Magick Rising (53 page)

isn’t due for another two weeks, at the full moon.” Exasperated now, he

shoved fingers through his long hair and said, “You’re a Witch. Can’t you

just do some hocus pocus or something and tell if I’m lying?”

She hated it when people made fun of her chosen way of life. Annoyed,

she snapped back, “Can’t you do some hocus pocus and prove you’re a

werewolf?”

He shook his head and gave her a remorseful look. “Sorry. I deserved

that. But is there some way you can independently verify whether or not I’m

telling the truth?”

She thought for a moment. Another ritual tonight, so close to the one

she’d just performed, wasn’t wise. “Maybe . . . if I could sense your aura.”

“All right,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

She gestured to the wall behind him. “Stand there, against the blank

part of the wall, and be still.”

He did as she asked, and she turned off the lights so only soft firelight

illuminated the room then stood in front of him. Though confronting him

in the darkness made her feel a little hesitant, she concentrated on the

outline of his head and shoulders and reached out with her senses, trying to

feel his essence.

He was incredibly easy to read. His life force almost leapt across the

small space between them, threatening to swamp her entire being with a

sensual overload. The seductive power left her nerve endings vibrating with

an odd combination of fear and desire.

With a gasp, she pulled back. Too deep. She only needed to read the

outward manifestation of his thoughts and feelings, not drown in them. And

she certainly didn’t need to feel attracted to this strange man. Her traitorous

muscles spasmed involuntarily, and she stumbled backward, almost falling.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping forward, hand outstretched.

As he helped steady her, she said, “Just the Huntington’s. I’m fine.” Or

she would be, as soon as she was able to get hold of herself.

Tentatively, she tried again, more cautious now. This time, she was able

to limit herself to surface impressions, and, as she forced herself to relax and

unfocused her eyes, the colors slowly emerged in a misty outline. His aura

was predominantly red, with patches of black and gray.

The red showed passion and fire, the gray showed that he felt trapped,

and the black could indicate that he was bound against his will. She frowned.

Her books told her another interpretation of black was shapeshifting.

But there were no muddy colors to indicate illness, and the yellow green

hue of liars was absent.

“Well?” he asked. “What did you see?”

“It’s . . . inconclusive.” There were many different ways to interpret the

colors. How could she be sure she was right?

“Now what?”

“I’d like to try one other thing, if you don’t mind.”

“All right. What do you want me to do now?”

“Nothing.” She waved him back to the chair he had been sitting in.

“Make yourself comfortable. This may take a while.”

Bringing a metal bowl from her ritual room, she filled it with water and

set it on the coffee table between them, then crossed her legs and sat on the

floor. She didn’t know why, but this always seemed the best position for

scrying.

She grounded and centered herself, cleared her mind, then stared into

the still water, seeking images. To focus her thoughts, she murmured,

“Show me the true face of this man.”

The images usually took a while to form, and even then they were often

cloudy and indistinct. But this time, she was surprised to see a shape take

form almost immediately.

Holding her breath, she leaned closer to the scrying surface and

watched eagerly. But it happened much faster than she expected. Between

one heartbeat and the next, the image solidified into that of a snarling wolf

and leapt out at her.

With a small cry, she jerked away and fell backward. Her foot hit the

table and set the water rocking. The image vanished.

Her heart pounding, Beth stared in shock at the man who regarded her

curiously. No, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

“Are you okay?” he asked and held out his hand to help her up.

No.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she scrambled to her feet,

trembling and desperately trying to control her thoughts.

Duncan withdrew his rejected hand with a rueful look. “Ah, I see you

do believe me.”

“Maybe,” she said. In a very visceral, primal way, every fiber of her

being knew he was what he claimed to be, but her mind still had a hard time

accepting it. Reseating herself in her chair, she gave him a wary look. “Tell

me, when you say you turn into a wolf, is that a figure of speech that

describes your mental state, or do you really turn . . . furry?”

“I grow fur,” he said with a chilling smile that sent shivers down her

spine. “And fangs. And claws. There’s nothing figurative about it.”

She suddenly flashed on a vision of Lupa, the fearsome goddess of

wolves . . . goddess of harlots . . . goddess of pain.

Bring him to me . . .
the vision whispered seductively.

Beth shook her head to dispel the image. Then shook her head at him.

“I can’t.”

“Oh, I think you can,” he said softly, his voice menacing. “I think you

have an idea anyway.” He leaned forward, staring deep into her eyes. “I saw

it flicker in your eyes just then.”

She averted her gaze, hating the way this man could see through her,

the way his very presence seemed to suck all the available energy out of the

room. Yes, she had an idea, but it was dangerous. Playing for time, she

asked, “How did it happen? Your becoming a werewolf, I mean.”

His eyes narrowed. “Changing the subject won’t work.”

“I’m not,” she said, prevaricating only a little. “If I’m to help you, I need

to know all about the . . . origin of your disease and how it works. I’m not

sure what will be helpful and what won’t.”

“You’re right.” He relaxed then turned pensive. “It was about ten years

ago, in the Black Forest of Bavaria. It was Oktoberfest, and I celebrated too

much, drank too much beer . . .” His voice trailed off as he apparently

relived that time.

“What happened?” she asked in a whisper.

As he spoke of that night, his emotions were so strong that matching

images flashed through her mind—a young man stumbling through the dark

woods, a dark furred shape leaping toward him, a scream, the sharp pain of

a savage bite, mortal terror, then unconsciousness.

Duncan paused and Beth took a deep breath, trying to distance herself

from his intensity. She usually had better control than this. Then again, she’d

never met a man with such deep, powerful emotions. “And when you came

to?” she asked.

“It was daylight. A young woman stood over me—Marta. She informed

me that she had made me into a werewolf and invited me to join her small

pack.” He shook his head. “I didn’t believe her, not even when my wounds

healed faster than I ever dreamed possible. That is, until the next night,

when I turned into a wolf myself.”

The pain and anguish in him was almost too much to bear.

Strengthening her barriers, Beth made an encouraging sound, inviting him

to go on.

“They liked it,” he said in disbelieving tones. He stared down at his

huge hands as if he might find an explanation there. “They enjoyed turning

into ravening beasts, savored the thrill of the hunt, the dark joy of their

terrible secret.”

“And you didn’t?”

He whipped his head up. “No!” He dragged a hand through his dark

hair and rose to his feet, then strode toward the fireplace where he halted to

stand staring into the fire, his back to her. “No sane person would. It is an

evil thing to be a werewolf, to turn into a voracious beast three uncontrolled

nights a month.”

She had no answer to that, no false comfort to offer. How could she?

She agreed with him.

He shook his head. “I didn’t want any part of it, but they said there was

no cure. I didn’t believe them, so I left the pack. Shortly after, I heard the

locals got fed up with having wolves in their territory, so they hunted them

down and killed them all.”

He turned to face her, backlit by the fire, his expression masked in

shadow. “I still believe a cure exists. It has to. You’re my last hope.”

She made a negating sound even as compassion filled her. She couldn’t

be. She was too frail a vessel to hold anyone’s hopes and dreams, let alone

those of this vigorous lone wolf. “I can’t.”

“You must. You have something in mind, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But it’s dangerous.”

He grimaced. “I don’t care how hazardous it is.”

“Not dangerous for you,” she said softly. “Dangerous for me.”

He said nothing, just stood there and stared at her, as if daring her to

wimp out on him. Unfortunately, she couldn’t take that dare. She knew what

it was like to be willing to do anything, to use anyone to effect a cure for her

disease. How could she deny him the same?

She couldn’t. Finally, she said, “I can’t promise anything.”

“I’m not asking for promises,” he growled. “Just the attempt.”

She sighed. She had no choice. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“When do we start?”

“Tomorrow night.” Before he could question her further, she said,

“The ritual is best done after dark, and I need some time to prepare.”

“All right, tomorrow night,” he said, though he looked impatient.

“For now, I need to get some sleep. If you want to get your things, I’ll

show you to the guest room.”

“Okay, they’re in my truck.”

He left through the front door, taking all that energy with him. Feeling

suddenly drained, Beth wondered,
What the hell am I getting myself in to?

DUNCAN WOKE disoriented then remembered where he was. The bed in

the guest room was a little small, but he had slept at an angle, from corner to

corner, and kicked the covers loose so he wasn’t cramped. Not terribly

comfortable, but it would do. Besides, he’d slept in far worse places.

The savory aroma of something baking filled his senses. It smelled

wonderful. Anxious to ensure his hostess wouldn’t change her mind, he

made himself presentable with a shower, shave, and clean clothes then

followed his nose to the kitchen.

Beth stood at the stove, wearing simple jeans and a T-shirt, with her

long blond hair worked into a single braid down her back. The severe style

outlined the delicate features of her face, making her look fragile and very

feminine. In the coziness of her kitchen, she was very appealing—the very

epitome of all he desired and could never have.

But he reined his thoughts in firmly. “Good morning,” he said, hoping

she hadn’t had second and third thoughts during the night. She really was his

last chance, and he didn’t want to frighten her away.

She turned toward him, tea kettle in hand, and nodded a greeting.

“There are some blueberry muffins and herbal tea if you want them. Or

more apple cider. I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything with caffeine.”

“Cider will be fine. Thank you.” Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he

wasn’t much of a coffee drinker anyway. He accepted a cup of cider and a

muffin then sat at the table to eat.

She sat with him, sipping a cup of tea, but evidently she had already

been up awhile. A plate with nothing but crumbs lay atop the morning paper

which was strewn across the table. He must have disturbed her reading.

It was all so domestic, so normal. They could be a married couple,

sharing breakfast in companionable silence. Suddenly, the fierce longing hit

him again. Why couldn’t he have what every other person took for granted?

But there were no fairytale endings in store for Duncan Gray. Not unless he

could rid himself of this curse.

Could she help? God, he hoped so. “What exactly is it you are going to

do tonight?” he asked.

“A ritual, to ask the Goddess Lupa for assistance.”

“Lupa?”

“The Roman goddess of wolves, said to have suckled Romulus and

Remus as children. If anyone can help you, she can.” She said the words

calmly, though her gaze challenged him to mock her beliefs.

Duncan nodded slowly. It seemed odd to be speaking of such strange

things as though they were fact, but he knew better than to scoff. After all,

most people would think him a mythical creature. And he’d seen many odd

things in his search for a cure, things no ordinary mortal would believe.

“Why is that dangerous?” he asked. “Don’t you do rituals all the time?”

“The ritual itself isn’t dangerous, but Lupa is a savage goddess, not one

of the gentler ones. She is very strong, very demanding. Soliciting her

assistance may result in . . . unexpected outcomes.”

“What can I do to help?” He didn’t want her to take the full brunt of the

challenge all by herself.

“Nothing. Just find a way to pass the time until this evening. I need to