Warlock's Charm

Marly
Mathews

Anya Ross-Redgrave is on the run
from her husband, Damien Forsythe. He wants her back so much that he has hired
hunter after hunter to capture and return her to him.

The problem? Anya is one powerful,
wily witch, and she keeps sending the witch hunters back to her husband as
living wax dolls.

Damien realizes he has to be the
one to finally catch his deliciously wicked wife and make her his once again.

Will their love endure all that
separates them? Can he charm her back into his embrace?

A
Romantica®
futuristic erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

New Salem City, Shadow Flare County

Province of New Mercia, Vanguard Prime

2367

“We shall strip them of their powers, take their
lands, enslave, hang or burn those who resist, for only we shall rule this rich
new world—only we shall possess magic!” Governor Gregory Asher, Speaking at the
Bloodbayne Coven Rally, New Salem City, 2317

Damien Forsythe sat at his large mahogany desk with his eyes
fixed on the portrait he’d bought at auction a few months ago. His Anya looked
just like her great-grandmother, her eyes held the same dramatic expression to
them as well. Fire danced in her luminescent amber-brown eyes, giving her a
haunting, esoteric and strikingly powerful look. Her ebony hair looked like
silken midnight and added to her air of mystery and power.

She wore the infamous Ross Amulet around her neck, and the
artist had captured the effervescent quality of the black tourmaline perfectly,
flashes of red, green and gold light reflected off the faceted stone.

Legend said that the magical powers of each Ross witch or
warlock were stored in the arcane depths. Whoever wore it and harnessed its
power would be unrivaled power wise. The only catch—the wearer had to carry
Ross blood.

Ebony Ross looked so much like Anya that he could almost
hear his wife’s spirited laughter resonating throughout the room. He glanced at
his office door as the doorknob turned slowly. Reaching out with his magically
tuned senses, he felt that person’s nervousness.

His empathic abilities were quite strong for a warlock, and
he’d used them to his benefit and others’ detriment before. Whoever was on the
other side exuded extreme anxiety—that meant the news they would deliver to him
would not be to his liking.

He watched as his rail-thin male secretary walked slowly
into his large suite of rooms where he conducted all of his business affairs.
He walked as if he had large stone weights strapped around his ankles, and if
the news he had to report displeased Damien that much he would probably leave
the room with something of that nature on him.

He’d waited far too long to get what he wanted, and he
neared the end of his rope, patience-wise.

“Sir, I bring you bad tidings.” Terry Stopper’s eyes darted
around the room and lit on everything but Damien’s displeased gaze.

“I figured as much, Mr. Stopper. I thought I told you to
find me the best witch hunter that the Triple Hexed Agency had to offer, and
now I suppose you’re bringing me news that once again another witch hunter has
failed. My Anya is just too powerful—with or without the Ross Amulet.”

“Sir, I must protest. I was told that Master Oliver White
was better than the others we sent out. He’s earned quite a reputation among
the hallowed halls of hunters. He’s caught many notorious witches and warlocks,
he even brought in the elusive and psychotic Hyacinth Glory, but I am afraid,
sir, that he—”

Stopper cleared his throat nervously. “He failed this time
around…we’ve just had word from New Plymouth on Vanguard IV that he did send
out a communique to say he’d tracked her there and that he would get back in
touch with us when he had her in the appropriate restrictive gear, you know,
when she was chained and collared like a wild beast.”

Slight annoyance tinged Stopper’s tone. When he’d first
asked Stopper to enlist the Triple Hexed Agency’s services, he’d been more than
eager to do so, so the slight annoyance tinging Stopper’s tone right now was
definitely out of character for him, and raised Damien’s suspicions.

“I gave precise instructions that she was not to be harmed, Mr.
Stopper.” He took a few moments to compose himself, and wondered why he kept
Stopper on the payroll. They’d been through many trials together and in a way,
he was more than just an employee to Damien.

“I only wanted her incapacitated and returned to me… I would
never seek to hurt Anya. I love her, I love and cherish her above anything else
in this life. Life is dull and totally mundane without her—I simply can’t go on
much longer without having her and holding her. I ache when she’s not around.
To think that those bastards attempted to hurt her!”

Anger spiraled through Damien. He had to keep his cool, he
couldn’t let his emotions rule him the way they ruled his runaway witch bride.
He worked the fingers of his left hand, watching as they started to glow with
an arcane light. He wanted to use his magic to destroy his office and
everything in it, but he could not give in to those emotions.

He had to keep it together. Slowly, he forced calm throughout
his body, watching as the blue light encircling his hand faded away. As he did
so, he felt his heartbeat regulate once more.

“And how did this turn out for him? Faced with bodily harm,
I know my wife’s wrath would have been quite terrible. I do hope she gave them
what they deserved.”

Damien leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk. He
reached for his decorative witch blade that served him for many years as a
letter opener and for certain rituals if the need arose. It used to be his
mother’s, and her mother’s before her, and she’d gifted it to him when he’d
reached the age of eighteen—she told him it would bring him good fortune.

Stopper cleared his throat nervously and hesitated. The only
other sound in the room was of the grandfather clock in the corner steadily
ticking away the hour.

“Speak up, Mr. Stopper, or so help me I will turn you into a
piece of wood for the fireplace!”

Stopper’s eyes widened so far he thought his eyeballs would
roll right out of his head.

“He’s been all dolled up.” Stopper swallowed thickly and
pulled nervously at the early-twentieth-century collar he wore.

The man was a mystery wrapped up in an enigma covered with a
cryptogram. Stopper loved everything technological and yet, he dressed like a
man from the Edwardian era, of Earth’s ancient past.

Having inherited a noble title through his mother’s Scottish
ancestry, he knew far more about the far-flung past of the United Kingdom on
Earth than most did. Many of those ancient values had been resurrected on
Vanguard when it was colonized as those men and women greatly admired that time
period and wanted it to live again here on Vanguard Prime.

“Do they have this living doll?” He narrowed his gaze,
gripping the smooth handle on his dagger. He clenched the mother of pearl
handle so tightly his fingers turned red. He yearned for his wife. He needed
her back by his side.

This game of cat and mouse had gone on between them long
enough. She had to submit at some point.

“Yes sir, it’s coming back to us on a transport ship. It
should arrive on Vanguard Prime in approximately twenty-four hours.”

“How disappointing, Stopper. I can’t say I didn’t expect it,
she’s always been a wily little witch—and it would seem that the only one who
can successfully pursue her is me. I will have to leave the office for a few
days in order to end this madness. Her stubbornly reckless behavior is most
unbecoming. She can’t run from me forever and dumping me after the ceremony is
not to be forgiven.”

“I understand, sir. I will receive the shipment when it
arrives and put it with the rest of the collection.”

Damien nodded and sighed. Glancing over at a curio cabinet
on the far wall, he studied the twelve-inch-tall dolls.

Anya had a troubling way of turning any who attacked her
into a living doll form. He supposed it kept her from doing the unthinkable act
of killing. Many who engaged in magical duels resorted to that terrifying
practice and he supposed he could admire her for her restraint.

In a strange way, he admired her handiwork, and actually
felt a surge of pride whenever he saw her creations. Her craft was as strong as
his, if not stronger.

She was the most formidable witch of her generation, to gain
the upper hand on several expertly trained witch hunters. His admiration for
her continued to grow.

Love coupled with lust rushed through him. He needed her
back so he could claim her body and soul—she’d robbed him of their honeymoon
and they had a lot to make up for.

Every night he dreamed of Anya, and those dreams normally
robbed him of the sleep he needed as the hot intensity of them woke him up
midway through his dream. Many a night he’d been forced to take a cold shower
to cool off from the particularly explicitly erotic dreams of Anya.

She’d been an angel in bed; she’d matched him in every
imaginable way. He swallowed slowly, his throat becoming dry, and wrenched his
thoughts away from Anya’s naked body and instead re-focused on the matters at
hand.

Unfortunately, the witch hunters would be entombed in living
wax until she could return them to their native forms—if she could be persuaded
to do so. He’d have to use his most fervent powers of persuasion on her in
order to gain the results he needed from her.

Based upon her newly developed hatred of the witch hunters
employed at the Triple Hexed Agency, he knew he would have to do some hard work
in order to get her to agree to release them from their living prison. He
didn’t even know if he’d survive their next meeting—they hadn’t exactly parted
on the best of terms.

She wanted an annulment, and when he’d declined, for one
terrifying split second he’d feared she was going to make herself a widow. He’d
dodged that attack, and he bloody well didn’t know if he’d be lucky the second
time around.

A formidable wedge had been driven between them when she’d
discovered his family’s dark secret at the wedding reception. He could see
still the look of sheer horror etched on her perfect features—she’d been
absolutely devastated. She’d been so deflated she didn’t even try to throw a
genuine hex at him, nor did she attempt to make a spectacle of herself by
screaming at him like a banshee.

She’d just run out of the ballroom in their new sprawling
mansion, Silver Gables, and as he’d given chase she’d pulled a disappearing act
by vanishing in a swirl of charcoal smoke.

She’d left her white fairy-tale-styled wedding gown behind
in a heap on the ground. The dreaded hoop she’d worn for him and the silk and
the lace had mocked him that night, making him realize that he’d tried to make
her into something she wasn’t. He never should have attempted to control her
that way. He wished he could take it all back.

She’d never wanted the large spectacle their wedding had
created. Reserved as she was, Anya had desired a small, intimate wedding and
she’d wanted it to take place back on Earth.

He’d talked her into having a fairly modern wedding, more
modern than most of the weddings that took place on Vanguard Prime.

He’d wanted her treated like a princess, and had ensured
that the gown she’d worn had been fit for a princess. She’d remarked that she
felt like Cinderella and he often wondered why she had viewed him as her
prince. Sometimes, he felt more like a villain of the story than the hero.

They’d made such positive plans for their future. She’d
wanted to start a family straightaway and he’d wanted it just as much as she’d
desired it. In fact, she held his heart in his hands, he would do anything to
please her, and he supposed that’s why her rejection of him still stung. He
could never accept it, not for as long as he drew breath. She was his soul
mate. Never again would he find a love like her… She was one in a trillion and
she had to know how much her absence hurt him.

He had to charm her off her feet again. He had to win her
back and have her safely in his arms before they could make their dreams come
true. The first step to doing that involved having her with him and making sure
she could never escape him again.

He knew of a way to keep her with him but he’d have to use
his magical gifts on her. He’d never stooped that low. He’d never used his magic
on her before—to do so could break any sliver of trust that still existed
between them and loathe as he was to do it, he might not have any other option.

If he resorted to that he would be no better than his
grandfather, and he couldn’t turn into him.

Damien had one magical gift he’d never revealed to Anya.
This talent would allow him to keep her no matter how badly she wanted to
leave—but using that sort of dark magic could be costly for him.

It was the same kind that his grandfather and his great-uncle
had used to enslave countless peace-loving magic folk. His mother always told
him that blood magic came at a price and that she only wanted him using his
gift in extreme emergencies.

He’d never wanted Anya to discover the dark secret that his
family had kept for over fifty years. How could he have known that by giving
her the infamous Ross Amulet, she would be able to see into the past and
witness for herself his great-grandfather’s unspeakable atrocities?

Damien had given her the amulet in good faith, thinking that
she should rightfully have back what her grandfather had taken from her family
so long ago—he never imagined it would give her a psychic flash and allow her
to see into the past to witness Ebony Ross’ tragic fate.

How could he have let any members of his father’s side of
the family come to the wedding?

Allowing his great-aunt to attend was a ruinous mistake. It
was one he couldn’t take back.

It wasn’t like his grandfather’s youngest sister had any
hand in his foul deeds. In fact, she had resisted her family’s evilness for
years and had been instrumental in breaking the cycle and turning their family
magic back to the side of good.

Nonetheless, he’d grown up carrying a heavy burden of guilt
and after his vile act of malfeasance to Anya he had guilt layered upon guilt
and he knew he could be sealing his own fate by sending witch hunters after
her.

He just kept rubbing salt into her open wound and no matter
how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop causing her pain.