Never Been Witched (30 page)

Neither her sisters nor Morgan would let Destiny off the fainting couch to say good-bye, so she accepted their blessings and kisses from there.

Morgan saw them to the door, and they left, flashlights in hand, Aiden and Storm for their home at the windmill, King and Harmony for their home at the castle, all here on the island.

“For the first time in years,” Morgan said, as he closed the door behind him and turned to her. “I feel as if I’m home and nearly whole and happy. I want only one thing more to make life perfect.”

He sat beside her and took her hand. “Kismet, marry me. Be my wife.”

Destiny had never wanted anything more. She cupped his cheek. “Morgan, you’ve often placed more emphasis on my being a witch than a person.”

“As it turns out, I’m proud to have a witch who loves me. An outstanding
woman
who loves me.”

“But a witch and an ex-priest, Morgan. It’ll never work. Be reasonable.”

“Do you know what Destiny and Kismet also mean?” he asked her. “They mean
pre
ordained. You were meant to be mine before I made the wrong turn in my life that led to my being ordained. They also mean inevitability. Before I met you, I recognized my ordination as a mistake. Give me credit for knowing when I was on the wrong path, but also give me credit for knowing when I’m on the right one.
You
are my right path.”

“Oh, Morgan.”

“Kismet, call us what you will, a witch and an architect, a woman and a man. Whatever I call you, like witch, and whatever you call me, like grumblestiltskin, I love you. I’ll respect your beliefs; you know I will, as I know you’ll respect mine, for witch or for poorer, for as long as we both shall live.”

“And into eternity,” Meggie’s angel said. “My father’s house has many mansions.”

Destiny gasped.

Morgan grinned. “I forgot, but it’s true.”

Destiny welled up. “There is a place for us, now and forever. Here, and in the Summerland, or in heaven, Valhalla, the promised land. Whatever it’s called, it’s a place on a plane in whatever realm we visit from here.”

“That about sums it up. Marry me, Destiny. You
are
my destiny. She is, isn’t she, Buffy? Meggie? Horace?”

Destiny’s heart overflowed as their specter spectators, and the angel she would always remember, gave their approval. Yes, Buffy nearly did smile.

“A place for us together, for eternity. Thank you, Buffy,” Destiny whispered. “That’s what I needed to hear. Forever is important to me.” Destiny took her love’s hand and kissed each battered knuckle. “Yes, Morgan, I’d be honored to be your wife.”

Morgan hooted, his aura a bright wide band of blue—love—and he crushed her gently to him and kissed her with an amazing enthusiasm, considering their audience.

When he finished, Buffy nodded her approval. “It’s time for me to take Meggie and Horace home now.”

“Oh no,” Destiny said, sadness welling up in her until it overflowed and wet her cheeks.

“No, Meggie, not when I can finally see you,” Morgan pleaded, panic cracking his voice. “I love you, Megs. We’ll be together again. All of us.”

Destiny grasped his trembling hand.

Meggie looked sad yet strangely elated. “I love you, Morgan, but it’s time. The empty place in your heart is full again. Destiny, thank you for filling it. I love you, too.”

Buffy spread her wings to a span that filled the parlor, a magnificent sight. “Horace and Meggie have fulfilled their entwined destinies,” the angel said, “to set Morgan free of guilt and loneliness and to give him the soul mate he yearned for but wouldn’t allow himself.

Buffy nodded her way. “Destiny, we were also here to protect you in the tower for reasons that will soon become clear to you. Know, too, that your psychic reason for being is entwined with Morgan.”

The angel opened her hands over their heads.

Destiny and Morgan knelt and clasped hands to receive her blessing.

“No more guilt,” the angel said. “No regrets. May love, light, laughter, and bright blessings be yours now and into eternity.”

Buffy stepped away and raised her wings toward her charges.

Morgan clasped Destiny in his arms as they watched Buffy, Horace, then his sister turn to vapor.

But Meggie’s parting words lingered like a kiss on the cheek and a song on the wind.

“There are three. Safe as can be. Name one after me.”

Annette Blair’s
award-winning paranormals owe their beginnings to a root canal and a reluctant trip to Salem, Massachusetts, where she stumbled into the serendipitous role of Accidental Witch Writer. Magic or destiny, Annette’s bewitching romantic comedies are national bestsellers. With twenty-two novels sold to date, Annette will have four new releases and begin two new series in 2009. Contact her through her website at
www.annetteblair.com
.

 

 

 

 

TIME to cast the spell. Andra, Goddess and sorceress, took a long, last look at Bastian, her huge, shimmering, tawny gold dragon.

“Why the earthen plane?” he asked.

“It is where you came from, and no place needs white knights more.” They were quick studies, her dragons. They could ape anyone, learn languages and customs, though they locked their emotions in thick-walled cells. Living earthside would fix that.

Reluctantly, she raised her arms toward the firmament to chant her spell:

Pain seared Andra. The palm trees began to undulate. A warning storm. Killian had cast a counter spell and bound it to hers. She might never know its effect, but every dragon she turned would suffer it.

Whatever Killian’s stigma, the time had come for her to send Bastian, the first of her knights, to safety. If anyone could establish a Dragon community on Earth, he could.

Only if Bastian survived, could she send his fellow dragons—his fellow knights—by turning them back into men, one by one, moon by moon, to save them.

Somehow, Killian had failed to destroy the man Bastian had once been. It appeared as if, between Andra and Killian, they’d created a stronger man. Earthside, he would be the tallest of the tall and the broadest of the broad. His strapping back, roped with muscle, looked smooth as welk skin. Pleased with his firm man-buttocks, she began circling him. She skimmed her gaze down a brawny arm and faced him, his tapered feet, his muscular calves, his hard thighs, and—“Oh, dear!”

The result of Killian’s counter spell pointed her way in firm accusation.

Bastian frowned at his flawed erection. “Do Earth men have such long . . . what is it called?” His man-voice sounded like warm quarry stones scraping one against the other.

“A penis,” Andra said.

“Ah, yes, but I do not recall such length or that man-penises have scales beneath the skin, or arrowed tips like dragon tails.”

Andra denied her envy. “The better to please the earth woman whose true heart speaks to yours.”

As if chiseled from cliff rock, Bastian frowned. “How will I know her?”

“The one you seek will likely be alone. She may have rivers flowing from her eyes and will seem shunned by men. Her figure might be rounder than some, her face plainer, but her heart will be pure and beautiful, and it will speak to yours. She will not like who she is or what she looks like. You will change that. Part of your task is to make her quest your own. As you struggle toward that goal, the dragon in you will clamor to be set free. Resist with all the strength in you.”

“If I fail?”

“You will perish. As will your brother dragons. If you succeed, you will live as a mortal man again. Free from Killian’s evil forever. Then I will send your brothers, each with his own quest.”

“When will you join us?” Bastian asked.

Andra tossed him into the mist. “Earth is not my home,” she whispered.

“Neither is it mine!” Bastian shouted on the wind.

 

 

HE landed naked upon a thorn bush.

No longer protected by armor or scales, Bastian roared at the searing pain and shot to his feet. Dreadful notion. He’d retained his strong dragon leap. After downing three trees and cracking his skull, he landed flat on his back, his bones rattling, the earth trembling beneath him.

Pain teased his inner dragon, but he’d keep the beast in check, or suffer the consequences.

In the trees that survived, a banquet of birds cawed with laughter. A delicious-looking morsel with long ears landed on his chest and wiggled its nose in disdain.

Wishing for his long, pointy dragon teeth, Bastian dislodged the haughty, puff-tailed meal as he rose and shivered. So this was rescue? Prickly trees, crisp air, cold feet, and a flawed man-spike?

Yes, he’d breached the veil between the planes, but at what cost? Except for a cozy cave or two, Earth appeared to have little to offer.

A cloaked and hooded being approached, short, and soft of hand, her appearance chiding him for his ingratitude. Female. Human. Odd. Dozens more snacks whirred around her head and followed behind her—bats and tiny red and green birds.

“You are not my heart mate,” Bastian communicated. Words would not work. Telepathy served most evolved species, humans and those who were more and less than.

“I am not. My name is Vivica Quinlan,” she said. “I own Works Like Magic, a safe house and employment agency where I will acclimate you to our world and prepare you to take your place among us to earn your keep.”

Odd but friendly. “Do you not fear me?”

“I have the sight. You’re bold of spirit, fiercely protective, and pure of heart. Do you have a purpose on this plane?”

“I am the first of my kind to arrive and am duty bound by my rescuer to make way for the rest. Time is of import. Our island is shrinking.” Which could not be said for his man-spike. Bastian wished for a very big fig leaf.

He had forgotten, as a dragon, what he now remembered as a man . . . in the presence of a woman for the first time in centuries. He
loved
women. The shape of them, their tastes and scents, the way they felt beneath him, above him, gloving him.

She handed him a cloak like her own. It fit perfectly, though he towered over her. Impossible for her to know, unless—“You have magic of your own. Else, how did you find me?”

Her smile further stirred him.

“When the air shivers and the bats awake by day,” she said, “they come for me with the hummingbirds, often a source of embarrassment. I know only moments before they appear that the veil between the planes has been breached. But together, we greet the chameleons of the universe and offer hospitality.”

“Which I humbly accept.” Holding his cloak together, he bowed. “Your magic is a gift.”

“Some call it a curse. I’m a descendant of a witch who remained undetected in the burning times because she hid in one of these caves.”

“So the veil is thinnest here?”

“Oh no. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

Considering the thorns in his nether regions, he doubted it.

“My ancestor was known for acclimating the magical, supernatural ancients,” Vivica said. “Though there were fewer of you back then. Human magic has thinned the veil to a mist. But enough of my ancestry; I find myself trying to guess at yours.”

“I come from the Roman army that went missing. Surely someone must have noticed that we vanished?”

“More than one Roman Legion vanished over time,” she said.

“Did they? I wonder what they became and where they are.”

“Pardon?”

“We, as a legion, happened upon an evil sorceress who turned us into dragons and banished us to an uncharted island on a plane our rescuer often called Purgatory.”

“In that case, you’ll need the full mainstreaming culture package—language, customs, technology, etc. You do realize that you brought a fairy in with you?”

Bastian growled and turned to find something that looked like a palm-sized human female with sun-kissed hair and stardust wings. Endearing in looks, but she could be an enemy in disguise. In true form, she might be a roach with red pig bristles and a reeking stench.

She could also be a beacon signaling his presence to good and evil, alike. Killian’s scout, perhaps. Bastian regarded his acclimater and supposed that he should know where he’d landed before anyone else did. “Where exactly do I find myself?”

“Salem’s End. Earthside plane.”

 

 

 

 

CONN ap Llyr had not had sex with a mortal woman in three hundred years.

And the girl grubbing in the dirt, surrounded by pumpkins and broken stalks of corn, was hardly a reward for his years of discipline and sacrifice.

Even kneeling, she was as tall as many men, long boned and rangy. Although maybe that was an illusion created by her clothes, jeans and a lumpy gray jacket. Conn thought there might be curves under the jacket. Big breasts, little breasts . . . He hardly cared. She was the one. Her hair fell thick and pale around her downturned face. Her long fingers patted and pressed the earth. She had a streak of dirt beside her thumb.

Not a beauty, he thought again.

He knew her name now. Lucy Hunter. He had known her mother, the sea witch Atargatis. This human girl had clearly not inherited her mother’s allure or her gifts. Living proof—if Conn had required any—that the children of the sea should not breed with humankind.