Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (18 page)

She shot him a glare, then dressed in his shirt, rolling up the sleeves because it swallowed her. He frowned when she drew out that second patch, applying it to a spot on the inside of her elbow. He'd had no idea what it was for or he'd have thrown it out in an instant.

Contraception in a patch. And the damned thing seemed to be taunting him.

After putting more wood on the fire, he sat beside it on the pallet, coaxing her to join him there. “Come, witchling, I'll dry your hair.”

“I can do it myself.”

“This is still part of the deal, the deal you agreed to.”

With a sigh, she joined him. Outside, the rain started up once more and began to pound all the broad leaves. Inside, the fire crackled, burnishing her long red hair with gold as he sifted it through his fingers, drying it into big curls. Now that he'd bathed her, the scent of her hair and skin was sublime, filling his senses.

Yes, she could have done this herself, but he didn't want to give up tasks like these. They pleased him in new ways, soothing the constant yearning he'd battled for years. At last, he didn't suffer from that strangling sense of urgency—to find the means to bring his mate back to him.

He felt his lids grow heavy, not only with desire, but with
satisfaction
. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to be content. The need to have her was still pressing, yet he savored even that. He'd rather endure unfulfilled lust, with the hope of slaking it, than the hopelessness he'd suffered for so long.

He found he was able to push aside his reservations and just enjoy this, feeling as if he was exactly where he was supposed to be. He grew so comfortable that he didn't believe his eyes when tears began to stream down her face.

“Bloody hell, Mariketa. Why do you cry?”

She swiped at her cheeks. “I'm your enemy. It should please you to see me miserable.”

“Should. But it does no'.” She was . . .
miserable?
He racked his brain for what else she could possibly want. He'd thought he was making progress with her. “What do you need, then? To no' be unhappy?”

She jerked back from him, and he just unthreaded his fingers from her hair in time not to hurt her. “I can't do this! This gentleness from you . . . you confuse me, and I'm so tired and I
hate
you so much.” Tears continued to track down her face.

“Damn you, stop this cryin', Mariketa.”

At that, she went up on her knees and punched his shoulder. Her expression said she'd found that hit surprisingly satisfying, so she did it again and again, slapping and punching. “You left me in there!” His eyes narrowed as he took the blows, but he didn't stop her. “And the only reason you came back was to get well again.”

“Had I that night to do over again, I'd act differently.”

She finally ran out of energy, gave a halfhearted slap, then sank down onto her bottom. In a stunned tone, she murmured, “You just . . .
left
me.”

The witch had her swagger and wasn't shy about using her powers—his neck still hurt from her attack. Yet had she experienced a moment of astonished disbelief like this when the stone had dropped, not only because of her predicament but because he'd done it to her?

“You were the one who told me I could no' complain because this was a competition. You said all's fair.”

“It is all fair. However, this doesn't mean I want to be seduced by the man who hurt me. You looked me in the eyes and trapped me, setting me up for hell. Do you possibly think I'd want to wake up next to you? Or see you staring down at me when we had sex?” She rested her forehead in
her palm, and he suspected she was too exhausted to guard her words. “I'd thought you were different.”

“Regret for my actions with you weighs on me. And take pleasure in knowing that your weakening spell hit me hard.” He exhaled a long breath. “I was in a minefield competing against the vampire and the Valkyrie. That bloody vampire made it so a mine was triggered just beneath me. I lost my eye, had half my face seared away. A length of shrapnel pierced my torso. I accumulated injury after injury that I could no' heal from. This information should please you.”

She continued to cry, sniffling as she repeated his words: “Should. But it doesn't.”

Bloody hell, this is unbearable
. He had no idea what to say, no experience comforting a female away from her tears. So in the end he said nothing, just eased her down onto the pallet, his palm covering her entire shoulder.

As she stared dazedly into the fire, he sat up behind her, using his whole hand to smooth her hair back from her face, his other thumb to brush away tears. When he grazed the tip of her pointed ear, it twitched in reaction.

Eventually her eyelids grew heavy. Yet even when her eyes closed, tears continued to fall. Under his breath, he muttered, “
Damn it, witch, doona . . . hurt.
”

When her breathing grew deep and even, and he knew she was asleep, he gazed down at her, studying her. Her small, pixie nose had the lightest dusting of freckles, and her chin was delicately stubborn. That silky red hair curled about her finely boned face.

Her ruby lips were slightly parted as she slept. An exquisite, if small, female.

And, gods help me, she might be . . . mine.

Unable to stop himself, he eased down behind her. When he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her soft, wee body against his, she sighed. As a test, he nuzzled her neck. Her ear twitched again, and she curled into him closer. Even in sleep she responded to him as if she were his.

Two things he knew: Taking her would be like nothing he'd ever imagined. And second, he had to be certain of her, which meant getting that patch off her at the earliest opportunity.

M
ari woke sometime in the night, compelled for some reason to read the letter in his bag. She feared that even after everything, the reason was jealousy.

She suspected he'd awakened when she'd left the pallet, but he said nothing as she went through his things. Really, what could he say after he'd gone through hers?

Once more, she eased the letter out and opened it, frowning to find it was from the Valkyrie Nïx, and intended
for Mari
. Why hadn't MacRieve given it to her? Instead the bastard had broken the seal and read it!

After a glare in his direction, she skimmed the lines.

Mariketa,

Happy Accession! Behold, a gift. A skeleton key of sorts . . . a piece of the puzzle for the Witch in the Glass.

Fondly as ever,

Lady Nïx,

Proto-Valkyrie

My mother says I must not pass

Too near that glass;

She is afraid that I will see

A little witch that looks like me,

With a red, red mouth to whisper low

The very thing I should not know!

PS: You still owe me fifty bucks.

What—the—hell?

What glass? Was the mother Mari's own? Why would Nïx think Mari would need this?

Mari had known Nïx all her life, and she was aware that, as confused as Nïx always seemed, the Valkyrie did not do things without reason. In fact, Mari had been around her enough to know that
everything
she did—no matter how seemingly inconsequential or crazed-sounding—was done with purpose, from a stray word to an absent touch.

With that in mind, Mari took the letter and padded past MacRieve and the fire toward the water. At the pool, she knelt down and peered at the smooth surface, wondering if the words could be an incantation.

Mari's spell casting was hit-or-miss at best, and witches were most vulnerable to another's spells when they cast their own. Spells opened the gates, and anything could get in.

As Elianna taught, “Reach for power, leave your power vulnerable.”

Mari's uncontrollable, near
useless
power. What was there to lose, truly? Besides the ability to send MacRieve airborne?

Decided, she began to murmur the words, once, twice . . . on the third recitation, her reflection began to
shift as if the pool had been disturbed. Then she saw something she never expected. Her eyes looked like mirrors and her hair swirled about her head, though Mari felt her hair heavy down her back in the windless cave. It was her in the water, but it wasn't.

“What . . . what is this?” she whispered.

The reflection
spoke,
answering, “
A conjuration.
”

Mari was actually conjuring? “Who
are
you?” she breathed in amazement.

“
You,
” the reflection replied.

“But how?”

“
You are the Mirror Witch. Reflections conduct your powers to you
.” The voice was Mari's own, but distorted—the way wind sounded different sieving through misted leaves.

“I can divine by mirror?” She knew of a few witches who could do this, and it was a handy talent to have.

“You are a true captromancer.”

Whoa. Not just a handy talent. Captromancers were extremely rare. They were said to be able not only to divine by mirrors, as astromancers did with stars, but to use them as focusing tools, protective talismans—and even as portals for travel. “But I don't understand. I've never used a mirror to aid my magick.”

“Come with me
—
I'll show you.”

Mari pulled back, fear like ice building inside her veins. “In there?”

“
Are you ready, Mari?”

“R-ready for what?” She felt danger warring with allure, her compulsion battling her aversion. This could be a trick by a sorceress, a spell to divert Mari's powers from her. She shook her head wildly. “No, I'm not ready . . . not ready . . .”

When a pale hand broke the surface of the water, Mari wanted to lunge back, to escape this, but was transfixed by the glistening apple offered in the nearly transparent palm. In that sighing voice, the reflection coaxed, “
Just have a taste . . .
”

B
owe swallowed, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. . . . Yet Mariketa still was there, reaching forward to accept an apple from a ghostly wet hand.

Shooting to his feet, charging for her, he roared, “
Doona touch it!
”

His bellow echoed again and again. In the shadows all around them, the bats erupted into flight. As he sprinted past the water, out of the corner of his eye he saw the reflection of the witch—but
it didn't match her
. Mariketa hadn't glanced up at him; the woman in the water kept her brilliant eyes on him.

He lunged for Mariketa, snatching the apple from her hand, then throwing it against the wall so hard it disintegrated. Just as the bats swarmed them, he pressed her down, rolling atop her to protect her head and body.

Minutes passed. When the throng settled at last, she opened her eyes—and they reflected
him,
before gradually clearing.

“You vowed to me you would no' do magick around me!”

“I-I figured you would be asleep.”

“Even worse!” Bowe had woken to find his arms empty of warm, curvy witch and had been displeased about that to a surprising degree. He'd heard her rummaging through
his bag and had thought she might be searching his things for the same reason he'd done hers—because she was itching with curiosity about him. Instead she'd been intent on getting to that chilling letter. “You went through my bag.”

“You went through mine! Why didn't you give me the letter? It was for me!”

“Because I bloody knew something like this would happen. The thing in the water came about because of that rhyme, did it no'? And just what in the hell
was
that thing?”

“I don't know.”