The Sorcerers Mark Read online

  “Don’t know,” Mother sang as she picked up her keys. “All I heard was that some wealthy duke or count has bought the whole thing--the Keep, the lighthouse and the ten acres that go with it. Whether that’s true or not....” She shrugged. “You know how the tongues in this town wag. Regardless, Gran didn’t take the news lightly. I think she’s been up all night.”

  Olivia followed her mother to the car. A flood of questions had stalled in confusion. “Is that all you heard?” she managed to get out.

  The engine turned over three times before spluttering to life. “That’s all. Gotta go, honey.” The car jerked backwards, belching a thick burst of exhaust. Mother waved as it coughed onto the paved street that wound into the village.

  The morning mist that shrouded the coast was slowly beginning to burn off. Olivia squinted, peering longingly up the neglected dirt road that led to the Keep and the lighthouse beyond. She couldn’t help but feel a slight jealousy. She had always considered the structure a part of her heritage, taking for granted that despite the changes that touched her family, the house would always remain as it was. In the flow of time it was the one constant that mortality couldn’t invade. And now a stranger was about to intrude? Wealthy or not, titled or not, he had no right to molest the Keep. Her jealousy quickly faded into anger. Resolve told her such emotions were in vain. Then she saddened. Change had inevitably crept into her life again, and she had no say in the matter.

  At least she had the diary. This was one gift the house had offered. She applauded her decision to return to the upstairs chamber to retrieve it. And the precious book was now protected, stashed under layers of sweaters in the bottom drawer of her bedroom cabinet. It was the one memento of her single venture into the Keep, one that would remain forever hers.

  If she felt misgivings about the Keep’s new proprietorship, how much more deeply must Gran feel?

  Olivia made a pot of tea and lightly buttered some toast, arranging the breakfast on a tray. She made her way through the sitting room and, with her toe, pushed opened Gran’s door.

  The quilt was straight and smooth, the embroidered pillowcase free from creases. Olivia placed the tray on a stand inside. Gran had pulled her favorite chair to the table under a window that overlooked the winding lane to the Keep and Olivia tiptoed over, thinking perhaps fatigue had finally lowered the old woman’s lids. But Gran was very much awake. A short flame from an oil burner filled the air with the aroma of bergamot. Circling the burning oil were several white candles, a bowl of white flower blossoms, and propped behind all this was a picture of Olivia. The altar glowed with the white reflection from the cloth beneath as Gran rocked, staring with unblinking eyes into the flames. “I call upon all things white,” she murmured. “Protect Olivia, day and night. And by the power of my loved one’s charm, keep her spirit free from harm. So be it.”

  Olivia recognized the chant as a spell for protection. She stood, respectfully at a distance, letting her Gran repeat the words as she rocked, dipping toward the light and back again. White, Gran had taught, is composed of all the colors of the spectrum, and by calling on its powers she was strengthening her magic. But why?

  She crouched beside the chair and lightly placed her hand on Gran’s knee. Weary eyes rolled to Olivia, a faint smile cracked the lines on her wrinkled cheek.

  “Gran?” Olivia whispered softly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here,” was all she said, uttered with such foreboding Olivia shivered.

  “Who’s here?” They were alone, and except for the solitary willow tree outside the window, the yard was empty too.

  Gran peered past the flickering candles, past the willow tree and across the yard to where the dirt road narrowed into nothing more than wheel tracks in the earth. Olivia followed the direction of her gaze. “Do you mean the one who has bought the Keep, Gran? Is that who you’re talking about?”

  She nodded once before returning to the chant.

  Olivia knew better than to further disrupt her grandmother’s need to work the gentle magic. Best to simply leave her to it, and when she wanted tea and toast and rest, she would find it all waiting. Olivia crept from the room, silently closing the door.

  Her ire had doubled. Never had she known Gran to utter spells without sensing great need and for whatever reason, this count or duke or whatever he was, had turned their lives asunder. “He might be the one needing protection.” She scowled. What she wanted more than anything was to walk into the village and find out just who this man was and why he had chosen the Keep for his own. And then to tell him he had no right to be here--the home was best left as it had stood for going on a century--alone in its antiquity. Her frustration burned harder. She couldn’t leave just yet; she promised mother to stay with Gran to comfort her if required, but what better comfort than to somehow convince the new owner to desert their community?

  “He’s here.”

  Olivia went outside. What greeted her, however, was not a count or a duke, but the rumbling of monster engines pulling long silver containers supported by countless wheels. Trucks, a convoy of six, were making an impossibly sharp turn onto the lane. She must have appeared more confused than concerned because the lead truck stopped and the driver flung open his door and jumped from the high seat. “Mornin’, miss.” He smiled warmly. He held a clipboard, validation for the injustice of such huge vehicles on a narrow country road. “Pretty sure we have the right location.”

  “Where are you headed?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Byrne’s Keep. I understand it’s just over that ridge.” He glanced between her and the distant curve in the hill.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said, wishing she had the talent to lie convincingly, tell him they were in the wrong place and to take these mechanical dinosaurs and go away forever. “May I ask who you work for? I mean, who has bought the property?”

  “Oh, sure.” Another page flipped. “A William Talbot.”

  “Talbot,” she repeated numbly. “Is he not with you?”

  “No, miss. Never met the man.”

  “I see.” Olivia wrung her hands with worry. “Such big trucks,” she said.

  The driver tipped his hat. “We’ll be careful.”

  “This Mr. Talbot,” she said before the driver had a chance to turn. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Sorry,” he answered sympathetically. “All I know is that he’ll be here tomorrow and if we’re to get these babies unpacked, we got to get started.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Please, take care. This road isn’t used much.”

  He nodded and jumped back into the truck’s cab. The soil trembled to the grinding of gears, and billows of exhaust fouled the salt air. The violation brought a tear to her eye. Her heart sunk. On this day she would mourn. Tomorrow she would try to understand.

  * * * *

  Olivia curled in one corner of the couch under a lamp to work on her needlepoint. Gran had gone to bed early, exhausted from her previous evening’s need to meditate, and Mother, glasses perched on the end of her nose, glanced over the headlines in the news. A warming flame lapped a log in the grate--fog had dampened the late spring night. It would be another few weeks before faultless weather would realize the calendar had proclaimed summer.

  All afternoon the sound of voices and the pounding of hammers echoed over the ridge from the Keep. More trucks had grumbled past the house, and empty containers drove back, but now that darkness veiled the coast, the noises were finally at rest. The mysterious Mr. Talbot, however, had consumed Olivia’s thoughts while the day’s activities carried on. She imagined him to be a horrible little man, one who flaunted wealth in order to compensate for ugly features and cruel demeanor. What else could she expect for one who stole their heritage without so much as one word of apology?

  “Mother,” she said, dropping her needlework on her lap. “Have you heard anything else about who has bought the Keep?”

  “Nothing I’d put any stock in,”
she answered without looking up from the paper.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Well,” Mother said, taking off her glasses. “Mrs. Johnston seems to think he’s a gangster, running from the law for the crime of murder. Clarence Webb says he’s a banker who has amassed a fortune kept in a Swiss bank. Jenny Jackson says that he spent time in prison for money laundering, and now that he’s out, he collected his money and moved here to remain anonymous. And Ben Brewer is convinced he’s a pirate drug runner, setting up shop here because the coast guard would never think to search Beacon’s Bay for illegal booty. None of it very flattering.” She smiled. “I almost feel sorry for the man--the locals have already tried and convicted him. His presumed immorality will be a constant stigma in this narrow-minded town and he hasn’t even gotten here yet.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” Olivia said.

  Mother tutted. “He’s likely a retired businessman, is all.”

  “His name is William Talbot. I asked one of the drivers.”

  Mother’s brow lifted. “Talbot. Sounds sophisticated. I wonder if he’s married.”

  Olivia caught the implication immediately. “He’s probably a chiseled old man,” she muttered in disgust.

  “Don’t you go making snap judgments, Ollie. Let’s meet him before we draw our own conclusions. I’d like to think we’re not quick to condemn like the rest of this medieval village.”

  “I don’t want to meet him.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  Olivia was, but she didn’t want her mother to know it.

  “It was bound to happen someday--the Keep being sold. Besides, he’s obviously intent on fixing up the old place. We’d be watching bulldozers go by otherwise.”

  “That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Olivia mused.

  “Regardless, he’s going to be our neighbor, and I think we should make the effort to make him feel welcome.”

  “Gran’s upset,” Olivia said, suddenly putting great stock in that legendary sixth sense. “She knows there’s something wrong.”

  Mother sighed. “Your Gran blames the old house for family tragedies. She hopes if it stays empty then the curse can’t breathe. You and I both know that’s all nonsense. I only humor her because she needs to blame something other than providence for misfortune.”

  Olivia was unconvinced, remembering the diary, her secret treasure, hidden in her bedroom cabinet. “What if she’s right?” Foreboding flooded through in Olivia’s voice, betraying her growing validation that there was more to this family curse than what either she or Mother wanted to admit.

  “Depending on how Gran is feeling in the morning I’d like you to help out in the shop tomorrow,” Mother said, blatantly changing the subject. She flipped her glasses onto her nose again and lifted the paper. The topic of the Keep, and the mysterious proprietor, was closed.

  “I’m never going to get married,” Olivia said defiantly, getting up to go to bed.

  This caused her mother to laugh aloud. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That this man might be available?” Olivia was annoyed at the earlier hidden agenda her mother hinted.

  “Maybe I’m the one who might want to marry.” Mother winked.

  Olivia froze where she stood. She hadn’t considered that. But then, why not? Mother was attractive--a willowy figure, clear complexion, and sparkling blue eyes--and always cheerful and pleasant, full of vitality and kindness, to say nothing of a business of her own. Any man would be thrilled to find such a catch, except of course, those in Beacon’s Bay who thought she could turn grown men into croaking frogs with a flick of one finger. A new dread whelmed in Olivia’s heart. A stepfather would be too drastic a change to deal with. It didn’t bear considering. “You’re joking, right?” she asked with a nervous smile.

  Mother glanced to the paper. “A chiseled old man with a suitcase full of money might be just what I’m looking for,” she issued in her little-girl voice.

  Olivia was relieved. She was joking.

  “Good night, Mother,” she sang with feigned chastisement.

  “Good night, honey.”

  * * * *

  Soundless wings sliced the dark fog. Fingered talons curled around one thin branch of the willow tree. A dim yellow hue from her light illuminated the room. Unblinking eyes watched. She prepared to sleep, turning back the covers of her bed, sweeping fingers through her heavy hair, slipping from her clothes.

  Feathers ruffled. Talons tightened. The mark. Her shoulder bare, white skin, soft flesh. So close. So beautiful. Untouched. His alone.

  “My jewel.”

  His call, as always, was silent. She answered, as always, without knowing, lifting her chin, turning to peer blindly into the darkness where he clung to the branch. Slowly she drifted to the window, curves twisting as she moved. Such grace. Such elegance.

  Long she stood, the light bathing her naked figure, a glow of sweet sensuality, an aura of sheer desire. A deep sigh thundered through his ears, her scent permeating the thick air. The man inside the small ribcage thrashed to be free, to imprison her in his arms, to sink into her body, take what was meant for him alone. This was not the time. The torture wracked his being.

  The sorcerer, however, could manipulate space, dreams, and passions. The sorcerer could touch her through fantasy, where his existence could meld with hers.

  He closed his eyes, taking her image with him into the haze. Even here she could not see him. She sensed him, however. Her arms rose to welcome him, lips parting. He took her hand, delicate bone, velvet fingers, and with the tip of one nail as his tool, began a gentle caress.

  He wetted her finger with a kiss, and guided it over his lips. She sighed, comforted by the illusion of his mystical foreplay. He held her wrist, the only contact. But when she began to explore the outline of his chin, he let go, presenting himself, his pleasure derived from her increasing want.

  The finger trailed down his throat, pausing in the hollow, before falling over the muscle of his chest.

  “Touch me.”

  Instead, her hand fell limply to her side. Her smile transformed into a cringe of pain. Inhibition. Embarrassment. A barrier only he could break.

  She had turned to walk away. Even within the fantasy her bashfulness reigned triumphant.

  “Olivia. I am the one.”

  He clasped her hips, the sound of her thrashing heart pulsating through the haze like thundering horse hooves. Her shoulders against his chest he bowed, feathering a light kiss onto her throat. He felt her rhythm of life beneath his lips.

  “I have come for you.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. Her voice was drenched with longing. And she lifted her arms, locking her fingers behind his neck, tugging his hair.

  In slow motion, he clasped one breast, stroking with his thumb. Luxurious deliverance. Promises of the future. His forearms strengthened. He had her locked in a solid embrace, a willing union. They swayed to an erotic dance. Then he coaxed her to turn, face him, so their mouths could meet.

  The warmth of her burning passion cooled. The fantasy altered. She was walking away into the gray mists, leaving him. He ached to follow but could not. With a short glance over the marked shoulder she smiled to him.

  And then the swirl swallowed her image.

  Feathers ruffled. Wide yellow eyes blinked once. She was sleeping in her darkened chamber, and he, a night creature, kept a solitary vigil until the dawn’s light cracked the distant horizon.

  * * * *

  The delightful smell of pristine books emanated from each box that Olivia cut open. Waxen covers, brightly colored were revealed. Each was a new and different edition of popular sights that demanded rewarding viewing. She placed the manuals in plain sight on a rack just inside the door of Mother’s shop. Meant to catch the attention of curious tourists, the pictures highlighted the most scenic of spots up and down the rugged shoreline. She lingered over the largest book--Li
ghthouses of Maine. Coincidently it opened to the one most familiar to her--Byrne’s Lighthouse. The photo had been expertly snapped during a clear summer’s day--the sky an exaggerated deep blue, the ocean wide and tranquil. In reality she had never known it to look as beautiful as the photograph portrayed it to be. The joy of fiction was meant to mingle with a few short hours of visitation, regardless of the weather. Memory in pictures was meant to be surreal--it’s why such lovely books sold so well.

  The bell over the shop door hung without interruption. The fog hadn’t lifted with the dawn of a new day, so locals exited their dwellings only for necessities and of course the rush of sightseers hadn’t begun. Only the hot summer sky would bring them here in droves, seeking picnic parks and beaches and craggy rocks for exploration. Olivia was content in her work, especially when the small shop was clear of mingling bodies. It made unpacking and sorting much easier.

  Mother sat near the till, studying detailed inventories. The gentle sounds of musical panpipes flowed from the speakers erected high in the corners of the shop. So lulling was the tune Olivia didn’t glance up from the shelf where she knelt when the bell over the door announced a customer.

  “Good morning,” she heard Mother say, her voice uncharacteristically flat. The anomaly caused Olivia to peek round the metal shelving. She slumped where she crouched, awestruck at the tall stranger who seemed to demand that every object in the shop acknowledge his visitation.

  Her line of vision first witnessed the soft leather boots that hugged his calves. The crushed material of dark trousers was tucked inside the tops just below the knees. A cape, shimmering with rain, touched the ridges of the boots and as she lifted her gaze, she saw long damp hair tied at the bottom with a gold clasp, the inky black thickness ballooning over the nape of his neck. A Victorian nobleman wouldn’t dress as fancifully and she instantly imagined he might be more at home sashaying down a pebbled street of ancient Europe. The romanticism of the thought made her gasp and upon doing so she crouched further behind the shelf, narrowing her view through a thin ribbon of space allotted by the absence of several unpacked books.