9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC (22 page)

Stry puffed out an irritated breath. “I can’t believe I
don’t have the power to cross the barrier of her spell. I have to try something
else. It’s been a week since the elders sent us out on this damnable witch hunt.
I’m no closer to locating her than I was the first day.”

“What
are you going to do?” Sage asked, shuffling his feet in an attempt to stay
warm.

“I don’t know.” Stry shrugged. “Maybe try some night
hunting. See if I have any better luck with my summons.” He blew out a long,
disgusted breath. “I’d better find her soon or the guild will set Black Drayke
on her. They’ll doubt I’m trying to locate her. I hate to think what that bag
of slime would do to any one of those witches. I want to save Talon the pain of
that if I can.”

“I
know.” Sage chewed on his bottom lip. He held his hand out to his cousin. “I’m
hitting the pastry shop,” he said. “The witch Kirrah or the
illumrof
female should be there, maybe both if I’m lucky. I can get my part of this job
finished.”

Stry
shook Sage’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know why the ancients assigned you two
females to terminate, but be fast and be discreet. We don’t want to start a
panic among the witches. It would be disastrous this early in the season. Good
luck and stay strong.”

“I hate this.”

Stry’s lips tightened. “I know.”

Sage sketched a quick salute and turned in the opposite
direction, headed to the Sugar-N-Spice pastry store. He frowned, his brows
drawing together as he walked down the boardwalk. The thought of taking the
soul of a witch haunted him. He wondered if she’d feel pain, and if she’d haunt
him afterward.

Drawing a deep breath, Sage made his way past the Maypole
and through the town-square of Sanctuary. He hesitated outside the Sugar-N-Spice
bakery, swearing softly. Dragging his heels wasn’t going to get the job done.
He should have already taken care of Hannah Miller, but he’d jumped at the
chance to help Stry, an excuse to delay his own assignment.

Now
he was fresh out of excuses.

Straightening
his shoulders, Sage released the locked door with a single incantation and
stepped inside the pastry shop.

* * * *

Sanctuary

Talon
looked around the gift shop while he waited for Saylym’s last customer to
finish browsing through the scented candles. The patron, a young witch, was in
no hurry to complete her shopping, though she kept sending him nervous glances.

He
wasn’t sure if she was frightened of him because he was a
waken
or
simply nervous of royalty. Once she realized his interest was centered on
Saylym, she relaxed, and concentrated on her selections.

She darted an occasional glance toward her small son, who
busied himself skipping up and down the aisles on one leg. Suddenly the child
tripped and fell, crying out as his hands and knees connected with the rough,
hard floor.

Saylym
rushed over to the child, lifting him to his feet. “Aw, sweetheart, let me
see.”

The little boy whimpered, his lower lip trembling. She
lifted him on the counter and eyed his scraped knees exposed below black
shorts. “Goodness that mean old floor just reached up and bit you on the
knees.”

The
child’s eyes grew round. He bobbed his head up and down. “Big tooth bit me.”

Saylym smiled at the boy’s mother, nodding to let her know
her son was fine. “What’s your name?” she asked. Talon watched as Saylym dug a
couple of adhesive bandages from her jeans pocket.

The
child’s eyes grew round with wonder. “What’s that?” he asked, watching her rip
open the paper.

Saylym
looked up surprised. “What? These little things? Band-Aids.”

As
the little boy looked confused, Saylym asked, “You don’t know what a Band-Aid
is?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Course
not. For a moment there I forgot I was in the Land of Oz. Silly me.”

“Lamee,” the child sniffed, losing his curiosity with the
Band-Aids and instead, concentrated on his pain. “I’m Lamee. It hurts sooo
bad.”

“I know, baby. Lamee? My, that’s a fine name for a little
boy. Is it short for lamb chop?”

The little boy shook his head, his thick brown curls
bouncing back and forth. “It’s short for Lamee.”

Saylym
giggled. “Well, it’s a fine name, sweetie.”

“That’s
what Mommy said.”

“Your mommy’s a smart lady.” Saylym plastered the
Band-Aids across both his skinned knees, then reached for a black marker near
the cash register. The child watched and laughed when she drew smiley faces on
them. “There, now,” she said, brushing the dirt off the palms of his hands.
“You have something you can show off to your friends.”

Lamee
flung his arms around Saylym’s neck and pressed a slobbery kiss to her cheek.
“Thank you, lady witch.”

Saylym
patted the child’s back, laughing softly as she helped him from the counter.
“You’re very welcome, sweetie.”

Talon watched Saylym with the child, transfixed. He
swallowed hard as an unfamiliar ache caught at his heart. His gaze followed the
line of her breasts to her flat belly and he couldn’t get the image out his
head of her heavy with his child. He fisted a hand against his mouth. Never.
She’d never carry his son or daughter.

His body clenched with a sudden staggering need to plant
his child in her. Uneasy with the raging demands of his body, he shifted his
gaze away from Saylym while she totaled up the young mother’s purchases.

It’d been a mistake coming here. He couldn’t fight the
overwhelming urge he felt for her or the achy tenderness that plucked his heart
right out of his chest and gave it into her keeping.

He hadn’t stolen her soul, but she’d sure taken a piece of
his, and he didn’t think there was a way to reclaim it.
Unclaim me.
His
mind screamed the urgent command. Too late, his heart cried. No matter how hard
he fought it, he belonged to her.

Talon smiled wistfully thinking of Saylym’s demand he
unclaim her. Never. Who’d ever heard of unclaiming? Just as there was no escape
for him, he’d never release her either.

He swore softly when he realized just how determined he
was to keep her. He didn’t want to unclaim her, even if it was possible. He
couldn’t. She was a part of him now, had wormed her way into his heart. She
might bear the mark of claiming, but they belonged to each other.

Damn.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Somehow,
he had to convince the guild that she was worthy of living without his
surrendering his freedom to her or giving up the chance of ever fathering a
child. Talon pulled his thoughts from Saylym and glanced around.

In
spite of everything, he was impressed with the shop. It was small but
organized. Bins ran the length of the center aisle, brimming with crystals and rune
stones. Statues of tiny ceramic wizards and witches stood facing each other on
shelves, as if they were at a standoff.

On
the shelf next to them were dragons, faeries, and even crystal balls for
scrying. Chimes made from multi-colored gemstones hung from the ceiling and
jingled every time the door was opened. In every nook and cranny, shelves held
scented candles and sticks of incense.

But
reigning supreme were the books—every shape, size, and century imaginable—on
magic.

Drawn
to all things magical
.

Talon
frowned. Was she attracted to him simply because he was magic? No. He wouldn’t
accept that. But the question lingered like a dark shadow in his mind. He
looked around. Saylym had done a fine job of fixing up the place.

The little shop sent a message of warmth, an inviting
place hard to resist, but he was still surprised at how busy she’d been all
afternoon. There wasn’t a thing inside the shop that a witch couldn’t conjure
for herself and still the witches came, shopped and lingered.

A small seating area gave them a place to gather and
Saylym served tea, fresh ground coffee, iced coffees, and assorted frosted
cookies. The witches lingered to chat, whiling away hours. Saylym’s laughter
and warmth drew them and invited them to sit and stay awhile. It was odd
because mainly, witches, like
wakens
,
shied away from
Impures,
but not in Saylym’s case.

He inhaled, drawing in the scent of the shop. It smelled
of roasted coffee, sugary delights, and dusty antiques. Most importantly, it
smelled of Saylym. Excitement stirred the air. In spite of the sudden change in
the weather, flowers bloomed all over town, coming to life to enjoy this
special time.

Beltane. A time of renewal. A resurgence of life. One
could hardly miss the Maypole and ribbons in the town square. When he’d walked
to Saylym’s shop earlier in the day, young women of all ages could be seen with
crowns of spring flowers in their hair. He’d paused to watch them dance and
sing. Their soft chanting and lilting voices blended sweetly.

In
spite of the chilly air, the sound of their joyous laughter rang out like
musical bells, filling the town with the sweet music of happiness and
anticipation as the women circled the pole.

Excitement
buzzed everywhere.

It was a time of pleasure and sensuality, a time of
romance, love, and fertility. Queen of May would be elected in a little over a
week. She’d sit upon her throne and rule, with absolute power, for the one
night of her coronation.

The phallic icon of fertility the Maypole symbolized
encouraged every witch and
waken
to celebrate their sexuality to the
Horned God, an approval to mate and reproduce. For the next four weeks,
wizards, warlocks,
wakens,
and witches would be mating. With luck, some
of the witches would conceive.

Come October, if the season proved to be a ripe one, there’d
be an influx of new births. However, few
wakens
would choose a bond
mate, instead leaving the witch to rear the child on her own if she conceived.

It was a tradition as old as time itself and ‘bastard’ was
not a stigma recognized in their world. It was simply their way of life. It’d
been this way for all time. At the thought of mating with Saylym, heat seared
Talon’s body. He grew hard as a witching rod. By the gods, he desired to mate
with her. He wanted to do it often this season, but like most
wakens,
he
shuddered at the thought of bonding. He was barely five hundred years of age,
much too young to settle down with a mate.

And there was a distinct difference in mating and bonding.
Bonding with a witch was a lifetime commitment, like the human’s marriage
ceremony. He couldn’t imagine spending centuries and centuries with one witch.

Life
would become tedious.

He
sighed.

Beltane.
Mating time. Fertility time.

Though not involved with the rearing of the child, a
clever
waken
chose a mother for his child wisely. Or if he preferred no
child, he abstained during Beltane, which wasn’t to a
waken’s
liking at
all. They were, by nature, sensual creatures and being locked out of Sanctuary
every year until Beltane arrived had long been a thorn in the
wakens’
lifestyle.

Beltane was the time for conception. All Hallows’ Eve, the
time for birth, but there were all the months in between to take pleasure in.
It wasn’t just the guild that needed new laws. The witches needed to make
changes, too.

Along with All Hallows’ Eve, Beltane was one of the most
powerful times for a witch. She was fertile only in the spring and her scent
drew the
waken
. It was age-old and irresistible. Choosing not to mate at
Beltane was painful, especially for a
waken
.

It was nearly impossible to achieve celibacy at this time.

For the last three years he’d chosen to remain celibate
during Beltane. He had no liking to scatter his seed to the four corners of
Ru-Noc, or to leave a witch with a responsibility he secretly yearned to share.
And mating once a year, although exciting, also left him dissatisfied, until
now, he hadn’t understood the reason why.

Yes, he’d suffered greatly for abstaining but at least he
had peace of mind. As he’d grown older and wiser, he’d sought somewhere to go,
anywhere away from Sanctuary, where witches waited with hope for
wakens
to father a child with them. Staying away from Sanctuary helped ease both the
urge and the pain of needing to mate, but it didn’t completely prevent it.

Talon nibbled on his bottom lip, deep in thought. He
yearned to be a better father than his own had been to him. But there were
those who didn’t care. Like warlocks. They were selfish beings whose only goal
in life was their own pleasure and the torment of others.

They cared not how many children they fathered or even
concerned themselves with the child’s life. Many times, if the witch was as
selfish and cold-hearted as the warlock, then the child was abandoned to fend
for itself. It was cruel, but a harsh fact.

He slid a glance over Saylym. She headed toward him, a
trusting smile on her beautiful face. She’d never abandon a child. Her heart
was too soft. Unwillingly, he stared at her belly. His groin tightened.

It’d been a difficult decision to Handfast with her,
mainly because there could never be a child. When they mated, she wouldn’t understand
his refusal to give her his seed. Her natural instinct would be to conceive.

Saylym stopped in front of him, eyeing him nervously. A
wave of heat punched him. He shifted, uncomfortable with the aching hardness
that throbbed urgently against his zipper.

If
they mated, he thought sourly.

Even though he’d wiped away the memory of his attempt to
steal her soul, she remained skittish as hell around him, as if she suspected
he’d done something to her she couldn’t remember. If Saylym ever discovered
he’d tried to take her spirit, she’d hate him.