Charmed and Dangerous: An Appalachian Magic Novel (Appalachian Magic Series Book 1) (6 page)

James rolled to the ground, barely out of reach of the swinging sword. It struck a blackjack oak with enough force to cut it in half. That bought him the precious time needed to get back to his feet.

Realizing the extent of his severe weapons disadvantage, James headed at a breakneck speed into deeper and thicker woods, needing the protection of the large trees. Now a full swing by his opponent would be almost impossible.

“Come on, you coward, stand and fight,” his attacker called, trying to lure him out into more open ground.

“Come in and get me, you bastard!”

The immortal moved in with reckless abandon to kill. But the tactical advantage of his broadsword was diminished by his enemy’s aggressive anger.

James stayed hidden behind a tree as his attacker continued to swing wildly. A sudden shower of sparks erupted when the attacker’s sword cut a six-inch gash into a sizeable tree. James noticed the enemy struggle as he tried to pull the sword out. Maybe this could be worked to his advantage. James knew he was faster than his opponent even if not as strong.

He let his attacker catch a glimpse of him, but kept his position behind the oak. When the blow came from the broadsword, he saw he had misjudged the tree’s thickness and his foe’s strength. The blade went through the tree, tearing a three-inch deep gash across the left side of his body. Pain crashed through him, and blood gushed from the wound. At least it wasn’t a fatal blow and would quickly heal, courtesy of the rejuvenating ability all immortals possessed.

His mind raced, contemplating his next move. He decided to run out into more open ground to encourage another wild swing from his enemy. With his opponent close on his heels, James sprinted toward the next large tree twenty yards away. Another jabbing blow from the enemy’s sword cut his shoulder, but James was able to slash his opponent’s right arm down to the bone with his razor-sharp Bowie dagger. His enemy recoiled from the temporary pain, giving James enough time to seek refuge behind another large oak.

“Why don’t you come out and fight like a man, coward?”

“If you want me, get closer.” He could see his opponent’s frustration and anger increase. Maybe it would make him careless. James danced from side to side from behind the tree cover, teasing and taunting.

Finally, his enemy had enough and took a lunging swing. The sword cut a good eight inches into the tree, and this time James was ready. Before the enemy could remove the sword, James grabbed him by the crown of his long, wild hair and jerked him back. He thrust the Bowie dagger into his back, piercing his heart. His enemy fell to his knees with James still clutching his long hair.

It wasn’t over. One more grisly act remained because no immortal could lose his life—unless beheaded.

James paused as he brought his knife to the attacker’s neck. The man’s face was scrunched in agony, eyes tightly shut. He gulped, and the thick cords of his neck pulsed against the metal blade.

“Open your eyes,” James ordered.

He kept them closed. “Just do it,” he said in a deep rasp. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’m offering you a choice.”

He opened his eyes at last. Gone was the cunning, predatory gleam; now they reflected bald fear. “You won. There is no choice.”

“I’m offering mercy, you idiot.”

“Mercy?” He laughed bitterly. “No such thing among us. It’s a fight to the death, and victor takes all.”

“There is another way.” James didn’t want to kill, but he would if necessary. The odds were this man wouldn’t accept change. Usually they didn’t, especially the older ones.

The man moved his head slightly and spit on the ground. Beads of red blood spotted his neck where James kept the knife pressed. He couldn’t release the hold unless the man accepted his offer.

“What’s your name?” James asked.

“Andrew Scott.”

“Well, Andrew, this could be your lucky day.” He loosened the knife’s pressure a fraction. Andrew tensed, a crafty look flitting across his face.

“I’m not letting you go unless you agree to my terms.”

Andrew smiled without humor. “You have my attention.”

“Here in the hollows, there’s a new and better way. We’ve learned to exist in peace.”

“I . . . have heard such,” he admitted.

It was James’s turn to be surprised. “How?”

“There are rumors. I’d heard some younger immortals are changing from the Old Ways. But I didn’t believe it.”

“Believe it.” He loosened his hold slightly, testing Andrew. When he didn’t try to escape, James felt a stir of hope. Maybe this man would be different.

“You mentioned terms?”

“First, you must swear never to be the aggressor in a fight unless it’s to protect the New Ways or another’s life.”

“Agreed. Next.”

Andrew’s quick acceptance was a relief. “As proof of your sincerity, you must hand over your broadsword.”

“Hell, no.”

James sighed. “You’d rather die than surrender your sword? Don’t be stupid.”

“My sword is my power. You would leave me defenseless.”

“No. You’ll still be immortal and have all the physical strength as before. You will adjust. I fought and defeated you with only a bowie knife.”

Andrew studied him a few heartbeats, assessing the offer. “I agree to your terms.”

He eased the knife from Andrew’s throat, still alert for any sudden aggressive move. Those who trusted too easily tended to die early.

Andrew slowly sat up, grimacing in pain.

“You wound hasn’t fully healed,” James said. He extended his hand and pulled Andrew to his feet. The movement left James light-headed. He’d lost more blood than he’d thought when Andrew cut him.

Andrew staggered to the tree where his sword was impaled in the trunk. He groaned with the effort but managed to extract the weapon.

He held it out, its point lowered to the ground. “This belongs to you now. I thank you.”

James nodded, surprised at Andrew’s grace in defeat.

“I don’t understand these changes in our kind, but I think they could be a good thing.” Andrew’s throat worked, and when he spoke again, his voice was gruff. “I owe you my life. Should you ever need me, I live in Horse Creek about thirty miles north.”

James took the sword, and they shook hands. Andrew turned and walked down the mountain, injured yet able to live another day.

“Hey, how old are you anyway?” He yelled out before Andrew slipped from view.

“Six hundred nineteen.”

He sat down abruptly, Andrew’s sword clasped in his hand, and awaited the sword’s transfer of power. Although not as intense as the Quickening—when a defeated immortal’s life energy passed to another—absorbing the sword’s energy would be a physical ordeal, especially with all the blood loss from the fight. His body shook as the sky turned dark as night. Thunder rolled in, and large, blue-white bolts of lightning rained down.

And then all was blackness.

C
allie poked at the fire
, mind alternating between searching for her father and thoughts of James. Only a week had passed since returning home, but so much had happened, it seemed longer.

“I like action, not sitting around,” she told Grendel.

The orange tabby continued grooming without deigning a look in her direction.

“Ever since I came here, everything feels so out of control.”

Grendel walked over and rubbed against her legs. She picked him up and set him in her lap.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

Grendel purred in evident contentment. Some sympathy.

“You sure are mellow right now,” Callie said with a sigh. “You must be all tuckered out from tormenting Willow all day.”

Grendel yawned and closed his eyes.

James had been friendly enough all week but never once asked to see her outside class. Had his father turned him against her? The weekend stretched before her, empty and uninviting.

“At least I’ll see my friends tonight at the coven meeting,” Callie muttered.

Grendel opened one eye reproachfully and jumped out of her lap, settling down on the rug for uninterrupted sleep.

“Some friend you are.”

Grendel gently snored in response.

A vague unease stirred in her chest. She opened a book, trying to shake the gloom and foreboding. She struggled to concentrate, but after reading the same paragraph five times, she gave up. Callie slammed the book shut and stared into the fire. The unease grew, and her breath came in shallow gasps.

Annoyed, she got up from the rocker and paced. Grendel looked up with a little meow, warning Callie not to step on him. She glanced out the window and came to an abrupt halt. Despite the clear sunshine, large dark clouds hovered above a spot on Booze Mountain. Lightning bolts rained down unceasingly.

A shiver passed through her. Something was very wrong. Grandma Jo called isolated rainstorms a ‘devil’s doorway.’ If it was over Booze Mountain, James might be in some kind of trouble.

Callie raced to her room and sat by her altar. Her hands trembled slightly as she lit a candle and set out the divining bowl. Scrying wasn’t her strong point, but she silently thanked Aunt Mallory for insisting on teaching her the basics. Anything was better than sitting around waiting for bad news.

Damn. She didn’t have any charged water. Callie ran to the pantry to see if Mom or Grandma Jo still kept a supply. She tossed soup cans and boxes from shelves until she found the large Mason jar marked ‘moonshine.’ Not the clear liquid rednecks drank; it was water that had been set out on a full moon night to absorb lunar energy.

Clutching her treasure, Callie hurried back to the altar and poured the moonshine in the black-bottomed divining bowl. She took deep breaths.

“Hope this works,” she muttered, stirring the moonshine with a willow wand. After three clockwise stirs, she chanted:

Callie set the wand aside, stared with determination into the dark water, but saw only her own reflection. She kept at it and breathed upon the water’s surface. When the ripples subsided, she began an incantation:

The water shimmered, and she picked up the faintest hint of a smell . . . It was . . . oh no . . . it was blood. Yes, she was sure of it. Her stomach heaved. She picked up the sound of the winter wind whirling through the treetops. The candle flickered, and the sudden chill on her skin gave her goosebumps.

Still, she couldn’t
see
what was happening. She debated driving up the mountain or trying to scry again. She decided to give it one more go.

Steam rose as if the water was a geothermal spring from inner earth’s core. Through the shrouded mists, a man lay on the ground with a pool of blood on his side. James. Her psychic eye zoomed out to take in the surrounding landscape for exact location clues. He lay near a meadow about a hundred yards from Devil’s Bend, a sharp curve on the main road.

She would find him. Quickly, she closed the magic circle and asked for help.

Callie snuffed the candle and grabbed what she might need: keys, cell phone, bandages, blanket. She ran out to the Dixie doodlebug and threw all but her keys in the backseat. She pressed the ever-present amber tightly in her palm the entire drive up Booze Mountain.

“Please don’t let me be late,” she said repeatedly, driving as fast as she dared.

At Devil’s Bend, she pulled off the side of the road and got out to check the sky. The storm clouds hovered just beyond the field to her left.

Callie grabbed the supplies and ran toward the thunder. The sound of the wind, rain, and thunder roared in a dark patch of sky.

She had no idea how to find him from this point. She ran and screamed his name into the darkness. It was like being in a black and white nightmare with no ending.

Against the stark backdrop, she spotted an irregularity—a slight patch of blue on the ground near a ridge. She ran toward the only color in the terrifying landscape. With each step, the blue object came closer . . . It was a wool jacket laying on the ground next to . . . a motionless body.

James. Dead or alive?

C
onsciousness returned in degrees
. At first, he could only hear the wind. The world was black at the edge of his senses. He awoke for a bit, felt the cold on his skin, and then slipped back into nothingness. Time and reality were meaningless; only the need to rest and sink into oblivion mattered. His vision returned last. He opened his eyes and saw treetops and open sky.
Not normal
. He wiggled his fingers, and mud oozed through them. Okay, he was lying in the woods on his back. What in the hell was going on?

A voice called, so faint James wasn’t sure he could trust his hearing. It sounded as if he were beckoned from a great distance. Against the whirling siren of the wind, he strained his senses. This time he was sure. Someone was calling him. Though he was too weak to answer, the voice kept getting closer. Beneath him, the earth vibrated with approaching footsteps. He tensed and hoped whoever was coming was friend, not foe. He was too drained to defend himself.

“James? Are you okay?”

The face of an angel appeared. No, it was better than an angel. It was Callie. Her eyes were enormous, her hair plastered in thick, honeyed ringlets over her face.

“Callie,” he said weakly.

Her face crumpled as rain ran down her face. He must look as bad as he felt.