Dragon Witch Series - Dragon Witch Part 31

She had not killed him! She had failed again. Why, oh why had she not been strong enough to remove his evil presence from the Earth forever? Hatred for him coursed through her body as she watched the scene unfold.

Sardon watched Wendall for a long time, his saturnine face impa.s.sive. He listened to Wendall's heartbroken pleas to Christiana and a small satisfied smile crossed his face as he lifted his hand and caressed the opal ring on his left hand.

As he stroked the glittering black ring, his features began to alter. His long face shortened and became fuller, became the familiar face of William Mirabelle. His hair grew longer and became lighter. His onyx eyes changed color, became the color of newly turned earth. His body grew taller and muscular as it fleshed out. He was once again William-Tempest's betrothed.

He reached out to touch the grieving Wendall's shoulder.

"Nay. Father," Tempest cried out, trying to warn him, trying to help. But Wendall did not hear her. He turned to Sardon.

"William," he said, "Thank goodness you are here. We

must find my daughter. Tempest can help Christiana. I know she can. I am afraid she will die without Tempest's healing powers. Miriam is dead, and there is no one else." He bowed his head in despair.

"I shall find her," promised Sardon. "Have no doubt, Lord Wendall. I shall find her." He looked away, across the room.

His eyes, hidden from Wendall's view, began to change, to distort-first scarlet, then ruby, then deep maroon. As they metamorphosed, they glowed, brighter with each shade of red until they took on a malevolent essence. Sardon's foul gaze blazed across time and s.p.a.ce into Tempest's chaste emerald eyes, and he smiled.

Lysira's crystal ball turned black.

In the far distance another crystal ball quivered with life.

It too, glowed with soft blue radiance.

The raven-haired woman and the golden man stared into their crystal. They seemed frozen in time as they silently waited for those malicious red eyes to depart. They neither moved nor spoke. They held their breath in antic.i.p.ation-and fear.

The crimson eyes turned to the motionless twosome. They burned stronger; they grew larger, until they encompa.s.sed the crystal ball.

The blue crystal shuddered, vibrated, thrummed with malevolent energy. A small crack formed on its surface, then healed, then appeared again.

The woman cried out in anger, in pain. The man circled the crystal with his large, calloused hands. Agony flashed across his face, but he did not release the crystal.

The woman's hands joined his as they fought the vile force together.

Gradually the crystal calmed. The vibrations ceased, and a soft blue light peeked from their entwined hands.

THIRTY-FOUR.

Tempest's scream of horror pierced Adrian's heart, and he flung open the curtain to Lysira's private sanctuary. He could not fathom any reason for her scream. Lysira's cottage was the safest place he knew. There could be no danger here.

His mother was seated at the small, round table. Her hands stretched toward a throbbing black crystal as if to ward off great danger, her face ghostly white, her outstretched hands trembling. A pale blue light surrounded her. She did not look up when he and Tristan bolted into the room.

Tempest's soft moans drew Adrian's attention from his mother. She stood across the table from Lysira; a radiant white light emanated from her raised hands, pointed at the pulsating crystal ball. She, too, was pale and trembling. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she strained against an unseen force.

Eyes dilated and full of fear, she stared intently at the crystal ball. She did not lower her arms. Neither woman moved as the room grew deathly cold and quiet.

"Mother? Tempest?" Adrian broke the oppressive silence.

He felt a visceral lurch deep within. He swallowed and tried to speak, but he could not open his mouth as his eyes were drawn inexorably to the malevolent black crystal ball.

He had found little to fear in his one hundred years, but deep foreboding found a foothold in him as he stared at the malevolent object in the center of the table. He could not tear his eyes away from the orb. His body quivered with effort as he fought to withdraw, to break the ensorcelment upon them all, but he was powerless.

The blackness throbbed outward, pushed against Lysira's palms, curled seductively around her fingers. The foul

smell of death, of sulfuric h.e.l.lfire, permeated the small room, and Adrian could hear Tristan retching behind him. Still he stood, immobile.

He tried again to speak.

"Mother," he croaked. "Dragon." It was all he could manage as the room, the crystal, his reality, swam before his misting eyes.

He fought. He struggled. He felt himself changing, growing.

His golden eyes focused on Lysira. Matching eyes locked with his. As one, they turned again to the crystal. As one, those golden dragons' eyes glowed, burned, pushed.

The vile blackness receded, became muted charcoal, faded, then flared like a comet blazing across a midnight sky.

Identical pairs of golden eyes burned like h.e.l.lfire into the comet's light, and a howl of rage shook the cottage.

The crystal ball cracked. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed. Darkness descended.

Tempest crumpled to the floor. Lysira sprawled unconscious across the cloth-covered table, her hand touching the crystal ball as if in supplication. Adrian's knees buckled and Marisa screamed. Adrian felt Tristan's hand clutch his shoulder in desperation as his knees. .h.i.t the floor.

Tempest's head pounded, her heart beat erratically, and she was thirsty. She tried to lick her lips but found no moisture in her mouth. She groaned and opened her eyes.

She was lying on Adrian's bed near the hearth. A warm fire sent its cheery heat into the room, but she was cold-colder than she could ever remember. She s.h.i.+vered and drew the heavy fur closer. Her entire body felt drained and powerless as she sat up and looked around the cottage.

Adrian was slumped dejectedly on a small bench next to Lysira's carved oak bed, his head in his hands. The green velvet canopy was drawn back, and she could see Lysira lying motionless under a soft fur cover. Her skin was pale and waxen, her chest barely moving with each labored breath. She looked so small and helpless it frightened Tempest. Lysira had always seemed like a stronger person than most, someone who could

solve all problems, heal all wounds.

Marisa hovered at the foot of the bed watching Adrian and Lysira anxiously.

"Adrian? Marisa?" Tempest moved slowly across the room.

"What happened? Why..." Memory returned in a flood of images. Red eyes, terrible pain, h.e.l.lfire. She remembered it all and shuddered.

Adrian looked at her but did not speak. His eyes were filled with pain as she walked unsteadily to him.

"I cannot help her, Tempest," he whispered brokenly as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "I fear she is dying."

"Nay. She cannot die. I will not let her."

"Can you help her?" Hope was reborn in his eyes as he released Lysira's hand and stood. "Tell me what you need. I will get it. Help her, Tempest. Please. I cannot lose her."

"Get Tris," she said, her strength returning as she tapped into her inner resources and a.n.a.lyzed the difficult task before her. "He has been with me many time when I have gathered my healing herbs. He will know what to get for me."

"He is not here."

"Where is he?" Suddenly Tempest was worried. She knew they had all been in the room with the crystal. "Is he all right?"

"Aye. He fares well."

"Then why would he leave when Lysira is so ill?" she asked in confusion. "He would know that I will need his help."

"I sent him after my father," Adrian said quietly. "He must be here if she dies."

"I will not let her die!"

"Father needs to be here, Tempest."

"Aye, he needs to be here."

"Tempest?" Marisa spoke for the first time. "I know a little about herbs. May I help?"

"Aye, Marisa," she spoke grimly. "We have much to do, and I would welcome your help."

"Damien." Lysira's weak whisper drew Tempest quickly to her side.

"Lysira?" Tempest called her name but there was no

response. The woman lay pale and motionless, her long, dark eyelashes almost hidden by the sooty circles under her eyes.

She had neither moved nor spoken for six days. Her body was wasted, and she looked like an old, old woman. Death hovered near, and Tempest was powerless to stop it.

She bent her head and prayed. She could think of nothing else. She had exhausted her knowledge and knew it would take an intercession from the G.o.ds to save Adrian's mother.

"G.o.ddess, please," she whispered brokenly. "Do not take her now. We need her."

The heavy wooden door to the cottage was flung open with a bang, propelling Tempest hastily to her feet. In the doorway stood the largest man she had ever seen. She moved to stand between Lysira and the intruder. Lysira must be protected!

Adrian. She glanced frantically around the cottage. Where was Adrian? He must be dead. She knew he was dead. He would have been here beside her to keep this intruder from his mother...from her...But she had not felt his death. She would have known if he were injured or dying.

She raised her hands, preparing herself. She had failed when she had attempted to destroy the wicked Sardon. Would she fail again?

Nay. She was Lysira's last defense. She could not fail. She would use her power to her utmost ability. She was strong. For Lysira she would be invincible.

"Move aside, woman," the intruder growled.

"Nay," she answered breathlessly. "You shall not harm her.

She is ill, and I will burn you to cinders if you come any closer."

She felt the power began to rise from deep within her, felt it flowing up, up into her arms, centering itself in the palms of her hands, curling around her fingers. She cradled the power like a newborn child and waited.

"You would do battle with me to keep me from my wife?"

the man asked in surprise.

"Your...your wife?" Tempest stammered.

"Aye," he answered, gentler now. "My wife."

"Adrian? Where is Adrian?" She was shocked and

skeptical.

"Caring for my steed. You had better release that power, little witch, or return it to whence it came. 'Tis a dangerous weapon you hold there."

"Power?" Tempest looked at her hands. Tiny blue sparks arced from fingertip to fingertip like fireflies on a warm summer night. "I do not..."

"Visualize," he said. "Lead the power slowly back to its origin."

"I cannot." Tempest realized she had never had to withdraw her power. Whenever she drew it from within her she always released it. Lysira had never taught her how to dampen it, to return it to its source.

"Like a lost child," he explained, "take its hand and lead it home."

Tempest closed her eyes. She could see the power flickering illusively before her. She envisioned her body, reached out a hand to the s.h.i.+ning light of her power, felt its force cling to her hand in loving trust. She gathered it close to her breast, carried it gently to the core of her being and released it. She opened her eyes and looked at the tall man waiting patiently in the doorway.

"Damien Westbrooke," said the dark man who stood before her. "Mate to Lysira and father to Adrian. May I see my wife now?"

"So," the man observed, "Damien has returned."

"Aye," said the woman with a small smile. "He still looks as handsome as ever."

"Humph. He is still a large, overgrown boor as far as I can tell."