Trickery (5 page)

“Willow. Please. Don’t go.”

“Ah, Damien…”

Skylar watched with dismay as Willow rushed across the room and back into the boy’s arms. They kissed passionately.

Crap. She’d hoped this wouldn’t have to get bloody, but if need be, Midea would incapacitate the boy to reclaim her novice.

Silently, stealthily, Midea began preparing her spell. It formed into a snarling ball in her hand.

The tension in the air shifted as Azreal realized what Midea was doing. The old witch glared at him.
Dare to stop me
.

And, holy hell. He did. He stepped between his son and Midea’s hissing, spitting incantation.

“Damien.” His voice, dark and deep, oozed command. It even nudged past the passion swirling on the other side of the room. “Release her.”

“I won’t.”

Midea raised the spell, narrowed her gaze. Azreal, reading the mounting menace, turned to Willow instead. “Girl. Do you care at all for my son?”

Willow glanced from the Great Warlock to Damien and then back again. She nodded.

“Then you need to leave with your mistress, and leave now.” He nodded at Midea and, for the first time, Willow saw the spell crackling there in her hand. “She will destroy him.”

“No.”

“Yes. She will.”

Midea snorted. “In a heartbeat. Now. Willow, walk over here. Slowly. You two,” she waggled a finger at Azreal and his son, “don’t move a muscle.”

With a woebegone glance at Damien—the heartless rake who had seduced her with magic and ruined her chances in the Circle—Willow made her way across the room. And then before Azreal or Damien could stop them, Midea dropped the hissing ball and, in a cloud of obscuring smoke, yanked herself, Skylar and Willow from the realm, through an infinitesimal tear in the Fabric, to the only place a witch could truly be safe from a warlock. The heart of her coven.

Chapter Seven

“It’s my fault, you know.” Willow hugged herself and gazed into Midea’s fire, desperately trying to quell her melancholy. There was just something wrong, something empty inside her. She hadn’t realized how much Damien had become a part of her until they were apart. And this—this separation—was absolute. The emptiness of it weighed down her spirit like an anchor. “I’m the one who seduced him.”

Midea snorted and gave her brew a little stir. “It hardly matters. The bottom line is, it shouldn’t have happened. And he knew it.”

“Maybe he just couldn’t help himself. My spell was pretty strong.”

Old eyes lifted, didn’t bother to cloak their cynicism. “Damien DeWinter? Unable to protect himself from a young witch’s spell? Unlikely. That boy has fucked or tried to fuck every novice for the past ten years. Besides…” She lifted the slotted spoon to her lips and sipped, then added a sprinkle more saffron. “I smelled the spells swirling around that room, and yours, my girl, weren’t the only ones.”

“Okay. So we seduced each other.”

Midea sighed and hefted her bulk up to find another vial from the shelf. “It was still against the rules. We explained to you about the importance of purity. How essential it is for you to come to the Circle unblemished.”

Willow made a face. She didn’t feel blemished. But she did feel lonely. Empty. Like a piece of her soul was missing.

“What shall we do?” Skylar wrung her hands. “The Circle is only a day away.”

Midea looked away, her expression tight. “She must be scrubbed.”

Skylar went pale. Her lips trembled.

“What?” Willow stared at her mentor and then turned to Midea. “What does that mean?”

“We must remove his scent from you or no other warlock will want you. You’ll be lying there on the altar, ripe for virgin sacrifice,” she laughed a little manic trill at that, “and no one will have you.”

Willow put out a lip. “Maybe I don’t want another warlock. Maybe I want Damien.”

“Oh child. Don’t you see? Damien DeWinter is not the warlock for you. He’s not the warlock for any decent witch. He can’t keep his cock to himself.” Her gaze narrowed. “Do you really want that? A mate who’s unfaithful? Every day of your life? Forever?”

Willow stifled a shudder. “Maybe he’d be faithful to me.”

A snort. “Maybe pigs will fly,” she waggled her spoon, “without our help.” She sat back and looked at Willow, took in her sad, bedraggled countenance. She stood and ladled some of her steaming brew into a cup and hobbled to Willow’s side. “It’s really best this way, my child. This way, you can forget Damien DeWinter and move on with your life. The way it was destined to be. Here. Drink this. It’ll warm you.”

Willow took the cup, with both hands. Sipped. Sighed as a delicious enchantment spilled through her veins. “I’ll never forget Damien. Never.”

Midea cackled a laugh. “Yes, you will, my dear. In a moment or so, it will be as though he never existed at all.”

“You cannot attend the Circle. I absolutely forbid it.”

Damien glared at his father. “When has that ever stopped me?”

Azreal bit back a smile and then sobered. “Damien. The coven doesn’t want you there.”

“I’ve been disinvited?”

“Specifically.”

“Why the hell would they do that?”

Azreal fixed his son with a somber gaze. “I think you know. This girl, this novice, was identified as their one great hope. A lost Sister, destined to bear the next Great Mother Witch. And you seduced her—outside of the Sacred Circle. You can see why they’d be miffed. When she presents herself before all the eligible warlocks, they want her choice to be pure. Not tainted or twisted or influenced by—for wont of a better term—an
old boyfriend
.”

“We had something very special.”

Azreal shrugged. “She won’t remember.”

“What?”

“They’ve had her scrubbed.”

Something cold and hard formed in the pit of Damien’s belly. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve had her scrubbed. Wiped all memory of you away. Wiped your scent from her body. Exfoliated your magic from her soul.”

“They couldn’t do that.”

“They have.”

Damien stared out into space, reeling with revulsion. That his existence, their love, could be wiped from her mind and soul… No. No. What they had was stronger than that. They’d shared a
mingling
, for fuck’s sake. What they had was more potent than any magic. “I don’t believe it.”

“Midea’s very powerful. And experienced. She’s had to expunge memories of you before.” He shot his son a look. “More times than I care to remember.”

“But none of those were…”

“Were…what?”

“Willow. None of those girls were Willow. None of them mattered.”

“Ah, but they did. They did matter, didn’t they? Because if you hadn’t defied me and seduced each and every one, you wouldn’t be in Midea’s sights now. You’d be one of the warlocks standing before Willow tonight and, if the connection between you is as strong as you think it is, she would have chosen
you
.

“But as it stands, you won’t be going to the ceremony. Willow won’t select you. Hell, she won’t even remember you. She’ll choose another. Some other warlock will sire the next Great Mother Witch. And you can go back to your philandering ways.”

Damien’s hackles rose. “I don’t want to go back to my philandering ways.” It was a childish cry but he felt it to the depth of his soul. “I’m in love with Willow. Completely. Absolutely. Eternally.” He added with a snarl, “I don’t want some other warlock touching her, much less fucking her.”

Azreal stared at his son for a long, silent moment. And then he smiled.

“All right then, son. What are you going to do about it?”

Chapter Eight

The Sacred Circle took place in a glade in the middle of a forest, protected from mortal sight by a veil of spells. It was a somber, beautiful occasion, welcoming a new Sister into the fold. It was one of the few times they all came together—witches and warlocks—suppressing their natural tendency to clash. The glade had been lit with tiny lights glittering high in the boughs of the watching trees. The Brethren stood in a ring, all cloaked in black, with hoods dipping over their faces—all but the eligible warlocks.

These fellows, these strong, majestic warriors who had not yet been mated, stood in an arc inside the Circle. They were clothed in nothing but tight leggings. They had all taken the time and effort to enhance their allure, whether endowed by magic or natural gifts. They stood in a line, sizing each other up and primping.

And what a fine selection it was.

Willow peeped around the trunk of a tree to take in the scene. Her heart skipped. She was excited and frightened. Somewhere, out there, was her mate. One of the Sisters shifted to the side and she got a glimpse of the altar. She shivered. That was where her child would be conceived. Tonight.

All the auspices were good. Midea had read and reread the signs.

The object of her thoughts came up beside her and took her hand, tugged at her. “Come away, child. Don’t peek.”

“But I want to see them.”

“Not until it’s time. Come. We must prepare.”

Willow blew out a breath. She’d been preparing for this night forever, but she obediently followed the Great Mother Witch back to the smaller circle formed by her coven. Her family.

She took her place among them, standing out like a diamond in her white dress. Glancing around at the so-familiar faces, her heart lifted. Ardith and Circe and Danika and Maeve. And, of course, Skylar. The women who had found her and taken her in and taught her. Despaired of her at times.

Willow smiled at them, each and every one. They all smiled back, although Skylar’s smile was wobbly. Tears glistened on her lashes.

Midea stepped forward, a chalice in her hands, chanting the words of welcome. She lifted the cup high and implored Gaia and all the Gods of the Earth to protect her, bless her, inspire her in her works. She repeated the chant for Willow.

And then she passed the cup over. Willow took it with both hands, accepting it with a whole heart. She sipped.

The brew, potent and warm, trickled through her, danced along her veins. It flowed into her body, her soul, making her tingle from tip to toes. It settled in her womb, softening her, preparing her for what was to come.

Willow hadn’t expected the drowsy, somnambulant feeling that came with the potion. Her limbs were heavy, sleepy and slow. She walked on a fog, a mist as the Sisters led her through the forest and to the Sacred Circle. The Brethren opened ranks to welcome her in and the chant rose. It filled her, possessed her, made its home in her heart.

Azreal, the Great Warlock, approached. Though she’d never met him before, he seemed oddly familiar. It was probably the potion. She blinked in surprise as he offered her a tiny wink.

Then he took her elbow and led her to the other side of the clearing where the warlocks awaited her.

As she approached, they all stood taller, put their shoulders back. One even thrust out his chest, which made Willow’s lips twitch. The Great Warlock led her down the line, from one to the other, calling out each name in turn. Willow attentively listened. She inspected each man, as she’d been trained to do, looking for the flare of magic marking him as her mate. Some higher power crawled through her, prowling, watching and assessing as well.

Halfway through the line, she began to wonder if she was doing this wrong. Because none of them, not one of them, stirred a thing in her heart. She sighed and looked down the line of remaining postulants. They all looked pretty much the same. But she was an obedient girl—at least that was what Midea kept telling her—so she followed the Great Warlock on and on. And still, nothing happened. There was no magic. No magic at all.

They came to the last man and a bubble of panic rose. She studied him, desperately trying to see something, trying to
feel
something.

“This is Simon,” the Great Warlock intoned. Willow stared at Simon, and stared at him some more, hoping, praying to Gaia, to see that something there.

She didn’t.

He was just the kind of man she always found attractive, tall and dark with a hint of domination quirking his brow. And Gaia, he was handsome and braw. His muscles were thickly roped and oiled for her. His face was a dream.

But…nothing.

With a small whimper, she stepped back, a hard ache throbbing in her belly. Simon deflated and a gasp ricocheted through the Congregation. Willow could practically hear their thoughts, taste their dismay.
How can this be?
they wondered.
All the auspices were good. How can this be?

Were none of the warlocks her True Mate? Were none of them even worthy?

And then, from behind the line of men, another warlock stepped forward. He appeared in the Circle with a shimmering, as though he’d just emerged from behind an enchanted curtain.

He was tall and dark and broad. His eyes were large and brown and his brows had a wicked slant. His hair was an unruly mop of curls so maddening her fingers twitched to smooth it. He smiled and her attention shifted to his lips and…oh. What beautiful lips.

Arousal shot through her womb. Midea’s potion had finally awoken. Willow stared at him, this warlock, this man. And she saw it. With her inner eye. She saw the eddies of magic, the brilliant whorls of iridescent light swirling around him.

Drawn to him, she stepped forward.

Behind her, she heard the restless rustle as the other postulants recognized defeat. She heard the whispers, the outrage, the denials of her coven. But it was all muted, silenced, by his presence.

Slowly, she raised her hand. He took it.

A hush fell over the glen.

“This is Damien,” the Great Warlock announced. “He is my son.”

“Damien.” His name was a whisper on her lips.

“Willow.”

They walked together, hand in hand, to the altar. She tried to pull her gaze from his, to glance around at all the watchers, but couldn’t bear to look away. She wanted to drink him in, fill herself with him, be quenched by him.

As they approached the great stone altar, her body thrummed, preparing itself for him. He stepped on the dais and brought her up beside him.

But instead of lifting her onto the altar as he was supposed to do, he fell to his knees.

Willow blinked. Midea had not prepared her for this. A man on his knees before a woman meant one thing and one thing only—no matter what the society.

He knelt there on the hard stone and held her hand and looked up into her eyes. “I’m so pleased you chose me, Willow.” These words were whispered, for her ears only, but what he said next was for the whole company. A very public declaration. “I, Damien DeWinter, pledge myself to you Willow Ostreth, for now and forever more.”

She shivered. This was a portentous pronouncement, to be sure, but there was an undercurrent here, a tantalizing trail of…something that led her to believe it was even more important than she suspected. What it was, she couldn’t quite unravel.

“Do you accept my troth?”

“Yes.” The word came. No thoughts prompted it. She just opened her mouth and let her heart speak for her. One look at his face and she knew—just knew—she’d said the right thing. He fairly
glowed
with satisfaction.

He stood and lifted her then onto the stone altar and, while she was still sitting, kissed her. His lips were strong and firm and familiar. She was drawn into the embrace, forgetting about the watchers, forgetting about the altar, forgetting about the ceremony and focusing only on him.

His hand was heavy and warm on her thigh. With a shock, she realized it was under her gown. She murmured and shifted her legs farther apart, knowing—just knowing—it was what he wanted. He groaned in appreciation and let his fingers trail higher and higher still. And then he caressed her, found her center and pressed in. His finger was gentle on her clit but she gasped anyway at his touch. Because as he brushed it, it swelled. His other hand found her breast and he teased one nipple, then the other. She shifted restlessly as a damp, warm rain fell.

“Please,” she whispered, but he heard her. He understood. He cradled her head in his palms and laid her down on the altar, and then levered himself beside her, over her.

He looked down at her face and grinned. She couldn’t help but respond. There was just something about him that warmed her. She felt as though she’d always known him.

“I’m not crazy about doing this here,” he murmured. His thumb rubbed her nipple. She sighed at the pleasure of his touch.

“Why not?”

He glanced around the clearing. “Everyone’s watching.”

She giggled. “They’re supposed to.”

“Still…” He winked at her. “We’ll have to keep it clean.” He kissed her, trailing his lips over hers and then down her cheek. His tender touch drifted from her breast to her knee and he pulled up the hem of her gown. He was careful not to expose her to the watching eyes. Willow was rather impressed with his technique.

He slipped his hand under her dress, found her,
touched
her.

A great wash of arousal rose in her at his touch. But then she realized it wasn’t just her excitement she felt. She tasted his as well, multicolored skeins of it, dancing through her, caressing her, tangling with her
chi
. A sharp shard of excitement slashed through her as the proof of his interest nudged her thigh. She moved her leg deliberately against it. He froze and growled playfully under his breath, “Little minx.”

She batted her lashes. “I am really very horny, you know. They’ve given me a potion.”

“Have they?”

She nodded.

His fingers were thick and strong. They slipped inside her and filled her. She arched her back and spread her legs farther.

“Yes, I see. You are very horny, aren’t you?” He delved deeper. She heard the sound of her slickness as he moved inside her. He gave a little groan. “You are very wet, you know.”

“Yes.” And then, all of a sudden, she wasn’t feeling playful. Because he had withdrawn. But he didn’t deny her for long. He slipped back in and then out, several times in quick succession. She whimpered. Clutched at him.

When he didn’t give her what she wanted, as fast as she wanted it, she took matters into her own hands. She reached down and found his cock and squeezed.

“Oh my,” she said. “Look what I’ve found. It seems you’re a little horny as well.”

A flush crawled up his face, his muscles tightened, along with her fist. “Ah. Willow.” She rubbed his length again, and again. He dropped his head on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

Willow stilled. “Missed me?” For Gaia’s sake. They’d just met.

He jerked his head back and panic flickered through his
chi
. Before she could react to that, wonder at that, he stroked her again, this time deeper still. He buried his fingers inside her and then wiggled them. All thoughts fled in the face of this pleasure. She cried out and tipped back her head and arched her back as an orgasm, or at least the hint of one, tugged at her.

Damien, her warlock, didn’t hesitate. He pulled down his tight breeches and pulled out his cock and, being careful to shield her most private parts from the lingering throng, entered her.

Delight shot through her. It simmered and roiled in her womb, danced as this fat sword skewered her. “Ah yes.” She spread her legs farther apart, and farther, as he moved over her, trying his best to rein in the passion in front of so many onlookers while still bringing her pleasure.

And pleasure, he did bring.

There was something about him, this man, his cock, his body, that spoke to her. It was probably the magic but really it felt like so much more. A familiarity swamped her, and something more…. A memory. A dream. A hope. A hunger. With each lunge he brought it closer, closer to her until she could almost grasp it. Almost grab it with both hands and hold on.

His thrusts became hard and short. He lunged from one side to the other in a frantic searching rhythm. She responded in kind, tightening her hold on him the faster he went, clutching at him, milking him, begging for more, more, more.

And then it came. Even as the wave broke over her, it broke within her as hot jets of his cum washed her womb. Took root. It was glorious. Delirious. Fragrant. Exquisite.

Because as she came, as he filled her with his cum, she remembered.

She remembered everything.

She clutched him closer, crying, “Damien, Damien, Damien!”

“Ah yes, Willow. My Willow.”

He reared back, looked her in the eye. A message, unspoken except in their hearts, passed between them. And they knew.

They both just
knew
.