Warrior Witch: Book Two, page 6
“Get those terrible ideas out of your head right now! Technically, we are having an affair. It’s the truth—get over it! I refuse to go back to hiding my affection for you and keeping my hands to myself. It’s stupid! And annoying. And we were both bad at it.”
“The bishop is smitten, and who could blame him?” Bran placed a hand on the back of her neck, under her hair. He squeezed gently. “You were amazing tonight. Top notch flirting.”
“I didn’t mean to lead him on, and that wasn’t flirting! I was arguing with the man, not trying to seduce him. You should know better. I’ve been about as subtle with you as a brick in the face.”
“Hmm.” He looked her up and down in a way that warmed her chest and colored her skin. “It must be the dress, then.”
“I won’t take advantage of a man like Ren. He isn’t a horrible person. I’ll win him over honestly, after I have his forgiveness for misleading him. Ugh! I need another cigarette!”
As her rant came to an end, Bran played with the ends of her hair. “Would you prefer I go and set the record straight now? Admittedly, I would enjoy that.” His grin was full of mischief and a bit more violence than Marnie was accustomed to. Sometimes she forgot she was in the presence of a powerful, dangerous man, the Lord of all Loreley, Emperor of Kings. A man who could kill others simply with his words. She hardly knew that version of Bran. He always showed her overwhelming kindness.
“I’m the one who caused the confusion. I’ll set him straight. Besides, it might not be necessary.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “He has to get through my mother first, and I’m certain she’ll eat him alive.”
Chapter 5 (Jack)
The black scaled crocodile dead on its back in the grass outside the cottage measured twenty-four steps. Jack examined the arrow in its eye, whistling. “Black scales are rare.”
He bent low and removed the arrow, analyzing the design in the shaft. The Tortua magic surrounding it felt sharp. It pricked his thumb.
“The rarest and the meanest.” Kye sat aside her recurve bow. Then she sunk her skinning knife into the flesh of the croc’s neck. She jerked the curved blade down its belly from the base of its throat to the tip of its tail.
Jack watched her work, impressed by her small deft hands and their unexpected strength. “It’ll sell for a fortune in gold district.”
Her white-blonde hair was in a tight braid. Strands broke free to curl around her face, and she blew them out of her eyes. “It’s not as much as I need, but it’s a start.”
“What do you need a fortune for?” His bare feet squelched in the mud. He searched for dryer ground. There wasn’t any.
Kye wiped the blade clean on her leather guards, her forehead sweaty. “I’m engaged.”
Jack’s gut clenched. His heart fell. He touched his chest, worried by the strange sensation. “Engaged?”
“To some old priest I’ve never met. A distant relation in the mountains. They make us call them ‘redeemers’ when they purchase us this way. I was orphaned when the influenza got so widespread the first time, all those years ago. You remember it? It was everywhere initially. The orphanage gave me to my current master to serve as a domestic on his modest estate. He was kind to me, let me do as I pleased. I practically lived in the forests and brought home game, which he enjoyed because he wasn’t as wealthy as other landowners and he’d taken in too many mouths to feed.”
“You’ve been paired?” The sun felt too hot on the side of Jack’s face.
“Unfortunately.”
“How old is this priest?”
She dug her fingers under the crocodile’s skin, freeing the scales from the meat and bones. “Forty, according to his letters.” She grunted with the effort. “Fifty-two if I had to guess from his picture. Widower. His children are older than me. He paid my master the bride price which sealed the deal. Now my master won’t hear reason. I’m expected to wed this man next spring. I begged my magic for help and took off here instead. My master won’t be able to return the bride price—I guarantee it’s already spent—so if I can’t pay it back myself, he’ll have to come looking for me . . . That crocodile will help, but it’s not enough. Apparently, I’m worth a lot.”
Jack’s eyes roved over her slight form, the narrowed waist and shapely hips, her full lips and flawless skin, her thick snowy hair, her powerful magics . . . He reckoned she was worth a great fortune.
“Your aura is deep red again.” Kye chuckled at him. He had no idea what was so funny about that, and he frowned at her.
Jack helped her turn the croc on its side, balancing it with his hands on its neck and torso. “Marnie would help you if I asked her to.”
She wrenched free the last of the scales, then set to rolling the skin in on itself. “I may have to take you up on that. I’ve another idea, for the moment. Or my magic does.”
“More rare animals?” Jack guessed.
The glint in her eye was mischievous. “Something like that.” She whispered a prayer to the spirit Tortua, thanking him for the successful hunt, asking him to preserve the skin. Her accent made the words beautiful, musical. Jack could listen to her cast spells all day. Then the magic darkened the scales to a bright onyx. The ink on her wrists changed to an ocean blue.
“Have you thought about using your cartography to find treasures?”
“Of course, but like I told you, I’m not a thief, and most treasures are either owned and guarded or in places too dangerous for just one witch to be able to retrieve them.”
Jack picked through the bones, keeping pieces of spine to grind into useful powder later. Kye kept its teeth and feet for more Tortua spells. He listened intently as she explained a spell craft he was unfamiliar with. Then he helped her gather segments of choice meat they would dehydrate in the makeshift smoker around back. Her cuts were practiced perfection. His were jagged but would work, she assured him. Kye prepped and segmented every part of the creature for use later. Jack helped where he could, watched and learned when he lacked the skill.
The sun disappeared behind clouds the color of charcoal. They took shelter in the cottage just as rain began to fall. Kye removed her guards, one at a time, and unwound her braid so her hair spilled over one shoulder.
Jack watched her with interest.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“You know exactly why I’m looking at you,” he said, drinking her in.
Her eyes fell to her feet, color rising in her cheeks, and he suddenly doubted himself. Did she know? He was accustomed to acting and speaking bluntly with other witches about matters of attraction. It was their way. Maybe things were different in the mountains?
Maybe he needed to be more delicate. Jack huffed. He had absolutely no idea how to do that.
Stepping on the base of her bow, she unhooked its string and hung it on the wall across two pegs. She filled a large ceramic bowl with salty water from the pump sink and washed her feet with a linen cloth. When she was done, she freshened the water and laid the bowl on the floor next to Jack.
Perched on a stool beside the kitchen counters, he studied her with renewed fascination. “What are you doing?” Kye lowered herself next to the bowl, wrung out the cloth and began washing his feet. “No point in that,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “I’ll just dirty them in a minute.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But they stink now.”
Her tittering turned up his lips. Under the cool water, with her soft magics and gentle touches, his skin pebbled. He was considered light-toned on the island, but beside her alabaster, his skin appeared darker, golden, more sun-kissed.
Her hands on his rough flesh were so rejuvenating his lungs hitched. The gritty salt dissolved dirt and scrubbed away grime. Finished, she used her hair to dry his clean feet. Cold fear stiffened his spine. Her hair against his skin felt devastatingly intimate. Attraction, touch, sex he could handle. Intimacy was a towering monster far more frightening than any beast before it—and that included a bear demon. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch the ashen strands, to run his fingers through it, to feed the attraction. He stuffed them in his pockets instead.
Rain pattered heavy drops against the thatch. “It’s going to storm,” he said, rising off the stool with more speed than necessary. “I should check the roof.”
“Storm?” Kye’s wide eyes drifted to the window. Fat angry clouds hid the sun as it dipped toward the horizon. Rain fell harder, pounding the glass. “You could stay here tonight . . . if you wanted to. Keep your feet clean a little longer.”
His gaze drifted to the bed in the adjoining room, and his mind traveled with it. The desire to see her naked and beneath him warred against his wish to keep the weight of his responsibilities light. His throat bobbed. “Not a good idea. Sleeping on the floor would be miserable. It might flood.”
“That’s not what I—never mind.” She shook her head. The corners of her mouth turned up.
Jack maneuvered the stool to the center of the kitchen and climbed it. He checked the roof he had patched earlier in the week. “It’ll hold. I strengthened it with Ammnon magics. I should go before it gets worse.” The magics mingled into the thatch felt greasy under his touch.
Lightning lit the window. Kye gasped and covered her head, accidentally knocking the water bowl over. She jumped to her feet to escape the growing puddle.
“You aren’t afraid of storms, are you?” He tried to hide his amusement and failed. The crinkles near his eyes and the rumble in his chest betrayed him. “Angry twenty-four-step crocodile was no problem, but rain and a little lightning and you’re trembling?”
She glared at him. “I’m not afraid of storms.” Another crack of thunder and Kye hurried to the adjoining room with a squeak. She sat on the floor, her back pressed to the bed post, posture rigid.
“Clearly, you aren’t,” he scoffed.
“I’m not afraid of anything.” Her voice broke. “Except being paired in marriage to some old priest.”
The wind howled, rattling the door. Another burst of thunder crackled.
She rolled under the bed. “If the roof leaks, I’ll stay dryer under here,” she squeaked.
Laughing, Jack threw a towel over the spill on the floor, then crossed into the bedroom. He lifted the mattress. She was turned on her side, hip to the floorboards, hugging her knees to her chest. Her light frame quivered.
Pitiful. His heart pinched.
“Maybe I should stay,” he said. He was capable of keeping his clothes on . . . wasn’t he?
“If you insist.” Her eyes were squeezed shut. Then they popped wide. “This isn’t the start of a typhoon is it?”
He scratched at his honey hair, his grin spreading. “Typhoon?”
The wind howled, rain crashed, and Kye whimpered. “We don’t have them in the mountains, but I’ve heard they can make walls of water bigger than a house.”
“This is a small tropical storm. It’s not time yet for typhoons. We have sirens for all that, too. You’d hear them and know to seek better shelter, something made of stone and metal, like the Glint church.”
“That’s g-good.”
Jack pushed the bed aside. Kye held herself tight, her arms quivering. He scooped her up and sat her rigid body on the mattress beside him. Another crack of lighting and she leapt into his lap. The urge to laugh died in his throat as her soft form pressed against the hard panels of his torso. The sweet smell of trees and bright sunlight hit him when she tucked her head under his chin. Her hair stuck to his stubble, tickling his face. His arms tensed.
Massive gusts dropped the temperature.
“I should light the stove. It’ll get cold quick in this weather.” He shifted his weight.
She clung to him, her hands like claws, the whites of her eyes showing more than usual. He paused, then pulled the woolen blanket up around her. Her lips parted on a long, slow sigh. Slowly, his muscles unclenched beneath her. They listened to the storm, her head on his chest. He tried not to smell her hair, fingers tightly knotted in the blanket.
God, she smelled like a blooming orchard of flowered trees, wild and sweet. His pants were suddenly too tight.
With a mind of its own, his grip lightened, and his fingers trailed the pattern of Tortua’s fox on her wrist. He made three full swipes before he realized what he was doing. The gray ink began to darken under his witch’s touch. Kye shifted. She squinted at something around his face, something he could not see no matter how hard he focused.
Her tongue was in her cheek. “I think I’ve figured out why your aura changes colors.”
“Why?”
“Your magics are fond of mine.”
“Can’t be. I’m one of two halves, an Amigtas de Magus.”
“I don’t know what that is, but if it’s not possible, then I’ve another theory . . .” She revealed her teeth suggestively but did not finish her thought. The ink in her skin turned a vibrant blue. “You should stop that. You’ll trigger the spell and bring unwelcomed animals out of the swamps.”
He found her other wrist and ran a finger over its curving ink instead. “Why do you have two animal spells?” He trailed it up her arm, to a new stretch of ink, a swirling pattern. “This one isn’t a spell at all.”
“Priests don’t like witch ink. When I reached bridal age last year, I wanted to make myself unattractive.”
“It didn’t work. If anything, you’ve made it worse.”
Her lips pursed like she was fighting a smile. “To another witch, maybe, but I think it lowered my bride price a bit.”
Lightning brightened the sky, a rumble of thunder not far behind. Kye buried her face in his shirt. He tucked the blankets up around her shoulders, shielding her. “I’m going to light the stove. It’ll keep us warm.”
“All right.” She pried herself from him, hugging her knees instead.
Jack went into the kitchen and fed a log to the stove. He lit it and the oil lantern with a Tortua prayer and a drop of his magic. When he returned, Kye was under the bed again. Laughter shaking his chest, he hung the lantern on the wall by the window, brightening the darkening room with its glow.
“Tease me about this and I’ll skin you like I did the croc,” she said as he dragged her back out by her ankle. She scrambled onto the mattress, winding the blanket around her body and over her hair.
“I wouldn’t dare tease you,” he said, amusement in his tone. “You ferocious thing. You beat the tar out of me the first time we met with your tiny, fierce little fists. I won’t repeat the experience.”
“I’ll admit I’m mildly stressed by storms.” She squeezed her palms over her ears as rain hammered the cottage. Wind howled. She glared at him. “This is not a small storm!”
“It is to me. Stay here long enough, it will seem small to you, too.”
“Not a typhoon?”
“Not a typhoon,” he promised.
He scooted in beside her on the bed. She hid her eyes in his shoulder as Jack whispered stories of mischievous spirits—poltergeists—playing tricks on seamen by making sounds like a tempest or like sirens. All his favorite stories. The ones his mother told to him long ago before he lost her to the same influenza that stole so many.
Kye’s body was a knot of tension beside him. “What happened to the seamen?”
“They were crushed by waves bigger than a house.”
With a startled squawk, she jumped into his lap. “You did that on purpose,” she said, face hidden in his shirt.
He didn’t contradict her. She leaned against him. The rain and wind had calmed somewhat, or their attention to it had. The surging of his pulse grew too loud to take notice of such things, not with her soft body and gentle magics rubbing against him.
Her chin lifted, lips turned upward, casual but inviting. His body nearly betrayed him. Jack’s head dipped lower, and a spike of foreboding straightened his spine.
He met her eyes and saw a question there, alongside a welcome.
A part of him, a small part growing stronger in a way that frightened him, longed to kiss her whatever the consequences. But she was engaged, and she was in trouble. She needed things from him he wasn’t ready to give to anyone. Just thinking on it doubled that invisible weight, the one he was so determined to keep light.
So now he was the one who wanted to hide under the bed. Looking away, he told new stories instead, comforting ones about spirits who calmed storms, and because his voice seemed to soothe her, he told her the story of a hero witch and her warrior friend who defeated a bear demon.
***
The storm had carried on late into the night, raising the water circling the marsh. The cottage had nearly flooded, but the late morning sun chased away the last of the clouds. Sunlight glittered on the rain dappled greenery. A breeze, thick with the smell of seawater, wafted by Jack’s nose.
Allison, the witchling, perched in the tall wet grass on a stool outside the cottage. Her guardian had dropped her for her lessons first thing that morning, promising to return before lunch. Her black boots were spattered in mud from chasing down insects with Jack. She hummed with a voice like birdsong, hands folded in her lap.
Jack stood behind Allison, up to his ankles in muddy water, a fine-toothed metal comb in his hand.
Allison scratched enthusiastically at her hair. “How much longer?”
“Until I don’t find any more lice,” he said. Jack felt Kye’s eyes on him, watching his hands work through the girl’s hair. She wore a fresh set of leathers, black ones with pants that seemed tighter than was decent. Everything she wore seemed indecent today, and it probably had something to do with the way Jack kept picturing the body beneath the clothes. Her tongue was in her cheek again.
He wanted that tongue in his mouth.
He wanted her to whisper things in his ears with that lilting accent of hers. The caress of her magic sent a thrill down his back and straight into his groin.
