9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC (34 page)

But
he couldn’t think. His mind was too black, too dull. He had to figure out a way
to get her alone.

And
not expose his plans.

He
wasn’t ready for an all out declaration of war with the royal family. Not
quite.

For
now, he’d settle for tormenting his beautiful Helayne.

Gods,
he prayed to the dark god that he could manage to allow her to live as long as
necessary. He must be patient. He had to wait, wait for the completion of the
change taking place inside him. Then, like the demon growing inside him, he’d
strike and destroy all who were in his way.

He wished he could take MeLora’s soul now. He needed that
power, that strength of her spirit surging through his body. But he wasn’t
ready to make that final break with her. Things could go awry. Patience. He had
to practice patience. Slow down. Think things through.

Once
he knew everything MeLora knew of the past, she was history.

Black
Drayke stopped pacing the floor of the bedroom he shared with the witch and
repeated a soft chant he’d muttered earlier. He grinned, a malicious curve
twisting his lips as he heard MeLora’s soft whimpers coming from the private
chambers behind the door. He could still gain some pleasure from the pain he
inflicted upon her.

He
hoped she puked up her guts.

She
was in the bathing chamber, doubled over with dry heaves. Hmmm. It seemed as
though the babe wasn’t bonding with its mama very well. He chanted a second
spell and snorted with laughter when he heard MeLora scream in agony—time to
get rid of her little bundle.

He chose a simple chant, one that would inflict the most
pain upon her. If he couldn’t take her soul just yet, then he wanted her to
suffer while losing his babe. It gave him immense pleasure to know that in a
very short time, MeLora would expel the child from her body.

He stretched and popped his knuckles, satisfied with his
magic.

Oh,
yeah, he was feeling much better.

Black Drayke smiled at MeLora’s soft cry. “Black Drayke.
Help me! Please. It feels as if a red-hot knife is cutting through my belly.
Please.
I’m losing our babe.”

“What
do you think I can do to help?” he called through the door.

Opening
the door, he peeked in at her. He gripped his hands together to keep from applauding.
It was almost done. She lay curled upon the floor clutching her stomach,
twisting and turning in agony. He rubbed his hands together. She could lie
there on the floor and rot for all he cared. He had better things to do with
his time than worry about MeLora and her misbegotten babe. She wouldn’t go far.
He’d delight in finishing her off when he returned in the morning.

“I’m
going now, my precious. Have a nice day. When it is done, try to get yourself
up off the floor and clean up the damned bloody mess you’re making.”

Black
Drayke slid his dark cloak over his shoulders, smoothed his mustache and
stalked from the house. He left MeLora crumpled there on the floor like a
discarded tissue, panting and crying, as wave after wave of pain sliced across
her belly.

Outside,
he paused one last time to glance back at the house. Soon, very soon, he would
whisper the stealing chant against MeLora’s soft lips and drain her spirit from
her.

For
the first time, a pleased smile settled on his face.

Black
Drayke pursed his lips and whistled softly, and then he snapped his fingers.
Instantly, he was standing on the streets of Sanctuary.

Now,
he would set about making this bungler of magic his own.

Chapter
Twenty-One

Governor
Phips set up a special Court of Oyer and Terminer comprised of seven judges to
try the witchcraft cases. The appointed men were Lieutenant Governor William
Stoughton, Nathaniel Saltonstall, Bartholomew Gedney, Peter Sergeant, Wait
Still Winthrop, Samuel Sewall, John Hathorne, John Richards, and Jonathan
Corwin.

~Salem
Witch Trials

May 27, 1692

Ru-Noc

Droth

City of the wakens

As
soon as MeLora was certain Black Drayke had left the house, she rose from the
floor, an icy smile curving her lips. “Fool,” she muttered, flicking her wrists
to—as Black Drayke had instructed—
clean up the bloody mess.

What
an ass.

She cupped her stomach in a protective gesture, assuring
the child he was safe from his father’s evil plans to destroy him. Black
Drayke, the idiot, was so filled with conceit it’d never cross his mine that
she’d duped him. The warlock’s ego was unbelievable. She smiled, pleased with
her ability to deceive him.

She’d present Darak with a fine son on All Hallows’ Eve, a
son with her lust for power. As soon as her babe was safely delivered, and King
Darak had declared him his heir, the king would tragically, and unfortunately,
meet with his demise.

She chewed on her lip, considering the name for her unborn
son. Lucifer. She actually liked the name Black Drayke had chosen. She tapped a
long nail against her lips and smiled. It was appropriate. She would keep it.

And
this time—
this time—
she’d keep her son
.
It wouldn’t be like it
had been during the Salem witch trials and afterward. There wouldn’t be a coven
to order her to abandon her children and go. There wouldn’t be a coven to curse
the
illumrof
man who’d given her other children, not this time.
This
son would live to become an adult.

How
many sons had she and John created together? Three? Four? She’d deliberately
blocked the painful memories. It didn’t matter how many, because each child had
died at the age of twelve. The coven’s cruel spells had been a deliberate slap
in her face. The thing she wanted most was to conceive and give John a son, just
so she could turn her nose up at the rules the coven enforced upon her, but it
never happened.

That
had been her punishment, declared by Queen Shy-Ryn’s, Circle of Three, for her
and John’s adultery. For their betrayal of Elsbeth and her daughters, no child
of her and John’s would ever reach adulthood.

She’d been glad when John died. His death had released her
from the hex she’d been forced to endure and share with him. MeLora fumed over
the fact that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of John when she desired it.
The Circle of Three forbade her to leave or kill him. She’d stolen another
witch’s mate. She’d made her bed, and for her shameful crime, she’d cease to
exist if she harmed John in any fashion.

John had to succumb to natural causes, and he’d lived to
be ninety-eight. Those years spent with him had been miserable. Her hatred and
contempt for the weak
illumrof
had grown stronger with each passing day.
She detested his whining, his weakness, and his frailty as he aged, but deep
inside she gloated, because she’d taken him from Elsbeth. And although they
hadn’t lived, every child she and John made together had been a male.

That was something Elsbeth hadn’t been able to do.

With the passing of centuries, and after John passed, she’d
occasionally met Black Drayke. He’d given her children as well, but the coven had
been determined she’d never keep a single child she bore. One by one, her
children were taken from her. But she’d gotten even—if she couldn’t have her
children, then neither would the coven. So she placed a spell on every child
born to her and Black Drayke.

She stored the pain of giving them up in a secret place in
her heart. But she vowed vengeance for her children. The coven would pay.
Someday, somehow, the coven would pay.

Looking
back, she realized she should have chosen a different man than John Connor, but
she’d been young, and it had been so much fun to destroy Elsbeth’s happy home,
to seduce her aunt’s husband, and make him her own.

But the fool had become infatuated with her, even without
the use of magic. Once Elsbeth was out of their way, John pleaded with her to
be his bride.

MeLora
straightened her shoulders and gently rubbed her stomach. Yes, this time would
be different. Luke would live and rule as king as was his right, and no curse
passed down through the ages from the coven could prevent
this
son from ruling. Not this time.

She allowed the gown she wore to slip to the floor.
Standing naked before the same mirror in which Black Drayke had so admired his
new physique just a short time ago, she snickered. His brains were in his cock,
so she’d seen to it that his craving for sex increased threefold. No matter who
he fucked, his desire for sex would never again subside or be satisfied. Until
the day he died, he would always be searching for something more, something
better, but he would never find it.

The black-veined, gossamer wings on her back unfolded and
fluttered, creating a gentle breeze around her. “Ahh,” she sighed with
pleasure.

For centuries, she'd hidden the demonic changes in her
body, but in this moment of privacy, she allowed her incisors to burst free and
lengthen, permitted the fully developed horns hidden beneath her thick hair to
stand up full height. In reality, they were quite small, a mere two inches
tall, but she was proud of them.

Black Drayke hadn’t a clue that she was the puppet-master
here, the one with all the power, the being who granted him the demonic changes
he so craved. The fool believed the wizard’s weak concoctions were the cause of
his transformation.

Wizard Marcelo was a weakling and a witness to their plans
to overthrow the crown. She would have to do away with him. MeLora chuckled.
The old wizard would make a tasty treat for her ravenous appetite. She was
hungry. Starved. She hadn’t eaten flesh in weeks. The old man would make a fine
meal.

So
would Black Drayke.

It had been her plan to have Black Drayke assist her while
she stole the king. He would keep Helayne out of her way. That was the only
role she needed him for, and he had done the deed rather well. In the last
twenty-four hours, King Dark hadn’t asked a single question about his missing
mate. No. She’d kept his mind on other matters.

Tonight, Black Drayke would use his newly developed fangs
on Helayne, and he would rip her to shreds. He would find his craving for flesh
was even stronger than his need for sex. But he would gain little satisfaction
from Helayne’s body either way.

MeLora
stroked the slight mound filling her belly. She felt feel the babe’s mind
seeking contact with hers. “Soon, my son,” she crooned, soothing the infant.
“You will be king one day. I promise.”

The
babe settled back into an uneasy sleep. MeLora smiled contentedly. Dear, dear,
Black Drayke had a lot to learn about witches if he believed every little chant
he whispered actually worked on one such as her.

It
was time for her to leave him. He’d served his purpose. Now he was a threat to
her and the babe. She wouldn’t allow him to harm Luke.

Tonight, she’d move in with the king. Poor Darak, he never
seemed to realize when she was absent. She snickered. Of course, she made
certain he didn’t remember when she was away from the palace.

The drugs she’d given him would remain in his bloodstream
until either she gave him the antidote or his spirit journeyed to another
plane. She smiled. That would leave only his three children to destroy, then
she could step into full power, with no one standing between her and the
throne.

Oh, yes. She would whisper commands in his ears and he
would heed them. She’d instill memories in the king’s mind of Helayne cheating
with other warlocks over the years. There would be doubts cast that Talon and
Stry were his sons and heirs.

She’d make certain of it.

MeLora rubbed her hands together, fluttered her wings, and
then folded them neatly in place. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

And
now, to seek out that bitch, Saylym Winslow.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

These magistrates based their
judgments and evaluations on various kinds of intangible evidence, including
supernatural attributes (such as “witchmarks”), reactions of the afflicted
girls and direct confessions. Spectral evidence, based on the assumption that
the Devil could assume the “specter” of an innocent person, was relied upon
despite its controversial nature.

~ Salem Witch Trials

May 27, 1692

Sanctuary

Saylym
opened her eyes and discovered Talon leaning over her. Concern etched his dark
face. He was close enough she could see the individual striations of the paler
shade of gold in the green of his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you with my…er…nudity,” he said
softly, “but I do sleep in the raw. When you screamed, I didn’t think about it.
I just reacted and raced to your rescue.”

“My knight in shining armor,” she teased. “You didn’t
frighten me because you were naked.” She grinned. “Though it is quite a
spectacular
dangler
you have.”

His lips twitched. “Spectacular?”

“As
opposed to microscopic and minute?”

Talon laughed softly. “You’re something else, Saylym
Winslow. Just about the time I think I have you figured out, you throw me
another curve.” He eased down on the bed beside her, his eyes searching hers
curiously. “So if my spectacular, really awesome, gigantic…er…
dangler
didn’t
cause you to pass out, what did?”

“You’ll
laugh.”

He
leaned closer, his mouth a breath from hers. “I won’t. I promise.”