The Sorcerers Mark Read online

  “You have a greatness he can never obtain.”

  “Your words are very flattering, Mr. Talbot,” Olivia said guardedly. She had shrunk into the corner of the couch, away from the heat that radiated from his closeness. Both hands held the goblet to counteract the growing compulsion to touch the shining embroidery of the doublet, to feel for herself whether or not the bulk beneath was real, and not a figment of her own imagination. The pull was strong and she swayed with the need to control her actions. She didn’t even blink for fear that when her eyes cleared the room would be empty, dark, and damp and he would be gone like a dream that ached to be remembered, a fantasy yet to be reenacted.

  A dream. The image, quick as a flash of lightning through the night sky, struck into her mind--a canopied bed, the flowing motion of a lover within. Then it was gone. What remained was a compelling sense of arousal, impossible to banish. She flushed in embarrassment as though he might read the madness that had overwhelmed her consciousness.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “The wine, it makes me a little lightheaded.” She placed the goblet on a nearby table, to confirm this was the only cause of her blush. Without an object to hold onto, however, she was left feeling exposed. She stood under the pretence of interest in the antiques and moved farther from him, for safety. Not because she was uneasy that he might attempt a display of affection, but because she doubted her own ability to remain polite. Drawn to a cabinet of figurines she tried to focus on them, not her growing passion. She struggled with awkwardness. Never had she felt so attracted to a man as she did to William Talbot.

  The miniature figurines broke the tension that had stiffened her trepidations, and she laughed aloud. Each one was a model of fertility gods, held in high esteem by the ancient Romans. And each one exposed exaggerated male attributes with austere pride--Pan, Priapus and a few assorted images of fauns, half human, half creature.

  William had followed her to the cabinet. “Freedom of belief,” he whispered over her shoulder. “Cultures once admired such symbols. They understood the importance of procreation. Their lives depended on it. Their religion reflected its principles.”

  “Most of these are of Priapus,” Olivia said, doing nothing to conceal her smirk. “He was a naughty little fellow. Bit of an exhibitionist.” She was looking directly at the one figure, the stone cloak lifted to expose his remarkable extremity.

  “He was responsible for the fertility of gardens and farms.”

  “Yes,” Olivia agreed. “But if my memory serves me right even the Romans viewed him with more amusement and affection rather than awe, despite his boastfulness.”

  “You are astute,” William said, his breath heavy and warm against her neck. Olivia was suddenly aware of his broad chest pressing against her back, and she sighed at the luxurious sensation of his palm inching around her waist. She tipped her head as his mouth swept close to her ear. “Clever as well as beautiful,” he whispered.

  Seduction. She had warned herself of a probable intent. In the past such attempts angered her, escorts who suddenly turned to her with a glazed expression of insinuation, at which she would chastise. Never had she followed through on such lecherous suggestions for they always repulsed her. Hollow words meant merely to flatter, a means to an end. This time she got the distinct impression that the flattery was genuine. Either that or he was a clever manipulator. Or he had hypnotized her.

  Both of his arms around her, she swayed backwards into the fold. Automatically she placed her hand on his, while long fingers caressed her stomach. His biceps tightened as he held her closer, his lips feathering a quick kiss onto her neck. The figurines vanished as her lids fell, and she drew air to keep from suffocating. Floating in an exquisite impression of detachment, she was struck with the knowledge that this was exactly where she was meant to be, held within the steely grip of his embrace, and a voice inside her mind sang a lullaby, coaxing her to surrender to his will, fall deeply into the ecstasy on offer. She was falling, and the sensation was far from uncomfortable.

  His intimacy caused her whole body to burn with delight, want, submission. “Olivia.” His mouth encased her ear, the syllables of her name resonating throughout her mind, drenched with sensuality. A silky flow of hair brushed her cheek as he lowered his kiss to her neck, while each thumb discovered, with caution, the curve of her breasts. She melted at the generosity of affections, teetering dangerously close to the precipice of capitulation.

  “Don’t ever let him take from you what you’re not willing to give.”

  “No!” Olivia cried, breaking from his seductive hold. “I can’t do this.” As she swung round to face him she blinked. He was sitting on the couch, goblet in his hand.

  Was she going mad? Her fingers flung to the spot on her neck where she had felt his kiss, still wet from the touch of his lips, her breasts still burned heat from his touch. The cabinet was real, the figurines all in place, at least her sight had not betrayed her. She stuttered to absolute confusion. “I--I’m sorry,” she stuttered, clutching the cabinet for support. Her knees felt wobbly. “I think ... perhaps I should go.”

  “You have paled,” he said with chilling calmness, lulling her with a monotone voice. “Please, come, sit down a moment.”

  The fantasy, so erotic and pleasurable was gone, if fantasy was its true nature. It had upset her that such a daydream could be so vibrant, but it was insipid in comparison to the way her feet moved to his command, not hers.

  He rose from the seat, and opened his arms for her arrival as she continued to glide closer and closer. “Stop!” her voice cracked, but at least the slow moving dream that coated her mind in a weighty haze complied with her demand. Flushed with the success of again capturing physical control, she fixated a hard stare on her quietly imposing host. “Who are you?” she said, not even daring to blink lest she loose precious concentration.

  His chin dipped to a bow, lifting only his eyes, menacingly handsome and pure. “I am your humble servant.”

  This was not an answer. “What are you?”

  An iniquitous twist pinched full lips. “Mentor. Advisor. Counselor. I am at your service. I will teach you everything your heart desires and more.” His lips parted. Without speech he added, “I will demonstrate to you pleasures beyond belief. Spiritually and ... most certainly physically.” His hand waved through the air between them, distorting it, colors swirling to an invisible breeze, painting tranquility. His fingers spread to a jolt and the air rushed, enveloping her in a tiny churning gush. In seconds it caressed her whole body, the ecstasy so severe she gasped, and when the shimmering eddy bolted into her body, she staggered at the total sensation of weightless bliss. It was as though he had reached inside her soul and held it in his hand. Breath poured from her lungs and she collapsed forward, sacrificing her all to gravity.

  He clasped her forearms, preventing the fall. A rasping moan saturated her ear. “I can show you so much, Olivia. Let me take you. Give to me. Give me your spirit and I will guide its power. Give me your body so we shall be one. It is our destiny to unite. You were born to be mine. I have come to claim my prize. Say yes to me, Olivia. Say yes.”

  “You must go to him. Destiny has demanded it.”

  Olivia was drunk with disorientation. She fought desperately to find words of denial. They slurred out. She couldn’t be certain whether they made sense, for her ears were drumming under the warm water of sensuality, and she couldn’t distinguish what her lips pronounced. “You’re poisoning me with this sorcery.”

  “Poison would mean pain and death. Oh, my jewel, I shall see that neither harms you.” He pulled her into his chest, her breasts squashing into the steely mass of muscle. Her arms had fallen, useless limbs. Her cheek rested into the soft curve between his shoulder and neck. Fatigue. So many emotions. It had all been so exhausting.

  His hands cupped her skull. Scorching heat radiated from her scalp and flowed down, like lava, burning every internal organ as it crept farther. It poo
led in her lower torso--she felt it radiate there, tickling, calming, preparing her for nature’s ultimate act of pleasure. And she was numbing to his spell. She could neither fight, nor beg. He had consumed her every resolve and all she could do was accept the incredible gift of pleasure his stroking hands promised to procure.

  A low guttural groan vibrated from his throat. His mouth was on hers, yet she couldn’t taste his lips. “Say yes, Olivia. The time has come for us.”

  Was this, too, an illusion? He had lured her to this lair, created it to impress upon her subsequent clever conversation, and then he cast his seduction, teasingly flaunting his masculinity so that she would fall prey to his desires. Weakened, she had become a willing captive. Of the two roads which yawned before her, the easiest to travel, the more gratifying passage would be the one of indulgence. Concession. He needed her compliance. Why? There was a pronounced urgency to his proposal and that hint of relentlessness was thoroughly frightening. The cup of persuasion had one last drop. It had not yet reached her lips.

  Regardless of what trepidation voiced within her saturated mind, her body was not responding. He was playing with her, and she was letting him transfix her every action.

  She swayed in his arms, gently moving in rhythm to the delicate notes of a distant harp. Haunting strands of music echoed throughout the building. The floor rippled as the ocean’s surface would to an unseen current, a liquid platform, yet he held her upright. The dance went on and on, the sweetness of a woman’s voice carried the tune.

  “Listen,” he cooed, the word an octave lower than the song, less distinct. “Listen how she sings for us. She knows you are here. She is pleased that we are finally together.” His hands stroked her back in unison to the harp’s vibrations.

  “Who is she?” Olivia asked, slow motion, through the increasingly heavy dream.

  He clasped her chin, tipping her face. They were no longer surrounded by books, fireplaces, swords. They were on the landing, beneath the painting. The dance had taken them up the set of stairs. Olivia lifted her gaze to the portrait. It had changed. The hair was dark and loose, the gown black, not white, and the features were twisted from weariness. A tear was making a thin ribbon of light down the oiled cheek.

  “Anna,” Olivia whispered. The Keep’s original mistress, a woman accused of witchcraft, a woman who was haunted by a family curse. Olivia recognized her. How and why, however, was lost.

  The eyes on the painting widened. Voluptuous lips parted as though to speak. Her breast rose and fell as in life.

  “Anna.”

  She nodded and smiled, and slowly lifted her hand to the shoulder of her gown. The eyes never left Olivia, begging full attention. The image turned, the gown fell, revealing the cracked porcelain white of an artist’s paint. The bare shoulder was curved, the shadow bringing to life the structure of bone beneath. But the flesh was marred. On her skin was a mark. Olivia squinted, fighting the web of distorted light that began to flash with exigency. The mark. An outline of a claw, three sharp talons, the tips penetrating the white shoulder, small drops of blood oozing from each puncture.

  “It was said she had the mark of a sorcerer....”

  “I have a mark--on my shoulder. Is it the same one?”

  The painting nodded, eyes growing grossly disproportionate to the face, each one glowed crimson, matching the red that had begun to stream from the wound. The lips curled to a silent scream. Olivia heard the agony. It shivered through her body, fixating her, paralyzed. White painted flesh melted from the image, the dark gown ballooned down to the bottom edges of the frame, folding over a lump that squirmed beneath. The claw inched from the material, all that was left of the beautifully sculptured feminine image, blood dripping from each nail. Its malevolence had taken a life of its own. It rose and with it came the Phoenix. Confined within the frame it fluttered, desperately trying to escape the gilded prison bars.

  The music had died. Instead the sound of weeping, many voices united in a cry for release, tortured, burning, thrashing against eternal damnation. Women’s shrieks of heartache, madness, babies crying from neglect, deformity--louder, shriller--all emanating from the grotesque beak, the swollen tongue black with decay.

  Then it, too, changed. A man, cloaked in a brilliant mantle, his chest protected by fine silver mail, leathered boots to the knee, doeskin trousers. He leaned forward, his jeweled sword the support. Light brown hair curled over his neck. His expression was stern, yet compassion whelmed forth from steely eyes. “Sister, give him not your innocence. He carries no love within his breast. Fear him. Embrace hatred for what he is. Leave. Or accept the madness that waits.”

  “I don’t understand,” Olivia cried, feeling as though her heart had already shattered in hundreds of pieces.

  “He lives because he has sold his mortality. The evil he harbors wishes to feed upon your righteousness. Help me, Sister. Help me to end his existence. Then we shall all be free.”

  Many figures stepped forward from the murky shadows behind him. Women, beautiful and young, all carrying small bundles swathed in blankets, all the ashen faces silently pleading with her to understand, to help.

  “I cannot do this deed alone. Together we can destroy him.”

  “Go away,” Olivia wept. “You lie! I don’t believe any of this is real. Go away.”

  “Beware,” he said, fading into the gloom with the others. “His transgressions are numerous, his sins unforgivable. Beware.”

  Olivia had no memory of leaving the Keep. The void dogged her heels, the nightmare snarling ever closer. She paused, only to catch her breath, her focus solely on the safety of home, the small lights in view. Blurred by her tears, the lights led her on.

  * * * *

  Wyldelock tore at his clothes, blinded in the consumption of rage. It slashed through his body as a wild fire would lap the dry weeds, leaving nothing but blackened destruction. He howled with the agony, smashing his fists wildly into the walls, crushing stone. He kicked aside the branching candelabras, breathing in deep gulps of the smoke streaming from smoldering carpets. And he pulled his hair, the sting of self-abuse a slight release from the raking pain of rejection. Then he kneeled to the floor, rocking, while shrieking profanity to every God that might dare have the audacity to listen.

  As the tantrum slowed he scratched the shredded doublet from his torso. With jerking grunts he ripped away the ruined material, blood seeping over the white silk of his shirt. He folded in torment, his forehead cooled by the stone floor, his groin throbbing. He spread his legs to relieve the pressure, fumbled with the buttons of his trousers to lighten the swelling. Still hard, wanting, expecting, but nothing would alleviate the pain now. She was gone. Gone! If only he were permitted to touch himself. Need deemed he try but the attempt left nothing except forks of lightning, constricting him even tighter. The torment! It was unbearable.

  As if the physical discomfort was not enough torture his mind played games, weaving in and out of focus the visions of supple maidens, ample breasts, curved thighs, long throats, rosebud mouths. They danced with him, each in turn, feebly submitting to the power of his suggestive eroticism. They dropped their veils, their blouses, their skirts, and took rightful position beneath his bulk and he lowered to reward such compliance with the thrill of his force. He took their maidenhood, that stab through a thin cover of innocence and he would quake to the gratification of its jolt. Then he would take his time with each. Some softly sighed, some remained quiet, others struggled, but he took them, each and every one. The memory teased him. With such clarity there was no hope in coaxing the tenderness between his legs to wane.

  Wyldelock flattened his cheek into a cold stone slab, his fingers clawing the fringe of a Persian rug. Sweat trickled down each temple, down his spine, down his legs. Hair stuck to damp shoulders. He moaned in frustration and slithered along the floor, wiggling from what was left of his garb. Its finery had failed. His spell of seduction had failed. His grand home had failed. He crawled, inching farther, like a worm, t
rapped in a hollow piece of fruit. The garden had withered. The fertility god had neglected its duty. Seed had not been scattered. It would rot inside the case without penetrating the warm earth. Wyldelock rolled onto his back, arching his hips. No stance gave him aid. Only time would lessen the fullness that continued to expect what he could not acquire.

  “Olivia.”

  His teeth gnashed. What had he done wrong? Never had his touch been refused. Never had he been pushed aside with unequivocal determination. Never had a woman treated him as a pathetic lap dog, brushing him to one side with disgust. He had danced with her. They were halfway up the stairs. He could even smell the rose petals on the bed from where they stood on the landing. She was complying with his promise of care and tenderness and rapture. If only she had gone farther, if she had seen the bedchamber that he had so particularly prepared, then he would not be suffering now, aching with the agony of constriction, waiting for his suffering to drain. If she had only succumbed he would now be writhing to the sensation of deliberate expulsion.

  His arousal had been so strong. Without indulgence he was left weakened to exhaustion. And susceptible to any enemy who might seek his devastation.

  Wyldelock’s eyes snapped open. Dietrick! This was his sorcery!

  A laugh started off as a distant chuckle from the landing and grew louder, gaining volume as it traveled down the stairs, bouncing from every wall in the great hallway. It had no flesh or bone attached to its velocity but Wyldelock did not need to see a face to recognize such wicked jocularity. Indeed, it was Dietrick, and Wyldelock snarled so solidly that a gush of blood filled his mouth.