would pass her and his body would be gone forever.
Not today , she decided. I need you.
Ignoring the roiling in her stomach, she inched both her feet into the freezing river and reached out with her magick. Bring him to me, she told the current. Bring me the warrior.
The river obeyed. The Viking’s body slid along the bank, magickally avoiding rocks and the water’s other gruesome occupants, until the current deposited his impressive weight in the mud at her feet. Most of his thick frame remained submerged, the water not strong or fast enough to propel him with any force.
His features, all but an obstinate jaw and lips too full to be concealed by his few days growth of beard, were hidden from her by his fearsome bone and iron helm. The water leached blood away from hair the color of volcanic stone.
Gods but he was massive.
She needed to touch him in order to know where to send her magick. How could she possibly do it with her wrists bound behind her? Healing magick was intimate, internal. Generally she had to lay her hands on a wound, on a body, to diagnose and provide a cure.
She cursed her bonds once again, futilely testing their strength, and winced as the leather bit into her skin.
Damn. That left her only one choice. Trying not to think of what polluted the river, Morgana dropped to her knees beside his alarmingly still frame, grateful that the water had lifted much of the blood from his skin.
Willing her heart to slow, she pressed her ear to a chest the texture of firm Highland stone and almost as deep as it was wide. No breath lifted his ribs. No pulse moved the blood through his veins.
But life still flowed within him.
So did magick.
Alarmed, Morgana fought to remain calm as she closed her eyes and used her ear and cheek to connect with what blood was left in his body. Where are your wounds? She knew he’d been stabbed three times, but she needed to assess what damage had been done on the inside, and she doubted her ability to roll him over even if she had the use of her hands. He was simply too heavy.
His blood connected to hers as no other patient had before. A clear and instant knowledge of the damage seared her mind. The wound in his thigh was mostly meat and vein. But blood leaked from both of his lungs, and would prove fatal any moment.
This mythical savage needed breath. He needed the punctures in his lungs healed. Since she couldn’t reach his back, she’d have to do it a different way.
Taking strength from the water flowing around her knees, Morgana chanted a spell of healing against his chest. Willing his wounds to mend like she never had hoped before.
Nothing changed. In fact, she could feel his life draining out of him with every moment that passed. A frantic panic welled within her.
“Stay with me, warrior,” she implored, moving to kneel at his shoulder. “Do not cross to the Otherworld just yet. I need you.” Taking the loamy air deep into her chest, she brought her lips close to his and breathed her healing spell against his mouth.
“Earth is our body.
Fire, our soul.
Air, our breath.
Water, our blood.
Flesh knit to flesh.
Vein to vein.
The Goddess blesses you.
Be whole again.”
An impulse borne of pure feminine urge pushed her to make a hasty, desperate move, and she fused her mouth to his, breathing her magick into his lungs.
It should have taken but a moment, the space of a short and powerful breath.
But once her warm lips were pillowed by his cool mouth, Morgana was seized by a typhoon of such shocking sensation; she lost all sense of place. The green of the forest, the chill of the water, the sounds of rampant bloodshed all faded as something as subtle as a whisper and as deafening as the truth rushed around and through her. It reminded her of holy days, when planets aligned in their orbits, or when full moons coincided with a solstice or equinox. It was a foreign and potent magick. Masculine. Dominant. Binding.
Before her overwrought brain could
Not today , she decided. I need you.
Ignoring the roiling in her stomach, she inched both her feet into the freezing river and reached out with her magick. Bring him to me, she told the current. Bring me the warrior.
The river obeyed. The Viking’s body slid along the bank, magickally avoiding rocks and the water’s other gruesome occupants, until the current deposited his impressive weight in the mud at her feet. Most of his thick frame remained submerged, the water not strong or fast enough to propel him with any force.
His features, all but an obstinate jaw and lips too full to be concealed by his few days growth of beard, were hidden from her by his fearsome bone and iron helm. The water leached blood away from hair the color of volcanic stone.
Gods but he was massive.
She needed to touch him in order to know where to send her magick. How could she possibly do it with her wrists bound behind her? Healing magick was intimate, internal. Generally she had to lay her hands on a wound, on a body, to diagnose and provide a cure.
She cursed her bonds once again, futilely testing their strength, and winced as the leather bit into her skin.
Damn. That left her only one choice. Trying not to think of what polluted the river, Morgana dropped to her knees beside his alarmingly still frame, grateful that the water had lifted much of the blood from his skin.
Willing her heart to slow, she pressed her ear to a chest the texture of firm Highland stone and almost as deep as it was wide. No breath lifted his ribs. No pulse moved the blood through his veins.
But life still flowed within him.
So did magick.
Alarmed, Morgana fought to remain calm as she closed her eyes and used her ear and cheek to connect with what blood was left in his body. Where are your wounds? She knew he’d been stabbed three times, but she needed to assess what damage had been done on the inside, and she doubted her ability to roll him over even if she had the use of her hands. He was simply too heavy.
His blood connected to hers as no other patient had before. A clear and instant knowledge of the damage seared her mind. The wound in his thigh was mostly meat and vein. But blood leaked from both of his lungs, and would prove fatal any moment.
This mythical savage needed breath. He needed the punctures in his lungs healed. Since she couldn’t reach his back, she’d have to do it a different way.
Taking strength from the water flowing around her knees, Morgana chanted a spell of healing against his chest. Willing his wounds to mend like she never had hoped before.
Nothing changed. In fact, she could feel his life draining out of him with every moment that passed. A frantic panic welled within her.
“Stay with me, warrior,” she implored, moving to kneel at his shoulder. “Do not cross to the Otherworld just yet. I need you.” Taking the loamy air deep into her chest, she brought her lips close to his and breathed her healing spell against his mouth.
“Earth is our body.
Fire, our soul.
Air, our breath.
Water, our blood.
Flesh knit to flesh.
Vein to vein.
The Goddess blesses you.
Be whole again.”
An impulse borne of pure feminine urge pushed her to make a hasty, desperate move, and she fused her mouth to his, breathing her magick into his lungs.
It should have taken but a moment, the space of a short and powerful breath.
But once her warm lips were pillowed by his cool mouth, Morgana was seized by a typhoon of such shocking sensation; she lost all sense of place. The green of the forest, the chill of the water, the sounds of rampant bloodshed all faded as something as subtle as a whisper and as deafening as the truth rushed around and through her. It reminded her of holy days, when planets aligned in their orbits, or when full moons coincided with a solstice or equinox. It was a foreign and potent magick. Masculine. Dominant. Binding.
Before her overwrought brain could
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