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Bram merely laughs, then goes on as if I spoke not. “When you meet the gallery’s owner, perhaps you should try your luck again. Olivia Gray already loves your carvings, and she is quite lovely. Her magical signature will be…interesting.”
“She is one of your kind?” I shake my head. “’Tis one woman in particular I seek.”
“Intriguing. You actually know one? How? You haven’t left this place in years. Did you finally join this century and download a dating app?”
As Bram claps my shoulder again, I feel him trying to steal into my thoughts. I wrench away, lifting my sword with a menacing whoosh. “Cease your infernal invasion!”
Bram holds up both hands. “A thousand apologies. Tell me about this woman. Maybe I can help.”
The only help he will ever give me is a push into hell. “I know her face, but not the name she now uses.”
“Old flame?”
Old flame, old enemy. “Take me to London.”
“I’ll take you wherever you want.” Bram grins. “After you meet Olivia. I promised her an introduction.”
“Antagonizing me amuses you. I will not abide.” My dream, the omen that might set me free, has finally arrived. Morgana is somewhere in London. I must make the witch release me from this curse.
“That’s my best and final offer.” Bram shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Unless you want to hand over the book?”
Gripping my sword tighter, I arch a brow.
“Guess not,” he quips. “In that case, I hope you enjoy meeting Ms. Gray. I showed her a few pictures of the pieces you’ve carved in the past. She’s quite impressed. I’ve arranged a meeting for you two this morning. Won’t take long. Then the rest of the day is yours.” Bram prattles into my stony silence. “Come now, you must have pieces to sell.”
Aye. In the past three months, I’ve carved some of my best work. A three-foot rendering of King Arthur and his enemy Mordred locked in mortal combat, Merlin and Morgana each hovering behind their champions, spinning magic to aid their victory, sits in the corner.
Crossing the floor to the sculpture, I stare at the angles of Morgana’s wooden likeness. Fear, fury, and desire tighten my gut. How could I have been so foolish as to tangle with that magical bitch?
Soon, my torment will end. Today, I will hunt her down and demand answers, even if I have to wring them from her pretty neck. True, I have no notion where to begin my search, but I will not give up until I find her.
I sigh. “Fifteen minutes. No more.”
“Smashing. But until you give me the Doomsday Diary”—Bram grins—“I’m your new best friend.”
Chapter Five
Bram parks not far off Oxford Street. The moment he stops the car, I bolt from the hated automobile’s too-tight confines. Warriors do not travel in motorized death traps, by God.
We trek through the gloom of London’s gray morning to a narrow shop. Out front, a purple and gilt sign proclaims the establishment A Touch of Magic. With a cynical grunt, I scan the merchandise through the picture window. A clay rendering of Pegasus inhabits most of the display space. The sculpture has decent symmetry and detail, but it lacks life and movement. Little wonder it has not sold.
As Bram opens the door, an electronic chime heralds our arrival. Two steps in, a wave of musky incense slams my senses. The strains of a passionate ballad surge through me. More confusing and confounding? My skin burns with an awareness I understand not.
As I wander the corners of the store, a woman’s presence lingers—an enticing mix of light perfume and her natural vanilla-musk scent tells me thus. The clatter of beads in an open doorway at the back has me whipping around.
A curvaceous woman emerges, carrying an armful of boxes. I catch a glimpse of wild dark curls brushing her spine and a fragile profile before she turns away to deposit her load on the counter along the back wall, the sleeves of her white peasant blouse swishing. The stays of the ornate corset that encircles her waist hug her enticing curves.
Lust grips me by the throat. The dangerous desire reaches down to jerk my cock as she unpacks her boxes, swaying in time with the Celtic tune piping through the room.
“Olivia?” Bram calls above the music.
She turns to the wizard with a smile. Her face batters me like an invisible fist. Delicate cheeks, a slightly pointed chin, and bloody-haunting eyes. Recognition jolts my every nerve.
The woman from this morning’s dream.
Morgana.
“Bram, thanks for coming by.” Her distinctly American voice rings in my head as she mutes the music. “I know you’re busy. Did you get my message last week?”
