The cauldron effect, p.27
The Cauldron Effect, page 27
Amid that loud cheer, Braden pulled Merryn back into the entryway and turned her to face him.
He had that, “I intend to claim you” look in his eyes again. One she hoped would never fade. If he meant to kiss her, she had no objections. The act was long overdue based on the agreed upon hourly requirement.
“Yes, Braden,” she said, with a fond smile.
He leaned forward to touch her lips but stopped a hairsbreadth too soon and drew back.
She frowned in concern. “Do you no longer wish to kiss me? We’ve found the boy. Your duty to Trystan is complete. However, I’m still a witch and you are a church guard.”
“So we are.” Braden tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “Which is why I am now free to ask you something I’ve wanted to for a while.”
“Ask me what?” Merryn held her breath. She knew what she wanted him to ask but wasn’t sure he was free to do so. He’d need the archbishop’s permission and the holy man had foolishly left the building. She should have locked the door to bar his way. What if Braden thought his God would disapprove? Tears welled in her eyes at all the ways her heart’s desire could be kept from her.
Braden knelt on one knee and Merryn caught her breath.
He took her hand and said, “Merryn Pendraven, will you marry me?”
She stared at him; her throat choked with happy tears. “Yes, yes, yes,” she cried, thinking she sounded just like Cri, and not minding in the least.
She flung her arms around his neck and sealed her answer with a heartfelt kiss.
He returned her embrace with fervor. It was the sweetest kiss she’d ever experienced, for with his lips, he promised her forever after. For a coven protectress who hadn’t expected to live past her twenty-fifth year, it was the sweetest promise ever.
Epilogue
Ignominiously thrust outside the church by Saint Agatha, Farfur glanced around and spotted Bartos beyond the crowd.
He ran over and rubbed noses with him. He pulled back to give the other hellhound a concerned once over. “You’re very warm.”
“I can barely walk.” Bartos lay slumped at the base of the damaged portion of the steps. “I couldn’t even accompany the master up into the church.” He nodded toward Dewer who was standing at the open church door, looking in. “He seems unhappy. What happened?”
“Eggy Trystan’s been found and reclaimed by his parents.”
Bartos laid his head down. “All is lost then.”
“Not all. I heard the dark queen has fled back to the underworld. I doubt she’ll return anytime soon.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters,” Farfur said with indignation. “It means the master won’t be tormented by her for a while."
Bartos lifted his head to nod toward Dewer. “It’s not the loss of the boy or his mother’s actions that upsets him. He’s realized he’s losing the protectress. Nothing torments him more than her. Love, Farfur, is the truest curse.”
Farfur looked toward his master and gave a distressed whine, for how could he possibly help with that problem?
“What does any of it matter?” Bartos continued. “If the door to the underworld has been sealed, I cannot return to be healed. I will die here. For a moment, I sensed a healing energy in the air, but it did nothing for me.”
Farfur gave a worried yip. Perhaps, there was something he could do. “Wait here.” He raced to where he’d last seen the witch who’d worked on the man lying on the pew inside the nave. Could she be a healer? Might she be able to help Bartos? As he sniffed her out, people exclaimed in alarm and formed a wide berth around him. Once he reached her, he tugged at her sleeve.
She gave a started cry and raised her arm as if to strike.
He lay low, resting his head on his paws and whined his plea for mercy. When she didn’t hurt him, he stood and tugged at her sleeve again, pulling her toward Bartos. She resisted and then with a sigh, let him lead her.
“What’s happened to you, then?” she asked, kneeling beside Bartos. She cleared a space around the hellhound and carefully probed his wound.
Bartos growled in pain.
“I can make this better, if you let me,” she said.
Farfur’s ears perked in surprise. He’d never heard anyone speak so gently to a hellhound. Was this a trick?
Bartos licked her hand.
“Leave him be,” Dewer snapped.
Farfur yelped in surprise and backed away. He hadn’t heard the master return.
“Your hound is hurt,” the witch said.
“I’ll deal with him later.”
“Do you know how to care for a wound this infected? How could you have allowed it to fester like this?”
“I’ve no time for this nonsense. There’s nothing left here for me. We’re leaving. Now!”
Farfur cringed, recognizing that dangerous tone.
To his surprise, instead of stepping aside, the witch stood and placed herself firmly between Bartos and the master.
“This hound needs help and I will not allow you to...”
Dewer abruptly cut her off. “We’re leaving.”
“Not until the hound is better,” the witch protested.
“Do you mean that hellhound?” Dewer pointed to Bartos. “He’s not your concern.” His master set a transportation spell in motion, one that included Farfur and Bartos.
Bartos cried out, pawing at the shield and barking at the witch.
“What’s the matter?” Farfur asked.
“I want to stay with her,” Bartos said. “She has a gentle hand.”
“Stay?” Farfur asked, confused. “With a witch?”
The witch was staring at Bartos with a startled expression, as if she sensed his wish to stay. Then she did something else entirely unwise. She reached into the spell and took hold of Bartos’s neck fur.
As she pulled the hound out of his spell, Dewer looked up and released a full-throated scream of fury.
With his master’s attention distracted, Farfur had one moment to decide what to do. He leapt after his friend.
The spell completed, and sent Dewer’s glowering form back toward his black tower, alone. A whirlwind punctuated by a surfeit of thunder and lightning reflected the fury on his face.
The healer stared after Dewer, too, as if fascinated. She absently petted Bartos, and then she smoothed the fur on Farfur’s forehead. An odd gesture that he at first ducked from, and then realized he’d enjoyed it. He tentatively wagged his tail.
“Farfur,” Bartos said, “We’re free.”
The suggestion settled across his shoulders like an ill-fitting harness. He should be happy, he was free, he was with his friend, yet, something wasn’t right. “Do you really think the master will let us go so easily?”
“He has other worries than us. At least, for a while.”
Farfur played back his former master’s expression before he faded away. Past Dewer’s anger, there had been sorrow lines etched deep on either side of Dewer’s eyes. He had lost the boy, the woman he desired, and now, his last two hellhounds. He would be utterly alone. “Bartos, what will he do without us to take care of him?”
“No longer our problem,” Bartos said, but he sounded worried. He, too, was staring at the ground from where their master had vanished.
Farfur’s shoulders slumped. Weighed down by an unfamiliar sense of compassion, he wanted to run after the master. Bartos was right after all. Love was, indeed, a curse.
MERRYN SAT ON THE TOP step of Saint Agatha’s church and looked around at all her friends and family gathered in little groups, happily chatting. Life was beginning to slow down. Trystan was playing with his dog. His parents watched him with fond smiles a short distance away.
The most startling aspect was that the couple was holding hands. That family was likely to grow in the near future. The idea brought a happy grin to her cheeks which were already sore from smiling so much today.
Near the Mattock family stood her Great Aunt Gwen speaking to Braden’s man, Garth. By the magician’s hand gestures, he was asking for details about their flying carriage.
The slamming of doors swung her attention toward the roadway and a row of vehicles. The archbishop and his men were leaving Callington. Church guards had mounted horses, ready to act as their escort back to London. The guards saluted Braden as they rode by, with a few offering sly winks. With Mattock’s spell removed, they were acting normal again. It was a pleasing sight.
Mattock had sworn before his council, Aunt Morwena and Braden that he would never again use mind-magic on humans no matter the incentive. He was just one warlock though. Merryn planned to keep her ears tuned for any rumors of other warlocks who might be tempted to act as foolishly, which was part and parcel of her responsibilities as Coven Protectress. The role was settling comfortably across her shoulders.
As if sensing her gaze, Braden turned away from waving off the archbishop’s contingent and headed in her direction. He was swiftly accosted by Merryn’s cousin Emily with her friends Miss Eliza Symons and Miss Jane Bicket, all of them flirting outrageously.
“Shameful,” Lady Hancock said from behind Merryn. Before she could inform the lady that no interference was required, the matron hurried down the steps with her friends in tow to rescue him. She then ushered him toward Merryn.
He sauntered up the steps, stopping to snatch a few left-over pastries from the remnants of the bake sale. He slumped beside her and offered her one of his stolen prizes. “Where have all the witches gone?”
“Fishguard for some, with warlock escort. The rest have returned home. I’m unsure where Boo-Boo has gone.”
“Who’s that?”
“Sorry, my cousin, Grace. She’s the one who removed the mind-spell from Archbishop Sutton.”
“Ummm,” Braden said, munching. “I wanted to thank her but your Aunt Morwena said she’s already returned to her house. Your aunt seems worried about her. Said she left with two of Dewer’s hellhounds.”
“He allowed her to take them?” she asked, shocked.
He gave her a knowing side glance. “I suspect he had other matters on his mind.”
Merryn looked over to the church door, remembering Braden’s proposal in the entryway. Could Dewer have witnessed that precious moment? She sighed as her compassion swelled. Unrequited love was a painful emotion. Noticing Braden observing her closely, she changed the subject. Dewer was a topic she was not yet ready to discuss. “What were you and Sutton speaking about for so long?”
“With your aunt’s assistance, he sent a missive to the regent to inform him about events here. His Royal Highness was apparently most intrigued. He’s already sent back a message that he wants a full report, especially about Wyhcan history. How you arrived on Earth. What happened afterwards.”
“He’d best speak to our Lore Keeper, then,” Merryn said looking off into the horizon as she remembered the elderly woman who visited occasionally to tell Wyhcan children fascinating tales of their home world. “She keeps our historical records. I haven’t seen or heard from her recently. Aunt Morwena would know how to get in touch with her.”
“I’ll pass the contact details along,” Braden said and then asked, “Are you happy, Merryn?”
She focused on him and said with sincerity, “Immensely. How could I not be when the wish I made at the Laneast well has come true.”
“As did Garth’s,” Braden said with a tolerant smile. “What did you wish for?”
“That you would come to see my people as your friends instead of your enemy. What about you?” she asked. “Aunt Morwena said that you, too, made a wish that day.”
“I wished that my God would grant me clarity about witches. Specifically, about you.”
“That’s why you were requested to go into the wall to retrieve Trystan,” Merryn said. “It was your wish being granted.”
“I suppose,” Braden said. “All’s well that ends well?”
“Not quite. I’m overwhelmed,” Merryn said softly. “And determined, as well as a little terrified.”
He sat up, brushing crumps from his fingers. “What about, my love?”
“Overwhelmed by all Queen Orlagh revealed about the power she believes I possess. Determined to be the best Coven Protectress I can be for Britain.” She paused.
“And what frightens you?” he asked, taking her hand.
“Meeting your parents.”
He chuckled and kissed her knuckles.
“I want them to like me as I am, Braden, without the use of magic. Just because I can weave bewitching spells, does not mean I wish to cast one on them.”
“Magic is a part of who you are, Merryn, and I accept that. I wouldn’t want you any other way. You are the protectress of my heart. As for my parents, trust me, they will love you as I do. No magic required.”
THE END
Warlock from Wales, The Cauldron Effect,
Book 2
Shereen Vedam
Chapter 1
May 1816, Maidford, Northamptonshire, England
Exhausted and wanting to cool off after his recent dash to get here, Arawn, a dark chestnut Welsh cob, trotted toward a nearby pool and leaped. Ignoring his master’s warning call, he gleefully splashed into the pond’s crystal-serene waters.
Instantly, the water demon, Jinny Greenteeth, surfaced.
Terrified, Arawn scrambled to get out but the water demon’s sinewy hands had grasped his hind legs. He barely managed a panicked “Neigh!” before being yanked underwater.
His master swiftly raised them both out of the murky depths until Arawn hung, dripping in midair and gasping for breath, while Jinny’s slender green-gray body dangled off his legs like clinging seaweed.
“Release him, or our bargain is off!” Warlock Gavin Peregrine shouted and then checked over his shoulder in concern.
It was clear from Arawn’s higher perspective that no one was here but the three of them.
While Arawn’s chest tightened like a drum, Jinny’s insolent gaze tested the warlock’s nerve. Arawn, too, studied his master to see if he would truly renege on a deal that he insisted was essential to save his warlock community.
Ten thundering heartbeats later, with a grumble, Jinny loosened her slimy grip. As she splashed into the pond, Arawn released a shuddering breath of relief. Peregrine flew him out of the water’s range and dropped him back on solid ground.
Arawn suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with that demon who obviously relished eating horseflesh as much as she did toying with human fears.
Peregrine returned to his viewing position behind the bush and Arawn hurried closer to his master. He glanced back at the now weed-covered pond. Jinny must have magicked the water to look inviting when they first arrived to lure him in. He shook his body to shed the foul water soaking his backside.
“Watch where you’re splashing,” Peregrine snapped.
Arawn obligingly moved back a pace before giving his mane a good shake. According to Peregrine, Jinny’s earthly magic could give him the required oomph to safely cast a Wyhcan mind spell on a human. He doubted if the oomph was worth the risk of consorting with Jinny.
Arawn stayed close, anxiously swishing his silver blond tail as he checked the pond where, just beneath that fouled green cover, Jinny Greenteeth floated.
A soft pad of footsteps then drew his attention toward the lane. A young lady in a pretty yellow gown strode purposefully up the pathway.
“That’s her,” Gavin whispered and began his spell.
Arawn’s hairs quivered from mane to tail as the first steps of the incantation wove together.
Jinny landed beside them in a splash and said, “Greetings, spoil-sport.”
Arawn jerked, barely suppressing a squeal.
The young human female looked over as if she had heard his mental shriek.
Ducking behind the bush, Jinny began her part of the incantation.
Though his master had prepared Arawn for the effect of the combined Wyhcan-Demon magic, it was still startling. His body tingled as if every part of him were being drawn upon and twisted inside out. His stomach churned and he was certain he would spew his breakfast and ruin his master’s spell. He turned his head so that if the worst happened, Jinny would be the recipient of his abdominal expulsion.
THE Honorable Mary Bryght, eighteen-year-old daughter of the late Viscount Holywell, faltered and came to a startled halt. She’d been traveling through the woods to her friend's home to deliver some astonishingly grand news about her brother. A sound drew her gaze toward a strand of willows that drank from a small pond. There, a stranger in a dark cape watched her, tapping a riding crop against his Hessians. At the malevolence emanating from him, the hairs on Mary’s arms stood to attention.
In the space of one glance, her mood shifted from cheerful to fearful. She swallowed, tasting dread, and swiftly gauged how fast she must run to reach Rose’s cottage before this stranger’s long strides reached her. She took one deep breath in readiness to sprint, when the man appeared at her side, his large hand grasping her upper arm so hard it pinched.
She cried out. He dropped his riding crop and covered her mouth with his hand, swamping her senses with a pungent aroma of horse sweat and leather.
Fifteen feet! That’s how far away he’d been. Yet, he had closed the distance between them as if it had only been two feet. Heart pounding in terror, she kicked his shin, bit hard onto a gloved finger and with her free hand, punched his throat as her father had taught her.
He grunted and loosened his grip.
Mary tore away and ran. Within a half dozen steps her body froze. There was no other way to describe the bizarre experience. She could not shift one foot, one hand, one finger. She was a statue in mid-motion.
“Now, now, Miss Bryght,” the stranger said, “such violence is uncalled for. I’ve come a long distance to find you.”
Her right foot was raised, the left poised on toes as Mary stared straight ahead. Am I still alive? She couldn’t hear herself breathing. There, a pulse tapped against her throat like the wings of a frightened caged bird.
