Lone Star Magic (31 page)

He chuckled, the mercurial mood changes
making her heart pound.

“Stay back.” Brandishing her sword higher,
she gave him her best threatening look.

“You might have magic in your weapon, but
I’ll wager you don’t know how to use it.” Unfazed by her threats,
his expression reformed into his pleasant, polite mask.

He was right. Damned if she’d let him know
it.

“I’ll cut you.”

“If you do, it’ll be by luck, my dear. Not
skill. Blind luck.” He took another step forward. “And any such
good fortune you might have had seems to have run out on you.”

Damn. What to do? Hoping, praying, she began
to mutter words, hoping if her sword
was
magical, they’d be
transformed into a spell. Because she didn’t know the old language,
she spoke in English, mimicking the sing-song tone she’d heard
Alrick and the Mage use.

Valerian froze. “Dare you cast a spell
against me?”

Ignoring him, she continued.

“Against ME?” he roared. Madness banished the
last hint of sanity from his eyes. Laughing, he reached for her
sword.

“No!” Swinging wildly, she struck him.

Blood sprang crimson from as she slashed his
arm.

Stunned, she forget to continue her spell.
Bad mistake.

“You cut me.” Fury contorted his aristocratic
features. He lifted his hand, long fingers curved like talons. “For
that, you will pay.”

A shiver of terror ran through her. She knew
what was coming. Magic. Hurriedly, she tried to finish her lame
attempt at a spell. The sword will help her. She hoped.

But her words came too late. The Warlord had
years of experience and a real command of magic. He spoke his
spell. She didn’t have time to resist or to fight or figure out a
way to counteract it. Foul magic struck her like a bolt of
lightening. She kept her grip on her sword, fighting against the
rush of power. Then everything went black.

* * *

They crouched in the dank alleyway until the
footsteps receded. The cement beneath their feet was cracked and
ran with a moisture than came from within. The scent of rotted
garbage and decaying flesh made Alrick want to retch.

“Alrick?” Cenrick plucked at his sleeve.
“What did the Mage give you? He said it might help us.”

Withdrawing the cloth-wrapped bundle, Alrick
untied the coarse string. Inside, folded many times over, was a
well-worn document.

“A map of this place in this time.” Opening
it, Alrick studied one side and then the other. “This outlines both
worlds – Rune and human.”

Cenrick dusted off his leggings. “Good. We
can use it to locate the Warlord’s stronghold.”

“There’s something else.” Plucking a smaller
piece of parchment from the folds, Alrick squinted to see it in the
dim light. “A copy of the wedding announcement.”

According to the document, the ceremony would
be held in a temple in the Neutral Lands. The Mage’s spidery
notation explained this was an area between the human world and
Rune, where the veil had once stood.

Alrick clenched his jaw. “We’ve got to get to
the Neutral Lands.”

“How will we find this place?”

“Simple.” Tucking the paper in his pocket,
Alrick stood. “We find someone and ask them.”

* * *

Perfumed and powdered, Carly refused to allow
them to dress her. “I can do it myself,” she snarled, waving away
first one, then another of the half-naked women attendants. They
were Fae, but looked like no Fae she’d ever seen. Their beauty had
been disfigured with grotesque tattoos and piercings. Swirls of
blue and purple snaked across their cheeks, noses, throats and
breasts. Carly could hardly bear to look at them.

Nor at herself, now clothed in a hideous
dress the color of blood. Her tank top and shorts and flip flops
had disappeared. Worse than that, he’d taken her sword.

Her one chance to save herself, and she’d
blown it.

She didn’t want to marry this man. Nor did
she want to die. She wanted to live, to return home and take a
pregnancy test and try her best to have some kind of normal
life.

Cradling her abdomen, she wondered if she
truly carried Alrick’s child. The odds were against her having
conceived so quickly.

Unless it was meant to be
.

Shaking her head at her romantic foolishness,
she thought of the bleak future the Warlord had planned for her.
She’d sooner die than let a man like him raise her son.

Even stripped of her sword, she hoped she
wouldn’t have to.

They led her out onto the granite stage at
dusk. The bright red silk of the gown she’d been forced to wear
shone like blood against all the gray and black stone. Torches
blazed every ten feet, adding thick smoke to the already hazy
atmosphere. The temple was packed; elbow to elbow, shoulder to
shoulder, the Warlord’s followers had come to watch him wed.

In the center of the stage was a cracked
marble altar. Hands bound behind her back, Carly was escorted by
two burly men who could not have been Fae. They led her to the
altar and left her facing the crowd.

A moment later, trumpets sounded and the
Warlord arrived.

Cloaked in his usual black, he seemed to
float above the stone. His power brought a shimmer to his shadow,
an eerie light to his dark face.

As she stared at him, a blurry shape came
between her and the fire from a nearby torch. Tinth! The Mage’s
faithful hawk.

The Warlord didn’t appear to have noticed. He
slowly turned and, still floating, faced his followers. With his
attention fixed on the crowd beyond, he began leading them all in a
chant.

The unintelligible chanting was not made up
of words. But the cadence and resonance they used, made her feel
unclean. Hearing it, she felt as though the sound tainted her with
evil. At first, she thought they spoke a prayer. But as the chant
continued, she felt the familiar prickling sensation that preceded
magic.

They were chanting a group spell. Summoning
dark magic and drawing strength from things most men feared.

As the power built in waved, roiling and
sweeping along her nerve endings, she fell to her knees. The
Warlord did not deign to notice her – his absorption with his
followers and their spell was complete.

From the corner of her eye she again saw
movement and realized what she’d seen earlier. Tinth, on the floor
behind her. Moving quickly, the Hawk hopped to her and slashed at
the ropes around her wrists. As the sharp talons raked her skin,
Carly clenched her teeth, fighting not to cry out or move.

Once, twice, the hawk struck her. Then
finally, the rope split. Free. Her heart pounded so hard she
thought it might burst from her chest.

Free. Now what?

The two men who’d escorted Carly earlier
entered. One carried a large bird, hooded and chained. When they
reached the altar where Carly knelt, they placed the bird before
her on the bloodstained surface.

Still chanting, the Warlord swirled around.
He raised a hand, something glinted – a dagger.

Horrified, Carly realized he meant to kill
the bird, splattering her with blood. A sacrifice?

Tinth pecked at her leg. Without even looking
at the hawk, Carly understood. Tinth wanted her to help the other
bird.

“I can’t even save myself,” she muttered, the
oppressive chanting drowning out her words. If only she had… “My
sword,” she told Tinth, at this point willing to try anything. “Can
you bring me my sword?”

She couldn’t tell if the hawk understood or
not.

The Warlord floated closer, pushing his hood
back so his face was not hidden. He wore the intent expression of
the truly fanatical. Still he chanted, the power continued to
build, and Carly tried frantically to decide on a course of
action.

The knife blade flashed again. Metal? But he
wasn’t fully Fae, she remembered. Maybe half-Fae could hold
steel.

Behind her, Tinth screeched. In a blur of
feathers, the bird attacked, using her beak and talons as
weapons.

Surprised, the Warlord dropped his knife. It
clattered to the marble floor at Carly’s knees.

Don’t think. Act. She grabbed it.

Attempting to fight off the furious hawk, the
Warlord screamed, a cry of pure rage.

The chanting faltered, slowly dying out. The
rush of magic ebbed and faded.

Though she held the knife, she didn’t know if
she could use it to attack her enemy while he fought off Tinth.
Instead, Carly ripped the hood from the sacrificial bird, then used
her knife to cut the bindings on its legs. It was another
red-tailed hawk, like Tinth. Once she’d freed the bird, instead of
flying away in a mad rush for freedom, this hawk joined Tinth in
the attack on the Warlord.

Still clutching her weapon, Carly glanced
around, looking for a way out. The two bodyguards stood transfixed
near the steps, watching their master try to fight off the birds as
though hypnotized. They made no move to help him.

Same for his followers. The crowd seated
below sat still as statues. Instead of rushing to the Warlord’s
defense, they appeared frozen, motionless in time. Something to do
with the half-said spell, she supposed.

There! She spotted the exit. At the back of
the temple, the huge double doors had been closed and bolted,
locking them all within. As she ran across the stage towards the
edge, something crashed against them from the outside. She skidded
to a stop, watching as they shuddered, but they held. Again. And
again, the relentless pounding sounding like a battering ram.

Finally, the bolt gave way. As the door burst
open, the crash reverberated around the temple.

Two men appeared in the opening. Carly let
out a glad cry. Alrick. With Cenrick by his side.

She began again to move, casting a glance
back over her shoulder. Still the hawks slashed at the Warlord,
diving and screeching. He cursed; then finally bellowed for
assistance. “Help me! Now, you fools!”

At the order, his burly assistants seemed to
come awake. They rushed to him. Some of the audience stood too,
awakening from their stupor to look around in confusion.

Now! Dagger in hand, Carly dove for the area
below, fighting her way through the crowd to the door. To
Alrick.

“Kill her,” the Warlord shouted.

Carly didn’t look back. Not now, not with
escape so close. With every fiber of her being, she focused on one
thing, one man.

Alrick
.

She had to get to Alrick.

Cenrick by his side, Alrick strode into the
temple. His gaze found hers and locked. He began moving towards her
with single-minded intent, pushing away anyone unwise enough to
stand in his path. Cenrick kept pace on his heels.

Oddly, no one stopped them. The crowd rose
from their seats, moving out of the way. Their motions were
unhurried, lethargic, as though the earlier spell had rendered them
incapable of speed.

Tinth and the nameless hawk soared high, then
fled, disappearing into the smoky gloom.

She saw a blur and realized the Warlord came
after her, slipping across the distance as if he rode some
invisible skateboard.

“Alrick!” Hardly aware she screamed his name,
Carly reached out for him. She touched his arm and he squeezed her
hand, quickly as his gaze met hers.

“I will keep you safe,” he swore, one corner
of his mouth lifting in a smile. He shoved her towards Cenrick.
“Go. Take her to safety.”

Grabbing her arm, Cenrick tried to drag her
away. She refused to go. “No. I’m not leaving. Cover our backs,”
she ordered, lifting her chin and bracing herself at Alrick’s side.
The Warlord was nearly upon them.

“Carly,” Alrick protested. “Go. Please.”

“No. Not now. Not ever. We’ll face him
together.”

The Warlord caught up with them halfway up
the center aisle, sliding to a halt and appearing to hover a foot
above the floor. “You.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Alrick.
“Move aside.”

Alrick shook his head. “Stand off. Now.”

“You would die for this woman?”

Instead of answering, Alrick crouched, sword
ready. Cenrick moved into position to defend an onslaught from
behind. Carly gripped the dagger, the Warlord’s own weapon. Once
she’d told Alrick she couldn’t shed blood for any reason. Now, she
reckoned the life of her unborn child and his daddy was reason
enough.

She could do this. She must. Trying to
determine how and when to make her move, she never let her gaze
leave her enemy’s body.

Not counting her a threat, the Warlord didn’t
even look at her. He watched the men. “Foolish Princes,” the
Warlord sneered. “Even now, in your time in Rune your father lies
ill and dying. He has not yet named an heir. He calls for his sons,
and the Mage tries to comfort him. But his sons do not come. He
believes they do not care.”

Above them, the hawks circled and
screeched.

Alrick blanched, but made no response to the
taunts. Grim-faced, he slowly advanced on the bloody Warlord.
“Prepare to die, Valerian Wake.”

Snarling, the Warlord drew his own sword. The
blade was black, as though the metal had been tempered too long in
the fire. “It will be you who dies, Fae Prince, when this steel
blade slices you to the bone.” He glanced at Cenrick, his lips
curling. “And you. You will both die, here and now. Rune will be
left without an heir, your people will be rootless, leaderless.”
His laugh rang out, contemptuous. “Thus begins the beginning of the
end for Rune.”

“I don’t believe you.” Alrick struck. The
Warlord parried, sweeping aside Alrick’s blade deftly.

“I am from your future and know well the
past. But you can still change this – destiny is not set in stone.
Will you sacrifice all for this human woman and her unborn
whelp?”

“This unborn
whelp
is my son.” Again
Alrick attacked, this time thrusting at the Warlord’s chest. Blood
spurted, staining the black robe.