Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night Read Free Page A

exploding.
    As her befuddled mentor Elianna explained, “Horses have powerful legs—but that doesn’t mean they’re prima ballerinas.” The ancient Elianna trained with Mari daily to control the destructive nature of her spells, because she believed the subtle magicks invoked the most fear in their enemies.
    And the House of Witches brokered in fear.
    The corridor finally ended at a broad, high wall, covered in carvings of ghoulish faces and animals. Mari lifted her lantern high and the reliefs seemed to move in shadow. They’d apparently been put there to guard a small tunnel opening near the floor, which itself was made out like a gaping mouth with fangs dropping down.
    She waved the Lykae forward. “Age before beauty, Mr. MacRieve.” She sized him up again, then studied the small opening, which couldn’t be more than three feet square. “If you think you can fit.”
    He stood motionless, clearly not about to be directed. “Only humans call me Mr. MacRieve.”
    She shrugged. “I’m not a human.” Her mother was a fey druidess, and her late father had been a warlock of questionable repute. So Mari was a fey witch or a “weylock,” asher buddies teased. “So would you like me to call you Bowen, or Bowe for short?”
    â€œBowe is what my friends call me, so you doona.”
    What an ass . . . . “No problem. I have a slew of other more fitting names for you. Most of them end in er .”
    He ignored her comment. “You in the tunnel first.”
    â€œDon’t you think it’d be unbecoming for me to be on my hands and knees in front of you? Besides, you don’t need my lantern to see in the dark, and if you go first, you’ll be sure to lose me and get to the prize first.”
    â€œI doona like anything, or anyone, at my back.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against a snarling visage on the stone wall. She’d never seen a Lykae turn into its towering werewolf form, but knew from those who had that this male could be as frightening as any monster, real or imagined. “And you’ll have your little red cloak on,” he continued, “so I will no’ be able to see anything about you that might be . . . unbecoming.”
    â€œTwisting my words? I’ll have you know that I am criminally cute—”
    â€œThen why hide behind a cloak?”
    â€œI’m not hiding. ” In fact, that was precisely what she was doing. “And I like to wear it.” She hated it.
    Even before her birth, she’d been predicted to be the Awaited One, the most powerful born to the House of Witches in centuries—but four years ago, it was also foretold that a male from the Lore would recognize her as his own and claim her. He would seek to lock her away, guarding her with a ferocity that no magicks could defeat, thus robbing the House of her powers.
    Since the prediction, she’d been forced to cover herselfevery single time she set foot outside her home. Needless to say, the robust dating life of her late teens had taken a hit.
    She sported the cloak—a red one because she was a Scarlet Letter-type rebel at heart—and as a backup, she also hid behind a magickal glamour that disguised her looks, the tone of her voice, and her scent.
    If a male like MacRieve did see her, he would perceive a brunette with blue eyes—when in fact she was a redhead with gray eyes—and he would have difficulty recalling anything that was the same, like her features, her figure, or the length of her hair. The glamour was so second nature that she hardly thought about it anymore.
    Even with all these precautions, it followed that unattached males in the Lore were to be avoided. Yet Mari had heard at the Hie assembly—a gossip fest if she’d ever seen one—that MacRieve had already found his mate and lost her more than a century ago.
    Mari had felt sympathy