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Chapter One
“The point of a muting spell is to actually mute your output, not amplify it.”
Monty’s voice was dry, and I scowled at him. He was the resident witch for the Faelan Reservation—a position that theoretically meant he was the government’s mouthpiece and enforcer, but in reality he did little more than provide magical assistance to the reservation’s rangers, if and when needed. He was also my cousin, and the only relative I had any contact with, let alone actually liked.
“I am trying—”
“Then try harder.” Amusement creased the corners of his silvery eyes. “Right now, blind Freddy could see the ebb and flow of your magic.”
“It’s not like I have a lot of the goddamn stuff—”
“If we were just talking about personal magic, that might be true. But we’re not, are we?”
No, we weren’t, thanks to the presence of wild magic. My mother had unknowingly been pregnant with me when she’d been sent to restrain an emerging wellspring, and the energy that had almost killed her should certainly have destroyed me. Instead, it had somehow fused to my DNA, giving me a deep connection to the wilder forces of this world—though it was a connection no one, least of all me, had been aware of until I’d come into this reservation less than a year ago.
I sucked in a frustrated breath and tried to envision the shield Monty was attempting to teach me. Like any witch, I’d been taught the basics of controlling magical output at school, but Belle—who wasn’t only my best friend and a fellow witch, but also my familiar—and I had never gone beyond that. We’d run from Canberra, my parents, and my husband when we were barely sixteen, and had generally avoided witches ever since.
But basic wasn’t going to cut it now. Not when Clayton Marlowe—the bastard I’d been forced to marry—was on his way here to claim his errant bride and no doubt take what he’d been denied on our wedding night. We had no idea when or how he’d arrive; we only knew the looming confrontation would not be pleasant. And not only because our escape had made an utter fool of him, but because Belle had placed an anti-erection spell on him, thereby emasculating him.
“Start again,” Monty added. “And this time, say the spell out loud so I can check your sequencing.”
I did so. The air shimmered as power rose in response, and the glittering threads of magic quickly formed a shield that I then attempted to draw back inside.
This time, the damn thing failed the instant it touched my skin.
I growled in frustration. “What the hell am I doing wrong?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
He picked up his coffee and took a contemplative sip. We were sitting on the floor in the middle of his sparsely furnished living room. The orange menace that was his cat—and familiar—watched from the sofa, a mix of disdain and amusement on his furry features. Eamon and I had something of a love/hate relationship—I hated him, and he loved attacking me. I daresay the only reason he hadn’t launched his deadly little claws my way today was because Monty was in the room.
Outside, the wind howled and rain drummed across the tin roof, a sound I normally found comforting. This afternoon, it set my teeth on edge, if only because it held echoes of the personal storm I sensed coming my way.
I took another of those deep breaths that did absolutely nothing to control the uneasy churning in my gut, and then picked up my coffee. It needed a shot or two of whiskey to make it more palatable, and while I had no doubt Monty would provide it if asked, I did have to drive home. I might be dating the reservation’s head ranger, but he wasn’t the type to look the other way if he caught me doing the wrong thing.
I took a sip and then said, “Do you think the wild magic is the problem here?”
He hesitated. “It’s not entwining itself through the actual spell threads, but it may well be that it’s somehow disrupting your ability to draw the spell into your body. It shouldn’t, but—”
“The wild magic does a lot of things it shouldn’t in this reservation.”
“And that’s problematic in this particular case.”
Because the one thing we desperately needed to do was conceal my connection to that magic. Clayton had to believe I was still the underpowered, inconsequential witch who had escaped his clutches nearly thirteen years ago. If he believed me to be anything else—if he saw the wild magic within me—there would be absolutely no escape from him.
While he was powerful enough in his own right, our marriage had given him a direct connection to my parents, who were arguably the most powerful couple currently working within the hallowed halls of Canberra’s High Witch Council. Any child conceived between us would—even with my lower-class magical status—naturally be treated with greater deference.
But if he saw the wild magic?
Not only would I be placed under a microscope in order to understand how it had happened, I’d be treated as nothing more than a baby-making machine in the hope that at least one child would be similarly gifted. I didn’t want that outcome for me, let alone any daughter of mine.
Odd that you mention a daughter rather than a son. Belle’s thought whispered into my mind, her mental tone sleepy enough to suggest she’d been taking an afternoon nap. While she was telepathic, I actually wasn’t. The ability to share thoughts as easily as speaking out loud was one of the many benefits that came with her being my familiar. It’s not like he’d be treated as any less of a science experiment.
