The Calling (2 page)

Once long ago, before the world had nearly ended, they’d been friends. Back then, Malachi’s eyes had been the vivid violet of the evening sky above Arroway; now they had darkened to midnight black, and a miasma of wrongness hung about him.

Malachi had never accused him out right, but Jarrod had always wondered if he suspected his involvement in Freya’s escape all those years ago. He shrugged and kept his tone casual. “We have unfinished business.”

He hated this place, hated what had become of the Order. After Freya had vanished, he’d left the Keep and gone in search of any news he could find. At first, he’d heard nothing. Then rumors had started of a young witch and more recently, of a witch with the mark. The trail had led him back here. He’d reached the Keep only hours ahead of Freya.

A brief smile flickered across Malachi’s face. “Well, you can have her. For now, at least.”

Jarrod desperately wanted to know what had become of his daughter and what Malachi planned, but he kept his tone deliberately blank. “I’m surprised Tallon didn’t have orders to kill her.”

“The mother is no threat in herself, and if Tallon fails to find the witch, then she might just be the bait we need to bring her in.” Relief flooded him at the knowledge that his daughter still lived.

For now. “So they haven’t found the girl yet?”

“No, but Tallon is going back out there. He’ll find her.”
And kill her.

The words were unspoken, but he knew them to be true. After all, that’s what Tallon did best—he was the Enforcer. He hunted down the enemies of the Order, and he killed them.

How had the world come to this? How could he have ignored what was going on for so long? He’d told himself he had no right to interfere. Now his daughter was being hunted like an animal.

And he had no doubt that Tallon would succeed. He was very good at what he did, but Jarrod wondered how he would find this particular job. They’d never sent him after a woman before; witches were scarce now. Tallon’s usual prey were hardened criminals, not innocent young girls.

“We need to know if the mother has any information on where the witch is,” Malachi said. “And I want to know how she got out of here back then.” He smiled again. “You can question her—do what you like with her, but get the information.” Jarrod turned back to the window, but the courtyard was empty now. His mind churned with thoughts of what he could do. How he could save her a second time.

“How did you find her?” he asked.

“We’d been getting reports of a girl with a witches’ mark. The moon magic was rising so we sent—”

A knock sounded on the door, and Tallon entered.

He looked every inch the Enforcer. Long black leather coat, a sword sheathed at his back, a knife at his thigh, and his staff held loosely in his hand. His dark hair was pulled back and tied with a leather thong, revealing the strong lines of his face and the exhaustion haunting his purple eyes.

“You’re injured?” Malachi nodded toward the bandage wrapped around his hand.

Tallon shrugged. “It’s nothing.” A brief smile flashed across his face. “She bit me.”

The Enforcer was the most powerful warlock the Order had seen in a long time, maybe even more powerful than Jarrod or Malachi, but he had not risen as far as he could. He was a loner who found the rules and rituals that governed the Order too restrictive and had chosen the job as Enforcer instead of a position within the inner council. If Jarrod went after his daughter, he would go up against Tallon, and he wasn’t sure he would win.

Malachi rose from his chair and strode across the room. He halted in front of Tallon.

“The witch?”

“She got away. They split up, and I’m sure the mother allowed herself to be captured on purpose to give the girl time to escape. But I thought you would want her safely back here.”

“You should have followed the girl. She’s the one that matters.” Malachi’s tone was harsh, but Tallon merely shrugged again.

“I’ve been hunting them for days. She’s close to exhaustion, and I’ll run her to ground. You still want her dead? I could bring her back.

There’s a bond between the mother and daughter—if you hold them both, they’ll no doubt cooperate.”

Malachi paced the length of the room as he considered the option.

“No. Kill her,” he said. “She’s too powerful. We can’t risk it.” Tallon opened his mouth to answer, but Malachi waved him down. “The moon magic is rising. We will lose control and Arroway will falter.”

Jarrod stepped forward. “Perhaps there is another way.” Malachi whirled to face him. “I think you forget exactly who this witch is. She’s only twenty-two and she already bears the moon mark.

Even Casterix did not show such power so young. She must die.” Jarrod flinched as the name stirred up old emotions; guilt, loss, anger, and despair. They rose up inside him, saturating his mind.

Casterix.

The witch who had nearly destroyed Arroway a thousand years ago. Tallon nodded once and left the room. Jarrod gazed after him. He had to find a way to get to his daughter before Tallon, and the only way he could think was with Freya’s cooperation. And she hated him.

~*~

The heavy door swung shut behind her, leaving her alone in the cell. She was underground, in the dungeons hewn out of the rock below the Keep. The only light came from a metal grill in the ceiling, dim but sufficient to make out the room, less than ten feet by ten feet and bare, no furniture, and rough stone walls. But at least the air was fresh and clean.

They had unbound her hands, and she rubbed at the red patches on her wrists where the rope had chaffed. The Enforcer hadn’t hurt her, but he had been implacable and taken no chances on her escaping. She hadn’t tried anyway—at least while he was bringing her here, he wasn’t hunting Shayla. Besides, most of the way, she’d been unconscious and in no state to attempt anything. Once she had come to, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider where they were heading, what would happen at the end of their journey.

Now she needed to think. But she was finding it hard to overcome the encroaching despair that clouded her thoughts. She was back in the one place she had vowed never to return, and she could already sense the air of pervading evil that saturated the Keep. The tendrils tugged at her mind, sapping her will and making it hard to concentrate.

She hoped that Shayla would be sensible and not come looking for her. With luck, she wouldn’t even be aware her mother had been captured. They’d separated, hoping to confuse their pursuers, and it would hopefully be days before Shayla discovered what had happened.

Freya presumed she would be dead by then. She wouldn’t let them use her to ensnare her daughter. And no way would she submit to any warlock; they would have to kill her first.

Briefly, she wondered what had happened to the warlock who had helped her all those years ago. Both Freya and her daughter owed him their lives, but she could hardly remember his face. Was he still here? She pushed the thoughts aside. She hadn’t understood why he helped her back then, and she wouldn’t allow herself to hope. Besides whatever his reasons, he was still a warlock. Without his kind, there would have been no need to save her from anything, and she would never forgive them for what they had done to her and the other witches they kept as slaves.

The power within her daughter terrified her at times, but it also showed her exactly what the Order had taken from them. Their magic ripped from them at birth leaving them empty shells to be used for the Order’s pleasure.

She sank onto the rock floor, leaned her back against the rough wall, and hoped it would be over soon. Would they torture her? Try and make her tell where Shayla was? Would they use magic?

Her one hope was to anger them enough to kill her before they could use her. And maybe if she were lucky, she would get the chance to take one of them with her.

She’d learned a lot in her years on the outside. How to look after herself. How to fight. She had trained side by side with Shayla, determined her daughter would never be anyone’s victim. Shayla was small but she was fierce. A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of her daughter.

Arroway’s hope.

Her existence had given meaning to Freya’s life. Now hopefully, Freya’s death would give Shayla a chance to find the help she so desperately needed.

Resting her head on her knees, Freya closed her eyes, drifting off into an uneasy sleep and an old, familiar dream...

She stood at the top of a narrow staircase, her body aching from the
climb. In front of her was a door inlaid with runes and pulsating with
power. She touched her fingers to the ancient wood, awakening the magic. The heavy door swung inward revealing a circular chamber bathed in
starlight, and on a stone slab in the center of the room lay the Goddess,
trapped in enchanted sleep. But Freya could sense her restlessness; the
magic that bound her was weakening. All she needed was someone to...

The scrape of the bolt jolted Freya awake. The door of the cell swung open, and three girls stood in the opening She didn’t recognize them. They were young—younger than Shayla—and must have been born after she left the Keep. All beautiful, but all with the vacant expressions of the pleasure slaves. They didn’t speak and kept their eyes downcast as they gestured for her to follow them. A guard stood behind them, but Freya ignored his presence and followed the girls. They led her along a narrow corridor, up a steep flight of stone steps, along a wider corridor, and eventually into a part of the Keep she knew all too well.

This area was where the pleasure slaves were housed. Freya had spent much of her life here after she had been selected. The place was as she recalled. Comfortable enough, but the air reeked of a sickly sweet mixture of perfume and despair. Nausea roiled in her stomach at the remembered smell.

She allowed the girls to strip her clothes and bathe her—in fact, the warm water felt good against her skin, soothing her aching muscles. They brushed out her long hair, and she only baulked when they tried to rub the perfumed oil into her skin.

“I’ll throw up, if you do,” she warned, and they backed off.

Finally, they dressed her in a red silk shift that skimmed her body, leaving her arms and legs bare, then left her alone.

Freya stood in the center of the room, gnawing on her lip. The day had taken a strange turn. She’d expected torture and would have preferred it to this. Did they think she would continue where she had left off? That she would meekly kneel down and suck their stinking cocks?

They would soon learn different.

The door opened, but she didn’t turn around as soft footfalls sounded on the carpeted floor.

Living with her daughter, Freya had become attuned to the feel of magic, and now she sensed its presence. Strong magic with a flavor of Shayla in the pulsating power.

The man stepped around her and came to a halt a foot away, and she started in shock. She’d thought she had no memory of him, but she recognized him instantly—the warlock who had helped her escape all those years ago.

Was he here for his reward? If so, he was going to be disappointed.

Tall with a lean powerful body beneath black pants and a black shirt, he appeared to be in his prime, but there was an air of age about him as though he’d lived for many years. She’d learned much in her time away: the people talked of the Order and what had happened to bring about the Laws of Segregation, but it was so long ago and hard to tell the truth from mere legends. She did know that some of the more powerful warlocks were old. It had even been rumored some had lived over a thousand years, had been there when the witch Casterix nearly destroyed the world, and the Order had saved Arroway from certain destruction.

As she forced herself to look into his face, her whole body went still. His eyes were green, with a slight exotic tilt. Her daughter’s eyes.

Freya took an instinctive step back, and her hand flew to her chest to press against her pounding heart.

She didn’t remember him; the faces of the men she had knelt before in her time as a pleasure slave were blurred together in her mind.

She’d barely noticed them. Just as she didn’t remember the warlock who had impregnated her with Shayla. The room had been dark, and she had kept her mind blank through the ordeal.

It hadn’t been painful, at least not physically. The warlock had been gentle. But still her whole being had rejected what was done to her.By this man.

She knew it with a certainty. This was Shayla’s father.

Was that why he had helped her escape all those years ago? Did he believe there was some sort of bond between them? If so, he was out of his mind.

“Kneel.”

The softly spoken word pulled her from her thoughts, and she almost knelt in automatic response to the command she’d heard so many times. This place was playing with her senses, sapping her free will, and she had to force herself to hold her ground, concentrate. She shook her head and took a step back.

His eyes narrowed.

Freya breathed deeply and focused her mind and her body on the fight to come. She couldn’t win; she was smaller and unarmed, while he wore a long silver dagger strapped to his thigh. But she’d had over twenty years of freedom—a freedom she had never even suspected existed—and she would rather die by his knife than go back to the old servitude.

Besides, she suspected this must be a way of putting her in her place, making her remember who she was. They would break her if they could and then use her to get to Shayla—if she was dead, they could never do that.

She had a moment of regret that she wouldn’t see Shayla again.

She pushed it aside—her daughter was strong, beautiful, and free.

Freya had given her that, and it must be enough.

Without thinking further, she whirled around and kicked out at his lower legs. He stumbled, and she kicked again, aiming for his chest. With her bare feet, she couldn’t do much harm, but maybe she could knock him down, snatch his dagger...

Instead, he moved faster than she could follow, his fingers wrapping around her ankle, and he yanked her toward him and off balance.