am indeed your slave.”

“William,” she called with a dreaming voice, opening her arms to welcome him.

He could not move. The barrier between them was transparent, at the same time immovable, and he felt the chasm inside his chest grow wider and darker still. The ache to consume her physically had changed to one that cried out for her spirit. They could never be totally together if he wallowed in the disabling pit of emptiness. “Olivia,” he answered, trying desperately to slide closer to her, be a part of the love she offered. The barrier held firm. His heart worked, pumping blood through his veins, but his soul was vacant. A scream of disparagement lodged in his throat. Wyldelock retreated from her dream, unable to sustain enough force to watch what he could not obtain.

“Show me the way,” he pleaded, holding her again with an unyielding embrace. “Help me to find this love you know.”

Her eyes opened, each glistened. The moment hung between them as they searched each other’s mind. She reached her tiny hand to his thrashing heart, slowly pressing her palm over the spot he believed to be dead. And he waited with dismay. What if she recoiled in total horror, knowing what he had done, how empty he was inside? What if she finally ran and never returned? It was what he deserved. That would be the ultimate payment for his past sins.

“Your sincerity is the beacon that will light our path,” she said.

Wyldelock was struck with wonderment. Perhaps it was innocence that made her declare such optimism. He lowered his gaze from hers in humility. “If you knew of me, then you might not….”

“Shush,” she said, tipping her finger to his lips for silence. “I know enough. What I don’t yet understand you must promise to tell me.”

The lace across her shoulder dipped as she lifted to wind her arms around his neck. He breathed deeply of her scent, now claimed, affirmed, secure. He folded her against his chest with hardened biceps and sighed. “Olivia, there is so much. Where do we begin?”

“We begin with this moment for there is no other.”

A shiver swept his spine. So young, so naïve and yet such wisdom. He was awash with a sense of unworthiness. Overpowering all failure an immense pride whelmed up instead, like a floodgate hurled wide. “Let us go to the bedchamber I have prepared for you,” he whispered with caution into her ear. “Let us spend this whole night wet with each other’s kiss.”

She laughed. “Your poetry prevails.” She smiled.

“Poetry pales in comparison to my thoughts of you. The greatest of art cannot claim justice to what we can achieve together. Yes, we begin with this moment but from this second onward you must never leave my side. I cannot bear one stroke of the pendulum unless I know you are near.”

“My poor wounded sparrow,” she teased, pulling slightly from his hold. “I’m afraid you must. I need to go home for awhile, tell Mother what has happened, where I’ll be. Otherwise she will worry and I can’t cause her to fret needlessly.”

“No,” he said quickly, feeling a slight pang of alarm. “I cannot permit this.”

“You can. And you will.” Her expression became serious. “Just an hour or so. I will return before dark.”

Wyldelock held firm. “Tell the Old Mother,” he said sternly. “Tell her with thought only. She will hear and relay the message.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed.

“She is more advanced in her craft than she admits. She will hear your voice.”

“No, I must go in person.”

A glow of stubbornness told him his protests were pointless. “Then I shall accompany you,” he said.

“Wrong again.” She grinned, fluttering a kiss into his cheek. As if this was enough to soothe his anguish, she tried to pull away again.

He clutched her wrists. “Olivia, we have a fearsome adversary. He lies in wait, ready to spring forth with destruction. You do not yet have capability to ward him off.”

“The Phoenix,” she whispered, her eyes widening.

“Yes, the Phoenix. Each claw is a razor that could cut us apart forever. He sharpens them as we speak for we have united. Such craze for revenge will destroy us if we do not take great care.”

“I saw him in the painting,” she said, squinting as though suffering an ache. “He asked for my help, called me sister. Why did he do that, William? Why does he want to hurt us?”

“I betrayed our friendship, a long time ago. His soul cannot rest because of it. He seeks my damnation.”

“How? How did you betray him?”

“Do not leave, Olivia. Please, I beg of you.”

“You’re right. There is much about you I don’t know and when I return, I have questions, ones that must be answered fully.” She took his hand, kissing it. “I have fallen madly in love with you, William. Your fight has become mine as well. But first I must return to my family. I owe them this.”

Wyldelock bowed in submission. Her loyalty was commendable, stretching beyond a relationship with him, tied to family honor. It was another admirable quality that made her so worthy of respect. “Then I will accompany you halfway,” he said. “And guard your steps until you return to my arms.”

She accepted the compromise.

What she could not know was that Wyldelock planned to shield his presence with a cloak of invisibility, to follow her every move, and guard more than her steps.

So close was he as they walked the rough path from the Keep that Olivia felt his cape swirl across her legs. No conversation was exchanged between them even though she sensed his apprehension. It was contagious. She found herself glancing from side to side, expecting the unknown to pounce upon them at any moment. Nothing threatened their way and once her small home came into view, they stopped.

She twisted to peer up into his face. “I won’t be long.”

“If you require my assistance, call for me. I will hear the most quiet of pleas.”

It was more difficult than she imagined, taking those first few steps away from him. Turning often she saw him standing sentinel and felt warmed by his omnipotent protection. Even as she glided closer to the door she sensed he was still beside her, still felt the cape touch her legs, still heard his breath cut the air, but when she lingered on the step and lifted her eyes, he remained in position on the crest of the hill. A sea breeze caught his disheveled hair, tossing it to one shoulder. She could smell its scent, a short waft of sheer sensuality, expanding her breast with the crushing fulfillment of newness in love.

“I do love you,” she whispered, knowing he would hear her proclamation despite the distance. In response she felt a flutter of warmth caress her cheek and an eerie sensation that he had defied space to instantly melt into her body, causing her to briefly succumb to a quick wave of elation. “Oh,” she sighed, her lids drooping at the surge that rendered her faint.

“My Mistress. Precious jewel. Only you can decree what providence has granted me.”

Olivia was already cold from separation and threw a kiss to him before pushing the door open.

The tenderness popped like a soapy bubble in a ruthless storm once she was inside. Mother sat at the table, her eyes swollen from tears. Beside her was Stephen Fillmore, holding her hand across the tablecloth, muttering condolences.

“Mother?” Olivia said, fearing the worst. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Ollie,” Mother gasped, quickly wiping a tear from her face. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Olivia darted frantic glances between her mother and the photographer, who stood upon her arrival. He paled slightly before retreating to the couch against the wall.

To Olivia’s relief Gran appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming mugs. She set the tray on the table and found her easy chair without acknowledging Olivia’s presence.

“You’re safe,” Mother said, picking up one mug with trembling fingers. “I was so worried.”

“Of course I’m safe. I was with William. There’s no need to be upset.”

Mother exchanged a sorrowful glance with Stephen Fillmore who ventured an explanation. “Olivia,” he said. “The store has been vandalized. This afternoon, after….” He reached for his neck, which was streaked with a nasty burn under each ear. “After our incident a few of the locals decided to torch your mother’s store.”

“What?” Olivia gaped. The horrifying news wasn’t sinking in. The possibility of anyone being so malicious was too unreal to be true. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m fine. Stephen has been a great help.”

“Has he now?” Olivia said, her voice laced, her voice lacedwith suspicion. She was annoyed at the tenderness in the way this stranger had caressed Mother’s hand and she was even more annoyed at his worming his way into their home. Other issues deemed a heavier importance, however, and Olivia pulled out a chair.

“The police have a good idea who started the fire,” Mother went on, smiling weakly. “And thankfully the insurance policy is up to date. So, I guess it could have been worse.”

“I’m so sorry,” Olivia whispered, knowing full well this was her fault. She felt Stephen Fillmore’s stare, that silent condemnation that her sinful behavior was the origin of the clash, but kept from verbalizing the deserved accusation. If she hadn’t displayed her so-called gift of telekinesis for one and all to witness, then the rumors of Morgan witchcraft would have remained rumors. As it was she had inadvertently given credence to the gossip.

“It might be a good idea if you stopped seeing William Talbot,” Mother said guardedly.

Obviously there had been a long discussion of the afternoon’s events, and why wouldn’t there be? In front of a group of stunned onlookers she had nearly strangled the photographer merely by lifting a finger. The tongues wagging would go wild in spreading the shocking news that one witch had been stoned but survived, so the mother should be the next focus of their crazed mob mentality. It was a wonder they weren’t all carrying torches, meaning to hang them all from the nearest oak tree. But what William had to do with the dastardly events was unclear, and certainly there was no need to suggest she not see him. Olivia could feel her ire rise. This had something to do with Fillmore’s earlier protests, and she struggled to remember exactly what he had said to her after ‘the incident.’

“I should have been honest with you from the start,” Stephen said. “If I had, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I apologize.”

Mother twisted her mug of tea, her expression wracked with concern, looking as though she might burst into tears again. “Listen to him, Ollie,” she pleaded.

Stephen cleared his throat. “I am here to follow research but my quest is fully devoted to this man you know as William Talbot.”

Olivia sat in silence preparing to defend whatever reprehensible deed that William was supposedly guilty of.

“I’m an archeologist by profession,” Stephen said. “For the past five years my crew and I have been searching for the medieval ruins of an estate in Germany, one that once belonged to an infamous swordsman by the name of Wyldelock Talan De Croft. It is my job to separate facts from myth and our results have been quite … startling.”

Olivia took a deep breath. This peculiar name she was acquainted with. The depth of the one behind the name she was only just becoming conscious of and even that sliver of light was a mysterious illumination, coaxed without words. She knew of this story the archeologist was about to tell, as well as she knew her own history. The faint taste of blood, the blood he had so anxiously wanted her to partake of, told her why. Buried within its salty flavor was enlightenment.

“Go ahead, Mr. Fillmore,” she said. “Tell me this story of yours.”

“De Croft was born in the mid thirteenth century in what was once the Holy Roman Empire. Little is known about his childhood, except that he was orphaned early, his parents succumbing to the plague. Adept at using a sword he sold his services to local noblemen and his fame became legendary. With money and prestige he had time to pursue his interests in the dark art of sorcery, kept a secret, of course, because such adherence was considered an offense to organized religion, punishable by death. He joined a group of thirteen with similar interests in practicing the supernatural, known simply as The Brotherhood, and quickly rose as the High Priest. He continued to be a mercenary, at his own choosing, and met up with another swordsman named Dietrick Von Der Weilde. Their friendship was strong and as the account goes they were virtually inseparable. The two were both feared and loved, unscathed in battle, which led to rumors of satanic protection. And both were strikingly handsome. No woman could resist their charms, a quality they took full advantage of.”

Stephen paused in the telling of his lecture and fumbled in his pocket. “Would you mind,” he asked, “if I had a cigarette?”

Mother shook her head. “We need something a little stronger than tea as well,” she said and retrieved a bottle of Scotch whiskey, usually saved for special occasions.

“This Brotherhood,” Stephen continued, “is the part shrouded in myth because their records were destroyed for the sake of survival. However, it is curious to note that of the thirteen, De Croft was the only one to flourish. The others all died in what could be seen as convenient accidents, and as a result De Croft grew wiser and extremely powerful. His lusts were far from sated and he sought out the ultimate in supremacy—immortality. This is where his record blurs into myth.”

Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose, relieving tension before lighting his cigarette. He inhaled so deeply barely any smoke filtered out. Then he knocked back a gulp of whiskey in one swallow.

“As the story goes, De Croft asked the Gods of the Underworld to grant him eternal youth. All but one laughed at his request, Intarsia, The Goddess of Seduction. She was impressed with the young man’s brawn and promised to grant his wish for immortality if he would go to her bed. He readily agreed, soon to discover it was a trick. She wanted not his physical favors. Instead, she wanted what she did not have, the power to feel love. No sooner was he in her bed when she stabbed his heart and stole the most sacred of emotions from his possession. True, De Croft was given eternal life, but one without the ability to love any woman. All he was left with was a searing desire to fornicate, which would burn without fulfillment. And the blood from the wound in his chest manifested into the purest of rubies, priceless gems that he collected and supposedly kept in a box. Why he kept them is speculation, but the favorite theory is that he hoped they contained the key to one day regain the emotion that was cruelly stolen from him.”

“Show me the way. Help me to find this love you know.”

Olivia shivered. An icy hand had crept down her spine. She wanted nothing more than to rise from the chair and leave, go back to William and comfort him for the loss she now understood. But she was firmly planted, unable to move.

“He told no one of the betrayal, except his blood-brother, Dietrick, who scorned the tale as nothing more than silly imagination. De Croft showed him the rubies to confirm the incident, even giving him three to adorn the sword Dietrick carried in battle. The rest, as it was told, was buried beneath his estate, hidden until the time he could again seek out the Goddess and ask for his emotion back again. The contents of this small box have been the object of treasure seekers for innumerous years, as of yet still undiscovered.”

“So that’s it then, is it?” Olivia asked sharply. “You’re a relic hunter, hoping to become rich.”

“I won’t lie to you. It did cross my mind more than once. Six months ago we discovered the ruins of De Croft’s estate. The local villagers told of an earthquake that had shaken the hill where the home once stood, opening up the cavern below. There was a lot of talk that the great sorcerer had finally risen up from the depths, and we were the only ones who would go near the place. The superstition perked my interest into examining the whole story further and when we found no jewels, I decided to follow up on the idea that De Croft was again alive and well.”

A lull settled over the room. Finally, Stephen cleared his throat. He stood up and poured himself another drink. Remaining on his feet he hovered near the table where Olivia sat.

“Odd as it may seem,” Stephen said, “I found a family in the village that claimed relation to the Von Der Weilde lineage. They filled in a few gaps in the story that eventually led me here.”

Olivia was uncomfortable at his close proximity. She was even more uncomfortable with speculation as to what was to follow in this lecture, sensing an inevitability of personal connection. Von Der Weilde blood, although thinned from many generations, coursed through her veins as well.

“De Croft seduced Dietrick’s sister Sophia. She fell pregnant and when De Croft refused to marry her, the friendship between the two men became, to say the least, strained. When Dietrick failed to convince De Croft to honor the family, he too, drew upon the dark forces of magic to obtain revenge. He couldn’t kill his friend but he did manage to subdue him in the cavern beneath the estate. And when Sophia had the child it was physically deformed, its hands having three fingers each, like a claw. She committed suicide in a fit of madness and the infant disappeared. Dietrick spent the rest of his life searching for the child and when found, forty years to the day after its birth, he stabbed it to death with the sword embedded with the rubies De Croft had given him when they were young men. Before dying, however, a curse was instigated—that the first born of each generation of Von Der Weilde’s would carry the mark of the sorcerer—until the birth of one woman who would lift Wyldelock Talan De Croft from centuries of sleep.”

Olivia’s heart thrashed within her breast. She stared at the surface at the table, waiting for what she knew he would say next.

“You have that mark, don’t you Olivia? You are the one he has come to claim.”

“No,” Mother sobbed. “It’s not true. None of this could be right. It’s just a myth.”

Stephen Fillmore kept his eyes focused on Olivia. “De Croft is here. And so is Von Der Weilde. The battle to the death is about to take place, Olivia, and you are smack in the middle of it all.”

Olivia met Fillmore’s judgment with her own icy glare of confrontation. The words of a relic seeker were not going to shake the foundations of the loyalty she felt for William. As far as she was concerned, he was just another enemy who threatened her newfound love. He would not prevail.

Stephen Fillmore flattened his palms on the table and leaned into her rebuttal. “He is teaching you evil, Olivia. You go back there and you will become as him.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Olivia spat, standing so quickly she knocked the chair over. “You are nothing more than a money grabber and I shouldn’t doubt you’ve followed William simply to get your grimy paws on his wealth. I will be no part of this. In fact, I’m going, and I’ll tell him just what you’re up to.”

Stephen squinted, peering deeply into her fury. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “It’s too late. You’ve had sex with him, haven’t you?”

Olivia’s cheeks heated to shocked anger. “How dare you,” she cried, incensed by being asked such a personal question. “Take your theories and leave us alone! No one asked for your opinions anyway.”

“If you go back to him you will go insane, as all the others have done. There were many women and lost infants. If you’re pregnant I suggest you get rid of it, and quickly.”

This was too much. Her rage caught, rendering her speechless. And as she lifted her hand to force him away he clutched her wrist, twisting it. She screeched with the pain. “ William help me now!”

The door smashed wide to a ferocious gust of wind, sucking all the air from the room. Everything stood still, void of movement, suspended in a time that didn’t exist. Both Mother and Gran sat as statues, frozen outside consciousness at the intrusion. The wind swirled like a miniature tornado reaching a crescendo as it reached Olivia’s side. Her hair was blown asunder, any object not tied down shook free from shelves, and when the storm subsided, William filled the room, his black cape billowing, catching the last of the gust. With one stride he had a steely grip on Stephen’s throat, wrenching him hard enough to finally loosen the hold on Olivia’s wrist. He was the only witness to William’s abrupt presence and stared up at him with eyes widened in mortal shock.

The only sound was tight rasping. Seconds seemed to tick on for hours as William held on, searching the ruddy face for something Olivia couldn’t discern.

“Has Dietrick possessed this body?” he asked finally, a voice so low and authoritative that it that caused the windows to rattle.

Stephen shuddered, falling limp within the grasp. “No.”

“Has he sent you? Are you his foot soldier?”

“No. I am an independent.”

William tipped the hold forcing the head to twist, studying the features still. “It is so,” he whispered, satisfied he was being told the truth. But he did not release his captive. “No one touches her. No one but I. Life is the price you pay for this act.”

Stephen managed to swallow, the veins in his neck purple. His eyes closed, succumbing progressively to a lack of air.

“Give the word, my precious, and I will smite him.”

“You mustn’t,” Olivia begged. “I couldn’t bear to see anyone hurt.”

William spread his fingers and the man sagged to the floor in a pathetic heap.

“He stinks of drink and tobacco,” William scowled, sniffing. “He is an abomination, nothing more than muck, worthy only of our loathing. Better that he should perish and we be done with him.”

Olivia stepped away from William, suddenly fearful that he was as malevolent and as dangerous as the story she had just been told. Seeing her mother and Gran, in suspended animation, was not helping a growing angst. “What have you done?” she whimpered.

“Fear not,” he consoled. “They are not harmed. They will awake with no memory of this occurrence.” He strode to her mother and peered into the unseeing eyes, just as he had done with Stephen Fillmore. Then he went to Gran and visibly bristled. “The Old Mother,” he rasped, scrutinizing her frozen expression. “She was the one who has called Dietrick!” He whirled toward Olivia, the edges of his cape twirling to the movement. “She has brought forth the enemy upon us!”

“William,” Olivia cried, tears beginning to stream on her cheeks. “I can’t bear all this. I’m not strong enough to understand any of it.” She continued to inch away. “You are Wyldelock De Croft.” She knew, but the verbal confirmation made it all so daunting, so surreal.

His brow creased in anguish. “My Queen,” he whispered gently. “It is an ancient name I no longer harbor. I am your William. I will always be your William.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? All the things he said.” She glanced to where Stephen sat, huddled in terror on the floor.

William dipped his chin in veneration to her wisdom. “Yes,” he said so quietly she barely heard. “That and much more.”

“Then you are not a man,” she wept. “You are a creature and I am caught in this unspeakable quest of yours, one we can never survive.” She was against a wall, trembling.

“No, Olivia, I am a man.” Panic etched through his voice, his distress visible. “You know that I am. My future is yours.”

“But what of your past? It seeks to destroy us both.”

He studied her now as he had studied the others, with a look that penetrated her being, causing an eruption of bumps on the flesh of each limb. Then he lowered onto one knee, bowing submission before her. “My past cannot harm either of us if I have your allegiance.” His long hair curled over his cheeks, quivering to the honor he bestowed to her.

“You speak of allegiance, but what of love? We have nothing if we cannot share love.”

Slowly he lifted tear-filled eyes, dark and round and filled with longing. “We have reached this crossroad together,” he said sadly. With a wave of one hand he thrust back the cape, producing a sword. Bending the other knee he knelt, placing the hilt on the floor, the tip against his chest, over his heart. “I know of no other recourse. With your guidance I can find love again. Without you I shall perish, better that it shall be done by my own doing. You alone determine my fate, Olivia. Speak, and it shall end, here and now.”

Drained of energy Olivia slumped to the floor, directly in line with William’s waiting gaze. The silver from the blade dazzled her as it moved in rhythm with each breath he took. If he were to take a deep sigh the tip would certainly puncture his thin shirt, his skin, muscle. As if knowing what she dreaded he gasped and instantly the material stained red.

Her heart whelmed with the fullness of compassion. She stretched her hand to touch the deep devotion that seemed to saturate the air between their mournful gazes. His lips parted, and he mouthed her name, but his shimmering brown eyes never left her soul.

“Deceit! Olivia, wake up. He’d never kill himself. It’s a trick. His existence is more important to him than yours! Don’t fall for this pack of lies!”

The buzz of an annoying insect faded as Olivia extended her hand farther toward William. She folded her fingers around the blade to push it aside, feeling neither the pain of the slicing cut or the heat of her own blood as it trickled down her wrist. “Together—you and I—always.”

He clasped her wrist, raising her bloodied palm to his mouth, healing the wound with a sultry kiss. “Displeasure will never bar your path again.”

He spread his arms, the dark cape draped from each as massive wings, and she was immediately submerged within the mugginess of black heat as he folded the shadows around her. Once she had dreamt of flying, free of gravity in a body that always obeyed the rules of nature. Within this strange place she enjoyed a similar sensation, her feet dangling free of floor or earth. She clung to his waist and felt cooled by a breeze issued by great flapping wings and when the flight finished she opened her eyes to find a glowing bedchamber, the turret of the Keep, just as she had imagined it would look, in the dream that remained stubbornly beyond recollection.

A sorcerer, yes, and much more—a nobleman, an intellect, a lover—all of it meant for only her. Perhaps he had blinded her within one of his many intoxicating spells, perhaps she was reduced to a puppet, dangled by strings of compelling magic, and perhaps she was caught in a sticky web of seduction only his austere beauty could dictate. But with him was exactly where she ached to be. She wouldn’t struggle to be free of him, she couldn’t. This was destiny and she welcomed its kiss as she welcomed him. If to learn this mysterious craft meant they could always be joined then she willingly accepted. He allowed her choice of will. The sword against his breast, waiting for the choice, was a clear and distinct indication of deep loyalty. She would do everything in her power to return the loyalty. Love had taken a firm hold in her soul. “Teach me everything, William. Dress me in the armor of knowledge. Prepare me for our battle.”

He smiled consent, swaying with her in his arms. “Yes, graceful soldier, I will teach all. But first we share of each other.”

Olivia fell to the bed with him, enchanted by the flow of sweet kisses that dampened her face. Love would be her sword and she knew of no greater weapon.

Sorcerer. Conjurer. Enchanter. Magician. All these titles denoted divination above and beyond the natural laws of physics known to the human mind. What could not be explained with logic was quickly reduced to ridiculous superstition, swathed in assumption, inference, satisfying the primitive need for a clear rationalization. And then, if the eye told the mind the impossible was occurring, evil must surely be the fuel that fed the fire of such irrationality.

Olivia had fallen victim to the same reliance on narrow opinion. Shameful, seeing that she was one who should certainly know better, for was her gift a result of some perverse dance with the devil? Others estimated it as such and were wrong. So too, had she concluded that William, whose craft far exceeded her meager talents, harbored malevolence. He demanded of nature rather than it of him, and because she had never witnessed such prowess, her feeble intuition screamed that iniquity lived within his soul. She had even gone so far as to call him a creature. How callous, when he had been nothing but gracious, eloquent, tender, caring. He had walked into her life, enveloping every dream she ever had with the promise of fulfillment. He had never displayed evil; evil was the vile enemy who lay in wait—to ruin through jealousy and revenge—what happiness they shared.

He rested, her breast his pillow, beneath the velveteen covering of the bed. An energetic lover he gracefully taught her the meaning of bliss, pulling from her such pleasure as she never knew could exist between two lovers. Only when her elation peaked did he allow his own release and she had watched his face contort, lids half closed in a wave of contentment, as he cried out, his mouth curled as though a sneer, as though suffering dreaded pain rather than bliss. Not pain. Exoneration. As ecstasy filtered through his body, a brief death left him completely impotent within her embrace. She held him, coaxing his dampened cheek to laze on her breast, and he sighed, draped over her, and rested. She had slept, minutes, hours, it was difficult to know, but when she woke he was still with her, his breath steady on her cleavage, leg curled over hers, arm ever protecting. No incantation could compare to the magic of this!

She combed her fingers through a thick strand of black hair, and saw his lashes flicker. “You are awake, lover,” she whispered. “Can’t you sleep?”

He kissed the inside curve of her breast. “In sleep I would have no awareness of you.”

The heaviness of tone outweighed the warm breath on her skin. “William, what are you thinking?”

He stretched, like a long lithe cat, its muscles flexing in preparation for the hunt of survival, his deep sigh not unlike a low purr. “We must begin, before the sun rises.”

“Begin? You are truly insatiable,” she teased.

He smiled. “Nothing would please me more than to oblige such intimation, my jewel. No, you must prepare, cleanse your body before commencing the journey.”

“What do you mean? Where might I be going at this time of night?”

“The path of obtainment waits for your presence. You must find your Guide.” Pride filtered through his growing smile. “I can help you to prepare, but the journey you must make alone.”

“I thought you were my guide,” she said softly, not wishing to disturb the silence of darkness that circled their bed beyond the curtains. She wanted to stay here till morning, with him, and when the light awakened the day they would make their plans, form strategies for battle.

“My post is as your teacher, protector, servant. Your Guide is the voice that will give great wisdom. When you return, you will know which direction to call for assistance. Once you establish contact the Spirit will never forsake you.”

Olivia could sense the magnitude of this, her first truly important lesson—she saw it in his eyes as she hung on to these few final moments beneath the cover, warm against his physique. “Where must I go?” she asked.

“To a place that has always existed—where the Ancients live.”

“How long must I stay?”

“Time has no consequence there. Leave all that you know in this place. Trust your senses for none will betray you. Deceit has no reign there.”

“Let us begin,” she announced. It was the first step of a course that would secure their relationship and Olivia was ready for any arduous passage. And, the sooner they started the sooner she would return.

“Ah,” he said. “You are undaunted. I hear your bravery and it helps me grow strong.”

He pulled back the covers, his palm once again exploring the curves of her figure. She sighed at the sensuality that erupted over her flesh, her spine arching to a short wet kiss upon the fine hairs of her stomach. A silken cascade of long hair feathered her skin as he pressed his ear against her womb, she felt his smile and deep in her heart she understood why his lips curled in happiness.

“My Queen,” he whispered, lifting his eyes to her face. “Our Prince has stirred.”

Olivia stroked his hair, hoping this moment would go on forever, so sweet was its taste. He hugged her hips, thrust another longing kiss onto her skin, and then rose.

“Come,” he said, scooping her up in his arms. “First you must bathe.”

An oval tub beside the crackling fire awaited, steam billowing from the heated water. The smell of roses saturated the air as he gently lowered her into the fiery depths. He cupped water and patted her cheeks and neck, watching his hand as he did so, his expression of utmost attentiveness. She didn’t speak, for fear it might break his meditation. The ceremony was steeped in sincerity. She was the accepting apprentice.

His lips moved in a quiet incantation, words she did not recognize, yet the immensity of them filled her ears and sunk within her being. “Let it be so,” he said in finality and stepped over the edge of the tub to join her in the bath.

He knelt before her, water veiling his torso. His hair, dampened by the billowing steam, curled over each shining shoulder. He cupped her skull with hands that encompassed her whole head, thumbs flexing to one last caress. Meeting her gaze he smiled once more. “Now,” he demanded. “Your Guide waits.”

The fingers against her hair gripped tightly and he pushed her beneath the surface of the water with a weighty plunge.

So sudden and unannounced was the act she had no chance to draw a breath. Instinctively she flayed for the surface but it grew ever higher, like a cloud in the endless sky. She was spiraling down and down and she watched in eerie calmness as the glass bottomed tub dissolved, William’s legs still curled upon it. His voice resonated through her drowning mind. “Fear not. Let yourself go.”

The stab of initial panic faded, as did the surface, and Olivia allowed the weight of the water to take her. She had no need for air. Her heart continued to beat, each sense acute to the essence of her surroundings. A dark green glow infiltrated her being as she floated downwards, and when she finally began to rise again, a tunnel of white light guided her way.

She found herself standing on the beach, pebbles beneath her bare feet causing no discomfort. The ocean was perfectly serene, reflecting a dazzling blue in the sunless sky. The Keep glowed majestically on the cliff above her. Filled with awe she drank in the familiar scene—but the colors! Nothing was mute. Every rounded stone, every blade of grass, every drop of water vibrated with a quality of life she had never believed possible. And she was an intricate part of it all, relishing the essence of nature, unembarrassed by nakedness, for clothing would denote separation from all that was pure.

No sound touched her ear. No wind tickled the ocean’s surface, nor was there breath to coax the grass to sway. Nothing stirred in this, a living dream. “What now?” she asked, her words so heavy they sank into the sand beneath her feet.

The mirrored ocean cracked. From it a seagull fluttered, its wings caught in a fisherman’s net. “Oh,” she cried, horrified that cruelty could invade this place of beauty. She knelt, picking the net from the wet feathers.

Freed from its bonds the bird shivered the remaining drops of water from its body. And rather than flap away it stayed, staring at her with knowing black eyes.

Olivia gasped. She recognized it—the same gull she had found one afternoon that now seemed so distant—the same gull that had hung twisted and distorted in death. She had picked the netting from its corpse that day as well, releasing its decaying body back into the ocean’s arms, so its spirit could at least be free. And now it had returned to her, to reward the compassionate act with thanks. Her heart flowed with pleasure. No kindness could go unnoticed.

She reached out her hand to caress the undamaged feathers. “Are you my Guide?” she asked with soulful reverence.

The gull doubled then tripled in size. Its neck stretched, manifesting into flesh, the widened wings dissolving into slender limbs, legs lengthening. It lifted higher, the beak dissolving into a nose, human features becoming more and more distinct. Olivia covered her face as she knelt on the beach, tears whelming up in the sadness relived from the day the beautiful creature was found dead. She kept the stance of subservience, understanding her naivety within this Spirit world. It lived.

“Open your eyes,” the song above her said. “Your respect touches me deeply.”

Olivia slowly lifted her gaze. A tall shimmering woman stood before her, her skin as white as the feathers that had once adorned the body of a bird. Clothed in a transparent gown she swayed with graceful modishness, her smile illuminating unimaginable wisdom. “Accept my honor,” Olivia whispered.

“It is I who honor you. Rise. Take my hands.”

A warm current flowed through Olivia’s arms, and as she stood in front of her Guide she heard the ocean’s voice, a song of perfection in its peaceful tranquility. Every creature therein seemed to speak to her, a massive culmination, welcoming her company. If not for the hands that held her steady she would surely have sunk to the sand again in veneration.

Olivia memorized every delicate feature. This Spirit was too beautiful for words but if she could remember the face with clarity, she might be able to recreate the image with pencil or paint. The Guide emanated enlightenment, what lay beneath was inner illumination, a mere hint of many virtuous qualities Olivia yearned to obtain. The Spirit smiled, her rose red lips pressed together, cautioning to speak not of secrets that should always remain private.

“Welcome, Olivia. I am pleased you have arrived. Are you willing to commence?”

“Yes.”

Without delay the lesson began. “Water. Earth. Air.” The Guide tipped her chin to the cliff above them. “And fire.”

William stood there, watching them, his robe stirred to the flames that circled his body without consumption, the staff gripped tightly in his hand. Storm clouds billowed behind where he stood, the grayness a vivid contrast to the red flames that had no source. He bowed to both women and then was gone, taking the cloud and the fire with him.

“You are his heart, Olivia. Without your love he would perish. The fires would devour him.”

“Teach me,” Olivia said. “Show me what I must do so that he can be free.”

“Then let us begin.”

The beach vanished. Before them stretched an elongated stone table—on it four items—a crooked staff, gleaming sword, a coin-like pentacle, and a gold cup. Each of these, Olivia knew, represented the four elements, four seasons, four directions. The world and everything in it composed of earth, water, air and fire.

“I see your wisdom,” the Guide said. “He once chose the wand because of the fire. Yet it will consume him if he fails. The enemy that stirs beyond the shadows chose the sword, and waits in the air for the time of battle.” She waved her hand gracefully over the objects. “Now it is your turn to choose, Olivia. Use your wisdom. Let it speak.”

Olivia peered at each with care. The wand was green, small twigs grew from several knots. Growth. Energy. Glory. Her hand passed over it. The sword was aggression, both constructive and destructive. Ambition. Courage. Strife and misfortune, the energy caused her hand to recoil. Pentacles. The five-pointed stars symbols of man, the jewelry worn as protection from the evils of life. Money. Her palm lingered. Material gain held no attraction.

The cup, however, radiated warmth. It allied to water, the symbol of the unconscious mind, instinct, opposing consciousness and reason, both she had struggled with accepting. How she had relied on instinct of late, and her gifts, no reason could explain. Then there was Love. Neither measurable nor defined, yet her breast was filled with the happiness the emotion related. Love. Happiness. Beauty. Fertility. She had never truly understood any of this until William, in all his brilliance, strode into her life.

“The cup,” she said with certainty. “I choose the cup.”

Instantly the other items vanished. “It is done.”

“What must I do, Spirit?” she pleaded. “Please, you must tell me.”

“You already know.”

The table crumbled yet the cup remained stationary. Olivia reached and took hold of the base, believing it might fall and shatter on the earth. A blinding flash of white light, the Guide disappeared. Olivia was left in a vast empty vacuum, the cup glowing as a beacon. She held it with all her might, waiting for whatever revelation was to present itself next.

If time could be measured she had only to rely on the blink of an eye.

The swelling thickness parted. Before her were flat paved stones, each a dark red, each liquid, flowing without gravity to guide its course. The stench of it was repulsive, like rotten flesh, congealed stagnant blood. Her stomach lifted, bile whelmed in her throat, but she stood firmly, clutching the precious cup tight to her breast. Colossal metal gates yawned ever high into a blackened ceiling of nothing. Sneering gargoyles, distorted demons, dotted along each pillar, flames from fanged mouths illuminating the dead ivy, rusted iron, a mammoth chain that looped through every grille. Behind her, the icy black fluttered deathly fingers over her waist, exploring her curves with sadistic pleasure. in front the fire from each puffing creature’s breath was so extreme that beads of sweat exploded over her skin. Still she stood firmly, containing terror by clasping the cup in fingers gone rigid. She called upon every ounce of resilience to dispel what evil resided here.

Olivia didn’t need the great gate to be signposted to know she faced the entrance to the Underworld. And if William was to be freed she had to enter, find the Goddess who robbed him of Love, and….

The cold behind her ran its talon up her leg, pausing briefly on her thigh.

“Your flesh is warm. Your womb carries life. What are you that brings this soul to where the dead reside?”

The breath that wafted over her was putrid, as though feeding on the decaying cadavers of those who had no choice but to come to this dreaded place and wait to be allowed entrance.

Olivia fixed her stare on the lock. Terror washed through her but she knew that to turn and gaze upon the source of this croaking voice would leave her mind numb. Madness would consume her soul if she learned of its features. It taunted her to turn, however. It squeaked, pressing its deformity against her back, yearning to engross living flesh. Or bond with it. The tips of three sharp nails on each hand clutched her hips; it swayed, tugging at her to part her thighs as she stood.

“Give me the life you carry. Open your legs for me and I shall open the gates for you.”

Olivia’s skin crawled in repugnance. The leathery substance behind her coiled to hundreds of writhing worms. “I will give you nothing,” she stated. “Leave me.”

In surprise the creature gaped and withdrew, but not far. She heard it rattle. The slithering organisms that fed on its skin sucked in air, disturbed by the host’s sudden movement.

“I know you!”

The very thought made Olivia’s stomach rise again in revulsion. “Open the gate, Keeper. My business is not with you.”

It hissed. “I know you. I know you. I know you.”

Olivia folded her arms around the cup. Love. She held Love in her hands. It was greater than any sword. She shielded her mind with thoughts of William.

The malevolent nail patted the mark on her shoulder. A screech of alarm, fury, ecstasy all rolled into one shredded the darkness. “I know this mark! I know your voice! Give me not the life within your womb. Give me your name!”

“I will give you nothing, demon. Hear me. Nothing.”

Long piercing howls stabbed the darkness. Yellow eyes blinked from tiny slits within the walls, curious to see what happening was the cause of such disorder. A murmuring of hundreds of excited words melted into one long drone, vibrations of bewilderment.

Behind her the foul creature wept, screaming an anguish of innumerable lost souls. “I know this mark. You must give me your name. You must!”

Olivia didn’t feel quite so small and insignificant as she had when she first appeared here. The Keeper was begging for what she could easily relinquish. If she merely uttered the syllables of her name she knew the lock would break, she could enter and find the one who had robbed William of his emotion. The task could begin here and now, in earnest, and all she had to do was say….

“Olivia. My jewel. Come home.”

The creature behind her howled, its pain rocking Olivia so sharply she nearly fell. The blinking eyes in the wall suddenly snapped off, their curiosity filled voices joined in the scream of agony. And Olivia was leaving this place without command—rising higher into the nothingness overhead—while beneath a cry went up, scissor-like nails clawing at her feet and ankles, one last desperate attempt to drag her back down. “Mother. Do not forsake me here.”

Olivia kicked. So obsessed with freeing herself from the malignant being that had been so close, she neither saw nor felt William as he consoled her torment.

The cup clattered to the floor. Certain that her flesh was covered in a mass of wiggling maggots she slapped her body, frantically trying to free herself from the sensation of their existence. “Get them off!” she cried. “They’re everywhere.”

William reached to hold her but she screamed and recoiled, certain of instant demise, that the demon had finally claimed his prisoner. Her hands flayed in preservation. Exhausted, she slumped to the floor, a convulsion finally discharging the bile that had so long pooled in her throat. Shaking with the flushed heat of nausea she curled into a tight ball and whimpered.

“Olivia. It is I.” A gentle caress brought her senses into focus. The floor beneath her was wooden, the air clear of stench. Sweat trickled from her brow and dripped from the tip of her nose. “Olivia.”

The silken arms circled around her, soothing the dying tremors that had drained her of strength. She clung to the arms and sank with them into the warm water of the bath. They sat, together, her mind slowly clearing while he rocked her body and sang lulling incantations in her ear.

“It is finished,” he whispered, manifesting safety with a firm embrace.

He hadn’t asked the reason for her terror. Instead he continued to rock her, a gentle pacification. Nerves steadied yet her mind buzzed with the contrasts of such beauty against the foul blackness of such wicked depths. In ignorance she believed she was capable of passing through the gates. If misery of that magnitude waited outside, how could she find strength to venture within, where certain Hell must surely be worse?

The reality of the nightmare dimmed. She relaxed against William’s chest, holding the arms that folded across her breast. The warm water they shared calmed the last of her trepidations and she allowed the luxury of sigh, the steam filling her lungs.

“Oh, William,” she said, twisting slightly to press her forehead into his neck. He kissed her hair and continued a tranquillizing chant even though her repose was finally complete.

Twilight lessened the shadows within the turret. Measured time. Olivia grasped the significance of reality. This was her world and despite its afflictions she welcomed the comfort of understanding. At least here she had some semblance of control.

She would have to return to that ghastly place. This she knew; her love demanded it. But when she did, she would be more fully prepared. Then she would be equipped with proper armor. The cup, she was certain, was the wisest choice, for love’s intuition held secrets yet to be discovered.

Chapter Seven

Wyldelock showered her with patient attentiveness. She had been morosely quiet since her return, rarely meeting his eye, so he remained silent as well. It had been her first experience with the borderless place of spirits, and meditation was needed if she was to work her way through the illogicality of what she had seen. After the bath, he dried her with his sighs, and wrapped them both within a velvet robe. He lay with her as she dozed, combing her hair with long sweeping caresses, assurance of gratitude she had successfully begun the long road toward his redemption.

She had met with accomplishment for the gold cup returned with her. He knew of the choices the Guide would present. His Guide, the Owl, had manifested into a noble warrior, adorned in a suit of armor made from sheer silver. He had chosen the wand for its representation of energy and glory and he carried it with him always. Only once had he regretted not picking the sword from the stone table—the night he had been banished into sleep beneath his home—for if he had the sword, he would have been able to fight the one who called for retribution. Yet now they were two—a gentle sorceress who claimed the cup of love and he—her companion who still carried the staff.

But she had also met great distress, which stubbornly remained a mystery to Wyldelock. He was gravely troubled by the frightened eyes, her violent shivering, her anguished cries for help. What had caused such terror, he did not know. Had Dietrick invaded her path to enlightenment? He was, after all, still of the air, and the place wherein the spirits dwelled was of air. Wyldelock would exercise patience until she rested. Then he would query what had happened. It would be of more significance if she used free will to explain all. He resisted the temptation to touch her mind, unlock the memory that continued to haunt her.

She stirred. “William, what was the world like when you were young?”

“Why do you ask me this?” He was alarmed, never anxious to discuss what was passed away. What was to be claimed was of more consequence.

She fell silent again. He pinched her chin, twisting it to peer into her eyes, seek elucidation behind the question. “There was beauty,” he answered with vagueness. “And violence in ugliness. Much as this world you know.”

“Always opposites,” she said, resting her cheek again on his shoulder. “Like you and Dietrick? Were you his opposite then?”

“No,” Wyldelock whispered to the sweetness of memory. “No, we were not always opposed to each other.”

“Tell me about him, William. Tell me about the friend you once loved.”

Love. Wyldelock lifted his gaze to the ceiling, tears distorting the etchings carved there. His chest constricted at the infliction of remembrance. Blurred within were images of Dietrick’s smile, shared conquest, shared laughter, shared enjoyment. “He was a swordsman, like me. We fought together. He was brave in battle and very strong. I admired his talents.”

“And he admired yours?” Olivia said quickly.

“Yes. We extolled each other often.”

“And he loved you, too?”

The question stung into Wyldelock with a curiously warming hurt. One tear dangled precariously on his lash. “We were brothers,” he said with care, insuring his voice did not hint at emotion.

“More than brothers,” Olivia blurted. “I think he loved you as I do.”

Wyldelock shivered. “Why would you say this?” The tear escaped, a ribbon of heat staining his cheek.

Olivia propped her weight on one elbow and stared into his face. She brushed the tear away with compassion. “Such intense hatred is born of jealousy. You didn’t return his want for you. Instead you loved his sister and he was blinded with rage from the rejection. You snubbed him and he couldn’t bear it.”

“No. He was angered because I abandoned her. I dishonored his family.”

“Part truth,” she said, searching him. He broke away from her penetrating look and flushed. Another tear threatened release.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I am not your judge. But don’t insult me with fiction.”

“Olivia. I….” Words died on his lips. Her wisdom seemed infinite.

“I’m just trying to understand the one we must fight,” she consoled. “I’m not trying to embarrass you.”

“Yes, Olivia. It is so. Eros deceived his passion.”

“He seeks to murder you—to satisfy that passion,” she said. “Murder can be the only form of release available to him.”

Wyldelock nodded. “I suffer remorse. I was aware of his desire and yet I wounded him by uniting with his sister. He was never the same man after this. I saw his hatred even then. I encouraged it.”

“So he passed through the gates,” she murmured, with thought. “Sold his soul to the Keeper for immortality and seeks you still.”

“Keeper? Olivia, what is it you speak of?”

“The gates to the Underworld, William. I was there, and a foul creature that stood guard demanded a gift before I could enter. I refused and the lock remained bolted.”

William’s chest rose in alarm. He sat upright, taking her with him. “You cannot go there. What possessed you to do so?”

“I didn’t ask. My Guide showed me.”

Wyldelock shrieked a cry of disdain. “Then I curse your Guide for such an act. She led you into ruin.”

This was inconceivable—a Guide was meant only to illuminate choice—not reveal the vile destruction of the lost. Her innocence they would tear asunder as soon as they realized she was undead. And if she sought not a trade they would assault her for countless centuries, subjecting her body to incalculable torture, before she finally succumbed. The Guide knew of this dreadfulness.

He scanned her precious body for signs of molestation. His rampant pulse missed a beat—her ankles were slashed, red scratches—abominations of an evil grasp.

“Why did you not tell me sooner?” he flared, shaking her. “There is no Keeper. What inflicted these marks?”

She shuddered, blinking several times in confusion. “I don’t know,” she answered feebly. “I didn’t look at it. Stop this, William. You’re frightening me.”

“Your fear is justified,” he bellowed, clasping her ankles, sniffing the wounds. He darted frantic glances from one ankle to the other. Poison had seeped into her blood. Already the veins in her legs were discolored. If the poison was allowed to flow, the child within her womb would mummify.

“What are you doing?” she cried out.

“Be still,” he demanded. Lifting his hand a knife appeared, because he ordered it to do so. Ignoring her cry, he slashed the blade into one vein, then the other, spitting into the blood that gushed out. Crimson turned to pink, then white. He exerted pressure above each knee, impeding the flow to creep any higher. The remaining ooze he sucked furiously. Drainage was critical. Every drop had to be emancipated. A taste, sour and fetid, remained in his mouth no matter how hard he spat it out.

“You’re hurting me,” she wept, struggling to be free.

“It wanted your child, Olivia. It wanted life. Think. Tell me everything you remember.”

He kept watch of the wound, finally satisfied he had caught the intrusion in time, had sucked out the defiling poison. Both Olivia and the child were safe. He uttered thanks and loosened his grip.

“Was this Dietrick’s doing?” he asked. “Was he there with you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“A demon then. Had it a name?”

“I don’t remember, though it was anxious for mine.” She fondled her ankles, the cuts in her legs already healing.

“What did it say? Olivia! Think!”

Exasperated, she blurted out bits and pieces. “My name—it said it knew me—my voice—would let me enter if I gave him my name—and—and—the mark on my shoulder frightened it. Then you called, and I left—it grabbed me and called me—Mother.”

Wyldelock froze to an icy shock. He could barely believe his ears. “It called you what?” he rasped, not recognizing his own voice.

“Mother—it called me Mother—crazed as well as putrid. It stunk, covered with….” She quivered. “Things.”

A resounding buzz of mirth penetrated the walls. Through it came the slow deliberate saunter of steps, the specter drawing closer. Wyldelock scanned for the source, seeing nothing except vibrations. “Olivia,” he whispered with mounting anxiousness. “Get behind me. Quickly.”

“It called me Mother.”Delight resonated through the mocking tone. “Do not forsake me here.” Another boisterous laugh and then, the one voice he recognized easily—Dietrick. “Mother, sister, brother—all lost. None more so than your son—Dagaz.”

Dagaz. The name flashed through Wyldelock’s mind as a streak of lightning, the thunder was his deep prolonged pronunciation of each letter. “Da-gaz!” The deluge which followed was a storm of sparks, dripping from the ceiling, explicitly over Wyldelock. Each spark sprinkled explosive balls of light, singeing his hair, peppering his flesh, igniting miniature flames on the rug around his feet. But Wyldelock refused to retreat from the onslaught. He crossed his wrists over his head and demanded, in the language of the Ancients, that the torrential rain of embers desist.

The funnel thinned but did not listen to the order to extinguish. And those that remained stretched into elongated bars, imprisoning his sight. The bedchamber was completely shrouded; he could not see Olivia.

Wyldelock shrieked his curse. The bars quivered, but the flow continued, squeezing ever closer, giving him no room to thrash in either direction. So he concentrated on the ball of light that pressed from above, his wrists carrying the weight, keeping it from crushing him like a bug under a boot’s heel.

He had neither his cloak nor staff. All he had was sheer willpower and the more he focused on a surge of maniacal anger the tighter the coils circled him—flittering snakes, compressing his torso—crushing him. “Dietrick!” he growled, this name rising from oppressed lungs, constricted throat, swelling tongue. Breath exhaled yet the pressure across his chest allowed no intake. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his eyes swam in increasing faintness. Wyldelock shrunk to his knees.

“Learn that stance, brother, proclaim me your superior.”

Wyldelock spat blood. The phlegm writhed into life, a coiling mass of worm and maggot. He managed to take in air but his tongue convulsed in bitter decay.

“Paternal instinct for one and not the other? Why, Talan—you care for one barely conceived yet forsake the one who so urgently calls for assistance?”

The sparks sank into the floor around Dietrick’s leathered boots. He was proudly adorned in his finest garb, his robe—trimmed in gold stitching—draped over one shoulder, the doublet beneath of Oriental silk, hands gloved in smooth doeskin, lace bunched at his throat. The beaded chest puffed to a laugh, and he tapped the tip of his sword into the floor with an echoing tap-tap-tap, pounding Wyldelock’s skull from the inside out.

“Hear this sweet noise? Rejoice, Talan, for at last your brother is flesh and bone.”

The edge of the sword flashed past Wyldelock’s cheek, making a deep slice, so quickly Wyldelock felt no physical pain. What he did feel, however, was the sting of repulsion. Not for the infliction, a mere taunt, but for the disgrace upon his name, his family. Dietrick had mocked them all, continued to mock, and as Wyldelock lifted his raging eyes to find Dietrick’s ridiculing smirk, he snarled with the fierceness of a rabid dog.

Dietrick drew up his sword and laughed, his face grimacing in delight for the challenge. “Now, Talan? Your wretched son waits with the keys. I am certain he will be happy to have another to share his damnation. Who better than a dear and devoted father?”

“What makes you think it is I who shall request the Gates of Hell to open?” Wyldelock jerked his fingers into a wide sprawl and instantly a sword clamped into his palm. The air between them sliced as the steel against steel clicked once, and waited for the masters to begin the warrior’s dance.

“For Dagaz, of course. By my doing he is committed to wait for you to take his place. Only with your paternal kiss can his suffering mercifully end, and then your decomposing flesh will swim with the eternally ravenous worms of perdition. As any good father, Talan, surely in good conscience you cannot allow the fruit of your loins to suffer so.”

They circled each other, glaring, swords fixated.

“Surrender. Make your death as quick and easy as possible. As your friend, I promise to twist the blade deeply. In regards to the mistress you claim, well, I cannot fathom either her or the child surviving the lust that urges my groin to swell. Her demise may take many days for my lusts have grown, shall we say, deliciously perverse. Is that not what you once considered me to be, brother? Unnatural. Perverse.”

Wyldelock’s fury burst; he lunged with his sword. Dietrick, with the aid of his magic, was behind. The laughter told Wyldelock the destination. He swirled round, and blinked at waves that distracted each eye. Staggering, he shook his head with a mighty jerk and dove into a defensive stance.

“Too much good life? You pale, old friend. Ah, not the intoxication of wine, not the fullness of good food, not the bountiful nectar of a woman’s want, no, none of these. You suffer from irony. Dear Dagaz, so frantic that his soul be saved, passed poison to the woman, and she to you. Your own flesh and blood has passed poison to your flesh and blood.”

Dietrick straightened, tapping his sword’s tip on the wooden floor. He laughed, on and on, his hair shivering to convulsions of empty humor, while Wyldelock saw only increasing fog. The organs within his torso were dehydrating into the serpent that coiled within. He dropped the weapon and sunk.

“In a manner this is not fair, that Dagaz makes my victory over you so simple. I get to see you die, slowly, and that was not my choosing. I would rather show mercy to the one I conquer. But I think to see this, brother, the look on your face, as I speak of Dagaz, is well worth the agony of witnessing the crippling effects the poison will take.”

Dietrick threw himself in front of Wyldelock and snarled with glee. Taking a fistful of hair he yanked, forcing Wyldelock’s chin to rise with a snap.

“Your magic will fade. Your spirit grows weak. You will not be able to save yourself let alone the woman.”

Dietrick spat full into Wyldelock’s face.

“Does that say anything of the love I bore for you? Does this tell you of my passion?”

Wyldelock clasped Dietrick’s throat, but there was no strength in his fingers. Hatred, streaks of fire, passed between them. No matter how he tried, no matter which incantation he called, Wyldelock could not force the smile on Dietrick’s face to fade.

In a blink, the enemy vanished. Wyldelock fell forward, dizzied, shaking to regain control of his limbs. He cursed, slowly lifting, and fell again in numbing grief.

Olivia was gone.

Subconscious and instinct. Both spoke to her now as reason and logic had done so in the past. Letting go of the rational had been effortless. She relied easily on the new voice in her head, because it spoke with crystal clarity. Her Guide was near.

“Fly.”

Olivia hadn’t hesitated. She didn’t weigh options, she didn’t consider various results, she didn’t ask why. She was not battling the force that had imprisoned William within the bars of light, nor was she running from it. She would assist his fight in the only way she knew how—she would fly, as the Guide had prompted, and seek out the source. In blind faith alone, she stole to the casement in the turret, and threw herself off.

There was pain. Transformation wracked her with agony. She dove from the window, a warm current of sea air buoying hollow bone. She cried out as muscle crunched, dwindling, as her organs tightened within her chest, her legs shrinking to thin sticks. She cried out most of all because she let go of reason. Her arms lifted, she felt the flap of feathers and rose in the current. Her cry now was not that of human frailness—which always paused to ask why this could be—it was the cry of a gull because it knew this was meant to be. And her Guide shadowed the flight.

Euphoria replaced pain; elation took precedence through her new form. She took in all that flowed beneath with human eyes. She absorbed the immensity with a human mind. She luxuriated in the sensations with a human lust for exhilaration. But she was no longer a slave to logic. She was free within the air, the place where magic occurred, the place where the spirits dwelled. And she belonged.

“Fly. Do not look back.”

The morning mist hung over her home. She could smell the willow tree, the garden’s damp earth. She circled, once, twice, searching for a place to settle. Carelessly she chose her mother’s window ledge—careless for this was not the directive, careless because frail curiosity took momentary importance. Through the thin curtains she saw the bed inside. And her beak cracked open to allow one short squawk of disproval—Mother slept in the arms of the stranger. He was awake and turned to see her flutter on the ledge against the windowpane.

Their eyes met. Behind the faintness of satisfaction she read his thoughts as clearly as though they were her own. Like printed words on a piece of white paper she read of his—sincerity. There was no disrespect, no apology, no hint of negligence, for she heard his adoration. He was completely consumed with the newness of love. He was making plans to change his life, circle his future around the woman who had instantly captured his passions. He knew he was needed, and would answer that need.

Then he returned to slumber, holding his prize, unconcerned that a gull protested his presence there.

“Focus. Make haste.”

Still, the distraction of his conquest preyed on her. It took on a life of its own, fogging her mind with betrayal. Jealousy leaped up. Was there no respect left for Father’s memory? How could she lay with another? Why had she been so weak to temptation? What had this man done to blind her to his passions? Destruction of values, corruption of morals. Swords. Many swords had struck into Mother’s heart. She was lost to logic; she needed the comfort this man introduced.

“Mother, do not forsake me.”

Why had the creature at the gates called her this? It knew her but she would never associate with such pestilence unless to fight. She would not answer its pleas for salvation.

Distractions. Too many distractions. Why was her mind wanderinglike this? Why was it so difficult to keep concentration?

The feathers on her spine ruffled. Her head tipped from side to side and she pecked the glass. Neither occupant stirred. She squawked again, but the wind told her to take flight. The Guide was coaxing her to move on. “Make haste. They draw their swords.”

Her claws wrapped around a branch of the willow tree. Gran’s window was open, the lace twitching to the breeze. One graceful glide and she perched on the sill. And Gran sat, hands folded on her lap, watching the window, knowing. They looked at each other in silence, an understanding passing between them.

“Why, Gran?” Olivia asked. “Why did you raise him from the depths?”

“The choice was not mine to make, Olivia,” Gran said, undisturbed by Olivia’s transformation from bird to woman. “All of this was predetermined.”

“You knew this was all going to happen?”

“Every generation of Von Der Weilde knew of the possibility Talan de Croft might rise. Every generation prepared, in their own way. Once he awoke, then it was up to another in the family to stir Dietrick to rise. The task was mine, Olivia. Your mother could not accept the role—she has long since blocked out all things supernatural. I take no glory for having to bring this struggle upon us. I alone carry the burden.” Sadness dimmed. “But I see how strong you are. Your magic is something I could only dream of. The sorcerer could not have chosen a better ally.”

“Gran, they struggle as we speak.” Olivia could barely contain the urgency. “He is no longer of the air. He threatens William right now and I will perish if he cannot find victory.”

“I know,” Gran said quietly. “That’s why I was waiting.”

“Then you know how to help me. Quickly, Gran, before it’s too late.”

She unfurled her crooked fingers and held out a ring. “Take this, Olivia. It can’t secure victory—only you and the sorcerer can do that—but it will buy you time.” She held it out. “Take it.”

The gold band held a glistening dark red stone—a ruby. Its sheer exquisiteness was dazzling; it glittered, light reflected from inside, bursting tiny sparks. Olivia could sense it was invaluable. “A ruby,” she said.

“Yes, it is one of the many the archeologist spoke of—but he has already found the only Ruby he’s going to get.” She smiled to the wry witticism. “This one, however, was saved, passed down through our family in anticipation for this day. The Von Der Weilde blood is in our veins, but this is the sorcerer’s blood, Olivia. Ours is thin, as Dietrick’s is, and he knows it is a weakness he must bear, but De Croft carries greatness in his veins. Always remember this, you share that greatness because he allowed you to drink of its fullness. Now, you must find the other rubies because his blood is the key. This one will slow your enemy for now. The others will help destroy him for eternity. Take it—go on. Save the one you love. Help him to grow strong again.”

“How do you know all this? Why didn’t you prepare me sooner?”

“There is no time to explain, sweet girl.” Gran thrust out her palm. “Find the other gems. For now, you have this one. Take it, never let it out of your sight, and forgive me for what I had to do.”

Olivia snatched the ring. Cause and effect. By taking the jewel into her hand she felt renewal, as she had done when she tasted the salt of William’s blood, as she had sensed the surge of power associated with his magic pass from his veins to her lips. At the moment the ring was in her hand the enemy fled, instantly, because he, too, sensed the magnitude. For one fleeting second she heard the curse he uttered, for his victory had been close, but he was forced to run off. He would return, this she understood, but for now she was victorious. William was alive.

“The enemy retreats.” The Guide whispered with urgency in her ear. “Fly! Another enemy within his veins proceeds.”

“Gran?” Olivia searched for words to relate gratitude, despite the turmoil. “I love you, Gran.” One sentence, she hoped, would succinctly convey her feelings. One sentence, for although she couldn’t sense Gran’s thoughts as easily as she had done the stranger’s, for although the mind she listened to was slightly blurred, she did read melancholy.

“I love you too. Now go. Live your life to its fullest.”

“No, Olivia. We were not always opposed to each other.”

The room was swimming. Wyldelock staggered to the small door in one corner, hidden with paneling, and spoke for it to open for he had little strength in his arms. Poison seeped through his veins. He felt its heat as it progressed—his mouth dry, bitter, numb. Fever was playing tricks with his mind. He shook his head, quick jerks that rocked his spine, turning a backbone to jelly. Invading memories were causing hallucinations. They were taking him places he did not want to go.

A campfire crackled. He ate hare roasted on a spit. Thunder rumbled over the lush green mountains. Soon the rain would come. Horses jangled their harnesses. And Dietrick talked, his voice young, smooth, rich in the fullness of life. Wyldelock marveled at the wisdom, listening to history, as Dietrick spoke with knowledge of the Spartan armies, their glory in battle, their dominion. Educated, well read, of noble birth, he told Wyldelock how the soldiers each chose another, to teach, to train, to be a constant companion. Once matched they would eat together, drink together, and sleep together. Men were allowed to marry, have families, but when duty called they were to rejoin their partner for war, love that one, so that prowess in battle might be strengthened in order to protect the other. Collectively the army became a force like none other, all because, Dietrick said, of the immense love of one warrior to the other.

He sunk to his knees before the small door, clawing it to open, for magic had no command. The black hole within yawned open. Wyldelock drew breath, readying himself to seek its depth. He tumbled, scraping elbows, knees, rolling to the bottom of the spiral staircase. No torch lit the path, the darkness covering him, and he rested at the bottom, collecting courage.

Wyldelock had finished his meal and stretched beside the fire to drink the honeyed wine they shared. He listened as Dietrick continued the lesson, drawing comparisons to their allegiance, laughing at how, if they had been born another time, fought with the great Spartan army, that they would be the source of legend. Fleetingly, it struck Wyldelock that his friend alluded to passion between them, and dismissed it again without consideration. They had touched, clasping each other in victory, extolling the other with embraces, but beyond this there was no intimacy. Yet, there was a glimmer in Dietrick’s eye when he peered at Wyldelock, something tainted with more than respect, admiration, friendship. There was a tinge of uncharted need for experimentation. When the fire had begun to fade, Dietrick sighed, as though ready to share a secret, one which had enough significance to change the course of their lives. But Wyldelock had accepted fatigue and closed his lids to sleep.

The stone beneath him was damp. The smell reminded him of awakening in the pit. Mold. Decay. Small organisms that preyed on all that was solid, slowly eating away majesty. “I should have talked to you that night,” Wyldelock uttered, as though his friend still listened, as though the warming fire still crackled, lighting the handsome face that glowed with more than comradeship. “I knew then, but I said nothing.” He crawled over the stone, over decay, toward the cellar’s hidden compartment that held the medicines. “If we had talked, worked out these feelings, this would not be happening.” Wyldelock shuddered with a constriction of grief. He had dealt with the uncomfortable sensation of a man’s love mistakenly. In ignorance he had let it pass.

The Von Der Weilde family welcomed the return of their only son. They welcomed Wyldelock with similar jubilance. There was much rejoicing. Music, feasting, dancing, and wine flowed as water. Dietrick dressed with pride of the wealth he had accumulated from wages of successful battle. His sister, Sophia, had taken great lengths in preparing his hair, adjusting the lace on his doublet, clearing spots from his boots. She danced with the returning hero. They were a graceful couple and then her eyes turned to Wyldelock as he drank at the table, the one saved for honored guests. He returned her smiles with thoughts of lust. The voluptuous figure denoted fine foods, her dress told all she was a prized beauty, and her long straight hair adorned with flowers hinted at purity. The smiles between them had not gone unnoticed. Dietrick leaned into his sister’s ear and whispered. Her smile dimmed; her eyes lowered in embarrassment. She crept back to her maids and refused to turn again to meet Wyldelock’s quiet invitations of union.

Candles in the small compartment flickered at his command. Wyldelock rested, for the simplest of demands drained him of energy. Dust-covered, corked bottles dotted the shelves. He squinted to the one he needed. “Come to my hand.” It shivered, but did not move beyond its station. He moaned. Frustration. Muscles paralyzed by weakness were alien, unwelcome. How he hated falling subject to limitation. He was Wyldelock Talan De Croft. Frailty meant impotence and he was not impotent.

His cup was never permitted to be empty. Wyldelock had consumed much wine, but Dietrick had drunk beyond capacity to retain reason. The festivities carried on to the early morning hours, and finally Wyldelock decided to part from his gracious hosts and seek out Sophia. She had departed with her maids, and he was certain he knew which corridor led to her chamber. The wine had disrupted his inhibitions. His goal was to conclude the evening by tasting her sweetness. She had hinted her desire, for as she departed her eyes sought him and she pursed her lips in a short kiss. Swaying hips hinted joining together. He flushed in excitement and stole from the lit hall to honor her request.

Sweat streamed from his forehead as he made good the attempt to stand, reach for the bottle. Lungs like useless sacks, he gasped for air, the smallest of exertions so difficult. Blinking away a tremor that threatened to reduce him to ultimate failing he summoned control and grabbed at the black bottle. It tipped, as he did, and fell with a clatter beside his wilted form on the stone floor. The cork had popped out, the bottle’s lip cracked. Precious white power had spilled.

“Where do you go, brother?” Dietrick had asked, stumbling on wine drenched limbs. “You cannot leave the festivities so soon.”

Impolite to share the true nature of his quest, Wyldelock bowed in relinquishment. “The cock has already crowed to light. I wish to rest.”

They were alone in the corridor. “Talan,” Dietrick murmured, tittering to drunkenness. “Know that you are more than a brother to me.”

Ashamed for his friend’s lucidity, Wyldelock flushed. “Perhaps you, too, should consider retiring,” he said with care.

“I will, if you come with me.” Unfocused eyes slowly lifted. His cheek twisted with a secret that was soon to be confessed.

“You have had too much drink, brother. I fear you speak without concern, as a woman.”

Dietrick stumbled as he puffed a short laugh and Wyldelock had reached out to prevent him from tumbling. “No woman could speak of affection to you as I.”

Before Wyldelock took opportunity to answer, Dietrick kissed him.

Shocked, Wyldelock froze in momentary submission, allowing the kiss to flourish. It was not completely unpleasant. It was, however, a prelude to an act Wyldelock could not offer. Compassion whelmed in his chest as he held Dietrick at bay. “You are drunk,” he whispered the excuse, if the incident recalled later. An excuse that would bear no ill feelings.

“I am drunk,” Dietrick answered, his voice drenched with more than the effects of alcohol. “I am drunk with love for you. Tell me you feel the same.”

Wyldelock dipped his finger into the tear that wet his cheek and tapped the spilled powder. His finger trembled as he coated parched lips, swollen tongue catching some of the drug. It soothed the trembling, took away the pain, and Wyldelock succumbed to temporary bliss. He would need more, much more, but for now he rested and the memories continued to seize his mind.

He had escorted Dietrick back into the great hall. Then Wyldelock snuck away, racing through the corridors to Sophia. Outside her door, he struggled, finding it impossible to shake off the sensation of his brother’s uninvited attentions. Yet, he stirred with the confusion of attraction, actually relishing in the thrill of what could be a new and exciting experience.

He had prided himself in the ability to tap into thought, understand what another was plotting, for his magic had grown into the ability to perceive another’s motives. How had he not seen this? How had he not recognized the longing in his brother’s eyes? Perhaps they were too close, too similar. An object far from reach is easier to bring into focus. Now that he heard with his own ears of Dietrick’s deepest affection, he stood bewildered, saddened and most definitely angered. Angered because there was a growing flicker of pleasure burning in his soul, a soul fully capable of love.

Slowly he pushed open the door and glided quickly within. Sophia peered at him from beneath the covers of her bed. He refused to move, his back against the closed door, his mind racing with a surge of lust that had consumed his senses. Were they real? Did they dance for her?

He accepted her invitation to crawl beneath the covers. Passion burst with an energy he had never experienced. He stole her innocence, luxuriated that he was the one who broke her virginity, spending hours enjoying the white, soft flesh she gladly offered. He had to prove to himself that only a woman’s form could initiate such pleasure. She wept when he finally left her bed, begging him to stay. He could not. He dressed, saddled his steed and rode off.

Sophia was left with child and Wyldelock sold his power to love, so the emotion could never cause his mind to fog with confusion ever again.

“I think that he loved you as I do.”

“Olivia?” Wyldelock searched the darkened corners of the compartment. Pain had melted from muscle and he drifted, memories fading. One lingered.

“Why do you seek solace, Talan, away from the warming fires of my family home?”

Wyldelock hesitated, his thoughts consumed with the dastardly journey to the Underworld that he had taken, the trick he had fallen for, that love was stolen, not given. It was a place of mockery and he had been sorely mocked. “I wish only to meditate. I need solitude for this.”

“Brother,” Dietrick said sadly, kneeling beside him. “My actions have brought you to misery. I beg forgiveness.”

“No, Dietrick, there is no need for remorse. Your spirit was defiled by drink. I bear no ill will.”

He was relieved, slumping in exoneration. “Why then? Why can you not join my family’s company?”

Wyldelock opened the pouch he had fondled, tipping the contents into his palm. Thirteen rubies. All pure. Priceless gems. He showed them to Dietrick.

“What service have you sold to be rewarded with such wealth?” Dietrick was amazed. His mouth gaped at the beauty of the stones.

“Not service,” Wyldelock whispered. “I have sold my heart.”

“I do not understand, friend.”

“My blood will forever remain warm. I have been granted life beyond the borders of mortality. These rubies are all that is left of love I once harbored.”

Dietrick frowned. “What darkness has seduced you, Talan? Pray, tell me I am not the reason for your magic to blacken?”

“I can never love as you do. Speak not of it again.”

“So, I am the cause of this. Oh, dearest brother. What have I done?”

Wyldelock took three gems, the three largest, the first three drops that had spilled from his opened chest as love was snatched from his heart, the blood that had hardened to jewel. “This is all that I can give you. Take them, and bid me farewell.”

Dietrick’s gaze hardened, turning cold. He snatched the rubies and scoffed. “You are a fool. Do I repulse you this much that you fear even trying to adorn me with affection? This is my payment for loyalty all these years?”

“My sins are many, my transgressions great. Know you are my brother, our blood always entwined. I will never forget you.”

Dietrick leapt to his feet. “If you leave I shall follow.”

“No, you cannot follow me. Your mortality will not allow pursuit.”

“I will find a way.”

Wyldelock lifted his eyes to ones filled with resolve. The flame of vengeance had already begun to feed on the decay of a slighted emotion.

“Good-bye, brother. Peace be with you.”

“Such intense hatred is born of jealousy. You snubbed him and he couldn’t bear it.”

“Olivia.” Wyldelock said her name, the only sweetness within the dampened dungeon. He had to explain, even though he knew he was alone in this prison. “I took away what he wanted, and now he has done the same to me.”

Convinced she was stolen, convinced he was condemned again to sleep, convinced all was lost, Wyldelock watched the candles dim.

The blanket of blackness slowly closed in over Wyldelock and he fell into unconsciousness, no longer struggling to hold onto the light of life.

The smell of battle filled the turret. Not only smoke, which was familiar to her, but another scent—one she had never known—the choking odor of lost hope.

“William? Where are you?”

The rug was singed, a circle where he had been ensnared by Dietrick’s fire. A sword, without stain, lay across the damaged rug, where it had fallen. She knelt, to hold the weapon in her hand, to feel the surge of battle for herself. Its weight was extreme, the muscle in her arm protested. Regardless of Dietrick’s dominion, William still had such courage. But she would have to find more. She had to learn what it meant to hold firm the sword, even though she had chosen the cup.

The cup. Darting quick glances she was relieved to find it still there, partially hidden beneath the bed. She dropped the sword and took hold of her treasured weapon, one that took no effort to wield. The stench of failure evaporated. She breathed deeply of renewal. With it she would find enough courage to pull them both through whatever evil reared up.

“William, cling to hope as I do. Do not let go. Feel me near.”

A faint heartbeat tapped. It told her he was alive. With life was hope.

She had seen the place where life failed, where hope no longer guided the soul. It was a place where no forgiveness could ease suffering. Only despair prevailed and it demanded company, others to share damnation. It fed on goodness, corrupting it to misery. The enemy sought the same—to steal from William any chance to regain freedom, to doom him as he was doomed. She was William’s keeper. She would not allow the darkness of revenge to swallow him. She would not!

Olivia picked up the cup and held it close to her heart. “William,” she whispered. “I will not forsake you.”

“Mother. Do not forsake me here.”

Of course! Poor pathetic creature. It smelled her blood, knew she was of Von Der Weilde descent, understood the mark because it was his mark, the one he had demanded flourish on countless generations until its father rose again. Dagaz. Reduced to living death, tormented with unheard cries of repentance, until light might touch that horrid lost soul again. It called her mother for the same reasons that Dietrick called her sister . She meant liberation for one, demise for the other. No wonder Dietrick had tried to woo her to his side: keep Dagaz embalmed, damn William, and reduce her to slavery. She was the one small candle that glowed in the darkness, the one they all fluttered to, but which would flutter too close? Which would burn before the flame extinguished?

“Without you the fire will consume him.”

The gull perched on the windowsill. “What if I fail, Guide? What if I make a wrong choice?”

Without answer it flapped to the corner and squawked. A panel disturbed, she went closer to investigate. The heartbeat grew louder.

A blast of air circled throughout the room. Olivia cried out to its velocity. It attempted to suck the cup from her hands. The gull screeched and flew off. Walls rattled as the wind increased, deep within the roar came rage.

“Surrender!”

“Never.” Olivia clasped the cup tightly. Without looking back she wiggled through the broken paneling, groping for substance to lead her way through increasing darkness. The air was stagnant, the steps narrow and cold. One palm on the wall she picked her way down, treading with care so as to not release the cup. The wind shook the wall behind her but did not dare to follow. No longer a distraction she focused on the beating heart that was not her own. William was near.

The blackness was heavy, oppressive, like water. It hindered her movement, lulling her to slumber within its density. If she succumbed to its call, allowed it to immobilize her, she was certain she would be lost to time. She would sleep, dreamlessly, unaware of the passage of life above, where the world was bright and real. She would be reduced, as William had once been reduced, to nothingness, waiting for another’s call to awaken. It seduced her to close her eyes, relinquish her spirit, and sink into the sticky pit of failure.

“Light,” she said. “I need light.”

The cup glowed yellow at her request and she held it as a torch, guiding her passage through the dank corridor. This crypt would not flourish over her will to survive, nor would it rob her of her longing to find William. Her senses acute, she smelled rot. None more so than the rot that threatened flesh.

William was lying on his side, a bottle in his motionless fingers, a splotch of white powder, browned with stain around the edges, near where his cheek rested. He had sought relief from physical torment but it had not been enough. Unconscious, yet his eyes half open, glazed, seeing only what the numbing powder wished him to see.

Olivia choked back the fear of uncertainty. She knelt, placing the cup on the stone, illuminating a veil of black hair that clung to the damp floor, his only pillow. She shivered, for his face was twisted to decomposition—lips dried, a thin line of purple circled his mouth, his cheek blackened and sunken with the poison that crept through his features. One vein in his neck protruded with a heartbeat that struggled to continue, no matter how weak, clinging to life. A rasping breath startled her and she stared in shock. “What must I do?” she said weakly, pushing panic into the dense blackness that peered at him without concern from over her shoulder.

She brushed his hair away from his face, examining with horror what this enemy within had reduced him to. She tried not to think of it, for surely her scream would mean nothing, except allowing frenzy to overpower her reactions when she needed fortitude, clear thinking. He needed her help desperately, but she was caught in a habilitating web of the unknown. “What must I do?”

He was so vulnerable, so ill, so devoid of all the magnificence she had known him to brandish. His continued existence depended on her action but which recourse? There was no Guide to whisper in her ear, no small voice of wisdom rising from her heart. She was as empty as the unblinking eyes that continued to wait immediate assistance.

A rattle, exhaled past the arid lips, told her a constriction tightened in his throat. She had to do something soon, or wither in loss. He would perish within a living death and then she would be left with regret that her powers meant nothing when needed the most. The madness of such failure would burn her soul. The darkness swirled, inching closer. It, too, saw her failing and had already begun to consume them both.

Instinct. The one characteristic of the cup. Poison could be drained. He had done just that when he discovered she carried it. He had slashed the veins in her legs to staunch its flow. He had sucked out the venom, which was why he suffered now. His mouth had dried to it, and it crept through his mind, rendering him into a trance. And it was slowly curling through the major artery in his neck, progressing to his heart which, once found, would turn his blood to dust. He was dehydrating.

The cup glowed. Inside, water boiled up, frothing over the rim.

She scooped the precious liquid in her palm and dabbed his lips. He responded, a swollen tongue protruding for more. She gently eased his head to lift and scooped more, so some could get inside, where the replenishing magic could take effect.

“William, can you hear me? Try to swallow.” She braced his head and poured water into his mouth. Most trickled out but some remained within. The purple was fading, but not quickly enough. His breathing was erratic.

He convulsed, unseeing eyes quivering side to side, as though trying to locate the source of radiance.

More water gushed from the cup, broiling up, an endless stream.

His throat bounced. He had swallowed. Brown fingers curled. He blinked. Then he sunk back again, she holding his head in her lap.

“William? Listen to my voice. Wake up. Please.”

She smoothed his hair, anxiously watching his face, hoping the blackened veins would lighten to the freshness of rejuvenation. His chest rose and fell to a thrashing heart, but this was having a reprehensible effect—the poison had quickened its pace. At least in the trance, a heartbeat slowed, the poison had barely progressed. Now it moved. She saw it in his throat, as it made its malignant journey toward his chest.

Olivia flattened her hand into the artery, a gut reaction, insufficient. He wrenched, lifting his knees, jerking with a violent eruption of tremors. “No,” he wheezed. “Knife.” His fingers tapped staccato into the stone as he shook. She could barely hold his shaking head in her lap.

“Knife?” She searched the outer edges of the darkness. “I don’t see a knife.”

“Create.”

“How? I don’t know how.”

He twisted his neck, his pelvis vibrating to what was soon to be paralysis. The black inched its way farther down his neck, crawling through the vein without reserve. “Create,” he rasped.

Olivia clutched his frantically tapping fingers. The handle of a carving knife began to materialize. He had started the formation, she finished, warming strength spreading through her limb, through their entwined fingers. The knife, in totality, firm and solid, was at her disposal.

“Do it!”

He lurched, a quick intake of air, lifting his chin to give her access to the deed that had to be accomplished. She slashed the blade, easy access through skin, just below the black head that pushed through the vein. It opened with ease and she reeled at the stench of the evil that squirmed out, a long thin coiling mass. It flopped out, knowing the stream of blood was no longer accessible and that it was doomed, not its host. The serpent hissed in fury, the forked tongue flickering. It writhed on the floor and Olivia pressed her hand against William’s open wound to make certain it couldn’t slither back from where it fell. She inched backwards, struggling to pull William with her. He kicked, confirming the need to get as far away from the living poison as possible. The wall impeded further escape, so she wrapped her arms around him, protecting as best she knew how.

The serpent tossed its lithe body from side to side, the wretched dance taking it closer to her cup. The water stopped frothing, receding inside, and to her disgust the snake went with the flow, violating beauty with its existence.

She couldn’t unlock her gaze from the cup, expecting the creature to rise up, threaten them again with a flickering forked tongue, perhaps even coil out, attack. The rim remained still; the cup continued to glow, their only source of light.

“It lives.” William was watching as well.

“We’ve got to get out of here, before it rises.”

“Olivia,” he said. “This evil has a face. It must be decapitated.”

The knife in her hand pulsated, preparing for the next altercation. As much as Olivia wanted to pull William to his feet and help him up the stairwell, she knew that her task was incomplete. Yet the instinct to flee danger was great, so great it dimmed her stamina. The longer she argued with herself the more difficult the task became. And to her horror, the cup’s glow lessened. If the light went out they would be left in total blackness, at the mercy of this serpent that could then attack with ease.

Steadying her resolve she crept along the stone. “I’ll tip it over,” she muttered aloud. “When it falls out I shall be quick.” But once she was next to the cup she found that morbid curiosity had seized her thinking. She peered inside.

Replenishing water, frothy and light, no longer pooled inside. The liquid was congealed, slow bubbles belched up stench, the same vile stench she had suffered when standing at the gates of the Underworld, the same ooze that had made the floor there sticky, the same substance which the poison had lived in and now sought rebirth. How dare it seek refuge where there was light and breath and love.

The moment split, her hand prepared to tip the cup, then froze. Pictures were forming, distorted by the continual broil, but on she peered, watching without wanting to, yet compelled by an unseen force to witness its images. Like a silent movie, with no music, the first scene shimmered. A woman was crying as an infant was torn from her arms. No cry rose from the moving pictures. No sound was needed to feel the woman’s anguish. She had given birth and the wriggling newborn was being taken from her. She leaned to snatch the bundle back to her breast but her reward was more struggling. A man had cruelly jostled her from the bed. The gown she wore was bloodied; the birth had taken its toll. She fell limp within his mighty hold.

Olivia gaped. It was Dietrick who assaulted her. The woman peered up, as though knowing Olivia watched the scene, and waited serenely for fate, waited because she no longer had strength to fight for either the child or herself. Dietrick took his blade, wrenched her chin to rise, and slashed her throat from ear to ear.

Sophia. She had not committed suicide in a fit of madness. She had been murdered by the brother she had always adored.

The liquid boiled. The scene changed. Dietrick was cloaked in rings of fire, malignant spirits squealing delight as they sought free entrance to his body. He inhaled their power through his flared nostrils, sucked them through pursed lips, jolted in perverse ecstasy as flames leapt over his groin. He had invited their evil to dwell inside warm flesh, legions of them taking control of his mind, his soul. His eyes flashed red as they consumed him and he smiled. Their power was his—he had obtained greatness—and his eyes danced to the power of revenge that was now at his disposal. The demons had possessed him and he had become a mighty black sorcerer at their beckoning.

In triumph he lifted his sword, the three rubies on the hilt. With both hands he thrust it down into a mass of dirty cloth that huddled beneath his boot. A scream rocked the cup, shaking it so violently its base rattled on the stone floor. The body within the material convulsed to quickening throes of death. Sophia’s child had survived, until this night when Dietrick summoned the evil that aided in another murder—Dagaz.

Dietrick stared up at Olivia from within the cup and slowly began another transformation—body slimming into that of the serpent but the face! It was Gran. Her smile kind, loving, and she whispered, beckoning for Olivia to lean closer to hear the faint utterances. Mortified, yet transfixed, Olivia drew closer to the moving lips. They parted and a forked tongue flickered out, rising from the wretched mass of illusion. It hungered with ravenous lust for destruction, and she was next.

“SSS-urender!”

“No!” she screamed, and knocked over the cup with a hard slap.

The thick ooze spilled on the floor, the light from the cup dimming. She thrust the knife into it and the coiled poison flipped, nearing her wrist. She stabbed wildly at the mass, one blow striking its oily head. Black blood seeped from the fatal wound but she stabbed again and again until her arm could no longer find strength to hold the weapon.

An arm circled her shivering waist. Olivia dropped the knife and lunged for the cup. Its light snapped out but she was moving, clasped tightly in William’s hold. They did not return to the spiral steps that led to the turret. Instead he made his way in the opposite direction. Opposites, her numbing mind cooed. Always opposites.

The cold and the dark and the damp were replaced with warmth, sun, and fresh air. The corridor beneath the earth had led them to the Lighthouse. Here they would rest.

And prepare to fight again.

Chapter Eight

Inner peace. Wyldelock sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. Pressing his palms together in front of his face, he took many deep breaths, relaxing muscle in his shoulders, neck and back. Fingertips touching, palms apart, emotional energy flowed between, a purple thin layer of light. The aura thickened and he inhaled part of it, the surge massaging his throat, taking away unnatural remnants of negativity. His mind cleared. His body restored. His eyes relaxed behind closed lips, Wyldelock focused on the thought form, the image of Olivia, for only she could bring upon him elation, only she could raise this energy. This sight brought inner peace. This took the memory of malignance away.

Stretch. He moved his head, slowly, from side to side, a swinging motion, lulling. Extending each arm, he opened his eyes. She sat as he did, cross-legged, within the wide circle he had drawn on the wooden floor. She did not see his reaching hands; she meditated as he had asked her to do. These simple exercises were preparing them both—freeing them from the misery of the recent altercation, relaxation which kept the darkness from saturating their spirits—for regeneration had to be obtained before union. They had to rest as two individuals before joining as one, and it would take time to prepare. He stretched, the residual purple light clinging to his palms, and cupped her nose and mouth. She sighed within her trance, and the light found passage within her breath.

It was no hardship to dwell, transfixed, on her loveliness. Auburn hair shadowed her features, her face no longer flawed with disquieting thoughts. He trailed his fingertip over her chin, down the curve of throat, around the string of beads that draped exposed cleavage. Her choice of clothing for their ritual was exquisite. White cotton on the camisole clung to her breasts, the faint outline of each nipple beneath, partially hidden by lace. Her skirt ballooned out over each leg, a torso enveloped by a soft cloud of material. Desire for her whelmed inside him and he closed his eyes again to draw upon the energy of arousal. They would become as one but first their beings had to rest. He needed her consoling essence as surely as she needed his.

Wyldelock lifted his chin, loose hair feathering his spine. In the rafters above, their Guides watched with approval. The owl’s wide eyes peered from over a nest while the gull perched nearby, on an open ledge. He thanked them for wisdom with a short bow of respect and they in turn nodded to him.

Other delicate spirits joined the air. Thin wisps of light danced in the steams of sunshine that broke through cracked boards of the desolate building. They danced for her—goodness, generosity, purity, honor and love. They awakened because Olivia called to them. She yearned for them to shower their attributes upon him, because she had seen what iniquity lived in the darkness, what frailty lived in him, and in her trance she called for their blessings. Her voice they clearly heard. Her magic was maturing.

“Inner peace comes with our union,” he chanted. “Let it be so.”

Serenity flowed through his chest, warming him into an elated sense of wonderment. Holding her waist he leaned and pressed his forehead against hers. As he inhaled she exhaled. He tasted the sweetness of love and remembered. Longing for more he enveloped her mouth with his lips and drew on her breath, begging its embodiment to fill his heart. But it could not find a home within him. His chest constricted in loss, serenity threatened escape.

Sincerity he did harbor. Faithfulness was his crown. For her he would even renounce immortality for what was the future if she were not a part of it? Yes, if he could find the way he would abandon all his powers if only to feel love, receive love, give the gift of love. If he could find a way. If he could destroy all obstacles. If he could find the words to ask, he would let time take its natural course, grow old with her, die in her arms. If he had only her.

And if she grew strong enough to do so, he would allow her to consume him, so severe was his need to taste love. His acts of passion were empty except for physicality. She had to understand how deeply he ached for more.

“Olivia,” he called. “I must take of your body with only desire. One step will lead to another if you can accept me.” Only she could change this course.

Slowly her lids opened. “Desire is the seed in which love will spring.”

Such wisdom enthralled him. The immensity of her learning was a stimulant that helped his being flourish. “Open your all to me, Olivia. Summon this spirit you hold so that I might share in its splendor.”

He expected immediacy. His breath had quickened to arousal, a flush of excitement stirring his groin. But even now he had underestimated the progress of her magic, the depth of her wisdom. She would answer his need, he read it in her smile, but ritual demanded attention. So he subdued desire until preparation was achieved. He would allow the sorceress to guide him.

She looked away. At the same time he felt her explore his thought, tear asunder the wrapping that tightly covered his subconscious. He quickly attempted to bar the intrusion for some thoughts were better left concealed. But she had been swift. Too swift.

“You feared no challenge of battle, no sword caused you to tremble, no nobleman intimidated your words and no spirit caused you to retreat. Yet, you feared love,” she said, not blinking. “A silent messenger, one that touched your heart, a gentle spirit yet you feared it as though it were a painful infliction that would leave you ruined and common. You feared love because you could neither see nor understand. You still fear love. You fled with haste so it could not follow.”

Truth stung. He listened because she was uncovering what he had long buried. She was resurrecting what he had denied. He grew wary as to what was to fall from her lips next, but he listened because he knew her words were part of the healing and healing always involved pain.

“Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” she said with authority that made him shiver. “An ancient name, not the first you claimed, nor the last, but a name which was held dear to one. He calls you Talan. You were his brother because you shared blood, flowing from cut palms, always to be brothers. It was a bond he could not forget. He loved you deeply, without malice. And you cast off his emotion before casting off your own. You feared his affection because you felt as he. You feared love then. You do so now.”

“I could not accept what he wanted to give. My heart told me it was not … proper.”

“Love is always proper. It was the manifestation of passion he offered that you could not accept. But you confused his advance and his deep loyalty, wove each together so that it blurred your mind, and you rebuked him in totality. Love is more than the energy that passes between two when bodies unite. Sex alone is not love. If love is built upon a foundation of sand the house will crumble.”

Wyldelock bowed, lowering his gaze in shame. “The house that harbored our kinship was built on stone. But it turned to sand by my misunderstanding. Fire rages within its walls.”

“Yes,” she said, pleased he understood. “And that fire must be extinguished. To love me you must face his demons. They must be conquered. It is the only path you can take to find freedom.”

“Then this I shall do, wise sorceress. I will fight the legion that waits. I will fight for freedom to love again.”

“Brave warrior,” she sighed. “I will be always at your side.” At this she commanded wine to fill the gold cup. It passed between their lips. “A toast to our future. Now, let us dance.”

“My attire is not appropriate for me to dance with a lady of stature,” Wyldelock stated, rising to his feet. His trousers were wrinkled, his shirt discarded because of the illness he had suffered, his feet bare. The infirmity had passed and with the renewed energy that flowed through his muscle he wished to reflect jubilation. With the wish came suitable apparel.

Slippers of silk, stockings tight to his calves, elastic band of his trouser legs beneath each knee, the dark blue of such finery emphasized with red ribbon and embroidery. A splash of crimson at his neck rested on a great ruffle of lace, the buttons of a hip length waistcoat made of ivory. Frills hung from each wrist, an evening cape draped from one shoulder, hair bound loosely halfway down his back, and he bowed deeply to her, his gaze locked to the floor. “I ask the honor of your company in a dance,” he said with genuine reverence.

“I accept.”

When he lifted his gaze again, the brilliance of her gown caused him to draw a sudden breath. “My lady,” he whispered, scarcely believing what was before him, what her magic had brought forth.

The beaded gown shimmered as though of pure gold, long and full, pulled tightly to her waist. Sleeves hung as drapery, that of only a queen’s choosing, that of a coronation. The collar dipped, her breasts shadowing the valley between, a carpet of velvet flesh. Her slim neck was adorned with wide lace, and her hair was decorated with rose buds.

“My lady,” he repeated, taking her gloved hand to his lips. “Such exquisiteness remains unprecedented upon centuries of nobility.”

He kissed her hand and then saw the ring she wore over the fitted glove, recognizing the gem immediately. From the bow he lifted only his gaze to her. No words were needed. She not only accepted him for what he had been, what he was, and what awaited, but she wore the ring borne from his blood, commitment to always be his. His chest widened with pride. He kissed the ruby, blinking away tears of thankfulness.

“My most valiant words of worship could never begin to reflect the honor you deserve.” He knelt, clasping her hips in an embrace, pressing his dampened cheek into the folds of her dress, just beneath the small buckle on her stomach.

“Then don’t search for words. Search instead what I can and will freely give.”

He strummed the delicate flounce at the back of her dress, teasing himself with the sensation of her curves. Yet, her sultry invitation teased him more, peaking his interest in exploring her from this most intimate of stances. He dipped his nose into the fabric, and breathed of her, allowing the scent to drench his mind to sensuality. This was the precious perfume that woke him from the dark crypt, and now he held her, knelt before her, an unworthy servant, but prepared to give pleasure in whatever manner she invited.

“You promised me a dance,” she said.

“Then dance we shall.” He stood. One hand crept around her shoulder, the other gently easing to her waist. Thin strands of music invited them to move together in unison, and as they swayed within the protective circle, he locked his eyes to hers, for there was no other loveliness that could steal his attention.

“A gentleman and a poet,” she smiled. “Have I told you how happy you make me?”

“Then I am the envy of any king who proclaims dominion. Without majesty of a woman’s devotion all wealth is worthless.” He pulled her into his chest, slowing their dance, so he could flutter a kiss into her thick hair.

Her arms tightly squeezed against his waist, he luxuriated in the warmth, possessed by the deep affection she bequeathed. She had made him feel worthy; he dispelled every inadequacy that had threatened to torment their association with doubt. Weakness had taunted him into considering he was insufficient to even kneel to her presence, but such simple words, uttered from a heart true and chaste, restored his confidence. He would reward her faith in him. He would prove to them both that love could again flourish within his heart.

She heard his thoughts. Tipping her face to read his silent vow she kissed him and the dance changed to prelude. Her body tight to his she swayed her hips, welcoming the sensation of his excitement. She had loosened the ribbon in his hair so gently he had no consciousness of it, so consumed was he with her kiss. He ravished her lips, bathing her mouth with a tongue that hinted another intrusion, one that would culminate in mutual gratification. She accepted his overture, opening her mouth to insertion as she would open to his body. This was the gift she was willing to give, despite his emotional barrenness. At least he could obtain bliss and for the duration he would be satisfied with the mere sense of love, for her whole body exploded to its delicate flavor. He held her in his arms and this manifestation of affection would have to appease his loss until future conquests secured.

“My precious jewel,” he breathed into the crevices of her mouth. “Let us lose the other within union. Let us become as one within the fires of ecstasy.”

“And you are my lord,” she said in return. “I offer my all to your choosing.”

He studied her within a haze of sensuality. There was no allusion to playfulness. Her eyes spoke of submission, her waist shivered in compliance, and she swayed against him, a soft malleable coaxing.

Visualizing a narrow couch it appeared. He told the music to soften and asked the Guides above to allow them privacy. He danced with her still, but his hands strummed her curves with intent. If he so demanded, their fine apparel would melt away, but this was not his wish. Her dress added to his pleasure; her decoration framed her beauty. She was the prize for a competition he did not win. Regardless, he would accept its bounty, and unravel its every comfort.

She turned, stretching her arms around his neck, and he leaned into the porcelain skin, kissing it. She sighed, tipping her head back to his shoulder as he caressed the hard curves of her breasts. Each rose to her breath, filling his palms. He squeezed, pulling her tighter against his body, flexing his hips to the dying rhythm of dance. Prelude was to end. He swayed, a gentle motion, moving her steps toward the couch.

He flattened his hands against each hip, manipulating fingers, hoisting the lengthy material of the dress, until it bunched within his grasp. He peered down over her breast, drinking the sight that unfolded for him. Slim legs covered with white stockings, the thick lace holding them in place on the thigh. He thumbed the edge of one, slow circular movements, velvet flesh, fine hairs, each gesture taking his touch closer to intimacy. The embrace around his neck strengthened as she concurred to his caress and excitement leapt within him.

Wyldelock closed his eyes, a few moments, to visualize restored power, watching the image float within the sphere of energy. The charge that erupted through his groin would become another source of renewal. He would use this encounter to help him to grow ever stronger. He would derive mystical energy from desire. And his desire was great.

His pulse coursed a rush of blood. He swelled, a natural reaction, one that would secure not only immense pleasure but a connection to untapped vigor. Not wanting to hurt her beyond her capability, he chose this position—bending her before him—so he could fold over, clasp her tightly and function freely, using the sound of her utterances as a guide to increasing force. The force would quickly become dynamic if he were to lose control; such a possibility credible, for he was quickly tensing to awakening. Physically, of course, he was stronger than she and would have to be vigilant to her delicate form.

She understood his want and knelt on the couch. What she could not know was the intensity of the fire that was raging in Wyldelock’s being. This time he would not be the gentleman she proclaimed him to be.

He eased his enthusiasm temporarily by meditation, casting all thought asunder, breathing in fully, and out slowly. And then the vision that filled his eyes cancelled the calmness—her dress bunched across the small of her back, hair draped over one shoulder, decorative stockings leading his gaze to center on her round soft flesh, exposed. Eroticism blasted through his chest. His fingernails raked the soft flesh. Already he sensed the static of sexual energy begin to lure his hips closer.

The seriousness of this act must have made an impact—he heard her anxious gasp. He spoke, gently, soothingly, because soon he would be immersed in concentration for release and void of any powers of speech. “Olivia.” He leaned over her back, whispering into an ear partially veiled by strands of hair. “I have grown large, for my hunger responds to this ritual with enormity. There will be pain, but you are strong and know that beyond discomfort waits pleasure that will dim the memory of any distress that I will cause.” He listened to her breathe. She was drawing courage for she understood this union was one of consequence to him.

“I will be strong for you,” she whispered.

“If your words are true, and you allow me to finish, then I can harness great energy from this magic. We joined before in common passion but this, Olivia, this requires stamina for I must be stern to obtain my goal. I must release this energy. The rewards will be abundant for both of us.” He pressed his lips to her earlobe. “Do you understand, sorceress? Do you already feel the magic warm your womb, readying it for my entrance?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It tells me of pain, but the pain of absence.”

“Oh,” he moaned deeply, his forearm tightening across her throat. As beautiful as such words were she had no idea how fierce this merger might become. He had to hold her tightly, in this submissive stance, for she would try to crawl away. She would be shocked and frightened, reactions contradicting words, until the pleasure swept through her body and only then could he let go his grip. “Prepare for me, sorceress.”

His trousers had become uncomfortable in their confinement and he gave her more time to ready by unbuttoning each of the three manually. So close was his proximity his knuckle dampened to the heat of her arousal. He touched her, a gentle massage, permitting a few more seconds. The stroke helped the natural discharge of wetness, more help for her to accept his bulk. Then he wrapped his damp fingers around his girth and shuffled forward between her sprawled legs.

Holding himself, the last brief moment, he folded over her spine, gripping her into immobility, and whispered, “I accept your gift.”

His thrust held no gentleness. He was pleased with the decision to enter her quickly, forcefully, for the first wave of shock would destabilize her need to get away. She bolted to the harshness of the deep intrusion, shrieking sharply at his girth, wiggling to accept as comfortable a position as possible, but he held her in place, her simple gesture to escape no match for his brawn. And he kept holding her while gently easing his hips back, then forward again, not allowing any movement from her except pert breasts to rise and fall to labored breath.

The internal muscles that enveloped him tightened and he paused to enjoy the stroking sensation. He sunk his teeth into her neck, as any mate would do, and growled, not with fury but with sheer ecstasy of this unique feeling. He had thought she would scream at his deep association, wrench forward, clutch at the ridges of their couch, and beg to be released. Yet after a short cry she continued to kneel, supporting his body as he folded over her arched back, continued to draw incredible willpower to entertain his need. Was there no end to her surprises?

Now he was the one who remained quiet, moaning softly at the continual caressing, womb tightening, relaxing, jerking the next squeeze, pumping him. This was extremely tame in comparison to the vigor he would soon employ. But he allowed her sweet caressing because it gave him time to center his psyche on the thought form that would convert to energy once he climaxed. He focused on the embodiment of love, the emotion he sought, the purity it invoked and each manifestation took on a face—Olivia’s face—she was love’s incarnation and seeing this meant half the battle was accomplished. The thoughtform stabilized within his mind, Wyldelock was free to unlock its energy with his body. Rapture through the immensity of an unprecedented orgasm was essential.

He flexed the muscles in his arm, pinning her with such urgency she startled, lifting her chin with a short chirp of surprise. “I must begin,” he rasped harshly, drunk with need. “Forgive me.” A surge of power rocked through his torso and the resulting thrust would have wrenched her from the couch if his grip was not securely fastened.

She was brave. He felt her relax, an attempt to accommodate his sheer size. Would it be sufficient? He did not know. He could not dwell on her pain or her pleasure. He was commanding the thought form, quietly, silently, to be ready to receive its final boost of energy.

There were small sounds of protest; he heard them in the distance. They faded to his graveled utterances of approval. He gyrated, hard deep thrusts into soft wet flesh, feeling the internal velvet walls, stretching to hold his force. Never had he been this needful. So much was at stake.

His forearm continued to pin her in compliance while he pressed his other palm against the flesh of her stomach. He demanded she sway with his rhythm, know the force of tremendous effort he had to exert. She had wrapped her fingers round the edge of the couch, using it as a lever to hoist back and into him, her own frame bouncing to each gyration he initiated. Perfect unison. Why was he surprised? They were, after all, meant for each other. And her power was great.

Music was replaced by the whispering movement of clothing; her dress sang to this erotic dance. A section of its material tapped one exposed area of his groin, fluttering between them, a thin veil. He pulled it tight from under her, dipping one finger, caressing her. He stroked without thought, for her reaction pleased him, added to his mounting bliss. Her cries were born of pleasure now. He loosened his grip around her shoulder.

“Olivia,” he sighed, for the sound of her name also added to the nearing crescendo.

She went rigid, her forehead leaning to the surface of the couch while she succumbed to limpness of immobility.

“I am here,” he cooed, sensing the wash that rippled through her whole body. “I will always be here for you.”

Wyldelock listened to the mounting pressure that now caused his groin to shiver. His chest swelled in expectation, breath caught in his lungs and he straightened, grabbing her hips with claw like fingers. He lowered his gaze, watching with fascination as he rocked, his sex thick, hard, relentless in obtainment. The energy was forming, a ball of white light, encasing his groin, readying to fire up, an endowment of power.

He pummeled now, for release was drawing near. Invisible pins stabbed perverse pleasure into each swollen sack, and he sensed the precipice nearing. Building, building, sweat gushed from his temples, his mane damp, clinging to his scalp. His vision blurred as the fall grew imminent. Soon, ever increasing, this thin moment a luxury within itself, and then a violent thrust. The precipice gave way. Another thrust and with it a numbing burst. Liquid heat streamed forth, a river of fire, and with it came precious seconds of total euphoria.

The energy rippled up his waist. He flexed his arms into the air in triumph, a surge of strength before collapsing over her, lost within a hazy cloud of sensuality. The aftermath flowed, each wave lessening in intensity, his thrashing chest easing, his breath slowing. Olivia stretched beneath him and he marveled in her perfection. His embrace now denoted affection, tenderness, gratitude. “It is finished,” he whispered coarsely for his throat was dry, his lips parched. “We are as one.”

The couch beneath them changed, not due to his doing, but hers. It widened so she could twist, taking him into her embrace, holding him as the last wave of pleasure rippled into the distance.

Silence drummed in his ears, her fingers caressed his wet hair, her hold delicate, assuring. “Sleep,” she chanted. “Now you must find sleep.”

He drifted at her command, lids growing heavy. He sank into the sweetness of serenity and allowed himself another lost pleasure—tranquility of rest—allowing obscurity to fold around him for he knew that when he awoke, she would still be holding him, and he would be safe because their hearts were beating in unison. They were as one.

“You were dreaming.” She fanned out a thick clump of his hair against the pillow, stroking his cheek as he stirred, waking slowly. She had watched his eyes roll beneath closed lids and she had listened to him mutter, part German, part an ancient language, guttural syllables that held no meaning to her. He had been content with the conversation, though, for often he paused to smile, once laughing aloud. She laughed too, as though sharing the joy he discovered in the conversation. She had taken his hand during the dream and continued to hold it as he woke.

“Yes, I dreamt,” he sighed. “I visited a city beneath the sea, searching for finery, gifts for my queen.”

“Oh my,” she teased. “You mean, like Atlantis? Now there’s a shopping trip I could throw myself into.”

He smiled. “You should have joined me then.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Find anything suitable?” He was teasing her, she was certain of that, yet his black eyes reflected fading remnants of the vision. In them she caught a glimpse of long mono-railed streets, volcanic fountains, fluted columns raised on magnificent pillars. It shimmered in lucid green water. Then he blinked and the image was gone.

“I met a craftsman,” William said. “A jeweler, one of great talent. He had been creating unique pieces for over five hundred years.”

“You speak with the sincerity of one who was actually there,” she said, scrutinizing his tone, which denoted gravity. Dreams held reality—it was true. How often had she woken to wonder if the place she had been was real? But then, as wakefulness grew the dream always faded into the obscurity in which it was meant to be. William’s inflections denoted no such obscurity.

“There are many cities, many peoples. I know only a few.”

The revelation, uttered in seriousness, sent a shiver through her. He was not one who spoke misleadingly. Olivia had never known him to lean toward fabrication. This was no exception, even though he had dreamt. “That’s impossible,” she said quickly. “There may have once been advanced civilizations, exaggerated, I’m sure but….” She puffed a sardonic laugh. “To say a city survives in the ocean is … well, it’s just plain ludicrous.”

Her careless rebuttal caused him to cringe. “Logic’s slavery rattles her chain,” he said softly.

“But it was only a dream, wasn’t it?” she asked, expecting fully he would reveal the joke.

He didn’t answer, except for a penetrating stare, one heavy with regret.

“How do you get there? Where are they found?” She could barely contain the animation whelming within her at the prospect of such information. If it was true, then to be privy to knowledge as important as this would reward the owner with fame beyond imagination.

“Your craft is young. With time there will be no mystery you cannot unlock, no city you cannot see.”

“You toy with me,” she accused, annoyed at the indirect answer.

“No,” he mouthed, drenched with affection. He cupped her cheek, lifting to flutter a quick kiss on her nose. “You have learned much but many untapped abilities still wait for permission to rise, wait for faith to mature.”

“Take me there, William. Tell me what I must do so that I can see one of these cities for myself.”

“Have you faith?”

Ready to complain that he would even have to ask, her mouth popped open. He quickly thrust a forefinger to her lips.

“Search for the answer before you speak, Olivia. Close your eyes. Let me listen to your meditation.”

Another lesson. Olivia took a deep breath, sorting through her thoughts for reflections of faith. Confidence was the first to step forward. A week ago she would never have believed in herself as she did now—her magic, her sixth sense, her visions. Trust. She trusted William to be her guide, patient and always encouraging. She trusted him because he would never lead her astray. He built in her a conviction, an assurance that every action would eventually pave the way to their freedom to be together, freedom from persecution. Belief. She believed he would find love again and she certainly believed she had the strength to accept such devotion once obtained. Devotion, yes. Every act was one of affection, born of loyalty. He to her and she knew, as true as life itself, that she was his. No other could take his place. She had drunk of his cup and nothing else could quench such thirst. “Yes, William. I have faith.”

He read her thought and answered. “Can you see color of the distant mountains when night shades the horizon?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear the songbird even though she sleeps in her nest?”

“Yes, I hear her.”

“Do you inhale the fragrance of the rose when the garden has been painted with frost?”

“Yes.”

“What of the taste of a kiss when you are alone? Can you taste my lips, Olivia?”

“Yes, William. I can.”

“What of my touch? Can you feel that I am inside you?”

“I feel your heart beat with mine.”

“Open your eyes, Olivia. See what the craftsman has made for you.”

He held a necklace, the white gold entwined through his fingers. Crimson gems, arranged as a waterfall, sparkled, catching the light, exuding beams that danced in every direction. Four across the top were joined by three smaller ones beneath and then, the two smallest dripped down, swinging as precious pendulums. Nine priceless rubies.

Olivia gasped in awe. Then she laughed and cried both so severe her appreciation. “William,” she choked through a gush of emotion. She couldn’t find words to commend the beauty of the piece, nor could she control outbursts that caused her to tremble.

“The amulet is yours. In your possession it has significance. To me, it is a reminder of my foolishness, my vulnerability to mistake. But you, Olivia, you have reached into the crevices of my being, saved me, not once but twice. The gems, in turn, will protect you. This promise I can make with confidence. Wear my gift, as you wear the ring. Honor me with acceptance still.”

She lifted tear-filled eyes to William’s face, his expression eerily stoic. Then she dropped her gaze to the ring.

“His blood is the key. This one will slow your enemy, but the others will help destroy him.”

“Gran,” Olivia muttered. “She knew these relics existed. She told me.”

“Yes,” William said. His voice was low but forceful, and he took hold of her hand, a gesture tinged with sadness. “It was her parting gift to you. The Old Mother was wise.”

Olivia puffed a nervous laugh. “Was? What do you mean, ‘was’?” As the words tipped out, elation gave way to dread.

“Her role in your destiny has been consummated. Find comfort in this.”

“Why? What are you saying?” Panic gripped Olivia’s chest.

“Faith, Olivia. Cling solidly to your faith.”

The moment dangled. She searched his soulful eyes, all knowing; they spoke clearly. Gran had died.

“Oh, no,” she cried. “No, it can’t be true! I won’t let this be true!”

Wyldelock felt deeply the sting of her sorrow. He ordered the necklace to clasp around her shivering throat. Then he held her, breathing deeply her perfume, inhaling the aura that had turned from bright to dim. “You must go to your mother now. She will fall on your strength. Know that I will be with you, even though we part.”

Wracked by a flood of emotion, Olivia fluttered her fingers over the rubies that hung now against her throat. “I’ve got to go,” she whispered, not able to concentrate on any one thought, instead being bombarded by many, none making sense as they bumped the other in confusion. “I must be with Mother.”

“I understand,” he said, a sympathetic tone of condolence.

Olivia dashed toward the lighthouse door and whirled round before pushing it open. “William,” she said, a last moment of calm before the storm. “William, I’m torn. I don’t want to leave you. What if—?” She scanned the boundary of the room, searching for what wasn’t there. “What if—?”

“Sorceress—faith. Touch faith. I will be but a whisper away if you need me.”

“Yes, William. I feel your heart beat as mine.”

And then she was gone.

She left him, as he knew she had to do. He sat, alone, waiting for the sun to slowly dip into the ocean beyond the lighthouse, beyond the sea, to shine for the cities beneath. And as dusk settled through the building, he breathed deeply the scent of roses, listened to the songbird’s lonely tune, and tasted her kiss upon his lips.

“Now, Keeper, you will answer to me for your actions against us.”

Wyldelock had prepared. He would enter the dominion of the spirit world again, pass through it in order to reach the Gates, and find answers. Recharged, invigorated, mentally and physically, no obstacle would prevent him from seeking out this cruel transmitter of venom. Its plot had come near to destroying him and such transgressions were not to go unpunished. Wyldelock was ready to hear for himself what motive this imp employed.

Thanks to Olivia, he had come face to face with his own dark side, the inner self he had buried, the man who had retreated in fear of love’s manifestations. He called upon that man, identical to him in appearance, transparent, without substance, yet he would lead the way through the gloomy haze of transition, past the groping souls that would reach forth from the fog, past the voices that would call out to be recognized. Wyldelock would follow the shadow, directing attention to the cape that would flow to a knowing stride. His dark side would escort him through the commotion of confusion for the spirits would jostle to gain his attention and he could not allow their intervention.

He fitted the breastplate. He sheathed his sword. He fastened the crown to his hair. Finally, he folded his cloak over his shoulders. Grasping the staff in his right hand, he lifted it to the moonless sky. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft.” The announcement shattered the earth beneath his feet. A funnel of wind tightened around him, the ocean receded in one long surge, joining into the rush of noise that pierced his ears. “Let us begin!”

The shadow nodded, lifted its robe to shield the face that was Wyldelock’s, and stepped from the cliff into the realm of the nonbeing.

A buzz of disquiet murmuring erupted. “ Who are these travelers? What do they want of us? Why do they proceed so quickly?”

Wyldelock followed the hooded shadow, treading with care in the footsteps left for him. He looked neither left nor right, offering no encouragement to the inquiring spirits that dwelled on his existence here.

“ Wait. Speak to us. Show your face.”

A few dared to reach out. Wyldelock felt timid tugs at his cloak, urging interest. He fixated steely determination to the shadow’s heels, flipping the edge of its robe as it led him forward.

“ They go to the Gates!”

A collective shriek dulled as every voice ebbed away. None would follow to this degraded place. Onward he strode, following the robe that swirled before him.

Then, the shadow, too, halted. Wyldelock understood. They were near enough he could finish alone. But it would wait for his return, to guide him back again. One’s darker self never resided far regardless the circumstances, honorable or not.

As Wyldelock proceeded, the stones beneath his feet moved, the thick liquid oozing. The stench was familiar. Centuries ago it had filled his nostrils with disgust. It did so now. This journey was made with similar determination, even though his motive was very different. Then he had wished to seek passage through the Gates, find the One who could secure his quest for immortality. Now he had no wish to enter. He was to find this so-called Keeper, query and then punish. He clutched his staff with fortitude and called out. “Rise from the mire that is your life blood, Keeper. Rise and answer for your iniquitous deed.”

Hundreds of winking eyes appeared over the walls that loomed up from parting gray fog. Eternal torches spluttered flames, illuminating the tarnished gargoyles that decorated the Gates. Their eyes shifted too, peering to the voice that dared make such forceful commands. Twisted laughter fell from their stone lips. Undaunted, Wyldelock searched the pools of bubbling sludge.

“You are correct to hide from me, but prolonged absence will merely extend my fury. Awake! Rise from this filthy bed. Answer my call.”

One puddle bulged, blowing droplets of congealed blood into Wyldelock’s face. The audience behind the thick walls shrieked laughter, clicking tongues uttering appreciation for the performance. The lights from the mass of watching eyes glowed red through the clouds of steam that infiltrated the saturated air.

Wyldelock kicked the guilty puddle but it was vacant. “Play games with me, you shall pay the price,” he scowled, his ire taking hold of his actions. He kicked each bubble that threatened to broil up. “Concealing your ugliness is futile! Rise, I demand it!”

“Leave. Do not pursue me. Save yourself.”

Wyldelock darted quick glances, trying to find the place where the cry had erupted. He could not. Unsheathing his sword he waved it over each churning puddle. The contents imploded as the blade hovered. “I will not leave. I demand satisfaction, minion. Rise.”

From the smallest pool a hump appeared. The leather flesh was peppered with open boils, worms writhing to the never-ending source of rot. The creature crawled from its pit and huddled on the liquid floor, shielding its face with stick arms wrapped in soiled cloth. Thin wisps of gray hair protruded from the few remaining sections of skin on an exposed skull. It held up deformed fingers, three on each hand, begging for mercy. And it squeaked with each tremor that violently shook what was left of its dilapidated body.

“You touched her,” Wyldelock spit through clenched teeth, for his disgust had grown. To merely gaze upon this wretched being was horrible—to be approached by it was nauseating. “To touch the living deserves punishment and I am here to see that the judgment is duly inflicted.”

“Your punishment can never compare to the madness I already suffer, master.”

“Do not count on such refuge.” Wyldelock tapped the tip of the sword into one boil, bolting into it a singeing flash. The creature screamed and shuffled backwards. “You have met none other here that can exert more torment on you than I.”

“Mercy! Mercy! I beg you, master. One as powerful to come here on personal accord can surely bestow mercy!”

“What reason might I grant mercy? You bargained for the life within her womb, and when denied you left her stained with your vile disease. Such disgrace is unpardonable.”

Through webbed fingers the creature peeked up, its eyes unlike the deformation which consumed the tortured body. As Wyldelock caught a quick glimpse of each shining orb, he was astonished that behind the brown pupils was a reflection of empathy—a human attribute—not that of a demon. Then it lowered its forehead again, preventing any further examinations.

Wyldelock was left with the faint impression those eyes were familiar. He shook the silent whisper away, refusing to believe, denying its fervent call. Regardless, he was disturbed. “You were not born in this place,” Wyldelock mused, curious to gaze upon the eyes again, seek anew the recognition of them. “Does your memory serve you still?”

The begging hands shivered. A confirmation was muffled through the stained clothing.

“Let me see your face.”

“I cannot. I cannot. He will not allow it. He will crush me further. I cannot.”

“Name your authority.”

“I cannot.”

This told Wyldelock that the creature suffered slavery. And slaves could be freed if proper keys were obtained to turn locks. Freed slaves had voices to accuse persecutors. Rather than tap the sword on the fouled shoulder, Wyldelock stabbed words rather than the blade. “This judge conquered you in life, did he not?”

A sorrowful whimper rose from the disheveled mass.

“What atrocity had you performed to anger him so?”

A liquid eye peered up. So penetrating was it that Wyldelock shivered. A thought had been issued but collapsed before finding completion. Wyldelock knelt, drawing close to the pathetic being, hoping another thought might gain easier access if the proximity between them lessened. Truth was pending, a long yearn for sanctuary.

“What had you done? Speak now. I am listening.”

The eye blinked. A tear sparkled there, like a diamond, a thing of beauty from a soul lost to torment. The sight touched Wyldelock deeply, even though he did not understand why. He leaned closer.

“Name your crime. Then name your master.”

“My crime—I was born. I lived. I am forbidden to utter the name of damnation. Names are an illicit pleasure here. You know this to be true. You know. You know.”

“You demanded to hear a name. You wished for the woman to give it to you.” Anger rose again in Wyldelock’s tone; he tired of this game. Why couldn’t this creature give just one direct answer? Was it denied every truth but through riddles?

“Forgive. Forgive. I meant no harm. Forgive.”

Wyldelock scoffed. “If not to harm her then what?”

“Salvation. Forgiveness. Love. All this is warm and safe within her womb. Mother. Mother. Forgive.”

It blinked. The tear dropped, one solid mass, plopping into the puddle with a thud, vanishing beneath the murky squalor.

Compulsion told Wyldelock to touch the fetid cheek. He lowered the sword as the one huge eye continued to stare, expectancy the only craving. Slowly, he reached out his hand. “Do you know who I am?” Wyldelock asked, for it was impossible to discriminate in this place of lies exactly what was going through the mind within the distorted skull.

“Yes. I know you. I know you.”

“You knew me in life?” Wyldelock’s tone had softened. He felt close to understanding the mystery shrouding this cringing creature. The answer was as close as his hand to the blackened cheek.

“I knew of you. I worshipped you. I died because of you.”

Wyldelock spread his fingers, small bolts of light from each one warming the blackened cheek. The exposed eye glistened again and clouded as though relishing a great ecstasy. Speaking, the voice was stalwart and steady.

“I loved you as I loved her. All was stolen. All is found. Salvation. I beg forgiveness, Father.”

Names might have been a forbidden pleasure, but Wyldelock, stunned at the sudden revelation, uttered truth, barely vocal so severe his shock. “Dagaz.” What he had suspected but dared not to even consider had come to fruition. The creature was not the guardian of demons—the lost soul that cowered in fear was indeed his only son. Dietrick had spoken truth. “Dagaz!”

A resounding shriek of disapproval rumbled through the walls, rippling the foundation where he knelt. Neither the shrieks nor the quake could distract Wyldelock, his emotion too great. This was his child and he was filled with both horror and delight, horror at the chains of misery and delight for the voice that echoed life.

Not only did he touch the foul cheek, Wyldelock pulled the startled frame into his chest, tightening an embrace around the shivering shoulders. “Dagaz,” he whispered in compassion, for compassion was all he could offer.

The thin body within Wyldelock’s grasp stiffened. It was preparing to escape, but Wyldelock held firm. Evil had been cast on Dagaz, it was not asked for nor favored. Affection was the only cure for the disease that coursed through every open sore. Wyldelock hugged the quaking body close to him, ignored the swarms of parasites that caused the skin to move slowly from side to side, and muttered an ancient appeal of hope restored.

Tenderness, an anomaly in this dreaded world, evoked a miracle. As Wyldelock held the condemned in his arms, a transformation began. The body grew strong, flesh appeared without distortion, and the face cleared. The rot that had fed worms for eons dissolved. A full head of hair fluttered against Wyldelock and the eyes, bright and lucid, danced in rejuvenation. “Father.” The resounding voice was devoid of fear, confident and comprehensible. The embrace returned—the two knelt together—weeping without regret. “My Father. I thank you for redemption.”

The curse was broken. Dagaz had been freed and Wyldelock held his son with deep conviction.

Finally he drew back to gaze fully on the son he had never known, pleased that this course had brought them together, despite the horror involved, despite what they had both been forced to endure. Looking at Dagaz, Wyldelock saw himself, the features only a son could bear. And behind the eyes that peered back with adoration Wyldelock saw a great man, a sorcerer who had flourished. “Son,” he murmured with unfathomable respect. “Leave this wicked place with me now that you are liberated. Join the sorceress and I in the final combat for liberation. You are truly worthy of comradeship.”

“My heart desires such a union but my fate will not allow such a journey, Father. I will serve you and the sorceress better by staying. We fight a mutual enemy. My part in your struggle is yet to be fulfilled.”

“I want you to follow me, leave this place.”

Dagaz smiled. “My spirit is freed, Father. Once my duty is satisfied I will find incarnation. Please understand. I can assist you most by staying. Leave me your sword and rest easy knowing our plight has lessened. I shall wait here, without apprehension, for a call to serve.”

Wyldelock’s chest constricted in grief. “I do not wish to lose you.”

“You will not lose me. I will find rebirth, close to your heart. But we must win our battle first. My aid will be paramount if you have faith in my character.”

Wyldelock dug his fingers into the heavy embroidered shoulders of Dagaz’s fine clothing. “Dietrick did this to you.”

“Yes, Father. He called upon the darkness to infest his soul. I could not fight such evil. I knew that you were stronger than I. The woman’s mark woke you from sleep. You rose to power as I have. We have both been given this second chance. We must succeed. My part is here. Yours is to hasten the struggle.”

“Olivia. She bears your mark.” Wyldelock took hold of Dagaz’s hands, each deformed, a thumb, forefinger and one other—a talon—a deformity that had haunted him in life, condemning him to be scorned by superstitious minds. Yet he used the deformity as a signature, one which had roused Wyldelock from sleep, for Olivia bore the mark—the sorcerer’s mark. Dagaz had given him Olivia. “Dagaz. You are a trustworthy ally, a dutiful son and a mighty warrior.”

“I accept your compliment with pride, Father. But you must go now. Our enemy, too, is a mighty warrior and he grows impatient for battle. Remember my pledge of service.” He reached to be granted the sword. “Give of me this weapon and I shall use it to protect the sorceress, not harm her, when she returns. No longer does the serpent flow through my veins; no poison can threaten any of us henceforth. Von Der Weilde dominion has sorely weakened.”

“Weakened,” Wyldelock said, “but still strong.”

Dagaz nodded. “Yes. Your blood adorns his sword. Three rubies are embedded in its hilt—your parting gift to him—one he has abused within the will to find revenge.”

Wyldelock gave Dagaz the sword he carried. “I fear this will not be sufficient.”

“Father,” Dagaz assured. “It is enough to give me command here. I will wait for the sorceress and lead her through the Gates when she demands.”

“My thanks to you,” Wyldelock said. The call had come for him to leave, yet he hesitated. He knew, deep in his being, that he would never see Dagaz again.

Dagaz felt it, too. He bent to one knee, holding the sword, grateful eyes swimming with respect. “I am honored to be your son. I carry the name De Croft with pride.”

Wyldelock’s chest whelmed with gratitude for such words. “Rise Dagaz. Let me look on your face once more.”

The two clasped, a surge of warmth passing between them.

“He wears an amulet, Father,” Dagaz said, the glow of reverence still shining in his eyes. “He uses it to meditate, to recharge the potency of his hatred. The demons that possess him use it as a portal to move freely in his soul. They blind him with this hatred, fuel it to drive the murderous heart he carries. He is a servant to them, not himself.”

“An amulet?” Wyldelock whispered. “What is its source?”

“Locks of hair, braided. First he took yours, once, while you slept, and then he tore from mother the night she died. The third lock was mine—he tore from my scalp while piercing my chest with the sword. Trophies of his dominion over us—symbols of his victory, souvenirs of jealousy. It keeps his heart filled with the evil he called upon for survival until final revenge satisfies his quest. I fear he is misguided. He will never rest—in ultimate victory or defeat. Voices that cloud his mind are ones of deception. Always deceit. There will never be reprieve for him, Father.”

Wyldelock sighed at such loss. The brother he loved, so filled with pain, corroded by dark emotion. “I have done this,” he bemoaned. “I must find a way to liberate him.”

“Beware, Father,” Dagaz said. “The forces that live within him do not take kindly to salvation. They lust for the sorceress. They will use him to make her their slave. I envy not your task, Father.”

“I would wish it for none other,” Wyldelock said. “Thank you, Dagaz. Your words have given me the gift of courage.”

Dagaz bowed. “May the purifying fires release us all. Farewell.”

Wyldelock began to leave. In the distant mire he saw that the shadow waited, silently, to lead him back to where life reigned. He turned, to glimpse Dagaz once more, standing straight and tall and proud near the Gates that spluttered eternal dimness. “My son,” he called out.

Dagaz lifted the sword, a silent vow to remain vigilant.

Yet a voice filtrated Wyldelock’s mind.

“I will find incarnation, Father. I will always be your son.”

Chapter Nine

Mother barely picked at the meal Olivia had prepared for them. She twirled her fork into a clump of lettuce and with a lamented sigh finally gave up, placing the utensil on the plate, pushing both to one side. “Disasters run in threes,” she said after a lingering silence. “I try to avoid silly superstitions and then they jump out and slap me in the face. I guess pretending something doesn’t exist doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

A weighty comment, Olivia stiffened for more. Mother fell quiet again, though, lost in thought. Profound loss had veiled the air between them, much as it had done when Father had died. No word could lessen the pain of a loved one gone forever; only time could do that. They had to fill the time somehow. Olivia poured tea and searched for something consoling to say despite her own grief. “We mustn’t think of Gran’s passing as a disaster,” she said gently. “She had a full life.” Unlike Father she added in thought only.

“There was no warning,” Mother said, on the verge of tears. “I mean, she was fine, except for saying she was a little tired. She went to lie down and when she didn’t come out for supper, I found her….” Mother buried her face in trembling hands and sobbed anew.

“Oh, Mother,” Olivia soothed. “Please don’t cry. Gran wouldn’t want you to be so sad.” She was being brave despite her own throat constricting with a wash of emotion.

“You’re right, Ollie.” Mother brushed a damp Kleenex under each eye. “She died peacefully in her sleep. There was even a little smile on her lips.”

Olivia swallowed hard. “I love you, too. Now go. Live your life to the fullest.” Gran must have known she was going to die. These were words issued in the knowledge of upcoming separation.

“Her part in your destiny has been consummated.”

Mother sipped her tea. “I guess I’m being selfish.” She sighed. “This is all forcing me to make decisions about my own future, decisions I hadn’t wanted to think about. You know how I hate being alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Olivia chastised. “I’m here and….” She hated to say it but had to take Mother’s feelings into consideration. “And you seem to be getting along with Mr. Fillmore.”

“Yes, he has been kind.”

More than kind, Olivia mused. Mother caught her pinched expression and smiled. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

“Doesn’t matter whether I do or not. How do you feel about him?”

“He says he’s fallen in love with me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know. I just wanted to hear myself say it out loud. It’s happened so quickly, my head’s swimming.”

“Well?” Olivia asked. She understood what the newness of love felt like. No longer did she feel jealous of the stranger. If he could bring love and hope into Mother’s life then she, too, would be happy.

“He’s asked me to go back to England with him,” Mother said.

Olivia felt anxious about such a drastic invitation. Her motives were selfish. This change would take some getting used to. “What did you say?”

“I can’t go.”

“Why on earth not? Gran’s gone, and you’ll have the insurance money from the shop. There’s nothing to tie you down in this miserable village.”

Mother shrugged. “I’m like you, Ollie. I hate change. When it’s forced upon you, it’s one thing but to instigate such a….” Her voice trailed. “I just can’t.”

“Don’t put your life on hold because of me,” Olivia scolded. The suspicion found validity in mother’s soulful stare. “What is it? What are you so worried about?” Her tone was defensive. She hadn’t wanted William to come into the conversation but there was no stopping the topic now. She slumped to resignation. “William. Are you saying he’s one of these three disasters?”

Mother nodded. “Gran was right about this family curse. She’s always been right. It’s just I chose to ignore it all, tell you that mark was caused by accident. None of this is an accident. And I’m so afraid for you.”

“Stephen has been filling your head with worry.” As brave as the excuse was Olivia knew Mother’s worry was likely justified. To what extent Olivia didn’t wish to dwell on. She didn’t know herself, so wisely decided not to share many details of the past days with her. Despite squashing a discussion about the paranormal, a shiver went down her spine, culminating in a visual of Dietrick, as she had seen him in the cup—the malicious smile, threatening eyes, the knife—so unsettling Olivia glanced nervously over her shoulder, convinced that someone was staring at her. Finding no one she blurted, unconvincingly, “Stephen is likely making it seem worse than it is.”

“Oh? I don’t think so, honey. I knew about the sorcerer—that he would return, someday—claim one from the family. I just didn’t want to believe we’d be the ones he’d seek out. I had hoped the curse was finished, wore itself out. But it was passed to my brother, Henry. He died, stillborn, but there it was, apparently—a miniature clawed shadow on that tiny shoulder. So, naturally, it was passed on to you. I wanted desperately to believe the mark meant nothing. I knew, deep in my heart, that your sweetness would be too much. Someday the sorcerer would come to you.”

Olivia was astonished. “I didn’t know you had a brother. No one told me.”

“Had my head in the sand. If we didn’t talk about it, I hoped, it would all go away. The day you were born Gran said you were the one, we should get ready. She knew. Now she’s gone and we’re right in the middle of this mess.” Mother looked away, tired and scared.

“All right,” Olivia started with a sharp edge of defense. “So he’s come back to ‘claim’ me. I can categorically state that being claimed by William Talbot is not the disaster everyone seems to suggest it is. And what about me? Has anyone stopped long enough to consider that I am more than a damsel in distress calling for help from the upstairs window?” She sighed, gathering her next thought. “Mother, the reason he’s come to me is because he knows I can help. He has faith in me. Please, you must have faith in me as well.”

“Help? You, help him? The man’s been breathing for eight hundred years. He’s a sorcerer, and a mighty one at that, and you think you can help him?”

Put like this it did sound absurd. Olivia swallowed a sting of defeat. “He’s not the evil entity that generations have feared. If anyone knows that it should be me.”

“It’s not you, honey,” Mother said quickly, as though she predicted Olivia’s defense. “And, if truth be known, it’s not William Talbot as much as it is….” She drifted a moment. “I’ve had nightmares about him for as long as I can remember.”

“Him?” Neither really wanted to speak Dietrick Von Der Weilde’s name aloud, to do so might tempt his presence.

“Without even knowing the whole story he would appear to me in my dreams, so real. At first, handsome and eloquent, and then like a flash, he’d change. Not physically, but I could see in his eyes, behind them lived hundreds of writhing worms, feeding on what humanity he had until….” Mother shivered. “He never spoke to me, but that crooked smile told me he was coming, and he’d take you, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. That’s why I’m so frightened, Ollie. The dreams have stopped. He’s here, and so is the sorcerer. In our time.”

Olivia reached across the table and took Mother’s hand. She waited till their eyes met. “See the ring I wear?” Mother’s gaze dropped. “Gran gave me the ruby. She told me it was passed down through the generations, safely kept, for when this started.” Olivia touched her throat, drawing attention to the necklace she had been given. “And this, this is the relic that Stephen mentioned. William gave it to me. These are the gems that formed from his blood. Not only are these rubies going to help protect me, they’re going to help me fight, and win. Gran told me of their power. She said these rubies will help destroy our enemy. I don’t know how, but I believe her. Mother, I have to help William. I have no other choice. My life is entwined with his; our destiny is locked together. It was the day I was born.”

A tear dangled on Mother’s lash.

“He has shown me magic I never believed possible,” Olivia went on. “He has not taught me evil, he has simply reached deep within my being and shown me the talents I already bore. He woke to me and with his help I woke to him. I love him deeply and I am going to use every ounce of my strength to fight, so he and I can live in peace together. We’ll win this, Mother. When the dust settles I’ll be with him, and if it’s what your heart tells you, then you shall be with Stephen as well. Change has touched us, it’s true, but it’s all going to work out for the best.”

Mother wiped away the tear. “My little girl is all grown up,” she said with a weak smile.

“And still too naïve for her own good.” Stephen stood in the doorway, clutching a dozen red roses.

Olivia automatically reached for her collar, covering the necklace.

“Stephen, don’t,” Mother said with uncharacteristic firmness. “You’re not part of this family. You don’t know everything that’s going on.”

He blanched. An ominous silence filled the room.

Olivia bore into his thoughts. He genuinely believed that William was as accursed as Dietrick, that the two were mythical souls which each harbored a great evil. He couldn’t understand they shared different motives for existence. He had lumped the two motives together because each had found a sinister path to immortality. It was beyond comprehension and as a result, skepticism manifested into belief in the demonic, as all logical human minds had a tendency to do. Olivia slowly turned to look fiercely at him.

Her fingers still fluttered over her collar and she read Stephen’s suspicion. Even so, he said nothing. His emotion for her mother far outweighed any previous intention to secure a priceless relic. This impressed Olivia, so for Mother’s sake she kept sharp comments behind pinched lips.

“I’ll go back to the motel if you want,” he said.

“No,” Olivia interjected on her mother’s behalf. “Don’t go because of me.” The image of them curled together wafted through Olivia’s memory. They had found happiness within each other’s arms and she didn’t want to be the ruin of budding passion. “I’ll put those in water,” she smiled, taking the roses from Stephen. “She needs you,” Olivia whispered to him. Glaring up into his unblinking eyes she added, “Just keep your distance from me. Don’t even think about interfering.”

He sidestepped. Olivia covered a wry smirk; he was afraid of her. A sense of extreme power whelmed up. Then she stifled it. Stephen Fillmore might be intimidated by her prowess but there were those who wouldn’t be. Pride before a fall. She had to be more careful. To be overly confident meant challenge and she still had a long road to travel before she could boast victory.

“Ruby, luv,” she heard Stephen whisper. “Are you okay?”

“I’m glad you’re here, Stephen.” Mother’s voice was drenched with relief. Jealousy stabbed at Olivia once more. She still considered this man a stranger, one who had brought discord into their home. But these were selfish feelings. He was someone who could help Mother through her grief, in a way she would never have understood if she hadn’t been with William. It wasn’t Stephen’s fault that destiny was rearing its head in their lives. She tried to find solace in the fact that, rather than being an adversary, he was a comfort. She could face her battle knowing Mother was protected in his arms.

Olivia peeked through the doorway. He was holding her with such tenderness Olivia felt a lump in her throat. “Your mother is the only Ruby he’s going to find.”

Gran’s voice seemed to be right there, on her shoulder. “I’m going to miss you so much,” Olivia whispered to the quiet voice. The lump was soon going to turn into sobs for the loss of her beloved grandmother. “I’m off to bed,” she announced as bravely as possible, stepping quickly through the room so as to not disturb the impassioned embrace. “Good night.”

“Ollie, honey,” Mother called, her eyes brimming. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” she smiled bravely before making her escape up the narrow stairs to the solitude of her treasured bedroom.

Within the four walls of privacy Olivia wept. She wept for her loss. Gran was gone and by all accounts soon Mother would be gone, too. Despite protests against change she was certain that Mother would succumb to the wishes of newly discovered love, and go with him, as she should, to England. Then what? Would she be alone? Was Stephen right in his assumption she was being naïve? Did it take an outsider to verbally state what was blaringly true? Was she blinded because she was too close? Doubts had clouded over her within grief, and for the first time since falling in love with William she bore uncertainty.

Olivia pulled the diary from the drawer. She held it on her lap but refused to open the pages and read of the fear that generations of Von Der Weilde women harbored. Why had they viewed the return of the sorcerer with such anxiety? Did they not have the foresight to understand he wasn’t a loathsome creature? Had they sensed something malignant that she had overlooked? “And still too naïve for her own good.”

Were there still pieces to this puzzle that hadn’t been revealed to her? Maybe she was seeing only black and white—that William was the victim—Dietrick the enemy. “No, Olivia, we were not always opposed to each other.” They had been so close, so connected. “We rode together, fought together, feasted together, enjoyed together.” She believed William when he said he had refused Dietrick’s advances, but they had both been philanderers. They were both careless men who sought out women, triumphed over them, treating their emotions with recklessness, abandoning children they had conceived for the sake of their freedom. Neither were honorable men. Was she so immature as to think William would remain hers? Once the battle for survival was secured, would he remain loyal to her, or would he abandon her too, having found conquest? Was she merely a means to an end? Worse still, was William prepared to sacrifice her for his own existence?

“His existence is far more important to him than yours. Don’t fall for this pack of lies.”

Olivia dug the heels of each hand into her forehead. “Stop it!” she cried. Too much had passed between them for her to suffer such misgivings. But every time she recalled a precious moment, tender words, each would elude her memory, as though frightened to show truth, because each was hollow, without the truth she believed to be real. Was this the price she paid for separation? Was this the sobering clarity that sought her instead of drunkenness in love? “Oh, William.”

An owl fluttered to the casement of her opened window. A healing serenity washed over every uncertainty. “You are truly a majestic creature,” she whispered, remembering the evening she crept into the ruined turret, the evening she stole the diary from the ownerless chest, the evening the only other beating heart there was his. William had watched her then, as he watched her now.

“My jewel,” he said, transforming from one majestic body to another. “My sins were many but I am your William. I shall always be your William.”

He stood, naked, in front of her. Embarrassment had no significance between them.

Lifting his arms from his sides, he fixated a longing stare on her. “What you see before you is as I am. I hide nothing from you, including truth. What I cannot do is force you to accept what little I have to offer.”

She studied his form as though he were a model, a figure she was preparing to sketch or paint—a faultless model, coveted by the most skilled of artists. Hair that was so black it shimmered blue cascaded over wide shoulders, framing a structured face, twisted slightly in unease. He had seen her doubts, pained by reckless misgivings and she lowered her gaze in disgrace. The expansive chest narrowed to powerful hips, thick thighs, the flawless skin like a cover of velvet over a sea of muscle. Even his feet were sculptured to perfection, each toe formed in unison to the other. Motionless he waited until she slowly lifted her eyes again to his, each pooled with hurt she had innocently inflicted.

“A stranger instills such doubt—one who speaks quickly, saying little except in my disfavor—and you turn to listen to his every word? You let his quiet fallacy sink into your mind and then you cast wary eyes of distrust to me. Is it your wish to add to my torment? If so, you are victorious.” It was difficult to believe he was a master of magic, that standing in front of her the way he did that he was nothing more than a man who feared vulnerability, on the verge of losing a love that took him centuries to find.

Her heart told her to race into his arms, deny doubt, but it would be a lie, and he knew it as well as she did. He read her thoughts more clearly than she would have wished. “So much,” she said weakly. “It’s all so much.” The death of her grandmother had taken a toll. With melancholy came reflection. She needed his comfort; she also needed affirmation. “You tell me you are a man. You rarely sleep or eat. You make love to me without love. You slip into my thoughts as though my mind were nothing more than a swinging door. My existence is open to you, for you and I have no control. I am a puppet beneath your strings. These strings are heavy because I love you. This is what I share with the others and I do not feel unique.”

His brow lifted.

“You were a careless man. Impressionable women, enchanted as I, gave themselves to you. They believed in you, that your acts of passion were meant in earnest. They fell into your embrace with hope, as women do, as women have always done. But your passion was temporary. Once satisfied you left them. Worse still you left them when they needed you most. Misbegotten children, all had no significance, for to acknowledge honor might mean abandoning philandering ways. I know of no other manner a man could be more careless.”

“Olivia,” he said, shocked.

“Let me finish,” she admonished. “It was a long time ago, I understand that. I also understand that you obtained great magic—that love meant so little you sacrificed it for prolonged life. How, why, where—it alls pales in comparison to the motive. Immortality is not accessible to the common man. It refutes all laws of nature—laws which held no barrier to you. This makes you more than human. This frightens me. But what frightens me more is that the man who still resides in you remains careless. Yes, you tell me I am your own, and I cling to this as a drowning soul would to a piece of driftwood. Yet, did you say the same to the others, until your goal’s secured, until you chose to leave, to carry along the road only you could see? I am as they were. I love you, I ache for you, I carry your child.” She folded her arms across her stomach. “Am I truly different than any of those you cast your spell upon?”

“The road I follow bears your footprints, Olivia. If they cease I will be nothing but the dust that lingers beneath your shoes.”

His brown eyes shimmered, unblinking, locked in an unyielding stare to her. He didn’t offer repentance for past transgressions, nor did he boast what virtue he still held. Rather he waited, as a condemned man might do so for judgment’s finality.

Olivia offered no apology. What she spoke came from deep within her heart. Her fingers danced over the gems of the necklace, a reminder that despite whatever misgivings she might carry, she was an intricate part of his destiny. Their paths were so tightly interwoven that even if she wanted to wiggle free she could not.

He lifted both palms, fingers sprawled wide, each nail lengthening, pointed, like thin scissors. His face clouded with severity, determination, and when the nails curled he raked the tips into his chest, the skin pulling aside as though olive curtains. Muscle appeared, red and thick, then the ribcage, white bone, soft and malleable to his act. It opened, like a macabre beginning to some perverse show and Olivia gaped in horror. He didn’t even wince, feeling nothing as he kept his eyes fixated to her. And the gouge opened farther until exposing his pulsating heart. The organ quivered as blood continued to flow, as though it didn’t realize the air touched its functioning. It thumped, not missing a beat, until ooze filtered out, black and thick. A shadow formed beside him, its outline dark and distinct, its core shaded to featurelessness.

The only sign of contorted agony was in his voice. “Olivia,” he rasped, straining to bear the oppression. “Meet Wyldelock Talan De Croft.”

The Shadow dipped to her, a chivalrous gesture of introduction. The smile formed first. Identical to William, yet different, for the motive behind the charm was infested with lust. It leered at her and she gasped, sensing the desire it had to devour her where she sat. She darted frightened glances between the two, now indistinguishable, except William maintained a hardened wince—his chest torn wide so that the shadow had substance.

“This is who I once was,” William said, his voice low, struggling. “He lives in me still, it is true. He reminds me often of misdeeds and urges my hand to follow his desire. I cannot change the past. He taunts me often with acts of selfishness, a constant memory I should not dismiss. Should not, for it keeps what honor that remains in my heart alive. Opposites, Olivia, you said so yourself. He measures what I was so that I can adhere to potential to be better. Such darkness lives in every man, Olivia. You alone taught me this. Your wisdom brought him into the light and now he cannot wield influence over my hand. He lives still but I control him and I use him to teach me. Neither an enemy to me or to you. Can you believe in me? Can you find it within your own heart to have faith? If not, speak, and I will depart, as empty as when we met.”

Olivia’s hand fell to her thrashing breast. Darkness clouded her, too. Otherwise she would never have given audience to doubt. It had controlled her; she had been its servant, not yet conquering what William had conquered. And to think she tried to question his motives when she remained so ignorant and weak.

She faced the Shadow, its features exact to William. Standing firmly before the image she looked into the eyes that denoted self-obtainment only. “Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” she stated with authority. “You mean nothing to me.” The image cocked one brow, disbelieving she could deny his narcissistic charm. “Your dominion is ruined. William Talbot lives because my love for him is true.”

The image returned to silhouette without protest and disappeared. William stood alone, healed from the self-inflicted wound. His face glowed.

“I have met your darker side, William. I am no longer frightened. Forgive my shallow words.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my jewel.”

“Then I must forgive myself,” she said.

“Then do so with haste. Know that you are indeed unique.”

She ran one finger down the seamless skin on his chest. Olive flesh revealed no scar, the hairs in place, the muscle beneath rising and falling to the beat of a heart, normal, steady. He was as he had been, except that his stare at her had softened, and he waited as she studied his form, his breath heavy. “Still,” she whispered, her palm against the heat of his torso. “You are more than a man.”

“What is common has no effect on either of us. You reign with me. Only you, Olivia. Can you accept this?” He took hold of her wrist and squeezed it, wrapping his sculptured fingers around the bone. She hadn’t realized she was trembling till he did so. “Accept me?” he asked gently, his voice saturated with supplication.

“Yes. I accept.”

There was no dance. There were no further words of appraisal. There was no need to reiterate. She felt only him—his passion, his need, his desire. And she fell to the bed with the faultless body enveloping her. Not only did he overwhelm her, he sunk into her. She was as the ocean’s surface and he the ship that lowered in part into the depth to float on the surface. Their bodies had melted together. She didn’t know where she ended or where he began, just that he was there, filling her with his reality. And the ecstasy of it was immediate. The wave of sensation rushed over her whole body and she drew a yawning breath of contentment. He exhaled into her parted lips, heat penetrating deeply down her throat, the warmth surrounding her heart, tightening, silently promising never to let go. As he flowed over her another wave washed through her, more severe than the first, and she cried out at its presence, both surprised and welcoming, while sensuous lips caught the sound, vibrating into his own long quiet moan of pleasure.

“Only you,” he cooed, finding her ear, his breath wet. His hands encased her skull, fingers locked around thick strands of hair. He pulled while writhing into her diluted thought. “Only you have the endurance to accept what I can offer and I offer you much.”

Although her arms felt like lead weights she inched her hands over the balls of his shoulders, velvet skin, loose locks. Between the numbing waves she ached for him to succumb to the same elation as she, and smiled as he answered the wish before the motive escaped her lips. “Yes,” he whispered. “I feel it, too.”

Then he spoke to her, the odd guttural language that had had no meaning. Now, in this magic borderless place where he had taken her, every syllable had meaning. She understood all of it, the clarity a release within itself.

“Our inner bodies embrace. They dance as we dance, they kiss as we kiss, they unite free from disorder. They rejoice for they no longer search the answers that solitude cannot give. I am your lover. You are my love. No wedge can tear us apart. This is the rapture we share. Nothing can take this glory from us. Let it be so.”

He swayed over her, rhythmic flowing fulfillment. He was a gentleman thief who crept through the shadows cast by the full moon, cloaked in a robe of mystique, stealing her free will to choose a lover. Without influence she might have looked the other way, cast her affections to another, but if she had she would also suffer the small voice of failure, reminding her of the one opportunity that rose, gently coaxing, but one she didn’t acknowledge. Fate kept her sights focused—he made certain she answered his call—made certain she was his chosen. A thief, but one she accepted, allowing him to prowl through the chambers of her heart, allowing him to steal from her, promising the crime would find reward, not emptiness. A gentleman, a poet, a thief.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Rapture my ears with your sweet voice as you rapture my body.”

“I love you, so much.”

“My own.” He sighed with a gentle tremor. Resting his chin into the hollow of her neck he brushed pursed lips against her jaw. “My own.”

They lay together without further thought; a simple luxury of the bond only lovers could share. This, they both knew, was the dreamy calm before an impending storm.

Chapter Ten

Stephen leaned lazily against his car, smoking a cigarette. A thick and impenetrable fog had drifted in from the sea, hanging over the treetops, dripping from the highest limbs like silver lace. The gray gloom seemed appropriate on a day when another was added to the village cemetery. Olivia held her mother’s arm as they stood, a few more moments, over Gran’s final resting place.

It had been a modest interment, as Gran had stipulated in her handwritten will. A few locals had nervously ventured up to them, offering condolences, to which Mother in turn politely smiled thanks. Olivia remained skeptical of their sincerity, keeping her head bowed, and her eyes steadfast on the dewy grass. Still, to approach two Morgan witches was an act of bravery if not kindness, and Mother seemed warmed by the words of compassion. But now they were alone, lingering at the site together, silently issuing their own farewell, while Stephen waited a respectable distance until they were finished.

Mother leaned, removing a long stemmed white rose from the bouquet on the mound of dirt, and turned to the adjourning grave, one that was no longer fresh, blanketed with cut grass and a few weeds. She ran her fingers over the name—Michael Philip Morgan. So tender was her touch Olivia felt Mother’s loss. Despite the sadness Olivia couldn’t help but feel relieved. Father was still in her heart even though Stephen waited a few steps away. He was a reminder that life went on, but Mother’s mournful gesture was drenched with sincerity that no man could truly take Father’s place. She kissed the rose and placed it on the stone.

“I was blessed by his coming into my life,” Mother said, staring at the marker. “He was my one true love. He will always be just that. No one can ever replace him. I believe it’s true, Ollie, that there is a special someone meant for each of us.”

Olivia stood quietly, absorbing the undertone.

“Stephen lost his wife,” Mother went on, exorcising her uneasy meditation. “His one true love. I guess with each other we’re filling in the holes they have left.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Olivia said softly, in tune with the melancholy the day forced upon both of them.

“No, I suppose not. But it’s never the same.” She pulled a few small weeds from the base of the headstone. “Strange, the twisty directions life takes us whether we take notice or not.”

Olivia couldn’t be sure whether this was meant for her or not. “Mother? What are you trying to say?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing really. Nothing you don’t already know. We’re women.” She grinned. “As impetuous as we sometimes are we always listen to our hearts.” Her voice cracked and she stifled a stabbing sob. “I loved Michael entirely. I gave him my heart and my soul, just as you have done with William. I recognize the glow, you see.” She smiled again while tears filled each eye. “Gran said I had that glow once, too, and less than nine months later you were born. I was younger than you are now and it seems so long ago. Oh, my,” she sighed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Nothing like a graveyard to bring the best out in someone.”

“It’s going to rain. Let me help you up.” Olivia reached for Mother’s arm. She was anxious to change the subject. Fine to talk about loss and memories of those who had gone, but Olivia hadn’t wanted to dwell on the reason for a ‘glow,’ even though her state hadn’t been officially confirmed. Not the time and certainly not the place.

“I’m not as inexperienced in our craft as your grandmother told you,” Mother said, pulling Olivia beside her on the ground. “I might be a bit rusty. It’s been years since I’ve even lit a candle for something other than the dinner table, but I was once adept at … seeing what no one else had seen. Not that I always tried, it’s just sometimes I would touch an object and then see pictures, in a blinding flash. Sheriff Franks came to me once, when little Johnny Butler was lost. I knew he didn’t want to ask, but a child’s life was at stake and the searches were coming up with nothing. The minute I held that running shoe I saw the outline of the old mining camp up on Fraser’s Ridge. They found him there, even though it was one of the places they had already searched. Apparently the little fellow was so bush-crazy he had hidden from the very people who were trying to rescue him. The whole village was jubilant and the sheriff got a commendation. He thanked me on the sly and then that was it. Funny,” she said after a pause. “Johnny Butler was, allegedly, one of the young men who torched the store.”

“We should go, Mother,” Olivia said. “It’s getting damp. We can talk about this at the house instead of here.”

“No. I want to say this to you now because it’s just us.” She took Olivia’s hand, taking care to not touch the ring. “Your Gran never told me about this ring, what it was, where it had come from, her intentions for it. I found it quite by accident one day when I was tidying her room. It was so pretty and so unlike something that she would have hidden in a drawer, well, without thinking I picked it up.”

“What did you see?” Olivia was fascinated as well as anxious.

“I don’t know how to describe it without sounding mad. It was all such a jumble and at first I couldn’t make heads or tails.”

“Tell me. Maybe I can sort it out.”

“Oh,” Mother shivered, rubbing her palm to her forehead. “I shouldn’t have started. It’s all so horrid.”

“Mother! You did start and I’m wearing this ring. I need to know as much as possible about what I’m dealing with here. Now what did you see?”

“Blood, Ollie. I saw blood. A river of it. And not one drop came from the sorcerer.”

“I don’t understand. This is supposed to be one of the thirteen drops of blood.” She touched her necklace. “Nine, the ring ten and the other three he had given to….” Olivia didn’t dare speak the name. The fog had folded so quickly over the outer gravestones that it seemed to be listening.

“There were voices, horrible cries that deafened me. All women. All those who had been with the sorcerer. Every one, Ollie, every one had been murdered, their throats slashed. It was sickening.”

“A nightmare,” Olivia offered. It had to belong to William because when Gran gave it to her he was saved from the struggle in the turret, and when he saw it, when they danced, he recognized it as his own. “No, it has to be a mistake.”

Mother shook her head. “He murdered them all. I saw the same face that had haunted my dreams since childhood. In rage he found every woman that the sorcerer had been with and…. Bloodlust. He’s possessed with hunting down anyone associated with William. I think the ring was a ruse. I think he planted it knowing the fear that would be passed down through the generations, and I think he has his sights on you next.”

“I can’t believe the ring is a fake. William would have known. He would have told me.”

“Evil can mask so much, Ollie, especially an evil as profound as … his. I know what I saw then. And I know you’re pregnant now. So what else can I deduce from all this except he’ll come after you next? Honey, this creature is very powerful. He thrives on hatred and he enjoys his craft. And I am so afraid for you that I’m sick.”

The ring had lost luster; it had darkened as they spoke.

“Will it be enough, what you’ve been taught, what he can do to protect you? I just don’t know.”

“The gems on my necklace are real,” Olivia said. “This I know for certain.” She took hold of mother’s fingers and placed them on the lower rubies. “Can you see this?”

“Yes,” Mother answered, fondling each one. “These carry truth.” She didn’t elaborate but her softened expression comforted Olivia. “You have love on your side.”

“We should be going,” Olivia urged. The isolation of this lonely place and the conversation had left her feeling very unsettled.

“I know I’m asking a lot,” Mother said, not quite ready to leave. “It would make me feel better if you got rid of the ring. If Gran knew what I had seen, she’d tell you the same. Please, for me, throw it away.”

Olivia was torn.

“The ring is his, the evil one, not the sorcerer’s. If you never believe anything else I tell you, just believe in this. I can’t explain how I know, except he’s using it to get to you. I can’t bear the thought you might become as the others.”

The ring had turned black—the true color of its deadly secret—the weight of Mother’s foreboding rang true. Olivia had been naïve. She had been careless. Not everything was as it appeared. If Gran could be misled, if William had been blinded, how much more hopeless was she to the continuous deceit? A trick, issued by a hand malevolent in nature, darkness veiled as light. Truth humbled her pride and at the same time told her how vulnerable she could be to lies presented with honesty.

She tugged at the ring. It held onto her finger, tightening, not ready to give up its hold on her, angered that she believed what was meant to remain hidden. “Leave me,” she ordered, relying on the magic she had been taught rather than the physical motion. It had no other choice than to obey and slid effortlessly over her knuckle. Falling to the ground it pulsated, the gem now so blackened it resembled a bottomless hole, bleeding out corruption that fed on decency.

“Damn you,” Olivia snarled as though her enemy listened near by. “Damn you.” She picked up the ring and flung it as far into the fog as she could.

It thumped into the earth out of sight. An eddy of gray air tunneled upwards, swirling around the tall mausoleum-like headstones. Wisps curled around these aged pillars, where names had been lost to time, where lone statues of weeping cherubs watched over the souls of those the living had long since forgotten to care about. One dark mass seemed to move, gently floating to where the ring had fallen. Olivia squinted as the fog dipped again. She strained to catch a glimpse of the figure that had caused the swirl. But when she blinked and focused harder she saw nothing.

“Let’s go home,” Olivia said with urgency.

The fog had thickened, just in the last few moments. Even Stephen was virtually drowned. The ends of the car blurred without definition. The trees had dissolved totally.

Mother shivered beneath her shawl. “Yes. I agree.” They started toward Stephen. He squashed his cigarette under the one heel and opened the door. While Mother slid in, Olivia threw one quick glance over her shoulder. The stones were all vanishing too quickly. She had never known a fog to come in from the ocean this swiftly. She felt it was actually following her, thin long fingers gliding along the ground at unnatural speed and within seconds the talons would wrap around her ankles, pulling her back into the hazy nothingness and her anguished calls for help would be lost to eternity.

“Olivia?” Stephen said abruptly, shaking her from the trance.

She couldn’t take her eyes away from the condensing fog, however. “Someone is out there,” she said aloud, but meant for herself.

Stephen shut the car door and leaned slightly into her shoulder. “You know exactly who’s out there,” he said through gritted teeth. “And guess what, little lady? He’s bringing a small army with him. Been nice knowing you.”

He opened the back door for her but circled the car without delay. The engine clicked over and she never questioned he’d start off, with or without her. She got in and slammed the door, reiterating her disapproval at being spoken to with that ‘told-you-so’ tone, even though she likely deserved it. As the car glided down the short path toward the road Olivia was sure she caught a quick glimpse of a lone figure on horseback. Then it, too, was swallowed by the fog.

“Why don’t you go lay down for awhile, Mother? You look exhausted.”

“I think that might be a good idea. Do you mind?”

“Hardly. It’s been a trying day.”

She started for the bedroom and then turned suddenly. “Will you be here when I get up?”

Olivia nodded although she had planned on getting back to the Keep before nightfall. The weather meant the daylight would fail long before it should. “Yes. I’ll be here.”

The promise meant she had to share company with Stephen, not a prospect that warmed her in the least. He seemed content with a freshly opened bottle of Scotch. When he wasn’t sipping that, his knife thin lips were pinched together. She couldn’t help but show her aversion of him, turning her shoulder as she picked up her needlepoint.

He drank in solitude. Finally he got up and positioned himself directly in front of her. He slumped on the couch. She felt the convicting stare, and missed a stitch because of it. “You’re going through with this, aren’t you?” he said, his voice a graveled purr. “I can’t decide whether you’re unbelievably stupid or incredibly brave.”

A flame of anger shot through her breast. “This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Fillmore, but I don’t give a damn what you decide.”

The corner of his mouth twisted to a short grin. “Fine,” he said sharply. “You’re all that’s keeping your mother here. Once this is over she’ll be free to come with me.”

Olivia threw down her needlepoint. “I resent the implication. What makes you so certain I’m going to fail? You don’t know me. You don’t know William. For that matter, you barely know Mother. Pompous man.”

“Call me what you want it’s not going to change anything.”

“Well, let’s take a look into this crystal ball you rely on so heavily on,” she said, dripping sarcasm.

“Your little magic acts are good,” he said, leaning forward, elbows planted on his knees, fingers rubbing together. “And his are very impressive. But I’ll tell you what—neither of you are going to be any match for what Von Der Weilde has in store. See, the thing is, your boyfriend made many enemies during his reign way back when. That Brotherhood I told you about, well, they weren’t a bunch of shrinking violets. True, he picked them off one by one—he wouldn’t have become as powerful as he was if he hadn’t—but what he never reckoned on was dear old Dietrick finding a way to bring them all back again. Funny, isn’t it, how the undead can have such astute memories. Those boys are all too willing to do Von Der Weilde’s bidding. Revenge is an unholy attitude. I suggest you come with your mother and me and leave them to fight it out amongst themselves.”

Dislike for Stephen Fillmore had deepened. His tone reeked of belligerence. He was so quick to spout off that infinite wisdom, whether asked for or not, and his lecture was being delivered as if pearls to swine. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Fillmore.”

“I should be.” He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a flat stone carved with strange etchings. “I didn’t find the rubies that were supposedly buried in his lair, but I found this. I was as confused by the markings as you are right now. Kept it though because I figured there was some significance to it. The only document about the Brotherhood that ever survived had the same peculiar scrawl, a logo, so-to-speak. I guess the sorcerers caught a glimpse of what might happen to them and left the document with a local, someone they trusted or paid well, who knows? That withered parchment survives till this day in the village near the De Croft ruins. I saw it and I read it. And in short it said if their deaths were in any way ‘peculiar in source’ that they promised aid to anyone who could revive them, a promise that Von Der Weilde seems to have taken very seriously. Sort of leads me to believe that if this guy cannot only survive eight hundred years but rejuvenate a small army of sorcerers, we’re not dealing with a rabbit being pulled out of a top hat. De Croft is merely an illusionist compared to Von Der Weilde and the lost Brotherhood. Your boyfriend doesn’t stand a chance, with or without you.”

“You have no proof of this parchment? You said nothing survived.” She was clinging desperately for some ray of hope, a ray that was quickly dimming into obscurity.

Stephen shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

She rolled the stone over in her hand. “Why would he have it? Why would it be buried with him?”

“My guess it was a keepsake, a reminder of the lives he took, the power he stole from them. Just a guess, mind. But after seeing his display the other day I would venture to say his ego has blinded him into thinking he’s an almighty. Choking me wouldn’t have been much of a challenge but I’m not one of the Brotherhood. He wouldn’t wrap his magic around their throats as easily as he did mine.”

“You’re saying he murdered them?”

“Wake up, would you? You’ve been with him enough to know he’s capable of just such an act. Why do you think the two of them were such close friends? They had more in common than you’re choosing to believe. Lust, Olivia. Sheer unadulterated lust—money, fame, women—but most of that lust was reserved for power, and there was no way they were going to share, then or now. De Croft will use you in whatever way he can to come out of this on top. Personally, I don’t think he’s going to do it. He gave it a go once and came out short. You’ve got to give him an A for effort though. He’ll go down in a blaze of glory, but it’d be a crying shame to see you go down with him. It’s their own private Armageddon, little lady. You prepared to die for a lost cause?”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

“A small blessing I’m sure.”

She threw the stone to the floor. “I’ve got to go, warn him.”

Stephen sighed heavily. “After all this and you’re still going to walk right into it. What about your mother, Olivia? Is she going to have to mourn another loss?”

“As soon as I’m gone wake Mother and take her as far from here as possible.”

He shook his head in stunned disbelief. “You are one stubborn little b—”

“Enough,” she ordered, lifting her finger to seal his words. “Enough. I will take your warning at face value, only because I see that you believe it to be true. That doesn’t necessarily mean it is. But if these spirits are rising to Dietrick’s call then William must be told immediately. If you care about Mother, get her away from here. I don’t want her to be hurt in this. Whatever the outcome, she’ll cope. Do you understand?”

He nodded, once.

One last luxury, she glanced around the room that had been home. She might never see it again and wanted to carry the memory of safety with her for as long as she could. After issuing a silent good-bye, she dashed outside to make her way through the thickening dusk.

Chapter Eleven

“Sorcerer, it’s been a long while since you’ve come to ask my counsel. Do I take from that your last visit was more successful than expected or that another satisfied your search for wisdom?”

“I know of none wiser than you, Counselor.” Wyldelock tread with extreme care. Elvar was a master at trickery, especially with innocuous words. Many who had sought information had been reduced to dust from issuing careless thoughts that were interpreted as insults. All Gods had fragile characters. Those who approached for enlightenment needed to remain vigilant of the fact and slip into the conversation as many compliments as possible, whether meant or not.

“Sit down, Sorcerer. Tell me a story.”

Wyldelock bowed, draping his cloak over crossed legs. The campfire sizzled as another hare was thrust over the flames. Two hungry wolves waited in the shadows behind their master, waiting for a morsel to be thrown to them. None came. Elvar had a legendarily ravenous appetite. Even bone would be consumed. Yet his faithful pets waited, long tongues panting at the succulent smell of burning flesh.

“Two warriors, gifted in their art, became steadfast friends,” Wyldelock began without delay. Elvar bored easily, except with a meal, which he continued to eat without etiquette.

“Why?” Elvar interrupted. “What made them such good friends?”

“Respect. Each revered the other for talent.”

“And beauty. Don’t forget beauty.”

“Yes, Counselor.” Wyldelock bowed slightly, a gentle compliment. Elvar loved to add to the stories that were told to him. It was this improvisation that Wyldelock meant to skim off. A God’s creative imagination was not only rooted deeply in history but was also a reflection of human nature. It was why their eccentric ways, complete with flaws, were tolerated with acceptance. It was also why their counsel was sought, despite the challenges—improvising often led to prediction.

Elvar ripped a piece of steaming meat with bare hands and sucked. Fat glistened over the pudgy chin as he leaned to listen. “Go on. What became of these friends?”

“Sadly, they parted.”

“Ah! I think there was a woman involved. Always a woman,” he muttered. “Especially with beautiful men.”

“You are wise, my Lord and Counselor. The woman was the sister of one friend, coveted by the other.”

“Magnificent. The virgin was seduced.”

“Fearing wrath the guilty man fled.”

“Thus his weakness ruled. A story often told. Me, I lust for food. Virgins hold no interest for me. I prefer a good meal.” Elvar patted his bulging stomach in satisfaction.

“The brother was angered and found his friend’s hiding place.”

“Of course. I would search out and slay the hand that reached for my meal.”

“Swords were never drawn.”

“Really? Then I think this brother loved his friend. The bond meant more than the woman.” Elvar’s eyes widened with interest. Sexual misdeeds interested him second only to a good meal. “I suspect there was more than respect between these two warriors.”

“Yes, there was love between them but the friend feared such affection and journeyed into the Underworld.”

Elvar froze, meat hanging from a gaping mouth. “What did he seek there?”

“Immortality.”

At this the Counselor laughed, spraying particles of half chewed food into the flames. “A fool in every story. Why, even I have not obtained immortality.” He chuckled, layers of fat shivering to the joke. “Although I have lost count of my years.”

“A fool,” Wyldelock repeated in confirmation. “For the Goddess who promised just such a gift offered him her bed but took from him Love. In return she gave him nothing more than rubies, formed from the wound of a bleeding heart.”

“I know this Goddess you speak of. She wishes for a child. Her unions bear no fruit. The more she lies the more withered her womb becomes. Serves her right.” He continued chewing. “What happened to this fool?”

“He lives still, Counselor.”

“Of course he does. But a few centuries is far from eternity.”

“The friend lives as well.”

“And what was his price for prolonged life?”

“Conscience.”

“Small price,” Elvar snuffed. “If he was a good warrior.”

“There is more. The centuries passed. He lived within the world of the dark and ugly demons. He learned from them the deadly art of revenge. He continues to seek aid from the darkness to bring forth great ruin to the friend.”

“Hm. I see.” Elvar pinched his chin in meditation. “Lost passion lives within him but is so buried in the mire that he cannot know it exists still. Nasty little fellows, these demons. Deceit is all they understand. Had he no consolation?”

“There was. In regret the friend gave to him a gift—three rubies—the largest drops that fell from an empty heart. Far from appeased, the gift was used to adorn a mighty sword, the tips of great claws. The brother uses it still as a threat.”

Elvar clapped his hands and squealed. “A magic sword! Excellent. Woe be to the friend for another silly choice.”

“He used his magic to imprison the friend into dreamless sleep. He used the sword to murder the sister’s son.”

“Murder as well! His own nephew. This story pleases me, Sorcerer.”

“Before the death, the nephew issued a curse to follow the murderer’s bloodline. A claw, on the shoulder of each first born of every generation, a mark that would lift the friend from sleep.”

Elvar’s cheeks glowed. “He cursed his own mother’s family in favor for a lost father. I like this child. I think he was noble. Scarred, but noble.”

“Scarred with deformity,” Wyldelock said dramatically, for Elvar was listening intently now, thoroughly enticed by the twists and turns of depravity.

“Deformity. Let me guess! Claws! Three fingers, resembling claws, as his mother’s family crest. Am I correct?”

“You are,” Wyldelock proclaimed, overemphasizing astonishment.

Elvar clapped his hands. “The brother’s firstborn had the mark. And on and on, until the one who silently called to the sleeping friend. Male children as well as female.”

“Yes, my Lord. Your talent to envisage humbles me.”

“Oh,” Elvar said as if embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I think, however, that a male child would not call the friend to stir. It had to be a woman. Beautiful, intelligent, gifted.”

Wyldelock gasped as though he were truly awed. “Yes. A virgin. Innocent yet carrying the cursed blood. Not only did he smell her scent, he recognized redemption. She is gifted in the art, a worthy mate for him.”

“He claims her innocence,” Elvar said, glazed to images of union. “Marks her with his seed.”

“True. But he carries sadness for he cannot love her.”

“Well,” Elvar laughed, slapping his knees. “She goes to the Underworld to return what was stolen.” His pudgy cheeks turned red with more laughter. “That deceitful Goddess knows of the child she carries. It drives her insane with jealousy. Serves her right.”

Wyldelock did not confirm this. He nodded only.

“Oh, Sorcerer, I have not been so amused for eons. Pray, how does this story end?”

“Counselor, it still unfolds.”

A shadow of annoyance passed over Elvar’s face. “All the elements—lust, murder, jealousy, revenge—why for me to retell this story would grant me high esteem among my peers. I can’t retell this without a suitable ending. They would mock me.”

“You are cleverer than I, Counselor. Let us talk together and find resolution. The Others will honor you then.”

Elvar threw what was left of the shredded carcass to the wolves. They pounced, angrily snarling at each other for the largest piece. Elvar dipped his chin into his chest so long that Wyldelock assumed he slept. The fire burned low.

“The woman returns with his lost love,” Elvar said finally. “They must lie together in order to consummate the emotion. This gives her great strength. She will become his companion in battle.”

“A woman, in battle?” Wyldelock said with care.

“Yes, Sorcerer. Don’t you understand anything about the female mind? She will fight with energy not only for her child but for the one who has attained love for her.”

Wyldelock nodded in amused consideration. “The opponent is dangerous in the dark craft. If the two stand together will this be adequate?”

“Yes, the opponent, lest I forget. Called on the demons, you say?” Elvar said. “I think that he would summon souls of known enemies, for the power of hatred is the greatest power he clings to. This friend, did he have many enemies?”

Wyldelock was forced to think quickly. He had managed to distance himself from the story, and to make error now meant the Counselor would grow suspicious. “He grew powerful in his craft. Those of wisdom take from others of wisdom. Not all are willing to relinquish what they obtained.”

“Good. This flavors the meat. The brother would call on their help. He would amass an army of those who also felt jilted. The field of battle must be stained with blood. Otherwise, those who listen to the story will soon lose interest.”

“Blood must flow as a massive river,” Wyldelock emphasized. Elvar was drooling to the prospects of being the greatest of storytellers. So involved was he in detail that he had even neglected to place another carcass over the fire to cook.

“This battle can’t be one sided, however. The tale would end too quickly. This would not do, not do at all.”

“No, it would not.”

“This friend must armor himself with humility. The brother dresses for victory, his pride so great it becomes weakness. He wears the magic sword with arrogance. The army behind him has risen to his calling, the chest puffs with accumulated confidence. But deep, deep within he unknowingly wants only to win back his friend’s affections. So opposition must be paltry—the friend should shed all that the brother found appealing—his clothes must be dull, his sword rusted, his long hair shorn away.” Elvar squinted, sucking one finger as he pondered. “The challenger rides an eight legged horse to impress his army, so the friend must be on foot. He will be shocked, amused, and will assert victory long before obtained. Yes,” Elvar said delighted. “So certain of success he will approach without consternation. And then….”

Wyldelock hung onto the last word with enthusiastic expectation.

Elvar thrust a spit through another carcass and placed it over the fire. The scene was as when Wyldelock first arrived, the wolves retaining position beside their master, the fire spluttering to a cooking meal, Elvar watching the meat cook.

“Counselor?” Wyldelock said with concern.

Slowly Elvar lifted bead like eyes. A wry smile touched his lip. “You have your work cut out for you, Sorcerer. If you survive I wish to hear the sordid ending. This shall be the price for my counsel.”

Wyldelock bowed deeply, lowering his eyes with respect. “You are as gracious as you are wise.” Wyldelock knew luck followed him. Elvar could easily have slain him for the sin of trickery.

“I like you, Sorcerer. You amuse me. I wish you every success.”

Wyldelock kept his bow low as he backed away from the fire, the growling wolves and Elvar, the fat God known only as Counselor.

It was impossible to regain her bearings within the fog. She had started off, through the dense gray cloud in the direction of the Keep, using the stones and clumps of weeds to guide her way. But she had walked on and on, taking far longer than usual, and still no building came into reach. Her hand extended, so thick was the blanket that she couldn’t even see her fingers. In every direction there was nothing except the eerie hue of the fog, and it seemed to take on a life of its own, swirling around her, taunting her with deception. Olivia was lost.

She couldn’t turn back for she didn’t know which direction back happened to be. She refused to stand still. “I must keep going,” she said aloud. “Sooner or later I will find the building, or the beach.” Olivia strained to hear the ocean’s song. Sound was as obscure as sight. Everything was muffled. All senses had deserted her. She carried on with care within the void.

“Sister.”

Olivia froze, her heart thrashing double time in her throat. Panic was on the verge of seizing what sanity she retained. The fog was blinding her, she was lost, and she wasn’t alone. He was out there. Only Dietrick called her sister.

She fought the urge to run. To do so meant she could inadvertently pass the Keep, fall off the edge of the cliff. In the senselessness the fog initiated she doubted she could concentrate quickly enough to transform into the image of a gull. Without sight the rocks might rise too soon and she would be broken by the force. She swallowed panic and searched the fog, urging it to part long enough that she could find one familiar landmark. The fog, however, was listening to another’s command.

“Sister.”

Olivia turned a full circle, streaking the haze with her flowing fingers. No image revealed itself even though the voice was against her ear. Her flesh crawled at the nearness of evil. There was no questioning he was close. But where?

“Leave me alone.” She sounded feeble and pathetic, her words dropping in the opaque mist like stones in water.

Mocking laughter came from every direction. It even seeped up from the earth beneath her. She sidestepped, expecting hands to grab at each ankle. The fog inched tightly around her. The ground vanished.

Vibration rumbled under her invisible feet. Horses’ hooves. Too many to count, the earth trembled with the force. The sound of their galloping grew louder. Harnesses jangled. The great creatures nickered. She expected to see a herd loom up all around her but none came. Logic had failed along with her senses. Her mind whirled with the irrationality of it all. She was surrounded by nothing, except fear.

“One last chance, sister. Follow me and live in victory.”

The plea seeped into her mind, its compassionate tone a lulling intoxicant. She swayed, dizzied by the feeling of urgent compliance. It was like struggling to wake from a dream that didn’t wish to unleash its surreal fantasy. And it was very comfortable. “No, deceit is all you know. Deceit and death,” she said, her denial contradicting the submission that was circulating through her body.

He was casting an enchantment, seducing her to follow him, join against William. The seduction was sticky, her struggle weakening to the blissful oppression. Each arm had become weighty. It was all she could do to keep her lids from closing to the lucid trance being thrown over her. “Never will I obey your demons,” she said, her lips moving in slow motion. She had sunk to the ground without realizing.

“Your fight is futile, sister. Come to me. Come to us.”

Think. Concentrate. Focus. She dug her nails into the soft warm earth. She smelled the herbs from Gran’s garden, welcoming odors—a treasured memory that wafted up and helped to clear her mind. Rosemary. Mint. Garlic. Evil stained the fog but within it was goodness as well. Her cheek rested on the ground. She breathed deeply, rhythmically, focusing on the delicious scent of herbs, concentrating on the voices that had always instilled safety and love. Her grandmother’s voice. Mother’s. Father’s. They danced together inside her head, keeping her eyes from closing, keeping her from succumbing completely to the spell that filtered down over her weakened being.

She saw the hooves. Thin air, a clear layer between the ground and the fog, revealed the dozens of enormous hooves that pranced so close to where she lay. Black steeds, invisible from the hooves upward—huge creatures—their masters as sinister as the mounts on which they rode. She had no doubt of their existence, even though she was still blinded to their appearance. Dietrick and his army were upon her. They had been at the gravesite and they followed her here, waiting for the chance to pounce, taking advantage of the thick fog in which they traveled. Lost within the bleakness, and now she was captured, truly lost.

Boots thumped to the ground beside the largest of all the steeds. She saw them linger beside the animal. The tip of a glistening sword tapped the grass where he stood, the blade dripped blood. Murder. Hatred. Death. Dietrick’s instrument of carnage. Faithful soldiers were near. Worse were the ones that infested his soul.

“I shall be quick, sister. You will feel little pain. The Brothers thirst and what better wine than that of warm blood. Your blood.”

Other boots thumped to the ground. Dietrick stepped closer to her, the sword a malevolent walking stick. He was toying with her, letting final panic soak into her mind, numb her to the inevitable demise that waited.

She couldn’t move. Her limbs were useless. She couldn’t even blink away the tear that had formed on her lash.

“William,” she cried, her thought penetrating the fog like a short bolt of lightning. “I carry your rubies around my neck. Surely this evil knows they protect me.”

The blackened boots had stopped. Guttural snarls echoed through the twilight. Foul tongues clicked, their thirst unfulfilled. The amulet was working, but for how long?

Olivia took courage. “William,” she said aloud, no more than a faint whisper. If she were to have one last thought before the enemy pounced on her she would make certain it was of him. “I love you. Only you.”

The ground opened beneath her, the chasm so abrupt that the earth, like the ocean’s surface, rippled outward in every direction. Horses screamed. The boots retreated. Protective arms folded around Olivia. She was hurtling upwards, her face buried within the folds of William’s cape. Dietrick’s laugh rose with them but soon faded into the murkiness they left behind.

“He laughs,” she murmured into the chest that enveloped her with renewed security. “Why does he laugh?”

“Because he takes pleasure from the thrill of his hunt. A worthy adversary does much to gratify his lust for blood. Once it made him a vicious warrior.”

“He knew you’d come for me?”

“Yes. He knew. The amulet protected you. He could not cause harm, merely frighten you. He wishes to play games with our will by flaunting his strength. He wants us to believe there is no hope.”

“It’s working,” Olivia said, her mind clearing to logic alone. Entwined within the logic was the thrashing pulse of submission.

“No, Olivia. Do not speak so. I am the greatest of all warriors he could fight and you are my right arm. He will use whatever ploy he can to weaken our will before the battle begins. This is the advantage he seeks.”

“William, he has an army now. I heard the horses; I saw their feet. What chance do we have against an entire army?”

“Olivia, rid your mind of this doubt. Focus on the fear that he created, turn it to light, and see it only as strength. Use it to your advantage.”

“I can’t,” she said, trembling to the past trauma. “I’m so afraid.”

“Listen to the sound of my voice.” He took hold of her hands, placing them on his throat. She felt his voice box buzz. “I have sought counsel and have been given wise advice. The love you have is an impenetrable shield, a shield I must carry. To complete my armor you must return to the Gates, pass through, and reclaim what I have lost. The time has come for you to travel into the Underworld. We must make haste.”

“Not now, William. I have to rest. Look, I’m trembling like a leaf.” She held out her hands to him to prove what was true.

“My jewel,” he said, his tone inharmoniously soothing. He wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, warm and tranquil, and she felt tension melt from her shivering muscles. “My queen,” he cooed, softly.

As his arms tightened around her she felt him penetrate her body, eroticism flooding through her as a wash of ecstasy. No motion, no caress, just the fullness of him, deep within her. They floated together, the fog hanging without threat or persecution. Just the two of them, united together, in total bliss.

“All that I claim is rightfully mine,” he muttered in her ear. “Take this pleasure I give to you, sorceress. Take it and remain devoted to our quest.”

She constricted into him, burying her nose into cascading hair. The eruption was instant and she sighed, welcoming a sensation that was filled with beauty. He reacted to her sigh with his own, short and sharp, holding her with rigid brawn.

“Now focus on what I have given you,” he said softly, not permitting the flood of rapture to divert their goal. “Turn it to light. Turn it to strength. There is no time for further lessons. It begins.”

She hugged him, the joy of his breath tickling her ear fading as quickly as the pleasure he had given. She thought of light and energy and endowment. But she didn’t want to let go of him. Not yet.

“Olivia. My Shadow will guide your way to the Gate. From there, my son, Dagaz will watch your steps. Both are of me—spirit and blood. Both will assist. You will not be alone.”

She kissed his neck, listening, yearning for conclusion without separation. This was going to take more than what she was made of. He depended on her deeply and all she thought of was the prospect of inevitable failure. It was ripping her heart in two.

“Sorceress,” he said fiercely, impatient with her wretched fears. His fingertips dug into each shoulder, while dark cloudy eyes searched hers. “I have reached into you and brought forth all that is needed. Why do you insist on letting this courage sink back down, to be covered with layers of doubt?” He shook her, gently and firmly. “Your armor is complete.” With softness he added, “My scent is in your womb. The Goddess will know we have only recently united. She will grow angry for she cannot conceive. She will regret not taking me to her bed, believing the child you carry should be hers, even though she is barren. Tell her of the mistake, mock her with the foolhardiness of her choice, and exploit your lover’s attributes. Once she is blinded with rage search for the box; it will be near her. Take it and run. Run to where Dagaz waits and then run to where the Shadow waits. He will bring you to me. Together we will open the box. Then we will unite again. Love will fulfill my passion. Then I will be as strong as you.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

“Cast off emotion. Rely on faith. It shall be your light.” He cupped her face with warm palms. His eyes sparkled with pride as he peered at her. She smiled in return. “Let it be so,” he whispered and kissed her, a soft feathery kiss that loitered on her lips even after he pulled away.

“Let it be so,” she repeated.

The Shadow neared. Identical to William it was impossible to differentiate between them. His dark side. One without conscience, one who felt no fear and little compassion, an appropriately daunting escort for the journey through a place where treacherous spirits lived.

Olivia acknowledged him with nothing more than a quick glance. “I am ready,” she said.

The Shadow lifted its hood and started off through the mist.

“He returns. Look! He takes another.”

“A woman follows at his heels.”

“Hide. Hide. They must both be mad.”

Scampering echoed along each side of the path they followed. Olivia was sorely tempted to find the source of such alarmed voices but instinct warned her to keep her gaze lowered, to fixate on only the steady pace of the boots she followed. The edges of the cape flipped to the methodical pace. She hurried to keep up. As wary as the voices were she felt that if not escorted the curious beings would be over her.

The road they took was not unlike any other road—flat stones, eroded with greenery—that grew to a sunless light. Although the path was solid the boundary dipped sharply into a black abyss. There was no wind, only the sound of those who failed to understand why two travelers persisted in their course.

Peculiar as the formless voices were it was even more so that she faithfully trusted William’s Shadow. He was the side of William’s personality she had distrusted, questioned, shied away from. He was the one who had convinced William to become heartless in the first place. And now he was aiding her to regain that heart? The irony made her uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the irregular world they passed through. William had confidence that the authority of his own living darkness would be a suitable ally. Conscious of its weaknesses as well as its competence, who was she to question further? This was the sturdy warrior within him. Without the fierce warrior there could be no tender lover. Without experiencing the depth of darkness there could be no joy in the light. Experience was relative—opposites—one could expose, and heighten, the other. Love and hate; sadness and joy; fear and safety; panic and tranquility. Seemed she had run the whole gauntlet of each. Seemed her world was as mystifying as this one. Yet, in reflection, she knew of no human being who didn’t struggle to gain the chance to enjoy simple pleasures.

The cape stopped moving. So sudden was its standstill she nearly bumped into the long folds. Her escort moved to one side, hood draped over the features beneath. One arm extended, a finger pointed to where she must proceed, alone. She peered down the path, seeing nothing. “Why can’t you take me farther?” she asked.

It said nothing. Using a sword as a cane, it leaned, assuming the stance of a patient sentinel. It was doing exactly what was expected; she could do no less.

“Right then. Wish me luck.” A small joke in a realm without humor. Luck would have no substance here. There was only action and reaction. She took a deep breath and continued.

“I can do this,” she whispered, the stagnant air growing more and more humid with each step. “I am a sorceress now and I have courage as well as faith.”

A surge of heat blasted into her face. Olivia stopped, closing her eyes at the onslaught. She was not welcome here. The air stirred at her presence. Far from refreshing, the wind blew a languorous heat, warning her she should turn back, or fall into a dreamy state of semi consciousness. She was alive. This was no place for those who wished to continue existence.

She uttered a parched shriek when a hand touched her arm. “Do not fear.”

A bold handsome face met her gaze. “Dagaz,” she said. Relief flooded through her breast. He bore a faint resemblance to William—the nose, the brown eyes, the sturdy bulk of a warrior. His appearance alone renewed her flagging courage—normality within an empire of the unnatural.

He bowed, the same flowing grace as his father, and kissed her hand. “My service is yours,” he said with authority.

“Thank you,” she answered. “I shall need all the help I can get.”

Impossible to measure time it seemed like hours that they stood, staring at each other. Olivia remembered the solemn images she had witnessed in the water of her cup—Sophia, murdered by her brother—then Dagaz, the sword thrust into his chest. These innocent lives were stolen by a brother, whose only motive was searing hatred. Sophia died without hope; Dagaz at least was able to initiate a curse against the guilty, a curse which fell to her. Yet as they peered at each other there was a silent communion between them. Hope resided with her, final retribution her quest. Dagaz placed his hand on the shoulder that bore his mark, the sorcerer’s mark, a symbol of the power he had achieved in life, his smile the confirmation that his magic was coming to fruition. “It honors me to meet you at last,” he said with reverence.

The torches blew flames high into the black endless ceiling, the gargoyles shifted to a stirred excitement. The ooze beneath coursed toward the great gates, the locks shivering, as though someone behind was preparing to free all inhabitants. A frightening prospect, she clutched Dagaz. “What’s happening?” she whispered with foreboding.

Dagaz guided her to one side, into the dim light beyond the blazing torches. “Fate follows you,” he said, leaning close to her ear. “The doors open for the newly dead. We shall wait for them to enter and then follow.”

Olivia shivered. “The newly dead,” she repeated numbly.

Dagaz draped a cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her hair. “No,” he said with softness. “Your grandmother is not amongst these sorrowful souls. Those who enter here are lost.” He pulled his cloak also and they waited as a long line of the condemned shuffled up to the Gates, creaking wider to invite the damned into the realm of dark eternity.

Weeping, wailing, the slow clanking of shackles, a sound that echoed with those who bore the chains of ruin. “What was their crime?” she asked, safe beside Dagaz’s authority.

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Do not speak. Better that they know nothing of our existence. We want nothing to do with their plight, only to enter without being noticed.”

Olivia couldn’t watch the somber procession. She turned her forehead, resting it on Dagaz’s cloak, while the noise of gnashing teeth and cries for mercy grew louder.

The Gates shrieked wider as the line proceeded. Dragging feet were intermingled with the weighty clatter of chains. Heat from the torches was intense, doing nothing to alleviate Olivia’s shivering. She bit into her bottom lip, sympathy for those who entered.

“Do not show empathy for those who go in,” Dagaz whispered. “Their judgment is justified. Their choices in life were made without ignorance. Prepare, Sorceress. The line ends. We shall follow without delay. Shield your face.”

Olivia adjusted her hood, keeping her gaze lowered. Dagaz fell into the line and she followed. The Gates swung shut behind them.

She expected carnage. She expected rivers of fire, instruments of torture, wracked bodies that would never perish. She expected yawning emptiness. Instead, she witnessed roads lined with black motionless alders, rivers that flowed toward distant mountains. And there were buildings, some nothing more than hastily hoisted shacks; others were magnificent estates. “I don’t understand,” she said to Dagaz, as they hung behind, the line of the lost continuing onward without them.

“They go to the final court so that their crimes can be announced. Unlike in life they have no choice which path to follow. We still have choice, Mother,” he said.

The term filled her with a warm glow. “Why do you call me Mother?”

“Life gives birth to hope.” He pointed to one road that wound a crooked path to the right, to an estate nestled between two rolling hills. “That is your destination. I shall go with you only halfway. The rest you must follow alone.”

“How are we going to get out again?” she asked, casting a wary eye behind to the locked Gates. “I’m not prepared to stay here just yet,” she added with a weak smile.

“Leave that to me.” He drew his sword and started a slow march.

“To think I once considered coming here alone.”

He lifted a finger, denoting silence. They hadn’t gone far when Dagaz suddenly stopped. “She sits outside, watching the procession. I mustn’t go farther, in case she recognizes your true cause through me. Be bold,” he said, coaxing Olivia to step ahead. “Answer her lies with truth.”

Olivia squinted to see the goddess, a dot against the bleak home. “I’ll do my best.”

Straightening her shoulders, Olivia strode the rest of the way with feigned confidence. Inside she trembled. This was the pivotal confrontation. William’s future depended on the success of quick wit. And she had little idea how clever the woman might be. Expect the worst and hope for the best, she thought.

Oddly, the willowy figure paid no attention to Olivia as she approached the garden that circled the house. Steely green eyes were transfixed on the line of the condemned souls that paraded beyond, while one white sleeveless arm rocked a cradle. A cradle. Another oddity for William said she was barren. Could he have been mistaken?

“Hello,” Olivia said solidly. Having been given no instruction on protocol when greeting the more esteemed members of the netherworld’s hierarchy, she relied solely on casualty.

“He’s not there. He’s not amongst the group. I’d know if he were. He should be here by now.” The green eyes hadn’t left the vanishing procession.

“Who is it you’re looking for?” Olivia asked. Her tone was light and friendly.

The porcelain hand rocked the cradle fiercely. “My baby’s father.”

Olivia caught quick glimpses into the cradle as it rocked dangerously close to being tipped over, one side then the other. She saw no child—nothing except a pile of gray rags—and no cry rose from the crib. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked nonchalantly. What mother wasn’t pleased to discuss an offspring?

“I haven’t decided yet.” An icy glare was now fixated on Olivia.

“Oh,” Olivia said, stifling a smile. “Well, congratulations. I, too, expect a child soon.”

The eyes widened and dropped to Olivia’s midriff. A pointed nose sniffed. A hard smirk chiseled into her otherwise smooth features. “And pray, tell me, who is your baby’s father?”

Olivia over-exaggerated a deep satisfied sigh. “A most amazing man. He is taller than an oak, stronger than a mighty storm, wiser than the most studied scholar. His eyes are black pools, his hair curls down his back, he has muscles all over his body, but,” she leaned as though sharing a most treasured secret. “But his manliness culminates between his legs. A fierce lover, yet warm and passionate and his sessions can go on and on until I have to beg him to stop or cry with pain. So potent is his masculinity, why, just once and I was with child.”

The jaw dropped. For a brief moment Olivia thought the woman would weep. She swallowed, the bulge in her long throat bounced. “How nice for you.”

“Oh, but it is. He warms me every night, every morning and every afternoon with sweat from his brawn and I bathe in his scent as though a coveted perfume. I can never deny his hunger and the man starves. There are times I have difficulty walking; he leaves me sore from such a massive bulk.” Olivia distanced her palms from each other, exemplifying a large endowment. “The ache is a small price to pay to feel him flow inside my womb. He is truly magnificent.”

“Is he a god?” she asked with indignation. “You speak of him as though he sustains mystical powers?”

“He is a god to me. To everyone else he is a….” Olivia’s face stiffened to the mystery. She peeked from side to side as though someone listened. “To everyone else he is a….”

“What? A what? Speak, you foolish girl, or has too much fornication decreased the limited ability of your brain?” The white cheeks flushed red. The cradle jerked to an impatient surge.

“He is a sorcerer, one of legend these past centuries. And he claimed me for his own. And now I am blessed with his child.”

“A sorcerer?” She scoffed. “A sorcerer is nothing more than a worm wriggling through the black muck.” She then turned her chin up, a high and mighty pose.

“You are probably correct. My husband would be sorely insignificant compared to yours.” Olivia leaned to glance inside the cradle.

The woman quickly dipped the cradle to her side, shielding Olivia’s view. “My husband is truly a god,” she announced proudly. “He rules the oceans and has been away on imperative business. He does not yet know of the child I bore him. I am anxious for his return.”

Intuition told Olivia the lies had begun in earnest. The woman’s cheeks were flushed from jealousy.

“She is barren. Once she is blinded with rage search for the box. It will be near her.”

“May I hold your baby?” Olivia asked with innocence.

“Certainly not! Who are you to make such a request?” She sniffed again. “You hold no prominence here. Go away.”

“I think you once met my husband,” Olivia continued. “Yes, in fact, I’m sure of it. He told me about the beautiful wise Goddess who refused his attention.”

Her stormy eyes narrowed with intense suspicion. “Then give me his name so I can spit on the ground at your feet.”

“Oh no, he forbade me to utter his name in this place. He said you would become fiercely jealous because you regret his not making love to you.”

“I regret nothing! And I would certainly never lower myself to welcome a mere sorcerer into my bed.”

“Yes, he said you’d say that as well, to cover your insolence.”

“What?” She rose to her feet, swelling large with fury. “No man would dare say such a thing against me. My lovemaking is legendary with those I permit to lie with me.”

“Ah, he said this as well.” Olivia smiled. “Someday, he said, she will be far more infamous than the great Whore of Babylon.”

So sharp was the intake of air that Olivia nearly lost her balance. “I demand to know this name so I can order my armies to silence his foul tongue.”

Olivia’s fingers danced over her collar. “You know him because he has been robbed. You promised him immortality for his power of love.” She tugged one edge of her blouse to reveal the rubies, made from the blood of an open wound, the wound to his heart. “You stole his love so you could create a child. Woe to you, wretched woman, for I don’t believe there is a child. The cradle is empty, and so is your womb.”

Violent eyes dropped to the necklace around Olivia’s neck. Fists clenched like sledgehammers she shook to a heightening rage. “The one who called himself De Croft,” she seethed.

“That’s right,” Olivia chirped. “Shame you didn’t allow him into your bed. Maybe a good session would have lightened your mood, to say nothing of resulting in a child. That is, if you weren’t barren.” To add salt to the wound of insult, Olivia winked.

“Witch!” she screamed. Her willowy body shivered with uncontrollable tremors.

“Is that the best you can do?” Olivia eyed the cradle. She was certain the box was within the blankets. Taking a step closer she grinned. “Whore.”

The air moved. Phantoms, long, thin and dark, were rising from the manicured garden beneath them. The Goddess glowed red, so overwhelming was her fury. “You shall be punished for this!” she screamed, her voice so constricted with vehemence she could barely speak. “You shall burn in eternal fire, I shall see to it!”

“Thanks anyway, but I must be going.” Olivia lunged for the cradle, throwing aside the blankets. The box was there. She grabbed it and backed away. Not quickly enough.

Olivia had misjudged the Goddess’ power, even though blinded with insult. A swift hand, long nails sharp as knives, raked against her neck with such speed Olivia screeched. The delicate chain broke at the onslaught and the beads, to Olivia’s horror, scattered into the opening earth where the foul devils rose to their mistress’ call.

Olivia had the box but she had no choice but to leave her prized amulet behind.

Sure and steady she raced to where Dagaz waited, comforted by the raised sword that warned the pursuing phantoms to stay back. It flashed through the putrid air, air that was soiled by curses that were uttered from the lips of the infuriated Goddess.

“Keep going,” Dagaz said as she brushed past where he stood. “I will meet you at the Gate.”

Olivia didn’t look back. She clutched the box with all her might, her heart thrashing with the intoxication of success. They weren’t free of danger yet, however. The Gates were closed and the walls too high to even consider crawling over. And magic, a power that aided her well in one world, was impotent here.

The sickening thud of a wielded sword through flesh filled her ears. Relentless in her quest to escape she reached the Gate, panting, the air humid and unsatisfying. The steps behind her were Dagaz’s. He knelt on the ground revealing a tunnel, one crudely dug. “Through here,” he ordered. “Go.”

“It’s so small,” she exclaimed.

“Large enough. Now hurry. They are upon us.”

“What of you, Dagaz?” she asked, mortified. The hole would never take his great bulk.

“Mother,” he said with urgent softness. “I dug it for you alone. Once you are through it must be covered again or these demons will follow. Make haste. I shall fight them off so you can be freed.”

“But….”

“Go!” With that he kicked her, without harm, into the hole.

She wiggled down and under, reaching the other side, the box clamped in one hand. “Dagaz,” she cried out from the other side. “Why? What have you done?” It was obvious now he had no intention of freeing himself, only her.

“My love is for you,” she heard the muffled voice from beyond the wall. “Run and be free.” The earth swallowed any further sound. He had stayed behind, sacrificed himself for her.

Tears on her cheeks, Olivia continued her flight. Treading with utmost care on the slimy stones, almost sightless from her hot tears, she raced into the murky stickiness toward where the Shadow waited, the last lap.

She caught sight of her guardian, leaning as she had left him, on the sword, the hood draped over his face. Breathless now, she gasped as his form grew in stature. “I’ve got it,” she wheezed. “I’m safe.”

The cloak rose, slow motion, the forefinger pointing to her throat.

“I know,” she said, regaining some strength from the energetic sprint. “She broke the chain. I couldn’t stay. There wasn’t time.”

The forefinger retreated to the inside fold of the black cape. When it reemerged the broken nail dangled a ring, one glistening ruby.

Olivia reeled with renewed horror. Her mind seemed to close in a sharp flash of panic. She peered at the ring—the very one she had thrown into the fog at the cemetery. Slowly she lifted her gaze to the blackness under the hood. “More appropriate you wear this anyway,” purred a stony harsh voice. The assailant seized her wrist, twisting her arm in an inescapable lock.

With one long sweep the hood fell back.

Olivia felt the scream rise in her throat, where it lodged.

“Greetings, sister. We meet, in the flesh, at last.”

Before succumbing to a dead faint, Olivia saw only the wide smile on Dietrick’s face.

Chapter Twelve

Something had gone wrong. His gut constricted, a cold unease branched from the core through every limb. He listened, tipping his head one way then the other; if the smallest of cries had been uttered he would hear. There was no call, no plea, no sob. A drumming silence was all that he could single out.

Stretching his fingers wide he circled his palm in the air, distorting it, waves shivering, an image struggling to become visible. Imps had surrounded a fallen sword, none brave enough to touch it. He tapped his finger, widening the unsteady scene. An infuriated slim woman, the very Goddess who had tricked him, the one who had been tricked in return, was inflicting a slow torturous death on her prisoner. Not Olivia. She was gone.

“Dagaz. Leave what is past and find new life.” The quiet prayer was all he could ask. Nothing else could be done to save his son. Better he perish, however, for to sacrifice breath meant a spirit freed for renewal. They both knew this was what fate had deemed.

Still, a heart swollen in grief, conscience dictated emotion. Of course it would, for the shield was down. Without darkness to hide in, the light exposes the tenderness of emotions—ones that cause the most pain—regret, empathy, guilt, loss—past crimes stung not only his chest but his memory, and he knelt at the depression of the pain he had caused so many, the pain inflicted by carelessness, selfishness, negligence. With no darkness of his inner self to deafen the voice of conscience, the finger of accusation stabbed without pause.

Yet, Olivia was not within the walls. This was a relief. He lowered his hand, to rest briefly, before preparing to conjure the next image, find her.

Denunciation, however, was not finished with his vulnerability.

“Talan, don’t go. I could be a good wife to you. Do I not warm you as you please? My dowry is sufficient, my name honorable. My brother adores you. Talan—why—it would make everyone so happy if you were to be part of this family.”

“And what did you do? You ignored her, cast her away as a boot would thrust into an annoying dog. You did to her as you had always done. How many maidens had you seduced, how many children were left behind? Such disrespect. Cruelty. Despicable. Such a loathsome man. Had you no shame, no valor?”

“I cannot be burdened with these accusations! I shall not permit them!”

“Talan! You will return, won’t you? Have I displeased you? Is this why you leave my chamber in such haste? Talan? What if I am with child? Will you not then be my husband, if only on parchment?”

“I cannot change what was. Be gone. Accurse me no longer.”

A low droning of pleas, whispers, cries—all starting as a distant buzzing—intensifying into a thunder of women’s voices. “How many, Talan? Legions, perhaps? Listen as they cry—listen to the broken hearts you alone created with your casual philandering—listen to the weeping infants. Pitiful disgusting excuse of a man. How can you even lift your head? You are not worthy to be loved. You are certainly not capable to show love.”

“Stop! Why am I persecuted like this? I regret my actions! This unholy judgment must stop!” His name was called, the thundering roar of voice after voice after voice. He pressed his palms over each ear but nothing could quell the eternal indictment. “I beg forgiveness. I beg of it. Please, the crying must cease or I shall find only madness.”

The ceiling cracked. All other noise stopped with a peculiar abruptness. Lifting fatigued eyes, he saw the black cloak, the darkness that once ruled within him, the darkness that had swelled to such abandoned authority that the whispering lips of conscience were drowned. The cloak fell, void and motionless, to the floor. Olivia was absent.

Fingers sprawled, a new image was called upon to be divulged. The Gates. Olivia had crawled under. The box was in her grip. She ran, steadily, toward the next post, where the Shadow was ordered to be stationed. This is where it had gone wrong. The cloak that waited was not his.

“No!” He saw the devil beneath the hood. But she could not know of his warning. Her amulet was gone; she was unprotected. And he wore his amulet with arrogance.

The image shivered, becoming blurred, flowing as water in a spring torrent. She fell to his power, limp in his steely pinch, and he turned his chin to where Wyldelock watched. “She will die, Talan,” he said, his yellow eyes flashing with success. He ran his tongue up her throat, breaking the skin with a mere scratch. “You choose whether it is quick and painless, or lengthy and in agony.” Bloodied lips curled to a wretched laugh, and he dissolved, taking Olivia with him.

Wyldelock screamed, the frustration from the pit of his stomach rising as a monstrous wave during a fierce storm. Rage blurred his sight and flashed a curtain of bright red throughout his mind and when his screech left snarled lips it bounced from every wall, shaking the very foundation from which he stood.

“Get up!” he shrieked to the cloak, still motionless on the floor where it had fallen in a useless heap. Wyldelock struck the toe of his boot into the cloth with such hostility it lifted him from the floor. He spun and floated down again, spitting sparks of fire into the stirring material. “Get up! Return to me. I need to feed on your black soul to find success!” He kicked the rising form, stretching muscle in a tantrum that was beginning to enjoy its own sense of release. Then he grabbed at the throat under the ties. “Fail her but not me, Shadow. Infest me with the rage I need to fight. I wish to feel no mercy, no conscience, and certainly no compassion.”

The face beneath grinned. Wyldelock’s own—a mirrored image—dipping in approval at such a request.

“Why hesitate?” Wyldelock demanded. “Do as I say.” He widened his arms, waiting for the familiar sensation of energy, one that would harden his muscle, give him immeasurable strength, and prepare him for battle. This was the inner self he relied on for the prowess to fight, to wield a sword with supernatural ability. It had never failed in the past, creating an unconquerable warrior.

Inexplicably, the Shadow loitered, adding to Wyldelock’s mounting rage. Had he not conquered his dark side? Did it not learn to obey his will? So confident in the belief he had bragged of this accomplishment to Olivia. Had another promise dimmed? Had the centuries stolen potency after all?

“Which of us is the Master?” it said.

“There is no time for debate,” Wyldelock answered, unnerved by the sound of his own voice resonating back to him.

“I shall not be treated recklessly. Acknowledge me. State that my existence flourishes within your soul.”

“What game is this? You exist because I do. We have known of each other since time began. I need you as much as you need me.”

The reflection smiled, tipping its head to one side. “If this is of truth, then you come to me .” The shadow opened wide arms and stood a firm stance, the cloak draped from each arm.

The prospect was unsettling. Wyldelock was far from accustomed to consciously bowing to another’s demand. But he was looking at himself, listening to an order that came from within as well as outside. The Shadow was forcing him to concede to his own existence, meld together what was true and what was tainted. A common ground had to be found, and quickly. Olivia’s fate depended on it.

“You carry several names,” it spoke. “I have but one. All I request is respect. Not dominion. I failed because I am too similar to the one you wish to conquer.” The face flickered to change. The eyes yellowed, the smile cracked. Dietrick’s dark soul blinked from within and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

“You are what made us similar,” Wyldelock admitted. “Our friendship was born because we each recognized the other’s dark soul.”

“Yes,” the Shadow hissed. “But he gave of himself in totality. He is lost to the demon within for it grew greater than he.” The arms remained outstretched. “He has no hope. You do.”

“What must I do?” Wyldelock trembled. “What option is it that you are presenting to me?”

“Embrace me. Tell me I am your own. If you cannot accept yourself you can never accept another.”

Uneasy, Wyldelock took a step toward the Shadow. The truth behind this philosophy was complex and he was far from certain he understood. What he did understand, however, was that he needed confidence, courage and capability. If the Shadow offered him this, if the visible voice was granting him enlightenment, he had to reach forth and accept. Wyldelock was on the precipice of self-awareness and it was truly dizzying.

Another step. The distance was closing. He blinked in faintness, his body succumbing as his mind blurred. Another step. His feet felt like lead weights. The Shadow remained solid, waiting for the embrace.

“You are my own,” Wyldelock whispered, a warm flow penetrating his chest. “Perfect union.” So near now their chins touched. A peculiar ecstasy began to flood Wyldelock’s being.

The assimilation began slowly. Mouths melded in an eerie kiss. Arms outstretched, the palms united next. A breeze stirred their capes, ballooning out to the stir, stitched as one. His breast shook, quick spasms of the electricity that shivered through the air around them. Acceptance. Peace. No memory haunted him, no condemnation tortured his soul. Wyldelock had found perfect unity with what he was, what he had become. Power surged through his body as their torsos finally met, lunging together in a blinding white flash of self-recognition, self-love.

Love.

The path to fulfillment had begun, not through another but through his self.

Alone, Wyldelock lifted his arms, fists curled, his chest vibrating with self-attainment. Long streams of light infiltrated his soul, the healing strength rejuvenating his power. Chin tipped up, he smiled at the warming sensation that rocketed around him, through him, blissful washing. Cleansed at last, the demons had no hold on his future.

“I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” he cried out, the final euphoria rendering him temporarily weakened.

He slumped to the floor, his mind whirling to the depth of what marvel had just occurred. His face was damp from tears of exoneration, yet he had not found complete victory. He still had to face the darkness of Dietrick’s Shadow. Find it and expel it. Yet the enemy now had no secret. Dietrick’s Shadow was a common entity, and he knew it well.

Tapping the cool surface of the floor beneath his knees, he created a knife. Dipping forward, he began to cut great locks of his hair as the Counselor had suggested he do. Soon the blackened mass covered the floor. With the knife still gripped in his hand he carved three deep wounds on his forehead, resembling the claw, the mark that been a source of inspiration for his awakening, for Dietrick’s revenge. Blood trickled over each brow, filling his vision with shimmering crimson. Then he tore at his clothes, making certain the fine white satin that had been his shirt was shredded and stained with both his blood and his sweat.

Visibly humbled, abused, desecrated, but inside, where no eye could penetrate, he never felt so tenacious, so alive.

One final moment of meditation, and Wyldelock rose, dropping the knife and creating the sword, the last weapon he would ever carry. Finally he was prepared for the ultimate battle.

Victory was within his grasp.

Dietrick lounged, sprawled over a throne, ankles crossed on the edge on a long table. Branching candelabras flickered at each end, illuminating a surface spread for a feast—roast pig, fowl, hare, loaves of bread, bowls of fruit, decanters of wine. And dotted around the table, sitting rigid and motionless in each high backed chair, were women. All eyes were closed, as in a prayer of thanks, except for his. He studied a goblet, encrusted with emeralds. Leaning to it he drank, wiping his mouth with a satiny sleeve.

Olivia was bound, her ties invisible yet securing her wrists high above her head. The stone wall behind her was damp, and she focused on the sensation of it to help clear her mind. She would have preferred to return to unconsciousness rather than gaze upon this grisly scene. Muscles in her shoulders burned with the awkwardness of the position. She shifted slightly, trying to find some relief from the tension.

“You will join our table soon, sister,” he said, still studying the contents of the goblet. “Look, I reserve the opposite chair for your honor.”

A chair, more elaborate than the others, not as adorned as his, sat empty.

The macabre dinner party sent a long chill down her spine. The guests had no distinguishable characteristics. Like stiff waxen dolls the women sat, long hair snowy white, pasty complexions muted as though partially melted, simple clothes hung on emaciated shoulders. And all shared exposed throats—each slashed open—old wounds congealed with dormant blood. The splash of red on each paled figure made Olivia wince with revulsion.

“These are your predecessors,” he said with a wave of one hand. “Fair maidens who once shared one man’s ardor. None fairer than this,” he smiled, glancing to the figure who sat closest to him. “My sister in life, my closest companion in death, I keep her next to me for she holds the one place of prestige—her seduction was performed merely to taunt me. To say little of the fact her wretched child, the fruit of one unholy union, lived—for a time. I ended that misery as well, didn’t I, precious sibling?”

Olivia’s stomach rose. She turned her face, trying desperately not to look at this abominable horror, but without control her chin snapped back. Dietrick was forcing her to gaze upon the scene he had prepared; he was enjoying her disgust.

“Behold,” he demanded. “Soon you shall join all these lovely ladies. The table will be complete. Won’t that be magnificent, my dear?” The question was directed to the closest silent figure and he leaned to kiss her ashen cheek, as though she would return gratitude for his mocked affection. “No other chair will be required at this adorned table. When I finish with Talan he will be incapacitated, to say the least. He will neither be able to stroke bare flesh let alone create it anew.”

The lids slowly opened, sightless eyes focusing straight ahead, a solitary tear gently gliding a trail down the deadened cheek where he touched.

“You see?” he said. “Such joy cannot be contained. Poor darling girl. I think that she actually felt kindly to Talan, foolish in the belief she could conquer his tastes. She kept her pregnancy a secret from her older brother for a long time. But once I discovered the truth and the horrible mass of deformity was born, there was no other recourse—she had to perish. Fouled by his hand I could not let her carry on in disgrace. What decent man would care for her? No, better that she die as the others died. And who but me could make the act as tender as possible? The others lingered in agony but Sophia, I made certain the blade severed the bone as well as the vein.”

“Sick twisted bastard,” Olivia spat. It was the worst insult she could think of, and it barely seemed lethal enough for what she had to listen to.

He laughed, pouring more drink into the goblet. “Bastard? No, our parents were married, weren’t they, Sophia? The bastard was her child,” he added turning his malicious gaze to Olivia. “Same as the bastard you carry. Exception being, yours shall never see the light of a new day dawning.”

He slammed the decanter down, rattling the dishes. Meant to draw her attention, she saw the box, taken from her as she had fled the Underworld. He watched her, his lips stretching to a full smirk. He rapped the lid, turning one ear to listen for some response. And then he laughed again, thoroughly enjoying his perverse performance.

“Ah, typical of Talan to keep his affections closed under a thick covering.” A gloved forefinger tapped the top, issuing a hollow sound. “Who should be the one to open this lid? Which amongst us here should receive his lost passion? Not any of you creatures,” he growled to the living corpses surrounding the table, peering at them, each in turn. “And it would be preposterous to even consider Talan himself bear the contents. What would he know of love? Neither can he accept, illustrate, perceive or return such a fiercely delicious state of mind and body.”

Olivia straightened, the muscles in her arms almost numb to the strain of being held constantly over her head. She stared back at Dietrick, amazed that, through the horror of the scene he was playing out for her benefit, he was truly handsome. Wide shoulders, a flexing floor to a flowing mass of brown hair; slim waist, bound tightly with a thick belt on which he wore his sword; and long legs, trousers which ballooned at the thighs, narrowed to receive leather boots. And his face, when not contorted to some miscreant thought of torture and abuse, was delicate—pointed chin, thin lips, small nose and sharp eyes. Yes, Olivia decided, he was very handsome despite the evil that resided within his breast. And she couldn’t help but tease her mind with a brief thought that together—he and William—they would make a dashing couple, awing all who saw them side by side, be it as warriors or as dalliers. They had recognized beauty, cruelty, and the lust for all things pleasurable through each other’s eyes. Insane, perhaps, but Olivia felt a sudden sense of sympathy for Dietrick. He lost the only person he truly cared about and the madness of separation, denial, and rejection had slowly created the creature before her now.

“He did love once,” she said, a hushed lull. “He loved you , Dietrick. He loved you very much.”

The malicious sneer dropped. Dietrick staggered, ever so slightly. The words she uttered had been unexpected, filling him with a rapture that had unbalanced his stance. He blinked with severity. His brow twisted to a distant pain, one buried so far inside it had no way of finding redemption on its own. A crack had appeared, however. Olivia felt the split as surely as she witnessed the stagger.

Olivia’s words, Dietrick’s stumble, both angered those who reigned within his soul. He convulsed in a tremor that seized his chest, the sting of pain obvious from a gaping mouth, glazed eyes. Clutching the edge of the table for support he panted, the fury taking a prominent hold again. “He did not love me!” the rasping voice bellowed. “He feared me, chastised me, treated me as an inferior! I, who fought as skillfully as he. I, who was as adored as he. And he mocked me! Took my confession and threw it away as though I were not worthy. Not worthy!” The sword swished from the leather sheath. Dietrick lifted it above his head. “He mocked my affection by trying to pay me off, console me with three worthless gems.” The tip of the steel danced on Olivia’s throat. “He bleeds rubies from an opened heart. Then soon the jewels will rain down as drops of hail from the sky.”

“Not so, brother.”

Wyldelock had a vague impression that there were others in the vast room, that the long table held those who recognized him, but so severe was his focus on Dietrick that only peripheral vision picked up the scratching movement.

Dietrick’s eyes flashed a thin yellow, his sword still denting Olivia’s skin. Her pupils reflected Wyldelock’s image, knees slightly bent, feet a step apart, the sword held with both hands. She gaped, more horror, as Dietrick’s fiendish tongue, forked and dry, slithered around his lips. All former opinions of handsomeness were quickly dispelled.

“Turn, and face me,” Wyldelock ordered. “As much as I loathe your existence I refuse to stab any adversary in the back.”

Cracked laughter erupted, not from his lips, but his eyes. Each gyration that shook the foul hand dented the flesh of her neck more. She held her breath, lifted her chin, trying to keep away from the blade, ending up encouraging it to settle in the soft place near her jugular. He snapped the fingers of his free hand in the direction of the banqueting table. Chairs tumbled over as the figures lurched up, joints inflexible, causing the jig they performed to look like a marionette show. If Olivia had space to scream she would have. She stared, transfixed at the ghastly dancers, all except Sophia, who kept her place, silently, snow white hands folded on the table’s surface.

“Look, Talan. They are ecstatic to see you again! Rejoice, now that we are all together. I shall ask Sophia to pour you some wine. You shall eat and dance and we shall be happy, as in the old days, Talan. How will you decide which maiden to bed? They are all cold, except for one.” Dietrick flicked the sword, so skillfully Olivia didn’t even feel the injury. A trickle of blood dripped from the small wound. The dancers jostled and bounced, the smell of the living throwing them into a fanatical spin.

Wyldelock refused to look at the women. He knew what Dietrick was doing—dislodge concentration with images of past transgressions, burden him with guilt and shock. “I will not bow to your deceptions, demon,” Wyldelock stated, more to the evil that thrived within his old friend, rather than the shell that was all too familiar. “Turn, brother, and cast your vision to me.”

Dietrick did not concede. He did not turn to notice how his old companion was no longer beautiful. He did not gaze upon tattered clothes, shorn hair, and dull sword. Rather he fiddled with the braided amulet around his neck. “Sophia,” he cooed lovingly, while keeping a grin on Olivia. “Rise, sister, and dance with our guest. Be a good girl, though, and do not flirt with him. Another wishes to claim his heart so you mustn’t intervene. Nothing wrong with a short dance and more wine. Loosen his inhibitions. Soften his willpower.”

The solitary white figure stood at Dietrick’s demand.

“A short dance only, remember, for he belongs to me. But you already know this, for I have told you .” The rigid figure staggered to one side, blindly trying to avoid the edges on the table, without success. “Oh, clumsy girl,” Dietrick scoffed. “Such a clumsy girl, Talan. Do you agree?”

“Stop this game, Dietrick. Let the dead rest. You have no right to disturb their sleep.” Wyldelock warily stepped closer. Dietrick’s shoulders shivered with spastic breath. Through the strands of hair he caught a glimpse of Olivia, alive, frightened, vulnerable to the balanced blade at her throat. “You have done enough, brother. The time has come for you to rest as well.” Wyldelock kept a soothing tone, meditating fully on his enemy, disregarding the dead who continued to dance, disregarding Sophia, who was awkwardly pitching her way closer to him.

“Done enough?” Dietrick said. “I think not for I have only begun. What is the feast without choosing the fairest of all ladies to share our bed when jocularity ends? Old habits are difficult to break. I have made my choice.” Lecherous eyes widened on Olivia. “We shall bid you good night, Talan, and leave you to those you are already familiar with.”

Wyldelock lunged with his sword, contradicting the words that stated he would never attack from behind. But Dietrick’s form was nothing more than transparent light. No damage was caused. And he took Olivia with him; they vanished together. The chase continued.

Ice cold hands patted at Wyldelock’s cape. He turned, remembering the deathly images, those that Dietrick had called. They were joining together, swarming nearer to him. He could not afford precious moments to shield off their advances. Grabbing the wrist of the closest, Sophia, he wrenched backwards. The image stumbled in the hold and he was shocked to witness life-like tears on her ashen cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“I loved you.” The voice was garbled, vastly distorted because of the injury on her white throat. “You left me.”

Wyldelock shivered. There were many ways a man’s past could come back to haunt him. This was the cruelest of all. “I am sorry,” he pleaded. “I was a careless man. Know that I have suffered as well.”

The other images were upon him now. He was surrounded by all the weeping voices of those he had recklessly ravished and then abandoned. Lusts of the flesh, and their grisly dance, their agonizing cries, all meant to burn into his soul, torture him with regret.

He might have been consumed with their call for redemption if not for the Shadow that rose within his breast. It hardened his resolve when needed the most and despite his sympathies for their soulless plight, he cast the hollow figures away with a wave of a light. Each crumbled into a small mound of sand at his feet; the last to falter was the last he had touched in his old life.

“Talan,” she sighed, the unblinking eyes turning up to gaze one more time at him. “I forgive you.”

Warmth swelled his chest as he tugged the dissolving image close. The white hair flowed, one great lock having been torn from the scalp, reminding Wyldelock of Dietrick’s amulet—entwining hair—that from him, from her and Dagaz. Now she rested—her final gasp one of established serenity. And Dagaz, too, had been freed from his bonds. The amulet’s power was sorely weakened. It contained only his.

“Sophia,” he said, kneeling to scope the sand into his hand, allowing it to fall through his fingers. One tear dampened the ash. His deliverance was nearing completion. Her generosity had aided his battle.

Wyldelock rose and through growing savagery uttered a curse in the language of the Ancients. He closed his eyes, searching the haze for the place where Olivia had been stolen. Lifting his arm the cape swirled over his head, and he, too, dissolved, to tread carefully through the mire in pursuit of salvation. The Shadow strode with him, but together they had formed a perfect balance—hardened resolve when called upon and compassion when needed—the scales were finally balanced.

“Olivia,” he said. “Call the name of your lover. Help me to find your imprisonment.”

“William.”

She heard. And answered. Wyldelock swung in each direction, searching the fog. It cleared, revealing a long passageway, one dotted with hundreds of locked doors. Laughter echoed through the hall, taunting him to search the endlessness. The floor rippled, as a wave on the ocean’s surface. Standing firm he began to move, smashing each door with a fierce ball of light, opening empty rooms, continuing in a search that would be relentless in its quest. Faster and faster he glided over the rising boards, one door, and then the next. Laughter continued, yet it grew louder, leading him teasingly closer to its source. He would smash down every door, if needed, until he found the one that imprisoned Olivia.

Then all fell silent, the noise gone as darkness might fall if the last candle was quickly snuffed.

Dietrick cupped his hand over Olivia’s mouth. She struggled against him but the steely hold was too violent for her to escape. The heavy body folded over her spine, his breath in her ear. He pushed her against a wall, her cheek flattened to the stone. “You stink of him,” he snarled quietly. “And yet this pleases me.”

She concentrated on William, calling his name over and over in her mind. Dietrick might have her lips sealed but nothing could bar her from calling out in her mind. It had worked in the past when she needed his help and she was certain it would help now.

“Not so, sorceress,” Dietrick chuckled, reading her mind. “You forget the powers I hold. Think of him as much as you want, it will not secure your rescue.”

If true, she chose to ignore it. She continued in her bidding, visualizing all the precious moments they had shared, running through her memory the tenderness of his touch, the sweetness of his kiss, the eroticism of his body next to hers. Faith. She could hear the songbird in the darkest of nights, smell the rose in the coldest of winters, taste his lips on hers even when he was absent.

“What lovely strands of music wash through your mind,” Dietrick taunted. “Lovely, but impotent.” He pawed at her hip. “I wonder if you shall have such divine memories of our union.” He chortled with wicked lust. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“You will never possess me, Dietrick,” she answered.

“I don’t intend to possess you,” he said in return, a tone unsettlingly light and cheery. “I intend to molest you only, leave you in ruin, both body and mind. When he finally discovers what is left he will cast you off as he has done the others. Then we shall return to the feast where you can take your place at my prepared table.”

“The table is empty,” she said, not knowing how she knew, just that she did. “The others are free, just as Dagaz is free. Your dominion is shattering. You are failing—except you don’t have the sense to recognize it.”

“I have you. ” He leered. “Nothing means more to him than that.”

“And I am not as they were. They were weak and vulnerable. I am not.”

“Such vacant confidence in one who remains a captive.” The hand slipped over her stomach, hoisting her dress. He wrenched against her back, hardened thighs pressing to her, and she stiffened, fearing perhaps he was right. “I may be convinced to feel some pity if you do not fight my intent. Otherwise, poor Olivia, I shall tear you in two with my desires.”

“You know my name then,” she said, cringing to the flutter of foul kisses over her neck. “You know I am of your descent, that I bear Dagaz’s mark. Remember, Dietrick, remember the curse he put on your name before his death? You thought you succeeded but he was a greater sorcerer than you believed. The mark meant to call Talan De Croft from the pit you chased him to. And all you could do was wait for the same day because you had no power to lift him yourself. You had to wait for me. Now I hold more influence that you wish to consider, don’t I, Von Der Weilde?”

She felt him quiver with a surge of anger. It was true, after all, and even though he didn’t utter agreement, she knew that he understood her words were valid.

“I shall tear you apart limb by limb,” he seethed. “I shall reach into your breast and rip out your heart with my bare hand. And as it beats in my palm I shall cut out the infant in your womb. This will be your fading vision, sister! Do you hear me?” He clutched one breast and squeezed, the pinch so hard she reeled in slashing pain.

“Which of your children were the first, Dietrick Von Der Weilde? Was it a daughter that was your firstborn? Did she bear the sorcerer’s mark?”

He let go of her breast to scream disapproval, needing full energy to focus on the anger that rose from the evil within.

“It was!” Olivia said firmly. “Your firstborn, a girl, and you knew if she lived to the age of consent that your enemy would return. But it was too soon, wasn’t it, Dietrick? There were no centuries to hide behind, there hadn’t been enough time for you to claim the demonic power needed to fight and win. You murdered the baby, as you murdered your sister and as you murdered your nephew. Your own baby! Have you no soul left in that mass of putrid flesh you call a chest?” She turned, quickly, pressing her shoulders against the wall.

Dietrick was shaking with rage, his fists curled, his eyes flashing sparks. “He took my sister,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I would not allow him to take my daughter.”

“What am I, Dietrick? A daughter within a daughter within another and another. Not only has he taken me, but together we conceived a child. Your blood courses through my veins. And soon your blood will mix with his, together in a child. Except that this child will bear no mark. Once you are dead the curse will be broken. I will make certain that the sorcerer’s mark shall be no more.”

“No,” he screamed, his lip jerking with tensed nerves, distorted muscle. “I will be the one to find victory. Once your head adorns the end of my sword I shall seek out your mother. Once she has breathed the last there will be none other to carry on. I will be the last survivor. Me! The first to bear Von Der Weilde greatness and then the last. My throne awaits! Only I am worthy to sit upon its glory!”

Olivia had nowhere to run, no place to hide. He wrapped a clump of her hair around his trembling fingers, his razor sharp nails scraping her scalp. Jerking her chin high he lifted his sword, preparing to pierce the vein that carried his bloodline, preparing to spill what was left of his family.

He hesitated, luxuriating in the fear that ruptured from her gasps. His tongue, swollen and forked, flickered from his parched lips, slapping a quick lap on her chin. And he smiled, so certain was he that victory was mere seconds away.

“Dietrick.”

His eyes darted to the source, a gentle voice, one without consternation, threat or impatience. Olivia dared not move for fear the blade would find its destination without intent. Instead she watched Dietrick’s contorted expression, one of fearsome loathing, then slight surprise and finally confusion. Only when he lowered the blade did she dare to seek out what had caused the shocked transformation in one who was sorely intent on slaughter.

“Dietrick. We shall not allow you to hurt our granddaughter.”

A parade of people was shuffling from the edges of the gloom. Men and women, children carrying babies, all of them different sizes and shapes, hair loose, tied, long, short, brown, blond, black, all wearing clothes that denoted the passage of style through … centuries. All grouped together with the one who led them closer, a small frail woman, whose face shone with immense glory and serenity. Olivia gaped in shocked wonderment. “Gran?”

“Yes, Olivia. I have gathered together a few people I felt you should meet. You and this man, who is unfortunately the reason these lives were lost when they were.”

She bent to lift a bundle, a tiny fist rising from the blanket. “This is Henry, my firstborn.” She peeled back the blanket to show the tiny mark on the infant’s shoulder. “And this, your great grandfather, Jonathan and his father, Horace.”TTwo men stepped to the front, and lowered shirts to denote similarity, the mark obvious on their shoulders. Gran scanned the growing crowd. “Anna, come forth.” Dressed as a lady of the upper class eighteenth century, the timid woman came nearer, displaying the mark as she had done so through the portrait on a night when William opened his home, coaxing Olivia to join his quest. “And behind Anna are those we never knew about, until now. Each has lived and died bearing the mark. They are those who carried the burden of Dietrick’s evil ways. And we thought that together we could be of assistance to bring this unfortunate episode to a close.”

Every eye turned to Dietrick in a unified glare of condemnation. He dropped the sword. It clanked to the floor as he stumbled backwards. His head turned from side to side, trying to comprehend what was happening, watching as each bared shoulder revealed the sorcerer’s mark, each one a reminder that Dagaz had initiated a powerful curse, one that haunted them but was finally seeing revenge. Their revenge. For with all his boasting Dietrick knew he had no prowess to fight this mob.

Only one figure parted the crowd, not hesitating as it approached Dietrick, who was paralyzed in a crippling shock. The woman held up a kicking newborn.

Gran smiled. “What’s wrong, Dietrick? Don’t you even want to hold your firstborn?”

This was too much for him. He swatted at the flaying infant, knocking it from the woman’s hands. The group stirred with the repulsion of another reprehensible act. Dietrick lifted a palm, signaling the rabble to hold their place, and he glowered with rehabilitated dominion. “None of you hold dominion over me. It was Dagaz De Croft that established this curse upon you, not I. So return to whatever foul crypt you slithered from and mutter consternation for him. And you, Old Mother, you have much to answer for, seeing it was your candle that brought me to renewal.”

“My candle, yes, Dietrick. And your ring, which has brought us all together.”

Dietrick reached inside his breast pocket, a need for authentication, pulling out the ruby ring. Once the band had shone gold, the stone a light crimson. Now it was tarnished and the stone a rotted black.

“I knew you planted it with us. We were meant to pass down the ring as well as the rumor of Wyldelock de Croft’s return to claim one of us with unnatural ferocity. That fear was a seed well sown, but in my garden the thorn pricked my suspicion. You cast your evil over the ring, your creation, not De Croft. Meant to protect Olivia, you used it to find her, capture her. This I knew would be your act. But know this Dietrick. We used it to our advantage as well. The stain of its tarnish, there in your pocket, has been as advantageous as any map. Without it, none of us would be here right now.”

He threw the small piece of jewelry, ruined and stinking, on the floor. “So be it,” he said, a slight crack in his otherwise self-assured tone. With a snap of his fingers the sword lifted to one hand and Olivia was jolted back into his grip, her neck pinned between his forearm and shoulder. He waved his sword menacingly at the group. “You have your reunion to keep you busy,” he sneered. “There must be much you have in common. And please, be my guest in this estate. But we must bid you adieu and where we go none of you minions shall be able to follow.”

“He’s coming for you, Dietrick. He’s at the door. Listen, Dietrick. Wait for his announced arrival.”

“Death has done no favors for you, Old Mother. Enjoy your extended family. Enjoy them all, except for this, your granddaughter. It is I who will enjoy her most.”

“Too late, Dietrick. You lingered too long. Your boasting has become your ruin.”

The door imploded. Wyldelock, filling its frame, locked his icy stare on Dietrick alone. A ripple of awed whispering washed over the crowd but he did not turn to look at any of them; nothing diverted his attention from Dietrick and the woman in his clutches. “Let her go,” he demanded. “This final battle is ours alone.”

Dietrick shared the audience’s surprise, but his shock was in response for his old friend’s appearance. “Talan,” he muttered, holding Olivia as though she would be an appropriate shield. She felt his shiver of stunned confusion.

Olivia was not immune to the astonishment shared with all the others. His hair was clipped, matted with blood from the wound on his forehead, his fine clothes in tatters, the sword he yielded tarnished with decay. He looked a dismal and tired warrior, one who considered the final struggle to be that of imminent demise. Yet the fierce gleam in his eye was the only reminder that beneath the paltry appearance there was one who would never bow to defeat.

Dietrick cracked a nervous laugh. “This is how you present yourself to me? You choose to die a peasant?”

“I will die, it is true. Our immortality has grown thin, brother, now that we face each other in combat. Once our quest is completed we will both eventually fall into the arms of death, but I shall not perish a peasant. Nor will I suffer from regret. I will continue to grow into an old man, and then die in accordance to the laws of nature.”

“We have lived for this moment, Talan, I agree. Yet I am the one who will carry on. Death’s sting has no claim on me.”

Wyldelock lifted his sword. “We shall see.”

“Poor sweet Talan. So brave. So chivalrous.” Dietrick pushed Olivia to the floor and lifted his mighty sword to Wyldelock. “And so foolish.”

She scrambled away from the circling feet as the steel clicked together in the onslaught of challenge. They moved like graceful dancers, bound together only by cold threatening stares and the edges of their weapons, glued one upon the other, high in the air between them. Dietrick sported a broad smirk, so confident was he in his ability to reign victorious. “Give in to me, brother,” he said through the twisted smile. “I have on my side the command of an entire army.” To prove the validity of his vindictive words the sword flashed with lightning speed.

They were a blur as both dipped and swung, the weapons singing their excited cries of battle. Neither faltered; the blades again united as they paused.

“This army you speak of is nothing more than one dark soul,” Wyldelock said, barely winded from the beginning throes of the combat. “I know him well, for he is the same who resided in me.”

Dietrick’s brow rose in amusement. “Still resides, I think.”

“Yes, still resides, but aids me in my pursuit. Unlike yours which lusts for slaughter. You murdered the innocent, Dietrick. It is a heavy burden to carry these acts within your soul. The burden weighs heavily in your arm. You are not as quick as you once were.”

“Am I not?” he said, angered by the insult. “Then perhaps I shall call upon my friends and demonstrate how sluggish I have become.”

Several tall dark figures emerged, fanning out in a semi-circle around Dietrick. Imposing as they were with their long robes touching the floor and their staffs held tightly in their leathery hands, Wyldelock seemed unconcerned. Not once had he removed his eyes from Dietrick, certain the ploy was meant merely to distract him. Even though they marched in place and chanted, voices joining as a low rumbling thunder, Wyldelock did nothing, except smile.

“I admire this attempt to harass my resolve,” he said with cool poise. “But this army you call upon are shallow shells. Their deaths were not of my doing. I learned of their secrets when once a member of the Brotherhood. Those secrets were nothing more than tricks of light and the bending of perception. They know of this, as do I. Now, you know, Dietrick. Their presence here could not even intimidate the smallest child.” He jerked his chin, blowing a whisper, at which each figure dissolved.

To add to Dietrick’s growing disgrace, the audience applauded and cheered. He had become unstable, shaking with anger and embarrassment, the sword he held had lowered slightly. And Wyldelock, seizing the moment, lunged forward ripping a straight deep cut across Dietrick’s shoulder.

“You are alone, brother, and the darkness closes in quickly. Please, do not pursue this ordeal further. I want your death no more than you want mine.”

Dietrick placed his palm on the wounded shoulder and withdrawing it, glanced in sheer horror at the stain of blood. His arm weakened, his army dissolved, the scent of defeat had filled his lungs. He reached for the amulet that had swung on his neck, but that, too, was quickly disintegrating. Rather than finding regeneration for his once famous competence he buckled to the hundreds of pounding claws—the demons within his breast were demanding freedom—and his eyes widened at the agony of tearing flesh.

Wyldelock stepped back, finding no pleasure in seeing his old friend succumb to the thrashing evil. For the first time he blinked, an automatic reaction to a wince, one felt in commiseration.

“Not yet,” Dietrick rasped, folding forward in pain. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a dulling expression of refusal to Wyldelock. “We are not ended yet.”

And with that three rings of fire encased his head. The torturous entities within him screamed displeasure while Dietrick faded, leaving the sword behind.

Olivia turned her gaze from the empty spot on the floor where Dietrick had disappeared to her William. Once their eyes met he moved to her, a long sweeping motion, and folded an embrace around her shoulders. “Did he hurt you, my jewel?”

“No, I’m fine. What’s happened, William? Is it over?”

“I think not. The box, Olivia. Where is the box?”

The crowd, too, was gone. All except Gran, who came forward, the box held delicately in her hands. “Take it. Find happiness in this love that is for both of you.”

William accepted it and bowed reverently to her. “My gratitude, Old Mother.”

Gran shifted her adorning gaze to Olivia while stepping backwards to join the ancestors that were now at peace. “I love you, Gran,” Olivia whispered, tears whelming up from thanks and fatigue and the knowledge that this time her Gran was leaving for good.

Alone, they crouched on the floor, the treasured box between them. This was the moment they had languished for, dreamed of with expectation, and now that it was upon them, they sat, lingering, as though fearful of the event. Butterflies spun an erratic dance in Olivia’s stomach; she could barely breathe. “What do we do now?” she asked softly, seeing that William was trembling.

His thumb brushed her cheek, taking her tears away. “Now we do as your grandmother requested. We find happiness.”

He then stroked the lid, finding the small catch at the front. “Oh, Olivia,” he whispered in lament. “Why do I tremble so? Am I truly worthy to open this casket?”

Her courage had to be sufficient for them both. She placed her hand on his, a gesture drenched with consolation. “We will open it together.”

The hook swung aside and they watched, as the lid gradually cracked open.

Instantly William’s face was bathed in a glowing radiance. His eyes widened with the sharp intake of air as rapture flooded over his body. The light played with his shredded clothes, renewing every article to grandeur; it amassed over his forehead, healing the wound he had inflicted, kissing away all remnants of the battle’s signature, and as it flowed over his head like a vast encompassing halo, his hair thickened and fell again to its previous splendor. And then the caressing light streamed toward his nose and mouth, entering his body with effort, for it had been released, as was he. Love had returned to find its rightful place within his heart.

The trance inflicted upon him was one of pure bliss. He trembled still, but at the magnificence of its radiant power. His eyes closed, his chest swelled, and he bowed forward, Olivia taking him fully into her arms.

She rocked his limp form, keeping him warm with her hug, strumming his shoulders. He moaned softly with each exhaled breath, the shivering subsiding. And she felt the rejuvenation of strength move through his muscles. Finally he had enough resolution to sit up again.

“William?” It was a ridiculous question, to suggest that the man before her was not William Talbot. In appearance he was indeed William Talbot, but the shine in his eyes, the glow in his cheeks, the sparkling softness of full lips, none of this had she seen before. “William,” she said again.

He blinked several times, and stretched his fingers, raking them through his hair. Then he patted his chest as though expecting to find something different other than the clothes he wore. “Olivia,” he said, his mouth curling in a smile filled with pure delight. “Olivia. I am reborn.”

“How do you feel?” she asked, delighted with his animation.

“Feel? There is no force holding me. I feel almost faint with exhilaration. I feel … free. Free, Olivia.” He took hold of her, scanning her every curve, her every reaction. “I feel that I am in the presence of the most beautiful woman creation has ever known.”

“I’ll accept that.” She laughed. His illumination was contagious. She wanted to dance and sing and play, all at the same time.

His smile began to lower; a veil of sensuality replaced its liveliness. “I feel that I want to make love to you.”

“I’ll accept that as well,” she said, cupping his jaw in her hand, sensing his warm skin, knowing that her William was fully capable of expressing the love he had always yearned to convey.

He took hold of her wrist, turned his chin to press a kiss into the palm. “Oh,” he sighed. “You are exquisite. I had no way of knowing how much until now.”

He explored her with his gaze, unfamiliar with who she was, luxuriating in the fluttering touch that ran down her neck, her cleavage. The pleasant meticulousness of his exploration was relaxed, skillful and drenched with desire. He leaned forward, dipping the great mane of black hair to one shoulder as his lips reached hers. Insecure as to how the sensation would find him, he held that one pose, lightly tasting. Finding the alteration within himself was acceptable, he flexed closer, the kiss deepening. Invigorated and saturated with the need for more, he clutched her hair, pulling her closer as he pushed a wanton tongue generously around her mouth. The kiss soon lost gentility; he ravished and awoke from his actions only when she playfully slapped at his arms.

“William!” she scolded. “Is this how a gentleman acts?”

The jest was beyond him, he was fully inebriated with visions of lovemaking. “The gentleman is lost to the fires of love that burn within his heart,” he whispered. “The poet cannot find words and the thief has been captured.” A half smile crossed his mouth. “But the lover has finally awoken. He has claimed his own.”

Olivia felt as though her own heart would burst. The purity of the emotion that overwhelmed them was the final cloak, the strongest, the most magical, and they sat a few moments together beneath its warmth, basking in the serenity of triumph.

His fingers found her hair, entwining the locks, while his thumb caressed her skin. “My jewel,” he said. “I love you now as I will love you forever.”

They had finally released the miracle that had obstinately remained so out of reach. The relief was immeasurable. All that was left for them now was to consummate its splendor with body and soul and spirit. All that was old and frightening had passed away. They were no longer sorcerer and sorceress, warrior and soldier. Their battle had ceased. As they gazed into each other’s eyes they were merely lovers, and that was the greatest power of all.

Olivia fell back with William, welcoming her one true love, the one meant for only her. She would return his professions of love, cuddle it, keep it safe, while knowing he would do the same for her. Mystic worlds in which they had traveled and all the creations within them had dissolved into obliqueness. Nothing could come between them—neither time nor space nor the elements of all things natural or supernatural. This world was theirs and they reigned freely, king and queen.

He crushed upon her with a long voracious kiss drenched not only with searing desire but true affection. She tasted his love in the kiss, felt its sweet caress in his touch and she saw it in his sensuous eyes as he lifted one adoring gaze. Her heart sang, joining the chorus that erupted from his chest.

Discarded robes had become the bedding on which they lay. Her pillow was his one hand that cupped her hair. And the body that swayed over hers was one invigorated by the fulfillment of every promise uttered. “I love you,” he said, their bodies melted together. “I love you so much.”

Olivia opened her body to him just as she opened her heart to his emotion. Both gifts had melded together in response to physical union. He filled her with perfection, generously bestowing the pleasure of union while drenching her ear with the words of affection that poured from his breast. And this pleasure was far greater than any of the others they had shared. They both sensed its majesty, clinging tightly to the few moments where nothing existed except them.

This magic was far superior than any either could imagine. Simple pleasure of lovemaking and yet so complicated, so intense, because their spirits danced freely. When Olivia closed her eyes she saw their spirits, miniature reflections, embracing within the clear waters of the cup she had once chosen. She had chosen love and was eternally grateful the choice had been the wisest.

“Oh, my own,” he sighed heavily into her hair as his lithe body swayed into hers. She clutched his shoulders, so broad and strong, the embodiment of every wonderful dream.

With his lovemaking he possessed her, the flow of muscular brawn scraping her flesh, the wash of blissful culmination within her womb. Her mind could create no word to describe the completion so she simply gave in to the tender ripple that encased her being with a soft sigh.

And so they were.

“Not yet. We are not ended yet.”

Olivia sensed the cold earth beneath her before the scent of it wafted up. Night sounds, scampering tiny feet, the rustle of nocturnal creatures in the bush, and the moon, shining bright and clear in the night sky was surrounded by thousands of sparkling stars. The breeze was fresh, carrying the smell of fresh air, heightening the sounds of the reality in which they lay.

William sensed it, too. He lifted his head from her shoulder, and she felt his arms tighten.

“What’s happening?” she asked, her voice low and wracked with the concern that had suddenly gripped her insides. They had traveled through and walked within several worlds—where the natural flow of time meant little in its supernatural haze—but this was true. Reality had stolen their precious moments and premonition was growing more intense by every authentic second that ticked with each thump of her heart.

“Olivia,” he said.

He needed to say nothing else for she knew by the austerity of his tone that everything they held as precious was somehow scurrying away as quickly as the unseen feet in the brush. Panic was gripping an icy hold and she clung to William, not fully understanding what was happening, what might happen. “No,” she said. “I shall not let you go.”

He leaned again into her hair, embracing her with his arms and his legs. She clung to his safety, despite the fear that continued to rise. “My love,” he said, his voice drenched with irrefutable sadness. “Do you have faith?”

Was this another test, another lesson? Had they not reached the point beyond all this? Were they not free of the sticky web of confusion and doubt and darkness that had followed their steps for so long? “Yes,” she answered weakly, although the commitment to it was wavering.

“Do you believe that a love as great as ours can never fall to the sword of time?”

“Yes,” she said, clinging to him with renewed vigor.

“Know that I truly have love for you and you alone?”

“Don’t leave me,” she whimpered, betraying the knotted ball that had formed in her breast. “Please, don’t ever leave me.”

“I never shall.” He moved, gently, to peer deeply, longingly into her face. “My jewel,” he began with a gentleness she had never heard him utter before. “We have been kissed by the sweet breath of salvation.”

The revelation held no solace for her, so bottomless was her dread. “You said we would never part. You promised me that once this was over that we’d be together, forever. You promised, William.”

“Yes,” he soothed. “A promise I made as no other earnest pledge, a promise I would never abandon. I have one final promise to keep, and you must release me to do so. One final path awaits my step, and I must travel its crooked path alone.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, trying to keep from crying. Her throat constricted, squeezing the tears from her lashes despite every attempt to keep them within.

“Behold.”

She twisted to follow William’s gaze. Through the tangled underbrush a small fire crackled. Two horses stood nearby, jangling their harnesses, waiting for their masters, who lounged together within the camp. A chill fluttered down her spine. One was Dietrick, young, fresh faced, relaxed with a pleasant demeanor and the other, the other was his long time companion, his friend and brother in arms, Wyldelock. Fate had returned them to the very time when their friendship was at its height.

“But he is your dark side, William,” she protested. “You have conquered him. This should be done, finished and you should be with me now.”

“I have conquered him, it is true,” William whispered. “But my brother is still an unwitting prey. My salvation has been secured and now it is up to me to release the enemy that is a mere seed within his soul.”

“Surely that is his choice, William. Isn’t it best you leave well enough alone?”

He shook his head, slowly, thoughtfully. “This was the one night in which he struggled to speak to me of the passions he bore. This was the night I dismissed those confessions and the birth of every thorny weed that choked what was good in him. I must go, and make certain that the weed does not take root.”

Olivia sank in despair. One word, one look, one flick of the wrist, a whole different outcome possible—action and reaction—only one was allowed. Fate, she had believed, was always set in stone, that the past could not be altered. Yet, the magic they had found together had brought them back to the beginning of what was once a dark and treacherous path, a path stained with the blood of the innocents. Deep in her being she understood there was no other recourse for him. All that had been cursed and loathsome hung in the air. This was the crossroad, the final stage of what he had to accomplish. She had no other choice but to let him go and set right what once had been wrong. “Will you come back to me?”

He lowered, kissing her with lips that spoke of no further commitment. Rather, he showed her that his heart was true. He loved deeply yet part of that love was, as it had always been, reserved for his friend.

“I love you, Olivia. And your love will be the beacon in the darkness that will guide my return.”

As the soundless thief she had considered him to be, he rose and drifted toward the two images, melting into the one who was Wyldelock Talan De Croft.

Their voices were lost to her asshe huddled against the chilled night air. But she saw their faces with clarity. Dietrick had flushed in stark confession and Wyldelock had reached over, taking his hand. His hair shook from side to side in refusal and Dietrick bowed in embarrassment. Still, Wyldelock clasped the hand, denoting that despite an inability to return similar passions, they could and would remain loyal to one another.

History had been altered.

The sky tore open, folding back the blackness, stars blurring to the passage of countless nights of century upon century. Olivia couldn’t be certain which of them moved—she as she clung to this her hiding place—or them as they held each other’s hands beside the fire. All she knew was they were separating, rushing ever away, motionless within their places, yet fleeing, faster and faster, succumbing into nothing more than a pin point of light, which burst and vanished.

His quest had been fully secured. Serenity washed over her for one last time and as she closed her eyes to the eerie dreamless sleep that encased her, she heard his voice.

“I love you, Olivia.”

He called her his treasure, he called her his beloved, he called her wife, but never in their twenty-seven years of marriage could Wyldelock call Sophia his jewel.

Their first son grew to be a learned man—a scholar, a philosopher—respected in writing and teaching. Five daughters, as beautiful as their mother, as eloquent and kind and pure completed Wyldelock’s family. And when one daughter, Wyldelock’s favorite named Olivia, married Dietrick’s son, the two families became even more secure in their bond. Life was not without its struggles, but they were all together, sharing joys and triumph, illness and defeat, as strong families always did.

He was content because he knew.

Dietrick remained a faithful and loyal friend, comrade and brother. When Death wrapped graceful arms around his brother, Wyldelock was there, held his hand, and thanked him for years of friendship. As the family mourned, Wyldelock rejoiced, for their path had been one of sincerity, void of darkness, jealousy and hatred. Wyldelock knew, because he remembered.

In the privacy of old age Wyldelock prepared for a world that only Death could guide him through. He hung his sword upon the wall and draped from it a delicate chain, one he had worn a lifetime, a small owl with a solitary ruby in its grasp. He dressed in his cloak, the warmth protecting him from the cold breath of transition into eternity. He stretched out on the bed he had dutifully shared with his wife, and closed his eyes one last time.

“My jewel,” he whispered before taking the hand that would lead him forth.

Timeless mist swirled around Wyldelock’s spirit as the journey began. Through the haze he searched for the beacon. He promised to return and the centuries would not prevent the fulfillment of sincerity. He knew, because he remembered.

Then, he lifted his weary eyes and saw the yellow hue. She called for him and he answered. Love had been his guide.

Wyldelock Talan De Croft was reborn.

The hand on her shoulder, warm and concerned in its touch, did nothing to alleviate the shock of waking on a wooden floor.

“Excuse me, miss. Are you all right?”

Olivia jolted, her line of sight filled with the handsome face that peered anxiously at her—olive complexion, dark eyes, sculptured jaw, and black hair that curled around his neck—an artist’s dream of aesthetic perfection. She caught a short gasp, desperately trying to come to grips with what strange world she had been flung into.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he smiled, crouching on bended knee in front of her. “The estate agent said the place was empty so finding a lovely lady up here was the last thing I expected.”

“Up here?” She scanned the room. The frame of a once large four-poster bed lay in ruins, the fireplace, disused through time was cold, supporting a cast iron grate. The cherubs that decorated the mantle were gazing heavenward, their expressions ones of tranquility. An oval oak table stood nearby, its one leg planted to the floor with a circular support. One candlestick rested on its surface, the candle half burned. And she was sitting on the bare floor, beside a trunk, its lid tipped back. “The turret,” she said, blinking, absorbing the reality of her surroundings.

The diary rested on her lap, open to the page where she had been reading before … she crushed her palm into her aching forehead. What had happened to her? Had she literally walked into some perverse fantasy or dream or nightmare? The diary offered no relief. The scrawled writing by the hand of a woman obsessed with a family curse was now replaced by nothing more than notes—births, marriages, deaths, and the weather—and stuffed within were countless newspaper clippings about shipbuilding and fishing.

History had changed. There was no longer the dreaded curse, one that had ensured fear throughout generations in her family. Her fingers crawled to her shoulder where the skin was smooth and free of blemish. The sorcerer’s mark was gone. The battle had been victorious, not only for them, but the countless souls that preceded them—by talking to Dietrick on that one fateful night Wyldelock had opened his heart to his friend and consoled him—no bitterness took hold, no seed of hatred or revenge flourished—the garden of providence was freed of thorns.

The sorcerer’s mark was gone but so, too, was he.

“We did it,” she muttered.

“Miss, are you okay?”

The voice drew her attention back to his friendly face as he continued to study her. His hair, not long but not short either, fanned out to wide shoulders. He sported a jean jacket over a white T-shirt and as she fought the bewildering daze that was stubbornly holding onto her, he shrugged out of the jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, breathing the scent that emanated from the material. His scent. She lifted her eyes to find that his were now clouded with confusion. But she recognized the soul that peeked at her from within. His soul. It might have all been a living dream but William, her William, had come back to her.

“This is really odd,” he said carefully. “But I could swear we’ve met before.” He paused, searching for the logic behind the comment. By his creased expression it was haunting him mightily, like a name that eluded the tip of the tongue, or a dream, which had just been so real, fading quickly, taking with it every memory except the shadow of sentiment.

“What name do you go by now?” She was addressing the man who resided within and it was lost to the one who continued to find her company enjoyable, despite her surely sounding ridiculous.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He crouched to sit on the floor with her, crossing his legs. He wore jeans and running shoes and looked deliciously casual. “My name is William, William Crofter, but all my buddies call me Bill.”

A huge chasm cracked open inside Olivia’s chest. Not so different after all, she thought. She wanted to scream and cry together, yet in his presence the unease was soon sucked out of her being and she merely smiled. “William,” she sighed, as though a call throughout time and space, where no boundary could impede its progress. Catching the drenched tone she cleared her throat. “I prefer William,” she said.

He grinned, never once breaking his stare from her face. “Yeah,” he said. “I like it when you say my name like that.”

“Mine is….”

“Olivia,” he said before she did, and then blushed. He puffed a breath in astonishment. “How did I know that? We must have met before,” he went on, running long fingers across his scalp, silken strands of inky black hair sliding right back into place. “It’s just for the life of me I can’t think where.”

I’d tell you, Olivia mused to herself, but you’d go screaming from the room. “What brings you here?” she asked aloud, breaking his concentration.

“Hm? Oh, I’m an art dealer. The last couple of years I haven’t had a moment to sit down, so I permitted myself an extended vacation, look for a summer home. You know, a place I can go where I can rejuvenate, get in touch with my … spirit. Strange how all roads led me here.” Elbow resting on one bent knee he tapped the air. “Have you ever been to art exhibitions in New York?”

She grinned and lowered her eyes to her folded hands. “No,” she said. “I never have.”

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said quietly, unconcerned with her never having been to New York for an art exhibition.

It was Olivia’s turn to blush now.

“Oh, wow,” he chuckled. “Listen to me. I don’t talk like this normally, really.” He held up his palms as though in surrender. “It’s just so weird. I feel like I’ve known you forever—and so I’m taking liberties.” His dark neck flushed bright red. “I mean, taking advantage … oh, no. I’d best shut up before I put my size twelve any farther in my mouth.”

Olivia laughed, and it felt so good. But when the laughing eased, her heart broke, and she started to cry. Having been on the brink of madness for what seemed forever, this ordinary exchange of casual conversation was wonderfully sweet and innocent.

“Hey,” he cooed. “You sure you’re all right?” He reached over and brushed his thumb over her damp cheek.

How often had William Talbot done that when she shed tears born of fear or foolishness or fulfillment? She closed her eyes and remembered his touch, and remembered it well for here and now the thumb upon her skin was drenched with his familiarity.

He had honored his final promise. He had returned to her.

Without even thinking she stroked his wrist. “I’m fine. It’s the magic in this place,” she teased. “The history of it has an odd effect on those who visit here.”

He squinted, while taking her hand. “You telling me this old Keep is haunted?” he grinned. “Because if it is I might reconsider buying it. Not one for ghosts and goblins.” He winked. “I still have a nightlight at bedtime.”

When he tipped his chin to laugh at his own joke she caught the glimpse of a gold chain, and followed the dark line of it through the white shirt. “What’s that you’re wearing?” she said, pointing to the small bump at the bottom of the chain.

“This?” he said, tugging the chain. “Funny you should ask.” He reached up and unclasped it, dropping the whole piece in her palm. “A good friend of mine took me to this little antique store in the north of Germany. We were poking about and this was dangling off an old sword that was hanging on the wall. The minute I saw it I just felt as though it was calling out to me, I had to buy it. Kept it with me ever since. Unique, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” A pewter owl, wings widened in flight and in its claws was one solitary ruby. Olivia clasped her heart. “It’s very striking.” She handed it back to him; it was all becoming too much to bear.

Instead of pinning it around his own neck, he leaned forward and clasped it around hers, so close she sensed the soft brush of his breath, smelled the scent of his hair. “My jewel.”

For a split second he was William Talbot. Long black hair cascaded over his ruffled blouse, the silk doublet, ivory buttons. The waist narrowed to firm hips that carried a magnificent sword in its sheath, crushed trousers that were tucked into high doeskin boots. And he smiled at her, his soulful eyes bottomless pits where he conveyed the endlessness of his love, a love that no barrier could shield them from obtaining, not even time. “My jewel. My own. I love you as no other. Your light has been my beacon. We will always be together.”

A shy kiss fluttered on her lips so gently she barely registered it. The pewter owl lay against her breast, the ruby dipping to the curve of her cleavage. Her fingers went from it to the smooth jaw line that lingered only inches away. “You really are so beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you,” she said, swallowing a lump, another surge of tears ready to rise. But these were tears of gratitude. She understood the instant magnetism, the chemistry between two people that psychologists often talk about but fail to measure. She understood the reasons for their closeness even though they were, in actuality, strangers.

“Olivia,” he said, leaning closer, a prelude for another kiss.

“William,” she teased in return.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I believe in dreams,” she said, welcoming his advance. “And all the magic that dreams can make come true.”

“I think you must be a poet,” he said, his mouth so close she felt the brush of fullness.

“And you are a gentleman and a thief.”

“A thief?” he said, pulling away slightly, the shadow of a worried smile on his mouth. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s a long story, William Crofter. A long story indeed.”

“Will you tell it to me?”

“Of course I will.”

And as they sat together in the turret of Byrne’s Keep the sun finally dipped into the distant curve where the sky fell into the crystal sea, taking with it one long single trill of the owl.

The End

About this Title

This eBook was created using ReaderWorks™Publisher, produced by OverDrive, Inc.

For more information on ReaderWorks, visit us on the Web at “www.readerworks.com”

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve