Freeing the Witch Page 2

  But the choice was made. She’d made her bet, and she couldn’t turn back now.

  She was going to the jungles of the South, to the mountain where Jasprite had built a trading post. She was going to live with wolves.

  And if she were lucky, Mother wouldn’t find her.

  Chapter Two

  Porter strolled along the waterfront. The northern freighters smelled cold, sterile with steel and dragons. Goods packaged carefully to prevent spoilage. The southern vessels smelled fast, like bamboo, bottled wind, and pomegranates. Porter leisurely inspected the ships, both great and small, daydreaming mostly about the food they carried. Not that he was hungry. He ate well these days and probably would for the foreseeable future.

  That was nice.

  Nav, his lady, and the new witch were due at noon. Usually, all three of the wolves would greet Nav after such a long time away, but Half-Ear and Sock were protesting the witch. No matter how many times Sock read Nav’s letter about the witch and about how quiet she was, and how she signed a contract in blood swearing she wouldn’t hurt them, the thought of the witch made them tense.

  They’d sent Porter to decide if she was suspicious.

  He touched Sock’s iron short sword and tried to remember Half-Ear’s exact words.

  Sock had snarled over his spectacles. “If she’s suspicious, even a little, slice her throat with the cold iron.”

  “Don’t confuse the damned oaf.” Half-Ear had cuffed Sock’s head. “Now, listen to me, Porter. Make sure Nav and Jasprite behave normally. Make sure they don’t smell bespelled. Then bring them home.”

  Porter had asked, “And if she bespelled them?”

  Half-Ear glanced over at Sock and shrugged. “Then you slice her throat with cold iron.”

  Porter thought it unnecessary. Nav wasn’t an easy man to bespell. His letter was overbearing, arrogant, and a bit ill-humored, so just like Nav.

  A little sea breeze riffled through the ships and their open cargo bays. The salty air carried the scent of northern fruit, strong timber, stronger liquor, hard, smelly cheese, and—Navarro and Jasprite were in that one.

  Porter wandered toward cargo bay, forgetting there was someone somewhere to distrust. But the breeze came again. He sniffed deeper. He stopped dead in his tracks. Nav and the lady smelled like sweat and sex.

  When Porter listened at the edge of the open cargo bay, he heard Nav’s low hungry growl. “Stop wiggling away, bitch. I know you want this.”

  Porter turned heel and hurried away. They were not bespelled. No witch would let two people under her sway fuck in public in the cargo bay. But Nav and Jasprite were exactly the kind of self-centered stupid to get off on that sort of thing, and Porter knew better than to interrupt them. A bespelled tiger was a problem, but interrupting a horny one wasn’t worth his life.

  Instead, Porter turned to a cafe. He slunk toward the shade between the buildings, ready to lurk among the empty barrels in case someone on the porch left an unfinished or unguarded glass. Safer between the two barrels or hiding in plain sight—

  Porter paused, touched his pocket, where he had a bag of coins. A respectable businessman didn’t have to steal drinks. He had money. He’d earned it honestly guiding people up the mountain. He owned part of the trading post, too. He didn’t need to steal. Just walk up the stairs and sit in the shade at the table and buy his own strawberry lassi.

  The habits of a beggar were hard to shake, and Porter waited at the top of the stairs for the waiter to turn him away. Instead, the server, a nice little elephant woman, smiled gently and pointed to a table.

  Porter, with the uneasiness of a trespasser, sat down. The server brought him a pitcher of water without hesitation. “Hello, Mr. Wolf. Taking travelers up the mountain today?”

  Right. People recognized the three of them now as respectable businessmen. He could order in peace. Just like the merchants did. Just like the soldiers did.

  “Strawberry lassi, please.”

  “Sorry, sir.” She leaned closer because she had not heard him. “Did you say mango lassi?”

  Strawberry was his favorite, but the mango was fine, too. Porter nodded. “Yes.”

  The lassi came in a moment. Fast service. Friendly service. No one chasing him away. Everything had changed so much since Lady Doughton built her trading post. But a lassi was sweet and cold as ever. Even if it was mango.

  Porter leaned his chair against the café wall and sighed contentedly. Happy for the shade, and the sweetness of his drink and his friends’ safe return and … their continued enjoyment of each other. He waited with the patience of a man who took great pleasure in idleness. If he thought of the witch at all, it was only the passing thought that it would be nice to have someone else in the kitchen.

  The wolf drowsed in the afternoon heat. Until the scent of a woman —a very aroused woman—caught his attention. Porter didn’t open his eyes to look for her, just enjoyed the wafting scent of her on the sea breeze.

  The woman was young, probably in her mid-twenties. Wore silk that had been laundered in a strong soap, though she used a fragrant lemon and honey soap on her skin. Aroused, but not pregnant or likely to become. She’d spilled tea recently.

  When the breeze died, Porter missed the scent of her. He sniffed and opened his eyes. He saw her at once, clearly a stranger to the town.

  She sat on a pile of crates as if she’d been packed along with them and was waiting for her owner to come back and put her in the cargo bay. She wore red silks with black protection lettering from the desert. Showing not an inch of her hair and barely any of her face. None of that was unusual; lots of women from the desert came through here, and they were used to shielding themselves from the ravages of the sunlight and sand.

  No. The strangeness came from her eyes. Startling blue. She looked everywhere at once as if she expected an attack at any moment. Her eyes caught the sunlight in extraordinary ways. Like starbursts of blue. Like ice ringed by black crystal. Northern eyes, set deep in pale foreign skin, obscured by the modest dress of a desert woman. He couldn’t tell the color of her hair through the headscarf around her head.

  She looked terrified, which Porter had not expected because of her arousal. Clearly uncomfortable, waiting for someone who’d told her to sit there and burn in the sun. Maybe her lover. Who had excited her so much the tangy warm scent of her arousal overpowered the sharpness of her fear?

  Then her gaze fell on him. Her scarf slipped a little, and he saw her pink lips drop open as if surprised he existed. Judging by the way her gaze traveled, she wasn’t looking at his face. It made her powerfully uncomfortable to even look at him.

  The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of her lust on the wind. Sex in a tightly wrapped silk. Porter tipped back, half-shut his eyes, and chuckled to himself. So, it was his fault, this woman needed a good long fuck. Nothing too unusual about that.

  He’d never say that out loud, of course. Half-Ear would because Porter was easy to embarrass. Half-Ear would put on his alpha voice and chastise him for being too hard on the ladies because he was so easy on the eyes. Sock wouldn’t use words, just sniff and then look at Porter over the rim of his spectacles and click his tongue with disappointment.

  This woman though, she … well, she really needed a good, long fuck. Every time she glanced at him wrong, she licked her lips and looked away. She wrung her black-gloved hands together like she had to knot up her fingers to avoid reaching for him. Her cheeks were the brightest pink he’d ever seen on a person’s face, and he didn’t think it was entirely the sunburn.

  Of course, there was nothing for it. Porter was going back up the mountain with Nav and his lady and this new witch.

  Still, a little light flirting never hurt anyone.

  Chapter Three

  Dizzy from the activity on the dock, more than a little homesick, and utterly overwhelmed by the size of the port, Emaula could barely think. This place was hot, the people were immodest, and the wilderness terrified her.

  Th
e only relief to her fear was that Jasprite hadn’t left her side. Jasprite was indeed a good friend, just as warm and ebullient as she’d been when they were children.

  But just now, Nav had pulled her back onto the ship with “urgent business”. Probably had to do with those unhappy wolves. Probably he was trying to convince Jasprite to leave her—no. Everything was fine. Emaula was fine.

  She could sit on a crate by herself. The world wasn’t so frightening that she couldn’t sit safely in broad daylight next to a ship, surrounded by hundreds of other people.

  She’d be fine. Everything was fine.

  Just as long as she stopped looking at that man lounging in the café.

  Her magic reached toward him, the way a poorly behaved child cries for the nearest shiny toy. So Emaula tried with all her power not to look at him. He’d walked by a moment ago with a dazzling smile, and now he draped himself in the shade.

  No reason to stare at him.

  Even if he was half-naked.

  And gorgeous.

  She glanced again.

  He leaned beside the café door in such a relaxed way. Like he could fall asleep. He was almost as big as Navarro but much softer than the tiger. Very dark skin. Hair as sleek and curly as a black lamb’s wool. He wore an open vest practically designed to draw attention to the full muscles of his chest, to cast the slightest of shadows on his drum-tight belly, to conceal nothing.

  Emaula looked away, out at the water, at the ship, at the crates, at anything besides the man. She’d have to grow accustomed to half-nude men. Couldn’t fixate on every inch of exposed muscle on display. Not when half the country—more than half since some women didn’t wear shirts either—cavorted around naked.

  The man leaned forward to drink deeply from his glass. Goddess, what a handsome man. She was envious of the damned cup for touching his lips. Not that she could touch him. Or that she wanted to… Most likely he belonged to some village crone. Most likely—

  Their eyes met, and he smiled.

  The color drained from her face. She looked at the mountain rising over the town, the unattainable open sky, the jungle hemming her in. The primal magic of the sea pushed against her skin, trying to break out through her.

  She must look like a fool.

  “Excuse me, Miss.”

  Emaula stiffened with fear but turned with an icy and impassive expression to the man on the porch.

  He gestured to the empty chair beside him. “The shade is cool.”

  “Yes, I’m sure, but…”

  The man looked at her with a gentle, open expression, full of idle curiosity and good humor. Her magic overwhelmed her and pried into his aura, searching out his past, and his future. She stamped it down quickly before invading, but in the flare of True Sight, she saw he was truly a wolf. A human soul bound to a shifting animal form. His soul was wrapped strangely with pretty multi-colored ribbons and dozens of keys.

  He tilted his head at her lengthy pause. Goddess, he was waiting for her to give an excuse. And now, she could not think of one. “Mr. Wolf, do you mind if I join you?”

  The wolf laughed so deep and friendly. It caught her off guard. “Be dumb for me to invite you if I did.”

  Emaula blushed and stood. She wrapped her headscarf closer to her hair and walked over to the shade. It would not hurt her. Sharing a refreshing drink with a strange man. This was an experience. She’d escaped to gain experience. No harm in experience.

  As she neared, her eyes roved over his bare chest. She perched in the chair beside him and angled herself to look out at the ships and the sea. He poured her a glass of water and placed it near her.

  “Thank you,” Emaula nodded to him. “You’re very kind.”

  And very handsome. His dark skin reminded her pleasantly of drinking chocolate or midnight opal.

  “You looked thirsty.” He leaned on the table near her. “Are you from the South?”

  “What? Me? Gracious, no!” His nearness flustered her. She ought to melt into a puddle and die. What a strange question. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  The wolf took a moment. “You’re dressed like a woman from the desert.”

  Emaula cringed. Of course, she was. She’d covered all her hair and her skin, worn gloves and a head-scarf because her skin was dangerous to touch.

  The wolf’s voice soothed her, deep as the wind at midnight singing around the tower. “The women here don’t cover as much as you. The women from the north do, but they wear fitted dresses.”

  “I … passed through the desert and found these robes much cooler.”

  The man smirked and sipped his own drink. “You should try our fashion. You’d look nice in it.”

  Was that a compliment? Or… “Wait, you mean, just wearing a skirt and a wrap?”

  “Oh, leave the wrap,” he chuckled. “You’d be much cooler in the sun, then.”

  “Positively chilled.” Emaula blushed. Was he flirting? Of course, he was. But why? She was so inept and undignified, and he was so handsome. Her magic whispered about control and power and binding. Those ribbons wrapped around him were so loosely attached, the keys rusted and abandoned. Most likely, his witch was weak or long gone. She had the power to reach out and take him for her own if she wanted … if she just reached a little farther with the power.

  But she would not.

  Emaula took a great gulp of water and looked out at the port.

  She would not. That’s why she wouldn’t pass her ordeal. Why she wasn’t interested in being a witch. Why she’d put Jasprite in so much danger to escape. She wouldn’t force her will on another human being, not even a wolf. She’d come to be Jasprite’s chef, and she meant to forget everything she ever knew about magic. Not enslave local wolves.

  She ought to say something. Something about the weather or his comment about her dress. “Things are … very different in this country. I … I hear the tea is exquisite.”

  Stupid thing to say. Stupid childish girl.

  “Oh, the best of anywhere,” he agreed as if she’d said nothing foolish. “Especially the mountain tea. Only white tea worth drinking. Every other kind is too bitter, too over-priced, or just plain green tea.”

  Emaula smiled a little. She’d never met a tea-snob. “So, I ought to try white tea here?”

  He nodded. “Freshly picked as possible. Don’t let them serve it to you with anything spicy. You’ll want to savor it for itself. Otherwise, you might as well drink black tea with cream and sugar or cinnamon.”

  “Oh, I see,” Emaula turned toward him, pleased to have found a local food guide. “What shall I drink with spicy foods?”

  “Lassi,” the wolf held up his yellow drink, which looked thicker than she’d expected. “Or beer.”

  He sipped from the mug, licked his lips. Emaula wondered if he did it to torture her. “Do you like spicy foods, miss?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had any. Nor beer, for that matter.”

  He looked surprised. “You must try a mild curry. Something with chicken and a very light orange sauce. Nothing bright green or red, yeah? With naan and a lot of rice.”

  “Are you a chef?” Jasprite ought to hire this man as her cook. Send the stupid childish girl she’d rescued home to her mother and have a proper chef.

  He laughed. “No. I just like to be near the food.”

  Emaula smiled. Her magic begged to make a noose and hold this wolf. As if it were her right to claim someone because she liked the look of his smile and the sound of his voice.

  Something rustled in her pocket, and she absently reached in to see what her magic had summoned to her. An herb sachet. She’d made over a hundred in the past days for Jasprite to sell, and this one … bluebells, lavender, and moonwort. The dream spell.

  “Oh, you brought your own tea?” The wolf leaned a little forward and wafted his hand to sniff at a distance. “Smells sweet. Lavender?”

  She studied him. Did he detect the magic? Of course, he wouldn’t. The moonwort only exhibited its mag
ical properties at night.

  “Yes, it gives sweet dreams.” She could drop the sachet in the water and offer him a sip to test the flavors of northern tea. He’d suspect nothing. Easy as that she’d have bespelled this charming stranger. Then tonight she’d have him as her lover in his dreams.

  And what harm would it do?

  The man would have a sweet dream about a woman he flirted with at lunchtime. She’d never see him again.

  She rubbed it between her fingers. “I’ll add it to my water if you’d like to taste it.”

  He nodded without any fear. This was terrifically stupid, most likely dangerous as well. Surely, a man this handsome had a powerful witch.

  And even if he didn’t … it wasn’t right to bespell a man.

  Still, she wanted him. She dropped the sachet into the water, stirred it until the drink turned a light purple-blue. She sipped it first and then passed it over to him.

  He mimicked her small testing sip, then smiled and nodded approvingly. “Very nice. Refreshing. Bubbly. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Yes. That’s the sort of tea I’m used to.” Emaula drank the potion and watched the sea and tried to calm her heart. It was done. No going back. Well, of course, there were ways to go back. But … she’d never done anything like this before.

  “So.” He leaned a little nearer. “Wolfish” was not always a bad thing. It thrilled Emaula to her core when he smiled at her. “What brings you to our port?”

  “I’m to cook at Lady Doughton’s inn. I won’t be making anything as wonderful sounding as curry, but I do make a lovely roast. You’ll have to come visit me.”

  To her surprise, the wolf leaned away from her. He glanced around as if something had gone terribly wrong, and he needed someone to explain to him. “You’re the witch? Lady Jasprite’s witch friend?”