and be safe.
The smoke was billowing forth, filling Morgana’s rheumy old eyes, making her blink furiously. There were no tears, o f course. Witches cannot cry.
She stirred, tossing a squirrel’s tail into her loathsome brew, muttering beneath her breath in a cheery little singsong.
White and black they sh all combine
Pure as snow, as blood-red wine
Flame and fire destroy them both
Death and rebirth, blood their troth
In thunder, rain, brought right again
And all shall be as God’s design.
Mor g an a took a sip of the broth, shuddering with pleasure. “God’s d es i g n , bah,” s he muttered. “This is no curse of mine. B r i n g me my daughter-in-law. B ri n g her to Dunstan W o o ds . Bring her to me.” And the smoke whirled upward, giving her the answer she sought.
4
Alistair Darcourt was in a t o w e r i n g rage. When he finally staggered to his feet, blood still seeping from the cut on his cheek, his fury was so overwhelming that he thought he m i g ht explode.
“De Lancey!” he bellowed, stumbling toward the winding stairs.
“I’m here, cousin . ” De Lancey’s cool voice came from the doorway. “Where’s your bride?”
Alistair glared at him, won d ering whether he might vent some of his r a g e by pummeling his sly cousin into repentance. “Wipe that smug smile o ff your face, Gilles,” he snarled. “I’ll deal with you later. Unless you can tell me you’ve already managed to stop her.”
“I’ve seen no sign of her,” De Lancey said. “Nor her maid.”
“Saddle my horse.” Alistair spat the words, yanking on h i s black shirt, ignoring the blood on his cheek.
“I’ll go after he r…” De Lancey began, but the sher iff cut him off.
“She’s mine,” he said. “And by God, she’ll learn that before the night is out. I want no man touching her but me.”
“It’s late. You’ll need help,” Gilles protested.
Alistair’s smile was chilling. “I have all the help I’ll need,” he said, and once more Gilles crossed himself in superstitious terror. “Get my horse ready.”
De Lancey raced down the winding tower stairs, and Alistair followed him, his black shirt flapping as he stormed into the deserted courtyard.
“Where is she?” he howled t o the night air.
There w a s no answer.
De Lancey appeared, leading the sheriff’s huge gray gelding. Alistair leaped onto the back of t h e horse and wh eeled around in the courtyard, almost trampling his cousin in his passionate fury. A moment later he’d raced from the castle yard and out into the windy night, without a backward glance.
Elspeth ran until her breath caught in her chest, and still she ran. The tree branches pulled at her clothes, tore at her hair, scratched her pale skin. The wind had picked up, tossing the huge, a n c i en t trees overhead, and in the distance she co u l d hear the faint call of an owl.
Dunstan Wood s was no place for a woman alone at night. She had heard the stories all her life. It was no for place for anyone unprotected from fa e ries and creatures of the dark. Demons lurked there, w itches and trolls and monsters that stole the minds of innocents and left them witless, that tore flesh into pieces and left nothing but bones and bits of rag to bear witness that a mortal soul had once passed this way . Elspeth refused to panic. She ran, her bare feet bleedin g , her l ong hair flying out behind her, h e r skirts tripping her up. The sheriff’s cloak was slipping from her shoulders, and she pulled it more tightly about her, fin d i n g some odd comfort in the rich black folds. Had sh e killed him? Did she care? If she was a widow, her problems were now solved—until she was hunted down and killed for the m u r d e r of the high sheriff of Huntingdon.
The sky was dark and fitful overhead, the fun full moon dancing behind scudding clouds. Elspeth sank down on a soft hillock, trying to catch her breath, to still her panic. She’d escaped Huntingdon Keep, where the
The smoke was billowing forth, filling Morgana’s rheumy old eyes, making her blink furiously. There were no tears, o f course. Witches cannot cry.
She stirred, tossing a squirrel’s tail into her loathsome brew, muttering beneath her breath in a cheery little singsong.
White and black they sh all combine
Pure as snow, as blood-red wine
Flame and fire destroy them both
Death and rebirth, blood their troth
In thunder, rain, brought right again
And all shall be as God’s design.
Mor g an a took a sip of the broth, shuddering with pleasure. “God’s d es i g n , bah,” s he muttered. “This is no curse of mine. B r i n g me my daughter-in-law. B ri n g her to Dunstan W o o ds . Bring her to me.” And the smoke whirled upward, giving her the answer she sought.
4
Alistair Darcourt was in a t o w e r i n g rage. When he finally staggered to his feet, blood still seeping from the cut on his cheek, his fury was so overwhelming that he thought he m i g ht explode.
“De Lancey!” he bellowed, stumbling toward the winding stairs.
“I’m here, cousin . ” De Lancey’s cool voice came from the doorway. “Where’s your bride?”
Alistair glared at him, won d ering whether he might vent some of his r a g e by pummeling his sly cousin into repentance. “Wipe that smug smile o ff your face, Gilles,” he snarled. “I’ll deal with you later. Unless you can tell me you’ve already managed to stop her.”
“I’ve seen no sign of her,” De Lancey said. “Nor her maid.”
“Saddle my horse.” Alistair spat the words, yanking on h i s black shirt, ignoring the blood on his cheek.
“I’ll go after he r…” De Lancey began, but the sher iff cut him off.
“She’s mine,” he said. “And by God, she’ll learn that before the night is out. I want no man touching her but me.”
“It’s late. You’ll need help,” Gilles protested.
Alistair’s smile was chilling. “I have all the help I’ll need,” he said, and once more Gilles crossed himself in superstitious terror. “Get my horse ready.”
De Lancey raced down the winding tower stairs, and Alistair followed him, his black shirt flapping as he stormed into the deserted courtyard.
“Where is she?” he howled t o the night air.
There w a s no answer.
De Lancey appeared, leading the sheriff’s huge gray gelding. Alistair leaped onto the back of t h e horse and wh eeled around in the courtyard, almost trampling his cousin in his passionate fury. A moment later he’d raced from the castle yard and out into the windy night, without a backward glance.
Elspeth ran until her breath caught in her chest, and still she ran. The tree branches pulled at her clothes, tore at her hair, scratched her pale skin. The wind had picked up, tossing the huge, a n c i en t trees overhead, and in the distance she co u l d hear the faint call of an owl.
Dunstan Wood s was no place for a woman alone at night. She had heard the stories all her life. It was no for place for anyone unprotected from fa e ries and creatures of the dark. Demons lurked there, w itches and trolls and monsters that stole the minds of innocents and left them witless, that tore flesh into pieces and left nothing but bones and bits of rag to bear witness that a mortal soul had once passed this way . Elspeth refused to panic. She ran, her bare feet bleedin g , her l ong hair flying out behind her, h e r skirts tripping her up. The sheriff’s cloak was slipping from her shoulders, and she pulled it more tightly about her, fin d i n g some odd comfort in the rich black folds. Had sh e killed him? Did she care? If she was a widow, her problems were now solved—until she was hunted down and killed for the m u r d e r of the high sheriff of Huntingdon.
The sky was dark and fitful overhead, the fun full moon dancing behind scudding clouds. Elspeth sank down on a soft hillock, trying to catch her breath, to still her panic. She’d escaped Huntingdon Keep, where the
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