Calling the Wild Page 19

  He changed to his human form, climbing into the van behind her.

  Here in the dark, with Moira unconscious at his feet, he could not pretend it was her orders that made him throw up the top of a trunk, pulling out blankets and sweaters to make a bed. It was not orders that had him easing her clothes off, examining her injuries by the light of a small ball of magic he called.

  He placed his hands on her injuries, willing to try healing her, but a wave of exhaustion had his hands slipping away. He would heal her in the morning. He would get answers from her, and find a way to live with himself and the choices he would made. In the morning.

  Stretching out beside her, Kiron stroked her hair, turning his head so that each breath he took tasted of her, and his breath washed across her face.

  With a heavy conscience and a light heart, he slipped into sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Moira woke with her head on Kiron’s chest, his hand under her shirt on the bare skin of her back. A thrill of pleasure moved through her, and Moira tilted her hips into his. When she angled her head up, stretching to kiss the soft skin of his neck, a bolt of pain from the knot on her head stopped her, and brought back the memory of last night.

  She pushed away from him, sucking in a breath as her ribs creaked. Breathing made them hurt worse, and Moira yelped. Kiron stirred beside her and Moira leaned down, right arm wrapped over her ribs, and whispered, “Sleep.”

  His will held tight by her spell, Kiron went lax, deeply asleep until she willed otherwise.

  Moira pushed herself up, pain zinging up her arms and down her chest, and looked around. There was light seeping into the place they lay from cracks in the wall. Still muddled, it took Moira a few moments to identify her trunks and other accumulated furniture. They were in the back of the van, lying on a pile of clothes and blankets, light stealing in from around the door. Moira crawled to the rear door and pushed it up, hissing when sunlight flooded the interior. From the angle of the sun Moira guessed it was morning.

  The keys were tossed in a corner with the lock. Moira grabbed the keys and started to climb out, only then noticing that she wore nothing more than her bra and panties.

  Glad the long-term parking lot seemed to be deserted, Moira crawled back in, and pulled a T-shirt and pair of jeans from the pile of laundry Kiron lay on. She found her pants from last night and unloaded the pockets, shoving everything into her shoulder bag and looping it across her chest. After dressing, a slow process because each muscle in her body felt the need to register its protest, Moira turned to Kiron.

  Her own aches reminded her of what she’d seen last night, not the dark visions from the cave, but swollen and bruised flesh. The swelling in Kiron’s right arm had decreased from what she’d seen last night, but the flesh above and below the cuff was still angry red, the fingers swollen.

  Moira dug into the plastic drugstore bag and pulled out a couple of the instant cold packs she’d brought. She carefully read the instructions and then cracked the packs, mingling the chemicals inside the bag. After working the bags to be sure they were fully broken, Moira wrapped the now-cold packs around Kiron’s arm, one over his wrist and hand, the other higher up on his forearm, just above the place where the metal edge of the cuff was cutting into his swollen flesh. Kiron hadn’t healed himself, and Moira could only assume it was because he couldn’t—that the power of the spell, and the damage caused by the spell trumped his ability to heal.

  Securing the cold packs in place with several loops of paper tape, Moira left her companion sleeping and climbed out of the van. They needed to get out of here, away from Chicago.

  Any plans beyond that were too much for her. She was the walking wounded, both physically and mentally.

  After dry-swallowing four aspirin from the bottle she’d purchased along with the cold packs and other first-aid supplies, Moira clambered into the cab of the van. Leaning against the seat she worked on taking shallow breaths, anything to ease the ache in her ribs.

  When breathing no longer made her want to vomit, Moira raised her head, staring out at the desolate landscape. Row upon row of dust-dull vehicles stretched from one corner of the chain-link fence to the other. The metal shimmered, promising that by noon, when the sun would be at its full power, each car would be its own oven. Slinging her bag onto the seat beside her, Moira spread open a map, examining the freeways out of Chicago.

  She need to head west.

  After choosing her route Moira turned to the wheel, easing the vehicle into motion.

  Tonight was soon enough to face Kiron.

  The spell was cast under a star-studded sky, the soft white dots crowded together in the darkness above. The casting circle was large, larger than any she’d ever created before. One by one she called the quarters, the watchtowers.

  She needed their protection, but also their aid.

  “Hail! Guardian of the Watchtower of the East. Powers of Air. Your presence felt in each breath I take, reverence shown in the whispering wind.”

  Moira lit the stick of incense she held, a thin silver stream of a smoke curling from the glowing tip.

  “I bid thee come into my circle bright, protect and aid me in this sacred rite.”

  A soft breeze swelled, catching the smoke and curling it up into the night sky, forming a perfect spiral. Kneeling, she planted the stick of incense in the soft earth. Making a circle around the incense with her thumb and forefinger she drew a pipe of magic up from the earth. The magic became a physical thing, a crystal-clear hollow column, with her smoking incense inside. The smoke rose through the pipe, untouched by the dancing wind around it.

  Moira left the east, walking the edge of her circle. The casting circle encompassed half of a soft meadow and a small pool fueled by the nearby river.

  Her bare feet and legs itched as she moved through the meadow grass. Her homespun robe hung from her shoulders, the mid-thigh-length hem brushing the tops of the meadow grass. A deceptively simple cord hugged the robe to her belly. The twisted cord was made of hair.

  She’d bought it long ago, for more money than she’d been able to afford at the time. When she’d lifted the cord from its resting place in an occult store, ignoring the ignorant old man’s ramblings about it being the hair of Medusa, the cord had wrapped itself around her hand, clinging to her like a lost child who’d finally found its mother.

  She did not know what the hairs were, whether they came from beasts or humans, and did not want to know. She was afraid to learn what kind of magic would cling to her as it had. Despite her misgivings she wore it, liking the extra spark of power it lent her.

  “Hail! Guardian of the Watchtower of the South. Powers of Fire. Your presence felt in the glow of my flame, reverence shown in the cauldron fire.”

  Moira lifted her right hand, palm cupped to the sky. A flame flared in her cupped palm, strong and bright. In the center of the meadow a second flame, much larger, flared, igniting the scavenged wood she’d piled into a hole for her cauldron fire.

  “I bid thee come into my circle bright, protect and aid me in this sacred rite.”

  She knelt once more, setting the autonomous flame on the dirt between stalks of meadow grass. Creating a ring with her fingers Moira drew a second pipe of magic. Inside, the fire rose, filling the thin tube.

  Again she walked, stopping in the west, near the small pool her circle would enclose.

  “Hail! Guardian of the Watchtower of the West. Powers of Water. Your presence felt in my tears, reverence shown in the far western sea.”

  It was easy to draw forth tears. Moira did not need to pinch or poke herself as she had in the past, all that was needed was for her to lower the barriers she erected in her mind, opening herself to the horror of yesterday, and the tears came.

  She wiped her cheeks with her right hand, smearing the tears over her palm. Holding out her hand, palm facing the earth, Moira called the tears.

  Water condensed in a ball beneath her hand, like hose water shot into a clear balloon, suspe
nded from her hand. When the water formed a globe Moira turned her hand, tilting it palm up. A ball of water sat in her palm. She stroked a finger through it, watching in fascination as the water parted and swelled around her finger, holding its shape as she pulled her, now wet, finger away.

  She settled the water in the grass and created a column for it before whispering the closing words and heading to the final point of the compass.

  “Hail! Guardian of the Watchtower of the North. Powers of Earth. Your presence felt beneath my feet, reverence shown in the dead we give you.”

  Moira knelt and dug her fingers into the earth, breaking thin, shallow grass roots and pulling up a small mound of dirt. Using her left hand she coated her right palm with crumbling soil. Normally this was one of the hardest elements for her to call.

  The calling of earth was traditionally done by planting a seed in a handful of soil and willing it to grow. A few years ago, at the same shop where she’d found the rope, Moira had discovered a grimoire that told of a different way to call earth.

  The magic of the earth was in both its ability to grow new life, and to process the dead. It took her no more than a minute to find a little ant in her handful of soil. It skittered across her fingertips until, with a murmured apology, Moira used her thumbnail to decapitate it.

  It was much easier for her to call on death than life.

  Wiping the ant’s body into the soil on her right hand, Moira called the earth, watching as the dirt rippled over the ant, taking it in. A little flare of green, her magic, arched over the soil, which rolled itself into a ball.

  Moira placed the ball on the ground and drew up the pipe. The clear tube of magic usually filled with rich dark earth, but this time, the ball of earth, trapped in the bottom of the tube, shimmered with white magic.

  Moira frown and took a precautionary step back. The white magic faded and for moment everything was still.

  Flowers and vines exploded from the ball of earth, skidding and rolling up the inside of the pipe. Moira took a second step back, watching wide eyed as the tube filled with healthy vegetation. Thick glossy leaves and bold, almost tropical, flowers, wrapped tightly around one another in a thin tall column. A delighted smile wrapped over Moira’s face, and she reached out to stroke a glossy leaf through the thin restraint of magic.

  With her final quarter called, and her circle’s wall strong, Moira moved to the center of the circle, where her cauldron fire burned.

  Lifting her cauldron Moira took it to the pool, dipping it in and then hauling the considerably heavier cauldron back to the fire. Moira placed the cauldron over the flame, the cauldron’s feet resting on rocks she’d pushed into the lip of her fire pit.

  She straightened and pressed her hand to her ribs. Halfway through the day, she’d stopped to buy an Ace bandage and wrap her ribs. That combined with more aspirin than anyone should take in a single day, had allowed her to get as far as this sprawling forest, but she hadn’t worn it for this.

  Steam began to rise off the surface of the water. Moira held her hand over it, then plunged it in, testing the temperature. Inside the water her skin glowed with a pale light that was not there when she pulled her hand out.

  Carefully unknotting the rope around her waist, Moira pulled her tunic off, dropping it and the rope to the ground. Naked in the moonlight, her feet and lower legs lit by the cauldron fire, Moira lifted her sword.

  She chose the sword over a true athame, for it carried more power. She walked a second, smaller, circle, around the cauldron. The sword tip dug into the earth as she walked, carving a deep groove in the soil. When she reached the starting point, and sliced through the last bit of virgin soil, the circle sprang into place.

  This second circle was more personal, and when it snapped into place there was a thin sphere of magic around her. The upper half arched over her, a six-foot radius from the center cauldron fire. The lower half of her circle was hidden beneath the earth. The grass inside the circle lay down, flattening itself to the earth, as if paying homage. Moira lowered her sword, setting it beside her tunic.

  She removed the last thing she wore, her emerald from The Wild. Curling her fingers over it, Moira placed the stone against her heart. She intended to cleanse herself, wash her body and spirit clean of magic, so that pure, new magic could take its place, but there were spells that she did not want to lose.

  With the stone against her heart, Moira pressed her two most valuable spells into the amulet. The first was the spell that bound Kiron to her. She took the spell, worked darkly in blood and smoke and moved it into the emerald, which flared with light. The second spell was a much older one Moira had cast as a precaution. It was harder to move this spell, for she’d rooted it deeply inside herself. Stripping it away took force, and it felt as though she were peeling away the lining of her heart and lungs.

  The emerald flared again, and then fell dark.

  She felt lighter without that spell, and when she looked around the clearing, she could see the life there. Like sonar pulses on a radar screen, Moira could see the vibrations of each beating heart, and she could tell which ones were close to death. The land itself was a patchwork of living and dead, layered and mingled. Moira bit on her lip as a shudder of pleasure raced through her.

  Dipping both hands into the hot water, she lifted them to the sky.

  “Circles two I have cast, twice binding magic that is mine to call.”

  Moira dipped her hands again, this time placing them on her chest, thumbs on her collarbones.

  “The watchtowers four protect me now, sanctifying magic worked in this place and in this hour. I ask for safety, for the blessings of sky and earth, God and Goddess, as I cleanse myself.”

  This time she placed her hands on her ribs, just below her breasts.

  “I ask for strength, that the new power I draw in will surpass the old, in both purity and strength.”

  She dipped her hands a final time and laid them on her hipbones, fingertips brushing her pubic hair.

  “Finally, I ask for guidance. My place in this world is not sure, and if my path of choice be wrong, guide me right.”

  Moira lifted her hands away from her body, raising them to the sky once more, long trails of water snaking down her arms.

  “My will is strong and my need is great. With water pure, and fire hot, I cleanse myself, body and spirit.”

  A cord of water, thick as her wrist, rose from the cauldron. Moira pressed her hands together above her head and the end of the water cord brushed her fingers. Long drops of hot water chased down her arms, back and sides.

  Moira shivered, the hot water making the air terribly cold by comparison.

  “My will is strong and my need is great. May the earth accept water spent, and air speed its way.”

  The water began to pour faster, pulled from the cauldron, through an arch in the air, to pour over her body, starting with her hands.

  “My will is strong and my need is great.”

  The steady stream escalated to a downpour, more water then could have ever fit it the cauldron cascading down her body. Moira opened her mouth, breathing through the water.

  Her hair was plastered flat to her head, mud from the spent water squishing up from between her toes. The spells she hadn’t placed in the amulet evaporated from her skin.

  “My will is strong and my need is great.”

  She felt her control over Kiron’s will break, and the boundary spell she’d placed around the van melt away. The glamour spells that dyed her hair and changed her face also washed away.

  She dipped her head, fighting for air through the downpour of water.

  “My will is strong and my need is great.” The whispered words splashed from her lips, and the water stopped, a hurricane wind taking it place. She sank to her knees as the wind swirled around her.

  The night stilled.

  Moira rose to her feet, careful of her injuries, and took a breath.

  She felt lighter, at peace in a way she’d hadn’t been in a
long time. Her circles pulsed with power. The watchtower elements stood strong—fire, earth, air, and water.

  There was something just outside her inner circle. It had penetrated the outer circle, which should have been impossible, but Moira could feel a presence pressing against the tightly wrought inner circle.

  Moira turned on bare feet, staring at the thing on the other side of her magic.

  Kiron stood tall, four legs planted squarely in the meadow. His hands pressed against the circle.

  He was backlit, as he had been on the first night, his face lost in darkness. Moira called up the cauldron fire, and it flared bright, alleviating the darkness everywhere but his eyes, which would always and forever be dark.

  The planes of his face stood out, his expression stark. Black eyes raked her, and the skin over his cheekbones tightened.

  Longing. He longed for her.

  “Moira.”

  She lifted her hands, palm up, and then flipped her wrists, palm down.

  The circle fell.

  Chapter Twenty

  He didn’t recognize the woman who stood in the center of the circle, body lit by the dying fire.

  But he knew her.

  He knew her the way the Earth knows the sun. Wanted her with the longing of desert plants for rain.

  She was stripped bare before him, naked in deeper ways the physical nudity. No glamour magic hid her, and for the first time he saw her true appearance.

  Black hair, glossy and thick, hung in a straight curtain around her shoulders, the ends kissing her breasts. Her eyes, always beautifully shaped and tilted, now appeared more so, her dark, thick, lashes emphasizing the tipped ends. Skin no longer pale cream, now deep gold, was stretched over her high rounded cheekbones. Her face was soft, but strong, and when she looked at him, when her deep green eyes met his, Kiron could not look away.

  He stepped forward, the circle’s residual magic flowing through him. He tasted it again, her foreign power, as addictive as a drug and interesting as a sphinx’s riddle.

  “What are you?” he asked, voice pleading for an answer.