Magic Burns (Kate Daniels 2)

Andrea sat in the grass. Raphael landed next to her.

I poured water into the bowl, unbuckled my belt, and sprinkled the herbal powders from the compartments into it: lady fern and ash for clairvoyance, and a touch of wormwood to keep interference from curious things to a minimum. A bit of oak, for masculine reference. I had done a shabby job grinding the oak and instead of fine powder a few leaf sections floated on the surface.

I didn't bring my spinner but a few weeks ago I had happened on a very good staff of European ash and promptly defaced it by carving small chunks from the shaft and loading my belt with them. European ash was one of the best woods for a holding enchantment. I dropped one of the ash chips into the water and whispered the incantation.

The makeshift spinner shivered. It trembled like a fishing float when a fish nibbles at the bait, and spun in place, at first slowly, then faster and faster.

"What is it for?"

"It connects the herbs with magic." I pulled my throwing dagger out and gave it to her. "If something goes wrong, drop the dagger into the bowl. Please don't try to dump the bowl or take the spinner out."

"How do I know when something goes wrong?"

"I'll start screaming."

I took off the wrist guard I wore on my left arm. There go the silver needles. The other throwing knife, the three shark teeth, the r-kit...

"How much hardware do you carry?" Raphael raised his eyebrows.

I shrugged. "That's about all of it."

I stepped into the oak's shadow. I was stripped down to my T-shirt and pants, no belt, no sword, no knife. Except for the blood collecting kit and the knitted square of hair and nettle, I carried nothing. I imagined a wide circle in the oak's shadow and dropped the knitting in the middle.

I returned to the imaginary circle boundary and began to dance.

Step by step I made my way around the circle, bending my body, following the dance. Midway through the second circle, a tight line of magic snapped from the small knitted square and clutched at me. It flowed through my head into my feet, splitting into smaller currents where my skin touched the ground, as if I had become a tree. It led and pulled me.

Vaguely I saw the boudas gather from the shadows, drawn to me like moths to a flame. They watched me with glowing red eyes, swaying gently with the silent music of my dance. And then I heard it, a simple distant melody. It grew with every second, heart wrenching, sad but wild, pure but imperfect. It caught me and wormed its way into my chest, filling my heart with what my Russian father called toska, a longing so intense and painful, it made me physically ill. It weakened my knees; it sapped my will until only melancholy remained; it made me miss something, what, I wasn't sure, but I knew I missed it keenly and couldn't take another breath without it.

I danced and danced and danced. The charmed boudas dissolved. Mist swirled around me. A dark dog trotted past me through the gloom. Slowly the fog thinned. Through the whiteness I saw a gentle yellow glow beckoning me.

My feet found wet grass and rocks. I heard the quiet splashing and the popping of wood burning in the fire. Sharp salty smoke tugged at me.

A few more steps and I stepped onto the shore of a lake. It lay glossy, black, and placid in the moonlight, like the surface of a coin dipped in tar. A small fire burned in a stone fire pit near the water. Above the fire on a spit was a carcass of some small animal, a rabbit maybe.

I turned. Behind me the forest lay, dark and jagged. The mist crawled away to the trees, as if sucked into the woods.

The attack came so suddenly, I reacted on instinct. Bran lunged at me from the right, and I stepped aside, redirecting his momentum and tripping him without thinking. I had practiced this maneuver so many times, I didn't realize I had done it until I saw him fly past me and land with a splash into the lake.

He whirled in the water and grinned at me. Damn, he was a handsome bastard. I realized he was half-naked. Blue swirls of tattoos painted his chest. When God made that chest, he did it to tempt women.

"No sword this time."

I shrugged. "Yes, but you can't disappear."

"Don't need to." He sprung from the lake, black hair dripping, and ran at me again.

I dodged his hands, kicked him in the knee, and danced away. He launched a quick kick that whistled a hair from my cheek. I swept around him and rammed my elbow into his side.

He hooked me with a quick punch. I took it on the shoulder - it hurt - and swiped his legs out from under him. He jumped to his feet and hopped away. He frolicked like a hyper puppy. Run up, play bite, let himself be swatted down.

"That's no way to treat a lover."

"I didn't come here to sleep with you."

"Then why go through all the trouble?"

"I need some of your blood to save a girl."

He flexed his right arm. Veins bulged. "Some of this blood?"

"Yes."

He winked at me. "I'm sure we can deal."

"No deals. The blood must be a gift or it won't work."

"Keep me warm tonight and maybe I'll be feeling generous in the morning."

I shook my head. "No deals."

He looked to the sky. "You really aren't going to lie with me?"

"No."

He thought about it.

"Considering raping me? Are you that desperate?"

He jerked his head, throwing his hair out of his eyes. "I've never forced a woman. I don't have to. They flock to me."

Oi. "So nice to know you're a gentleman."

"Why would I give you my blood? What's in it for me?"

"Nothing. Except maybe knowing you've done a good deed. You told me you were a hero. Do something heroic."

He walked to the fire and sat. "You're thinking Christian hero, dove. And I'm not a Christian."

A cold breeze wrinkled the lake. I hugged myself. I wanted to ask him about Julie and about other things, but information from him couldn't be trusted. Get the blood, get out. "Just out of curiosity, what is it about me that makes you think I'm dovelike?"

"I bet you coo in bed." His black eyes shone, reflecting the flames of the fire. "Come sit next to me."

"No funny business?"

"I make no promises."

What choice did I have? I came and sat next to him, basking in the warmth of the fire.

He lay back, his head resting on his arm bent at the elbow. He was muscled like a martial artist or a soldier accustomed to running: lean and hard. And he smelled...he smelled like a man, the way young fit men sometimes smell of sweat and locker room and sun.

Somewhere far an owl hooted and her cry lingered over the pitch-black water. "What is this place?"