Wicked Paradise (14 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she berated, slapping the wetness off her cheeks.

“I did not want to give you false hope. I honestly wasn’t confident you could scry from that world to Avalon. But I see the island’s magic is strong and aiding you.”

“Oh, Father!” Unable to restrain her happiness, she raised a triumphant fist. The light in the depression dimmed and she rushed on. “There’s much I need to know. I’m glad you’re here for me.” She touched the bowl’s rim, wishing she could caress his weathered face.

His expression sobered. “It may not always work if your powers are faint or the island’s energy is depleted. Or the link severed.”

Morgan refused to allow his caution to trump her joy. Ever since her vision before the earthquake, she dreadfully wanted to know more about the charms. Now she’d gain answers.

“The spell will not last. You must talk swiftly.”

She slanted her head, squinted. “Did you steal the crystal amulets I made when I was a child?” she accused not too sternly.

“I put them away for you.” A wry smile spread Gwilym’s mouth. “I’m sorry. However, you instilled powerful magic into them. Your spells would have failed miserably if the intended recipients did not receive them.”

Morgan fingered a lock of hair off her knitted brows. “There were no intended recipients for the trinkets.” Except for the special one she created—the one now strung around Ryan’s neck.

Gwilym’s voice lowered. “You did not understand the spells you used or the prophecies attached to them.” He coughed and the water dimpled. “You used ancient beckoning spells for lost lovers, a healing spell for despair and broken hearts.” Water rippled the fringes of his head, his white hair a floating halo.

She had little time left. “And a magic binding spell,” she added, her shoulders knotting.

“A potent binding spell.” Creases deepened on his wispy brow. “Not simply to bind magic and certainly not one to play games with.”

Morgan disregarded the chagrin rebelling in her gut. “Did the crystals come from this island?”

“Ah, Daughter.” Pride spilled from Gwilym’s tone. Tiny waves in the bowl increased, and his voice grew fainter. “The crystals washed up on Avalon after following the path of magic that ties the islands together. I had visions of caves embedded with crystals on your island. Pure and immense, I knew the crystal magic was meant to aid you in your fight against WindWraith. I knew you and your warrior belonged on that island, to that island.

“Eventually, other sorcerers from the future will discover the island to aid you in rebuilding our ancient bloodlines and carry on our magic.”

“Do you mean people from Ryan’s time?”

“I suspect so. The land of his time has been devastated, has it not?”

“I don’t know for certain. I’ve been the one to open the doors of disclosure. He has yet to reciprocate.” The water swirled, paling his face. “Hells fire,” Morgan cursed under her breath. She cast another scrying spell, attempting to hold onto him longer. She touched the water and he disappeared.

Pain bolted through her head, and she rocked back on her heels. A small dose of air magic helped her focus, diminishing the pressure in her skull. Gwilym resurfaced, a ghostly visage tinted in amber.

Morgan rubbed her hands on her thighs, trying to quell her persistent agitation. “What other spells did you add to the amulets? You said a potent binding. I already know the magical binding is permanent. Can I annul the spell?”

“Not if you’ve fulfilled both steps and bound each other’s magic. Do you wish to nullify it?” His voice grew dim. “The only way to sever a complete bond is death.”

Morgan had already feared his answer. “What other spells?” she asked weakly, gripping her tunic’s hem.

Father sputtered weakly. “I gather this information has not come to light in your head?”

“No, Father,” she spat out in exasperation. “Can you just tell me now?”

“It is a soul mate binding spell. Once you’ve bound your magic, if you...make love, you will be bound in all ways. Unless either of you are tied to another, that is, or the spells reject one as unfit for the other.”

Morgan gasped, blinked rapidly. “Did I transfer that spell to the amulets? I thought I had failed.”

“Your magic is strong, love. You did not fail.”

“Goddess save me from my own stupidity.” She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you dare demean yourself. You set in motion Fate’s chain of events.”

Numb, she sat back on her heels. Before he vanished again, they quickly discussed the dissolution spell to break Ryan’s tie to her magic and other bits of magic lore. Morgan’s scrying spell dissipated, and she contemplated her father’s parting words. Gwilym had added magic to the amulets to blend her spells properly and to ensure a linked path to the mystical island. In due time, Morgan must scatter the amulets from the sack her father had given her on Avalon in the sea and let Fate, with a dash of magic, take charge. The stones served to draw those sorcerers of ancient Druid blood, worthy of creating new life on the island. Each amulet matched another, binding their destined recipients at an indeterminate time in the future.

Mists would always hide the mystical island from time and space. Once Ryan and Morgan destroyed WindWraith, those sorcerers destined to populate the island would find their way there once they met their greatest despair in a life that no longer had meaning. Or in their final moments before death claimed them.

Gwilym’s colossal task crowded her mind. She stood on shaking legs and walked to the bed, wilting onto the rumpled furs. Ryan’s lingering scent created a sharp jab in her chest. Morgan beat her fists on her thighs. No feeling sorry or yearning for him! For Goddess’s sake, she was a powerful sorceress. What need had she for a dangerous Druid assassin who belonged to another?

Gwilym’s words reverberated in her head defiantly. Prophecy and the binding pull of magic had carried them to the island. Despair. Fate. Desire. If the island offered its enchantments to others, Morgan and Ryan more than deserved them, since they’d sacrifice the greatest to make it happen. She refused to let duty get in the way of taking what she wanted. Not this time. Not ever again.

* * *

Ryan mentally kicked himself for not snagging his knife or spear. He plodded deep into the jungle on a narrow animal path from the northwestern side of the grotto. A creeping vine curled around his ankle and he mashed the purplish leaves into the ground with his heel. He halted to gather his bearings, swiped the sweat off his forehead before it dripped into his eyes.

He’d jogged off his fury, but a renewed surge juggled the iron balls hardening in his gut. Sluggish trickles of water lured him a few yards to the left where he found a mossy rivulet slithering through the undergrowth. He followed it until it widened into a freshwater stream. He drank his fill, washed the sweaty grime off his chest and arms.

“Damn it.” He flung the twig he’d used to clean his teeth into a clump of pampas grass. “Every time I turn around...ah, screw it all.” He lay down on a smooth patch of ground, pillowed his head on his arm.

Stars twinkled brilliantly in the indigo sky. Towering trees obscured the eastern moon from his position on the ground and granted a slice of the deepening night to the stars that called to his magic. Ryan intoned a silent calming spell, his body slurping up an infusion of fuel from the cosmos. Renewed turmoil quickly resurfaced in his head, tightened the vise on his heart. The calming spell was wasted and he blew out a heavy breath.

“Used and abused again. Damn it.” Was he doomed forever to lead at the disposal of others? Never given a chance to call the shots in his life? He’d thought all that crap ended with his father’s death. Thanks to the Fomorian horde that’d picked off his people one by one before the ultimate wave of desecration, his father’s death merely signaled the beginning of a worse hell.

All Ryan had ever wanted to do was track and kill evil. Not lead. He’d craved power and danger, and protected his people well. So how could he not reconcile his abilities and wishes with what Morgan’s father set him up to do? He just didn’t want others manipulating him and playing tricks to get him to do what he did best. Confusion drummed a frenzied beat in his temples.
Hell, it’s not like the old sorcerer could’ve sent me an email.
Ryan snorted. He thrust his arm over his eyes, blocking out the western moon moving into his field of vision.

Tepid air played over his bare chest, ruffled the T-shirt stuffed in the waistband of his shorts. Drowsy, he emptied his mind of all but one thought, the one person who never left him alone. After his stern admonition about not leaving the grotto, he was certain Morgan remained there in safety. He let that belief tempt him to relax.

No sooner had his eyes closed when he felt the infinitesimal swoosh of evil in the lazy breeze stirring the fern fronds by his head.

A suffocating presence engulfed Ryan, anchored him in hardening cement. The shroud undulated, changing from the density and heat of lava to the heavy, wet pressure of boiling syrup. Air whooshed out of his lungs and Ryan struggled to breathe. His eyelids glued shut, and he was unable to budge a muscle or touch his magic. Horror clawed at his heart, squeezed it until he thought the organ had burst. He heaved in air denser than tar. The smothering pressure around him expanded until it felt as if his bones were breaking, his internal organs imploding. Writhing on the mossy ground, he screamed from the choking, blazing agony tearing his insides to shreds. How had the creature breached the safety of night?

The terrifying thought of Morgan left alone on this island hell was the last thing his mind grasped before a solid inkiness filled every cavity of his body, stealing his last lick of air.

* * *

Ryan didn’t return that night, or the next morning, worrying Morgan. Yesterday, he’d warned her not to leave the emerald grotto. Once they set foot away from their haven, they became easy prey for WindWraith, especially in daylight. Heedful of Ryan’s cautions and from her own altercation with the Fomorian creature, Morgan feared leaving the sanctuary. Ryan wanted his privacy, and she’d grant it to him. She knew to the bottom of her soul that he’d never intentionally desert her for long. He seemed to know the island’s perils, and was more than capable of defending himself. Regardless of the danger, if he didn’t return by the next morning, she’d start searching for him.

Concentrating on her other problems, she sifted through her jumbled thoughts, searching for a plan to destroy WindWraith. After an hour of theorizing, she unearthed partial plans with negligible chances of success. Morgan rubbed her aching neck and raised her head.

“A solid plan will reveal itself when Fate decrees it.” Confidence pushed out her distasteful thoughts of WindWraith, and she hoped a better idea might crop up while she went about her work.

Morgan tidied the cave, and then went out to explore the emerald grotto. To her delight, she found several herbs useful for healing and cooking. She labored over the course of the day, constructing a bamboo drying rack, using reeds to lash the pieces together. Then she hung cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and periwinkle plants above the fire to dry.

Fond childhood memories comforted her as she shimmied up coconut, papaya, and banana trees. She was thankful the boys on Avalon taught her how to climb trees after the...incident. Hastily, she reburied that particular nightmare. Her young friends had played tag with her, swinging from tree to tree as boys were wont, taking unfair advantage and winning every time until she learned to climb like them. And learned to use her air magic to launch herself from tree to tree.

Morgan hacked at bunches of fruit with her dagger, dropping them into piles on the ground. Once she returned to firm footing, she attacked the fruit with the eagerness of a starved orphan. Her stomach rippled in ecstasy with each bite. “You can eat your lousy dried fish, Ryan.”

Morgan ate until her stomach felt ready to burst, then resumed exploring behind the caves. She stumbled upon a mass of freesias peeking out between ferns, and excitement sped up her heartbeat. Magenta and snowy blooms spread twice the size of freesias in Britain. The sweet, strong perfume permeated the air, reminding her wistfully of the scent she adored once she’d discovered it was her mother’s favorite flower. Morgan gathered handfuls of the flowers and bundled them into the cave. She prepared freesia and vanilla soap for herself, clove and sandalwood soap for Ryan. A late afternoon bath left her smelling like a garden, almost making her forget the twisted fate that had turned her life upside down.

Sapphire night blanketed the grotto, and a sea of diamonds twinkled in the velvet sky. The northern moon shadowed the southern moon, casting twin reflections on the pool’s black surface. A haunting melody of burping tree frogs and chirruping crickets spread over the tranquil air. The island music reminded her of summer nights on Avalon, and with a pensive frown, she walked into the caves.

The lonesome night compelled Morgan to dwell on unforgettable things. She lay on the furry bed, aching with an emptiness she knew not how to fulfill. Firelight bathed her with a tawny tint and stroked her skin in comforting warmth. Her hand curled around her amulet. Part of her yearned for her amulet to meld and flare together with Ryan’s, uniting their magic. Would the spells also unite their hearts and souls as prophesied in the spell books? Morgan longed for the gift of love the shadow moon island promised them. They both deserved it after they accomplished the horrifying task forced upon them in another selfless act of duty. Their greatest act.

Yet, she knew it was wrong to think such thoughts unless Ryan renounced his other life and accepted his true future. It was wrong to think such thoughts when he may ultimately leave her or the final spell rejected them as soul mates.

Chapter 15

A clumpy presence stuffed the crevices in Ryan’s skull. A fierce surge of power escaped him, and WindWraith ravenously slurped up his magic. Never had Ryan experienced complete incapacitation of his power. At the rate the bastard demon drained him, that time was a short jump to permanent midnight.