Rampant

“What happened to you, Annabel? Why do you want to tell me your story?”

When the time is right, you will know why.

Annabel smiled and reached out her hand. The flicker of flames along the sleeve of her dress appeared and disappeared in the movement. She ran one pale finger down Zoë’s cheek. Zoë felt a prickle, static, a gust of warm air, but no real touch.

Her skin crawled.

Her eyes shut.

When she forced herself to open them, Annabel was gone.

20

ZOË THREW GRAYSON HER CAR KEYS. SHE wasn’t sure she was safe to be in charge of a moving vehicle. Besides, she liked the way he looked at the wheel.

“Right through me,” she repeated, for what had to be the tenth time. “It was the weirdest feeling.”

“You should have called me.”

“I couldn’t. Believe me, I wanted to.” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m okay. It was just so bloody strange!”

He didn’t respond. A determined look had taken up residence on his face. He reached over and pulled her seat belt into place, locking it securely.

“She tried to speak, but she could barely say my name.” Annabel could speak within her mind, but not aloud. Not very well, at least.

“Not enough power.” He seemed pleased by that.

Did it indicate they had more time?

As he pulled the car onto the main road at the top of the town and drove away along the coast, Zoë tried to quell the curious mixture of emotions that assailed her—and that now-familiar insistent tug that she immediately felt to go back—focusing instead on the lowlands scenery between Carbrey and their destination. The rolling green fields and sturdy hedges were alternated with patches of sunny rapeseed and tides of wheat that moved lazily in the summer breeze.

Resting her head back, Zoë let the images blur into patches of color before her eyes, willing herself to get a bit of distance on this in order to make sense of it all. The man at her side had a call on her as much as the spell she was under, she was facing up to that now. Would she just walk away, if the spell were lifted?

That was a difficult question.

Staring out at the view, she let the question slip away unanswered, for now. The colors had captured her attention and the motion of the car was lulling her all the while. Grass to wheat to yellow to green, to wheat and back. Very soon she drifted toward the borderline between sleep and waking.

Annabel was still with her, she knew it.

Can you see him, Zoë? The question echoed in her thoughts, and, this time, Zoë didn’t resist the vision that unfolded inside her mind….

Can you see him? He’s over there on the far side of the wheat field, standing in the shade of the old oak tree, waiting for me. Before I mount the wooden stile, I look back over my shoulder. I want to be sure that no one has followed either of us here. Shading my eyes against the hot summer sun, I squint into the distance where the fields roll down the hillside toward the village and the sea glints in the sunlight beyond. I see no one. Sense no one.

Reassured, I lift my skirts and climb over the stile, dropping down into Farmer Erskine’s top field. It is so much warmer up here on the mount, and the sound of insects hums all around. The scent of grain is high in the air. The tall wheat shifts in the breeze, a field of heavy stems ready for the cull. Harvest time will be upon us soon and young men from all over the countryside will come here in droves to work with their scythes. No longer will it be our secret meeting place and we will have to seek another.

I skirt the edge of the field, hastening all the while, until I’m within reach of the secluded spot beneath the oak. Irvine steps out as I approach, and the sight of him lets loose joy in my sorry soul. Resting one hand against the tree trunk, he smiles at me, as if he finds happiness in the very sight of me.

He is so tall and virile, it makes my body ever more eager for him. Lately, he has satisfied me like no other, and I have been increasingly drawn to him. There is a protective feeling that I have for him, too. Why is that? I wonder. Why, when I have a powerful coven master in the palm of my hand, do I come to this humble fisherman with such joy?

“I am mighty glad to see you,” he says, “my jewel, my pearl.” He regards me with an open, honest look in his eyes and my chest pains me.

Brusquely, I attempt to push that aside, and seek his embrace, cherishing the moment as he grabs me against him, all but crushing me in his powerful arms.

“And I you,” I respond.

His work-callused hands are rough on my skin when he strokes my neck and my bare shoulders, and the touch of his fingers on me lets loose a desperate, animal craving.

Holding my face steady, he peers at me as if searching for some truth. “The sight of you makes me stiff.”