Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (12 page)

“Stop that! Ah, gods, stop that!”

“Give me my hand back!”

Think!
She did believe she could successfully remove the curse, even as weak as she was. Removing spells wasn't as difficult as placing them, she reminded herself. Elianna always said, “A toddler can't inscribe calligraphy but can easily erase it.”

Silently vowing to stick a new, worse curse on him at the earliest opportunity, she laid her flat hand on his back, then drew it outward, pulling at the hex.

Nothing. Gritting her teeth, she returned her hand and attempted once more. This time her hand met resistance, as though she'd laid her palm in a pool of glue. She had a grip on the hex!

Mari drew her hand back again. Stretching . . . pulling . . .

His hand began to regenerate—growing, bulging in his bloody bandage until his new claws ripped through the cloth.

As he stared at his healing hand, he murmured, “You've almost done it.” He sounded partly mystified and partly disgusted.

“I'm too weak.”

“More of it, witch!”

She shook her head against his back. “I'm going to pass out again.”

“Doona care.”

“I do! Vow to the Lore that you'll get me safely to Rydstrom.”

“To Rydstrom, then?” he snapped in a strange tone. “Do this and I'll vow it.”

Inhaling a deep breath, she made another shaking attempt, growing dizzier with each second.

“That's it.” His hand appeared restored, and still he demanded in a husky voice, “
More.
”

She gritted between her teeth, “Doing everything . . . I
can
 . . .”

With his new hand, he ripped at the bandage on his head and raised his bared face to the rain. “Good girl. Now only one more spell to go—”

Was that
her
strangled cry? And the world went black once more.

A
s the witch's slight body grew limp over him, Bowe's strength came surging back. He blinked his eyes, flexed his hand, and inhaled deeply. After inwardly cataloging his many smaller injuries he realized he was completely healed—whole again. No pain, no wrenching agony in his ribs with each breath. She'd done it.

Bowe recognized that he felt better than he had in memory.

Now he easily climbed the vine, and even leapt the twenty feet to the top of the mountainside shelf he'd sought. Earlier from below, he'd scented that somewhere at this elevation there was a source of spring water in case it stopped raining. He'd also noted the musty odor of a sheltering cave in case it didn't. As soon as he'd claimed her from Rydstrom, Bowe had made for the mountain.

The cave was about a half mile away through thick hardwoods, so he decided to get food and drink into the witch at once, now that the immediate danger had passed. He stalked a small, square area of the plateau, surveying for poisonous plants or animals. With his keen eyesight restored, he spied none—only rain-matted, leafy vines. Yes, this place would work.

Once he laid Mariketa on the bed of thick foliage, the
light rain began to wash away the blood on her face and smoothed her hair back from her pointed ears. With one of her slender arms limp at her side and the other curled beside her head, she merely looked like a delicate, vulnerable female—not the witch of unspeakable power he'd just witnessed. And not the killer she'd proven herself to be.

He had indistinct memories of her rather ordinary looks—nothing special or standout, which was no doubt exactly what she'd intended with her glamour. Now her pale skin was stark against the leaves. Her wee ears pointed sharply, beautifully. The small top she wore was wet and nearly transparent against her generous breasts.

Even dirty and injured, she was so damned striking. . . .

—
Yours.
—

When the Instinct whispered soothingly, he closed his eyes. He hadn't mistaken it earlier, hadn't imagined it. Gods, how he'd missed it—he wanted to roar with pleasure from its return.

When he gazed back down at her, for the briefest instant he thought,
Keep the bloody spell, keep the Instinct, keep the beauty offered up before me. Why no'?

He shook his head hard. Guilt set in, and anger began to build. He was actually contemplating becoming a mindless slave to a witch's will? A witch that had been so savage just moments before? His father must be turning over in his grave right now.

Bowe removed his pack, dropping it beside her, and easily opened the previously plaguing ties now that he had both hands. Kneeling down, he dug for drink—only two of the bottles hadn't been crushed. At least the gel packs were intact.

He looped his arm under her neck and lifted her, but
even unconscious, she feebly resisted him. With repeated attempts, he made her drink half a bottle and swallow some of the gel.

Satisfied with that for now, he swept his gaze over her body. Hazy recollections of her appearance from before began to crystallize in his mind, and he realized that she didn't seem to have lost a good deal of weight. Somehow, she
hadn't
starved. But his relief was short-lived.

Had those things gotten ahold of her?

With his heart in his throat, he laid her back to examine her injuries, washing from her arms and legs the worst of the dirt and blood in the light rain.

If they'd taken her, he'd expect her shorts to be ripped, but they weren't. He'd expect to see bruises consistent with the grip of fingers, but he found none at her neck or on her pale thighs.

After tugging down her shirt, Bowe gazed at her plump breasts, plainly visible through her transparent bra. No bruises marred the creamy flesh there either. There was a chance she'd been protected from the worst attacks of those incubi.

He tried to turn away then, but her deep pink nipples were growing harder as drops of rain hit her breasts. He hissed an oath. No witch should ever be as fine as this.

She was perfect and lovely, and his mouth watered to suckle those jutting nipples. Unable to help himself, he brushed the backs of his fingers over one, and she shivered.

This is madness
. He'd just pulled her top back when movement rustled the leaves all around her. Claws bared, his hands shot down, thinking an animal approached, yet then . . .
vines
began to creep up over her body, twining over her in profusion, as if protectively.

Eyes wide, he snapped, “Ah, bugger me!” and just prevented himself from lunging back. Magick. Right bloody here. When he reached for her, briars jabbed and tore at his skin. Even with his strength, he couldn't rip them from her.

Yet he didn't sense danger to her.

Her blowing up the tomb was bad enough, but this eerie, insidious magick unnerved him far more. He stood and paced back and forth, glancing uneasily at her, raking his fingers through his hair.

There in the cage of greenery, right before his eyes, her skin began to pinken, her lips reddening and plumping once more. As she slept, as natural as if she'd been born there, her scrapes and bruises faded, leaving behind only smooth, porcelain skin. He found her so damned attractive—even as the magick made his stomach roil.

Was this another charm? Not a healing spell but another enchantment? Was this even what she truly looked like? Bloody hell, he hoped not. To be pitted against both the unnatural spell
and
her natural beauty?

He forced himself to recall her visage as she'd delighted in strangling him. That was what she truly was.

Below them, the vacuum began to slow, sated at last. He heard the others climbing long before they'd reached the plateau. Once Rydstrom had cleared the edge, his gaze flickered over Bowe's hand and eye. “She healed you?”

“Aye. And herself. But now she's trapped in those vines.”

Rydstrom nodded, seeming unconcerned with his leg injury. “We need to get her somewhere dry.” He limped over to her. “None of us are in any condition to navigate our way out of here tonight.”

Bowe saw that the five were gaunt, their lips chapped
and eyes sunken. Now that she'd worked her magicks, the mortal appeared to be in better shape than the immortals.

“And what about the Scot?” one of the male archers asked.

Bowe answered, “The
Scot
goes wherever that witch goes.”

Cade said, “I think Tierney meant
now
can we grease this Lykae?”

Once Rydstrom reached the witch, he bent down for her. The briars parted for him, allowing him to lift her. When Rydstrom cradled her in his arms, Bowe felt his lips drawing back, his fangs lengthening.

—
That male takes your place . . . takes what's yours.
—

No, damn it, not his. She was a means to an end to get the curse lifted, a means he didn't want to let out of his sight. But he knew they couldn't get far from him. He was strong again, he reminded himself. No one could prevent him from taking her back.

“The explosion will draw the humans' attention,” Rydstrom said as he handed her to Cade. “Best get her out of sight. I scent a cave nearby.”

The one where Bowe had planned to bed Mariketa and himself down for the night.

Cade took her but hesitated to leave, plainly hankering for a fight.

“I'll handle this,” Rydstrom assured him. “My old friend Bowen and I are going to have a talk.”

A talk? Bowe gave a humorless laugh. Then why were his horns straightening and blackening? Bowe's own beast stirred, ready to battle the demon if it came to that. Bowe hoped otherwise. He needed to question Rydstrom—not kill him.

“I'll get a fire started,” Cade finally said, gazing down at her. “Try to scavenge some food.” When Cade started off, Bowe battled the nearly irresistible urge to retrieve her. He checked it, but followed the sight of her hair swaying over Cade's arm for long moments.

The archers cast Bowe menacing looks, then eventually trailed after Cade, leaving Bowe and Rydstrom alone.

“You're lucky I owed you a blood debt, MacRieve, or I'd get retribution for the stunt you pulled.”

When Rydstrom had been king, he'd allied with Bowe's army—back when there were enough Lykae for Bowe to be a general of his own men. In one battle against the Vampire Horde, Rydstrom and Cade's youngest sister had sneaked into the fray. Bowe had saved her life.

“Yet that doesn't mean I'll be able to hold off the others from trying,” Rydstrom said.

Bowe couldn't care less about them. Now that he was strong, they posed no real threat to him.

In fact, the only one who did was the witch.

“And Cade will not be bothered by the debt if Mariketa doesn't recover fully. Or if she asks him to kill you.”

“What is she to him?” Bowe demanded. “What's his interest?”

Rydstrom shrugged. “He probably wants to attempt her.”

Bowe felt his fists clench, claws digging into his palms. Whereas Lykae could recognize their mates by scent or even sight, many demon breed males could only determine if a female was his by mating her. Demons called this investigation
attempting
.

“Why don't you tell me what she is to you?” Rydstrom said, his tone stern. “That you're
still
glancing over my shoulder in her direction, and your hands are bleeding?”

“She cursed me, and I need her to remove it.”

“But you're healed.”

“The witch did no' just hex me with mortality—she hexed me to believe she's my mate.”

Rydstrom raised his brows, but before he could ask for details, Bowe said, “Now tell me—what in the hell happened to her in there?”

“The better question would be what
didn't
happen to her.” Bowe scowled, but Rydstrom said, “What did you expect? You left a beautiful female in a tomb with at least a half dozen crazed incubi.”

“There were no bruises consistent with that.” Bowe stubbornly shook his head. “She dinna appear to have been hurt that way.”

“No, I don't believe so. But you have to know that she's been through hell and back for weeks.”

“Believe so? What do you mean
believe
so? You were no' with her?”

“They took her shortly after you sealed the tomb. We suspect they'd just been waiting for the chance to snatch her.”

“Why did you no' steal her back?” Bowe closed in on Rydstrom, ready to tear out his throat. “Because she's a witch?”

“You might be eaten up with that prejudice, but all I saw was a defenseless young mortal. I didn't succeed in stealing her back because they took her to their lair, over a hundred feet above us. And any time we tried to scale the walls—the inverted walls—they attacked with a viciousness I have seen in few battles in all my years.”

“Then how the hell did you get her tonight?”

“Each day I tried to convince her to jump, but she's
terrified of heights. Then, while the incubi slept this afternoon, she finally said she'd do it. It's as if she knew you were coming,” he said, clearly thinking back. “I had just caught her and checked her over—she'd been sick—when they attacked again. You returned right as we were having our asses handed to us.” Frowning at Bowe, he said, “You know, I'd been uneasy when I learned that Mariketa had cursed you, but now I see that if she hadn't, we'd still be in that hell.”