Concentric Circles (8 page)

She sent a leg up. He countered her move with his left hand and grunted. “Be still. How am I supposed to tell you and fight at the same time?”

She roared and swung her fist, missing.

“Will you be still? We are bonded!”

Jagged energy shot through her, sending her emotions helter-skelter. Those three simple words explained so much of what she was feeling, even as they provoked more questions. She tried to get her breathing and voice under control. “Bonded?”

He sat up, straddling her without putting his full weight on her thighs. “Yes. Bonded. It’s a magical and spiritual bond.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “You said you don’t believe, yet you do magic. A lamp? You magically threw a lamp at me. I know you’re mad. I can
feel
it.”

Turmoil reigned in her brain. She closed her eyes, blocking the sight of him. The action didn’t help. She still saw him in her mind’s eye, face lit with passion as he came within her, orgasm blending their souls into one. She saw it all—clear as day.

“Shay.” He gently caressed her, brushing her tears away.

“Kal, I just,” she said, stumbling over the words. In her mind, she knew it was tomorrow, the next day. How much was she supposed to deal with in twenty-four hours?

“I should’ve listened to Harry and stayed away from the Abbey.” He paused and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Sacred ground. Shayla?”

“You took me on sacred ground so now we’re bonded?” She opened her eyes and stared up into cobalt swirls of emotion. There it is again, that look.

“I should’ve told you.” His fingers teased her hair, sending waves of renewed desire to her heart. “I felt it before, even at the Pool. Didn’t you?”

She pulled her gaze away from his sudden pleading and closed hers again.
Yes. I did
. She nodded, and then swallowed in an effort to sort her emotions.

His heart did an unexpected twist, echoed by hers. A gasp rose in response, and then a memory flashed through her mind. “Just because you find your soul mate, doesn’t mean your life will be a bed of roses,” she whispered for him to hear the echo in her mind.
Who knew that statement would come back to haunt me one day? Not me, that’s for sure
.

She pushed Meekal off and rose, grabbing her clothes on the way to the bathroom. She could feel his eyes on her back and his heart jerking at her demeanor. She ignored it and closed the door firmly.

The clicking of the latch served as another gateway of change.

Without warning, she began to spin out of control. Arms and feet flailing in an effort to land somewhere safe, she screamed, “Meekal!”

[5] Wind-riding

The wind brandished its power over Shayla, whipping her hair and lashing at her face. She closed her eyes against the assault. Waves of panic seized her, causing her stomach to flip and heart to race.

The spinning intensified. She opened her eyes as another scream burst forth. The velocity of air increased and a mist formed around her, distorting the surroundings, sending her through the veil of consciousness and time. The sensation of falling through a hole into boundless infinity filled her with a burning, desperate fear.

Shayla landed, her body jarring at the abrupt impact booted feet made with a shiny black marble floor. She breathed rapidly and looked around at dark surroundings. “Okay, so birl isn’t so funny anymore,” she grumbled while fighting insistent dizziness and flopping belly. The floor reflected everything back, making the sensation of dizziness intensify.

The chamber she landed in was large, lit by four torches burning in cauldron styled sconces. A low burning fire, in a black hearth across from her, emitted the scent of incense, giving an aura of insidious mustiness. The smell filled her sinuses with the urge to sneeze.

Bookcases, ensconced in mysterious darkness, hugged the walls. Their contents seemed to grin with menace in the flickering firelight, eliciting a feeling of the unknown, hemming her into a void.

The lump of fear in her throat from the unexpected journey expanded. She tried to swallow it. Her throat constricted as she looked down at herself quickly. Whew! She had clothes on. How that happened, she did not know.

The next concern raced through her mind. The men in the large chamber might notice the arrival of an unexpected intruder. She moved backward, wedging herself between the overstuffed bookcases, avoiding a large portrait so she would be in the deeper shadows.

Contact with the gold gilt frame made her shudder from a sense of arctic, frosty cold. She studied its landscape for a moment. The deserted ruins of a lonely castle blanketed in heavy snow filled the frame. The only light within the image came from a full moon glistening on the snow. Goosebumps charged up her arms.

“You fool! You have failed once more, Dragar!”

The voice made her jump.

Dragar tucked his head at an odd angle, eyes hooded from the other man’s fierce scrutiny. “He wasn’t alone, Syther.”

Her face actually hurt from the frown puckering and pulling at her tense muscles. Syther? She sized him up. Frigid demeanor, dressed in black and accessorized with a blood red tie, he made a formidable figure. Meekal had spoken about this man. The other man, Shayla recognized as the one who attacked them earlier.

Syther growled deep in his throat and raised a wand.

The man, magically compelled to his knees in sub-service, cringed visibly, nodding his head like a demented bobble-head doll.

“Well, Dragar?” Syther’s voice grated across the chamber, echoing through her senses, like ice falling into a glass.

Shayla clinched her fists. Empathic anger began to well within.

Syther, apparently milking the experience for all he could, threw out his full range of emotions, allowing them to encapsulate the other Thyrza. “Do I need to repeat?”

Her breath caught when he paused in his speech, eyes black pools of hatred, and stared at the man kneeling in front of him.

Nervous agitation twisted Dragar’s body, hands moving over his chest defensively.

“You’re a worthless wizard.” Syther tapped his fingers restlessly on his mahogany desk, studying Dragar, as if trying to figure out the next move. His look of thoughtful contemplation turned into a vile sneer.

Shayla experienced a sense of foreboding as she stepped away from her hiding place. No one noticed her. She waved. No response.

Dragar gave a disgruntled sound like an abused animal and flinched backward. He raised his head. Half his face in shadow, she saw terror clearly etched there. In slow motion, he rose to his feet, shaking his head in adamant denial.

This is not a movie. Not a movie
. She pinched herself, trying to come back to reality or at least back to the Tor Sunset Inn. It didn’t work. The scene still played out, except now its intensity increased.

An oily unctuous voice, somehow laced with the potential of horrendous pleasure, drawled, “Scathergal.”

Screams erupted, distorted within the throes of agony. Dragar hit the floor hard, writhing as blood pooled on the marble tiles, glossing over their shine with a new dimension of color. He looked inhuman, hands scratching at the curse effects. The cries he emitted, bounced off the walls around them.

Shayla shivered, the hairs prickling on her neck. Neither fiction nor the widescreen prepared her for the vision of Dragar’s frenzied expression of pain and blood. A new physical sensitivity spread through her, intensifying like fiery needles in her skin.

Empathy for an enemy
. The thought ground through her mind. She rubbed her arms in an attempt to stop the surging sensation and closed her eyes to block the sight of the hellish caricature. It didn’t work, she could still hear.

Syther’s mask changed from pleasure to utter boredom. After a few minutes, he pulled the wand from his hapless victim, stood and sneered at the crimson staining his floor. “Clean this mess up. When you’ve finished, go to Zubird. Tell him, I want him here,
yesterday
.”

Dragar tried to rise. The curse left him feeble. He moaned and stumbled, falling onto his elbows and knees, face contorted in pain.

Syther swung his leg.

The kick hit Dragar hard in the ribs. The sound of breaking bones commingled with a manic scream, echoing its horror.

The muscle constriction of Shayla’s frown extended to the top of her head where a dull ache began. Okay, she didn’t like the wicked Thyrza, but enough is enough.

Syther puckered his full lips in a peculiar manner and whistled.

She shivered, the sound went down her spine, and then she gasped, covering her mouth quickly.

A sleek black panther entered through the wall. The cat paused and looked up at her.

“Silence,” she said with a hiss through her teeth.

The panther blinked emerald eyes, and then continued to Syther.

“Ooh. Hello, my sweet,” he crooned. “Sheitan is my wicked black angel, aye?”

Sheitan licked his hand playfully and purred.

The only other sound in the room, Dragar whimpered while he finished cleaning blood from the floor.

What an odd dichotomy, both pleasure and pain expressed
. The nauseating thought induced more apprehension.

“Well,” Syther said, shaking his head. “Finish up and be gone. Don’t dally. When you arrive, tell Zubird the bezoar stone is where we expected. Be gone.” He stood, flicked his wrist, flashing the bone wand and expelled Dragar through the door.

Dragar landed in the exterior corridor with a thud, more mournful sounds escaping his mouth. He stood and stumbled out another door.

By now, Shayla realized her presence was unknown to Syther. She stepped closer, crinkling her nose when she passed the fireplace. The noxious odor became more pervasive when she stood before it.      

The panther ignored her. Syther played, tossing a ball for her to chase. Obviously, Sheitan was still a kitten, but her size belied that fact.

The strangeness of seeing the large cat after learning about Meekal’s shape shifter form made her pause to compare its size. A large, powerful paw pushed the ball toward the door. The panther returned to Syther, ball between her teeth. Shayla moved closer to get a better look at Syther.

“We will succeed, my sweet,” he said, voice taking on a wicked purr while he rubbed soft black ears.

The large cat nipped him playfully. Syther chuckled and gave her a treat from a tin on his desk, and then leaned back on the edge to watch her savor its crunchiness.

Shayla studied him. He had probably once been a nice looking man. She could not put a finger on exactly what had happened. Syther had good bone structure. Of indeterminate age, his features were strong and well proportioned. He was clean-shaven and trimmed. Even his black clothing reflected stylish wealth. However, something about his countenance radiated evil. Its aura had changed him, corrupting his former good looks into something twisted and frightful.

“Are we ready for our next plaything?” he asked, standing away from the desk to regain a more businesslike demeanor.

Sheitan licked his fingers in appreciation. Purring intensified in response to his question. “Meow.”

“Why you bitch. Eat humans?” Shayla growled under her breath, understanding Sheitan’s comment though their magical Fae and creature connection.

Sheitan hissed at her, showing white fangs, emerald eyes narrowing to slits.

Pin prickles of irritation ran under her skin, aggravating persistent unease. She glared at the panther and tensed in anticipation of another horror.

Syther, oblivious of their interaction, said, “Seamus!”

She turned in time to see the Thyrza who had felt her up during the attack.
Letch
. Anger roiled in the pit of her stomach, culminating as a growl. “You go, girl.” As an afterthought, she shuddered.
Ugh! Shouldn’t think that, Shay
.

The man, dressed to perfection now, fidgeted and dragged his feet in fear. A whimpering sound surrounded his entrance. He stopped several feet from Syther and bowed his head in deference.

“What’s your report?” Syther raked him with smoldering eyes, shaking his head in obvious disgust. “Maybe,” he said with a vehement sneer, “I should say excuse?”

Shaking like a leaf, on a cold fall breeze, Seamus whispered in a barely audible tone, “He wasn’t alone, Your Grace.”

Shayla stiffened, hair standing up on her neck.
Grace?

In an abrupt motion, Syther sat in a wing chair before the fireplace. He crossed his left leg over the right knee and began tapping his boot with the bone wand. Black brows came down in wrath. Tap…tap…tap. Tension presaged each impact with a threat of malice.

Like a roaring waterfall, dread crashed in an overpowering sensation. She was sure this scene would play out in repulsiveness.

Those infernal taps, ominous in their resonance, reverberated in the chamber.

Seamus, gaze focused on the wand, breathed raggedly, following its dance conducted by ringed fingers against a black leather boot.

His voice riddled with imminent threat, Syther said, “I’ve already been told this, Seamus. Perhaps you could enlighten me further?”

Still mesmerized by the wand’s movement, Seamus nodded eagerly. “Woodard was with him and…”

“And?”

Seamus took a deep breath. “A girl. A Fae.”

Shayla crossed her arms to keep from trying to hit the berk.
Not just a letch, but an idiot, too
. She growled at the frustrating situation.

Sheitan yawned and rested her large head on large front paws, blinking up at the humans.

Apparently, the news incited more anger; it oozed from Syther like venom.

Seamus stepped back, sweat beading on his forehead.

Like a spectral demon, Syther rose from his seat, casting a menacing posture and shadow over the chamber. “There are no Fae left. Only Chilkwell! You lie!”

Seamus, shuddering and shaking his head rapidly, insisted, “No. Never. She could move fast like lightning. She was strong. Ask Dragar!” Seamus’ voice trailed away on the incense-filled air.

“Dragar said nothing about her prowess or being Fae. You lie!”