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  Her guardian knew exactly what she was about tonight. And he knew the perfect spot to see the thing done.

  She hadn’t consulted her Grimoire, or the many others that had been handed down through the hands of so many Devices who had come before her. There was no need. She’d read them all too many times to think she’d missed anything important. No, the spell she needed wasn’t in those old, fragile pages. It was writ on the tissues of her own heart. It just needed her voice to lend it power, and one of the few pieces of land that still held a whisper of the ancient purity that had once been so plentiful in this New World.

  Ball led her to one such place now. A large stone, as big as a semi, planted in the ground at an angle so that it created a sort of lean-to, was the only object in the wide meadow. Under the lee of the rock and along its sides, an enormous patch of eternally blooming night jasmine colored the ground. This was a spot of earth that no frost or snow ever touched. It was a sacred space. And the rock itself was one of the four keystones on the island—four large, standing rocks that had no business being where they were other than to keep watch at each compass bearing on the land.

  Vetiver had never used this particular spot to cast her voice into the four cardinal directions.

  She’d never dared.

  It didn’t bother her. She accepted the truth that she wasn’t a powerful witch, or even a particularly talented one. But she was a daughter of nature and that was more than enough for her to be satisfied. She wasn’t proud. Nor was she power hungry. It wasn’t that she wanted more magic for herself now, it was that she needed it, to see her job done.

  She felt a pressing need for haste. Something dark and threatening loomed on the horizon, just beyond her sight. A wild, hungry thing knocked at the wards on the island and Vetiver was afraid it wasn’t a metaphorical beast. With such imminent danger at hand, it would take all of her strength and effort to keep the island closed to the evil that wanted in so badly. And even trying her best might not be enough. In the past there had always been more than one Device witch invoking the autumnal spells. It was a precarious time. The world in a state of change, from living summer to dormant winter, made all the wards tremble. It took a lot of power to ensure their stability.

  The binding spells must hold. This island was more than an island. It was a doorway. And the door must remain closed. Because on the other side of the threshold there lurked a threat to all who lived here, a threat Vetiver felt like a hand around her throat. Squeezing.

  Careful not to trespass on the delicate flowers, Vetiver skirted the little garden and climbed up the backside of the stone, until she stood on the ledge overlooking the meadow.

  The wind picked up, bringing with it the perfume of the jasmine blossoms. It wasn’t a gentle gust, but it barely touched her and only disturbed her enough to lift her hair and cool her face. She was perfectly balanced on the edge of the enormous stone. There was no chance Vetiver would fall, though looking out over the dusk-kissed blooms from such a great height gave her a moment of vertigo. Her heart pounded, blood singing hot in her veins.

  “I need your guidance,” she told the wind, the trees and the sky. “My people are gone. I am the last of my line. I know it isn’t my place to ask for your help with this burden, but I’m afraid that I can’t guard this land alone. The world is moving too fast for me to protect my own home, much less this whole island and everyone who’s moved here.” Her teeth ground bitterly. “I feel the weight of too many greedy souls to guard and these people have no wish to receive the island’s protection. Or mine.”

  Ball moved behind her and Vetiver looked down to find that he had produced her ebony-handled Athame. He deposited the worn dagger at her feet, having secreted it out here somehow without her noticing.

  This wasn’t what sent a mixture of excitement and dread through her. It was the spectacle of his giant head lowered, his eyes burning bright in the gathering shadows, his unwavering study of the patch of flora below their leaning stone. Something in his stance warned her to be cautious and she responded immediately, without question. He wasn’t telling her to stop. He merely suggested that she tread carefully on this strange, unexplored terrain.

  Blood…send it on the Wind.

  The words, Ball’s gravelly words, seared themselves into her brain.

  Ball always knew what to do in these situations. Moments of decision were never unsettling to him as they could be to Vetiver. Her companion was omniscient in so many things, it was second nature to her now that she listen to him without question. So she bent and took the blade in her left hand. “A payment in blood, then.”

  Such a price was demanding, but her need was great. She’d never performed a spell that required her blood, though she knew from the books she’d studied her whole life that they weren’t entirely uncommon. Dangerous but not forbidden—Ball would never have suggested it otherwise. Because she wished to receive such a great boon, she would spill the blood from her receptive hand. She would bleed, pray and hope for the best.

  “Please light my path.” She let the words float out into the air and wrapped her right fist around the naked blade. She squeezed and twisted, flaying open her skin on the razor-sharp edge. A spray of blood, black in the night like tiny shards of jet, flew out into the air, raining onto the thirsty flowers waiting down below. “Show me the way. I am ever your servant.”

  But damn, did it hurt.

  The wind howled louder. The scent of night jasmine grew strong. The blossoms bloomed larger. Vetiver held the blade doggedly, her blood flowing faster. The pain went deeper than the cut, touching her soul. But it was a pain she weathered, knowing the virulence of it signified a great shifting in the universe.

  For a while she failed to notice the ground bulging at the base of the rock. It wasn’t until the stone under her feet cracked right through that she was startled back to reality. Ball was pulling at the hem of her shift insistently. Wrapping the bloodied blade and her oozing hand in the folds of the cloth, she let him guide her down safely.

  The earth groaned and Vetiver grew fearful. What had she done to upset the elements so? Ball was pacing, her heart was pounding in her head and the ground shook so hard she was dizzy. The trees wailed. Her hair blinded her, whipping about her head, stinging her exposed skin. The armlet burned where it wrapped around her muscle, glowing like Venus in a clear night sky.

  The bed of flowers bulged upward violently, a geyser of soil and broken blooms spraying high into the air. The scent of old earth clouded her senses. The breeze was now a dervish, tearing at everything in its madness.

  Two fists thrust themselves up into the air, breaking out from the ground.

  Vetiver gasped, then shrieked when arms followed. Ball stood between her and whatever it was being birthed from the ground, but it was little comfort. A dirt-caked head emerged, then broad, heavily muscled shoulders. As she watched, Ball pressing her back, a man sprouted in front of them. Fully formed, hair straight and long, cut sharply just above his broad shoulders, clothed in unusually fashioned raiment, he climbed out of the womb of earth like a golem fashioned of blood and soil.

  His gaze glowed like fire. A faceted flashing of amber, citrine and golden sapphire, his eyes were gemstones that glittered in the shadows. The dark lashes that rimmed his eyes like kohl were thick, and the same dark shade of his hair. His skin would be bronzed, she hazarded a guess, though it was impossible to be certain, shrouded as he was beneath the grime and layers of cloth he wore like a sherwani.

  Her eyes fell down the length of him—and there was a lot of length of him to assess—and it was then she noticed the torn and bloodied material on his right calf. As she watched, he stumbled and swore in a language she didn’t recognize. Ball moved aside, giving her the freedom to choose to approach the man if she so desired.

  Despite the dangerous aura he wore, despite the warning clanging in her head, her heart moved her to action. He had come at her behest, was wounded and bleeding on her land, and so she was bound to welcome hi
m. It was her responsibility as a daughter of nature to tend his wound, no matter how threatened she felt by all that had transpired in the past few seconds.

  Vetiver was beside him instantly, unhesitatingly. He was so tall—perhaps just shy of seven feet, whereas she was only a few inches over five feet herself—so it was awkward work, but she managed to position her shoulder underneath one of his and tilt her hip so he could take weight off his freely bleeding leg.

  “Can you walk?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the raging gale. “It isn’t too far to the house.”

  He looked down his nose at her, haughty and proud, and it was then she realized how stunning he was. Not beautiful, not handsome, but an exotic mixture of both, doused with an inordinate amount of power that made her feel like a novitiate by comparison. She was suddenly aware of her plain shift, smeared with her own blood, and of her wild tangle of hair. Her lack of makeup. Her bare, dirtied feet.

  He said something in a language that touched upon the infinite wonder in her spirit. But she didn’t understand his strange, musical words.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “What is this place?” Now he spoke in English, his words biting and faintly accented, his sharp gaze scanning the terrain. “It is so heavily warded. You should not be here, human, this is surely perilous territory.”

  Vetiver frowned and put her left hand around his hips, her fingers tingling where they rested just below his waist. “These are my lands. I live here,” she said defensively. “The wards are mine. We’re safe here.” For now.

  He attempted to rebuke her offer of help, shrugging off her hand so that he could put weight on his bad leg. Beneath his dark complexion, his face bleached white as pain struck him. He made no sound, merely slumped against her, taking her to the ground with the full bulk of his solid weight. Vetiver yelped as she lost her footing. But Ball was there, his shoulder ready for her to pull herself and the half-conscious stranger back up.

  She felt Ball touching her mind, saw a strange vision that stopped her in her tracks.

  “Shut up!” she told him, agape.

  Then, not waiting for a response she had no patience for, she resumed her forward motion as a misty rain began to slowly fall. It was only the power of the armlet she wore that enabled her to drag her heavy passenger to the safety of her home. That and Ball’s great muzzle, nudging them forward out of the oncoming rain that followed the closing of her back door.

  But the vision Ball had sent her lingered, and it terrified her.

  It was the picture of a tiny, perfectly formed baby girl. With eyes like amber fire and dark waves of hair the color of Vetiver’s own.

  Chapter Three

  Boreas eyed the little witch as she tended his wound.

  Despite the fact that she herself had an injury on her hand, she took only a moment to ease her own discomfort with a strip of cloth to stem the slowly oozing cut. He didn’t have to ask how she had hurt herself—it was plain she had broken a powerful binding spell. He would never have been able to pass through the doorway if she hadn’t.

  The pain on his bleeding calf had disappeared the moment her fingers touched it. He was dizzy from the Daemon venom swimming in his veins and from being so close to this enchanting creature. Sitting in her bed now, the woman perched on the edge near his foot, he could smell her woodsy, earthy scent on the patchwork quilt, a mixture of exotic herbs and spices that teased his every sense to hungry life. So he let her fuss over him, because it suited his own desires at the moment.

  The paltry wound wasn’t truly in need of her ministrations. It would heal on its own and indeed was already healing quickly. But he needed her to touch him. He wanted her to get accustomed to the feel of his skin beneath her delicate fingers. She would soon have more of him to touch, and for a surety he would leave no inch of her flesh unexplored.

  How magnificent she was, this exotic creature. Delicately human yet aglow with an inner magic so vibrant it almost hurt him to gaze upon it.

  Against all instincts that warned him away from human women, Boreas had claimed her the moment he’d seen his Wind playing through her inky waves of hair. She didn’t realize it yet, but her Familiar did—Boreas clearly read in the beast’s phosphorescent gaze that he acknowledged and accepted the inevitable union between Boreas and his mistress. Not that Boreas was asking permission. The witch was his, plain and simple.

  She’d whispered to his Wind.

  He was a Foil Caste Shikar, which meant he was master of the blade. But he was a rare multi-Caste, able to bend the element of wind and storm to his will. It spoke volumes that it was this woman’s voice that had reached him through his element—she was as unique as he was. By her blood, spilled willingly, she was tied to him now, whether she realized it or not. She’d invited him in.

  It had all happened so fast, this volatile attraction, this sudden need, not just to claim her but to own her. Perhaps Boreas should have been wary. But he wasn’t. It felt right. Their meeting had not been coincidence. It was fate. Inevitability. She had been made just for him. Waiting just for him. And he for her.

  “What are you called?” He scanned her from the crown of her shiny curls to the delicate lines of her face, hesitating on the ripe, raspberry lips long enough that his cock hardened into a lance, then he dropped his gaze down over her shoulders to the thick armlet she wore.

  Now there was an object imbued with great magic. It resonated with the different gifts of a hundred witches. This woman’s uncanny ability to speak through his Wind was not the least of her gifts.

  She glanced at him, her multi-hued eyes vague, as if she wasn’t sure what he was asking. A tiny pink gem glinted just below the left corner of her bottom lip.

  “What is your name, woman?” He was lost in her strange, witchy eyes. They were so unique—unlike any he’d ever seen. The outer ring of color was crystalline aquamarine, the inner ring a much darker smoky gray, and the ring around her black pupils was iridescent, like quicksilver. It took great effort to break free of her exotic gaze and then he was caught up in admiring her other delightful charms.

  Her raspberry mouth pursed and he wanted so badly to lean forward and lick it, taste its sweetness. But he found the discipline to wait. He wanted her name on his tongue before he took her beneath him and made her his.

  “Vetiver,” she answered tersely, wiping a medicinal-smelling antiseptic on his already-healing lacerations. “Vetiver Device.”

  “I am Boreas.” The pride of his ancestry inflated his voice. “Of the Shikar.”

  She frowned but her gaze was on her work, not on his face, as he’d have preferred. Her nose wrinkled at the odor of the liniment, and he saw another pink gem in her right nostril. “Shikar?”

  “Your people might know us as Elementals. If you know us at all.” Still no shock or awe from her. “We are a race apart,” he elaborated, watching her expression, studying her every feature. “We live in secret. But we fight to protect the Territories of mankind. An alliance against evil forces.”

  She only nodded, as if this were not an unusual revelation. And Boreas realized that, being what she was—a human of great knowledge and preternatural ability—she wasn’t ignorant of the secrets hidden in every corner of the universe. Yes, she was a human, but more than that, she was a witch. Even now she was whispering spells over his injury, hurrying its healing along nicely. She naturally accepted the unexpected, the mysterious and the divine.

  Vetiver was the first human he’d ever encountered with whom he could be completely himself.

  No secrets. No lies.

  Total liberation.

  A deep, rigid tension he’d not even been aware of relaxed itself within him and he found it easier to breathe. The air seemed sweeter, the colors around him more vibrant, the blood in his veins alive as never before. The paltry ache of his wound ebbed away. He was intoxicated by this new wonder.

  He eyed her luscious mouth, pursed now in concentration, and found himself wanting
to taste her. To discover the flavor of her lips, her tongue, her very breath. That she could call him through his Winds—he’d heard her plea for help even through the layers of worlds that separated them—was proof enough she was meant for him. He’d been semihard from the moment her husky, sensual voice had rung through his ears. Now he had a feverish need for her that intensified with every breath he took.

  He swelled with elegant pain. She was so ripe! So lush.

  “How did you get hurt?” she asked, breaking the fugue of lust that had overtaken his senses.

  He scowled. It was a good thing she was still bent over his wound, else she would have been frightened by his expression, of that he had no doubt. But the scowl wasn’t for her—it was directed at himself. “I was careless,” he said tersely.

  She looked up at him then, but didn’t pale at the fierce look on his face as he’d expected she would. This thrilled him. By all the gods that ever were, Vetiver Device did not fear him. Warriors had cowered beneath his glare. He was fascinated by her bravery.

  “Well, I didn’t think you would have done this to yourself on purpose,” she said impudently. “I’m just wondering what animal has venom like this. It doesn’t respond to my medicine, but I dispelled it easily with the right words of power. It’s supernatural in nature.”

  “It is indeed,” he confirmed, pleased by her intuition. “The venom comes from the claws of a Daemon. It caught me just as your call reached me through the zephyrs.”

  Her fingers jerked on his leg and he wondered if he had managed to frighten her at last.

  “I heard your whisper on the air and I will admit, it distracted me. The Daemon was wily and took advantage while it could.”

  “The Unnamed?” she whispered, casting her smoky-gray eyes to her Familiar. Some silent exchange was shared between them, making her shudder visibly. Then she shook her head slightly. “There’s still time.” She looked back at Boreas and finished tying a strip of bandage around his leg, jerking perhaps a little too hard than was necessary on the last knot. “What happened to the, um, the creature?”