The Calling (7 page)

“I won’t touch you without your permission.” Even now, she could walk away. She had a feeling this would change her forever. But she’d gone too far. She gave a quick downward jerk of her head.

It was enough, and flames flickered in his eyes. He dropped to his knees in front of her, his warm breath feathering her skin.

Her own breath caught in her throat. She glanced down as his open mouth pressed against her stomach then gasped as her whole body clenched at the first touch of his warm lips.

His hands came up to hold her hips, sliding around to sink into the soft flesh of her buttocks and steady her as his mouth moved lower. His breath ruffled the curls at the base of her belly, and liquid heat pooled at her core.

He kissed the jut of her hipbone, his moist tongue stroking her skin. Freya was melting from the inside. She needed something, but she had no clue what. She hadn’t known anything could feel like this.

Her thighs clenched tightly together to intensify the feelings, and he raised his head and looked up the line of her body.

“Freya, sweetheart, open your legs.” She forced her locked muscles to relax, then shifted her feet and parted her thighs for him.

He kissed her inner thigh, licked his way up toward her core, and pressed a soft kiss against her flesh before pushing his hot, wet tongue between the folds of her sex. A low whimper caught in her throat as a jolt of pleasure shot along her nerves. She swayed, but his big hands caught her hips, steadying her, while his thumbs came around and parted the sodden folds, opening her to him. His tongue probed the entrance to her body, pushing inside, tasting her, feasting on her. He licked delicate, teasing strokes up toward the little bundle of nerves that pulsated and yearned for his touch. She jerked her hips, needing him to touch her there. Instead, he traced lazy circles around her, forcing her ever higher.

“I don’t...I can’t.” She was sobbing, her fingers gripping his short hair.He went still at the sound of her voice, and she wanted to scream.

Finally, he kissed her where she needed him, took the swollen little bud between his lips, and flicked her with his tongue.

His hands were the only things holding her up as her body spiraled out of control, exploding in a starburst of pleasure. He held her tight while waves of ripped through her, then as the tremors faded, he bit down gently.

Her head went back and she screamed, while above them, flashes of crimson lightning lit up the dawn sky.

~*~

Minutes later, he was back with his hand fisted around his own cock. It seemed to be his natural state these days. But the frustration was worth it. He’d given her pleasure—something he was sure she had never known before. He could still taste her on his lips, the salty sweet musk of her desire, and he came quickly.

He hadn’t been at all sure she would allow him to pleasure her.

But he was aware that she was changing. The magic was rising within her, and he’d sensed her need. She might not want to admit she desired him, but her body gave her away.

For the first time, he allowed himself to consider where this was going. To finally acknowledge where he wanted them to go.

In the old days, before the Laws of Segregation, witches and warlocks had been natural mates, and it had been the witches who had done the choosing. A mystical bond had grown between the two, until they were almost one being.

But things had changed. After the world was nearly destroyed, the Order had called for a cleansing. The witches were hunted down and killed, or they had vanished into the secret places of the land. The Order denied it, but many of the mated warlocks had also died in defense of their women. It had been a bad time, and Jarrod was glad he’d not been mated.

Now he sensed that was no longer true. He remembered the Goddess’s words. Had he truly chosen Freya all those years ago? And now, if there came a time for Freya to choose, would she ever choose him?

The sky had settled, and the last flickers of lightning died away.

Freya lay curled up on the blanket, her knees hugging her chest.

She hadn’t bothered dressing, and that gave him some hope.

She blinked open her eyes as he came to stand over her, her expression dazed with the lingering remnants of pleasure.

“I hate you. I hate all warlocks.”

But her tone held confusion and a hint of panic. He shrugged.

What could he say? He didn’t blame her for her hatred.

Her arched brows drew together. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I need time.”

He nodded, but the need to make her completely his was growing too strong to constrain. Her nakedness didn’t help. Unbuttoning his shirt, he slid out of it, tossing it to her. “Here put this on.” He waited while she scrambled up and shrugged into the shirt, unable to drag his eyes away from the full curve of her breasts, the nipples engorged with her pleasure—pleasure he had given her. He was almost relieved when the buttons were fastened, and she was hidden from him.

“I want you,” he said. “I want you right now, but I’ll give you time.”

He took comfort from the fact that she was staring at his naked chest. She licked her lips, and he groaned. She wanted time, but she wasn’t following the rules.

“If you really want time, I suggest you stop looking at me like that.”

Shock flared in her eyes, and she looked away abruptly.

Freya glanced sideways at Jarrod. He faced straight ahead and for a moment, she wished he would turn her way. For two days now, he’d kept his distance. At least mentally—traveling together, it was impossible for him to be far from her physically.

She had asked for time, but his coolness was beginning to irk her.

Jarrod hadn’t suggested they share the horse again. Instead, he walked alongside while Freya rode. Or they both walked, one on either side, keeping the horse between them.

He talked to her though, keeping the conversation impersonal, telling her about the places and things he had seen in his long life.

Of the high mountains to the north, where dragons still flew, and the wild lands beyond, where even stranger things lived. The seas to the south where the water went for as far as you could see. He told her of an Arroway before the Laws of Segregation, when the witches’ moons had shone brightly, and the whole world had bloomed.

“Perhaps it can be that way again,” he said.

Freya didn’t answer. These last few days had shown to her clearly what the Order had done by stealing their magic. For the first time she felt complete, the empty place inside her filled. She wanted that for all her sisters; she wanted Arroway to bloom again. But freeing the Goddess seemed harder than ever. She had to find three witches with the mark. Shayla was the only one she knew, and she was gone.

Freya had no clue what their next move should be. But they desperately needed more information, and the only source she could think of was the man who’d first told her of the clearing where Shayla had disappeared. They were heading to his village now, and she hoped he’d be able and willing to tell them more.

There was no sign of pursuit, and some of the urgency had gone.

They traveled slowly, but for long hours, so at night they both slept deeply. She no longer worried that Shayla was dead. She sensed her presence in that new place where the magic now lived, growing stronger each hour. And as the magic strengthened, so did the desire, warming the coldness she had lived with all her life.

She peeked at Jarrod again. She could feel his tension, but he hadn’t attempted to touch her again or insisted on any intimacy between them, and she was glad. Really.

He must have sensed her watching him, because he laid a hand on Starfire’s glossy neck so the horse halted.

“We’re almost there. We may as well stop here for a while and enter the village tonight under cover of darkness.” She nodded and slid down from the horse. They’d seen no sign of the Order, but they must be out there somewhere, hunting them. Jarrod made to turn away, then cast her a sharp glance, a frown forming on his face. He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on hers. Reaching out, he lightly touched her right cheekbone. His eyes widened. “Witch.”

“What is it?” she asked, fighting the urge to sway toward him.

Instead of answering, he stepped back and drew the dagger from the sheath at his thigh. He polished the blade on his cloak and held it in front of her face so she could see her reflection in the gleaming silver metal.

She gasped. A perfect sickle moon marred the smooth skin of her cheek. She touched her finger to her face, stroking the mark. A tingle of magic ran through her and wonder replaced her initial shock.

“So now there are two,” Jarrod murmured.

“Two?”

“Witches with the mark. You and Shayla. You only need a third, and you can fulfill the Goddess’s prophecy.” He was right. Her worry lifted a little. But they still had no idea where Shayla had gone. “If we find Shayla.”

“We’ll find her.”

He unsaddled Starlight and let the horse free to graze. “We may as well rest. We need to be alert tonight in case things go bad.”

“You think The Order is still after us?” She’d hoped they had given up, gone back to the Keep. After all how important was she?

The Order knew nothing of the new mark—they thought her a mere pleasure slave.

“I don’t think Malachi can afford to let us go free. We know too much.”

The afternoon was warm. Freya took off the cloak, spread it on the ground, and sat, her back resting against a fallen tree trunk.

Jarrod sank down close beside her, but too far away to touch, and she resisted the urge to shift closer. He called to something deep inside her, and as the magic grew, so did the need to have him near. To touch him. Feel his body on her. In her. She shook her head to dispel the images. “Why does he care? I’m just a pleasure slave.”

“A pleasure slave who has seen the Goddess. Who knows Malachi has her imprisoned in the tower.”

“She must have been there for a thousand years.” It seemed inconceivable. The Order was powerful but surely not enough to imprison the Goddess. “How has he done it?”

“I’ve been thinking. When Casterix nearly destroyed the world, the Goddess reversed the spell, but she was weakened. Malachi must have placed her in the tower then, probably to keep her safe.”

“But she would have awoken.”

“Maybe by that point, Malachi didn’t want her awake. He must have known the Goddess would never condone the Laws of Segregation and what was done to the witches of Arroway.”

“But how did he manage it?”

“I think he must have used the magic taken from the witches at birth to power the spell. It was moon magic I felt in that room.” Freya remembered back to the feel of the air in that high tower.

The pulse of magic—so familiar. “Bastard.”

“I’m sure at first, he did it for the land.” He winced at the scorn in her face and continued. “He wasn’t always evil. And I was there. Casterix would have destroyed Arroway.”

Shock jerked her upright. “You were there?” She hadn’t known anyone survived from those long ago days except for Malachi.

He sent her a strange glance. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Casterix was my sister. My twin sister.” Jarrod saw the shock blossom across her features. “You didn’t know?” She shook her head.

He found it inconceivable. He’d worn his guilt over Casterix for so long he thought it was plain for all to see.

“The Laws of Segregation forbade us from even mentioning her name,” Freya said. “It was whispered, but never more than that, and anyone who knew the truth was long dead.” The ordinary people of Arroway had a lifespan of around a centu-ry. Witches and warlocks could live much longer depending on their powers. Casterix had been the most powerful witch in living memory.

If she had survived, she might still be alive today. Jarrod was. He’d matched her in power, though the magic of warlocks was different from that of witches; it required ritual and focus. A warlock was powerless without his staff. Unlike the moon magic which was wild and free and powerful enough to destroy the world. As they had discovered with Casterix.

His sister was responsible for what had happened to the witches, for the Laws of Segregation that resulted in them being nothing more than slaves to the Order, their magic taken from them. “You must have hated her,” he said.

“No. We didn’t know enough. Will you tell me what happened?” He hated to speak of it, but she deserved that much. He settled back against the trunk and thought about where to begin. “Back before the Laws of Segregation, witches and warlocks were natural mates.” He almost smiled at the expression of disbelief that flashed across her expressive eyes. “And the witches did the choosing. Cass had fallen for a young warlock called Callum, very powerful but always at odds with the Order. The Order wanted her to mate with Malachi—which was sheer madness—it was never going to happen. Cass always hated him, ever since we were children. Anyway, when she defied them, they had Callum murdered.”

The old familiar guilt washed through him. He should have stopped it. But the Order had kept the information from him—they must have known he wouldn’t have tolerated Callum’s murder, and though still young, even then he’d been a match for any warlock within the Order.

“Cass was wild with grief and fury. I believe she lost her sanity for a while, swore she would kill them all, and nearly succeeded. She tried to bring him back from death, and spoke the Word of Power that would have destroyed the whole world. Only the combined forces of The Order and the Goddess could reverse the effects.”

“What happened to your sister?”

“She vanished.” He might have been able to find her if he’d gone looking straight away, but he’d been in no position. At that point, he’d been imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the Keep, insane with rage and grief. He’d always had an empathic bond with his twin, and he’d lived through her despair.

He’d remained in that dungeon for nearly five hundred years. He was sure they considered his death on more than one occasion, but something held them back. By the time he was released, Malachi was head of the Order. Maybe it was the memory of their friendship, or the fact that the Order wanted more warlocks of his line. He didn’t know why they had released him, but he knew they no longer trusted him.