Feral Magic: An Urban Fantasy Romance-Thriller

  * * *

  Enaid told me that Nest wished to speak with me, and how to find her. I followed the tunnels down until they opened up to a forested area tamed with various wildflowers.

  “Nest?”

  “Here, in the roses,” she said.

  I came to her in a sitting area. Nest was trimming up a bush that had gone wild.

  “Every year,” Nest said. “I prune these, and every year they grow back thick and luscious and boast more blooms than those which grew at their own pace. That one by your side? It started life beautifully, was strong and ready to bloom its first bud. Then came along a goat, and it ate the bush to the ground. Oh, how I wept!”

  Nest plucked off several damaged leaves with her thumbnail, rubbing them in her hand, making them disappear into nothing as she continued.

  “Years passed by with no sign of improvement. I thought it had died. Nothing would grow in its place, either. But just these last few days, it grew into this. And look at it now, ripe with buds and thick with leaves, ready to burst with color. Seldom before have I seen a blue-gray rose.”

  I reached out, caressing a round bud with my forefinger, the bud cool and alive. A breeze whisked through, casting dogwood tree blossoms about me. The bud shuddered on my finger and expanded, unfurling rows and rows of tiny petals until a cherry-sized bloom cascaded over my fingers.

  “Such a sight,” said Nest, “brings me great joy.”

  A lightning bug glowed to life and flew up to tap my forehead, then joined other glowing bugs in illuminating the darkening sky.

  “Agnes,” I said, shivering. “What is this? What's going on?”

  “This is my garden,” she said, “and every creature's life is represented here by a plant.”

  She pointed next to me, to a tall rose bush with long thorns and dark scarlet petals, the two rose bushes tangled up in each other with the draping vines of the blue-gray rose wrapping about the towering scarlet stems. A moth fluttered first on a scarlet rose, then down to the blue-gray rose as Nest spoke.

  “That bush is Mordon's, and this is the first year it has bloomed since the other one died.”

  “…what are you saying?”

  Nest smiled at me and patted my hand, “Welcome to your home, future Lady of Kragdomen.”

  Nest soon left me sitting on a stone bench, breathing in the faint scent of honeysuckle as the moon rose and the stars came out. There was something terrifying in that rose which had bloomed in my hand, something more terrifying about Nest's prediction and the way that moth had come to rest on both flowers.

  I put my face in my hands and breathed in cool air. I stared up at the purple sky with pinpricks of silver light cascading all about me. It turned leaves into waxy gleams, dark flowers darker, light flowers lighter. While most flowers closed up into a tight bulb for the night, a few opened to drink in the moon's rays. My rose, Mordon's rose, they both stayed wide and receptive of the honeysuckle breeze's caress.

  I smelled pepper and nutmeg, felt the heat from searching embers before I heard Mordon's boots crunch on the path behind me, coming down the hill. His flames stood out in the moonlight, a translucent green with opaque red tips the same color as his rose had been in the evening sun. Wondering if it was common to see another wizard's magic more plainly than your own, I made a mental note to look it up in Skills, no matter how many articles it made me write for the information.

  When Mordon sat down beside me, he chose to be close, our knees almost touching. My stomach fluttered. He gazed at the joined rose bush before us, eyes lingering over the almost-black petals resting against the nearly-white petals. My breeze stirred them to life, a tiny dance like ripples on a pristine spring.

  Mordon took in a deep breath. I wondered if he smelled my magic the way I smelled his spiced flames flicking in fine wisps around us, excited, nervous, joyful. I met his eyes engorged with the dim light of the evening. I lingered on his lean jaw, his wet lips. He glanced away, his magic shied back. I smiled just a little.

  “Nest,” I said, letting my voice flow casually, “said that gray-blue rose just came up to bloom.”

  He smiled and shook his head, “That woman never tells anyone which plants represent whom. Tradition, you see. She tends the garden, and depending how well she tends it is how well the colony survives. It's a role passed down from one tender to another.”

  I looked up the hill, past the bushes, and saw the shine of a window high up on the hill. The colony might help me restore the overgrown path to it. My tongue dashed over my lips again as Mordon's hand brushed my leg when he leaned forward in contemplation.

  “I wonder who that bush is. A potent child? A newly shifted adult? I wonder…”

  “The red bush is you,” I murmured.

  “And the other?” he whispered, casting a long look down to my ring, his eyes intense and bright with hunger.

  I flushed, too tongue-tied to admit who the gray rose was, equal parts terrified and giddy. My mind seemed to float with the tingling in my fingers, the sudden loss of breath. For an instant, I felt like I was floating over my body, expecting my skin to shift into scales.

  Then that instant was gone, and Mordon's fingers were on my cheek, snagging my soft peach fuzz with calloused skin. He ran his knuckles gingerly over my cheekbones, held my ear lobe with searching fingers, curled then under my jaw and pulled my face closer to his.

  My heart thumped, not in a wild manner, but in a strong tandem, seeming to beat in rhythm with his. Heat rolled off his skin, cold air tickled my back and down my throat. I gazed into his lion eyes, swallowing when I saw love radiating from him deeper than the passion of the moment. I was chilled to the bone with the realization that I felt the same.

  When had I fallen in love? Who was he? But when he brought his lips close to mine, his fingers ruffling the loose strands of my bun, I did not pull back; I slid forward.

  My lips met his warm, soft ones, feeling the snare from a healing bloody lip I hadn't noticed he'd gained, feeling his lips enveloping my bottom one, feeling his tongue flick my parted lips. I shivered. He did it again and I opened my mouth more, but his tongue darted in to stroke the inside of my lip.

  I was breathing honeysuckle and spice now, the air around me thrumming with the life of waving fire. A noise—a moan—escaped my throat, and I blushed hotly when he pulled away, a smug grin dashed over his face. There was a flame inside his eyes, and my face grew hotter at what they implied. His strong arm eased me against his chest. He rested his chin on my hair. I listened to his heart slow and quiet beneath my ear. He kissed my head, gave me a possessive squeeze.

  I wanted to feel his lips again, but he wouldn't let me move from my position, most likely for the better. I pried loose one arm and reached up to stroke his rough jaw, meeting with his nose by accident. His wet lips enclosed my fingertips and his teeth gave a slight nip. I giggled, a shrill noise in the plant life that somehow fit in place as easily as dewdrops, and drew my arm back to my body.

  “What would you like to do now, My Beloved?” his voice thrummed through his chest.

  The answer came without thinking. “I'd like to teach potions. Proper classes.”

  “You could hold them at King's Ransom.”

  “It's what I was thinking…and you? Going to do more puppeteering? I can't sew or carve, but I could help with a good light show.”

  His hand froze midway from stroking my arm, as though he hadn't thought about puppeteering professionally. “You could make Merlyn's spells look real, and the kids wouldn't have to just rely on acting.”

  “Easy.”

  “I'd still like to keep my shop.”

  I snorted. “You mean your hoard.”

  “I sell stuff,” he defended without fervor. “Though, not the good stuff.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said and snuggled into his arms.

  “Well?”

  “You don't need my permission. Besides,” I added, twisting to lay light kisses on his jaw since that was all I could reach. “I need a meet
ing place for classes.”

  He drew in a ragged breath, held tensely still until I drew back, then kissed me roughly, one hand supporting my neck, one hand on the small of my back. I lost track of time to the heady pleasure, stretching out my neck to invite him, and he happily accepted.

  I caught sight of an ember burning in the air above us, a paper forming in the reverse burn of a letter being delivered. It landed in his hair, still burning. I plucked it before the fire could spread.

  He smelled the smoke, settled back and sighed. “Who?”

  “Later?” I meant for it to be assertive, but it came out as a question.

  That smug grin took hold of his face again as he took me in, more than half sprawled in his lap. I flushed and sat up, not caring when the letter disappeared from my hand.

  “We should go,” he said.

  “In a bit.” I kissed him. He kissed me back, but wouldn't be tempted to linger his lips on my neck again.

  “We should get you to bed.”

  I snuggled up to him. “Yeah, we should.”

  “To our respective beds,” he growled as he shook me off.

  As we hiked back up the hill, the cool air devoid of spiced honeysuckle brought some sense back into me. I watched his back, grateful that one of us had the mind to keep a vigil on what we were doing. Focusing on the twists and turns of the colony's castle helped keep my mind distracted from lavishing attention on his powerful chest, his thick arms, his lean waist.

  When we reached my door, I found my wiles hadn't been banished. I insisted on a goodnight kiss. He chased me away when my fingers sought bare skin up the back of his shirt. Holding me tight in a fierce hug, he whispered roughly, “If you really, really want me to stay I will.”

  It was enough to jar me back to reality. I let him go.

  He gave me a kiss on the forehead. I listened to his footsteps fade away like the pulse of my heart.

  The rooms here had no doors in case a child became stuck in their dragon form. Curtains instead hung in the arches, appropriate to the individual's taste and style. My room had a garden tapestry hanging in the doorway, and I contemplated the embroidery in silence.

  I looked at the bed, poked it, and discovered a straw-filled mattress scented with lavender flowers. The bedspread itself was a simple blanket made from black and white wool, a twill pattern woven into it. I flopped down on the bed, knowing there would be no sleeping tonight. I laid awake.

  What was I doing slobbering over him like…like some lamb swoons over a vampire reeking with glamour magic? I had to keep from thinking of his eyes, or else my pulse would quicken again and I gained a goofy grin that belonged to a teenager. I had my own future to tend to…didn't I?

  One way or another, it included him. I couldn't—I wouldn't—abandon Leif and Lilly. Mordon, I reminded myself, stop switching subjects. How would our changed relationship influence the rest of the coven? Did I want to announce it? Was it even possible to deny it at this point? I could tell him to ignore me.

  Mordon would do as I wanted him to.

  The thought rocked me. I knew he would, because he loved me and would respect whatever wishes I had, but the thought of him ignoring me stung. I wanted to pull out my hair, fed up with my own indecision.

  A noise came down the hall. Scratchy, gnarly voices that rang in my distant memory. Gremlins. I held still, moving my hand up to the narrow chain about my neck, slipping the invisibility ring on my finger. I flattened myself on the floor, watching under the tapestry.

  A knee-tall troupe passed by. They pulled aside a curtain, peered inside, and grumbled about if the occupant “could work” or not. They were overwhelmed about their options.

  Gremlins were possibly the only creature popular artwork did justice to—large ears, large eyes, angular faces, dumpy frames, gangly arms and legs. I'd had a few encounters with them in the past, and always when I was around my parents during an active mission. They were rumored to have been bred by a dark overlord of times long gone, suited for fodder and only the most basic of missions, though their nasty teeth and claws made up for their lack of mental capacity.

  I undid my shoes and followed after them in my socks, not in the least bit tired after everything Mordon had given me to think about. To my disappointment, most of the time I spent following them was relatively uneventful and I had too much time to ponder on my relationship with Mordon.

  I almost ran into the gremlin trailing the rest, stopping and leaning comically over him, my arms outstretched for balance. He squinted and studied my face. I held my breath. He took one gnarled finger and swished it under his nose in an exaggerated itch, then stuck his nail up one nostril and pulled out an orange string of mucus. He looked at it, frowning and making a “hmm” sound. Then, he ate it, smacking his lips with a toothy smile.

  He walked away. I took a minute holding my hand up to my mouth, just breathing and focusing on not gagging. Had it meant that I would not have been subjected to seeing that, I would have gladly been caught eavesdropping.

  I followed at a greater distance now, coming within hearing range just in time to witness a gremlin spat.

  “Master wants one fast!” a green one said and shoved a brownish one into a wall.

  “Master needs a right one! One chance, he said!” defended the brown. The others hissed and cheered on the fight.

  “Chak missed one chance with children running away,” the green one accused.

  “Kek spent too long in field waiting for perfect time that never came,” the brown one, Chak, reprimanded, “must be a shifter! Kek never going to catch shifting drake in the field. Let's take one from the bed. Then Morgana be Master.”

  But Kek had had enough of tolerating Chak. With one pounce and shredding claws, Chak was left as a bloodless heap upon the ground, nothing more than a shredded rag with no face, no heart, no dead eyes to glaze over as the life left the body. Just a brownish, tattered pile of decomposing burlap, a puppet with its strings snipped.