Spellbinder
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“No?” He strode forward. “Come take a closer look. I promise you, it will be the last thing you see.”
Modred sprang to meet him, raising his sword to parry Morgan’s attack, and the clash of blades rang out over the empty square. The Light Fae noble was fast and lethally efficient.
With every blow Modred struck, and every maneuver, Morgan imagined him using the same tactics in that final battle centuries ago, the flawless footwork, the elegant pivot.
Morgan had watched him closely ever since and had learned it all.
When Modred effortlessly switched the sword from his right hand to the left, Morgan was ready and smoothly adapted to the change. With a quick lunge, Modred sought to drive him back, and he accommodated the attack, deflecting while he retreated.
Two things he had learned—how to hate, and how to wait. He didn’t have to rush to completion, or extend himself needlessly.
Instead, he let the other male work, until gradually, the sweat stood out on Modred’s forehead and he began to tire, and Morgan could see in the other man’s gaze that Modred was beginning to realize he had been playing with him all along.
“Gods damn you.” Modred’s handsome lips pulled into a snarl. He exploded in a furious attack, raining a rapid series of blows on Morgan’s guard. “Don’t fucking dance around. Fight me!”
Now it was Morgan’s turn to give him an ironic smile. “As you wish.”
He drove forward, smashing with the force of a sledgehammer at Modred’s defense. His attack had nothing to do with technique, elegance, or footwork. It was pure, murderous intent.
At long last, Modred faltered. His back foot slipped, the one bearing his weight, and when he staggered, Morgan found the slip in his guard and slid his sword through it.
While both men wore magical protections, Modred’s ensorcelled armor could not withstand a direct blow from the sword Morgan carried.
The tip of Morgan’s blade sliced through the metal like it was mere leather. He felt the sword grate against the bone of a rib, and then it went all the way through. Morgan stepped closer, pushing it farther in until the hilt grated against armor, and he stood face-to-face with Modred, looking into his eyes as the crisis in his body began to take over.
“When you struck him down, did you really believe you weren’t going to be mine?” Morgan whispered, watching unblinkingly as Modred’s gaze began to darken. “Did you relax over the years? Did you think I might have given in or broken? I never did. You killed my boy. I watched you every day. I resent every breath you’ve taken, begrudge you every meal you’ve eaten, every smile, every laugh. I wish I could kill you twice.”
A ghost of a laugh left Modred’s pale lips, along with a gush of crimson blood. He gasped, “Once will be quite sufficient.”
Modred’s knees buckled, and as he went down, Morgan pulled the sword out, making the rest of it go quicker. When Modred’s eyelids closed for the last time, Morgan laid his hand over the dead man’s face. It was the only area of his body unprotected by the armor.
Whispering a firespell, he released it quickly and stood over Modred’s body until it had burned to ash.
Finally it was done. Breathing evenly and flexing his shoulders back, Morgan sheathed the sword as he dug deeper and reached harder for more Earth magic.
He had never let his Power flow in such an ungoverned flood before. It poured out of him, as relentless as a tidal wave.
He didn’t rein it in again until the summer palace had broken apart completely and the very last of the ruins had slid into the foaming, turbulent sea.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jamael took Sid to Scarborough in North Yorkshire, of all places.
When she found out the name of the English town, she had to cough out a laugh. Life could sure have a dark sense of humor at times.
With remarkable efficiency, Jamael consulted the local tourist office and found a furnished farmhouse to rent located outside town, an easy walk from the coastline.
With four bedrooms, the house was rather too large for one person, and the massive kitchen hadn’t been updated since the 1960s. It also wasn’t much to look at. Built of stone and brick, it sat squarely on its patch of land and looked like it had weathered many years and would see many more.
But it had fireplaces in almost every room, and from the end of the long, narrow drive, one could see the ruins of Scarborough Castle sitting high on a rocky promontory, standing sentinel over the sea.
“I’m curious,” she asked as Jamael unlocked the door and they walked inside for the first time. “Why did you choose Scarborough of all places?”
“The town lies at the border of the North York Moors National Park,” the Djinn told her. “You said you wanted somewhere wild and windswept. The North York Moors is one of the largest wildernesses left in the United Kingdom.” He gave her a keen glance that seemed to see everything. “You will have privacy here, and plenty of room to run.”
The tension between her shoulder blades began to ease. “That sounds so good.”
“I will bring you groceries, a car, and a phone,” Jamael said. “Do you need anything else?”
I need Morgan to forgive me.
Suddenly, she was so exhausted it took a conscious effort to remain upright. “No. What you’re doing is more than enough.”
The Djinn was as good as his word. Within an hour, someone drove a car up to the farmhouse. Sid wasn’t familiar with European cars, but she thought it might be a Peugeot. Soon after, a wealth of groceries arrived, everything from prepared meals to pantry staples, fresh foods, and even wine.
God, to simply relax and enjoy a glass of wine. She no longer knew what that felt like.
The Djinn weren’t known for their kindness, yet Jamael had proved the exception. When he pressed a smartphone into her hands, she said, “I don’t know what to say except thank you. I don’t know when I’ll hold a concert again, but when I do, you will always be more than welcome.”
“Just be well. That will be thanks enough.” Jamael smiled. “Can I do anything else for you?”
“No. What you’ve already done is amazing.”
He bowed. “Don’t hesitate to call me again, should you think of anything.”
“I won’t.”
She watched as he dissipated in a maelstrom of energy.
Modred sprang to meet him, raising his sword to parry Morgan’s attack, and the clash of blades rang out over the empty square. The Light Fae noble was fast and lethally efficient.
With every blow Modred struck, and every maneuver, Morgan imagined him using the same tactics in that final battle centuries ago, the flawless footwork, the elegant pivot.
Morgan had watched him closely ever since and had learned it all.
When Modred effortlessly switched the sword from his right hand to the left, Morgan was ready and smoothly adapted to the change. With a quick lunge, Modred sought to drive him back, and he accommodated the attack, deflecting while he retreated.
Two things he had learned—how to hate, and how to wait. He didn’t have to rush to completion, or extend himself needlessly.
Instead, he let the other male work, until gradually, the sweat stood out on Modred’s forehead and he began to tire, and Morgan could see in the other man’s gaze that Modred was beginning to realize he had been playing with him all along.
“Gods damn you.” Modred’s handsome lips pulled into a snarl. He exploded in a furious attack, raining a rapid series of blows on Morgan’s guard. “Don’t fucking dance around. Fight me!”
Now it was Morgan’s turn to give him an ironic smile. “As you wish.”
He drove forward, smashing with the force of a sledgehammer at Modred’s defense. His attack had nothing to do with technique, elegance, or footwork. It was pure, murderous intent.
At long last, Modred faltered. His back foot slipped, the one bearing his weight, and when he staggered, Morgan found the slip in his guard and slid his sword through it.
While both men wore magical protections, Modred’s ensorcelled armor could not withstand a direct blow from the sword Morgan carried.
The tip of Morgan’s blade sliced through the metal like it was mere leather. He felt the sword grate against the bone of a rib, and then it went all the way through. Morgan stepped closer, pushing it farther in until the hilt grated against armor, and he stood face-to-face with Modred, looking into his eyes as the crisis in his body began to take over.
“When you struck him down, did you really believe you weren’t going to be mine?” Morgan whispered, watching unblinkingly as Modred’s gaze began to darken. “Did you relax over the years? Did you think I might have given in or broken? I never did. You killed my boy. I watched you every day. I resent every breath you’ve taken, begrudge you every meal you’ve eaten, every smile, every laugh. I wish I could kill you twice.”
A ghost of a laugh left Modred’s pale lips, along with a gush of crimson blood. He gasped, “Once will be quite sufficient.”
Modred’s knees buckled, and as he went down, Morgan pulled the sword out, making the rest of it go quicker. When Modred’s eyelids closed for the last time, Morgan laid his hand over the dead man’s face. It was the only area of his body unprotected by the armor.
Whispering a firespell, he released it quickly and stood over Modred’s body until it had burned to ash.
Finally it was done. Breathing evenly and flexing his shoulders back, Morgan sheathed the sword as he dug deeper and reached harder for more Earth magic.
He had never let his Power flow in such an ungoverned flood before. It poured out of him, as relentless as a tidal wave.
He didn’t rein it in again until the summer palace had broken apart completely and the very last of the ruins had slid into the foaming, turbulent sea.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jamael took Sid to Scarborough in North Yorkshire, of all places.
When she found out the name of the English town, she had to cough out a laugh. Life could sure have a dark sense of humor at times.
With remarkable efficiency, Jamael consulted the local tourist office and found a furnished farmhouse to rent located outside town, an easy walk from the coastline.
With four bedrooms, the house was rather too large for one person, and the massive kitchen hadn’t been updated since the 1960s. It also wasn’t much to look at. Built of stone and brick, it sat squarely on its patch of land and looked like it had weathered many years and would see many more.
But it had fireplaces in almost every room, and from the end of the long, narrow drive, one could see the ruins of Scarborough Castle sitting high on a rocky promontory, standing sentinel over the sea.
“I’m curious,” she asked as Jamael unlocked the door and they walked inside for the first time. “Why did you choose Scarborough of all places?”
“The town lies at the border of the North York Moors National Park,” the Djinn told her. “You said you wanted somewhere wild and windswept. The North York Moors is one of the largest wildernesses left in the United Kingdom.” He gave her a keen glance that seemed to see everything. “You will have privacy here, and plenty of room to run.”
The tension between her shoulder blades began to ease. “That sounds so good.”
“I will bring you groceries, a car, and a phone,” Jamael said. “Do you need anything else?”
I need Morgan to forgive me.
Suddenly, she was so exhausted it took a conscious effort to remain upright. “No. What you’re doing is more than enough.”
The Djinn was as good as his word. Within an hour, someone drove a car up to the farmhouse. Sid wasn’t familiar with European cars, but she thought it might be a Peugeot. Soon after, a wealth of groceries arrived, everything from prepared meals to pantry staples, fresh foods, and even wine.
God, to simply relax and enjoy a glass of wine. She no longer knew what that felt like.
The Djinn weren’t known for their kindness, yet Jamael had proved the exception. When he pressed a smartphone into her hands, she said, “I don’t know what to say except thank you. I don’t know when I’ll hold a concert again, but when I do, you will always be more than welcome.”
“Just be well. That will be thanks enough.” Jamael smiled. “Can I do anything else for you?”
“No. What you’ve already done is amazing.”
He bowed. “Don’t hesitate to call me again, should you think of anything.”
“I won’t.”
She watched as he dissipated in a maelstrom of energy.
