Deep Magic (37 page)

Circling behind the beast, she attacked its limbs and tail. Marcus shouted a curse. Metal flashed above her head; Marcus had launched a mundane dagger at the demon. The blade sliced deeply into the demon’s flank. Enraged, it swung around and swiped at Marcus, striking his chest. Crimson blood spread across his white shirt.

He staggered backward. Gwen’s human mind blanked with sheer terror. He could not die. The wolf would not allow it.

Kill the demon.

She crouched, teeth bared, preparing for her attack.

“No, Gwen!” Marcus’s shout rang in her ears. He leaped after her and grabbed the scruff of her neck.

“Let me go, Marcus! I can kill it. Ye cannot.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

“How can ye fight it? The beast draws power from Exchalybur each time ye attack.”

“But it weakens when you strike.”

“Aye. That is why ye must let me fight it.”

The demon went up on its hind legs.

“We can defeat it together,”
Marcus said urgently.
“You sent magic through me before, when we created the sword. Do it again. Now, Gwen. Through this mental link we’ve forged.”

She understood. Marcus wanted the wolf’s Deep Magic to take control of Exchalybur, thereby preventing Strabo from absorbing the blade’s magic. Would it work? She did not know.

She sent a Word of Deep Magic into Marcus’s mind. Exchalybur flared, its power wild and unfocused. She summoned more Words, weaving a spell designed to bend the sword’s Deep Magic to the will of Light.

Marcus struck at the beast. This time, the sword’s power remained its own. Gwen felt Strabo’s surprise, then his anger. He struck out, blasting Marcus with a stream of fire. Marcus countered the attack, absorbing the demon’s breath on his blade.

“It’s working, Gwen.”

It was true. The power of the sword was once again hers. Hers and Marcus’s. As the demon struck again, Gwen gathered each facet of the sword’s power. Light Magic and Deep Magic. Protection and attack. Both forces were needed to win.

When the demon roared, Marcus went on the offensive, darting forward and slashing at its underbelly. Strabo countered with a blast of fire. Marcus staggered. The beast rose above him, wings beating, readying itself for a killing blow.

With an animal snarl, Gwen loosed her wildest, deepest magic. The force passed through her mind and into Marcus’s. Blue-white fire erupted from Exchalybur. Strabo’s darker blast faltered. The demon reared in fury, wings beating searing waves of air into Marcus’s face. But Marcus did not waver.

He advanced through the hot storm, Exchalybur raised before him. The bright iron sang as it sliced the beast’s belly. The demon let out a roar of rage and scuttled backward. Marcus struck again, nearly severing a squat foreleg. A third slash opened a gash in the demon’s neck. Black fluid spurted. The creature’s hind legs sank into the muck bordering the swamp.

Marcus struck a killing blow. The creature let out an unearthly squeal. Victory. Gwen could taste it. The demon teetered and fell into the murky water.

Deep Magic sang in Gwen’s veins. Her wolf’s body felt as though it were expanding, filling the universe. She felt like a goddess. A god. She could command life. Create death. The power was awesome, intoxicating.

The beast’s death throes churned the black water. Gwen padded to the edge of the swamp. Strabo’s Deep Magic was seeping into the earth—suddenly, Gwen realized the power did not have to disappear. She could take it for her own. Combined, the demon’s power and the wolf’s magic would be unsurpassed. No authority would be above her. Not Cyric, not Rhys, not Avalon’s Elders. Not even the gods.

Exultant, she cast the spell that would make Strabo’s powers hers.

“Gwen! Gods! What are you doing?”

Her head jerked toward Marcus. Exchalybur had gone wild in his hands. He fought to control it. The weapon had taken on a life of its own. The bright iron pulsed darkly, absorbing the demon’s expiring Deep Magic. Black power ran the length of the blade and passed into Marcus’s body.

He cried out. Gwen felt his pain, his fear. Great Mother! This was her doing. In fulfilling her greed, she’d abandoned every lesson Cyric had ever taught her. And she had not considered that her bid to absorb Strabo’s Deep Magic would turn the Lady’s sword against Marcus. Shame engulfed her.

Black sparks flew wildly. Marcus fell to his knees, grappling with the sword.

“Get rid of it,”
Gwen screamed in his mind.

“I can’t. It … won’t let me go.”

Because Gwen had called the power to herself—through Marcus. Abruptly, she broke their mental contact. Marcus heaved the sword out over the swamp. It hurtled through the air, trailing blue and white stars behind it. It landed with a splash in the murky water, and quickly sank out of sight.

Marcus, relieved of his burden, wavered on his feet. A moment later, his legs gave way and he collapsed facedown in the mud.

Gwen placed a paw on the man’s shoulder. He did not move.

She tilted her head. His scent was familiar. Not an enemy. That much she knew.

Beyond that, nothing.

The edge of the swamp was silent. The battle that had taken place there was over. Her paws sank into the mud, too deeply. She did not like that. She scuttled onto firmer ground.

Two other men lay nearby, unmoving. Something nagged at the back of her mind. She should
care
about these men. Especially the fairer one. But that made no sense. They were human.

She was not.

She turned and loped into the forest, leaving them behind.

Marcus’s lungs were bursting. He couldn’t breathe.

Panic infused his limbs with sudden strength. He jerked himself out of the mud, somehow simultaneously sucking in air and gasping with pain. His hands were burnt, and his body felt as though it had been thoroughly pummeled by brigands.

He remembered striking the demon down at the edge of the swamp. He’d seen it fall; now, in place of its hideous body lay the bloated body of a man. Marcus staggered to it and kicked it over. Strabo. Dead.

When the beast fell, Exchalybur had erupted with deadly power. The bright iron had tried to absorb Strabo’s Deep Magic. Because Gwen had commanded it.

Gwen.
He jerked his head around. She was gone. But where?

A groan sounded. “Rhys!” Marcus lurched to his friend’s side. By the time he reached him, Rhys was struggling into a sitting position.

“Are you hurt?” Marcus demanded.

Rhys winced. “Not permanently, I hope.”

Marcus’s gaze moved to Trevor. The Caledonian lay deathly still. His right arm was burnt, the skin charred black. Marcus felt Trevor’s throat for the throb of his pulse. “Alive.”

Rhys shook the big man’s shoulders. “Trevor. Can ye hear me, man?”

Trevor groaned. “Aye,” he said, his eyes opening. But he did not rise. “Strabo? The demon—?”

“Dead.” With terse words, Marcus described the battle he and Gwen had fought, the sword’s savage mutiny, how he’d awakened to find Gwen gone. “She could be hurt.”

Rhys gained his feet. “She can’t have gone far. We’ll find her.” He looked at Marcus. “Can ye … feel her?”

Marcus closed his eyes, searching his mind for Gwen’s essence. It was there, but … he swallowed hard. “She is not in human form.” He shot a look at Trevor. “You’d better get him back to Avalon. I’ll go after Gwen.” When Rhys hesitated, he added, “It’s best if I confront the wolf alone.”

Rhys nodded. Marcus helped him carry Trevor to a raft, then he returned to search for the wolf’s tracks in the muddy ground. He followed Gwen’s trail into the forest. She had run in circles, then veered uphill. He found her a short time later, crouching in a shallow cave. Her ears were flat, her tail down. When he tried to approach, she rose on all fours and bared her teeth. Her hackles rose. A low snarl vibrated in her throat.

Her eyes had gone completely feral. He reached for her with his mind. There was nothing human about her essence. Nothing human at all.

Gwen had become the wolf.

The big man made himself suddenly smaller, his legs bending beneath him. Crouching, he slowly extended one hand.

The wolf paused, uncertain whether the man represented danger. His scent was not comforting. It was human. Male. Humans—especially male humans—were not to be trusted.

She bared her teeth again, snarling. Took a warning step in his direction. The man did not waver. Did not turn and flee.

She smelled no fear. She didn’t understand that, because even though the man was not afraid, he didn’t challenge her. He stayed small, close to the ground, reaching out to her.

She did not know what to make of it.

She wanted him gone. If he did not flee, she would have to attack. She growled again. The man’s only reaction was a softening about his eyes. That was good. It showed weakness.

She readied herself to pounce.

“Gwen.”

The word was a soft whisper. Like wind. A human sound—she did not know what it meant. But it was … familiar.

She hesitated.

The man moved. Closer, not away. That was not good. She wanted him to leave. But he was creeping nearer. And nearer.

His head was still low. Lower than hers. That was confusing—if he meant to attack, he would rise.

She snarled, warning him away.

He gave no indication he understood.

“Gwen,” he said again. “Come back to me. Please.”

She did not understand the words, but they made her feel uncomfortable. Vulnerable. She didn’t like them. Didn’t like
him.
He wasn’t like her. She had to drive him off. If she let him live, he would hurt her.

But she couldn’t bring herself to spring. Not while his head was low. Not when he wasn’t afraid. She should run. She couldn’t. He was too close, and there was a solid wall of rock at her back. She’d been foolish to take refuge here.

His long legs started to unfold. His head rose. She wanted to pounce, but somehow she couldn’t. His eyes were on her.

They were dark and …
safe.
But that made no sense. He was a man. Her enemy. His outstretched hand was coming closer. He wanted to touch her. She couldn’t allow it. If she surrendered, she would never be free. She would never truly be wild.

She would belong to him, always.

“Gwen.”

His face was very close to hers now. He’d bared his throat to her. He would not attack. It would be nothing to kill him. Nothing at all.

“Gwen.” His urgency arrested her. His voice was hoarse, trembling with an emotion she did not understand. “I know you are not lost to the wolf. Not completely, or I would already be dead. Look inside, Gwen. Find yourself. Come back to me.”

She cocked her head.

His beautiful eyes shimmered with moisture.

“Come back, Gwen. Love me. As I love you.”

I love you.

The words touched something deep inside. The vibration touched a dark, hidden place—a part of her soul she hardly knew.

Love.

What was love? Did she know? She thought perhaps she
had
known … once.

“Love me, Gwen.” His voice broke on the words. Water ran down his face.

She did not like that. She went to him. Nuzzled his hand. Licked his cheek. His arms came around her, pulling her to him, clutching her tightly to his chest. Trapping her. She should have been afraid. Enraged. Panicked. She was not. His big body heaved, his shoulders shook. His grief flooded into her mind.

She wanted his pain to stop.
She
could stop it.

A Word formed in her mind. A Word of Light. A Word that meant … surrender. A Word the wolf hated.

And yet, she let it come. Because somehow, she knew it would bring her back to
him.

Gwen woke in Marcus’s arms. She was naked, and he was crying.

For a long moment, she couldn’t find her voice. He wasn’t trying to hide his tears, or wipe them away. The emotion in his eyes was so deep, so true. She was truly humbled.

She reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek with her thumb. Catching her hand, he shut his eyes and pressed his lips to her palm.

“Gods, Gwen. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m not so easily put aside,” she said shakily.

“I thank the Great Mother for that. Are you hurt?”

“Nay. I do not think so.” She moved slightly in his arms and he winced.

“Your wound!” His shirt gaped open; blood was crusted on the angry gash left by the demon’s claws. “And your hands are burned. Strabo’s fire—”

“It’s nothing.” He exhaled and shook his head, as if to clear the horror from it. “What was that thing Strabo turned into? I wouldn’t have believed it was real if it hadn’t been trying so hard to kill me.”

“A Dark god. Strabo traded his pain for its foul magic.”

“It wasn’t equal to the power of Exchalybur.”

She shuddered. “The lady’s sword … I am not sure I should have asked ye to forge it, Marcus. I almost lost myself to its power.”

“If we hadn’t forged it, we would most likely be dead. And Rhys and Trevor, as well.”

“And Cyric. My grandfather is the one Strabo wanted.”

“So Rhys said. But I don’t completely understand. Why come after Cyric after all these years? Strabo killed your mother long ago.”

Gwen was silent for a moment. “I do not think Strabo killed her, Marcus. He claimed he did not. He may truly have loved her, when he was young and capable of that emotion. He told me it was Cyric’s Deep Magic that killed Mama. My grandfather tried to kill Strabo, but struck Mama instead.”

Marcus swore. “Do you believe that?”

“Aye. I think I do. It explains much about my grandfather’s refusal to talk of the past, and his abiding hatred for Deep Magic. Strabo vowed vengeance—it took him eighteen years to return to Britain to enact it. He meant to kill Cyric and take me as wife in Mama’s place.”

“He may have been wronged all those years ago,” Marcus said. “But I cannot say I am sorry he is dead now. The man was mad.”

“He was lost in Deep Magic. As I very nearly was. Until ye came for me. Until ye called me back.”