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With a roar, a mighty wind rose up out of nowhere. The squall hit Basil full-on, shoved him back with the force of an oncoming truck until he slammed down on the ground. The violent gust also hit the hawk, whipped at her in the middle of her attack, and hurled her away. The raptor crashed into the bushes several yards into the forest.
No. Not Isa’s beloved bird. Rage boiling in his gut, Basil glared at Calâr. That fucking air-manipulating bastard.
Breathing hard, Calâr hauled Isa up again, set his dagger once more at her throat. “Now,” he snarled, “we walk the last bit to Nornûn.”
A thought flitted through Basil’s head, unwelcome and devastating in its implications. He didn’t even want to entertain it.
But it must have shown on his face, for Calâr quietly said, “You don’t know if she’s really going to die. There may be a cure yet, one she hasn’t found. If you comply with my demands, I’ll hand her over, and there will be time for both of you to search for a cure. Aren’t the witches in your family especially talented? I’m sure they will find a way to break her curse, and then both of you will be able to live happily ever after. But if you don’t do as I say, I will cut her throat, and she will die, right here, right now. Don’t gamble your chance at a future with her for the uncertainty that she might die anyway.”
Shit. No matter how he turned it, Basil was well and truly fucked. Give in to Calâr’s demands, and he’d enslave Basil and use his powers to begin a reign of terror in Faerie, or refuse to obey in the belief that Isa was doomed to die anyway, and watch him kill Isa right in front of him.
But the bastard was right—Basil wasn’t completely convinced her curse could only be broken by killing him. Maybe there was another way. If he only had more time with her…
Dammit, he would not risk Calâr killing Isa on the off chance that she was right and her impending death was inevitable. He really didn’t have a choice.
With a grim nod at Calâr, he resumed his trek toward the oracle.
Chapter 23
Merle was once again in the old Victorian library when the doorbell rang. With a sigh, she pushed her chair back from the desk piled with dusty books—none of which held any clue as to how to stave off paying back to the Powers That Be—and trudged over to the front door.
The dark power seeping through the cracks in the wood and stone clued her in as to who was standing on the other side even before she opened the door. Her stomach dropped, nausea swamped her—a different kind than the one caused by the tiny spark in her belly. This one went down to her soul.
When she unlocked the door and Arawn strolled in as if he owned the place, unperturbed by the wards set around the property, Merle’s knees almost gave out. No. He couldn’t be here. Not now. She wasn’t ready yet, hadn’t found a way to minimize the consequences of her magic use.
Hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, he scanned the foyer with eyes the color of shadowed moss. A finely tailored dress shirt of dark ruby red stretched over his broad shoulders, hugged his strong frame. He was built to put berserkers to shame. His skin glowed a dark bronze, his face all harsh angles and hard planes, the black of his hair swallowing the light. Standing there in her family’s foyer, he not only dwarfed her, he claimed the very air that touched him, his sinister power creeping into all the nooks and crannies of her home.
Her home.
He dared come here, into her refuge, her house, sauntering in as if he had a right. That rotten, evil, impertinent son of a—
“Where is your demon, fire witch?” The deep bass of his voice boomed in the foyer, even though he had spoken in what were his quieter tones.
“Gone to run an errand,” she gritted out.
She had a sudden craving for pistachio ice cream, and her darling of a demon jumped to get it for her as soon as she mentioned it.
“Good,” the Demon Lord said, facing her. “I find his yapping presence rather annoying when you and I do business. Now”—he produced a rolled-up bundle from the gods-knew-where—“for today’s order, I require you to put a spell on this.” With a flick of his hand, the bundle unrolled.
“A rug? You want me to bespell a rug?”
He tilted his head, gave her a look that clearly said he wouldn’t deign to answer such a redundant question.
She inwardly rolled her eyes. “What kind of charm would you like?”
“A truth spell, forcing whoever stands—or kneels—on the rug to be incapable of lying.”
Merle sealed her mouth shut and breathed through her nose to keep her temper. It was going to be a damn powerful charm, difficult to weave, and requiring a huge amount of magic. Magic she couldn’t afford to draw upon.
“And make it undetectable,” Arawn added.
She barely held back her sound of frustration. Like a fucking cherry on top. Concealing a spell was often even harder than the charm itself, which was why it mostly wasn’t done. She might as well slit her skin now and bleed out for the Powers That Be.
She snatched the rug from the Demon Lord’s hand. “Anything else?”
The hint of a terrifying smile ghosted over his face. “Where has the Murray witch gone?”
She froze. He’d noticed. Her heart raced. Cold sweat broke out on her skin.
